by John Lutz
Siren whooping, lights flashing, they were now hurtling down the narrow streets of Old Town Alexandria between rows of parked cars.
Martinez hit the brakes, and the car plunged to a halt in front of Josh Milton’s row house, brakes squealing. Laker pitched forward against his safety harness. He released the catch and threw open the door. As he jumped to his feet, the door at the top of the steps opened. He caught a glimpse of the Shapeshifter, still in his blue nurse’s scrubs, but the Shapeshifter stepped back and pulled the door closed before Laker could aim his Beretta.
Martinez came around the front of the car, pistol in hand. Sirens were keening as more police cars arrived. As he ran up the steps, Laker noticed the smashed front window, the glass fragments and broken chair lying on the pavement. He’d assumed that Ava had gone straight from the retirement home to Milton’s. Now he hoped she had gotten out of the house.
Martinez reached the door first. She fired two bullets into the lock. Laker shouldered the door aside and entered, both arms up, left hand bracing his gun hand. Nobody in the hall or on the staircase. Leading with her weapon, Martinez entered a doorway to her left. He took the one to the right. It was a dining room. He dropped to one knee and looked under the table. Nobody there. He glanced again at the broken French window that he hoped had been Ava’s escape route and backed out of the room.
More cops were coming in the front door, weapons drawn. Laker crossed the hall, looked down the stairs. A body was sprawled in a red pool on the floor. “Man down!” he shouted, and descended the stairs. Halfway down he recognized Milton. No way he could have survived that head wound, but Laker checked for a pulse anyway.
Rising, he searched the kitchen, fearing he would find Ava’s bloodstained body. But she wasn’t here, thank God. Martinez was coming down the steps, followed by another cop. She carefully sidestepped the pool of blood, looked around. The ground floor was one large room. “No back door,” she said. “Only windows are on the front side, and the street’s full of cops.”
“Only one way he could have gone, then,” Laker replied. “Up.”
The other cop was already climbing the stairs. Martinez followed. Laker was about to go after her when a muffled voice called his name. He swung back to the empty room, baffled.
“Ava?”
“See the dumbwaiter doors?” said the muffled voice. “Open them.”
He did. He was looking at her jeans-clad legs. Her feet had broken through the thin wood planks of the dumbwaiter’s platform.
She said, “I guess there’s a humorous side to this fix, but I can’t see it right now.”
He was relieved that she sounded like herself. “Have you tried to free your feet?’
“Well, duh. They’re stuck. Also they hurt like hell. I’m afraid the planks aren’t all that got broken.”
“Okay. We’ll get you out. Brace your arms against the walls.”
“Laker, just leave me. The Shapeshifter has the file.”
“Shit.”
“Sorry. All my fault. Go after him.”
“There are a dozen cops chasing him. By now they’ll have the whole block sealed off. He won’t get away,” Laker said, with more certainty than he felt. “Let’s get you free.”
It took several minutes. One foot was trapped under a metal strut, the other tangled in a cable. Her ankles were cut, bruised, and swollen. He knew he was hurting her, but she didn’t make a sound. As she maneuvered into a sitting position on the ledge of the dumbwaiter’s hatch, she said, “I’m happy as a clam, Laker. Go.”
He hurried up the stairs, passing several cops on the way. He glimpsed others on the upper floors, looking under beds and in closets. The staircase ended at the low-ceilinged attic floor, where a door stood open on narrow, steep steps. Laker climbed them, scrambling out under the wide blue sky.
A gray-headed cop with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves and a shotgun in his hands nodded to Laker. Excited voices were babbling from the radio clipped to his epaulet. The cop said, “We figure he was trying to get away across the roofs. Now he’s hiding somewhere.”
There were parapets along the street frontage, but the flat roofs of the row houses joined smoothly side to side. Laker looked out across a plain of black asphalt, broken only by chimneys, ventilators, housings for skylights or stairways. Two lines of cops were moving steadily toward each other from either end of the block, pistols or shotguns at the ready, searching anywhere a man could hide. They were high up. Laker could see the Washington Monument and Capitol dome in the distance.
