“You had to be there, face-to-face with him. I know the man. He genuinely wants to help, but his hands are tied.”
“Then what’s left for you, my darling?” Stephanie asked softly. “What’s left for us?”
“The list.”
She looked at him questioningly. “What?”
“The four names from the computer. I’m going after them. They’re our only leads. If there are still connections between the O’Haire network and whoever was running it, they might know.”
“Highnote knows that. He’ll have his people waiting for you.” McAllister pulled away. “Goddamnit, you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. Highnote is not Zebra One.”
“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said. “But even if you’re right, he’ll have to follow up with those four names. It’s his duty. He’ll have to go to them for the same reasons you want to go to them.”
McAllister was shaking his head, and sudden understanding dawned in Stephanie’s eyes. “You didn’t tell him, did you?” she said. “No.”
She smiled. “You held back that one piece of information. Why? Can you answer that?”
“It never came up,” he said weakly.
“Because you didn’t bring it up,” she said triumphantly. “Whatever you say you believe, there is something at the back of your head, some instinct for survival that told you to keep it from him. Just in case.”
“There’s nothing he could have done. “No,” Stephanie interrupted. “Do you know what I think? I think that something did happen to you in the Lubyanka. Something that changed you, something that made you unsure of your own abilities. But deep in your gut you know what moves to make, you know how to protect yourself. What happened in New York, and what’s been happening ever since proves that. Let yourself go, David. Let your old habits, your old instincts take over. Do what you know is the right thing. You have the tradecraft, use it.”
“We’ll have to get out of here first thing in the morning,” he said, going over to the window and looking down at the empty street.
Tradecraft was what you used against the enemy, not againstfriends. Put a bullet in your head…. End it now…. It would be for the best. Gloria has written you off”Where are we going?”
“Out of Washington,” he said. “Where? To do what?”
He focused on her pale reflection in the dark window glass. He’d lived with pain for so long he was surprised now that he wasn’t used to it. She didn’t look real to him; her hair was in disarray, and she was dressed simply in a loose sweatshirt and blue jeans, yet he knew that he wanted her. It astonished him, this sudden feeling. He’d either come a long way in the past weeks, or he had fallen-he couldn’t decide which, or if at this moment it really mattered.
“He told me to send you back.” McAllister said. “In a way he was right.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t afford you any longer. You’ll slow me down to such a degree that they’ll catch up with us, and we’ll both be dead.” His words sounded hollow in his ears. “Sooner or later they’ll get to your father and use him to pry you loose. I’m not going to wait for that to happen.”
He turned to her. Tears were slipping down her cheeks. “I don’t have anyplace to go,” she said.
“Dexter Kingman would make sure nothing happened to you.” She was shaking her head again. “I’m not going to leave you, David. Not now, not after everything that has happened.”
“You’re not listening to me,” McAllister said, his voice rising. “They’re probably going to win. There are too many of them, they’re too well organized. Sooner or later I’ll simply wear down, my luck will run out, and it’ll be over.”
“They’d hunt me as well.”
“Not if they were convinced that you knew nothing. That I’d held you against your will.”
“I’m not leaving you, David,” she said. “Whatever it is I have to do to convince you, I will.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you,” she cried. “I told you once, didn’t you hear me? Didn’t you believe me? I love you. There is no life for me without you.”
He turned back to the window again, unable to face her. He knewwhat he wanted to say, but he simply could not speak the words. Not now. The insanity was everywhere. With him there was death, away from him there was at least the possibility of life. Something was driving him, something had always driven him for as long as he could remember. But even now he could not give voice to the demons inside of him. “It’s the game that gets to all of us sooner or later,” Wallace Mahoney had said at the Farm. He’d lost his wife and both sons to the business, yet he’d gone on because there were no other possibilities for him.
The only reality is in continuing with your life for better or for worse. The Russians have a proverb: Life is unbearable, but death is not so pleasant either. “You have to believe me,” Stephanie said. “You cannot stay with me.”
“There is only one thing that would make me go,” she said. “Turn around and look at me!”
McAllister turned.
“Tell me that you don’t care for me. Tell me that it doesn’t matter that I love you. Tell me that you will never care for me. Then I’ll leave you.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“I can’t tell you that, because I do love you. It’s why I wanted to send you away, to keep you in hiding, to keep you safe, to protect you. I don’t care what happens to anyone else, only you. If you want to stay I won’t send you away.” She took off her sweatshirt. Her shoulders were tiny and rounded, the nipples of her small breasts were erect. “I want to stay,” she said. “I’ll never leave.”
McAllister came across the room to her, and took her in his arms, his lips finding hers. She shuddered as she pressed against him, the heat of her body penetrating his shirt. He ran his hands down her back, her flanks, the mounts of her bottom, small and tight in her lue jeans. She shuddered again.
