"No, I'm interested. Try me." Carly was surprised. Mike Chan had never paid much attention to her before.
"Well, I discovered a back door in the old firewall that was breached. Someone from our office created the back door. Someone outside the office breached it with the insider's help. That much I know."
"Jeez," Chan said. "Who could it be?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. There are traces of two ISP addresses that have gone through the door. Would you believe that one of them is in Washington, somewhere near the Senate building? The other one originated right here at Third Echelon."
"Holy shit," Chan said. "Does Lambert know this?"
"I'm going to tell him this morning when he comes in. I was hoping I'd be able to tell him even more by then. Hey, that reminds me. Do you know anything about Triads?"
Chan blinked. "What?"
"Triads. You know, Chinese criminal organizations."
"Yeah, I know what they are. Why do you want to know?"
"I uncovered an encrypted e-mail that mentions a Triad in Los Angeles called the Lucky Dragons. Ever hear of them?"
"Um, no, I don't think so."
"I'm trying to figure out who received that e-mail. It may be a part of the puzzle."
"You think you can?"
"Wish me luck." She gave him a little wave and walked out with her coffee. Chan watched her go and shook his head. Carly St. John was a little dynamo. She was less than five feet, five inches tall, was twenty-nine years old, and possessed a brain that could power a computer. The joke around the office was that she should wear a sticker on her head that read INTEL INSIDE.
Chan went back to his own office and looked around the mess until he found the backpack he always brought to work with him. He opened it and retrieved a Smith & Wesson SW1911 .45-caliber semiautomatic. He checked to make sure it was loaded, attached the sound suppressor that was custom-made for the weapon, racked the slide, and carried it with him toward Carly's office. Chan couldn't concern himself with the security cameras that lined the hallways. The situation had reached the breaking point and there was only one thing to do.
She had left her door ajar. He peered inside and saw her sitting at her desk. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she stared at the monitor.
Chan knew that Carly St. John would solve the puzzle. It was only a matter of time. For months he had kept a close watch on her, trying to intercept any information she provided to Lambert. If Carly said she was close to uncovering the traitor in Third Echelon's midst, then it had to be true. And if she exposed the Lucky Dragons . . . !
Chan couldn't allow that.
He quietly pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. Chan raised the pistol, pointed it to the back of Carly's head, and squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled with a PFFT! and the woman slumped over the keyboard. She might have appeared to be asleep if it weren't for the mess that was made over the desk. Chan grimaced and moved closer. He aimed at the computer tower on the side of her desk and emptied two cartridges into it. The machine sparked and went dead. Chan then kicked it over and stomped on the casing. The covering came off and he was satisfied that the hard drive had been destroyed.
He quickly went back to his own office and stuffed his personal belongings into the backpack. His heart was beating furiously and he had to sit a moment to catch his breath. Picking up his cell phone, he dialed a number and waited.
"This better be good," the voice answered in Cantonese.
"I'm sorry to wake you," Chan said in the same language. "I have to get out now."
"What's the problem?"
"I'm blown. And I've killed someone."
"Shit."
"I'm leaving for L.A. right now."
"Right. We'll be expecting you. How are you coming?"
"I . . . I don't know."
"Don't fly. They'll catch you."
"Yeah."
"Stay away from the trains and buses, too. You'll have to drive. But don't drive your own car."
Chan was now so nervous he couldn't think straight. "What else am I going to drive? Tell me that!"
"Buy a new car! Rent one! But not under your own name. Don't be foolish."
"You're going to get me out of the country, right?" Chan asked.
"Of course. Just as we agreed."
"To Hong Kong?"
"I'll begin making the necessary arrangements. But you'll have to get to L.A. on your own without being caught. You must keep calm. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Then I suggest you leave now." The man in California hung up.
Chan closed his phone, put it in his pocket, and grabbed the backpack. His final act was to delete everything on his own computer's hard drive. He then took one last look around his office, made sure he wasn't leaving anything important, and left. To hell with the security cameras, he thought. Third Echelon would know soon enough what he had done. The main thing was to get away as quickly as possible.
