Who Are You?

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Now he wore workman’s clothes purchased at an army and navy store on the south side of Chicago. He could easily have been just another guy who had completed his shift at Caterpillar Tractor Company. Except, of course, for the fact that his car held millions of dollars: Margo’s money.

  Jack pulled into a service station far from the Interstate. He got out and stretched while he scanned the area for something, anything that looked out of place.

  All clear.

  He locked the car and headed for the shabby minimart adjacent. A handwritten sign in the window proclaimed:

  ANYTHING YOU WANT, WE GOT.

  The place smelled of old grease and stale coffee. Tired-looking frankfurters rotated endlessly on an ancient grill. Jack helped himself to one as he casually checked out the space. He popped the meat into a soggy-looking bun, slathered it with mustard, and ate with gusto.

  ‘Need a couple cases of motor oil,’ he said to the bored attendant. ‘What’s on special?’

  ‘You mean what’s cheap?’ The young man didn’t look up.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I mean. You got a problem with that?’ There was enough danger in Jack’s tone to cause the kid to tear himself away from his television rerun and get to his feet.

  ‘We don’t do specials but we do a lot of cheap,’ the attendant said. ‘How much do you want?’

  Within minutes, Jack and the kid had loaded five cases of motor oil, a plastic trash can, and four giant bags of cat litter into the boot of the Camry.

  ‘You like cats?’ the attendant asked, eyeing the litter.

  ‘Yeah, I like cats.’ Jack’s face was blank.

  The kid backed off a step. ‘Me, too. I like cats,’ he lied. ‘A lot.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Jack paid in cash and the attendant hurried back to his television programme. As Jack left the gas station, the back bumper of the old car scraped the street from the weight in the trunk.

  To reach the public storage facility, Jack had to drive north, past Statesville. The prison was surrounded by impenetrable concrete walls over thirty feet in height. Jack wondered idly if many inside had committed a crime as monstrous as the one he had just pulled off.

  He forcefully pushed away thoughts of Margo. Best not to go there, he told himself. That part of his life was over.

  He parked in front of the large ground-floor storage unit he had chosen earlier in the day and pulled open the doors. He had paid a year’s rent in cash and purchased the most formidable lock available. It would take time and skill for someone to break into this unit.

  Jack backed the old car into the space, got out and closed the door. He lifted the bonnet, opened one case of oil and splashed the contents of several bottles on the floor in front of the car. It now appeared as if a not-so-handy man had been changing his own oil.

  He placed the battered tool box he had purchased, fully stocked, at a lawn sale, on the floor and scattered a few wrenches around. He examined the scene.

  Satisfied, Jack pulled a large carton from the back seat and carefully checked the contents. It was all there: bundles of cash, stock certificates, negotiables. Also records of the accounts he had opened yesterday in five different banks on three islands.

  He did a quick tally of the balances. Everything was worth exactly what it was worth when he’d emptied Margo’s accounts. Well, technically, their accounts. Someone could live very well for a very long time with this stash.

  He set the carton aside and double-wrapped the papers and cash in heavy plastic. He placed the bulky package in the bottom of the trash can he had just bought.

  The next step was to cover the package completely by emptying the heavy bags of cat litter on top. He then opened bottle after bottle of motor oil and emptied the contents into the gravelly substance. Soon the mixture took on the consistency of molasses. And finally, he piled the empty oil containers on top of the mess.

  Jack carefully wiped the oil from his hands and opened an envelope he took from the glove compartment. He checked the sheets of stationery covered in his slanted handwriting.

  Pulling his wallet from his pocket, he carefully extracted a photo of Margo he had taken on board the cruise ship shortly after they had met. The wind had whipped her hair into a wild tangle, and freckles from the sun had dotted her nose. She looked filled with joy.

  Jack had never meant to fall in love with anyone. He was determined not to. But love, he learned on that ship, doesn’t follow orders.

