by Donn Taylor
Kristin threw him a furious glance but said nothing.
Tired of Spinner’s cat-and-mouse game, Sledge charged ahead. “Do we agree that I’ve kept my part of the bargain?”
“Completely.” Spinner gestured toward the man in horn-rimmed glasses. “Crowder will write you a check now or, if you prefer, he’ll wire-transfer it as he did the first payment.”
“The other two hundred thousand, as agreed,” Sledge said. “Plus these expenses.” He handed a paper to the man with the horn-rimmed glasses. “I’ll take the wire transfer.” He had no doubt Spinner would pay, but, given the looks the second bodyguard was throwing his way, Sledge doubted that he’d make it to the airport with a check in his pocket.
The man with glasses ventured a question. “What about the other expenses in Colombia? The ones we’ve heard about seem a bit high.”
Sledge glowered. “What did you expect? In a country bloated with drug money, bribes don’t come cheap.”
Spinner gave his assistant a ferocious glance. “Don’t worry about that. We got what we wanted.”
Before his boss’s disapproval, the assistant seemed to shrink into himself. Apparently, his charter did not include asking questions.
Spinner turned to Sledge. “Our business is concluded.” He gave a nod of dismissal. “Can we give you a ride somewhere?”
“Don’t bother,” Sledge said. “I’ll catch a taxi.”
He might at least have said thanks.
As Sledge turned to go, Kristin touched his arm. “You—you’re going to go? Just walk out of here and that’s that?”
She was dangerously close to stepping out of her identity as Jocelyn. The sooner he left, the sooner she could drop the masquerade. His anger still burned against Spinner and against himself for letting it influence his treatment of Kristin.
With an effort, he suppressed it and spoke in a softer voice. “My job is done, and now I’m only in the way. You’ll be all right from here on.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Tell your friend to be careful with her story.”
“I will tell her.” Kristin’s eyes searched his. Was it his imagination that he thought he saw hurt in them?
As he headed for the door, the second bodyguard moved to intercept him. Sledge stopped and locked eyes with him. “Don’t crowd me, buster. I can find my own way out.”
Without a doubt, Old Sledge was back. He didn’t much like the idea.
The cheerful bodyguard interceded. “Jumbo, ye’d be wise to give the gentleman room. He’s what happened to the man you replaced.”
Jumbo did not greet this information with pleasure, but he stood aside. Sledge paused in the doorway to check his back trail. Everyone remained in position, but Kristin’s face reflected hurt and anxiety. Her expression tugged at his heart, but he forced himself on through the vestibule into the outer office.
She’s a tough-minded journalist. She can take care of herself.
Still, it took all his willpower to keep from going back.
The receptionist gave him another fearful glance as he passed her desk, and he realized his face must be showing his anger. He stopped with his back to her and deliberately re-established control. When he turned again, he showed a cheerful countenance, waved his carry-on at her, and said, “Be sweet, Miss Dijon.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, her face still filled with fear.
Show-off. Since when do you get your kicks by frightening ladies?
Once in the hall, his tradecraft took over. He rode the elevator to the second floor and took the stairs down to the lobby. He passed up the taxis waiting nearby on Canal Street, walked two blocks, and caught a cab in front of a hotel on a side street. He wasn’t important enough for Spinner to bother with, but a vendetta by the bodyguards was another story.
At the airport he booked a flight to Houston. Coach class this time. He felt more comfortable that way. Only on climbout did he relax and lean back with satisfaction. He’d completed another difficult and worthwhile mission and had done it well. As a bonus, he and Kristin had discovered the hidden weapons factory, a potential threat to national security, and they’d alerted the proper authorities. Whatever action the factory required was none of his responsibility.
Images from his dream of successive hills to climb flickered through his mind, but he thrust them aside. He’d earned a relaxing vacation, and he intended to take it.
All the facts said he should feel completely satisfied. So why didn’t he?