On the way out of the building, he avoided Carly St. John's office.
10
I keep a small amount of weights, a bench, and a punching bag on the lower level of my town house. The entire bottom floor serves as my library, office, and gym. I used to go to a real gym in Baltimore where a motley assortment of boxers, gang members, and toughs hang out. That was okay, but now I prefer to do my workouts at home.
I'm in the middle of bench-pressing on the lower level of my town house when the doorbell rings. The clock reads 8:30 and I wonder who the hell is at my door at this time of the morning. Then I remember--damn, it's Katia. Today's my birthday and I agreed to let her come fix breakfast for me. How the hell could I forget that?
I run up the stairs to the ground floor and open the door. There she is, looking marvelous. She's wearing tight-fitting jeans and has a winter coat on--that's all I can tell at the moment--but she's done her hair and is wearing makeup, which is something she doesn't normally do at the Krav Maga class. And here I am wearing a T-shirt and sweat pants.
"Katia!" I say. "Is it eight-thirty already?"
Her smile becomes a frown. "Don't tell me you forgot, Sam."
"No, no, I didn't. I was working out and the time got away from me, that's all. Come in, come in." I don't think she believes me but she doesn't mention it again. I take her coat and see that she's wearing a red cami with spaghetti straps. The thing accentuates her cleavage in a most alluring way.
Uh-oh, I think.
She has a grocery bag full of stuff. "Where's the kitchen?" she asks.
"Right here," I reply, pointing to the archway to my left.
"Oh, so it is. Nice place, Sam. You have all this to yourself?"
"Uh-huh."
"Must be nice." She puts the bag on the counter. "Okay, you go finish your workout, take a shower, and by then breakfast will be ready."
"I'm done with the workout. Really."
"Then go get cleaned up." She bats her eyes at me. I get the hint; she doesn't want me to watch her cook.
When I come back down after showering and dressing, the table in the dining room is set with two places and lit candles. She's brought her own china and a bottle of champagne. In my spot there's one of those stupid little party hats that reads BIRTHDAY BOY on it.
"Katia, this is beautiful," I say.
"Sit down, big boy, and put on your hat."
"Katia, I'm not going to wear that hat."
She sticks out her tongue at me and goes back into the kitchen. I sit and put on the hat anyway, feeling like an idiot. When she returns carrying a tray of stuff, she sees me and laughs. "Oh, that is too precious for words."
"Can I take it off now?"
"Oh, all right. I don't want to snicker all through our meal."
The breakfast is amazing. She serves omelets made with three different cheeses, peppers, onions, mushrooms, and spinach. We have bagels and lox. A side plate holds a variety of fruit. There's fresh orange juice as well as champagne.
"Damn, Katia. I guess you'll have to marry me," I say fa
cetiously.
"Is that a proposal?"
I don't answer. Instead I hold up my champagne glass for a toast. She clicks my glass with hers. "Happy birthday, Sam," she says.
"Thanks."
And we begin to eat. Our conversation feels awkward at first. It's like it usually is when we go out for coffee. There's that underlying sexual tension I normally like to deny is there. She knows it's there, too, but pretends that it isn't simply because I'm not acknowledging it. We talk of the class, discuss some of the talented students, and eventually the subject turns into our respective careers.
"I'm pretty happy just teaching Krav Maga," she says. "I never aspired to anything else. I'm probably too old to be a mother and too young to retire."
"Can you make ends meet just teaching those classes?" I ask. "And by the way, you're not too old to be a mother, if that's what you really want."
She shakes her head. "No, I am too old. I wouldn't want to go through that in my late thirties. Having babies is something twenty-somethings do. And to answer your question, no, I don't make ends meet just teaching. But I have some income in a trust that my father set up before he died. As long as I don't go crazy at the mall once a month, I'll do okay with what I make."
I decide not to push the baby issue. "Where is your mother? Do you have siblings?"
