WASHINGTON, D.C. • NORTHERN PAKISTAN
It was just after eight in the morning, and Harper was standing in the West Wing, just outside the Oval Office. He’d excused himself to take Kealey’s call, and he was still trying to get over what he’d just heard. If it had come from anyone else, he would not have believed it. It seemed too far-fetched to be possible. But at the same time, part of him was not surprised to hear how far Javier Machado had gone to protect his only living child. He knew something of the Spaniard’s background, and he had been with the Agency—albeit in a lesser position—when Caroline Pétain had died in Colombia. It was something that Harper couldn’t fully understand, as he and his wife did not have children. Still, he knew how he would feel if something were to happen to Julie, and he could imagine that losing a child would be ten times worse. Maybe twenty times worse, and the way Caroline had died . . . Well, it didn’t get much worse than that. Clearly, her death had affected Javier Machado more than anyone had ever suspected, including those closest to him, namely, his own family. Lifting the phone, Harper called Diane Neal, the director’s secretary, and had her patch him through to the station chief in Madrid. Without going into specifics, he explained the situation quickly, and the station chief agreed to dispatch two of his people to Machado’s house in Cartagena. Harper thanked him and ended the call. Then he tried to call Machado direct. Unsurprisingly, the man didn’t pick up, and neither did Naomi when Harper tried her sat phone.
Harper tried to think of something else he could do, but he had exhausted his options. He had done his best to reassure Kealey during their brief, tense conversation, but it hadn’t really worked; they both knew Machado’s background in operations, and they both knew he would have planned this out extensively. The embassy personnel would almost certainly find an empty house when they arrived in Cartagena, but they had to be sure. He wondered how he would ever be able to tell Pétain what her father had done; part of him hoped that Kealey would take care of it for him. Checking his watch, he turned, opened the door, and stepped into the Oval Office. Brenneman, Andrews, DNI Bale, and Stan Chavis were engaged in quiet discussion around the coffee table, and they all looked up as Harper approached.
“What was that about?” Andrews asked.
“We’ve got a lead on Mengal,” Harper replied. He didn’t bother relaying the rest of it; right now, they didn’t need the whole story. Besides, they wouldn’t have been able to sit through it. Not after what he’d just told them. All four men shot up in their seats, giving him their full attention. “It looks like he might be in northern Pakistan, in a town called Sialkot.”
“What about Brynn?” the president instantly asked, momentarily forgetting how high Fitzgerald ranked in comparison to Harper, Hayden, and even Andrews. Normally, he would never have used her first name in their presence.
“At this point, it appears that Secretary Fitzgerald is probably in the same location,” Harper said, and he watched as all four men breathed a shared sigh of relief.
Brenneman sprang to his feet, and the others followed suit, although they had nowhere to go. “What do you mean, ‘probably’? What makes you say that, and where did you get this information?”
Harper quickly relayed everything Kealey had just told him, limiting his words to what they needed to know. He finished by explaining that a considerable number of guards were stationed outside the house in Sialkot, which elevated the probability that Fitzgerald was being held inside the building.
“But we don’t know for sure,” Andrews clarified, once Harper was done. “We can’t verify that she’s on-site.”
“No,” Harper admitted. “But we can’t know for sure until we’re inside.”
“You’re suggesting we raid the house?” Brenneman asked skeptically.
“No,” Harper replied. “At least, I don’t think we should do that yet. But I do believe we need to have reliable eyes on the target until we’re ready to move decisively. Sir, as I mentioned before, we have four 8X satellites over the region. We can easily shift one away from the area of fighting to cover this part of the Punjab. We have a number of well-trained paramilitary officers in the area, including Ryan Kealey, and with satellite coverage, we have nothing to lose by setting up surveillance on the residence. Even if Mengal moves unexpectedly, we’ll be able to track him. He’ll have nowhere to go.”
“These people you have in the area . . . ,” Chavis began slowly.
“Are they armed?”
Harper hesitated, but only for a second. “No, they aren’t. But that’s a problem we can fix easily enough, once the president clears this course of action.”
“How many men are we talking about?” Brenneman asked. “How many do we have in the area?”
“Five men, including Kealey, and one woman,” Harper replied. “Of those six, two are current or former members of Delta, and one is a former army ranger, a captain with the 82nd Airborne. Another, Aaron Massi, served as a combat controller in the air force.”
