Who Are You?

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

‘We told you about the rumours. That Jack gave Marcus up in the first place,’ Courtney said carefully.

  ‘How do we know,’ said Pete, who did not understand the meaning of tact, ‘if he was going to save him or finish him off?’

  Margo inadvertently touched her belly where the new life was growing. ‘We don’t know, I guess. But we need to find out.’

  Jason was already manning his computer. ‘What do you need?’

  Margo said, ‘I want you to track down a guy named Robert Whitbred. He’s a CIA guy.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Whit came out of the Director’s office holding his annual Christmas bottle of Pappy’s Bourbon. His assistant was waiting for him with a stack of messages.

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t be out of there for hours,’ she said, walking beside him as he sorted through the messages.

  ‘So did I,’ Whit said. ‘But even our peerless leader wants to be home for Christmas Eve. Anything urgent in here?’ he said of the messages.

  ‘Nope. A lot of Merry Christmas greetings, a few people who will call back. Go home.’

  ‘On my way,’ Whit said. ‘I plan to make a dent in this bourbon and watch A Christmas Carol. The original. Bah humbug.’

  ‘Humbug yourself,’ the assistant smiled as she watched the legendary spymaster head for the elevator and home.

  ‘Your Christmas gift is on my desk,’ he called back as he got into the elevator.

  Jack checked his watch and made a quick calculation. He’d been in the house thirty minutes. Whit’s meeting with the Director had about an hour fifteen left to go. If the workaholic decided to come right home, it would take roughly twenty minutes to drive from Langley to Vienna. Whit was entitled to a car and driver but refused it. He valued his privacy.

  To play it safe Jack decided to give himself just one hour more. If he hadn’t found anything by then, there was nothing to find. Jack was very good at what he did.

  He was hoping against hope he would find nothing. Because if Whit had betrayed Marcus, there was no telling what else he could do. Or would do.

  The study in Whit’s home looked exactly as it had when Jack walked in thirty minutes ago. No one would know he had been there, but the room had been searched methodically. Each book in the cases that lined one wall had been examined to make sure they hid no secrets. The walls and desk had been checked for secret panels. Ceiling and floor examined for potential hiding places.

  He had hacked into Whit’s personal computer but there was nothing there to indicate he was anything but the upstanding friend he had always been to Jack and Marcus.

  He sat down again at Whit’s desk, wishing Margo was here. She was like that guy who worked for her, Pete. He found people, she found things. She had an uncanny knack for it. Lose your car keys, she would produce them in a flash. Misplace your phone, she’d find it even if the ringer was turned off. It was maddening.

  ‘Things usually hide in plain sight,’ she would tell him with that little grin that made his heart melt. ‘Stop looking under the bed and look at what’s right in front of you.’

  Okay, babe, he thought. I’m looking in front of me.

  Slowly he swivelled Whit’s chair around, looking not for secret compartments, but for what seemed normal but wasn’t.

  Chain Bridge Road which leads from CIA headquarters to Vienna, Virginia, was usually a tangle of traffic. Today, on the eve of Christmas, it seemed to Whit as if he were travelling on a speedway. The road was virtually empty and Whit took advantage of it. If he was pulled over for speeding, his CIA credentials would take care of it.

  He had turned down all the invitations divorced men get to ‘join our family for Christmas’. He wanted to get home. He wanted to pour two fingers of this rare bourbon into a glass, shut himself up in his study, and think.

  Something was off.

  It was nothing Whit could put his finger on but he hadn’t survived in this dangerous business for over thirty years without relying on his instincts. He had not had a decent night’s sleep since Jack called him from O’Hare Airport weeks ago. What the hell was going on?

  It wasn’t the first time this had happened. When you did work like he, Jack and Marcus did there was always blowback. And Whit had always helped. But this was different. He had assumed that when they met up at the agency Jack would brief him.

  Not a word.

  But there was no doubt which case Jack was looking into. Marcus had been dead for over two years. Why go back over it now? What was so important that he wanted his wife to think he’d run out on her? Why did he want to be erased from her life? And, if it was so important, why not tell him about it, as he always had?