“He may try to break into a house,” Laker said. “How else is he going to get back to the street?”
The sergeant nodded. That possibility had occurred to him. “We haven’t found a broken skylight or kicked-in door yet. We’ll get him, sir.”
A deafening yell burst from his radio. Laker could also hear it through the air, because it was coming from a skinny young cop standing on a roof just two houses away. He was pointing down, into the alley behind the house.
“Say again, Kernan,” the Sergeant called.
“It’s him,” Kernan replied, voice under control now. “Just lying there. Musta fallen.”
The Sergeant set off at a run. Laker was right beside him. The cops in the nearer search line had also heard. They were straightening up, turning to look at Kernan, lowering their weapons.
Laker reached the skinny youngster and looked where he was pointing. It was the Shapeshifter all right, in his blue scrubs, lying facedown in the alley. He was motionless. Blood and other fluids stained the cobblestones around his head.
“All right!” the Sergeant exulted. “That’s him. Right, sir?”
Laker opened his mouth to say yes. Hesitated. Where was the folder? It ought to be lying open on the cobblestones, the papers scattered all around. Maybe it was under the body. He narrowed his eyes, looked harder. Then he saw the knot of chestnut hair at the nape of the neck.
Officer Rita Martinez was not going to her daughter’s Quinceañera tomorrow.
38
“The fucker simply put on Martinez’s uniform and went back the way he came. The house was full of cops and nobody noticed. I may even have passed him on the stairs,” Laker said.
They were back in Mason’s man cave. All was the same as in the morning, except that now there was a bottle of bourbon on the poker table. Laker and Mason were drinking it straight, Ava with water. Her right foot was in a heavy black surgical boot, propped on a chair. She had broken a metatarsal bone. The left foot was only cut and bruised. They could hear the phones upstairs ringing constantly. Every few minutes one of Mason’s security detail brought down a sheaf of messages. He dropped them on the table without looking at them.
“How’d the Secretary take your report?” Laker asked.
Mason laughed humorlessly. He was still in the suit and tie he’d put on to go see the Secretary of Homeland Security. “How do you think? When I told him there was a loose nuke, and we didn’t know if it was functional or not, hadn’t a clue where it was. That an able, ruthless enemy agent was after it, and we didn’t know who he worked for or even what he looked like. Only that he was now a step ahead of us. Oh, and here’s the best part, I can’t offer much help because my agency is compromised.”
He emptied his glass and refilled it. “I ever have to make a report like that again, I’ll blow my fucking brains out first.”
“Have we found out anything?” Laker asked.
“Not much. My security team logged a minor incident at 10:38 this morning. A car parked down the street, driver stayed at the wheel. He moved on soon as a cop car appeared.”
“Did they get his license number?”
“Yes. Car was rented by Michael Nussbaum of Bozeman, Montana. Turned in at Reagan airport at 4:12 pm. We’re checking out that ID. My guess is, it’ll prove a phony.”
“If it was the Shapeshifter, his source at the Outfit is still feeding him information,” Laker said. “Accurate information.”
Mason loo
ked at Ava. “Is the Shapeshifter going to have any problem figuring out which of the seating charts in that file has the names of Ryo’s agents?”
“My grandmother’s statement said she wrote in name, rank, branch of service. And they’re all men. The list’s going to stick out from the rest of the charts.”
Mason said, “It won’t take the Shapeshifter long. Then he’ll go looking for those men. The ones that are still alive.”
“Or their descendants,” Ava said.
Mason raised his single eyebrow at her.
“They may have passed on the secret, just as Tillie did to me.” Ava sighed. “The poor bastards have my sympathy. Whoever they are.”
“Holy shit.” Mason picked up his glass, saw that it was empty already. He started to refill it, then put down bottle and glass and pushed them away. “It’s impossible that these men or their children or grandchildren have been sitting on a secret like that for seven decades. The Shapeshifter won’t get anything out of them. No, Bobby Soxer must’ve gone to the bottom of the Pacific in 1945. That’s the only possible explanation.”