“Please, David,” she said looking into his face. “Make love to e now.“He picked her up and carried her across the room where he laid her on the bed. Undoing the waistband of her jeans, he pulled them down around her boyish hips, and peeled them off her long, straight legs. He kissed her breasts, his tongue lingering at her nipples, and then brushed his lips across her belly, the tops of her legs, her inner thighs as she spread her legs, her pelvis rising to meet his touch.
When he stepped back to get undressed, she watched him, her lips parted, a faint flush coming to her complexion. He laid his gun on the table beside the bed, and let his clothes fall where they would. “Hurry,” she said. “Hurry.”
He came to her on the bed, her legs parting for him, and he entered her without preliminaries. She opened her lips as they kissed, her fingers pulling at his back, her legs wrapped around his body, her hips rising to meet his thrusts.
“I’ll never leave you, David,” she cried softly. “I’ll never leave you.”
Later, lying beside each other, McAllister watched her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. Her odor was slightly musky and very sensuous.
“I don’t know how this is going to turn out,” he said. “But I’m not going to give it up. I don’t think I have that choice.”
She looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a faint smile on her lips. “Do you love me?”
The snow was falling very hard outside now. He touched her lips with his fingertips. “Yes.”
“Say it,” she said. “I love you.”
“Then nothing else matters. We’ll do it together, David.” She smiled. “Now make love to me again. I need you.”
It was very late. McAllister woke with a start, suddenly realizing that he was alone in the big bed. He sat up, shoving the covers back. The television set was still on, but the screen was blank and the sound had been turned down. The only other light came from the partially open bathroom door.
“Stephanie?” he called, getting out of bed. There was no answer. She was not in the bathroo
m, and her clothes and purse were gone. The clock on the nightstand read a few minutes before five. Where the hell had she gone?
He was pulling on his trousers when a key grated in the door lock. Crossing the room in two strides he snatched up his gun, slipped off the safety and spun around as the door opened.
Stephanie’s figure, backlit by the corridor lights, appeared in the doorway and she slipped inside, stopping in her tracks when she saw that McAllister was out of bed, standing in the middle of the room, the gun in his hand pointed at her.
“Oh,” she said.
McAllister’s heart had jumped into his throat. He lowered the gun with a shaking hand and stepped back. “Christ,” he said. “Where did you go?”
“It’s my father,” she said breathlessly. “I went downstairs to call from the pay phone. But there was no answer.”
“What?”
“David, he should be home. Something has happened to him. Something terrible. I just know it!”
Chapter 18
Robert Highnote was careful with his driving. With all the snow that had fallen in the night the roads at this hour of the morning were extremely slippery. The dawn had brought an uncertain gray light. Traffic was very heavy on the Capital Beltway around the city, and cars still drove with headlights on.
The telephone call he had received a scant hour ago had come as a complete surprise, as had the peremptory tone Paul Innes, the U.S. associate deputy attorney general had used.
“A few of us are getting together for breakfast at my place this morning, Bob. We want to talk to you.”
Highnote hadn’t slept well. He glanced at his bedside clock.
It was barely six. “A hell of a time to be calling. What’s this all about?”
“I won’t discuss this on an open line. But I want you here as soon as possible. We’ve all got extremely tight schedules this morning.”
“I’ll just give Van a quick call…
“Already been done. We’ll be expecting you within the hour.” Van was Howard Van Skike, director of central intelligence. Whatever was going on at Innes’s house this morning had to be very important. “I’ll be there.”
Highnote got off the highway at the U.S. Department of Agriculture Research Center and took Baltimore Avenue south into College Park adjacent to the University of Maryland. A good deal of Washington’s workaday business was conducted at such breakfast meetings. A lot of interservice liaison was accomplished without the red tape attendant to normal office hours meetings. Innes had been the prosecutor on the O’Haire case, and on reflection Highnote had a feeling what this morning’s meeting would be about. He turned off the main road and headed up a long, sloping driveway through the trees. His only questionwas how much Innes knew and who else would be present this morning.
The snow had eased up, but several inches lay on the ground and as Highnote got out of his car in front of the huge three-story colonial house, he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. He turned around as a very large man, dressed in boots and a white parka came around from the side of the house.
“Good morning, sir,” the man called out as he approached. Highnote’s heart skipped a beat. He stood beside the car waiting until the man reached him. FBI was written all over his face and bearing.
“Are you armed, Mr. Highnote?”
The question was extraordinary. “No, of course not.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said glancing into Highnote’s car. “Just go right in, they’re expecting you.” There were no other cars here, though there were tire tracks leading around to the back of the house. Crossing the driveway and mounting the stairs to the front door Highnote had the impression that he was being watched. He rang the doorbell. When he turned around, there was no one behind him.
They were waiting for him in the breakfast room at the rear of the house. Large bay windows looked out over what in summer was a lovely rose garden, sprinkled here and there with a collection of ornately carved marble fountains.
Three men were seated around a glass-topped wrought-iron table.
