by Gayle Lynds
Fuming, Elaine headed back across the room to a driveway that rose to the street. As the sounds of traffic floated down, she took out her Langley cell phone and dialed the number Laurence Litchfield had given her. It was busy.
She left a message: “I found and lost Tice. Whippet tried to scrub me. Call!”
She climbed the drive. Hotel employees stood on the sidewalk, smoking and talking. Watching for Tice, watching for a tail, haunted that Whippet and perhaps others wanted her terminated, she wound through Dupont’s colorful nightlife. The doors to bars swung open, sending bursts of raucous laughter into the night.
She tried Litchfield again, but there was still no answer. God knew where he was or what he was doing, but eventually he would receive her message. She considered what to do until then.
She had to assume the Whippet killers did not want Langley to find out about the wet job on her. At the same time, someone at Langley might have been conspiring with them. Her town house was a defensible space, a place she knew better than any attacker could, and it was fully protected by a security system. Plus she had more weapons there. She might as well go home.
When she reached her Jag, a parking ticket waited on her windshield. She ripped it out from under the wiper and inspected the car carefully for booby traps and explosive devices. Satisfied, she slammed inside, dropped her cell phone onto the passenger seat so she could answer it immediately, and threw her shoulder bag onto the floor. She ignited the engine and hit her CD player, tuning it to the pounding beat of Soundgarden’s “Let Me Drown.” As the music shook the air, she tore out of the parking space.
She lived in Silver Spring. As she sped the Jag toward Maryland, she watched alertly for tails. Maybe there was a solid clue to Tice’s whereabouts in the data Mark Silliphant had compiled for her, and Whippet’s need for her was over. But that was still no reason to eliminate her.
She slammed her fist against the steering wheel. She had forgotten to look for Mark’s CD! In her mind, she reconstructed his office, the sad sight of him collapsed dead at his desk. The poor bastard. There had been no CD on his desk, much less one with Jay Tice’s or her name on it.
When she arrived at her neighborhood, she drove around the block three times, then pulled into a parking space. She dropped her cell into her bag, grabbed her Walther, and crawled out. Crouching beside the Jag, she scrutinized the street. Two-story town houses lined it. Children’s toys lay scattered on small front yards, waiting for the next day of play. Somewhere a dog barked playfully.
At last she walked home, turning everything over in her mind. Why would Tice have stayed in the house after the others on his team left? Maybe he was looking for something. But what? On the other hand, by leading her to Jurys, where he could lose her, he had treated her as if she were a simple tail. Maybe he had made her somewhere on the street without connecting her to Whippet. Still, he would perceive any surveillance to be a dangerous loose end at best. So why had he not tried to scrub her?
She turned up her sidewalk. Studying the shadows, she headed into the side yard. All of her windows were dark, as they should be. None showed any sign of being broken into. Neither did the rear of the town house.
She returned to her front step, unlocked the door, and opened it. Instantly she was struck by the musky aroma of a burning cigar. Adrenaline shot to her brain. She slid low into the dark, silently pulling the door closed. The cigar’s orange coal glowed from across her living room, from an ashtray beside her armchair. A silhouette sat in deep shadow in the chair, a pistol pointed at her.
“Don’t turn on the light.” It was a man’s voice, from the chair.
Making no sound, she laid her purse on the carpet. Walther in hand, she crept swiftly behind her sofa and along the wall. Her chest taut with tension, she rose up behind her love seat and leveled her gun. The silhouette’s pistol was still aimed at the small entryway. He had not guessed.
As the smoke of the cigar spiraled, she ordered grimly, “Lay your weapon on the table. If you don’t, I’ll shoot—and at this short distance, I won’t miss.”
Behind her, she heard the faint sound of a pistol being cocked. But before she could move, the same man’s voice said, “I thought you might be suspicious.”
Her throat went dry. She whirled on her heels.
He cracked open two slats of the venetian blinds. Moonlight slanted through, glinting off another pistol trained on her. Hers still pointed uselessly at the figure in the chair.