  He tore his eyes away from her face and quickly put the photo into the envelope. Some people were not meant for happy endings. He worked his wedding ring from his finger, buried it in the sheets of notepaper and sealed the envelope. On the front he wrote:

  TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH.

  Although it wasn’t easy he managed to lift the heavy trash can just enough to slide the letter underneath.

  He surveyed his handiwork and was satisfied. Even if someone broke into the locker unit and stole the car, they were not going to bother with the smelly mess in a garbage can that now weighed upwards of two hundred pounds.

  He lifted the door of the storage unit just enough to slide underneath and closed it behind him. After locking it securely and pocketing the key, Jack stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and trudged into the darkening winter afternoon.

  TWELVE

  Margo emerged from the private elevator and stepped into Billy’s office on the parlour floor of an old Chicago mansion. To call it an office was to greatly understate the grandeur of the space. It might have been a salon in the winter palace of a czar.

  It had been two weeks since Jack had disappeared. Two weeks of questions, heartbreak, frustration and rage. Two weeks of lying in bed alone at night going over every action, every casual remark, every story Jack had told her during their year together. Two weeks of longing for his kiss, his touch, his love.

  There had also been two weeks of relentlessly cheerful Christmas carols being played everywhere she went, in stores, in office buildings, in passing cars. Even the lampposts on Michigan Avenue had been turned into melody-spewing monstrosities.

  ‘If I hear another version of “Silver Bells” I simply cannot be responsible for my actions,’ she snapped at Billy, hurling herself into a chair next to his enormous desk.

  ‘And good morning to you too,’ Billy said, barely glancing up from the sheaf of papers in front of him. ‘I see the power suit is back.’

  Margo wore a trim navy suit with a three-quarter-length jacket and a matching skirt.

  ‘I have a meeting in DC after this,’ she replied curtly. ‘If you want something from someone in Washington, this is how you dress.’

  ‘Note to self,’ Billy said pleasantly, inclining his head respectfully.

  Margo stared at him, waiting for him to retort in kind, but he just smiled sweetly, robbing the situation of additional tension.

  Margo breathed. Finally. ‘I’m being a bitch, aren’t I?’

  ‘You get to be any way you want after what’s happened to you, my love. As far as I know you have little or no experience being a bitch, so it just might be a nice change for you. Have at it.’

  Margo smiled in spite of herself. She reached over and touched his hand lightly. ‘Where have you been all my life?’

  ‘Mostly locked in cupboards in your father’s library,’ he said, squeezing her hand. He studied her carefully. ‘You sure you’re up for this? I had a preliminary conversation on the phone with the private detective. The news is not good.’

  ‘Whatever it is, I’ll be fine.’ She touched his hand again, appreciating his concern for her. ‘I’m wearing a power suit, remember?

  One of Billy’s myriad assistants stepped in. ‘Charles Kent is here,’ he said.

  Margo crossed to the window and looked out on Michigan Avenue with its resolute seasonal cheer.

  ‘You need to know this guy has turned up a lot of stuff about Jack, none of which you are going to like.’

  ‘It can’t be any worse than what I’ve
been imagining,’ she said. ‘As long as he doesn’t start singing “Silver Bells”, I can take it.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure about that,’ Billy said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Margo said.

  ‘Lying for personal gain pretty much sums it up,’ he said, and hit the intercom button on the desk.

  ‘Peter, send in Mr Kent.’

  THIRTEEN

  The motel was old but not decrepit. Someone had obviously taken good care of it during the fifty-plus years it had stood outside McLean, Virginia. The family-owned place had been built long before the area became dotted with the Hiltons and Marriotts favoured by most travellers.

  The gravel parking area was nearly devoid of cars, which suited Jack just fine. He parked his rental as far away from the motel office as possible. From the side pocket of the inexpensive suitcase he had bought at a Walmart that morning he extracted an accordion file. He went through the pockets methodically. Each held a different set of identity papers. Driver’s licence, passport, credit cards, library cards, house keys, the works.

