Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  "I've brought the packet, sir," Urbanske announced.

  "Which is why I'm here." Sam gazed levelly at his boss. "It's addressed to me."

  They stood in front of Redmond's desk, but Vince Redmond looked only at Sam, his eyebrows momentarily raised in surprise. He recovered quickly. "Pinkerton spoke to you, I see, Keeline. Glad you've decided to join us again." There was a subtle tone beneath his pleasant words that reminded Sam that his return to Langley was silent acknowledgment that he was agreeing to the chain of command.

  Then Redmond took off his reading glasses and smiled. "The past is forgotten. We'll start fresh, eh?"

  Sam said sincerely, "I'd like that, sir." He was still irate that his mail had been confiscated without his knowledge or permission, and he definitely still wanted the information inside it. But under the circumstances diplomacy seemed a good choice.

  So he kept his voice neutral. "However, there's the matter of my mail."

  Redmond's gaze shifted to Urbanske. "Is that the packet? Give it to me."

  Redmond had a sharp, handsome face and sturdy build. Like Robert Gates before him, Redmond had been promoted to deputy director of intelligence at the youthful age of just thirty-six. His eyes were pale blue, and his skin was smooth, as if he'd shaved just minutes ago. He wore a tailored suit too expensive for his government salary, but then he came from a wealthy family. Every time Sam forgot that, all he had to do was look at the walls in his office: Framed pictures of Redmond with past presidents and other dignitaries hung everywhere, including a large one directly behind his big desk in which he, his father, and former President Bush stood on the steps of a wood-sided, rustic building with what looked like an arm of Long Island Sound behind.

  The purposely plain structure reminded everyone of the family's simple beginnings, but the men who stood there showed its power.

  Urbanske grimaced and handed over the package.

  In the Company, understatement was the standard, and the ability to be unemotional an art form. So Vince Redmond simply stared down at the packet on his palms. His hands didn't shake, and no enraged flush crept up his polished cheeks. But Sam felt fury billow from him like heat from an oven.

  Still, when Redmond looked up, his face was expressionless. Granite. "This has been opened. I specifically told you I needed it unopened, Urbanske. You know this is code-word, code-level. There's no excuse for this."

  Urbanske swallowed. "I'm sorry, sir. But I didn't do it. Keeline did. I was waiting in his office for the mail, but he took it from the guy before it got to his office. You said Keeline was at Hell Week. How was I supposed—"

  His words died, because Redmond's cold attention had shifted. He studied Sam with pale, piercing eyes. "An explanation, please."

  "Pink covered for me at Hell Week so I could get back to work. Now you tell me why you're intercepting my mail."

  Redmond ignored the question. "How much did you read?"

  "A couple of sentences. Enough to know it's addressed to me and—"

  Redmond seemed to relax a millimeter. "Forget them. You heard me tell Urbanske it's code-word, code-level. Even I can't read it. Now it goes straight to the DCI himself." The DCI was the director of central intelligence, the emperor of all U.S. intelligence. "Your word that's all you read?" His gaze bored into Sam so deeply it actually made Sam feel a tinge guilty he'd wanted to read more.

  "That's what I said," Sam said gruffly, furious but refusing to show it.

  Redmond looked at Urbanske.

  Urbanske nodded his bald head, eager to escape Redmond's heat. "I don't see how Keeline could've read more than a couple of sentences before I got it."

  "All right. I'll accept that. I want you both to forget this. Forget we talked about it. Forget you saw or ever heard of this packet. Got that? Good. Good-bye."

  Urbanske disappeared out the door, relief following him like a well-trained dog.

  Sam closed the door and sat in front of Redmond's desk. "We need to talk."

  As DDI, Redmond had the weighty job of overseeing the collection, evaluation, and summation of raw information from all public and covert sources and the preparation of the Company's daily research and intelligence reports, as well as the President's Daily Brief and critical long-range analyses. Redmond had transferred over from the Directorate of Operations and had been in this high post only a year, but he'd already built a broad base of support by delivering on time and without complaint.

