Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection

by Stuart Woods

  “My name, for the purposes of your visit here, is Hanks,” he said. “During the coming weeks or months, depending on the course of your training, you will come to hate me.”

  Somehow, Holly didn’t doubt him.

  “Most of you have been here for less than twenty-four hours,” Hanks said, “and it may have occurred to you that this installation has been designed to look like a farm, which it has been for a couple of hundred years. Particularly, it has been arranged to reveal none of its secrets in satellite photographs. Most of your classes will therefore be conducted underground.

  “For those who, after our physical training, still desire more exercise, there is a running path through the woods. You may not run in the company of more than one other person. There are also two tennis courts, one of them above ground. There is also an underground pool, which will be the site of special training for some of you as well as a recreational facility.

  “We discourage your getting to know other trainees; that is why you have each been assigned a code name. You are not to tell any other trainee anything about your personal or professional or educational background, or anything about how you were recruited. If you confine your conversations to the weather and other such innocuous subjects, you’ll be fine. If you are questioned by someone not on the staff seeking personal information, then lie.

  “In each of your rooms there are books and a television set with satellite service. You may entertain yourself, alone, in your room between dinner and bedtime. If you complete your training successfully, your assignments thereafter may involve long periods alone or with hostile companions. Learn to enjoy solitude.

  “There will be no question-and-answer period. Good luck.” Hanks stalked off the stage.

  Everyone sat still for a moment, waiting for further instructions. None came. Holly got up and started off for the first class on her schedule.

  THREE

  ROBERT KINNEY ARRIVED at his office at the Federal Bureau of Investigation promptly at nine a.m., still warm from the praise of the president at the news conference of the day before, announcing the resolution of the Theodore Fay affair, and from the extended sexual activity with his paramour, Nancy Kimble, following his proposal of marriage, which had been accepted.

  His secretary, Helen Frankel, was just hanging up the phone as he walked past her desk. “Stop where you are,” she ordered.

  Kinney stopped. “What?”

  “That was the White House on the phone. The president wishes to see you immediately.”

  “Right now?”

  “Mr. Kinney,” Helen said, sighing.

  “Okay, immediately is right now.”

  “There’ll be a White House car waiting for you by the time you get to the garage.”

  Kinney turned on his heel and headed for the garage. As he was entering the elevator, someone shouted his name. He turned to see one of his agents, Kerry Smith, walking rapidly toward him. “Later, Kerry,” he said, and the elevator door closed before Smith could reply.

  There was, indeed, a White House car waiting for him in the garage. He folded his six-foot-five-inch frame into the rear seat, and twenty minutes later he was sitting in the office of Cora Parker, the president’s secretary.

  “It won’t be long, Mr. Kinney,” Parker said. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Kinney replied.

  “As I recall, you take it black with a carcinogenic,” she said, walking to a coffeepot nearby.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but yes,” he replied.

  “That stuff will eat your insides out,” she said.

  “If that were true, Ms. Parker, I would have no insides.”

  She handed him the cup. “If you don’t have time to finish it here, just take it in with you,” she said.

  Kinney took a sip of the coffee, then looked up as the door to the Oval Office opened. His boss, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, stalked out of the office, red-faced and blinking rapidly. He glanced at Kinney, and his expression changed to one of hatred, then he was gone.

  “You may go in now, Mr. Kinney,” Parker said.

  Kinney stood up and tried to figure out what to do with his briefcase and the coffee in his hand. He set the coffee on her desk and walked into the Oval Office.

  William Henry Lee IV, president of the United States, stood up to greet him. “Good morning, Bob,” he said, extending a hand.

  Kinney shook it. “Good morning, Mr. President. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  Lee waved him to a sofa and took a chair opposite him, while Cora Parker set down Kinney’s coffee on a table next to him.

  “Well, events move quickly sometimes,” the president said. “Once again, my congratulations on wrapping up the Fay affair so well.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Kinney didn’t bother with any self-deprecating talk about the teamwork involved, since he considered himself principally responsible for the outcome.

  “Anything new on the search for wreckage and a body?”

  So this was why he had been called over here, Kinney thought. “The Coast Guard has found numerous pieces of the wreckage, none bigger than the size of your hand. It was, apparently, a very powerful bomb. Chances are, the body is in pieces just as small and is fish food by now, so there’s not likely to be an autopsy.”

  “Bob, I’d like you to be the new director of the FBI,” Lee said, “effective immediately.”

  Kinney tried not to choke on his coffee. “Sir? Is James Heller ill?”

  “If he says he is. Figuratively speaking, he’s dead,” Lee replied. “I accepted his resignation five minutes ago for personal or health reasons. Whatever he decides. He’ll be out of the Hoover Building inside of an hour.”

  “I see,” Kinney said.

  “Do you accept?”

  “Mr. President, I’d like to know what my brief as director would be.”