For one thing, he remembered Kristin’s hurt expression. She was a headstrong brat, but now that they were apart he realized he’d enjoyed being with her. Beyond that, some instinct told him he hadn’t seen the last of his involvement with that factory.
But most of all, that familiar sense of the world’s emptiness descended on him like a cloud of volcanic ash.
****
As Spinner’s office door closed behind Sledge, Kristin felt a swirl of conflicting emotions—anger at the brutal way he’d gripped her arm, pain at his unceremonious departure, and fear of facing Steve Spinner alone. Without knowing it, she’d come to depend on Sledge to meet the challenge of the unexpected. That made her angrier yet, but this time with herself.
I’m a fine career woman, she thought. I have the story of a lifetime, and now I’m getting creepy over facing the man who sent me to find it.
Behind her, Spinner laughed. “Thank you, my dear, for keeping up my little subterfuge. Sledge is adept at bashing things around, but he was too dumb to find out who you really were.”
Kristin fought back an impulse to defend Sledge. “I’ve heard Jocelyn got back all right. I’d like to see her.”
“She isn’t here.” Spinner’s scowl darkened. “The ungrateful little wench has run away again. What did you find out about the massacre?”
Kristin pretended she hadn’t heard. “What about Raúl Ramirez—the man who traveled with Jocelyn?”
“Disappeared. He didn’t take a flight back to Colombia.”
She wondered why he’d taken the trouble to know that. But she asked, “Are they together?”
Spinner shrugged. “Who knows? But she’ll come back when she needs money.” He looked down his nose at her. “I sent you down there to investigate a massacre by right-wing death squads. What did you find out?”
“I found out they didn’t do it.” Kristin steeled herself for the onslaught she knew was coming.
His eyes flashed. “What do you mean, ‘They didn’t do it’? Everyone knows—”
“What ‘everyone knows’ is wrong.” Kristin was determined to hold her ground. “The women of the village say the massacre was done by guerrillas dressed like the right-wing defense forces. They couldn’t be wrong. Too many of them told the same story.”
Spinner’s face flushed. “They could be paid to lie.”
“They weren’t paid. Besides…” She stopped, shocked that she was on the verge of telling about finding the bodies.
“Besides what?” Spinner’s eyes bored into her.
Panic rose inside her. She had to do something. But what?
“I can’t talk about it now.” She covered her face with her hands and sank into a chair. “It’s too horrible,” she sobbed, “and I’ve been through so much. You can’t ask me to talk about it now.”
Head down, she rubbed her eyes to redden them. She hated weeping women and despised herself for pretending to be one. But Elena Ramirez had taught her a few tricks of expediency. Her tear-filled gambit seemed to work, for Spinner ceased his attack.
She rubbed her eyes until tears flowed down her cheeks, then looked up. “I’m sorry. Right now I’d just like to rest.”
Spinner’s voice grew soft, but his eyes held a canniness that said the truce was temporary. “Of course, my dear. You’ll stay the night with us. My chauffeur will take you home.”
Her heart turned to ice. How long could she parry Spinner’s questions without saying something she shouldn’t? “I’d like to stay at a hotel,” she said. “I need to be
around people.”
Spinner flipped a switch on an intercom. “Miss Dijon, please get Kristin Halvorsen a room at the Orleana and have my chauffeur drive her there.” He turned back to Kristin. “We’ll talk over lunch tomorrow. I’ll send someone for you at eleven thirty.”
She showed her meekest expression. “That will be fine.”
In the outer office, Miss Dijon treated her with new respect, and the chauffeur was courtesy itself. Still, she was glad to be alone in her hotel room.
She would have promised Spinner anything to get away, but she had no intention of talking to him again. By lunchtime tomorrow she would be halfway to New York.
And Spinner, for all of his billions, could not touch her then, could he?