  Too many whys. That was not a good sign.

  Whit checked the clock on the dashboard. He’d be home in ten minutes. He always thought better in his little study. He had no doubt he’d figure it out. Then he’d take whatever steps were necessary.

  Jack was still seated at Whit’s desk, scanning the room, when he saw it. Sitting under the cable box was a slim black iPad, hiding, as Margo said things did, in plain sight.

  Jack carefully slipped the device out from under the cable box and brought it back to the desk. In no time, he was in. The encryption was amateurish at best. Whit must have set this up himself rather than have someone from the agency do it. Given how meticulous Whit was about security, Jack knew immediately that what was in this computer was top secret, at least to Whit.

  Whit parked the car on the street. Over the years the garage had become more of a storage space than a place for cars. He sat looking at the plain little house. It looked bleak at best. Why had he bought it in the first place? Why did he even need a home? He would have been just as happy sleeping on the couch in his office.

  He hadn’t bought a tree this year; he had no desire to be reminded of the holiday. Christmas: the season of hope and new beginnings. The very idea of it made him feel old and tired. There would be no new beginnings for him.

  Finally he found the energy to get out of the car and head up the pavement to his house.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘So where does this Whitbred guy fit into the picture?’ Pete asked, looking at the printout Jason had handed each of them.

  ‘When I was in DC with Senator Wainwright he mentioned him,’ Margo explained. ‘He said Mr Whitbred had recruited both Jack and Marcus out of college. Apparently he was involved in the secret unit they were part of, well, more than involved. He ran it.’

  ‘There’s not much here on him,’ Courtney said.

  ‘Spies are funny like that,’ Jason said. ‘They like to stay under the radar.’

  ‘Is this number a home or work phone?’ Pete asked.

  ‘One way to find out,’ Jason said, dialling. He listened a moment and disconnected. ‘Work phone. The office is closed for the holiday.’

  ‘I hope someone’s minding the store at the CIA,’ Courtney said.

  ‘Keep looking, Jay. I need to talk to him.’ Margo walked over to the large TV screen that was filled with the image of Jack’s friend Marcus.

  ‘Jason, are you absolutely sure that the proof of life newspaper is for real?’

  ‘Like I told you before, one hundred per cent,’ Jason said. ‘Checked and double-checked it with the actual paper from that day online.’

  ‘I know you checked it, Jay. It’s just so hard to believe. I mean, Jack was in mourning for his friend. At least he seemed to be. It’s hard to keep track of what’s real any more.’

  ‘I don’t know how Jack felt about it,’ Jason said. ‘But Marcus was alive and, most likely, somewhere near Cuba the day Jack didn’t get on the plane.’

  ‘So what are you going to do, Margo, now you know why Jack didn’t get on the plane?’ It was Pete, in his usual unsubtle way, who voiced the question all of them were silently asking themselves. ‘Courtney, why are you kicking me?’

  Courtney just rolled her eyes.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Margo said. ‘I don’t really know exactly what I’ll do, Pete.�
� She studied the photograph of the man she had never met. ‘So many questions. What does that photograph of Marcus mean? Who sent it? Is Jack going to try to rescue him or to finish him off? I guess the real question is Jack? Who is he? Who is the man I married?’ Margo was having a hard time keeping it together.

  ‘That’s why you kicked me, huh,’ Pete said contritely to Courtney. ‘I get it. Sorry, Margo.’

  Margo stood up. ‘No worries, Pete.’ She walked over to the monitor and studied the photograph. ‘That’s why I want to find this guy Whitbred. I have all the questions. Maybe he has the answers.’

  Something in the photograph caught her attention. ‘Come here, Pete.’

  Pete quickly complied.

  ‘Look at his hand! His left hand.’

  Marcus was holding the plea for help with his right hand. But his left hand rested on the table, but not in a natural way. The fingers seemed somehow contorted.

  ‘Maybe his hand got hurt,’ Jason said, joining them. ‘He looks pretty beat up.’

  ‘No. No, that’s not it,’ Margo said. ‘I think I’ve seen that before.’

