The two women walked to the front door. Melanie gave Allender an “are you sure?” look over her shoulder as she followed Rebecca out. He mouthed the words “call me” at her, and then closed the door.
TWENTY-ONE
“Where do you live?” Rebecca asked as she drove her Volvo sedan up Connecticut Avenue. Melanie gave her directions and thanked her for the ride.
“Why are you suspicious of me?” Rebecca asked.
Melanie hesitated. If this woman was not who she said she was, she might end up saying something that could get Allender in trouble. More trouble. “Too many intersecting lines,” she replied, finally, trying to keep it vague. “Two violent incidents involving Chinese operatives involving the both of you. Admittedly, I’m new to the operational world, but we discussed this during training. Coincidence equals alarm.”
“Okay,” Rebecca said, watching street signs now for her turn. “I get that. But technically, Doctor Allender is supposed to be working with me, the team leader at the Bureau doing the Wallace case, as a senior advisor. That would inevitably cause coincidences, don’t you think?”
Melanie shrugged. She thought Rebecca was being evasive. “You asked,” she said. “Next street, go left.”
Rebecca appeared to give up on peacemaking, which suited Melanie just fine. She’d been unwilling to say that this woman just rubbed her wrong. Something not quite right. Spidey sense, to quote Allender. She pointed to the apartment building coming up. “Just there,” she said. “And I do appreciate the ride. I could have walked it, I guess, but…”
“Yeah, but,” Rebecca said, pulling to the curb. “Not in this town and not at this hour. Even if you’re carrying. Tell me, why did he call you Virginia?”
“Long story,” Melanie said, opening the door and getting out. “It was just a cover name. Thanks again, and good luck with your case.”
Rebecca wiggled her fingers back at her, gave a fake smile, and then drove off. Melanie headed for the entrance to the apartment building and then pretended to look in her purse for something. When she could no longer see Rebecca’s taillights, she turned around, crossed the street, and keyed herself into her real building. Wanted to know if I was carrying, she thought. Ought to have pulled on her, except, if she was working the Bureau, she’d definitely be carrying, herself. And: She’d actually not heard Allender calling her Virginia in front of Rebecca.
She took the elevator to her floor, stepped out, and encountered three men standing in the hallway. They were all dressed in suits with coats unbuttoned, and their physical appearance strongly suggested security types. One stood by her front door, which was open, the other two were positioned nearby. She immediately clicked open her purse and reached inside, but the man nearest her put up his hand and told her whoa. “No reason for that, Ms. Singer,” he said, which was when she noticed he was wearing a communications earbud and wire. “We’re US Secret Service. Just go inside, please. Congresswoman Greer is waiting for you.”
She gave each one of them a hard look, and then slowly removed her hand from the purse. All three immediately relaxed. She walked into her apartment, where she found the congresswoman sitting on the sofa and partaking of some of her Bombay gin.
“There you are,” Greer said, putting down the drink. She looked over at the man by the door and asked him to please close it. Then she looked back at Melanie. “Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger, sweetie, but I’ve called in the cavalry. Please, have a seat, and tell me what the fuck is going on with you, me, and that snake, Carson McGill.”
Melanie gave Greer a look that said, What the fuck are you doing in my apartment, then went to the sideboard, got a rocks glass, and poured herself a slug of Bombay. The Tanq had been good, but not sufficiently long-legged. Then she sat down across the coffee table from Greer, crossed her legs, took a sip, closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled, and asked Greer who the people in the hallway were.
“You-nited States Secret Service, Ms. Singer,” Greer replied. “Now, your turn: Who are you? Even better, what are you?”
“I’m an Agency operative,” Melanie said. “Sent by Mister McGill to confirm whether or not you are a closeted homosexual, and whether or not you are in a lesbian relationship with an operative from the Chinese embassy.”
Greer’s face went white. Melanie leaned forward. “Because if you are,” she said, “he probably intends to compromise you to the point where you are booted out of your congressional seat, and then prosecuted for allowing a member of a foreign intelligence service to get so close to you, so to speak, that one could reasonably ask why every one of your security clearances should not be instantly revoked and you brought to an undisclosed location for some serious ‘debriefing.’”
“How dare—”
“Oh, please,” Melanie interrupted. “Your entire staff warned me about you and your sexual proclivities. The word ‘predator’ was used, actually. And, for the record, I don’t give a shit about your bedroom choices. This is business, Madam Chairwoman, national-security business, and I think you are now formally in a world of shit. Would you please leave now? Or do I have to call in my cavalry? Trust me, they’re nowhere near as polite as those guys outside.”
The congresswoman was obviously flabbergasted. Before she could protest further, Melanie got up and went out onto the balcony to enjoy her Bombay … She heard the large woman heave herself off the sofa and leave. But then she heard someone else come into her living room.
“Ms. Singer?” a male voice asked.
Melanie wished she’d brought her purse. “Out here,” she said.
The man who’d asked her not to pull on them opened and then stepped through the door and introduced himself. “Sam Worcester,” he said. “Secret Service.”
She turned, smiled, and asked for his creds. He produced them. She examined them and then asked if he liked gin.
“Actually, yes, I do,” he said.