“Is that what the Secretary thinks?” Laker asked.
“Yes.”
“The Secretary’s an optimist.”
Footsteps on the stair made Mason turn his head. Laker looked, too. It was Joanie, the receptionist from the Outfit’s headquarters on Capitol Hill. She looked more grandmotherly than ever in a green pantsuit that bulged around the middle. A scarf covered her gray hair.
Mason settled her in a chair and introduced her to Ava. He put the bottle of bourbon and a new glass in front of her, but she shook her head.
“I’m sending you into the field,” Mason said.
Her mild hazel eyes became enormous. “Why me?”
“Because I’m 110 percent sure you’re not a double agent. And there are not enough people I can say that of. Don’t complain. The field means Hawaii.”
Laker and Ava looked at each other. She figured it out first. “Tillie’s illegitimate child?”
“Right.” said Mason.
“What do you expect to find?” Laker asked.
“No idea. But it’s a loose end. And when I have no real leads, I’ll settle for a loose end.” Turning to Joanie, he explained to her about the child.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Those are mighty old records. Assuming there ever was a record. Having a child out of wedlock was so shameful back then. The authorities figured kid and mother were better off if they never knew each other’s names.”
“If there is anything, you’ll find it,” Laker said with a smile.
He and Mason rose with Joanie. Even Ava struggled to an upright position. They all shook hands gravely to send her off.
“Let’s wrap this up,” said Mason, sinking wearily into his chair. “Laker, I can’t offer you any intel or support—”
“Just an order,” Laker said. “Go after the Shapeshifter.”
“And a piece of advice. Watch your back. He may turn around and come after you. Now, Ms. North—”
“It’s obvious what I should do. Go to the Pentagon. Or wherever they keep personnel records of Hunter’s Point Naval Station, 1945. Maybe I’ll be able to get a line on Ryo’s agents.”
“Pointless,” said Mason. “We don’t even know for sure Hunter’s Point was where the bomb was waylaid.”
“Boss,” Laker said. “She’s a smart cookie.”
“No. Ms. North, you are an employee of the NSA. It’s my duty to tell you to report to your superior there. They will provide protection while you convalesce.”
She gave a firm headshake. “I’m not going to sit this out in some safe house in Maryland.”
Mason sank deeper into his chair. He opened his hands. “Okay. I’m not in a position to reject any offer of help. Especially from a smart cookie.”
39
Theo Orton noticed the naval officer walking parallel with him, three rows of headstones to his right: a slim, erect figure in dress whites from cap cover to shoes. He was wearing sunglasses, which Orton thought was maybe a bit disrespectful here.
This was Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery, on the Mississippi south of St. Louis. Plain white grave markers stood in long rows along the green hillside, which rose gently to the tall trees. Deer were browsing up there.
Sunglasses or not, the officer suited the dignity of the place a lot better than he did, Orton had to admit. He was an old man with bowed shoulders and potbelly, limping along the row of headstones, wreath in hand. His T-shirt had spots and tears he hadn’t noticed when he’d put it on.
By now, after so many years of visits, he no longer had to count the headstones. Habit told him when to stop and turn to face his father’s. MELVILLE ORTON, Captain, USN Missouri was all it said. Orton grunted as he bent to take the old, faded wreath and lay the fresh one in its place. Straightening, he stepped back. He didn’t salute, not being a military man. But he wished he could do something. It was a long drive from his retirement community in North St. Louis County. It seemed to him he ought to say a prayer, or the Pledge of Allegiance, or just remember Dad. But Orton wasn’t especially religious or patriotic, and his memories of his father, dead more than twenty years, were fading. So he did what he always did: stood for a moment with his bald head bowed, then headed for home.
A month had never gone by without his visiting the grave, even in the days when he’d had kids who wanted him to play ball, a wife who wanted him to do chores. It was important that somebody should pay tribute to Mel Orton, the truest hero resting in this cemetery, though no one else would ever know.