  Margo grabbed her phone and hit speed dial.

  Billy was singing at the top of his lungs along with the Three Tenors, his cooking music of choice. He was in his kitchen and in his element, preparing Christmas Eve dinner for himself and Margo.

  This task seemed to require the use of every pot, every sauté pan, every ramekin, every utensil, every electronic device, and every potholder in his copious stock.

  Renato, the housekeeper who had been with Billy for as long as anyone could remember, watched the proceedings from a stool in the corner with a baleful eye. He knew he would be the one to pick up the pieces when Billy ran out of gas.

  Billy nearly missed hearing his phone ringing over a particularly emotional Pavarotti aria.

  ‘Pronto,’ he sang into the phone. ‘What? Can’t hear you!’

  ‘Billy!’ Margo was shouting to be heard. ‘Turn down the music!’

  Billy signalled to Renato, who gratefully turned off the sound. ‘What is it, Margo? I’m at a particularly crucial point in the sauce Béarnaise.’

  ‘I need you to do something for me. It’s urgent. It may tell us where Jack is.’

  ‘Name it,’ Billy said, all business now. ‘I want nothing more than to come face to face with that creep!’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jack had been scrolling through the documents on Whit’s iPad, shocked at what he was finding. Whit had millions of dollars stashed in accounts all around the world! There was no way a government employee could earn that kind of money.

  The only answer was one that made Jack physically ill to contemplate. Whit was on the take. Someone was paying him for something. And Jack had a sinking suspicion he knew what.

  He was checking deposit dates against agency missions he knew had failed spectacularly. There were matches. He saved the worst for last – Jack’s final mission with Marcus. And there it was. A deposit of three million American dollars had been transferred into an island bank account bearing Whit’s name.

  Three million dollars. That’s what Marcus’ life, his country, his honour had been worth to Bob Whitbred.

  His concentration was broken by the sound of a key turning, unlocking the front door. When the noise of the security alarm warning was silenced by the code being punched in, Jack’s blood turned to ice.

  Jack slid his Glock from the shoulder holster.

  Downstairs, Whit put his bottle of bourbon on the hall table, took off his jacket and went into the kitchen. He returned with a Tiffany plaid double old-fashioned glass, checking the rim for chips. It was one of just two remaining from the eight his wife’s brother had given them as a wedding gift over thirty years ago. The others had cracked and broken like the marriage they were meant to celebrate.

  Whit double-locked the front door, took the bourbon and headed upstairs to the sanctuary of his study. He had long ago created a ‘back door’, a way out for himself if things went bad. Maybe, he thought, it was time to use it.

  He opened the door to his study and turned on the desk lamp. He was about to sit down when he noticed the curtains moving. The damned window must be open, he thought. And why the hell were the curtains closed in the first place? He never closed them unless he was having a meeting. What the hell?

  Whit slid open a drawer and took out a silver revolver. He checked to make sure it was loaded.

  He hated guns. He’d only fired one twice in his entire career. It was his job to tell others when to shoot.

  He took off the safety and moved slowly to the window. In one quick movement he tore back the curtains and raised his gun.

  Nothing.

  The window was closed but not latched. But that was not unusual. He never locked that window. This room was on the first floor and there was a forty-foot drop from the window to the sloping valley behind the house. It would take a hook and ladder to get up here. Or out of here.

  He was just being paranoid, he told himself, because of this business with Jack and Marcus. He went back to his bourbon.

  Merry Christmas, he said to the empty house.

  Up on the roof Jack lay spread-eagled, hoping the icy glaze that was beginning to form didn’t send him sliding off. He wasn’t too worried about himself. In his line of work he’d spent about as much time moving around rooftops as Father Christmas. It was the iPad stuffed inside his shirt he needed to protect at all costs.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Billy was out of breath when he burst through the door of Margo’s office. He was clutching a small shopping bag to his chest as if it held the Holy Grail.

  ‘Billy, did you run all the way?’ Margo said. ‘It’s ten blocks!’

