by Gayle Lynds
“Only two days!”
“God knows what damage Tice can do now that he’s out again. And Langley needs no more black eyes with the public or Congress.”
“Agreed.” Cunningham put confidence into her voice. “We’ll have to meet the deadline. Sooner would be better. What have you done so far?”
“I’ve sent people to surveil the Russian embassy and Tice’s old haunts. We’re watching airports and train stations and car rental agencies. We’ve staked out the storage locker he rented for the things he kept after he sold his house, and we’re monitoring his last remaining bank account. We’re following the same protocols for Theosopholis.”
“Theosopholis isn’t a familiar name. Someone Tice turned overseas?”
“He’s not in any of our active databases. I’ve sent a request for copies of the old discs. Theosopholis has been serving time for killing a DEA asset. As soon as we have a dossier on Theosopholis, you’ll get a copy. Here’s Jay Tice’s.” She slid a fat file folder across the desk.
“How did they escape from Allenwood?”
“We don’t know yet. All we’ve got is that their prison cells were empty, and both were missing. They slipped past the guards, the security cameras, and the gates without tripping a single damn alarm.”
The folder was two inches thick. Cunningham opened it. Inside were printouts, photos, and copies of clippings. There was also a CD with Tice’s name on it. “Both of them would’ve had phone access. What about our Ferret and Rhyolite satellites? The Keyhole satellites?”
Orbiting several thousand miles above the planet, the football field–size antennae of the Ferret and Rhyolite satellites picked up talk flowing through ground lines all over the globe. Keyhole satellites could read a newspaper’s headlines from outer space, as well as the thermal signatures of cars, tanks, buildings, and people. Some had imaging lasers and could produce three-dimensional replicas of what was on the ground, right down to a wristwatch—or a flight ticket.
“We’ll have those reports today,” Barculo assured her.
“If one of the Keyholes had an orbit in the right position, we might have images of them bunking out of Allenwood.”
“We can hope, but we can’t wait. I’ve got a plane standing by at Andrews to fly you there.”
“Good. Do you have Fore Tell?” Based on PROMIS software created in the late 1970s, ForeTell was revolutionary—the most sophisticated organizing and tracking and analytic program on the planet. Highly secret and possessed only by U.S. intelligence and the military, it could collate data at a speed beyond human capacity, eliminate superfluous lines of inquiry then group it into patterns for analysis.
“We do.”
“I need to get some analysis started before I leave.”
“No. Go to Allenwood first.” Barculo frowned. “We’ve lost enough time.”
Hunters were independents, a difficult concept for some who were accustomed to issuing orders. Controlling her irritation, Cunningham stood up and said calmly, “I understand, and thanks for the advice. Nevertheless, my first stop has to be data analysis.”
Hannah Barculo remained behind her desk a full ten seconds. Then she slapped the flats of her hands onto the top and pushed herself erect. “All right. I’ll take you.”
The hallway was still deserted, and the house silent. Cunningham peered at the closed, unmarked doors. “Is the unit out looking for Tice and Theosopholis, or is the whole place soundproofed?”
“Both.” Barculo indicated a wide staircase. “Your office is on the second floor. The last single-occupancy. I figured you’d want to be alone.”
She ignored the remark. “Did you know Tice?”
The Whippet chief glanced at her, surprised. “As a matter of fact, I did. A long time ago—in the mid-eighties in West Berlin. My first overseas assignment.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He was a hard one. I never did meet anyone who felt like he truly knew him. Of course, many of our people admired him, really enjoyed him. He had a way about him that was pure charm. At the same time, there were those who hated him.” She hesitated then confided: “He could be unreasonably demanding. He always thought he knew best. I have no idea how his poor wife put up with him.” She opened a door. “This is it.”
The room was as large as Barculo’s office. A continuous shelflike desk rimmed three walls. On it were phones and keyboards and flat-screen monitors. Only one person was at work, a man in his thirties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and dressed in casual shirt and pants. He peeled off headphones and looked up with a friendly smile.
