I had a lot of questions, but few answers. First thing tomorrow morning, when I arrived at Union Station, I would get myself a ticket on the train to Florida. I would figure out a way to get in touch with Mr. Lawson and Doyle without compromising their safety. And then I would sit down and figure all this out, because if I didn’t, I was certain I would never see Dix again. That’s what he was trying to tell me in the weeks before I was sent into Boston. I was the lamb to the slaughter. I was sacrificed to let the FBI close the case without a finding. I was on the run, not just because the FBI was corrupted, but because it was compromised by an old Soviet spy game that enabled Hambleport to rub elbows with the movers and shakers of Washington. The Soviets pulled one over on the FBI and helped to establish one of the longest running drug operations in the United States. The most important question was how did the Soviets profit? If there’s one thing I learned in my years as an FBI information specialist and counterintelligence analyst, it’s this. No spy service ever does anything to be nice. There’s always something to be gained from its activities. Power, influence, even money.
Some of the best spy operations are the ones that finance themselves. That way, they aren’t directly traceable back to the original source. The more cutouts you can have in an operation, the better the cover, because if anything goes bad, you just keep pulling the layers away from you, deflecting attention. Maybe that’s what the Soviets got in exchange for helping to protect the Hambleport cartel, the chance to finance operations here in the United States, without reliance or contact with folks back in the USSR. This whole mess was about keeping people too busy to notice what was really going on. The trouble was that a lot of Hambleport helpers thought they were just keeping food on their own tables. It probably never occurred to them that spies were running the show, or that they were pawns in an international drug operation that covered a spy ring. Whether it was penetrating congressional offices or trolling for government secrets, the end result threatened to derail US diplomatic efforts worldwide.
A little after four in the morning, I awakened suddenly. I thought I heard a noise outside my door. Flipping on the light switch, I sat there a moment. Nothing. I stood up in the narrow confines of the sleeper cubicle. Listening at the door for a few moments, I heard nothing more. But as I stared down at the floor, I noticed a tiny piece of paper, a torn corner, under the door. Cautiously unlocking it, I worried that it was some kind of trap, even as I pulled it towards me. There, in the corridor about three feet away, was a paperback book lying open. For Your Own Good was the title. It was one of those tawdry sex novels, with a scantily dressed maiden pressing her more than ample chest against the hot hunk with the rippling muscles and the strong, determined jaw. Why is it, I thought to myself, the men in these books never have hairy chests? Too hard to paint the individual strands? Even as I thought that, even as I gazed up and down the hallway, I decided to “borrow” the book. If someone saw me with it and asked for it back, I’d be happy to return it to its rightful owner, but at the moment, I had nothing to read. I was desperate. I was wide awake. At least it might help me to get back to sleep for the few hours that remained.
I settled back on that narrow bed like a pirate with booty once the door was securely locked again. My fingers flipped through the pages. I’d never heard of Lydia Angelica, but apparently she’d written several heaving bosom novels, judging by the list in the book. I finally found the page that was missing its corner. A little tape would fix that. But even as I let that roll through my mind, I was unexpectedly facing another conundrum. It came in the form of a question posed to the heroine, Riley. Riley, like me.
“Can you follow your heart?” asked the mysterious man as Riley fought with gritty determination not to lose her grip on the window ledge. “Can you trust me to keep you safe?”
“How could you do this to me,” Riley cried, as hot, wet, sticky tears cascaded down her delicate cheeks.
“I had no choice,” he confessed. “My hands were tied long ago. I can’t rescue you. I can only guide you. You must act on your own. You must fight for yourself, Riley. It’s the only way we will ever be free!”
Dix. That’s what he was trying to explain to me when he talked about angels all around me. Lydia Angelica. Angel. I was not alone on this journey. Someone had my back. Would it be enough to keep me alive? How would I know where to go? No matter how many times I examined the pages of For Your Own Good, there was nothing else that leapt out at me. But I knew instinctively that if I strayed off the path, someone would guide me back. I just had to survive long enough to gain the benefit of my angels.
