101
CAITLIN
I put the telephone back on its base and looked up at Jack. “He left Cairo yesterday,” I said. “He’s got a stopover in Paris. Flight 1103, due in at Reagan National at 10:45 this morning.”
“We'd have to intercept him at Dulles,” Jack said. “We may have to hand him over to Rome in the Marshall case. What’s he thinking?”
“He's not,” I said.
He munched a handful of chips. He offered the bag to me, but I shook my head, wrinkling my nose in disdain. “Blondie, I worry about you. Ever since you started dating that French chef, you’ve become a food snob,” he said. “As for Mackenzie—Stewart—whoever he is this week, if it were me, I’d risk it and come for my wife and kid.”
“Not surprised,” I said. “I’ve always known you were nuts.”
“Think about it,” he urged. “Why wouldn’t he come