Barculo introduced them. “Elaine Cunningham, meet Mark Silliphant.”
“You’re the hunter?” he asked.
“Sure am. And I need your help. Can you access Jay Tice’s personnel records?” She set her purse and the dossier on the desk beside him.
As he started to shake his head, Barculo said, “I’ll authorize it.” She leaned over his shoulder and whispered instructions.
Silliphant’s fingers drummed the keyboard as Cunningham paced across the parquet floor, arms crossed, planning.
At last he said, “Okay. I’m in.”
She smiled. “Good.” On the screen were Jay Tice’s name, photo, Social Security number, and Bureau of Prisons register number. “Extract every proper noun—names, cities, countries, buildings, corporations, that sort of thing—and their descriptors. Then cross-reference. Then organize by date and cross-reference. Organize by location and cross-reference again. I’m looking for connections. For instance, maybe Tice had a favorite café in Rome that’s known for a certain dish or spice, but that café has moved to Richmond, Virginia, or he found a café in Richmond with that dish or spice. Next, isolate people, living or dead. Wherever Tice was, I want to know who was nearby but not necessarily, or apparently, in touch—and what they were doing, if possible. I especially want to know where they are now. And cross-reference again.”
Silliphant did not look up. “I can sort for interactions they had on their own, too, away from Tice. If the information’s available, that is.”
“Please do. There should also be a list of the various government and public databases in which he or his missions appear. Integrate those.” Fore Tell could integrate innumerable databases without requiring reprogramming, no matter the code language used. She looked at Barculo. “Whatever you get on Theosopholis, I’d like Mark to run the same sort of questions about him.” When Barculo nodded, she continued, “Do you have a wireless laptop I can borrow? That way, Mark can send me his results, and I can view the CD in Tice’s file.”
Barculo opened a closet and removed a notebook computer and a titanium case. She put the computer inside the case. “Anything else?”
“Thanks. That’s it.” Cunningham stowed the file folder on top and lowered the lid, keyed in a code, and locked it. “I wish I could stick around to work with Mark, but I agree with you—I should get to Allenwood.”
Barculo’s grave eyes softened. “I’ll lead you out.” They returned to the hall.
Cunningham had not forgotten their earlier conversation. She picked it up again: “Why exactly did people dislike Tice?”
Barculo thought about it. “Something happened in ’83 that’ll give you an idea. That summer he was running an undercover team I was on. One of the new men got a tip that Johannes Weinrich was up to something. In case you don’t remember, Weinrich was one of Carlos’s top lieutenants, and in those days Carlos the Jackal was the world’s most wanted terrorist. He was Europe’s Osama bin Laden.”
“So a bloodbath was likely.”
“Exactly.” Barculo opened what looked like an ordinary office door, but inside was a deep broom closet, with a vacuum cleaner and shelves loaded with cleaning supplies. “Follow me.” At the far end, she opened a second door and walked out onto a stairwell landing lit by a single bulb. The air smelled of mold and dust.
“So what happened?” Cunningham prodded.
“Our new man slipped across
into East Berlin to follow Weinrich. But Tice got wind of it and chased him down in some alley. Tice didn’t believe him, and he threatened to fire him for leaving without permission. Then he took him back to West Berlin, which left no one to keep tabs on Weinrich. A day later Weinrich picked up Nitropenta explosives and passed them on to two other terrorists. They planted them in the Maison de France in West Berlin. The blast was devastating. It was a miracle only one person was killed. The final tragedy was that the damn terrorists got away clean—they escaped back into East Berlin, where the Stasi protected them.”
Cunningham stared. “Good God. How horrible.”
“Yes. An outrageous attack on civilians. And the new man might’ve been able to stop it—if it hadn’t been for Jay Tice.” Barculo descended wood stairs into a dank cellar lined with brick.
Cunningham followed. “Who was the new man?”
At the bottom, Barculo turned. Nothing showed on her lined face. “Larry Litchfield.”