“Still, that’s six against a force of eight to twelve, plus another unknown number of guards inside the house,” Andrews remarked. He shook his head uneasily. “It’s a risk. There could be a lot of unknowns in that equation, and if the surveillance is blown . . .”
“Alerting the Pakistani government would be even riskier,” Harper pointed out. “I’ve been thinking this through over the past couple of days, debating how it might play out if we actually got a lead on Fitzgerald’s location. And I have to tell you, I think it would be a mistake to go through official channels. Mengal still has a lot of friends in high places. If we ask Musharraf to move on this and word gets out to the wrong man, which it will, Mengal will kill the secretary of state and leave before we can even get into position.”
“Jesus,” Brenneman said shakily, his face turning pale. He retook his seat, and after a moment, everyone else did the same. Looking over to Harper, he asked, “How long do we have to decide on a course of action?”
Harper wondered why the president had used the word “we.” In the end, it was his decision and his alone; everyone else was just there to advise. Harper wondered if Brenneman was already attempting to spread the blame around, at least subconsciously. Harper knew it didn’t really matter either way; if the president took his advice and the surveillance was blown, Harper would almost certainly be out of a job, as would Andrews and Hayden. Chavis would probably survive the fallout, but not because of his position. He and the president shared a personal friendship that dated back to their college years at Georgetown, and that, more than anything else, would insulate the chief of staff if the worst were to happen.
“Sir, there is no time to waste,” the deputy DCI cautioned. “Mengal won’t want to stay in one place for long. He’ll be moving around as much as he can, but it would be pointless to launch a rescue operation until we have reliable surveillance in place. Once we have eyes on the building, we can strike in a matter of hours, if that is what you decide to do.”
“But with satellite coverage, we don’t need to—”
“Sir, forgive me for interrupting, but IMINT isn’t enough. We need men on the ground.”
Brenneman let out a weary sigh, then lowered his head in thought. After a minute, he looked up and said, “What happens next? I mean, what do you need to do right now, assuming I agree with your proposal?”
“With your permission, I’d like to head over to the NRO. We need to get an 8X over Sialkot as soon as possible. A call from you to the director would help greatly in that regard, sir. Once that’s done, we can establish things here. By that, I mean we can set up downstairs in the Situation Room.”
“I’ll call him before you get there,” Brenneman said. He seemed to think for a few seconds more. “John, I want you to draw up a plan to recover Secretary Fitzgerald. As of now, we’re proceeding with the understanding that the Pakistani government will not be alerted in advance. That may change before I authorize anything, but for now, that’s the plan. Start getting your people in place.”
“Yes, sir,” Harper said. The president looked at Andrews, just to make sure they were all on the same page, and the DCI acknowledged the order.
“Sir,” Bale cautioned, “if you do this, the diplomatic fallout—”
“Will be worth it,” Brenneman said, finishing Bale’s sentence. He fixed the director of National Intelligence with a stern glare. “If Musharraf had control over the subversive elements in his country, Ken, we wouldn’t be in this position to begin with. We might only have one chance to get her back, and I’m not going to let it slip through our fingers.”
Bale nodded, and the president shifted his gaze to include them all. “We’re going to find her and bring her home, gentlemen, by any means necessary. Is that clear?”
Everyone murmured their agreement. The president stood, and everyone followed suit.
“Good. Let’s go to work,” said Brenneman.
Kealey had been staring out the window for the last half hour, but the passing scenery meant nothing to him. He was entirely fixed on the images running through his mind. All he could see was Naomi, and it was killing him. He still couldn’t believe he had misjudged Javier Machado that badly, and he wondered if the man was actually capable of doing what he had threatened to do. His background said that he wasn’t. People with that kind of temperament didn’t last long in the Operations Directorate, and that was assuming they even managed to get through the doors in the first place. Machado had spent thirty years in the DO, and his career had been marked by a long string of accomplishments. Simply stated, he was one of the best operatives the Agency had ever seen, and by extension, that made him a consummate professional. If that had been the only factor involved, Kealey would have felt sure that he was bluffing—that he had no intention of really hurting Naomi.
