Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [43]
Jack went back to the Internet on his smart phone.
“What are you, a teenager?” asked Neil.
Jack looked up from his display, his face aglow from the Web site. Behind Neil were the illuminated stone columns of the Treasury Building, lending an oddly weighty tone to his question.
“What do you mean?”
“I can see what you’re up to,” said Neil. “My daughter does the same thing about every five minutes. Updating your Facebook status.”
Busted. It was the international obsession for people half Jack’s age: logging onto Facebook and telling the world in real time what they were doing. “Having pizza at Casola’s with my BFF.” “In my room, bored out of my mind.” It was such a compulsion that two girls had made headlines around the globe by getting lost in a stormwater drain and updating their Facebook status rather than calling for help. Crazy thing was, help had arrived.
“I’m sort of into it,” said Jack.
“Sort of?” said Neil. “That’s the tenth time you’ve done it since we left Miami.”
Jack couldn’t argue. It was probably double that.
The taxi stopped in front of the hotel, and the cold winter air reminded Jack that they weren’t in Miami. They were traveling with just their laptops and a change of clothes, which made check-in a breeze.
“I’m going to turn in,” said Neil.
Jack glanced toward the lounge. It was one of those dark, cherry-paneled rooms with coffered ceilings and red velvet draperies that made Jack think of nineteenth-century robber barons feasting on caviar and smoking cigars while trying to decide which congressman to buy next.
“I’m going to hang here for a while,” he said. “Get a little work done.”
They said good night, Neil headed to the elevator, and Jack found a cozy leather sofa in the lounge. He ordered from the waiter, and then updated his Facebook status: Alone in the lobby with a glass of port.
Jack was halfway through his drink and rereading the ICRC detainee report when the lights went out—or so it seemed. Her hands felt warm over his eyes.
“Guess who,” said Andie.
He smiled, jumped up, and held her tight. It felt beyond good, and her hair still smelled the same, even if it was an unfamiliar shade of undercover blond.
“You need to be careful with those Facebook updates,” she said. “You never know what kind of derelict is going to track you down.”
It was their way of communicating under rules that prohibited Jack from contacting her directly. “Neil thinks I’m a teenager.”
“Well, you did have the stamina of a nineteen-year-old the other night.”
That triggered some nice memories. “How long can you stay?”
“Just a few minutes. Sorry. My sexually deviant boyfriend is around the corner waiting in the car.”
“Not the kind of thing your fiancé wants to hear.”
She sat beside him on the couch, and Jack felt that empty silence that was becoming too much a part of their relationship. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was there whenever Andie worked undercover: the hesitation as Jack checked his train of thought, knowing that he couldn’t even ask how her day had gone, much less what the hell was up with the “sexually deviant boyfriend.”
“Did you get my phone messages this morning?” she asked.
“Yes. Of course I knew it was you.”
She took his hand, but her touch was a little stiff.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Not between us,” she said. “But there is something I need to tell you.”
Jack braced himself for another one of those FBI-agent-to-lawyer lectures. “Please don’t try to talk me out of representing Jamal. I’m more committed than ever.”
“I know, and that’s your business. But . . .”
“But what?”
She created some separation on the couch, positioning herself so that she could look him in the eye as she spoke. “What I’m about to say . . . you can never tell anyone that you heard it from me.”
He hesitated. “Andie, I don’t want to hear anything that puts you in an uncomfortable position with the bureau.”
“I’m fine. This isn’t classified. Some of it’s even been in the newspapers. All I’m doing is helping you put two and two together so that you can make the right decision about