"She and my younger sister live in California. San Diego. In fact, I'm going there in a couple of days. I meant to tell you. There's no class next week. I'll let everyone else know by e-mail. I'm gonna stay for about a week, I hope. I was thinking of maybe going up to the wine country afterward but I'm not sure. Or maybe L.A."
"That sounds nice," I say. "I could use a vacation, too."
"You? Mister travel-around-the-world?"
"That's work. Believe me, I don't relax when I'm traveling."
"Just what is it you really do, Sam? And don't tell me you're in goddamned sales. I don't believe that for a minute."
"I am in sales. Sort of. International relations between the U.S. and companies that provide a lot of goods that Americans can't get anywhere else. I guess I'm what you might call an information gatherer and troubleshooter."
She laughed and shook her head. "You work for the government. That's what you do."
I shrug. "Not really."
"Come on, Fisher. I wouldn't be surprised if you're some kind of spy. You're so athletic and fit. Most guys your age let themselves go. Not you. And you're smart and seem so well traveled. You're gone for sometimes weeks at a time. And you keep your private life incredibly secret. I don't know a damned thing about you except that you have a daughter and that you're better at Krav Maga than me."
"I'm no spy, Katia. And I'm not better at Krav Maga than you."
"Yes, you are, and you know it. You could have whipped my ass yesterday. You let me pin you."
"Maybe I wanted you to pin me."
She looks at me sideways. The candlelight makes her brown eyes sparkle.
"Yeah?" she asks.
I take a sip of champagne and attempt to keep my face expressionless. I now know this is it. My years of ignoring the opposite sex have come to an end. It's high time I reenter the world of male-and-female relationships.
Our breakfast finished, I stand and hold out my hand. She smiles and takes it. I begin to lead her away from the table but she stops me.
"Wait!" Katia grabs the two champagne glasses and the bottle. "We might need this."
I lead her upstairs to my bedroom. The bed isn't made but she doesn't complain. Katia sets down the bottle and glasses and turns to me. I take her into my arms and we kiss more passionately than we did at the studio, if such a thing is possible.
WHEN we finally come up for air, the clock on my nightstand reads 1:30. We made fiercely primal love for at least an hour before falling asleep in each other's arms. The lovemaking, for me, was a revelation. It had been a long time. I guess it's one of those things you don't forget, kinda like riding a bike. Well, Katia Loenstern is one hell of a ride. She rode me pretty hard, too. We must have slept for a half hour, then got to it again. You'd have thought I'd been celibate for a century. After chugging down the rest of the tepid champagne, we tried another position. Katia marveled at my stamina and I welcomed her enthusiasm.
It was the best morning--and best birthday--I'd had in years.
We contemplate taking a shower together just as my beeper goes off. That means I need to make a call to Lambert on my secure line downstairs in the office. I don't want to do it. Damn it, I'm on vacation. I just returned from an assignment. It can't be that. Not now. Not as I'm just beginning this with the first woman I've grown to like since--
"Does that mean anything?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say. "I have to make a call. Downstairs in my office."
She smiles sweetly. "Go ahead. I'll just lie here and see if I can get my blood pressure back to normal."
I touch her face lightly and kiss her. "I'll be right back."
"Bring some water," she hollers as I bound down the stairs. Once I'm alone in the office, I make the call and reach Lambert at Third Echelon.
"Sam, thank God you're there," he says.
"What's up, Colonel?"
"Meet me at the usual place in an hour."
"An hour?"
"Why, you have something else going on?"
I want to tell him to take this job and shove it but I don't. "I, uh, I'm a little busy."
"This is priority three, Sam."
Shit. That means it's of vital importance. There's no way I can weasel out of it.
"I'll be there," I say. We hang up and I climb the stairs to the kitchen. I pour two tall glasses of water and bring them to the top floor. Katia's lying playfully under the sheet, giggling. As I enter the room, she exposes one long, shapely leg and flexes it in the air.
"You like?" she says in a phony European accent. "You vant?"
I sit on the bed and gently pull down the sheet. She has a cute, mischievous expression on her face.
"Here you go," I say as I hand her the water. She sits up, exposing her lovely chest.