  Sam's problem with Redmond wasn't how he delivered; it was the quality of it. But Redmond was astute. He knew that in any bureaucracy smoothly churning wheels made everyone look good, even if the product wasn't of the highest possible caliber. So he kept the estimates and reports rolling out, meeting deadlines as if each were a World Cup win. Consequently his people earned regular praise as first-rate, nose-to-the-grindstone government employees who could be counted upon, rarities in the beltway, and if the analyses were a little off, well, then they'd just go back to the drawing board and come up with more. On time again.

  Sam had never had a problem with a DDI before Redmond. In fact, they'd all seemed to value him highly. They'd promoted him often and given him free rein to follow his hunches. That's why he was the head of Russian and Eurasian intelligence now. Why he worked longer and harder than most. And why the women in his life were so important—but transient—to him.

  Since Vince Redmond's arrival, everything had changed. Redmond's philosophy was reshaping the directorate, and from the DCI himself on down, Redmond seemed to win friends everywhere, while Sam hit one brick wall after another.

  For Sam, a lot of the fun and satisfaction had gone out of his job. But now, although he was furious and outraged, he had to take the long view. He still didn't want to leave the Company.

  He had to be tactful. "The order for my package came from the DCI himself?"

  "That's right," Redmond replied evenly. And then he did something new. He unbent: "It's good to see you, Keeline. And I hope our differences are over. We both want nothing but the best for the Company and the country. We're a team here, and I'm glad you're still on it. I hope I can count on you. You know you can count on me."

  Sam battled himself. He wanted the information about the Amber Room. It was only with the greatest effort that he accepted the lesson from his trip to Hell Week that Redmond had intended him to learn: He couldn't fight Vince Redmond and win.

  So he tried his best nonchalance. "You don't have a clue what's going on with the packet? Who really wants it?"

  Redmond remained friendly. "Between you and me, I think the order must've come from the White House itself Probably some brouhaha we'll never know the details of Hell, if it was up to me, I'd let you take a look."

  Right, Sam thought. Sure, just like three days ago you let me check out that information about prostitutes and presidential front-runner Doug Powers. "But why was it addressed to me? And why now? What's it all about that I'm somehow involved?—"

  Redmond's smile was fraying at the edges. He was growing thin-lipped. "Give it up, Keeline. Someone got your name from a hat, and now it's out of our hands. I don't cross the DCI, and I certainly don't plan to cross the White House to satisfy your curiosity. Now I've got to leave. The DCI's waiting for this, and I told him I'd bring it to him personally. You should get back to work." He stood up and walked around his desk. His sturdy frame moved with awkward grace. He opened the door.

  Sam was still sitting. He had an urge to rip the package from Redmond's hands, but he wouldn't get to keep it. And he'd be in so much trouble with Redmond that the job at the kiddie lab would look inviting.

  "Yeah." Sam stood up. "Good idea. Back to work."

  But as he strode out, he doubted the sender had pulled his name from a hat. His long interest in the Amber Room was too much coincidence. Whoever had sent the package had probably known of his past investigations. And he doubted Redmond believed his name had been taken from some hat either. Plus there was Redmond's convenient fight with him over the estimate and his
sentence to Hell Week, which had provided a perfect opportunity for Redmond to quietly get the package. Except that the package was misaddressed and therefore late, and Sam had returned to Langley early.

  It could all be coincidence. Vince Redmond could be well meaning but wrong, and everything he'd said about the package could be true. But Sam had to wonder.

  Ruminating about the odd turn of events, Sam returned to his office and grabbed the bag of M&M's from his desk. He sat, pushed the hills of papers to the side, dumped the candies out, and separated them into colors—red, green, yellow, brown, and blue.

  He stretched. His body felt like one huge Gordian knot.

  He ate all the red M&M's, and then he ate the green ones. Which made him think about money. He was behind on that. He took out his wallet and arranged his folding cash the way he liked it—twenties on the bottom, then the tens, the fives, and the ones on top. He made sure the dark green color all faced up and the tops of the heads were on the same side, his left. He toyed with stacking the bills according to serial numbers, too, but resisted. That was taking obsession too far.

