Page 32 of Insidious Threats
He winced at the naked excitement in Antonia’s voice. She was no doubt imagining how good this would look for her in her annual review: a positive outcome and a happy client on the high-dollar account. Too bad it was all a big, hairy lie.
She was waiting for him to respond. He considered his words carefully.
“That’s good that they’re happy.”
“Not just happy, ecstatic. They’re sending a bonus payment over with their thanks as soon as they get the clean code. Brian Rosen is wondering when that might be.”
“Uh …” he stalled.
“I know you, Gar. You want to go over every last line one more time to make it elegant and simple. The client doesn’t care. The client is satisfied. It’s time to let it go.”
Something about the way she said it—her lack of curiosity, maybe, or the blatant ‘the customer is always right’ vibe—cut through all the waffling Gar had done during the night, and he finally knew what he had to do.
He’d slept like crap, waking frequently. At one point, he’d had a nightmare in which Petra had been kidnapped and held hostage in an effort to make him cooperate. Nightmare Petra had begged him not to comply, yelling at him to do the right thing. He’d clicked on the light and written a note on the pad by his bed.
He snatched it up now and read the words he’d scribbled down when he’d been mostly asleep:Do the right thing, not the easy thing.It had sounded good in the middle of the night, but in the cold light of day, the words left him unmoved. Because Garwood March knew himself. He was, at his core, a coward.
“Gar, did you hear me?”
“Yeah, sorry. I heard you. I brought the code home last night to give it one more polish. I’ll go into the office in an hour or so to upload it to the secure file transfer site and let Pinpoint Partners know it’s there.”
“Excellent. After that, you can take the rest of the day off if you want.”
“Really?”
“Sure,” she said magnanimously before she ended the call.
Gar dropped his phone and the cartoonishly heroic note on his bedside table, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, letting the stench of his cowardice wash over him like a fetid wave.
* * *
Not quite one hour later,he let himself into the dark and quiet office building, uploaded the code, and pinged Rosen to let him know. Then he cleared off his desktop, sweeping everything into his open backpack with one motion. Although he’d been chapped about the move from assigned workspaces to hot desks when management had announced it, now he was glad he didn’t have a permanent space. He had almost nothing to remove from the office.
He grabbed the rubber ducky from its perch on his computer tower. Then he zipped up his pack and shouldered it. He removed his lanyard from around his neck and tossed it on the desk. On his way out of the bullpen, he paused to place a short note on the workstation that Petra used. As it turned out, hot-decking had been a joke. Everyone claimed a space and, being human beings with a penchant for routine, they more or less used that space exclusively.
He anchored the note with the rubber duck. To anyone other than Petra, the note would be gibberish. But they’d discussed their shared affinity for the Vigenère cipher, and he was sure she’d figure out the keyword without much trouble. Having done as much as his cowardly constitution would permit him to, Garwood March clipped his backpack straps together over his chest, pulled up his hood, and jogged down the stairs to the lobby. He pushed the door open, lowered his head against the wind, and ran to his car.
He pointed his car toward Ensenada. Canada was closer by several hours. But it was January. And Gar was tired of snow and cold, so Baja California, Mexico it was.
The last known sighting of Garwood March in the United States would be at a gas station just over the Idaho state line in Jackpot, Nevada, where security cameras showed him filling his tank before visiting the restroom and purchasing an armload of snack foods and a 32-ounce hot chocolate.
17
The private airfield in Westmoreland County outside Pittsburgh was far more utilitarian than Leith’s, and thus Amanda’s, home airport. Built in the middle of a literal cornfield, it lacked the breathtaking views of SVAC. Sadly, it also lacked the amenities.
Instead of a perfect espresso, Stasia greeted Amanda with a styrofoam cup of weak, microwaved instant coffee and an apology.
“Sorry. It’s the best I could scare up.”
“It beats a blank,” Amanda told her as she accepted the cup. She took a sip and grimaced as the bitter, reheated coffee hit her throat. “Or maybe not.”
“I’ll make you a real mug of coffee once we’re on the plane,” Stasia promised. Then her blue eyes widened. “I can’t believe I almost forgot. Mr. Delone wants you to call him right away.”
Amanda checked the time. “At this hour?”
It was five a.m. on the West Coast, and Leith was notoriously a late riser.
“Right away,” the hostess confirmed.
