The Inside Ring

‘I think Mike’s free,’ she said. ‘I’ll have him call you.’

‘Is this the same Mike you loaned me in February?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. He’s an okay guy. By the way, Emma, what’s his background?’ DeMarco rolled his eyes when he asked the question, knowing he was wasting his breath – but as Mr William had observed, he was a stubborn man.

‘Oh, the usual,’ Emma said. ‘Navy SEAL, licensed to kill, that sort of thing.’ Emma hung up.

The truth was Mike could be licensed to kill. DeMarco had discovered in the years he had known her that Emma had access to a wide variety of talented people: ex-cops, ex-soldiers, and, he suspected, ex-criminals. She knew wiretap experts, document forgers, and computer hackers. They were all competent and for reasons he was sure he would never know, completely loyal to Emma.

DeMarco had met Emma by giving her a ride. He had just dropped off a friend at Reagan National. He was parked ahead of the cab lane, checking traffic on his left, ready to pull out, when his passenger door opened and a woman entered his car. She was attractive, middle aged, and dressed in an elegant white pantsuit that was rumpled from travel. She was also out of breath, and it didn’t look as if she’d slept for a while. The only thing she was carrying was a purse.

DeMarco said, ‘Hey, what—’

‘In about ten seconds,’ the woman said, ‘two men are going to come out of the terminal. They’re armed and they’re going to try to kill me. They’ll probably kill you too since you’re with me. Now drive. Please.’

The woman was desperate, DeMarco could tell, but not panicking.

‘Hey, look—’ DeMarco said.

‘You now have less than five seconds. I work for the government and I’m not lying.’

DeMarco almost said ‘I’ve heard that line before’ but he didn’t. He was starting to get scared. He looked intently at the woman. She could be someone running from the cops or a mule hauling drugs. But he didn’t think so. She didn’t have a particularly kind face but it seemed to be one you could trust.

DeMarco glanced into his rearview mirror at that moment and saw two dark-complexioned men run out of the terminal. They looked frantically up and down the sidewalk in front of the terminal, and then one of them pointed at DeMarco’s car.

‘Shit,’ he said, and he stepped on the gas and pulled into the arriving airport traffic. ‘Why didn’t you just take a damn cab?’ he said to the woman.

‘Did you see the line at the cabstand?’ she answered. She looked behind her. ‘Damnit, they had a car waiting.’

DeMarco checked his rearview mirror. The two men were getting into a black Mercedes sedan.

‘What’s going—’

‘Just get me to the Pentagon,’ the woman said. ‘And if a cop tries to pull you over, don’t stop.’

‘Wait a—’

‘You’ll get the cop killed. Now drive. Fast.’

The woman checked the traffic behind them. The Mercedes was gaining on them. She pulled a cell phone out of her purse.

‘It’s me,’ she said into the phone. ‘I just got in from Cairo. I’ve got the sample but they were waiting for me at baggage claim. That wasn’t supposed to happen, you moron!’ She was silent for a moment. ‘No, I don’t have a gun. How the hell was I supposed to get a gun on the plane? Look … Shut up. Listen to me. I’m with a civilian. We’re in a 19 …’ She looked over at DeMarco.

‘Ninety-four,’ he said.

‘A 1994 Volvo, maroon in color. We’re just leaving National and headed for the GW Parkway. You’ll be able to tell it’s us because we’ll be going a hundred miles an hour with a Mercedes on our tail. Now scramble someone. Fast!’ She closed the cell phone.

‘What’s your name?’ she said to DeMarco.

‘Joe,’ he said.

‘Well, Joe, you need to put the pedal to the metal. A wreck is the least of your problems at this point.’

The Mercedes was directly behind them now but it wasn’t trying to pass or cut them off.

The woman glanced back at the other car. ‘They’re going to wait until you’re on the parkway, then I’m guessing one of those guys is going to pull out an automatic weapon and shred your tires.’

‘Jesus!’ DeMarco said. ‘Why don’t you just throw whatever the fuck they want outta the window?’

The woman laughed, apparently not realizing that DeMarco hadn’t been joking.

DeMarco reached the George Washington Parkway with the Mercedes fifty yards behind him. He was soon going ninety miles an hour and was thankful that traffic was light. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw one of the guys in the Mercedes stick half his body out the passenger-side window. Then he saw flashes of orange light erupt from the end of the man’s arm – he didn’t hear any shots being fired – then he saw sparks, about a dozen of them, fly up from the asphalt next to the Volvo.

‘Son of a bitch!’ DeMarco screamed. He jammed his foot down on the gas pedal, but it didn’t move. The Volvo couldn’t go any faster.

Then it was over.

A helicopter, a big black one, was suddenly above the Mercedes shining a spotlight down on it and DeMarco could see a guy hanging out of the helicopter holding a rifle. Where the helicopter came from, DeMarco didn’t know. The Mercedes slowed down slightly, apparently looking for an exit or a turnaround. DeMarco didn’t slow down; he kept the gas pedal jammed to the floor. A minute later he saw red-and-blue lights from five or six cars flashing in his rearview mirror and the Mercedes was surrounded.

‘You can pull over now,’ the woman said.

DeMarco kept going.

‘It’s okay,’ the woman said. ‘Calm down. Pull over.’

DeMarco did and when the car stopped he put his head on the steering wheel for a moment and closed his eyes. Without raising his head he said, ‘Would you mind telling me—’

‘Sorry, Joe, but I can’t.’

The damn woman would never let him finish a sentence.

A white van with government plates pulled up behind DeMarco’s Volvo. The woman got out but before she closed the door she said, ‘By the way, I’m Emma. And thank you.’ Then she got back into the van and took off.

The next morning DeMarco was sitting in his office, flipping through the paper to see if last night’s incident had made the news. It hadn’t. A moment later there was a knock on his door, which surprised him as people rarely visited his office. He opened the door. It was Emma.

‘How did you …’

DeMarco had started to say ‘How did you find me,’ then realized that would have been a very silly question.

‘I just wanted to thank you properly for what you did last night,’ Emma said. She entered DeMarco’s office without being asked, raised an eyebrow at the decor, then handed DeMarco an envelope. ‘Two seats for the Wizards for tomorrow night, right behind the players’ bench. I’ve heard you’re a sports fan.’

‘Jeez, thanks,’ DeMarco said. The tickets must have cost about five hundred bucks. ‘I appreciate the tickets but I’d still like to know what happened last night.’

‘I’m sorry, Joe, I can’t tell you. But as they say in the funnies, you have the thanks of a grateful nation. And, Joe, here’s my phone number.’ She handed DeMarco a card that had nothing on it but a phone number with a 703 area code.

‘If you ever need help – with anything – give me a call,’ Emma said.