by Stuart Woods
“Well, if it’s Teddy, he’s not on crutches anymore. Maybe he had a car waiting. I’ll send help. Start looking in vehicles.”
“Roger.”
THE LIGHT CHANGED, and Teddy drove on, watching Holly running along the curb, looking into parked cars. He made his way across traffic and managed to turn right onto 42nd Street. His last glimpse of Holly was in his offside rearview mirror. She was standing stock-still, looking in his direction, the gun still in her hand.
Teddy continued on, toward the Lincoln Tunnel, New Jersey and I-95 South to Florida.
FIFTY-SEVEN
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT before Holly, Lance and the whole team got back to the Barn, every one of them streaked with dirt and dust from their search through the debris of the collapsed steel structure. Lance called everybody into the big conference room. There wasn’t room for everybody to sit down, so they stood along the walls, every one of them looking exhausted.
Lance, appearing exhausted himself, looked around at the group. “I want to thank you all for sticking with this and bringing this hunt to a close at last. What I’m about to tell you is above your pay grade, but you deserve to know.” Lance set a shopping bag on the table, reached into it and pulled out a small, odd-looking rifle.
“Teddy Fay made this in his workshop; the NYPD found the drawings for it. It’s simply a Walther PPK-S .380 pistol, to which Teddy added a scope, a longer barrel, a silencer and a folding metal stock. He shot Ali ben Saud with it this morning.
“The weapon was found a few feet from the unidentified body that the firemen located in the search. Because the structure alarm went off when the building started to collapse, everybody working there survived, a few with minor injuries. Only this one corpse was unidentified. I’ve just spoken to the medical examiner, who has done a preliminary autopsy, and it seems certain that the corpse is that of Teddy Fay.”
There was a stir of approval in the room, and applause broke out.
“Since, for public purposes, the corpse of Teddy Fay was supposed to have been eaten by fish off the coast of Maine many weeks ago, no inquest will be held, and no public announcement will be made. And no one in this room will ever discuss this subject again with anyone outside it.
“Our job is done, and that’s it. Our task force is officially disbanded or rather, unofficially, since it never existed. Tomorrow morning, all Bureau personnel will report to the New York City field office downtown at nine a.m. the day after tomorrow for reassignment. All Agency personnel will report to Langley at nine a.m. next Monday in the director’s conference room. She would like to thank you personally before you are given new assignments.
“Everybody is ordered to get a good night’s sleep. Kerry Smith and I would like to thank each and every one of you for your hard work on what must have seemed like a fruitless assignment. You will all have commendations placed in your personnel files, and you will all get new assignments that are better than you would normally expect at this stage of your careers. Good night and good luck.”
Lance and Kerry walked out of the room, and Lance tapped Holly on the shoulder as he went. “Follow me,” he said.
Holly followed Lance down the hall to his office. He stopped, said goodbye to Kerry Smith and motioned for Holly to come in and sit down.
“You look upset,” he said. “Do you have any questions? If so, ask them now and never again.”
“Who was the corpse found in the wreckage?”
“It was Teddy Fay, and don’t you ever let me hear you doubt it.”
“Was the homeless man who lived in the basement ever found?”
“These people move freely about the city; now that his home no longer exists, I’m sure he has taken up residence elsewhere.”
“I saw Teddy Fay on the street; he spoke to me.”
“Oh? Do you know that?”
“I know it.”
“How?”
“Instinct.”
“Instinct isn’t good enough when you have to sign your name to the kind of report that Kerry and I are submitting to our superiors. You were mistaken; you simply saw an old man. Is that clear?”
“Can we talk, off the record, for a moment?”
“Just this once, then we’re done with it.”
“Do you really think this is over?”
“I do. Teddy pulled up stakes: he abandoned his base and a workshop that he went to a great deal of trouble to assemble.”
“Did we find anything of use among his papers or on his computer?”
“All the paper in the place had been shredded and burned; the computer hard drive had been reformatted, so every byte was scrubbed from it.”
“So we still don’t know exactly how he got into the Langley mainframe or who his contact was?”
“We have no hard evidence that he ever got into the mainframe, and a very thorough internal investigation has determined that no one at Langley aided him in any way.”
“Suppose he starts killing again?”
“I’ve no reason to suppose he will, but should that happen, I’ll screw that elephant when it sits on me. If he pops up someplace else and starts killing, he won’t be Teddy Fay, he’ll be someone else. Are we done?”
“Won’t we all have to answer to our superiors, if that happens?”
“Let me give you an important lesson in politics, Holly: Kerry’s superiors and mine—at every level, right up to and including the president of the United States—are going to be vastly relieved when they read our report. All of them participated in covering up the fact that Teddy was still alive; the president told the congressional leadership of both parties the truth, and they helped cover it up, in the hope that we would stop Teddy before his continued presence became known to the press. They’re all going to feel very good about this.”
“But it will come out, eventually, won’t it?”
“Certainly not. Teddy Fay’s body will be cremated before the day is out, and his ashes will occupy a landfill on Staten Island. If rumors start, they’ll have nowhere to go.”
“But the president will be part of a big cover-up.”
“No, he will not. He will receive our report and accept it, because it is in his interest to do so. He will have no knowledge of anything outside that report, and thus he will have nothing to cover up. Now are we done?”
Holly took a deep breath and nodded. “We’re done.”
“If you think about it, you’ll know that you have nothing to be anything less than proud of. Don’t let your mistaken identification of an old man trouble you; there is nothing whatever to support that identification.”