She downs the liquid quickly, exhales, and says, "So, you ready for round six? Or is it seven? I've lost count."
"Katia, I have to leave. Business. I'm sorry."
She looks as if I've slapped her. "Really?"
"Really."
"You're not trying to get rid of me?"
"Never. If I had my way about it, we'd never leave this room."
"I bet you say that to all the girls who make you breakfast on your birthday."
I lean in to kiss her again. She lets me but the earlier passion isn't there. Her feelings are hurt.
"Does this mean you're going out of town again?" she asks.
"It might."
"Sam, what is so important about your job?"
"I can't tell you, Katia."
"You do work for the government."
I figure there's no harm in her knowing that much. If we're going to have a relationship . . .
"Yes. I do. But I can't tell you what I do. Please don't ask. All right?"
She considers that a moment and then says, "Okay. As long as you promise you're not going to drop the Krav Maga class now."
I laugh. "Of course not." I hold out my hand and help her out of bed. "We can still take that shower if you want."
"You bet. I don't want to go home smelling like sex. My cat will go nuts."
I precede her into the bathroom to turn on the water. I see her reflection in the mirror and notice that she's writing something on the notepad I keep on the nightstand. She joins me in the shower and we spend a luxurious five or six minutes soaping each other and getting all hot and bothered again. We do it one more time, standing up in the shower stall as the hot water rains down on us.
Afterward, when we're dressed, I notice what she wrote on the notepad. It's her cell phone number and the words, I don't give this number to just anybody. I smile and lead her downstairs.
"You let me know if you have
to leave town, will you?" she asks.
"I promise," I say. It's the least I can do.
11
IT'S begun to snow. Winter in Maryland is always unpredictable. You never know if it's going to be blizzard conditions, wet and icy, or just plain cold. The temperature isn't so low today but the snow is falling heavily. The weather boys predict six inches. Joy.
I crank up the heat in my 2002 Jeep Cherokee and drive down to D.C. on I-95. The vehicle is one of the Overland models, a rugged 4x4 with a potent 265-horsepower V8. For the city, it's way too much car, but there are times when I like to take it over more rugged territory. I happen to enjoy road trips but I don't get to take them very often. I've often fantasized of being a truck driver after I retire from the intelligence biz. I could go "searching for America," just like all the other folk heroes.
Lambert and I usually find a public place to meet. I avoid the government agency buildings in and around D.C. just in case someone's tailing me. Seeing me enter an NSA or CIA building would certainly be a tip-off that I work for the feds. Currently Third Echelon's actual headquarters is nowhere near the National Security Agency, which is housed on Savage Road in Fort Meade, Maryland, halfway between Baltimore and D.C. Third Echelon proper resides in a small, nondescript building in the nation's capital, not far from the White House. Every couple of years they move HQ to a new location for security reasons. Even though I try to steer clear of HQ, I occasionally have business there. Lambert and I decided long ago that it was best to rendezvous elsewhere. We used to vary the locations, usually meeting in shopping malls. He knows I hate shopping malls so I think he picks them on purpose just to annoy me. Lambert has a sick sense of humor. Lately we've been using the same one, located in Silver Spring, because of its convenience.
I take the exit off I-95 and follow the directions to City Place Mall on Colesville Road, park the Jeep, and go inside. The food court is easy to find and there's Lambert waiting for me at one of the tables--he's always the first to arrive--but I'm surprised because he's not alone. Frances Coen is sitting with him. I know her as one of the Field Runners that Third Echelon uses. She's in her thirties and is fairly attractive for a tomboy type. Slim with close-cropped dark hair. She's wearing professional, close-fitting rugged clothes. Lambert is dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and khaki pants. He never wears his uniform when we meet in public. It appears he's munching down on his favorite fast food, a Big Mac Combo Meal. The woman is eating a salad. I make eye contact with Lambert and then I go to the court to pick up something for myself. Breakfast was hours ago. After all that heavy lovemaking and champagne, I need something substantial. I end up buying a plate of chicken and broccoli from the faux Chinese joint.
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