She concentrated on him with all her might, hoping that by some miracle, her love would travel through space and time to reach him.
‘Jack,’ she whispered into the empty night. ‘Come home. We’re going to have a baby.’
Jack’s eyes flew open. ‘Margo?!’ he said, certain he had heard her voice. He sat up in the ancient bed, heart racing, eyes searching every corner of the room.
She wasn’t there, of course.
Was he losing it? He had heard her. He was sure of it. She had said his name. He would have called it a dream had he been asleep. But the ‘Iceman’, as Marcus always called him, the man who could nod off like a baby on the eve of even the most dangerous mission, had been tossing and turning for hours, longing for but never attaining sleep.
Jack sat on the edge of his bed and absently watched the motel’s neon vacancy sign flash outside his window. It seemed to be begging someone to come in, take shelter, find rest. Maybe find love. But no one had come to the sad little motel. And no one had come to Jack.
It was just his mind playing games. His Margo. His glorious, brilliant, sensuous Margo would have to remain a memory that came to tantalize him in the night.
But he could live with that. Or die with it. He didn’t much care what happened to him any more as long as she didn’t come looking for him. As long as she was safe. That was worth any hell he would have to endure.
‘Margo,’ he whispered into the blackness around him. ‘I will love you forever.’
Margo slipped out of her bed, their bed, the place their love had created a new life. She put on a cosy robe and headed for the library. She took the photograph of young Jack and Marcus with her to the window seat.
She couldn’t look at it right away. Instead she watched the great blocks of ice moving down Lake Michigan. The ice seemed to be devouring the lake, turning that usually beautiful stretch of water into something bleak and forbidding.
Margo shivered. She felt like ice was moving into her heart as well, freezing out the passion and the warmth of her love affair with Jack.
‘No!’ she said to the icy water. ‘I will not harden my heart. I will never be sorry I fell in love with you, Jack McCarthy. I will take care of our child until you are able to come back to me. And I will love you for ever and ever.’
Jack lay back in the bed feeling suddenly as if the pain was leaving his heart. He didn’t know why it was happening but he didn’t question it. Instead, he closed his eyes and pictured Margo lying naked and warm next to him. Filled with love for his wife, Jack fell into a gentle sleep.
EIGHTEEN
It was past noon when Margo finally awakened from the best sleep she’d had since Jack disappeared. She padded into the kitchen and dropped a pod into the coffee machine. It seemed somehow unfair to Margo that some things, like making perfect espresso, were so easy; while other things, like life, were so hard.
She heard a noise coming from the other end of the big apartment, from her childhood bedroom. She wasn’t frightened in the least. She reached the doorway just as Billy emerged from the armoire that had connected the two apartments since they were kids. He was carrying a pile of perfectly wrapped Christmas presents and five or six thick cream-coloured envelopes.
‘Father Christmas I presume,’ Margo said. ‘Want coffee?’
‘I’m already thinking about lunch,’ Billy said. ‘And I feel I must tell you I’m worried you are becoming a sloth. It is after twelve, you know.’
‘I assume you’ve been in and out all morning making sure I’m alive.’ She pointed to the armoire. ‘Close those doors, would you? Mrs Watson comes to clean today.’
Billy carefully closed the doors. ‘I liked watching you sleep,’ he said, following her to the library. ‘You looked twelve.’
Margo sipped her coffee and eyed the presents. ‘I hope those aren’t for me, Billy. I told you I’m not doing Christmas this year.’
‘And a Jolly Holly to you too, Madame Scrooge. No, as it happens, they are not for you.’ Billy put the packages between them on the big window seat overlooking the lake. Despite rooms full of luxurious furnishings, Billy and Margo still gravitated to the places they had chosen decades before as children.
‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ Billy said. ‘I’m making dinner for us tonight at my place.’
‘Billy …’
‘You may be as grumpy as you like. I, on the other hand, will be my usual ebullient self. The food, as always, will be superb. We are not missing Christmas just because some jerk you married turned out to be a mass murderer. Priorities, my dear.’