On the left was Paul Innes, who got to his feet when Highnote entered. “Thanks for coming this morning on such short notice,” Innes said shaking hands. He was a thick-waisted man with pitch-black hair and heavy eyebrows. His grip was firm. Like Highnote he had come out of Harvard, serving with a prestigious New York law firm before becoming assistant district attorney for New York State. He’d served on the bench as a federal judge in the Seventh Circuit before being called to the Justice Department during Reagan’s first year in office. The man was a survivor. He’d been one of the few who had somehow managed the juggling act of appearing to support his boss Edwin Meese while maintaining a very low profile with the news media. Introductions were unnecessary. Highnote knew the other two men very well. Across from Innes was Alvan Reisberg, deputy associate director of the FBI, and during the past six months also acting assistant director of the Bureau’s Special Investigative Division-two hats which he wore exceedingly well. With his nearly obese figure and bottlethick glasses, which gave him a permanently bemused air, he was often mistaken for an academic, when in reality he was the nation’s top investigative officer. He looked up and nodded.
To Innes’s left, opposite the empty chair, was Melvin Quarmby, general counsel for the National Security Agency, and former assistant dean of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Quarmby was almost Spanish in his aristocratic bearing and manner. In addition to his law degree he held Phd’s in physics and chemistry and was said to be a competent electronics engineer and computer expert. He half stood up, holding his napkin in his lap with his left hand, while reaching across the table with his right to shake Highnote’s hand.
“Have you eaten?” Innes asked as they sat down. “Just coffee,” Highnote said, and Quarmby passed the sterling server.
“I’ll be brief, as I expect you gentlemen will be,” Innes began. “I spoke with the President at five o’clock this morning. It was he who suggested this initial meeting.”
“What exactly are we talking about here?” Highnote asked. Innes looked at him cooly. “Before we get started, I want it stated for the record that this meeting is being taped. I want no doubt of that afterward in anyone’s mind.” He turned to Reisberg. “Alvan?”
“Alvan Reisberg, FBI, I understand.”
“Melvin Quarmby, National Security Agency, so advised.” Innes turned again to Highnote.
“Robert Highnote, CIA. I understand these proceedings are being recorded, but I have not yet been advised of the nature of this meeting.”
“Thank you,” Innes said. “This morning the President appointed me as special prosecutor in the matter of David McAllister, a man whom in a manner of speaking you are all familiar with… in Bob’s case, intimately.”
Highnote was stunned. “This has been an internal matter, and it’s a damned sight premature to be talking about prosecution.”
“I can’t agree,” Innes said. “Especially in light of what happened last night.”
“You’ve obviously seen my report. We damned near had him. But I think he showed remarkable restraint under the circumstances in avoiding any civilian casualties.”
“We’ll certainly get back to that, Bob. But for now I’m speaking about another incident.” Innes glanced at the NSA man, Quarmby. “This will probably not come as a surprise to you.”
“Like the others, I’m here and I’m listening,” Quarmby said. “Last night James and Liam O’Haire were murdered at the federal penitentiary at Marion, Illinois. Their bodies were found in a trash container ready for shipment off prison grounds. They’d been stabbed at least one hundred times.” Quarmby’s eyebrows rose. “If you understand the significance that act has for the NSA, then I commend you on your range of information.”
“The President handed me everything this morning. There will be no secrets among us in this room. I can’t stress the importance of this business too strongly.”
“None of us expected the O’Haire
s to last very long in a generalpopulation prison,” Highnote said. “But evidently I’m missing something of significance.”
“Yesterday afternoon a National Security Agency communications intercept unit at Fort Meade recorded a high-speed burst transmission emanating from Moscow and directed to an as yet unknown location here in the Washington area,” Innes said.
“Our guess, of course, would be the Soviet Embassy,” Quarmby added.
“A portion of that message was decoded last night. Unfortunately it came too late to be of any use. Two names showed up in the message: McAllister and O’Haire.”
“McAllister couldn’t have killed them, if that’s what you’re driving at,” Highnote said.
“That’s right,” Innes said. “But the message does prove, or at least strongly suggest, a connection.”
“You’ve no doubt read all my reports. You must know our assessment.”
“You’re talking about his arrest and incarceration at the KGB’s Lubyanka center?”
“They had him for more than a month, Paul. God only knows what they did to him there, how they… altered him.”
Innes nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve spoken with him twice. Face-to-face. You tell me how he appeared to you. Was he deranged?”
“He’s driven, I can tell you that much. And yes, he is changed.
At the very least they gave him massive doses of drugs, and possibly some torture. He admitted just about everything to them. William Lacey, our charge d’affaires in Moscow, was given a copy of his confession. There was a lot of fallout.”
“Fallout?” Innes asked. “What exactly is meant by that?”
“McAllister named a lot of names. Many of them were still active behind the Iron Curtain. There wasn’t much we could do to help them, because of the timing. The Russians had the information, at least some of it, for weeks before we were given a chance to see his confession.”
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