Union Station was crowded first thing in the morning as I walked through. The people coming and going were on their way to work, to meetings, to get done the deals that make Washington function. Echoes of so many footsteps bounced off the cavernous ceiling, it sounded like Grant on his way to take Richmond.
I just wanted a ticket out, but my choices were limited. If I took a sleeper on the Silver Star, leaving just before 3 PM, I’d get into Delray Beach at around four-thirty the following day. From there, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to Boynton Beach. Conceding the need to wait until the afternoon for the train, I reconciled myself to having several hours in Washington. With ticket in hand, I pulled myself and my flagging spirits by the bootstraps and decided to find a nice spot for a cup of coffee and some breakfast. On my way past a magazine kiosk, I sprung for a copy of the Washington Post, tucking it under my arm.
I wandered around the station, enjoying some window shopping before standing in line at the Corner Bakery. I picked up a fresh fruit cup to accompany my honey banana oatmeal, and then added a large coffee. Making my way to an empty table, I sat down, prepared to relax and enjoy my breakfast. I’ll be honest with you. I was hungry. I was looking forward to sinking my teeth into all the goodies laced through that oatmeal -- the nuts, the cranberries. But, son of a gun, wouldn’t you know the headline of the paper knocked me off my feet.
Chapter Nine --
Congressman Liam Dooley Dies in Car Crash. According to the report, Paul Darlington’s cousin, the man who organized that 1988 Peace Exchange with the former mayor, was killed when the car he was in was hit broadside on Virginia Avenue last night, while I was en route to Washington. What are the chances?
“Excuse me,” said a thin man in a dark suit, glasses perched on his nose. “You dropped your phone.”
He placed a hot pink Motorola Razr on the table, next to my coffee cup.
“Oh,” I uttered, still in shock. “I...I don’t think....” The phone rang, and as it did, a little icon popped up. Angela Adams was the name showing on the screen below the photo of cherub.
“Hello?” I said, unsure of what I would hear on the other end.
“Babe, turn your phone back on.”
“Dix! Oh, Dix!” Relief flooded over me.
“Riley, we don’t have time now. You have to trust me. Put your phone back on.”
“But....” It was no use. My husband had hung up on me. With a sigh of disappointment, I dug into my purse, pulled out my cell phone, and turned it on. As the tinkle of the welcome song chimed, I dropped my gaze back down to the story about the congressman. His driver was at the wheel, bringing Dooley home from the office. The back of the sedan was shoved into a lamp post just off the Mall. The driver suffered minor injuries. The congressman was killed instantly. Massive injuries.
I heard a ping! as my pink phone displayed a text, once again from Angela Adams.
You need clothes for your trip. Go shopping. Use your credit card. It’s time to get your party on, girl! -- Angie
Dix’s way of telling me to get moving, no doubt because the FBI actually wanted me to be followed. Did this mean I wasn’t totally burned? The only way to find out was the hard way, and I had my doubts that it was the best choice. It was definitely the short straw.
I considered what I would need for Florida. Weather-wise, I was in my winter clothes. Not exactly right for Boynton Beach. I was wea
ring sneakers, jeans, and a cotton sweater under my parka. That was my usual attire when I did surveillance work. I always made sure I could run comfortably. You never know when someone’s going to chase you. Then again, it doesn’t really much matter what’s on your feet when there’s a gun pointed at you.
Last night seemed like a distant memory now. There was Cook, warning me off the location. It didn’t take long for the gunman to show up. The car wasn’t part of the caravan. I didn’t recognize it or the plates. That made me wonder where the gunman was while Cook was trying to intimidate me. Close enough to call in for the hit. Maybe the gunman called Cook, not the other way around.
Ping! Another text came in. What are you waiting for, Christmas?
With that broadside, I picked up both my phones and pocketed them, stuffed the Washington Post in my purse, to finish reading later, and tossed my empty cup and bowl into the bin.