‘I love you,’ she said, laughing in spite of herself.
‘And I love you back. But enough passion for one day. Did you get gifts for your staff at the office?’ Billy asked. ‘For Mrs Watson? Did you fill tip envelopes for the building staff?’
‘Oh God …’
‘I thought not.’ Billy pushed the pile of gifts toward her. ‘These are tagged and ready to go, selected with care by my personal shopper at Neiman Marcus.’
‘Oh, Billy …’
‘St Billy, if you please. The envelopes are self-explanatory,’ he said. ‘Just remember to pass them out as you leave the building today. Otherwise you may not have electricity in your apartment when you return tonight.’
‘Thanks, Billy.’ Margo was moved to tears by his thoughtfulness.
‘De nada,’ he said. ‘Ten o’clock sharp at my place. Dress up.’
And he was gone.
Margo sat for a few minutes, idly watching the traffic below on Lake Shore Drive. Somehow the icy lake didn’t seem so ominous in the bright light of day.
It had begun to snow this morning and the cars on the drive hadn’t yet had a chance to turn it to slush. Hi baby, she thought, tenderly stroking her belly. It’s your first Christmas Eve and it’s snowing. I consider that a very good sign. It means there’s still a bit of magic in the world.
NINETEEN
Jack parked his rental car in the shade of an ancient live oak tree on a quiet street in Vienna, Virginia.
He dialled a number on his phone and, when the woman answered, he spoke in a voice with a distinct accent.
‘Mr Robert Whitbred, please.’
‘Mr Whitbred is in a meeting with the Director and cannot be disturbed,’ the assistant responded.
‘Do you have any idea when he might be available?’ Jack asked.
‘Maybe two hours. Three at the most. He’ll be heading home right afterwards. May I take a message?’
‘No, thanks,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll call back after the holiday.’
‘Merry Christmas!’ was the cheery reply.
Jack disconnected the call. Two hours would be more than enough.
He unlocked the glove box and took out the Glock he had cleaned the night before. He slipped the pistol into a shoulder holster and covered it with his workman’s jacket. He attached a photo ID to his collar, grabbed a toolbox and headed down the street.
The house was modest for a man of Robert Whitbred’s stature and body of work. However, being a loyal public servant, year after year, did not pay well. Jack and Marcus had been highly compensated for their work. Whit had not. But he never seemed to mind. He knew they were the ones taking the risks.
Jack rang the doorbell but, as he expected, no one answered. Whit’s marriage, like so many agency marriages, had ended years before when his wife realized his true love was his work.
He glanced up and down the street but it was deserted on Christmas Eve. Using a small tool from his kit, Jack was in the door in ten seconds. The warning squealed on the burglar alarm. Knowing Whit as he did, Jack assumed a silent signal was also being sent to a monitoring centre.
Jack counted off the seconds aloud as he worked to attach a device that would block the signal without damaging the keypad in any way. He figured he had fifteen seconds before the monitoring station called the police. It took thirteen to silence the alarm.
He slipped the device back into his toolkit and looked ar
ound carefully. Everything was as he remembered it. He knew there would be no surveillance cameras inside the house. Whit wanted no record of who came and went from his home.
Jack relocked the front door and took the stairs two at a time. He knew just where he was going. How many times had he and Marcus sat in Whit’s study, planning a mission far from the prying eyes of crew at the agency? He walked into the familiar room and turned on a lamp.
The study was simply but comfortably furnished. A walnut desk with an ergonomic chair, two leather wingchairs, a wall of bookcases. There was a television set so old that Marcus was convinced it was black and white. Since it had never been turned on in their presence, they had never known for sure.
Jack carefully closed the curtains to shut out prying eyes. Then he sat down in Whit’s chair. The last time he had been here was the night the three of them had planned that final flawed mission.