It was a long walk back along the row of headstones. The naval officer was nowhere in sight. His bad knee was throbbing by the time he reached the parking lot. Opening the door of his old beater, he stepped back, averting his face, as a wave of trapped heat rushed out. Only then did he notice that the left rear tire was flat. Cursing, he went around to open the trunk, swept away a layer of detritus to get to the spare. Just had to look at it to know it was flat, too. Orton had dropped his AAA membership to stretch his pension, dropped his cell phone because nobody was calling him. Leaning on the fender, he muttered a few more choice words.
“Trouble?”
He turned. It was the naval officer, at the wheel of a new gray sedan. He was smiling sympathetically.
Orton kicked his left rear wheel. “And the spare’s flat. Could I borrow your phone for a minute, please?”
“Why don’t I drive you to a gas station? We’ll inflate the spare and I’ll bring you back.”
That was the cheapest way to handle it, and for Orton, cheap was good. He put the spare in the sedan’s trunk, noticing the government plates. It was from some motor pool. The officer was on business.
Orton got in beside him. The interior was deliciously cool. He offered his hand.
“Appreciate this. Theo Orton.”
“Bill Vincent.”
His grip was strong. He still had his sunglasses on. Top-of-the-line Ray-Bans. He had high cheekbones and a long jaw. In his thirties, Orton guessed. Two gold bars on his collar tabs: lieutenant (s.g.). Above his chest pocket were a row of campaign ribbons and a badge of the earth impaled on a sword. Orton didn’t know what specialty it represented.
He said, “You’re far from the sea, sailor.”
Vincent laughed as he put the car in gear. “Tell me about it. I’d kill for a cool breeze. I’m on an errand to the military records depository here. Thought I’d take the chance to pay my respects to an old friend. Marine. IED, outside Kabul. I guess you were doing the same?”
“Paying my respects, yeah.” There was a clunk. Orton wasn’t used to the noises new cars made, and it took a moment to realize that this was the doors, locking automatically.
“Your war would have been . . . Vietnam?” Vincent asked.
“Would have been. But I was 4-F. It’s my father’s grave I was visiting. He was in the Pacific during World War II. Navy guy, like yourself.”
“Coral Sea. M
idway. Leyte Gulf. The battles we study at the Academy. Was he in any of them?”
“No. He was stateside. Logistics officer.”
“Oh. Well sure, the fighting man can do nothing without rear-echelon support.”
Orton didn’t like the tone. He looked over, and sure enough, Vincent had a snide grin on his face. Stung, Orton blurted, “My dad was as much a hero as anybody who fought at Midway. More.”
“You baby boomers kill me. Took your 4-Fs and your student deferments and let Vietnam be lost. Now you’re old and feeling kinda guilty. So you idolize your dads. The Greatest Generation. Fighting the Good War.”
“Fuck you, pal. Pull over. I’m getting out.”
Vincent didn’t pull over. Didn’t say anything, either. When he slowed down to turn off the main road into a subdivision, Orton grabbed the handle and threw his weight against the door. But it was locked.
“Stop! Let me out!”
“Sorry, can’t do that. I want to hear all about your dad. And the heroic deeds he did at Hunter’s Point Naval Station.”
The first ripple of unease chilled Orton’s anger. “I didn’t say he was stationed at Hunter’s Point.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“It’s no coincidence, you picking me up.”
“No.”
They were driving through a run-down subdivision. The old ranch houses and split-levels had oil-stained driveways, cracked front walks, overgrown lawns. Vincent pressed a remote clipped to his visor as he turned into a drive. The door of the garage attached to the house lifted. They drove in.
“What’s going on?” demanded Orton. “Whose house is this?”
“Rented for the occasion. There’s nobody here. We won’t be disturbed.” He pressed the remote again, and the door went down behind them, shutting out the light. Taking off his sunglasses, Vincent looked at Orton. His hooded eyes were blue. “I’m from the Office of Naval Intelligence. We’ve been looking into the career of Captain Mel Orton.”