  Lee gazed at him. “To shake the organization to its roots; to improve every facet of its operations, particularly criminal and terrorist investigations; to build bridges to the CIA and other intelligence organizations; to change its self-serving and standoffish culture with regard to those organizations and law enforcement agencies all over the country; to weed out the deadwood and promote the able. I think that about does it. Sound familiar?”

  Indeed it did, Kinney thought. It was virtually a quote from a memo the president had recently asked him to write to him. “It sounds very good, Mr. President. I’d be honored and very pleased to accept.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Lee said. “I’ll be issuing a formal appointment today, and someone will be in touch to iron out the details. One other thing: in view of the constant threat of terrorist attack, I want your first order of business to be a thorough review of the Bureau’s own security, both in Washington and at every field office. I want it strengthened, where necessary. And I’ve decided that the director should live in secure government housing, so someone will be discussing a few choices with you. I hear you live in some awful bachelor digs, anyway, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy the change.”

  “Thank you, sir, I’m sure I will, especially since I’m planning to be married very soon.”

  “Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “Her name is Nancy Kimble. She lives in Chester, South Carolina, and I met her when I went down there to investigate Fay’s murder of Senator Wallace.”

  “Oh, the innkeeper you were bunking with?”

  Kinney blushed. “Sir?”

  “Relax, it was in your file. I think Heller took some pleasure in noting it.”

  Kinney gulped. “I see.”

  Lee shrugged. “Everybody’s entitled to a sex life, but don’t quote me as having said that; I’d be explaining for weeks.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  Lee slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and stood up. “Well, why don’t you and I take a stroll down to the White House Press Room and surprise the boys and girls with an an
nouncement, then you can get back to the Bureau and move into your new office.”

  Kinney stood up and grabbed his briefcase. “Yes, sir.”

  They walked out of the Oval Office, and Cora Parker snatched Kinney’s coffee cup as he passed.

  “By the way,” the president said as they walked down the hallway, trailed by Secret Service agents, “I hope you’ll make a special effort to get along with my wife.” Katharine Rule Lee was the director of Central Intelligence. “Because if you don’t, there’ll be hell to pay at home.”

  “I’ll do my very best, sir.”

  “See that you do.”

  The president’s press secretary fell into step with them, and they continued on toward the press room.

  Kinney couldn’t wait to call Nancy.

  FOUR

  TEDDY FAY WALKED OUT of the Algonquin Hotel and greeted the brisk new day. He hailed a cab. “Take me uptown on Madison,” he said to the driver. When they had reached 63rd Street, he told the driver to stop, and he walked across the street to a branch of the Bank of New York. A guard directed him to a desk at the rear, and the young woman behind it stood up to greet him, introducing herself.

  “I’m Albert Foreman,” Teddy said, seating himself. “I’d like to open an account.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Foreman,” the woman said, then began producing an application and signature cards. “Are you new in town?”

  “Yes, I just arrived last night, from Chicago. I’ve sold my business and retired, and I thought I might live in New York for a while. I’ve always loved the city.”

  “Welcome to town,” she said. “How much would you like to deposit?”

  Teddy handed her an envelope. “Five thousand dollars,” he said. “I’ll be wire-transferring a larger sum as soon as I have an account number.”

  “Here are some counter checks with your account number,” she said, handing him a packet. “Where are you living?”

  “At the moment, I’m at the Algonquin, but I’m on my way to do some apartment hunting right now. I’ll call you with the address when I’ve found something.”

  “Fine. Everything is in order. You may begin using your account immediately.”

  Teddy thanked her and left the bank. Outside, he used his cell phone to call a number he had memorized.

  “This is Mr. Allen,” a voice said.

  Teddy gave him his account number.

  “Password?”

  “Cayuse.” He spelled it.

  “Yes, sir, how may I help you?”

  “I’d like to wire two hundred thousand dollars to the following account number at the Bank of New York.” He read the number and the routing number, and Allen repeated it.

  “And your transfer password?”

  “Old Paint.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll wire the funds immediately; they’ll be in New York within the hour.”

  Teddy thanked him and hung up. He walked along Madison for a few blocks and went into a real estate office where he had made an appointment earlier, by phone.

  “Good morning, Mr. Foreman,” the agent said. “I’ve arranged viewings of three apartments that would seem to meet your requirements. The first is just around the corner.”

  He followed her to 610 Park Avenue. “This was formerly the Mayfair Hotel,” the agent said, “and it was converted to condos a few years ago.”

  Teddy had requested a condominium building, since he did not want to wait weeks for the board of a co-op building to investigate him. A condo board would only want a credit report.

  “It’s a full-service building; the restaurant, Daniel, is on the ground floor and provides room service.” They got onto an elevator and emerged on a high floor. “I sold this apartment three years ago, and my clients have gone on a round-the-world tour for a year, so the apartment is available for that time.” She unlocked a door.

  Teddy walked quickly through the place. It was really a two-bedroom hotel suite, beautifully furnished. “How much?”

  “Six thousand a month.”

  “I’ll take it,” he said.

  “You don’t want to see the other two?”

  “No, this is fine.”

  “They’ll want a credit check, of course.”

