Page 153 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“So you’re not able to call off the dogs?” Paul said.

“Afraid not. You obviously have something they want.”

“The Phantom flash drive.”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

There was a long silence. Paul heard the ticking of a clock.

Ambassador Gillette seemed to be debating what to say next. Finally, he said, “‘Phantom’ is the name of a secret project at CIA.”

“Then why didGalkinhave this thing?”

The old man exhaled, shook his head. “Why don’t you leave it with me, and I’ll make sure it’s safe and it gets to the right people?”

Paul looked at Gillette for a long moment. He had once trusted the man, but certainly no longer. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“I have a terribly good safe. A Class-Six, GSA-approved. A Mosler, er, SecureSafe Five Thousand. You don’t get more secure than that, I’m told.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You see, the director of the FBI now has to answer to the DNI, the director of national intelligence. Been that way ever since 9/11. That’s the level this is at. I don’t think Bill could call it off if hewantedto.”

“You gave him my name.”

“I’m not as quick-thinking as I once was. Age will do that to you.”

But Paul didn’t think the ambassador had slipped. He’d known what he was doing. The man was still sharp after all these years. He just felt bad about it.

The exterior lights of Colworth Hall started snapping on, blazingly bright.

The ambassador looked ill at ease. He gave Paul an apologetic glance. “You really should leave now. I—they’ll be flying in a SWAT team from FBI Springfield as we speak. And they know they can land on my property. Plenty of room.”

“Okay,” Paul said. Ambassador Gillette had revealed his whereabouts but seemed conscience-stricken about what he’d done. He appreciated the warning. “Goodbye.”

“Paul,” the old man cried out.

“What?”

The ambassador was about to say something, but instead he looked anguished. “Just—just go.”

Paul hurried out of the house, down the stone steps, onto the path, and then out the service entrance gate. In the distance, he heard the chopping of an approaching helicopter.

He kept walking, as much as he wanted to run.

100

Paul’s father had a saying he often repeated when he was teaching his son forestry skills. “A thousand days of evasion is better than one day of captivity.” Stan Brightman had learned that wisdom in Vietnam. And it always struck Paul as ridiculous. Evasion? From whom? Captivity? By whom? The Vietcong? A ten-year-old didn’t imagine he’d ever be in danger of being kidnapped by anyone. But now Paul recalled the saying bitterly as he sat on a bus that reeked like a toilet bowl.

Most of the buses that went from Boston to Manassas, Virginia, transferred at the Port Authority bus terminal in Manhattan. But he didn’t dare return to New York City, not now. They would be looking for him there.

When he got to the bus terminal near South Station, in Boston, he had discovered that there was exactly one bus that went to D.C. without changing at Port Authority. That bus took over nine hours and drove through the night, arriving early in the morning.

Paul had paid another homeless person to buy him a ticket. Paid generously, in fact.

At five fifty-three in the morning, when it was still dark, the bus pulled into Union Station in Washington. Paul found a Blue Bottle Coffee that was open, bought a coffee and a hot breakfast sandwich. Then he spotted an office for an off-brand car rental agency, but the place didn’t open until eight. He tanked up on coffee—he’d slept badly on the bus—and waited. At eight, he rented a Jeep Compass, using a couple of prepaid debit cards—being sure to include a five-hundred-dollar cash deposit in case of damages—and drove to Manassas.

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