19
Langley, Virginia
Roger Brinkman’s entry to CIA headquarters to confer with Brian Novak brought a flood of memories from the years he had served there. By request, he’d accompanied the younger man back to the Washington, DC, area, overnighted in a hotel, and spent a busy morning on his cell phone. Now he kept his appointment to share information and coordinate plans.
Memories or no, Brinkman had no regrets on his decades-old decision to retire. He’d done his country much more good outside the agency than he’d been able to do inside. His temporary pass was waiting for him, and a security guard took him directly to Novak’s office.
Novak looked up as Brinkman entered. “You’re just in time, Roger. I should have a photo briefing in a minute or two. I guess you know I had the devil of a time getting you cleared for this.”
Brinkman smiled. “Our glorious bureaucracy at work. I have several things to tell you.”
Novak raised his eyebrows and Brinkman continued, “The bad news is that my men lost Erich Staab. They picked him up in Bush International Airport in Houston. He cleared customs and collected his baggage in Terminal D, took the airport’s underground tram to Terminal B, and caught a flight for Seattle via Chicago. Another team saw him out of Seattle-Tacoma Airport. He took a taxi but they lost him in traffic. We don’t know if he went south into Oregon, north into Canada, or east toward Spokane.”
Novak wrinkled his nose. “Well, at least you’ve narrowed the possibilities down to a few million square miles.”
“He travels on an American passport in his own name. I thought you might be able to get some information from the State Department.”
“Sure.” Novak waved at his cluttered desk. “I don’t have anything else to do. Any other helpful nuggets of information.”
Brinkman frowned. “Some nasty ones. You remember that Sledge sent Steve Spinner’s actual daughter home a day before he brought Kristin back? She had a reliable Colombian as escort, though he thought he was escorting Kristin. They walked in on Spinner while he was meeting with people whose descriptions match the people Sledge and Kristin saw at the factory—the dark-haired man and the other blond giant that they described. They overheard something they weren’t supposed to.”
Novak leaned forward in his chair but said nothing.
“According to the Colombian, Spinner told the dark-haired man not to sell to Arabs because a chemical attack on an American city might kill thousands, maybe millions. The dark-haired man replied, ‘And you might be among them? That’s your problem.’ Then he asked if Spinner thought Kim Jong-un and his generals wouldn’t use the stuff Spinner was sending to them against American troops. That’s when they realized Spinner’s daughter and the Colombian overheard the conversation. Spinner changed the subject.”
“That could be dangerous stuff to overhear.”
“The Colombian played stupid, but they still tried to take him out. This part isn’t very clear, but somehow he evaded them and reported to his father, who reported to me.”
“You have good contacts,” Novak said. “Anything else?”
Brinkman put on an innocent expression and looked at the ceiling. “Well, the customs people in New Orleans just happened to check out the ship Spinner hired to carry his food and medical supplies to North Korea. Funny name. It’s called the Preening Peacock. Its captain has a bad reputation but has never been indicted. The ship came up clean, of course. While the customs people were checking, someone happened to put a couple of GPS tracking devices on board....”
Novak grinned. “If I did that, they’d crucify me.”
Brinkman returned the grin. “Working outside the government does have certain advantages. If no one finds the tracking devices, we’ll know if the ship takes on more cargo somewhere en route to North Korea.”
Novak’s eyes narrowed. “So if that overheard conversation is correct, Spinner may be involved with the stuff already shipped out of that factory.”
A man entered carrying an armload of large papers, and Novak made the introductions. “Ralph, this is Roger Brinkman. He’s cleared for this operation only. Roger, this is Ralph Woodward, photo interpreter.”
With Woodward’s arms fully occupied with papers, they let a nod substitute for a handshake.
“Got something to interest you,” Woodward said.
He laid four enlarged satellite photographs on Novak’s desk. All were stamped with the words TOP SECRET and a code word indicating limited distribution. “There’s a building there, but we can’t tell what kind. The guerrillas’ camouflage is too good. We wouldn’t even have found it if you hadn’t told us where to look.”