“Laurence Litchfield? Our DDO?” The official who had assigned her to hunt down Jay Tice.
“It was a long time ago.” Barculo shrugged. “Larry was furious and shaken. But he was also a damn fine operative. Obviously, it didn’t kill his career.” She cracked open a door, and a line of sunlight seeped in. “This is our backup entrance. Use it whenever possible. I’ve programmed a code for you, and you’ll have to press your left thumb on the hidden keypad, too. Also, you’ll need my cell number. I have yours, of course.” She related both numbers and explained how to use the security system.
Cunningham memorized everything then asked, “Why do you think Tice turned?”
“Vanity,” Barculo answered instantly. She opened the door wider and leaned out. “Looks clear.” She stepped aside.
Cunningham peered out at a cobbled alley rimmed by parked cars. The morning light bathed the vehicles and houses in a deceptively rosy glow.
“See you soon, Hannah.”
There was the briefest of smiles. “I’d rather see Tice—back in prison. Don’t try anything fancy, Elaine. Remember, you hunt. We capture. You’re not trained to the degree we are, and we don’t want you to get hurt. Find him fast. Then phone me.”
Gripping the handle of the computer’s carrying case, her purse slung over her shoulder, Elaine Cunningham nodded and looked around carefully. Pulse racing, she slipped outdoors and nonchalantly walked away.
3
Driving south through Virginia
As the heavy traffic of Interstate 95 surged around him, Jay Tice slouched low behind the wheel of a Geo Prizm, the brim of a Redskins cap pulled down to his sunglasses. He had reset his face, thickening his features until he appeared almost jowly. Impatiently he tuned from one news station to another on the car radio, finally settling on WTOP, Washington’s only all-news channel. He heard not even a hint of his escape, which told him Langley had screwed the lid down tight.
In Stafford County, farmland spread out to the horizon. When Tice spotted the road he needed, he exited and drove along it then turned onto an isolated country lane that shot into thick forest. Eventually a towering pile of rocks rose into view. He passed it then parked on the shoulder near a seven-foot-high Civil War monument. In gray granite, it honored a forgotten skirmish of no military or political importance. Four years ago, using a charitable trust as a front, Tice had anonymously donated it to the county. It was one of the private “insurance policies” he had set up.
Listening and watching, he climbed out into the cloying scent of pine and walked cautiously toward the monument. Insects buzzed. A blue jay complained loudly, protecting the remains of a dead mouse it was eating. The granite memorial was a simple column that rose from an ornate base to a flat top. Crouching behind it, Tice probed the base until his fingers detected an oval-shaped rough patch. It was hardly noticeable to the eye, just part of the stone’s natural texture, but his fingers had not forgotten. He pressed one edge until he felt a grudging click then pressed the opposite edge. A deep drawer glided out and stopped, mired in grass and weeds.
As he yanked out the vegetation, he heard the growling burr of a motorcycle engine. It was approaching fast. He slammed the drawer shut and bolted into the trees. When the noise moved away, he visualized the route he had driven from the frontage road. There were three intersecting roads and two long drives leading to farmhouses. It was possible the biker had turned onto one. It was also possible he had not. In the distance, the engine noise stopped.
Tice ran back to the monument and used both hands to plow up the weeds. Soil flew. The metal drawer slid out again, this time farther, but a divot of crabgrass was in the way. He jammed a heel into it, sent it flying, rebalanced, and yanked the drawer hard. As it fell onto the dirt, he felt more than heard footsteps on the road’s grit.
He snatched a large hermetically sealed lockbox from the drawer and shoved the drawer back into the base. Tucking the box under his arm, he dashed back into the timber, weaving among poplars and oaks, his feet whispers on the duff. The memory of alleys in East Berlin and Rome and Vienna returned with sudden clarity. Stopping behind a big sycamore, he pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, stuffed his sunglasses into the pocket, and slapped on the glasses.
