Watchlist by Jeffery Deaver

she merged right to make the coming exit.
    Gradually, even the crackling radio, the abstract insistence of Pierrot Lunaire, returned. Middleton wondered: Who have I become?
     
    Conrad the bartender held the manuscript, paging through it gingerly. It seemed very old—the paper faded and brittle, the notations handwritten, not printed like the ones he’d bought Jennifer before. She’d love this, he thought, feeling a surge of inner heat. Chopin. She’ll throw her arms around his neck, press her cheek to his.
    He lived to dote on his niece, buy her things—toys when she was younger, bits of modest clothing, sheet music now that she’d started piano lessons. A gifted girl, his sister’s oldest, just turned nine. Growing a little awkward now that she was shooting up in height, leaving the baby fat behind, but still with that shimmering black hair, halfway down her back, the vaguely lost blue eyes, the porcelain skin. Black Irish, like her wretch of a father, wherever he might be. Prison. The grave. Back in Carrickfergus. Someone had to look after the girl, she needed a man in her life. And her uncle loved her. He loved her very much.
    Her musical turn the past two years had proved a welcome change. He didn’t have to just sit on the sofa and watch her gambol about on the floor in her school jumper and socks. He could sit there beside her now, turning the pages as she played the Schumann he’d bought her. Scenes from a Childhood. Album for the Young. With the vanilla scent of her shampoo thick between them, her hands faltering in painful discords across the keys, he’d gently nudge closer, until their thighs touched, the rustle of her sleeve against his. That was enough, he’d remind himself. No more, not yet. Content yourself with this. But someday. Perhaps. If she wants to.
    Such thoughts, such images, so terrible, so welcome, like the devil whispering in his ear: It’s what you’ve always wanted. He lived for that, too.
    He let the warmth subside from his face as he rolled up the manuscript and put it in the pocket of his sport jacket, draped on its peg on the storeroom wall. As he returned to the bar, two men entered from the hotel lobby, dressed in blue sport coats and gray slacks, one of them tall with an edgy fluid rhythm in his gait. The other was broad and muscular, with a bull-like neck, small dead eyes. The tall one offered an empty smile and slid a business card across the bar. It bore the seal of the FBI. Behind him, the hefty one remained expressionless.
    There was no one else in the bar. It had been deathly slow all night.
    The tall one, leaning forward to read the bartender’s nametag, said, “Good evening, Conrad. A middle-aged man came in earlier, probably a little uneasy, rattled. He shot a peace officer out at the Dulles airport, then fled the scene. We have some indication the shooting may be terrorist-related. His cell phone placed him here just a short while back. It’s very important we track his whereabouts. You recall him, yes?”
    Conrad knew exactly the man they were talking about, but he couldn’t convince himself just yet that admitting as much was wise. “The description you just gave,” he said, “that could fit just about every guy who’s been in here the past few hours. I mean, I’d like to help, but—”
    The tall one wasn’t listening. He’d spotted the briefcase behind the bar. It belonged to the stranger from earlier, the one who looked like he’d wandered in from a car wreck. A cop-killer, they said. Apparently, a musical one. Conrad had found his briefcase while straightening the barstools, and he’d glanced inside, hoping to find some identification, only to discover the Chopin instead.
    The tall one refreshed his vacant smile. “Would you mind handing that to me?” He nodded toward the briefcase and held out his hand. “I’d like to take a glance inside.”
    Conrad hesitated, yielding to an inchoate fear of being found out.
    “Just to be clear, Conrad.