They went back into the living room, where she poured herself a refill and he poured a tiny amount. They sat down.
“This is complicated,” he began. He kept staring at her face.
She started laughing. “You have no idea,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “You got me. But here’s the thing. Do you know who Henry Wallace is?”
“You mean the gorped-up deputy director of the CIA whom you guys are holding out in Bethesda? That Hank Wallace?”
Worcester blinked in surprise and put down his glass. “Yes, that Henry Wallace,” he said. “But not gorped up. Not dead, not even ill, no matter what word’s gone out around Langley or in the Hoover Building. And not being held, either. Here’s another thing: When Martine Greer contacted the Secret Service to find out what Mister McGill—and you—were up to, that word got back to Wallace, who is, if you haven’t figured it out yet, under our protection at Bethesda. It was his idea that we play along with Greer and accompany her to a meeting with you.”
“And break into my apartment? That his idea, too?”
Worcester frowned. “Would you have come home for a nightcap if you’d known Martine Greer was waiting for you, either down in the street or up here?” he asked. “This was the simplest and most discreet venue. You know that.”
“Okay, for the sake of argument, I agree. Wait: ‘Play along with Greer’?”
“So: Mister Wallace is not just sitting out there resting up from several years of being a senior spook. He’s running something. It’s got a weird name. Care to guess?”
“Does it involve a swan?” she said.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise and Melanie started to laugh uncontrollably.
“What?” he said. “What’s so fucking funny?”
“You’d never believe it in a thousand years,” Melanie said. “So, once more: I assume you’ve brought a message?”
Worcester regained his composure, and then, almost as if he’d just discovered it, slugged down his dollop of Bombay. “Just this,” he said. “He strongly recommends that you and someone called Allender go to g
round, preferably out of Washington, if possible, because what he’s got running is going to get, to quote him, messy, possibly even ‘wet,’ if that makes any sense to you.”
“Yup,” she said. “Clear as a bell. Tell Mister Wallace message received. I can’t speak for Doctor Allender, but this very junior Agency operative is gonna make like Houdini.”
“Really? Just like that?”
“Just like that, Mister Sam Worcester. Now if you don’t mind it’s been a long day, and I’ve got plans to make and trains to take, as it were. Thanks for delivering the message.”
He put the glass down, nodded, got up, and left the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. Now, she thought: How to warn Allender without alerting any listeners? Then she remembered something he’d told her.
TWENTY-TWO
Allender sat at his desk in the tower study with all the lights off and the venetian blinds cracked open so he could see out into the avenue. By now he’d convinced himself that, one, he was little more than a pawn in some bureaucratic power play McGill was making, and, two, he couldn’t trust Rebecca Lansing. Too many coincidences, and even Melanie had had doubts about her.
He heard his cell phone chirp from out in the living room. He decided to ignore it. Any more surprise visitors tonight and he was going to go downstairs and get one of his shotguns. Then he realized that the tone was not for a call, but a text. He rarely used the text function; in fact he found the smart phone most useful for getting navigation help when he was driving. He got up, spied the phone’s window alight on the coffee table, and read the message: “Beware the Ides of March.”
Whoops, he thought. He unlocked the phone to check the sender box. V.S. He didn’t know anybody with the initials V.S. Wait. Virginia Singer. Melanie.
He immediately had questions but sensed this wasn’t the time for phone conversations. He went upstairs to pack a bag. Then he went down to the vault to get some cash, his passport, his emergency travel valise, and a different handgun. He retrieved the phone and his car keys and left through the back door. He didn’t bother with the alarm system, which was still defunct. He walked across the dark garden to the back gate, then stopped and listened for a minute. The alley seemed to be deserted. He walked back to the side door of the garage, let himself in, and got into his car, an older-model Mercedes diesel sedan. He put the key into the ignition and then stopped, wondering if he should turn it.
“Aw, c’mon,” he muttered. Too many spy movies. He reached up and triggered the garage door, started the car, backed out into the alley, lowered the door, and drove down the alley to the side street. He made his way through downtown and across the Memorial Bridge and headed for Richmond, not even bothering to look in his mirrors for followers. Unless they wanted him to know he was being followed, he’d never see them, and it was much more likely that his car would be tracked, along with his phone. Shortly before midnight he took a motel room off the interstate and turned in.
The following morning he went to the lobby, got some coffee and a fat pill, and then asked where the guest computers were. Once into the motel’s terminal, he sent a text message to Melanie’s phone number, telling her to meet him where they had had their first dinner date, at 8:00 P.M. Then he continued down the interstate until he came upon a large truck plaza, where he pulled in for diesel and a pit stop. He was tempted to take off his license plate and park it on the back of a nearby semi, but remembered that he had a better plan once he got to the Farm. Two hours later he took a motel room next door to the Opus Nine restaurant. He got his key card, checked the room, and then drove out to the Yorktown battlefield park to just walk around and get some fresh air.
