Cross Fire - James Patterson [40]
“Technically, this is Siegel’s piece, so you can’t hold it against me,” she said. I liked working with Patel. She seemed to keep her sense of humor no matter what, and the humor was dark and deep.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I can take whatever you’re dishing out here.”
“It’s about this ‘Patriot’ moniker they used in one of the e-mails. Ever since True Press ran the story, the name seems to have stuck, in a really scary way. We’ve got people at both ends of the spectrum foaming at the mouth, from the radical antiglobalization types all the way over to the hard-right survivalists. The Bureau’s already working up contingencies around the possibility of tribute killings.”
She ran a simple open-source search on her laptop. Less than a minute later, I was looking through pages of results — websites, blogs, vlogs, chat rooms, mainstream commentary, fringe press — all of it giving credence to the supposed “patriotism” behind these sniper murders.
I’d certainly seen this kind of thing before. Kyle Craig alone had legions of fans, or disciples, as he liked to call them. But Patel was right. This had the potential to be something else again — a whole grassroots movement of people who saw nothing less than America at stake, and nothing short of wholesale violence as the only solution with a chance of working.
“Best way to stir the crazy pot?” she said over my shoulder. “Wrap your dogma in an American flag and wait to see who bites. Like I said — scary.”
Chapter 52
AROUND SEVEN THIRTY, Patel and I finally got up to go. As we did, though, she turned away from the door and toward me. The sudden look in her eyes was all but unmistakable — and it was scary in a whole other way.
“Have you ever had homemade chana masala?” she asked.
Still, I didn’t want to be too presumptuous. “Homemade? Never.”
“Because I’m a pretty good cook, despite appearances.” She gestured at her nondescript gray slacks and white blouse. “I think everyone here assumes I’m just some wonk who goes home to her seven cats and a Lean Cuisine every night.”
“I doubt that,” I said. Patel had always struck me as a classic diamond in the rough. She was the kind of woman who arrived at the office Christmas party all done up and dropped every jaw in the room.
“So, my car’s in the shop,” she went on. “I was thinking if you could save me the cab fare home, I’d pay you back with dinner.” Then she really threw me. Patel reached over and put her hand on top of mine. “Maybe even dessert,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re full of surprises,” I said, and we both laughed, a little nervously. “Listen, Anjali —”
“Oh God.” Her hand fell away. “It’s never good when they start with your name.”
“I’m in a relationship. We’re getting married.”
She nodded and started gathering up her stuff. “You know what they say about all the good men, right? Taken or gay. In fact, that’s going to be the title of my memoir. Think it will sell?”
This time we laughed for real. It cut right through the tension, which I think was nice for both of us.
“I appreciate the invitation,” I said, and meant it. If this were some other time in my life, I definitely would have been eating chana masala that night. Maybe dessert, too. “And I can still give you that ride if you want.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She tucked her laptop under her arm and held the conference room door for me. “If I’m not cooking, I’m going to stick around here and get some more work done. Meanwhile, if you wouldn’t mind forgetting we ever had this conversation —”
“What conversation?” I gave her my best wide-eyed innocent face on the way out. “I can’t remember a thing.”
Chapter 53
AFTER SOME REHEATED supper that night, and long after the kids had gone to bed, I got a call from Christine.
The second her name came up on the caller ID, I felt torn in a big way. I couldn’t just ignore her, but the last thing I wanted right now was more talk. The only reason I picked up in the end was to keep her from possibly coming over to the house again.
“What is it, Christine?”
Right away, I could hear she was crying.