Hopping on the subway, I headed over to Mcpherson Square, hoping I could find something at Macy’s. Since I was already wearing sneakers, I figured I’d pick up some capri pants, shorts, tees, and tank tops, along with a lightweight windbreaker. I stuck with black as my main color. You may think that strange, especially for Florida, but I’m on the run. If I have to blend in, especially at night, I don’t want pastel colors to give me away as I’m trying to hide behind the bushes in the dark. It’s all about camouflage. I picked up a cowl-necked short-sleeved black jumpsuit with wide legs. Casual, functional in a chase, but dressier than running clothes -- good for dinner on the train tonight, I told myself. I stopped by the shoe department and picked up a pair of black rubber-soled flats before heading to the lingerie department for a bra, panties, socks, and a nightie. A trip to the luggage department yielded an overnighter on wheels. When I had it all, I trotted myself out of the store and back to the Metro station. Taking a seat in an uncrowded area, I packed my clothes, tags and all, before boarding the train back to Union Square. It was now quarter to eleven.
Ping! I pulled out my pink phone and glanced down. Go to the Smithsonian and view the exhibits.
With a shrug, I headed down to Gate A, dropped my new overnighter at the storage locker facility, and headed back to the Metro for the trip across town. At the Smithsonian stop, I got out and took the escalator to the top.
The chilly Washington morning was slipping away as the sun came out. It was almost comfortable enough to sit outside, but knowing Dix, he wanted me in the museum, where the security office would provide a view not only of me, but the people interested in me.
That’s the thing about surveillance work if you’re the bait. The worm sits on the hook to attract the fish. It’s the fisherman’s job to worry about landing the big one in the boat, and heaven help him or her if the worm is eaten.
By one o’clock, I was ready for a break, and since Dix hadn’t texted me with instructions, I gave myself permission to grab a bite to eat. Feeling like a Union Station vagrant, I decided to enjoy a salad at the Smithsonian Castle Café. I treated myself to a cappuccino, deciding I had more than worked off the calories on my extended walking tour. With fork in hand, I dug in, newspaper before me.
When I got to the entertainment section, my cell phone rang. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieved it, noting the 202 area code. A Washington number.
“You can keep running, Riley, but you’ll still be caught!”
“Who is this?” I demanded. “What do you want?”
“You should have quit while you were ahead,” growled the voice at the other end. This time, the wizard’s curtain slipped and I recognized it was a man. I still didn’t know who he was or what was going on, but I decided to cut him off at the pass. I hung up on him. Why let him think he was terrifying me?
I took my time finishing my lunch, and then I sat back and waited some more. At quarter to two, I made my way back to the metro and rode back to Union Station. I thought about that call. What was the point? Purely to intimidate? Why now? Because I had done the surveillance in Boston and ruffled some cuckoo’s feathers?
But that Washington number meant the caller was probably here in town, didn’t it? A different number than the one I got earlier, but the same message. Two people? One here, one there? If Cook was the muscle in Boston, who was the muscle in DC?
Before I collected my suitcase, I decided to pick up a couple of paperbacks for the train. I found my way to the Barnes and Noble at Union Station and began to browse through the new releases. With an eye on the time, I let myself linger awhile, enjoying the atmosphere. As the wife of a bookstore owner, it never hurt to comparison-shop. What were they doing that we could learn from and adapt for our own benefit? Reluctant to rush out of my temporary sanctuary, I took my selections to the checkout twenty minutes before the scheduled departure. I was almost out the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Excuse me,” said a little elderly woman with a wizened face and a gap-toothed smile, “but I think you dropped this.”
She tucked a copy of “Angel Mine” into my hands. I looked down at the cover. Again with the torn bodice books. I turned to thank her, but she had already disappeared into the crowd.
I climbed aboard the train ten minutes before departure. I locked the door of my “roomette”, pulled the can of soda out of my purse that I purchased on my way through the station, and settled in with my stack of paperbacks. My well-laid plans were rendered useless by the knock at my door.