  “Of course, but I’ll pay the year’s rent in advance.” He took a check from the bank packet and wrote it out.

  “If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll see how quickly we can get this done,” she said.

  Teddy took a book of Winston Churchill’s speeches from a bookcase, sat down and began reading.

  Ten minutes later the woman returned. “Your credit report is fine, and the building manager has approved you,” she said. “And in view of your advance payment, I’ve gotten him to waive the security deposit.”

  “Then I’m home,” Teddy said.

  “Yes, you are.” She handed him the keys. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Not a thing,” Teddy said.

  They rode down to the street together, and Teddy took a cab back to the Algonquin. He cleaned out the safe, packed his bags and checked out. Fifteen minutes later, he was a resident of New York City. He called the bank and gave them his new address, then he began looking in the classified section of the newspaper for suitable work space.

  AN HOUR LATER, Teddy was looking at a three-room furnished space over a dry-cleaner’s shop on Lexington Avenue. “Does anyone live in the building?” he asked the super.

  “No, sir. The place is empty by six.”

  “What’s immediately below?”

  “A storeroom for furs. The cleaners store them there for clients.”

  “And above?”

  “The roof.”

  “I’ll take it.” He wrote the man a check for a year’s rent and was given the keys.

  Now all Teddy had to do was to begin shopping for tools. He already had a detailed list of what he would need, and he knew where to find them. He walked downstairs and out onto Lexington Avenue and hailed a cab.

  FIVE

  HOLLY FOLLOWED THE MAP to the room number on her map, which turned out to be an underground firing range. She was issued an electronic noise-canceling headset and shown to an equipment room where she could leave Daisy. Someone had thoughtfully left a bowl of water and a blanket for her.

  A dozen trainees had assembled in the range, and shortly, a short, thickly built man in what Holly assumed to be his late fifties, wearing an olive-drab T-shirt, army-issue fatigue trousers, black tennis shoes and a white-sidewall haircut, addressed them.

  “You may call me Sarge,” he said in a clipped voice. “I will teach you how to shoot, if you do not already know how. Your employer does not issue a standard weapon, so you will fire many weapons—handguns, assault rifles and machine guns. You will learn how they work and to disassemble and reassemble them in light and dark. You will learn about silencers and flash suppressors. Someone else will teach you how to eviscerate others with knives and kill them with your hands. That is out of my line.”

  He looked at a clipboard. “Harry One?”

  Holly raised a hand. “Here, Sarge.”

  “Have you ever fired a handgun?”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  “Come over here and show me how you do it. Ears on, everyone. We didn’t bring you here to send you out into the world deaf.”

  Everyone put on their headsets.

  Sarge indicated half a dozen handguns lined up on a bench. “Take your pick, Harry One.”

  Holly chose a standard Model 1911 Colt semiautomatic pistol. While pointing it downrange she removed the magazine and found it full and the chamber empty. She shoved the magazine back into the weapon, racked the slide, took up a combat position and emptied the weapon into the target, fifty feet away, at the rate of a round per second. She removed the magazine from the gun and returned it to the bench.

  Sarge pressed a button, and the target traveled toward the group. He examined the tight group, all eight shots in the bull’s-eye, then turned back to his class. �
��I have been at this installation for an extended period of time, and that is the first time I have ever seen a trainee do that on the first day,” he said. “When I am done with you, you will all be able to do it.” He turned to Holly. “Harry One, you are my assistant instructor.”

  Holly spent the next two hours teaching other trainees what Ham had taught her since she was a little girl.

  When the class ended, Sarge pulled her aside. “Do you own a little nine-millimeter custom-made with Caspian parts?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “I know who made that weapon,” he said. “Not because I’m psychic but because he put his initials on the frame. That sonofabitch cost me the national shooting championship twice, and I can see he taught you what he knows. Before we’re done, you may learn some things he didn’t teach you. Now get out of here.”

  Holly got out of there. She collected Daisy and made her way to the next room number on her schedule in another underground building. She entered the room and found three other trainees there, waiting. On a low platform at the end of the room was an array of safes and locks and prop doors.

  “Come in and sit down, please,” an elderly man said. He had a thick German accent and was wearing a seedy cardigan sweater over a bright orange polo shirt, which Holly thought he had probably not chosen for himself. “You may call me Dietz.

  “You are in this class to learn how to be a criminal,” Dietz said. “You will learn how to pick locks and jimmy windows and crack safes. I say, ‘crack,’ because you will not be here long enough for me to teach you to open any safe in the world by learning the combination. With some, you will have to employ explosives, and I will teach you that, too. You may comfort yourself with the knowledge that if, by the end of your training, you have not measured up in some way and are dismissed, you will at least be able to earn a good living as a burglar.”

  Everybody laughed.

  Dietz picked up a remote control, pressed a button and a screen came down from the ceiling. He pressed another button and a slide of a cutaway view of a lock flashed onto the screen. “Now, we have here a common, domestic, double-bolt lock, in this case, a Yale.” And he proceeded to explain how it worked.