Holly nodded. “I understand. Do you know what my next assignment will be?”
“You’re not going back to the Farm or to Langley. You’re going to be staying here, with me. It’s been intimated to me that the Agency’s New York station will be reorganized in this building, under me. You’re going to like your assignment.”
Holly smiled. “Good. What’s next?”
“Something interesting.”
“Tell me.”
“After you’ve had twelve hours sleep and a couple of days off. Go home, see your father and his girl and Daisy. I’ll see you Monday morning. Merry Christmas.”
Holly got up and went home.
FIFTY-EIGHT
BOB KINNEY CAME HOME from the Bureau at midnight. Nancy was waiting up for him.
“Want some eggs?” she asked, kissing him.
“Love some,” he said. “I didn’t get any dinner.”
“Can you tell me what was going on?”
“You know I never tell you Bureau secrets.”
“Of course not.”
“Teddy Fay is dead.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“You know it. I expect that opinion is being voiced at a number of residences around the city, including the big white one on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Is there going to be an investigation of all this?”
“You can’t investigate somet
hing that never happened.”
“That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it?”
“You got it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I hope so, too, baby.”
“You want bacon or ham with your eggs?”
“I want you with my eggs.”
“Done.”
FIFTY-NINE
WILL LEE WAS IN BED, watching a DVD of Casablanca, when Kate came home from work.
“You’re pretty late,” he said. “I didn’t know people at your level of government service worked after midnight.”
Kate dropped her clothes on the floor and crawled into bed with him, snuggling her warm body against his. “Why, Mr. President, you’re not wearing any clothes.”
He groped around. “Why, Madame Director, neither are you.”
“Hang on,” she said. “I’ve got some news that will put you in the mood.”
“I don’t need any news to get in the mood,” he said, turning toward her, “but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“You’re right. It was Teddy Fay who shot Ali ben Saud this morning, then blew up an office building under construction across the street from the UN.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I just thought you’d like it confirmed. What you don’t know is that they found Teddy Fay’s body in the wreckage of the building, along with the homemade gun he used.”
“So, it’s over?”
“It’s over.”
“Are we going to announce anything?”
“I’m certainly not, and you’re crazy, if you do. Tell your congressional leaders and tell them to sit on it.”
“What happens if they don’t?”
“Then they’re guilty of hiding the whole business from the American people.”
“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this.”
“You made that decision weeks ago, pal; learn to live with it.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You know I’m right.”
“Now can I molest you?”
“You’d better.”
They reached for each other.
SIXTY
THREE WEEKS LATER, Irene Foster got home, tired and not a little drunk. Her living room was piled with boxes; her walls and bookcases were bare; there were still sheets on her bed, but that was the only comfort of home left in her little townhouse.
From somewhere, she heard the muffled ring of a cell phone, and she tore at her handbag looking for it, finally dumping the contents on the floor.
“Hello?”
“Hello, yourself.”
“Thank God, I was beginning to think…”
“Don’t ever think that.”
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere in the Middle East.”
She laughed. “Oh, that is very good news.”
“I thought so, myself. What have you been up to?”
“Today was my last day. There was a party; I’m roaring drunk.”
“I wish I were there to take advantage of you.”
“If I can join you in the Middle East, we’ll arrange that.”
“Come ahead.”
“Really?”
“There’s a little inn; I can’t pronounce it properly, but it translates, literally, as the Hostelry of the Three Forces. I’ve no idea what that means.”
“You’re there now?”
“When you check in, a Mr. Charles Lockwood will be waiting for you, and he’ll have half a dozen houses for you to look at. When will you check in?”
“You can’t use that name!”
“I’m not using it; it’s the name of the real estate agent who’s going to show you the house.”
“Are you serious?”
“Perfectly.”
“And what name are you using?”
“We’ll invent one when you arrive. When will that be?”
“The sale of the house closes at ten tomorrow morning. If the airlines cooperate I can be in the Middle East by tomorrow night.”
“Perfect. Tell me, how did that little matter that so concerned your people work out?”
“It’s dead and gone, and so is the subject of the matter.”
“Really? Do they really believe that?”
“Probably not, but they would prefer to.”
“That’s almost as good as if they believed it.”
“Better. They’ll be covering their asses for the rest of their careers.”
“Is anyone going to come looking for that employee who didn’t turn in his time sheets?”
“That gentleman resigned from the service, effective last week. I turned in his resignation for him.”
“So that’s a dead issue?”
“It’s not even an issue.”
“Call me before you take off tomorrow.”
“Will do.
TEDDY BROKE THE CONNECTION and lay back on the chaise longue, looking up at the stars. A warm, tropical breeze wafted across his bald spot. He sighed and drifted off into a doze, dreaming of doing nothing forever.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my Web site at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.
Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.
Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-1825.
Those who wish to conduct business of a more literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022.
If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my Web site, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.
If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to David Highfill at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.
A list of my published works appears in the front of this book. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction
books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WANT TO THANK, once again, my agents of twenty-five years, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, for their hard work on my behalf. They have been instrumental in the formation and longevity of my career, and I will always be grateful to them.
I also want to thank my editor, David Highfill, who is responsible for getting the book through the publishing process intact, for his always insightful view of my manuscript. All the people at Putnam have done fine work on my behalf, especially Michael Barson and Elizabeth Hazelton, who schedule all my publicity and book tours twice a year, and I thank each one of them.
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
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