But it wasn’t that simple. Machado’s actions were clearly based on an emotional element that Kealey couldn’t fully appreciate. When Pétain had told him about her sister’s gruesome death in Colombia, Kealey had been shocked by the sick nature of the crime, as well as what had come after. But he hadn’t really considered how much that must have affected the people Caroline had left behind, namely, her immediate family. The pain of that event would have been bad in the beginning—Kealey knew that much, because he had once suffered a similar loss—but over time, the initial impact of that tragedy had clearly evolved in Pétain and Machado. In the former, it had fostered a desire for revenge; in the latter, it had fostered something else. Something far more dangerous. A willingness to go to great lengths—any lengths, perhaps, if he was serious about the threat he had made—to protect his only surviving child. Kealey had been turning it over in his mind since they’d left the substation three hours earlier. He had used the time to brief Owen over the phone and move his people into position, but he’d still had hours—hard, painful, prolonged hours—to think about what had happened. He was no closer to an answer now than he had been then. He still didn’t know how he could have seen the truth in time. He wasn’t even certain what truth he was supposed to have seen. Was Machado simply acting out of a twisted desire to shield his daughter from harm? Or was he just trying to control her life by any means necessary? Kealey tried to push the distinction aside, as it didn’t really matter either way. What did matter was how he had reacted when it all came unglued, and he still didn’t know if he’d done the right thing. Other than following Machado’s instructions, what else could he have he done? Was there anything else he could have done? Any real alternative? He didn’t think so, but there was no way of knowing, and the uncertainty was slowly but steadily wearing him down.
“Here,” Fahim said from the front seat. Kealey shifted his attention to the front. He silently rebuked himself for letting his mind wander, but he didn’t really have to worry about their prisoner. Kealey had used the man’s own handcuffs to secure him to the passengerside door. Pétain was driving, and Kealey was seated behind the Afghan. He had the only gun in the car, and the flimsy seats in the Subaru would not stop a bullet. Kealey had made their prisoner abundantly aware of both these facts, and apart from the occasional groan of pain, he had remained silent throughout the journey. “This is the road you need to take.”
Pétain looked over her shoulder at Kealey, and he nodded his approval. He suddenly realized that she hadn’t said a word since they’d left the substation, and he wondered what might be going through her mind. Could she have overheard either of his conversations with Machado and Harper? If she had, it would certainly explain her silence. She took the exit, and Kealey said, “Slow down.” To Fahim, he said, “Where is it?”
“Just a few kilometers.” The car went over a bump, and the Afghan let out a guttural moan. Clearly, the pain from his gunshot wound was starting to intensify. “The car should be over this next hill. A white Toyota. It will be parked on the shoulder.”
“Okay. Pull over here, Marissa.”
She pulled over without a word. Kealey got out, went to the driver’sside window, and asked her to get in the back. He gave her the gun, then slid behind the wheel. She climbed in back a moment later. Next, he called Owen, who picked up after a couple of rings.
“Where are you?” Kealey asked. He already had a good idea; he just wanted the specifics. Shortly after Fahim had arranged for his people to drop off the equipment, Kealey had directed Owen and his people to an overwatch position, from which point they could monitor any unwanted activity around the site. They had moved into position two hours earlier, and the last time they had checked in, everything had looked good.
“In the tree line south of the car. Two guys dropped it off an hour ago.”
“How does it look?”
“As clean as can be expected.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you need to reconsider, Ryan. We don’t know anything about these people, and we have no way to cover you. That car could be loaded with explosives. It could blow the minute you—”
“They didn’t have time to do that,” Kealey pointed out, knowing full well that the other man was right. Fahim’s people had had plenty of time to set up any kind of ambush they wanted. “And you know as well as I do that we need what’s in that trunk. They want their guy back . . . I don’t think they’re going to try anything.”
“Ryan . . .” Owen was clearly frustrated. “What’s it going to take to convince you that this is a bad idea? There’s got to be better ways of—”
“We don’t have time, Paul. You know I’m right. Just do it my way, okay?”
“Fine. It’s your neck. We’ll be watching.”
“Good. Stay where you are. I’m three minutes out.”
Kealey ended the call, then looked at the man in the passenger seat. “For your sake, I hope you’re playing this straight.”
“It will be there,” the Afghan assured him. Kealey looked into his eyes for a moment, searching for some sign of a hidden agenda, but after a second, he gave up and looked away. The man was completely unreadable. Besides, Kealey thought, with a deep sense of bitter regret,it’s not like I know how to read people. Even if he is lying, I’d never be able to see it. Just look at Machado. I sure as hell got that one wrong, didn’t I?
