Gelder.”
“My security is better.”
“But so is Jessica Reel,” replied Robie.
“Pretty damn ironic that this country gave her the skills she’s now using against us,” grumbled Tucker.
“You gave her
another
set of skills, sir. The most important one she already had.”
“And what skill was that?”
“Nerve. Most people think they have it. Almost all of them are wrong.”
“You have that skill too, Robie.”
“And I’m going to need it now. Every bit I’ve got.”
CHAPTER
17
T HE DRIVE BACK TO HIS apartment took Robie only about thirty minutes at this time of the morning, but it felt like thirty hours.
He had a lot on his mind.
What he had said to Tucker and what Tucker had said back to him had commingled in his brain like a soupy mess. He really didn’t know what to make of the meeting with the DCI.
The texts from Reel had convinced Robie that she was working alone. This was personal to the woman. You don’t miss your adversary and then say you’re half glad that was the case. It was clear, though, that she was trying to get inside his head. Her subtle references to right and wrong, advising him to watch his back, were classic manipulation techniques to make him doubt both his mission and his trust in the agency. She was good—there was no question about that.
Robie and Reel had received the same level of training, come up through the same systems, the same ranks, had the same protocols grafted onto their professional souls. But they were different. Robie would have never once thought of texting an opponent like that. He usually took the more direct route to his goal. Whether it was a gender thing or not he didn’t know and didn’t care. The differences were real, that’s what was important.
It was possible Reel could have changed. But then it was also possible she was exactly who she had always been.
He got back to his apartment building, parked in the underground garage, and rode the elevator up to his floor. He checkedthe hallway for anything unusual, then unlocked the door and punched in the disarming code on the security panel.
He put on a pot of coffee, made a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and sat in the window seat of his living room. He drank the coffee, ate the sandwich, and studied the rain that had started to pour outside. It was surely fouling a rush hour into the city that was miserable in the sunshine, much less with slicked roads and buckets of water falling on windshields.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny white object. It had disintegrated more in his pocket, but it was still there. He needed to find out exactly what it was. He had found it at both kill sites.
Once could be a coincidence. Twice was a pattern.
And if Reel had left this, there had to be a reason.
He poured a second cup of coffee, sat at his desk, and clicked the keys on his laptop. Doug Jacobs’s life spread across his screen like blood on a test strip.
It would have been an interesting life to the layman, but a rather ordinary one by Robie’s standards. Jacobs had been an analyst and then a handler. He had never fired a weapon on behalf of his country. Until his violent death he had never been wounded in his line of work.
He had killed many—from a distance and using people like Robie to pull the actual trigger. There was nothing wrong with that. Men like Robie needed people like Jacobs to accomplish their missions as well.
Jacobs had worked with Reel on five different occasions over three years. No problems, not even the slightest execution hiccup. All targets had been eliminated and Reel had come home safe to be deployed again.
He wasn’t sure the pair had ever met face-to-face. There wasn’t anything in the record to show they had. That was not unusual. Robie had never met any of his handlers. The agency subscribed to the Chinese wall policy on operatives. The less people knew about each other, the less they could tell if they were captured and tortured.
Robie
“My security is better.”
“But so is Jessica Reel,” replied Robie.
“Pretty damn ironic that this country gave her the skills she’s now using against us,” grumbled Tucker.
“You gave her
another
set of skills, sir. The most important one she already had.”
“And what skill was that?”
“Nerve. Most people think they have it. Almost all of them are wrong.”
“You have that skill too, Robie.”
“And I’m going to need it now. Every bit I’ve got.”
CHAPTER
17
T HE DRIVE BACK TO HIS apartment took Robie only about thirty minutes at this time of the morning, but it felt like thirty hours.
He had a lot on his mind.
What he had said to Tucker and what Tucker had said back to him had commingled in his brain like a soupy mess. He really didn’t know what to make of the meeting with the DCI.
The texts from Reel had convinced Robie that she was working alone. This was personal to the woman. You don’t miss your adversary and then say you’re half glad that was the case. It was clear, though, that she was trying to get inside his head. Her subtle references to right and wrong, advising him to watch his back, were classic manipulation techniques to make him doubt both his mission and his trust in the agency. She was good—there was no question about that.
Robie and Reel had received the same level of training, come up through the same systems, the same ranks, had the same protocols grafted onto their professional souls. But they were different. Robie would have never once thought of texting an opponent like that. He usually took the more direct route to his goal. Whether it was a gender thing or not he didn’t know and didn’t care. The differences were real, that’s what was important.
It was possible Reel could have changed. But then it was also possible she was exactly who she had always been.
He got back to his apartment building, parked in the underground garage, and rode the elevator up to his floor. He checkedthe hallway for anything unusual, then unlocked the door and punched in the disarming code on the security panel.
He put on a pot of coffee, made a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and sat in the window seat of his living room. He drank the coffee, ate the sandwich, and studied the rain that had started to pour outside. It was surely fouling a rush hour into the city that was miserable in the sunshine, much less with slicked roads and buckets of water falling on windshields.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny white object. It had disintegrated more in his pocket, but it was still there. He needed to find out exactly what it was. He had found it at both kill sites.
Once could be a coincidence. Twice was a pattern.
And if Reel had left this, there had to be a reason.
He poured a second cup of coffee, sat at his desk, and clicked the keys on his laptop. Doug Jacobs’s life spread across his screen like blood on a test strip.
It would have been an interesting life to the layman, but a rather ordinary one by Robie’s standards. Jacobs had been an analyst and then a handler. He had never fired a weapon on behalf of his country. Until his violent death he had never been wounded in his line of work.
He had killed many—from a distance and using people like Robie to pull the actual trigger. There was nothing wrong with that. Men like Robie needed people like Jacobs to accomplish their missions as well.
Jacobs had worked with Reel on five different occasions over three years. No problems, not even the slightest execution hiccup. All targets had been eliminated and Reel had come home safe to be deployed again.
He wasn’t sure the pair had ever met face-to-face. There wasn’t anything in the record to show they had. That was not unusual. Robie had never met any of his handlers. The agency subscribed to the Chinese wall policy on operatives. The less people knew about each other, the less they could tell if they were captured and tortured.
Robie
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