  Now he felt pretty good.

  He put his wallet away and ate the brown and yellow M&M's. Then he scooped the stack of blues into his palm, propped his feet up on his desk, and leaned back. One by one he dropped his favorite blues into his mouth, and as the chocolate melted, he allowed himself to think again about the Amber Room.

  Had it resurfaced at last? Why had the packet really been taken from him?

  He looked longingly at his sports jacket, crumpled on the corner of his desk near his feet . He considered taking off a few days to mosey on up to Armonk, where the letter apparently originated or had at least been mailed.

  Who'd sent it?

  He thought about Vince Redmond. Redmond wanted him in the Company fold, yes, but Redmond had proved he didn't want him so much that he'd put up endlessly with Sam's disagreements and advice. Sam wasn't certain what Redmond would do if he disobeyed a direct order, but he figured it'd be bad. Maybe worse than a transfer to Hell Week. Maybe Redmond would fire him.

  But Sam really, really wanted to know more about the Amber Room. He'd waited decades for a break like this. He wanted to return the room to its proper place in the world's limelight. Like the exquisite Mona Lisa, or the great pyramids of Egypt, or Michelangelo's remarkable statue of David, or America's unforgettable Grand Canyon, the Amber Room should be available to every man, woman, and child who made the effort to bask in its beauty and contemplate its singular art. To Sam, masterpieces were like the air we breathed—they should belong to everyone.

  He pursed his lips, turning it all over in his mind.

  He had to figure a way around Redmond. He wanted to stay in the Company.

  He ate his last blue M&M.

  And then he knew what to do. Redmond was a stickler for following orders, so Sam would do just that. He wouldn't even think about the sacred packet. He'd put it from his mind and pretend he'd never seen or heard of it. Instead, he'd do an end run—Daniel Austrian. He wondered what the former ambassador was up to these days.

  Excitement rushed through his veins. He dropped his feet to the floor, leaned forward, and picked up his telephone. He chuckled to himself. Among his qualities was a certain deviousness that he had to admit he admired.

  6

  8:05 PM, FRIDAY

  OYSTER BAY, NEW YORK

  Presidential candidate Creighton Redmond waited for the telephone call. He'd campaigned that morning in Chicago, then in Detroit, and finally in Seattle. Now he was home, tired, his nerves on edge. Time seemed to be careening out of control. Just four days until the election. Still he forced himself to work on the papers on his desk. Then he paced back and forth in front of the great fireplace, where flames crackled high. The odor of the burning pine logs infused the air.

  Redmond had decisions to make, but he put them off, waiting for the situation in London to be resolved. So much was at stake. Everything he'd spent a lifetime planning. He was a man of enormous talent and intellect, a man of education and reason, and he never shrank from reality.

  Brutal acts were occasionally necessary.

  He was only a heartbeat away from having everything he'd ever dreamed. Nothing could be allowed to threaten that.

  When the phone rang on his private, secure line, he snapped it up. "Do you have the packet?"

  "Yes," the woman in London said. "But there was a problem—"

  Redmond listened. Fury rose into his throat. "You killed her? You idiot! How could you have done that?" Guilt swept through him.

  "She saw my face. So did the taxi driver." The woman's voice was neutral, the complete professional. "Since you'd told me the younger woman was blind, there was no need to terminate her, too."

  Shocked, Redmond paused to consider alternatives. Marguerite was dead! But second-guessing was useless, a salve to the unrealistic. This woman had been with him for years, and she always delivered. She'd acquired the information he'd needed from the police inspector in Monaco, and now she'd gotten the packet away from Marguerite in London. She'd done her job. That much was good.

  He couldn't bring Marguerite back to life.

  Alone where no one could see him, Redmond shrugged. Yes, it was most unfortunate. There was no way to change what had happened. Marguerite had always been a troublemaker, and now she'd paid.

  He said, "This was in Belgravia as planned?"

