Page 12 of The Secret

She said, “Thank you so much. You’re very kind. And I’m sorry I was so clumsy.”

The guy grinned and straightened the front of his crumpled shirt. “Don’t worry about it. That was the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all week.”You say that now,Roberta thought.Wait till you try to get your minivan back…

Chapter5

Two cars were stopped atthe side of a road south of Annapolis, Maryland, between Back Creek and the Chesapeake Bay. They were tucked in together, right after the crest of a tight bend, in darkness. Not the safest place to park, but the drivers had no choice. The road was narrow and it was lined with trees, already in leaf, which restricted the view of the old, peaceful houses that were scattered along either side. Soft lights twinkled faintly through the ancient shrubs and bushes that filled most of the gaps between the trunks, making it harder still to observe the buildings.

The first car was empty. Two men were sitting in the second. They had partial sight of one of the houses. They’d brought binoculars, a camera with a long lens, and a pair of portable radios. One of the men was writing in a log book. He had a flashlight in one hand. His fingers were covering a chunk of the lens which smothered most of the beam and turned the little light that did escape a subdued pink. He had a cheap ballpoint pen in his other hand. Hejotted down the time. The place. His initial observations. Stuff he would need later for the report he would have to write. He had just finished recording what he could see when his radio crackled into life. It was one of the guys from the other car. They had made their way around back, behind the house, and were reconnoitering on foot.

The voice on the radio said, “Pritchard’s here. Positive ID. I saw him through the kitchen window, clearing dishes. Over.”

The guy with the pen said, “Is he alone? Over.”

“Affirmative. There’s no one with him. And he washed only one plate and one wineglass.”

“Is he still there?”

“Negative. He’s gone upstairs. The first-floor lights went off. The bathroom light came on. Wait. It just went off. Now his bedroom light is on.”

“He’s getting ready for bed?”

“Looks that way. Wait. His bedroom light just went off as well. So do we grab him now? Or wait for him to get settled?”

The guy with the pen took a moment to think. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He liked his targets dopey and compliant. He’d learned the hard way what could happen if they weren’t. Pritchard had drunk at least one glass of wine, which was a good start. Then it takes the average person between forty-five minutes and an hour to reach deep sleep. So experience dictated that they should wait ninety minutes. To be on the safe side. To give themselves a good chance that Pritchard would be away with the fairies. Then pick his locks and approach his bedroom with maximum stealth. Nine times out of ten the cuffs would be on before the target’s eyes were even open. But this operation was different. The orders came right from the top. Which meant the result would be under the microscope. His performance would be, too. And the wordimmediatehad beenused. Even if the arrest went like clockwork a delay could take some of the shine off it. And if something went wrong, it would be blamed on his decision to wait. He was under no illusions about that.

The guy with the pen hit the Transmit button on the side of his handset and said, “Egress points at the rear?”

The voice on the radio crackled back, “Seven, as expected. Three windows, second floor. Two windows, one personnel door, first floor. One personnel door, rear of garage.”

“OK. Form up. Watch them in case he tries to bail out. We’re hitting the front door in ninety seconds.”

—

Charles Stamoran wasin his study, rereading one of the day’s reports, when his wife found him. She was wearing a white bathrobe, knotted in the front, and her hair was still wet from the shower. Her feet were bare and her skin was glowing from the recent heat and steam. She smelled of all kinds of shampoos and conditioners and lotions. Stamoran found the combination a little overpowering, although he had never admitted that to her. He said, “Well?”

Kasluga crossed the room, perched on the ottoman in front of her husband’s armchair, and stretched out to touch his knee. She said, “Charles, I’m sorry about before.”

Stamoran didn’t reply.

She said, “Two days.”

Stamoran frowned. He hated it when his wife dangled an unfinished comment and clammed up until he coaxed the rest of the information out of her. He tried to resist the follow-up, but as always, he failed. He said, “What about two days?”

“I’ll lay low, like you asked. Stay here. Keep away from the office. Give you time to catch the guy.”

“Why two days? Why set a timetable? Why not stay safe until he’s in custody?”

Kasluga shrugged. “It was you who said two days. And I’ve found a way to turn a two-day absence into an advantage. Any longer and it won’t work.”

“Two days was just a sensible starting point. Not a maximum duration. And what won’t work?”

Kasluga leaned in closer and lowered her voice like she was afraid of being overheard. “I’ve been working on something. An acquisition. A major one. A game-changer. I’ve been keeping it under the radar so that if it doesn’t pan out, I won’t lose face in the industry. I figured I’d wait till the ink was dry then claim credit for it as a fait accompli.But just now I made some calls. Looks like we’re home and dry. The lawyers have cleared the final obstacle and swear the papers will be signed within forty-eight hours. So I’ve whispered in a couple of ears. Seeded some rumors. Made out like the deal is on life support. A bunch of the asshole men will be getting hard-ons, thinking I’m going to publicly crash and burn. And when the result is a triumph, it’s going to look like I dropped out of sight to personally intervene. I’ll be the hero. But if I stay away any longer, it’ll look like I had nothing to do with it. I can’t have that.”

Two days, Stamoran thought. Maybe enough time to make an arrest. Maybe not. It was out of his control. The remaining targets were being watched. The traps were set. The guy who was picking off the scientists from ’69 might try to strike again within forty-eight hours. Or he might not. Stamoran had no idea what was driving the guy’s schedule. But he wasn’t too worried about it, because Susan was off the money in one important respect. The arrest wasn’t the crux of the matter. The key was removing Pritchard from the game. Stamoran checked his watch. The team he had sent should already be at Pritchard’s house.

Stamoran looked at his wife. He nodded and said, “Two days will be enough.”

—

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