What had gone wrong? He wondered what he had missed that day Marcus was killed. How could he be so dead in the surveillance photos in the agency files, and so alive in the photograph that had showed up on Jack’s phone that day at the airport?
He took out his mobile phone and studied the photograph for the hundredth time. The obvious message was in the handwritten sign Marcus held. GET ME OUT. But the real story was in his left hand. In the Native American sign language they had mastered as boys, Marcus was signalling TRUST NO ONE.
Did NO ONE include Whit? Although Jack couldn’t fathom it, until he was sure, he would assume that it did. But Jack needed Whit. How else could he get his hands on the ransom money to get Marcus home?
The ransom demand had come in this morning. Jack had known it would be coming. The only reason they, whoever ‘they’ were, would keep Marcus alive, allow him to contact Jack, was for money. The buying and selling of hostages was big business.
But Jack didn’t have the kind of money they were demanding, nowhere near. He had stashed that much and more of Margo’s funds in a storage locker in Joliet. After much soul-searching, he decided he would not touch that, even for Marcus. She was no part of his past and should not have to sacrifice to bail him and his friend out.
But he would get the money somehow if he had to rob the Federal Reserve to do so. Logically, Whit was his only path to the ransom money. He would be able to get whatever was needed from a fund at the agency.
But before he let Whit know Marcus was alive, Jack needed to know if he could trust him. If Marcus was willing to risk everything by sending him the signal to trust no one, Jack would trust no one until he was sure they were worthy of trust.
Jack took a deep breath and started to study the room the way he would study a kill zone, inch by inch. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly. Something, anything, that might tell him what went wrong with the mission and if Whit had played any part in it.
Whit, he knew, was a super spook, careful, almost paranoid about secrets. If there was something here, it would be well-concealed. Jack had less than two hours to find it and get out.
TWENTY
When Margo arrived at her office about three, the place looked as if it had been burgled. Files were turned out, stacks of paper covered the floor, maps of O’Hare Airport and the airport in Puerto Vallarta were spread out on the floor. A book about tides and currents and ship speeds found God knows where sat open atop the coffee maker.
Boxes of half-eaten pizza, empty cans of Red Bull, half-finished Slurpees, plus innumerable used coffee pods littered every available space. The place reeked of popcorn.
A custom bulletin board covered an entire wall. Margo and her team used this to lay out their cases. There had been nothing on it when she’d left. Now it was covered with photographs and clippings and timelines. What looked like a homemade Monopoly board turned out to be a map of offshore banks and their proximity to one another.
She should have known.
Margo found a semi-clean spot on the table and carefully put down the presents that Billy had provided. Then she called for her team.
One by one they slouched into the conference room, looking like puppies who knew they’d done something naughty. They were as dishevelled as the office.
‘We meant to clean up before you got here,’ Courtney said sheepishly. ‘But we got busy.’
‘Aren’t you early?’ Jason asked. ‘We thought you said four.’ It was an attempt at a reprimand but he couldn’t quite carry it off.
‘Want popcorn?’ Pete asked, smiling.
‘I’d love some, Pete,’ Margo said, fighting tears. ‘I know you all did this for me and here I am so self-involved I didn’t even know today was Christmas Eve.’
It was clear from the looks on their faces that none of them knew it either.
‘You got presents!’ Pete said, spotting the colourful stack. ‘I love presents.’
‘Well, technically they’re from me, but Billy chose them. I’m sure they’ll be much better than anything I could have picked out. Merry Christmas,’ Margo said, hugging each of them in turn. ‘Now what do you say we bulldoze some of this toxic waste so you can tell me what you’ve got.’
It took five minutes to clear the conference table and an hour and a half for them to give their reports. Thanks to the talent and effort of her amazing team, Margo finally had a picture of what had happened to Jack.
The ‘why’ of it all was still on the table.
Jason’s news had been hardest to take. He put a slide show up on the big television set in the office. It was a sort of This Is Your Life, Jack McCarthy. It confirmed all that Kyle Wainwright had told her.