  "Of course."

  "All right, I'll make certain it ends there."

  "You can do that?"

  "I have ways. I expect the packet here tomorrow."

  "My pleasure." There was new respect in her voice.

  The line went dead. He sat for a moment in thought. Marguerite's death changed nothing, and whatever remorse he felt was simply wasted energy. Now he had to make certain her murder was contained. He hung up and looked at his watch. It was a little past eight o'clock here, which meant it was a little past one AM Saturday in London. With luck, they'd need an hour or less to make the contacts and fax the information. He dialed Langley.

  1:05 AM, SATURDAY

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  After the police took Julia Austrian's initial statement, they drove her away. She couldn't stop weeping. The tears seemed to rise from a bottomless well of grief and pain. She kept seeing her mother's bloody chest with the savage wound no one could've survived. Burned into her brain was the sight of her mother's face wrenched in pain as the bullet had struck her chest and then the sounds of her mother's violent choking.

  And there was more. Her guilt. It knifed her heart and made her throat close. If she hadn't lost her sight, she would've been able to jump out of the taxi. She could've found a call box and summoned help. With quick medical attention, her mother might've lived.

  She didn't want to think about it anymore, but she couldn't stop.

  2:10 AM, SATURDAY

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  The ringing phone awoke Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Staffeld from a sound sleep. It was two o'clock in the morning. Groggy, expecting the usual police emergency, he rolled away from his wife and grabbed it.

  "Staffeld here."

  He lay with his eyes closed and listened. After thirty years with Scotland Yard, he needed only part of his brain for these middle-of-the-night assaults. With luck, the problem would be easily resolved and he could return to sleep.

  Then his eyes snapped open. "What did you say? Who is this? If you think you can—"

  The voice was quiet, educated, and hard. An American accent, he guessed. Eastern seaboard. "I said you're in deep trouble, Staffeld. An envelope is waiting for you at your front door to convince you how deep. Study the contents, and if you value your reputation, your marriage, your children, and your career, call the number on the cover page. Then destroy everything. Believe me, you'll want to."

  There was a dial tone.

  Staffeld sat up in the arctic bedroom and threw off the covers. Raging, he headed across the floor in his bare feet. Behind hi
m, his wife groaned and complained that he hadn't put the covers back over her.

  "Sorry, old girl." But he didn't return. Beneath his anger was apprehension.

  He opened the front door. A large manila envelope leaned against the jamb. He seized it, and as he hurried into his den, he ripped it open. He yanked out the top sheet.

  His face drained of color. "Bloody hell!"

  He dumped the rest out onto his desk. There were faxes of documents written in English, French, and Czech. There were faxes of damning photographs. It was all there in words and pictures. Everything he'd worked so hard to keep hidden. Everything that could ruin him. Detail after detail of a part of his life so private, so secret neither his wife nor anyone in England—certainly not at New Scotland Yard—knew a bloody thing about it. Monaco! Prague! Hints about other places he'd gone on official business over the last twenty-odd years.

  Staffeld lowered himself carefully into his chair. The leather was ice cold, but he didn't notice. His gaze wandered over the old paneling of the walls and the leaded windows of the manor that had been built in the days of Walsingham, the nation's first great spymaster and policeman.

  There was only one solution: He had to find a way to stop this, to protect himself. He hadn't survived all these years by being soft. He hadn't risen to be a chief superintendent of Scotland Yard by turning tail at the first sign of danger. Much depended on who'd sent the envelope, what they wanted, and why.

  He picked up his phone and dialed. "Turkov, hold yourself ready. I have a nasty situation brewing here—"

  At the new Belgravia Police Station, the police questioned Julia, and in halting words she repeated the events in the taxi. A doctor examined her jaw where the killer had pistol-whipped her, and a nurse washed the blood from her face, neck, and hands. She'd have to continue wearing her bloodied evening gown and coat.

  The doctor gave her an injection and prescribed an anti-inflammatory drug and a muscle relaxant. He said her jaw would be sore, but there was no permanent damage.