He twirled the box’s combination lock left and right and left again. But when he jerked on it, it refused to open. A twig snapped. Close. He peered warily around the trunk. Dressed in black, an opaque bubble helmet hiding his face, the motorcyclist had paused less than forty feet away. He expertly pivoted, holding in both hands a pistol equipped with a sound suppressor, searching for his target.
Tice did not need a second look to know who the biker was—a professional janitor, a well-trained killer sent to clean up someone’s threat. He felt himself adjust, slide into an old familiar place. With a small, cool smile, he dropped back behind the tree and moved the lockbox so he could see the lock better. But a ray of sunlight bounced off the metal and arrowed off through the branches.
The response was immediate. Pop. A silenced gunshot whined past his head. Sycamore leaves exploded, staining the air green. Pop. Another shot detonated bark above his skull, spraying sharp particles that rained onto his Redskins cap.
As he heard the attacker break into a run, Tice leaped up, cursing under his breath, and sprinted. As the whine of silenced rounds followed, he dove into shadows, circled pines, loped past maples and oaks. Finally he ducked behind a bungalow-size boulder and hunched low against it, listening.
No birds sang. No small animals made scurrying sounds of retreat. The forest was silent, shocked by the violent intrusion. Tice focused and spun the box’s lock again, working quickly. He tugged. The lock opened, and he lifted the lid. His hand went straight to the 9mm Browning wrapped in a chamois that lay on top. He flipped off the cloth, eased in a magazine, and jacked a round into the chamber. Automatically, he slipped the clip out again, inserted an extra round to replace the one in the chamber, and pushed the clip home.
Now he was the hunter. He yanked off his reading glasses and stood up, his back flat against the boulder, ready to ease out. As he returned his glasses to his pocket, he listened. Patience was key. Few of his enemies had been able to wait as long as he. The woodland would tell him what he needed to know.
Still, the quiet stretched. Finally, a few animals rustled off. Birds flew in fast bursts to test the absence of danger. When a pebble rattled, he frowned, straining for its location. The next noise was muted, like a rubber sole on stone. When it repeated, adrenaline flooded him—the janitor was on the other side of his sheltering boulder.
Tice stuck the pistol into his waistband and grabbed a stony ledge and pulled himself to the boulder’s crown. Lying flat, he stared down the other side—directly at the top of the janitor’s black helmet. Breathing slowly, he watched.
The man was standing on a dusty slab of sandstone a good fifteen feet below. His 9mm SIG Sauer was still in both hands, finger on the trigger, as he gracefully continued his deadly ballet, swiveling while advancing one
careful step at a time.
Inwardly, Tice swore. His Browning was still in his waistband, trapped between his belly and the boulder. There was no room to roll to the side. As sweat dripped from his face, he thought about it. Finally, he filled his lungs with air, exhaled, and in a single motion pushed his torso up with one hand while the other drew the gun. The barrel cleared, but the tip glanced on the rock with an audible clink.
The janitor reacted instantly. Like a soccer player making a scissor kick, he threw himself up and back, his shoulders parallel to the ground, the front of his helmet facing the boulder’s top. At the same time, his SIG Sauer fixed on Tice.
Tice had a split second. The two weapons fired in unison. The janitor’s suppressed pistol made little noise, but the Browning’s explosion was thunderous.
A bullet blistered past Tice’s cheek and ripped off his baseball cap. At the same time, blood fountained up from the janitor’s bullet-shattered helmet. As the reverberations of the shot faded through the timber, the man toppled, one leg twisted grotesquely beneath, gun still in hand.
When the killer did not move, and the forest’s hush seemed to stretch into infinity, Tice slid down and kicked away the gun. Again he waited. At last he dropped to his heels and shoved his fingers under the helmet to the hot, wet throat.
No pulse. Frowning, he pulled off the helmet and studied the plain features, the thin mouth, the broad nose. He did not recognize the janitor. A search produced only a motorcycle key, extra ammo, and a flat wallet with cash but no credit cards or driver’s license. The man had been sent out almost completely clean. No surprise.