“Yes?” Not bothering to rise, I call out.
“Ms. Horton, FBI.” Crap, just what I needed.
“What do you want?” I hollered back.
“We want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Ms. Horton, you’ll have to come with us.” This time the voice was more insistent.
“Is there a problem here?” said another male voice. It sounded like the car attendant.
“No, sir. Official business. We want to speak to the young woman inside.”
“Miss?” The car attendant knocked. “These gentlemen want to speak with you.”
“Ask them to show you their identification,” I told him. “Make them show you.”
“Sir, she...ouch!” Sounds of a scuffle. Thuds against the wall. A scream. Feet running. Frantic knocking on my door.
“Miss, don’t come out until we give you the all clear. Those men weren’t FBI.”
And you aren’t really an Amtrak employee, I thought to myself. I glanced out the window as the chase veered past my window. One, two, three, four....several people now in hot pursuit of the two men in dark suits. Phony FBI agents. And that’s when it hit me. Maybe Cook wasn’t Cook.
I thought back to that horrible day, when Cook and Rheingold showed up on my doorstep with that envelope. Maybe Cook was FBI, but under a different name. In which case, he was using the real Agent Cook’s identity as his own while engaging in very un-FBI-like behavior. What if the phony Cook grabbed up the real Cook’s mail? What if he made sure the real Cook didn’t get the information on the murder? Tristan had known all about the photos. I assumed that Cook and Rheingold had shot their mouths off. But if there was someone working for the Hambleport cartel and posing as the real Cook, that would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?
The platform began to slip away as the train pulled out. Knowing that, I pulled the extra paperback out and began to examine it. I found the message on page 149.
“Believe in a higher power and don’t be afraid,” said Seth. “If our love is meant to be, we will find each other again.”
“But, darling,” she cried. “How can I live without you? You are my everything. Without you, I am nothing!”
“You are wrong, my love.” He took her hands in his and began to kiss each of her fingers. “These are capable, strong hands, the hands of a woman in love....”
Oh, brother, I said with a sigh as I put it down. Somebody’s got a good sense of humor. It sounded like a schmaltz festival of overblown romantic love. Who says crap like this? Certainly not Dix or me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a
bsolutely bonkers about the guy, even after all these years. But I don’t see myself as a shrinking violet who hangs on his every word.
Maybe someone else does, I thought. Maybe that’s the message Dix is giving me. Whoever is chasing me is thinking of me as a librarian, not an FBI counterintelligence analyst. Not someone who collects information, but someone who dithers, who is afraid of her own shadow.
We were fifteen minutes out when there was a knock at the door. I wondered who it was.
“It’s the car attendant, Miss. I just wanted to let you know that those men were apprehended in the station.”
I got up and opened the door. A pleasant-faced older man stood there in a crisp uniform. His name tag identified him as Angel Ruiz. Oh, Dix. You are a piece of work.
“Thank you for telling me this. I was quite concerned.”
“Well, you can relax now. By the way, if you need anything, you can ring. And the dining car will open in a little while, if you would like to join the others for cocktails.”
“Thank you. I might just do that.”
Ah, the all-clear. I was covered all the way to Delray Beach. Unless they managed to catch up to the train at another station. But at least I had some back-up. That was important.
I spent a little more time reading before I threw on the new black jumpsuit and flats, pulled my hair back in a ponytail, and found my way to the dining car. I was seated with a couple of little old ladies who had some very funny stories to tell. I sat back and let them entertain me as I lingered over herb-roasted chicken and a couple of glasses of chardonnay.
I noticed that Angel Ruiz was busy in the hall outside my sleeper when I returned. I wondered if that meant there was something going on.
“Shall I turn down your bed now, Miss?” the car attendant asked.
“Yes, please.” He stepped into the tiny space, leaving the door open. I noticed he set down a white card on the top of the table. He quickly flipped the seats down, pushing them together. Once they were in place, he added the bed linens.
Run for Your Life, Riley Horton!: A Page 7