Her heart seemed to stop. She could see his face.
“Hello, Elaine,” he told her, his voice warm. “My friends call me Jay.”
Part Two
When an intelligence officer smells flowers, he looks around for a coffin.
—ROBERT GATES
former director of the CIA
13
Geneva, Switzerland
In an old apartment building off rue Madeleine, Raina Manhardt stopped at the window of her son’s dark flat and pushed back the curtain as bolts of silver lightning speared the distant Alps. Thunderheads billowed across the black night sky. The scent of ozone was oppressive.
Kristoph’s room was on the fourth floor, overlooking the labyrinth of winding streets and steepled rooftops of Geneva’s Old Town, the Vieille Ville, but Raina focused on the sleeping street below. Someone was staked out in the recessed doorway of the fromage shop. When he stepped forward to shift his position, she could see the toes of his shoes in the lamplight.
She checked her watch. Nearly three A.M. She had little time left. Perhaps by now he had given up. But when a rolling burst of thunder followed the lightning, shaking the night, a hand slid out, palm up, checking for rain. She breathed shallowly, watching. A head followed, and the man glanced up at the roiling heavens. But he was too far away and the light was too poor for her to see his features.
Frowning, she pulled on her red plaid overshirt and caught sight of herself in the window glass. Her gaze went hollow, unfocused, a woman lost. For years she had not known how or where to find herself, and as long as there was Kristoph to protect, she had not looked. Now she must. In the dark glass, wearing her battered jeans, brown wool sweater, and plaid over-shirt, she appeared to be a woman of action, physical, certainly not introspective. She had cultivated that affect, an image that had grown into uncomfortable reality. Her blue eyes were vaguely familiar, as was the jet-black hair, but the features were too young, too smooth, a product of lotions and superficiality. Not only did she no longer know herself, she did not recognize herself.
She resumed pacing the dark room. She must leave, she told herself. But her steps slowed. For a moment, it seemed she heard Kristoph’s voice in the silence, lively and flecked with laughter. She imagined his stepping from the shadows, grinning, his thick hair tousled. She could almost feel his arms around her, welcoming her.
Yesterday she had packed his things, pausing to hold, to feel, to recall. Everything had reminded her of him—of sun and adventure and excited youth. And now he was gone. He would never age and discover himself. He would never be whoever he was intended to be. His death was worse than a missing limb. It was as if her heart had been torn out.
With an angry swing of her shoulders, she scooped up her valise and headed for the door. Gripping the knob, she looked back one last time, stared into the gloom, as if in it she could find a different past. But there were only corners without form, the curtained window, a ringing emptiness. She inhaled sharply and closed the door and locked the flat for the last time. She had work to do, the most vital of her life—for Kristoph.
She hurried down the three flights of stairs, staying close to the wall, where the old wood steps were stabilized and did not creak. When she reached the lobby, she discovered the overhead light was still on. To turn it off would alert the surveillant. She crouched behind a side table and peered through the vertical pane of glass beside the front door, studying the cheese shop’s entry, much closer now, only some thirty feet away. The shoes showed clearly; shadows cloaked the
rest of the man. She set down her valise and took out her Walther. By feel, she checked the magazine.
She resumed her watch just as a ghostly mongrel dog appeared, trotting along the cobblestones. Lightning detonated directly overhead, followed immediately by an ear-piercing blast of thunder. The dog yelped and streaked off, tail between his legs. Peals of more thunder reverberated. She waited, hoping. Luck was with her: A hand extended again, palm up. The man’s face appeared.
Fury shot through her, and her lips peeled back. She knew him. She jammed the pistol into her waistband, jerked open the door, and stalked across the street, her plaid overshirt flapping. Chilly raindrops pelted her face.
“Was ist denn in dich gefahren, Volker?” Seething with outrage, she whispered angrily in German, “How dare you follow me!”