He started the car and continued down the road. He drove slowly, noting that there was hardly any vehicular traffic. His eyes were scanning every hidden path in the trees, every open field, and every ditch in sight, searching for the smallest sign of a forthcoming ambush. Even as he did so, he knew full well that if it was coming, he would never see it. Turning to Pétain, he saw that she had the gun trained on the back of the Afghan’s seat.
“Drop down,” he told her. “Get as low in the seat as you can, and keep your head below the window. Don’t move that muzzle an inch. When I get out, if you see or hear anything that doesn’t sound right—I mean anything at all—you pull the trigger, okay?”
She nodded and slunk back down in the seat. Looking over at Fahim, Kealey said, “There’s fourteen rounds left in that gun, and if anything goes wrong, you’re going to catch all of them in the back. Bearing that in mind, are you sure you don’t want me to call your friends and make sure they understand the situation? Because if there’s any confusion, we should clear it up right now.”
The Afghan shook his head. He was dripping sweat, and his face was twisted with pain. It was really starting to hit him now. “No,” he gasped. “You don’t need to call them. They won’t try anything. I promise you.”
The Subaru crested a small hill, and there was the car, parked off on the shoulder. Kealey pulled in behind it, then got out. He approached the rear of the waiting car at a fast walk, fully aware that he was completely exposed. His mouth was dry, and his heart was beating hard as he felt behind the left rear tire for the keys. He found them as expected, and he quickly opened the trunk. Despite what he’d just said to Owen, he half expected some kind of explosion, though if there was a bomb in the trunk, he knew he would never see or hear a thing. It would be over before he even registered the flash.
But there was nothing. The trunk was filled with nothing but a half dozen canvas holdalls. He started unzipping them quickly, checking the contents. He found the surveillance photographs first. He looked through them quickly and saw what appeared to be armed men standing outside an English country home. He didn’t know why the house struck him as British in design, but it certainly didn’t resemble any of the predominant architecture in Pakistan, despite the country’s history of British colonialism. He kept flipping through the photographs, but nothing really jumped out at him. The most useful item he found was a hand-drawn map of the surgeon’s house and the surrounding grounds. The map was marked with a series of insertion points, indicating the best angle of approach. Fahim’s men had maintained surveillance for a number of days without showing out, which could have meant a number of things. Perhaps the vast majority—or at least the primary figures—had fought with the mujahideen in Afghanistan, or perhaps Machado had trained some of them personally all those years ago. Kealey suspected it was a little of both. He set the photographs back in the holdall, then began checking the weapons. There were four rifles with accompanying scopes, preloaded magazines, night-vision equipment, and a number of pistols. The weapons, he saw, were high grade: a SIG 550; two HK G36 assault rifles; and a Bofors AK5B, a 7.62mm rifle adapted for use by military snipers. He also found a couple of sturdy combat knives. Moving as fast as he could, Kealey field-stripped one of the G36s. He was intensely aware of how close the road was: the asphalt was just a few feet to his right. A car had yet to pass, but it was just a matter of time. Once he had the weapon apart, he saw that all the necessary components were there. Putting it together, he dry-fired it once and heard a satisfying click.
Good enough. Kealey shouldered two of the holdalls and brought them back to the Subaru. Opening the trunk, he tossed them in, then went back for the rest. Once all the gear was transferred, he closed the trunk on both cars, then climbed behind the wheel of the Subaru, which was still running.
“Everything okay?” Pétain asked. Looking back, Kealey saw that she was still slumped down in the backseat. She looked edgy but composed. He shot a quick look at her right hand and saw that the gun was steady. That told him everything he needed to know.
“Everything’s fine. It’s all there.” He pulled onto the road and kept driving, watching his rearview mirror carefully. He half expected to see people running out of the trees for the Toyota, but he couldn’t spot any movement.
Ten minutes later, he called Owen. “What’s happening?”
“A car just pulled up,” the Delta colonel reported. “One guy is getting out . . . He’s walking to the car. Hang on a second.” Kealey waited for five, and then Owen came back on. “Okay, the car is pulling away. He’s too far behind to catch up to you, and Massi didn’t spot any additional vehicles on the road ahead. Looks like we’re clear.”