Although Jack had formed his own legitimate company since he married Margo, the real Worldwide Water was a cover. The research company Jack and Marcus worked for was created to allow their employees to move around the world freely.
‘But the real work was in black ops,’ Jason said. ‘And Jack McCarthy was their star.’
‘So, occupation clandestine, untraceable, illegal. And also probably lethal activities,’ Margo said. ‘I can really pick ’em, can’t I?’
‘Jack’s pretty famous with the people who know about these things. Hands down, he’s the number one sharpshooter in the country,’ Jason said, ‘probably the world. Everyone reveres him. Or they did, till the bad thing happened.’
Margo didn’t interrupt. She knew they needed to get to things their own way and in their own time.
‘Pete helped me run this to ground,’ Jason said. ‘About a year ago Jack and his longtime partner, a guy named Marcus Kane, were sent to take out a guy. Some sources say it was one of the guys who masterminded Benghazi but I couldn’t confirm that. Like always, Jack was to take the shot and Marcus was logistics. Something went wrong and the guy they were after got away. But Marcus was taken out by what they think was an incendiary grenade.’
‘What do you mean, they think? Don’t they know?’ Margo asked.
‘Jack says he tried to get to Marcus to bring him home. But there’s no proof of that,’ Jason said. ‘Anyway, Washington pulled the plug and Jack was forcibly pulled out of the kill zone. Without the body they couldn’t confirm exactly what happened to Marcus. But surveillance photos confirmed he was dead.’
Jason, who had continued to work on his computer as he spoke, sneaked a peek at Margo to see if she could handle what he was about to tell her. ‘Some say Jack set him up. For money.’
Margo stood up without speaking and got herself some sparkling water. Pete shyly pushed a bowl of popcorn in front of her place at the table.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t know why, since clearly I know nothing about the man I married. But it just doesn’t ring true.’
‘Here’s something I can’t figure out,’ Courtney said. ‘Why didn’t he leave any of your money offshore?’
‘What do you mean?’ Jason asked.
‘Usually in these cases, the embezzler stashes everything in one of those islands no one has heard of, or in Switzerland. That way no one can link them to the crime.
But Jack turned your money into cash and negotiables and took it with him.’
‘What did he do with it?’ Pete asked. ‘Where are you going to stash gazillions of dollars? Guys like Jack, guys on the run, don’t have mattresses.’
‘Don’t know,’ Courtney said. ‘Yet.’
‘To me, the real question is, why did he leave like that?’ Margo said, pacing. ‘Just disappear from the airport? If he was planning to take my money all along, then why the drama? Why didn’t he just take off while I was at work?’
‘Margo!’ Jason’s shout scared everyone, including Jason. ‘I got it! I got in!’
‘What?’
‘I got into Jack’s phone,’ Jason said. He was bouncing up and down on his chair like it was a trampoline. ‘He got a text just before your plane was due to take off.’
Jason transferred an image to the big screen and blew it up as much as possible. It was a photo of a dark-haired man in his thirties. He was sitting at a table on what appeared to be a ship of some sort. It was too dark to really tell. Two nasty-looking guys holding semi-automatic weapons flanked him. Marcus held a small handwritten sign that read GET ME OUT.
There was a copy of Granma, the primary newspaper of Cuba, on the table. The date on the paper had been circled. It read catorce de diciembre, 2015.
‘It’s a “proof of life” photo,’ Pete said. ‘Someone wanted Jack to know this guy was alive on December fourteenth. No wonder he flipped out!’
‘Who is it?’ Margo asked, puzzled. ‘He looks familiar but …’
‘Tell her, Pete,’ Jason said.
‘It’s Jack’s partner,’ Pete said, staring incredulously at the photo. ‘His “dead” friend Marcus is alive!’
‘That’s why he left the airport.’ Tears were streaming down Margo’s face. ‘To save his friend.’
Courtney and Jason exchanged looks. Pete just looked at the floor.
‘What?’ Margo said, sensing the tension.
Who Are You? Page 6