At 8:00 P.M. he was sitting in a corner table nursing a martini and examining the wine list. He heard a flutter in the dining room conversation and looked up. Melanie apparently had decided to reprise her Ms. Vanderbilt gig. She was dressed in a tight-skirted yellow linen suit that complemented her hair and the Grace Kelly look-alike features. He watched with amusement as some older couples flat-out stared at her face as if they were seeing a ghost. He wasn’t staring at her face, and he realized she’d caught him checking her out. The maître d’ came out of nowhere and seated her at Allender’s table.
“That looks good,” she said.
“Tanq marty,” he replied. “I ordered you Bombay.”
“God is good,” she said as a waiter arrived and produced her drink. She smiled and they tipped glasses at each other.
He complimented her on her entrance and told her Minette would be proud. “You think you were followed down?”
“No need,” she said. “Nobody follows anyone in a vehicle these days. The surveillance systems have moved way past physical bugs. Operations tracks the computer in the car if it wants to because the manufacturers are all collecting continuous maintenance and operating data via various Wi-Fi links. And since we’re both employees, our vehicle entertainment systems have all been modified for real-time tracking and the occasional 911. Plus, if you step outside, Google Earth, or at least the NSA version, can actually see you. You want to hide, get on a submarine.”
“Yeah, I’d forgotten all about that stuff. What provoked your get-out-of-Dodge warning?”
She described her own late-night visitor and the subsequent drink with the Secret Service guy.
“They have him under their protection?”
“That’s what he said. Looks like you were right about Bethesda. Good thinking on his part, too. A presidential facility on a military installation.”
“That would imply that McGill didn’t do something to Hank Wallace, but that it’s the reverse: Wallace is running some kind of in-house op against McGill.”
“And using you—me, too, I guess—to do—what?”
“I have no fucking idea,” he said. “Let’s order. I’m starving.”
After dinner they retired to the bar. She was apparently staying in the same motel he was in, so they could afford to relax, not having to worry about driving anywhere. She finally asked why he’d wanted to come down to the Farm.
“I wanted to get out of Washington,” he said. “I’m convinced the Chinese are watching everybody involved in this little caper. I figured if I could get to the Farm I’d only have to worry about McGill.”
“You think the Chinese still mean to take you out? For the Chiang thing?”
“Not sure, but I’ve seen more weapons pointed at me in the past week than I have in years, if ever, actually. All by Chinese, too.”
“Logical conclusion,” she admitted.
“You’d probably find that exciting. I don’t.”
She laughed. “Why would I find that exciting?”
“You’re an operator,” he said. “That’s a volunteer profession. Sometimes dull, sometimes hair-raising work. An element of real danger, depending who your opposition is. We screen out the true adrenaline junkies, of course, but there has to be some element of Action Jackson in any good operative.”
“I suppose,” she said. “Like I said, I mostly tried out because I was bored.”
“What’s the usual cure for boredom?” he asked, gently. Then both their phones began ringing. They looked at each other and accepted the calls.
“This is Hank Wallace,” a voice said, to both of them. “I trust you’ve had a good dinner at Opus Nine?”
Melanie nodded at Allender, indicating she wanted him to do the talking.
“We have,” Allender replied. “Are you here with us tonight?”
“Regrettably, no,” Wallace said. “I’m at one of those famous ‘undisclosed locations’ in an effort to stay healthy. I recommend you both head over to the Farm and stay there until I send further instructions. I have arranged entry clearance and there is secure transportation outside your restaurant as we speak. Tomorrow I will have a job of work for Doctor Allender. Go now, please.”
The connection beeped off. They looked at each other, finished their drinks, paid the bill, and went out front, where a black Suburban was wa
iting as advertised.
“This the grab, after all?” Melanie said, her brave façade cracking just a little.
“After a fashion, I suppose, but I think this has more to do with a threat from the MSS. As we know, they’re here in the Williamsburg area. I’ll get the driver to take us over to the motel for our stuff.”
Allender opened the back door for Melanie, half expecting Carson McGill to be sitting there, but he wasn’t. Forty minutes later they were cruising through the gates to the Farm.
* * *
The next morning they were sharing coffee in the breakfast dining room when a young man brought a sealed brown envelope in and gave it to Allender.
“Oh, goody,” Melanie said. “Our decoder rings.” She’d been enjoying the stares as other people came into the dining room and saw a reincarnation of the famous actress having breakfast with the dreaded Dragon Eyes.
Allender opened the envelope and scanned the contents. “Oh, my,” he said, finally. “This is going to be interesting indeed.”
“Where we going?” she asked.
“To the dungeons,” he said, closing up the packet. “I’m going to do an interrogation.”
“Anybody I know?” she asked, but before he could answer, her phone rang. It was Martine Greer, demanding to know why she wasn’t at work.
“I’ve been recalled to another assignment,” Melanie told her smoothly. “They’ll be sending my replacement shortly, I’m sure.”
“Tell him or her to wear Kevlar, then,” Greer declared. “I’m cranking up a proper shit-storm in the House this morning. Your bosses are gonna hate life.”
“I think they already do,” Melanie said, and closed the connection. She told Allender what Greer had said.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s going to rattle some cages at Langley. Headline: ‘CIA Attempts to Sabotage House Chairman’s Reelection. Homophobic Smear Campaign. Speaker Schedules Hearings.’”
Red Swan Page 21