He pointed his pencil at a large open area on the first photograph. “The airstrip was easy to find, but they’re a dime a dozen in Colombia. Nothing to distinguish this one from a hundred others.” He shifted to the next photo. “This is the woods about halfway down the south side of the strip. For the most part, it looks like any other woods.”
“Except what?” Novak asked.
Woodward moved his pencil. “The texture of this little rectangle of woods looks different. Bushes rather than grown trees, or maybe a patch planted later than the original growth around it.”
“Meaning?”
“Not much by itself.” The pencil moved to one corner of the rectangle. “But in this tiny gap in the foliage you can see something man-made. It looks like an iron grid-work column. And back at the opposite corner is the shadow of a similar structure.”
“Is that all?”
“Not quite.” Woodward laid out two more photographs, each covering a much larger area. “This was a routine shot taken a year ago.” With his pencil, he indicated a point near one edge of the picture. “This is the airstrip, and here beside it is the same rectangular plot. But it has been clear-cut in preparation for construction.”
He showed the next photo. “This is the same area a year before that. It shows the original woods, with the tone and texture consistent throughout.”
Novak looked up from the photos. “I think I know what it means, but I’d rather you tell me.”
“It means that within the last year someone put up some kind of building in the middle of the boondocks and wanted to hide it so badly he planted bushes or trees on top of it. As to what his purpose was, your guess is as good as mine.”
Novak gave a quick nod. “Thanks, Ralph, I’ll take it from here.”
When Woodward departed, Novak placed the satellite photos in a file folder. “I have two other reports in there,” he said to Brinkman. “One describes our debriefing of Sledge and the Halvorsen woman. The second contains her photographs, with a chemical weapons specialist’s analysis attached.” He grimaced. “It’s worded very cautiously, as you might expect. He says the victims’ wounds were probably caused by chemical weapons, type uncertain. Probably a blister agent, a non-persistent nerve gas, and possibly a third.” Here he paused and sniffed. “The third agent, if indeed there was one, must have caused the victims’ massive bleeding from body orifices. He did say that similar symptoms were reported inconclusively from Laos in the seventies and Afghanistan in the eighties.”
Brinkman laughed. “Typical bureaucracy.”
“I don’t have the luxury of being vague,” Novak sa
id.
Brinkman knew the game. Novak had to draw a firm conclusion and make a definite recommendation. If he was wrong, his career would end in disgrace, a lot of good people would get hurt, and national security itself would suffer.
Novak’s worried expression grew deeper. “Thanks for your help on this, Roger. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to put all this together and brief the director.”
Brinkman found his escort waiting outside the door. As he departed, he thanked his stars for being free of governmental entanglements.
****
Houston, Texas
Sledge woke with unaccustomed euphoria on the morning after his return to Houston. On the previous afternoon his bank had confirmed that the rest of his four-hundred-thousand-dollar fee had been deposited, along with his not-inconsiderable out-of-pocket expenses. That didn’t make him like Spinner any better, but at least the man paid his debts. And Sledge had paid his self-imposed debt by dispatching the promised ten thousand for the wounded Mario. Separately, he sent a gratuitous five thousand to the faithful and indefatigable Javier.
That evening, Sledge treated himself to dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant. Afterwards, he relaxed at home with a good book and several CDs of soft music. And this time he didn’t walk into an ambush in his apartment.
The glorious feeling of his awakening continued through a hot shower and a breakfast of four scrambled eggs, six strips of bacon, and three pieces of toast washed down with orange juice and coffee. Remembering his candy-bar diet in the Andes made everything taste even better. And right now, it was good just to rest and be alive.
The rescue had gone unbelievably well, he reflected, thanks largely to Ramón Ramirez’s organization. Sledge made a thank-you call to the Colombian, who said Raúl had run into some trouble with Spinner’s bodyguards but had escaped unharmed. “He thinks it was most impolite for them to try to kill him,” Ramón said, “so he has remained in New Orleans to teach them some better manners.”