“Good.” Kealey couldn’t help but breathe a quiet sigh of relief. A million things could have gone wrong with the plan he’d hastily devised, but it looked like they had managed to pull it off. The opposition had acted in good faith, which was a rare enough thing. Kealey decided that Fahim was as important to the organization as he’d initially suspected, and that was probably why they hadn’t been ambushed. “I’ll meet you in Sialkot in forty-five minutes.”
“Got it. What about the equipment?”
“I’ve got all of it. Looks okay.”
“Then I guess we’re in business.”
“Yeah, it looks that way. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Thirty minutes later, Kealey eased off the gas, then turned the Subaru onto a rutted dirt path. They passed between two immense stone pillars, rolled down a steep incline, and after a couple of minutes, the trees gave way. There was a large, murky pond off to the left, dragonflies drifting lazily over the dappled surface; to the right, there was nothing but a green, open field. Once they were past the pond, he pulled off to the side of the road. Kealey had marked the route carefully; now he called Owen to relay his exact location. After consulting his map, Owen said he could be there in fifteen minutes. Everything was running right on schedule.
There was nothing to do but wait, so Kealey got out to stretch his legs. Fahim had passed out a short while earlier and was no threat to anyone, even without the handcuffs, which he was still wearing. The hole in his thigh was still leaking, but an improvised pressure bandage—which Pétain had fashioned using strips torn from the Afghan’s raincoat—had done its part to limit the blood loss. Besides, Kealey wasn’t interested in the man’s comfort. All that mattered was keeping him alive long enough to find Fitzgerald and get her out of the country. Kealey was checking the contents of the canvas holdalls more thoroughly when he sensed Pétain by his side. He looked up and saw that she was watching him steadily.
He waited for her to speak. “What happens now?” she finally asked.
“I need you to watch him,” Kealey said, gesturing to the unconscious man in the front of the car. “He might have held something back, so we can’t let him go until we can verify that the targets are at this surgeon’s house in Sialkot. You might not be able to let him go until morning. You’ll have to fly out separately regardless.”
She absorbed this silently. “And if they’re not? In Sialkot, I mean?”
“Then you’re going to need to convince him to come clean.” He looked into her eyes. On this point, he had to be sure. “It might take a lot of convincing. Can you do that? If you have to, I mean?”
“Yes, I can.” She said it without hesitation, Kealey noticed. In fact, she didn’t even blink. He felt sure that she would do whatever it took, and that was enough. On that point, at least, he felt he could still trust his instincts. “Will he live that long?” Pétain asked.
“I hope so. We might need him.”
Pétain seemed to consider this for a few seconds. “Ryan . . .”
Here it comes, he thought. He still didn’t know how he was going to handle this part, though it had certainly crossed his mind over the last couple of hours.
“I don’t know what happened back there,” Pétain began slowly.
“At the substation, I mean, but I want to . . . well, thank you for what you did.”
“What?” It took a second for that to sink in, as it was the last thing he expected to hear. He shook his head and looked at her in disbelief. “Marissa, what are you talking about? I almost shot you.”
“Yes, but you had to, right?” It wasn’t really a question, but she hesitated before going on. “I mean, I don’t know why you had to, but you wouldn’t have even considered it unless you had no other choice. I know that, Ryan. I know about you . . . Everyone in Operations knows about you.” She blushed a little with this admission, but somehow, it took nothing away from her demeanor, which was completely controlled. “I couldn’t hear what you were saying, but whoever you were talking to . . . Well, they clearly wanted you to do it, and you didn’t. So thank you.”
So she still didn’t know, Kealey thought. She looked awkward, but her face was completely open, and that confirmed his initial observation. She didn’t know that her father was responsible for all of it. He could have told her, of course, but now wasn’t the time. Was there ever a time to hear something like that?
Probably not, he decided after a long moment. Machado’s actions might have seemed reasonable in his own mind, but that was only because the Spaniard’s sense of reason had been twisted, warped by eight years of grief for the loss of his eldest daughter and fear for the one he still had left. His actions would probably seem just as incomprehensible to Pétain as they did to Kealey.
“I don’t know what it cost you,” Pétain was saying. At this, Kealey felt his stomach clench, but he tried not to react. He still couldn’t think about it. He had yet to come to terms with the decision he’d made at the substation, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to.