  He finally found the one he was looking for. He filled the pockets of a new wallet with the identification papers. Then he slid his own wallet under a lethal-looking semi-automatic pistol and locked the glove box. He pulled a cap over his head, locked his suitcase in the trunk and headed for the office.

  Within five minutes he was checked into the motel as ‘Tony Cologne’, an industrial paper salesman.

  He let himself into room thirty-two and checked the place over carefully. Closet, bathroom, and even under the bed. He examined the telephone and the television set for bugging devices and the ceiling for cameras.

  Affluent McLean, Virginia, was the home of diplomats and politicos and all manner of persons having business with the Central Intelligence Agency. The Langley headquarters was a little over a mile away. It paid to be cautious in this area.

  Satisfied finally, Jack brought his suitcase and his pistol into the motel and double-locked the door.

  He hung up a navy suit and starched white shirt in the closet and placed highly polished shoes on the shelf. He then removed a plastic bag from the case and took it into the small bathroom. The bag held hair dye, scissors, makeup and various sundries which he placed on the shelf near the sink.

  He examined himself in the mirror and then studied the passport photograph on the identity papers he had chosen. The photograph was of Jack but one would really need to study it to realize that. His colouring, his hairstyle, even his facial expression looked nothing like the Jack McCarthy that Margo once loved.

  An hour later the face looking back at Jack from the mirror was altered. His tangle of sandy hair was gone, replaced by black hair, cut short and slicked down on either side of a precise side parting. His eyebrows had been darkened and he wore an unfashionable pair of steel-rimmed glasses.

  He put on the three-piece suit that looked like a hundred other three-piece suits worn by mid-level executives all over Washington, DC. He studied his image in a distorted full-length mirror. He could have been an aide to a Senator or an accountant. But he was now Tony Cologne.

  Satisfied, Jack went back into the bedroom and carefully hung up his jacket and waistcoat. He examined the Glock semi-automatic pistol which had been custom-made for him in the Georgia factory. He took a leather case from his suitcase, removing oil and rags and instruments which he carefully laid on the nightstand.

  Jack propped himself up on the bed and began to carefully clean and oil the powerful weapon. He couldn’t help but think of Marcus. How many times had they completed this ritual together on the eve of a mission?

  One too many times, he thought, for Marcus. He pushed thoughts of his friend away. There was no place for sentimentality now. Too much was at stake.

  He was eager to begin but Jack knew he must wait until the time was right. That was fine with him. He was used to waiting.

  FOURTEEN

  Twelve miles away from McLean, Virginia, Jack’s wife was getting out of a taxi on Capitol Hill.

  Despite the emotional pain she was feeling, when Margo entered the rotunda of the US Capitol Building, her breath caught, just as it always did. No matter how many times she crossed those exquisite mosaic floors she simply had to stop and look up. The majesty of the design with its soaring arches and perfect domes thrilled her, somehow filled her with hope.

  Hope had been in short supply since her meeting in Chicago with Charles Kent. The picture he painted of Jack McCarthy and his past was hard to fathom, even harder to accept. The suggestion was that he had done this before: swept some innocent off her feet only to abscond with her fortune.

  ‘I’m no innocent,’ she had told Mr Kent. ‘I’m a skilled business woman and I know dishonesty when I see it. I can’t explain what happened. But what Jack and I had, what we have,’ she corrected herself, ‘that is real.’

  Billy, of course, was apoplectic. He had believed every word and was ready to fund a nationwide manhunt to find the man who had hurt his friend.

  When the detective left the office, Margo had asked Billy to please keep his opinions to himself, just this once. ‘I’m going to Washington,’ she said, ‘to talk to the one person I know with enough clout to get to the truth about Jack.’

  Three hours later when her plane touched down at Reagan National Airport she found a taxi and headed for Capitol Hill and her friend and former boss.

  Kyle Wainwright could fill a room, even one the size of the Capitol Rotunda. He was movie-star good-looking, six foot five, with a shaved head, a luminous smile, and deep brown eyes.