  ‘Running is unattractive. I do walk swiftly when the occasion warrants.’ Still trying to catch his breath he held out the bag to Margo and collapsed into a chair.

  Margo took it eagerly and removed a framed photograph. She looked from the photo to the picture of Marcus on the television screen. Her team crowded around her.

  ‘Who are those kids?’ Courtney asked.

  ‘That’s Jack and Marcus,’ Pete said. ‘Holy cannoli! I see what you mean, Margo.’

  ‘Could someone please tell me what is going on?’ Billy said, looking from photo to screen. ‘Since I practically gave my life to get that photo here, I think I deserve to know. And who is that guy on the screen? He looks like he was hit by a bus.’

  ‘That’s Jack’s friend Marcus,’ Pete said. ‘Look at his hand, his left hand. Now look at the left hands on both of these kids!’ Pete was nervous but proud to be explaining something to the brilliant assemblage.

  Billy put on a stylish pair of glasses and examined the photograph. ‘Their hands appear to have a disorder.’

  ‘It’s sign language!’ Margo explained. ‘Remember I told you Jack and Marcus learned Native American sign language so they could have secret conversations?’ She pointed to Marcus’ hand in the image on the TV screen. ‘Look.’

  ‘It’s the same. I mean, not exactly the same but he’s signing, signalling something to Jack.’

  Jason’s fingers were already flying across the keyboard.

  Margo was practically shouting. ‘Are you looking, Jay? Can you find out what it means?’

  ‘On it,’ Jason said, scrolling through pages on the computer. ‘Which tribe?’

  ‘I repeat, could someone please tell me what the hell is going on?’ Billy said. ‘I thought Marcus was dead.’

  ‘He was,’ Courtney explained calmly. ‘Now he’s not. That’s the reason why Jack didn’t make the plane.’

  ‘Now everything is clear,’ Billy said, not meaning a word of it.

  ‘I don’t know which tribe,’ Margo said. ‘He just said Native American.’

  Jason stopped typing. ‘Are you aware there were over five hundred and sixty indigenous tribes in this country when the Pilgrims landed? Each had their own language. I need a hint.’

  Everyone looked at Ma
rgo. ‘I’ve got nothing. Jack never said.’ She shook her head, looking despairing.

  The air seemed to be pulled out of the room. Deflated, the team dropped into their seats. Except for Margo. She excused herself, went into her office and closed the door. The others just sat there, waiting.

  After a few minutes she returned, putting on her coat. ‘Billy, can you get me a plane to Washington, DC?’

  ‘Sure, I guess,’ he said. ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Now! It’s Christmas Eve. I’ve made dinner!’

  Margo hugged him. ‘I know you did. But I need to get to DC right now. The only person who might know how I can find Jack is this guy, Robert Whitbred. He might know what Marcus is signalling to him.’

  ‘Whitbred doesn’t even have a telephone number,’ Courtney said. ‘Jason looked. How are you going to find him without a number?’

  ‘He has a home address. And Kyle, Senator Wainwright, just got it for me.’

  ‘So you’re going to knock on some CIA guy’s door on Christmas morning?’ Jason said.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ she said. ‘And no, Billy, you cannot come.’

  ‘Then get your own plane.’

  ‘Billy, there’s nothing to worry about. Kyle said this guy is one of the most revered men in Washington. I’m in no danger. And if he loves Jack as much as Kyle thinks he does, he’ll help me.’

  ‘And what if he doesn’t love Jack?’ Courtney said. ‘What if he thinks he killed Marcus like everyone else at the agency does?’

  ‘Then I’ll show him the photo from Jack’s phone. I’m heading to Midway. Billy, text where I should meet the pilot.’ And she walked out.

  Billy looked at the closed door for a long moment, and then resolutely hit a number on his speed dial. As it was ringing he looked at Margo’s crew.

  ‘She is the most independent, stubborn …’ He paused, then went on, ‘Am I the only one that’s worried sick about Margo?’

  ‘Of course we’re worried,’ Courtney said. ‘But when all this scary stuff started, Jason connected us to her mobile phone. We will know where she is every minute.’