“But I’m grateful,” Pétain said. “I really am.”
He looked at her. There were no tears in her eyes; that was the first thing that struck him. She was completely composed, and that, he had to admit, was an amazing thing. Javier Machado had clearly misjudged his daughter; Kealey had never been more certain of anything. He sensed that she would be able to hold her own on any undercover assignment; she was easily one of the strongest people he’d ever known.
And that, he suddenly realized, was just another thing that could be traced back to her sister’s death. He had never seen a family so thoroughly destroyed by one incident. He didn’t understand the internal dynamics—he had never been especially close with his own family—but one thing was clear: there was a lot of pain running below the surface with all of them, and that was something he could identify with.
“What did it cost you, Ryan?”
The question was nearly inaudible, but it shook him, and she saw his reaction. Kealey wanted to pretend that he hadn’t heard, but they both knew that he had. He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then looked past her without answering. A car had just emerged from the trees and was coming down the hill. Kealey could see a familiar face behind the wheel.
“Looks like it’s time to go,” he said.
She turned to look at the approaching vehicle. “I guess you’re right.” And to Kealey’s relief, she left it at that. Walland was the man behind the wheel. He pulled up 10 feet behind the Subaru and shut down the engine. As the 4 men climbed out of the vehicle, Kealey reached into one of the holdalls and pulled out a pistol, a compact Beretta 9mm. He handed it to Pétain, along with two full magazines.
“What is this for?” she asked. She tapped the butt of the Makarov, which was tucked into the top of her linen pants, as if to remind him that she still had it.
“Just in case,” he told her.
She accepted the weapon as the rest of the team approached. Kealey zipped up the holdall he’d taken the Beretta from and got to his feet.
“Is this all of it?” Owen asked, gesturing to the six holdalls piled at Kealey’s feet.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“So we’re set?” Owen was looking past them to the unconscious form in the front of the Subaru; clearly, he was uneasy with the whole situation, and Kealey couldn’t really blame him.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Listen, I’ve got to tell you something. . . .”
Kealey briefed the other man quickly on his plan. Pétain was going to hold Fahim until they could verify that Mengal, Saifi, and Fitzgerald were all at the house in Sialkot. Then she would call his subordinates and tell them where to find him before leaving the country herself. When he was done with the short explanation, Owen nodded his agreement.
“We need to move,” Kealey told him. “Let’s get the equipment loaded.”
Owen relayed the instructions to Walland. As the former ranger shouldered two of the holdalls and moved to the second car, Owen stepped away to address Manik and Massi, leaving Kealey and Pétain alone by the back of the Subaru. They stood there in silence for nearly a minute, but neither felt any particular need to speak. The others, engaged as they were in their separate tasks, didn’t seem to notice the strangely intimate moment. For some reason, Kealey had the sudden sense that she had known all along, that on some level, at least, she knew who had been on the other end of that phone. But he couldn’t ask her, and he doubted she would have admitted to it, anyway.
“Good luck,” she said finally, glancing at him quickly. “I hope you find her.”
Kealey nodded and turned to walk to the second car, but as he reached for the handle on the passenger side, her last words seemed to echo in his head, and he suddenly found himself wondering, looking deeper into her parting statement. Who had she really been talking about? Was it Fitzgerald? He wondered if he was just imagining things, if he was reading too far into what she had just said. He could ask, of course, but what was the point? If she had known all along, would it really make a difference? No, he decided after a moment’s thought. It wouldn’t. If Naomi was really gone, the blame would rest with just one person, and it wouldn’t be Marissa Pétain. Even if she knew—or even suspected—
what had really transpired at the substation, she was not at fault. Simply put, she wasn’t responsible, and she could not be held accountable for what her father had done.
He could not help but wonder how much she really knew, but Kealey tried to remind himself that it didn’t really matter. Either way, that particular bill would be paid in full. He had already made that promise to himself, and he fully intended to keep it. Moving to the passenger door of the Toyota, he climbed into the car as Owen—who was now behind the wheel—started the engine. As they pulled away, Kealey looked in the rearview mirror and saw Pétain looking after them. He watched her as the car rolled over the uneven terrain, and for a few seconds, he thought he felt their eyes connect. Then they passed into the trees, and she disappeared from sight.