“Hallo, Raina.” With a guilty shrug, Volker Rehwaldt straightened and walked down the shop’s stone steps, making no effort to explain or apologize. He was her height, five-foot-eight, with a rough face and pocked skin. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and slacks and carried an umbrella. Slender but tough-looking, he seemed more urban wolf than spy.
“Did Erich send you,” she demanded, “or did you come on your own?”
She and Erich Eisner, the BND’s powerful president, had a long history. During the Cold War, he had been her handler for the BND, protecting her, asking for intel, and picking up the secret rolls of microfilm she hid behind panels in the interzonal trains that ran between East and West.
“Erich and I talked,” Volker admitted. “We were worried. We know how important Kristoph was to you.”
She paused, controlling her anger. “I appreciate that. Really, I do.” Volker must follow her no farther. “Tell Erich I’m fine, considering everything. Tell him I’ve just been wandering back through Kristoph’s life, visiting his friends and favorite places. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready to go back to work.”
He raised his gaze. She saw the sharpness of his appraisal.
It made her uneasy. She said earnestly, “If you were me, you’d want to grieve privately and in your own way, too. Please go, Volker. Frankly, I need to be alone.”
His hard expression collapsed. He grabbed her and pulled her close and patted her back. “I’m very sorry about Kristoph, Raina.” His voice was muffled with sorrow.
Abruptly, he released her and stalked away through the lamplit mist, in and out of the shadows, his shoulders rounded forward as if studying the cobblestones. She had never seen him display such emotion. For an instant, she was tempted to invite him back, reveal her suspicions, and ask his help. Old longings for companionship filled her.
But logic prevailed: She did not know enough yet. It appeared to her the company that had hired Kristoph—Milieu Software Technology—was a sham, and someone there had ordered his death. Kristoph had thought he was working for Germany’s Ministry of Justice on an ultrasecret software project. Through discreet inquiries, she had learned the ministry was not involved. Still, another government arm might be. And if she were right that Kristoph had been liquidated, she could be as expendable as he. Her life was unimportant—but the truth of his was everything.
More thunder exploded. As she ran back and ducked under the apartment building’s awning, the heavens bled cold gray rain. She looked for Volker. He had stopped on the sidewalk and turned, holding his umbrella open over him. Rainwater poured off it. A thick torrent rushed along the street, rising toward his sensible shoes. He looked brave and German, standing vigil there in defiance of common sense and the gods of nature just to ensure she arrived home safely.
Still, she scowled. He shrugged and pushed off, raising a cell to his ear.
She called, “Tell Erich you’re on your way home.”
“Ja. I am. Gute Nacht.” The rain-blackened buildings seemed to absorb his words and reflect back loneliness. But then he was a spy, and that was the nature of the work.
She stepped indoors and checked her watch. Urgency swept through her. She snapped open the metal jaws of her valise and quickly removed two identical boxes of Swiss chocolates—Avelines assortis, popular among locals and tourists. She chose the correct one by feel—a tiny puncture in the clear plastic wrapping on the end—and returned the other to the valise. Gripping the valise’s handles and her umbrella, the candy box under her arm where it could be sighted easily, she hurried outside.
Volker was gone, and the cloudburst was easing. She buttoned her overshirt to her throat and opened her umbrella. Pulse pounding, she took off uphill, jumping puddles. She crisscrossed through the maze of streets, dove into alleys, and exited. As the dark night deepened toward dawn, the rain and thunder stopped.
When she finally arrived at the stately Cathédrale Saint-Pierre, she strolled casually along rue Saint-Léger and down the terrace to the place du Bourg-de-Four, where centuries-old buildings stood fang to jowl, looming around the medieval plaza. A cold mist clung to them.
Warmed by drink, ruddy-faced tourists and locals ambled past the fountain and green park benches and leafless trees. From the network of old side avenues sounded a weary American blues tune. A few pricey nightclubs were still open, but at this hour, most businesses were closed.
