Because if this isn't settled in two days, he thought, somebody's probably going to be dead.
[Chapter Eleven]
She checked her watch, then took a last look around the spacious room. It was time. Her bag lay on the bed, packed and waiting to be sent later. The part of her luggage that mattered was the vinyl flight bag by the door, containing the Zenith.
With a sigh she rose, threw on her light tan raincoat, and grabbed the bag. This was the part she'd been dreading, and she'd done her best to try and look inconspicuous—a dressy beige outfit and a few silver accessories. She'd also washed her hair, which always made her feel better.
The carpeted hallway was clear as she closed the door, tugged to be certain it was secure, then took a deep breath, turned, and headed toward the elevator. She hadn't been outside the room for almost twenty-four hours. This, she told herself, must be what house arrest feels like.
It was about to be over. All she had to do now was make her way through the Savoy lobby, walk diagonally across the Strand, then through another lobby, another elevator, and she'd be with Michael.
The more she allowed herself to think about the whole situation, the angrier she got, at all the bean-counters at NSA who wouldn't listen to her, at the entire American intelligence establishment. How could everybody have missed what was happening?
Maybe, she thought, the air outside would help cool her off. She definitely needed to get out of the Savoy, if only to counter the claustrophobia. Stretch your legs, sweetheart, and think.