tension drained from his shoulders and he found himself fatigued and aching, beneath which brewed a bubbling excitement at the thought of seeing his girls again.
He had two hours before the girls’ plane landed. Two hours was more than enough time to go home, shower, get changed, and meet them. But he decided to forego all that and went straight to the airport instead.
He didn’t really want to go back to the empty house alone.
Instead he parked in the short-term lot at Dulles and entered through arrivals. He bought a coffee at a newsstand and sat in a plastic chair, sipping it slowly while a thousand thoughts spun in his head, none snagging long enough to be considered a conscious impression but each passing fleetingly before cycling back around like a whirlwind.
He needed to call Maria, he decided. He needed to hear her voice. She would know what to say, and even if she didn’t there was something about talking to her that always seemed to remedy his ailing mind. Reid did not have his cell phone, but thankfully there were payphones in the airport, a growing rarity in the twenty-first century. Then he had no change to drop into the machine, so he dialed zero first and then the cell phone number that he knew by heart.
There was no answer. The line rang four times before going to voicemail. He didn’t leave one. He wasn’t sure what to say.
At long last the plane arrived and a procession of quick-walking passengers strode down the long corridor, past the gates and security checkpoint and either into the waiting arms of loved ones or hurrying on to baggage claim.
Strickland saw him first. Agent Todd Strickland was young, twenty-seven, with a military-style fade cut and a thick neck. He carried himself with a gentle swagger that was somehow approachable yet authoritarian at the same time. Most importantly, Strickland did not appear at all surprised to see Reid; the CIA undoubtedly would have told him that Kent Steele had been released. He merely nodded once to Reid as he led the two teenage girls down the lengthy walkway.
It seemed that Strickland had not told either of his daughters that he would be there upon their arrival, and for that Reid was grateful. Maya spotted him next, and though her legs kept moving her jaw fell slack in astonishment. Sara blinked twice, and then her lips spread wide in a genuinely elated smile. Despite her arm being in a cast and sling—she had broken her arm after taking a tumble out of a moving train—she ran to him. “Daddy!”
Reid dropped to one knee and caught her in a tight embrace. Maya hurried over right after her younger sister, and the three of them held each other for a long moment.
“How?” Maya whispered hoarsely in his ear. Both of the girls had been given plenty of reason to believe they wouldn’t see their father again for what might have been a long time.
“We’ll talk later,” Reid promised. He released his grip on them and stood to face Strickland. “Thank you, for getting them home safely.”
Strickland nodded and shook Reid’s hand. “Just keeping my word.” In Eastern Europe, Strickland and Reid had reached a strange sort of mutual understanding, and the younger agent had made the promise to keep the two girls safe, whether Reid was around or not. “I suppose I’ll get going,” he told them. “You two be good.” He grinned at the girls, and strode away from the small family.
The ride home was short, only half an hour, and Sara made it feel even shorter with her uncharacteristic chatter. She told him how well Agent Strickland had treated them, and how the doctors in Poland let her pick her own color of cast for her arm, but she still chose the ordinary beige so that she could color it herself with markers. Maya sat oddly quiet in the passenger seat, every now and then glancing over her shoulder at her little sister and smiling briefly.
Then they arrived at their home in Alexandria, and it was as if the front door was a vacuum for any cheerful or joyous thoughts. The mood turned on a dime; the last time any of them had stepped foot into the foyer there had been a dead man lying just before the kitchen. Dave Thompson, their neighbor, was a retired CIA agent who had been killed by the assassin who had kidnapped Maya and Sara.
No one spoke as Reid closed the door and punched in the code to activate the alarm system. The girls seemed hesitant to even take a step further into the house.
“It’s okay,” he told them quietly, and though he hardly believed it himself he led the way towards the kitchen in an effort to prove that there was nothing to be afraid of. The crime scene clean-up crew had done a thorough job, but it was still plainly evident from the strong scent of ammonia and the spotless grout between the tiles that someone had been here, mopping up blood and eliminating any trace that a murder had occurred.
“Is anyone hungry?” Reid asked, trying to sound untroubled but very much coming off as loud and theatrical.
“No,” Maya said quietly. Sara shook her head.
“Okay.” The pregnant pause that followed was palpable, like an invisible balloon inflating to impossible volume in the span between them. “Well,” Reid said finally, hoping to burst it, “I don’t know about you two, but I’m exhausted. I think we should all get some rest.”
The girls nodded again. Reid kissed the top of Sara’s head and she trudged back down the foyer—edging close to one wall, he noticed, though there was nothing blocking her path—and up the stairs.
Maya waited, saying nothing but listening intently for the footfalls on the stairs to reach the carpeted top. She tugged off her shoes using the toes of each opposite foot, and then asked very suddenly, “Is he dead?”
Reid blinked twice. “Is who dead?”
Maya did not look up. “The man who took us. The one who killed Mr. Thompson. Rais.”
“Yes,” Reid said quietly.
“Did you kill him?” Her gaze was hard, but not angry. She wanted the truth, not another cover or another lie.
“Yes,” he admitted after a long moment.
“Good,” she said in nearly a whisper.
“Did he tell you his name?” Reid asked.
Maya nodded, and then she looked up at him unflinchingly. “There was another name he wanted me to know. Kent Steele.”
Reid closed his eyes and sighed. Somehow Rais continued to plague him, even from beyond the grave. “I’m done with that now.”
“You promise?” She raised both eyebrows, hoping he was sincere.
“Yes. I promise.”
Maya nodded. Reid knew all too well that it wouldn’t the end of it; she was far too smart and inquisitive to let things lie. But for the moment, his answers seemed to satisfy her and she headed up the stairs.
He hated lying to his daughters. He hated even more lying to himself. He wasn’t done with field work—maybe paid field work, but he still had a lot to do if he was going to get to the bottom of the conspiracy he had only begun to unearth. He had no choice; as long as he knew anything, he was still in danger. His girls could still in danger.
He wished for a moment that he didn’t know anything, that he could forget what he knew about the agency, about conspiracies, and just be a college professor and a father to his daughters.
But you can’t. So you need to do the opposite.
He didn’t need fewer memories; he had tried that before and it hadn’t worked out so well. He needed more memories. The more he could recall about what he knew two years ago, the less work he would have to do to uncover the truth. And maybe he wouldn’t have to worry for long.
Standing there in the kitchen mere feet from where Thompson was killed, Reid made his decision. He would find the old letter from Alan Reidigger—and the name of the Swiss neurologist that had implanted the memory suppressor in his head.
CHAPTER ONE
Abdallah bin Mohammed was dead.
The old man’s body lay upon a slab of granite in the courtyard of the compound, a walled cluster of boxy beige structures located roughly fifty miles to the west of Albaghdadi in