  But his physical attributes were not what made him seem larger than life. It was what went on inside the man. Like the revolutionaries depicted in paintings and statuary around the rotunda where Margo stood, Kyle believed things could, and should, be better for every citizen. That’s why she had worked so hard to make him Senator Wainwright.

  Now Margo needed something in return.

  Kyle crossed the room quickly, nearly crushing her with a bear hug. He motioned for her to follow him. After showing the guard his Senate identification, he led Margo to nearby Statuary Hall. It was a semicircular room of exquisite proportions built in the likeness of an ancient amphitheatre. The room was empty, except for the statues of American icons.

  Kyle pulled up two chairs usually reserved for security guards. ‘Tours are over for today so it’ll be quiet here,’ he said. He pulled out his phone and turned some music on. He placed it between them.

  ‘In Washington it’s best to assume the walls have ears,’ he murmured, adjusting the volume to loud.

  ‘How are you, Senator?’ Margo tried to smile but failed.

  ‘It’s still Kyle and I’m fine. But you’re not fine so let’s not waste time on chitchat.’

  ‘Have you found out something about Jack?’ Margo asked, not sure if she wanted him to say yes or no.

  ‘I’ve made some friends over at Langley. Good friends.’ Kyle pulled his chair closer to her and lowered his voice. ‘Plus, I’m on a committee that deals with homeland security issues so I have access. Since we spoke this morning, I’ve made some progress.’

  ‘I’m sorry I had to ask you to call in favours for me,’ Margo said, meaning this. ‘I know how valuable they are in this town.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about favours. I care about you. And Margo, I’m not exactly sure what Jack McCarthy is yet, but I know what he’s not. He is not a person you should be in love with, let alone be married to.’

  Margo searched his face, a little chill of fear creeping up her spine. ‘It’s a bit late for that, Kyle.’

  ‘Walk away, Margo. Just walk away. Don’t look for him.’ Kyle took her hands. ‘It’ll be hard but you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. You can do it. Walk away and don’t ask any more questions.’

  Margo sat for a moment, fighting with memories. ‘You don’t get to decide whom you love,’ she said finally. ‘At least I didn’t.’ Margo took a breath and straightened up, her jaw
set. ‘Jack’s it for me. I won’t walk away, no matter what he’s done.’

  ‘What about what he’s about to do?’

  Margo suddenly felt sick. Strangers, hired detectives, they could tell her things and she could choose to believe them or not. Kyle was different. He spoke only the truth.

  ‘Tell me.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘Walking away will be easier.’

  ‘Kyle, did you learn nothing about me those years we spent working together?’

  ‘I figured you’d handle it this way. But I had to try.’

  ‘So he’s some kind of serial embezzler? He gets women to fall in love with him and then takes their money?’

  ‘I wish it were as benign as that,’ Kyle said. ‘That’s just part of his legend.’

  ‘Legend?’

  ‘The story that’s told to hide the real story. Most operatives in the agency have them,’ Kyle said.

  Margo’s face was hot. Things were beginning to click into place. The way she’d met Jack, the fact that he seemed to have no past. ‘He’s with the CIA? He works for the government?’

  ‘Not any more. And it wasn’t the CIA per se. He was part of an elite group that did special jobs, dangerous jobs. And it seems he set up his own partner, a guy named Marcus. Got him killed for cash.’

  ‘Marcus was his best friend! They grew up together,’ Margo cried.

  ‘And were recruited together by one of the agency greats. Guy named Robert Whitbred. Jack ever mention him?’

  ‘Never,’ Margo said.

  ‘Word on the street is that Whitbred was like a father to both men. Until Marcus was killed on a mission in the Middle East.’

  ‘Jack told me Marcus died. He didn’t say how.’

  ‘I would think not,’ Kyle said. ‘Certain people have been looking for Jack for over two years. He was probably using you as cover.’

  Margo couldn’t sit still any more. She jumped up, crossed the room, her heels echoing in the empty chamber. Kyle followed.