Ahead, a woolen cap rose from a sunken entry to a dark art gallery. It was Raoul Harmont. His eyes were large and nervous as he peered around then saw her. His gaze locked on the box of chocolates. With a flip of his wrist, he took off the cap and unsnapped the ear protectors then tugged the cap back onto his head, signaling he had the surveillance videos she wanted. He sank from sight. He was behaving exactly as planned. Still, he was an amateur. The most dangerous part of an operation was when information was exchanged, which was why dead drops were vital. Harmont had refused. He would not release the tapes until he had her one thousand Swiss francs.
Displaying no concern, she surveyed the plaza, looking for anyone who showed a hint of interest in her. When she was abreast of Harmont’s hiding place, she trotted down the steps.
Harmont’s eyes gleamed out of the dusky shadows. He took the box and ripped off the clear plastic and stared at the cash. “Bon!”
“Hurry!” she said.
He handed her an identical box. She hefted it once, feeling the weight of the tapes and the shift as they bumped the sides. She dropped it into her valise and took out the other Avelines box and tucked it under her arm. “Wait twenty minutes before you leave.” She glanced at him sharply. “Be sure no one finds out about this.”
He nodded. “I could lose my job.” But his tone was cavalier.
“Or your life,” she warned. “Milieu’s owners could be drug runners, the Mafia, international criminals, terrorists. If they find out what you’ve done . . .”
His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.
Five quick steps, and she was back up on the sidewalk. The plaza was emptying. Her next stop was her car. She turned up rue Etienne-Dumont, hurrying past Soda’s hip downstairs bar and the Demi-Lune Café, both closed. The rue was lined by five- and six-story buildings whose walls rose so smoothly they seemed to lean across the narrow passageway toward one another. She was just beginning to feel safe when she rounded a bend and heard an odd tapping noise closing in from behind.
She pulled her Walther from her waistband and darted up steps into a doorway and peered back. The mist had turned into ground fog. Creeping across it was the black silhouette of a man wearing a long coat. The tapping came from his thick cane, which shot forward then struck the cobblestones, stabbed forward then hit the stones again to the beat of his climbing steps. She replayed her journey from Kristoph’s flat, recalling the men she had observed. Most had worn raincoats. Some had carried closed umbrellas. Warily she studied the advancing silhouette.
He walked out through the fog as if he owned it. She fell back out of sight, his image in her mind. He was about her age, forty-four, very tall and broad. His face was square, his features bulky, his thin hair parted and combed smoothly. Besides a khaki raincoat, he wore dark flannel trousers and a
turtleneck and leather walking shoes. He appeared to be the epitome of the New European, with the relaxed savoir faire that announced he was accustomed to elite boardrooms and private clubs and weekends of sweaty sport.
Silently she slid the chocolates inside her valise and set the valise at her feet. Her pistol ready, she listened, gauging his progress. Suddenly the tapping stopped. The lane seemed to shudder with emptiness. She frowned. Then recognized the old tradecraft ruse: He had accustomed her to his noise, expecting her to focus on the lack of it—not on his footsteps, which were continuing softly. His umbrella or cane could be a weapon—during the Cold War, the KGB and Bulgarian intelligence and other East Bloc agencies were known for using “umbrella guns” loaded with poisons like ricin.
She leveled her Walther just as he stopped directly across from her, still facing ahead. She studied his profile as he pulled a lighter and a long brown cigarette from his pocket. The flame snapped alive, and he cupped his hand around it, inhaling the cigarette into life. He was at least six-foot-five, broad and thick, an ox of a man. With three fingers, he slid the lighter back into his pocket.
“Ah, here you are.” He spoke in German, still not looking at her. His voice was a cultured basso. “You’ve led me a pretty chase.”
“What do you want?” A trickle of sweat slid down her spine. She had told no one where she was going. She was certain she had not been followed.
“The question is, what do you want? Your son’s had an unfortunate accident and died. We extend our sympathies. You’ve sent his body and things home, yet you linger here in Geneva. And now you’re out until almost dawn. It makes one wonder.”