by Gayle Lynds
Volker had told her to go with “them”—the CIA. They planned to take her someplace in the Citroën where her suicide could be faked. It would be believable—she was so heartbroken by the death of her only child that she could not go on living. With a forged suicide note, there would be no questions, no official inquiry.
Her lips parted, and she breathed shallowly. She was in terrible danger. Both agencies would continue to search for her. The CIA was obviously driving the operation, so Washington was her best destination. She had picked up Jay’s message that he had broken out of the penitentiary. Now she would send a coded response.
She hit the gas pedal, accelerating through a stoplight. She had loathed Jay so long that working with him again seemed stupid, impossible. He had sold her out, just as he had his country.
As she turned her car toward the airport, she resumed analyzing. The CIA had kept her in reserve nearly fifteen years, although she had golden contacts all the way up to the chancellor himself. She was a major asset with the potential to deliver Germany’s most closely held state secrets as well as national and international intelligence. Still, Langley had never contacted her—until now. And then it was to blow her cover and gain nothing but Germany’s cooperation in finding and liquidating her.
The CIA had been willing to sacrifice her and everything she could provide in the future to stop her investigation into her son’s death. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. Whatever Milieu Software Technology was doing, the CIA was willing to pay an extraordinary price to find out—or keep it from her.
19
Bethesda, Maryland
Jerry Angelides was deeply pissed. As the BMW sped across the lit suburban streets, he sat rigidly in the passenger seat with Billy’s Colt on his lap, the fingers of his left hand drumming the barrel. He did not like to think about finding it hooked over the antenna like somebody’s dirty laundry.
Then there was the problem with the tracker he had planted on the Jag. When he turned on the reader, he found Jay Tice had gotten him again—the bastard stuck it onto the BMW somewhere. Disgusted, he turned the reader off right away. The damn tracker could stay glued so long it grew warts.
Rink cleared his throat. “You’d think that fancy car of hers wouldn’t be so hard to find,” he tried conversationally.
Angelides said nothing.
Rink glanced at him, worry in his pale eyes.
Angelides saw it.
Rink said loudly, “I’ve never fucked up, Jerry. I’d never break an agreement or lie to you, Jerry.”
Angelides sighed. He told himself to cut it out. Being steamed was not going to help, and it was just what Jay Tice was counting on. When you got angry enough, your brain short-circuited. Well, Tice was not going to win that little battle or any other one. He had made an anonymous call to the police about the corpse in Cunningham’s town house and had sent out a dozen cars looking for the Jag. With luck, one of his men would phone to say he had spotted it. It was going to be pure pleasure to turn Tice into one dead rat.
He brought his temper under control. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re not like Billy. You’re my man.”
“That’s right, Jerry. That’s right. I’m your man.”
“We’ll make sure Tice ends up hanging off a hook in a meat locker somewheres.”
“Damn right we will.” Rink nodded vigorously.
Rink was in his late thirties, a long, skinny guy with a brush cut and a broken nose that headed east, then west. It gave him a kind of distinguished look, like he might have been big in sports—baseball, or maybe a football quarterback. The only trouble was, Rink would never screw up even a little. If you did not sometimes screw up—not fuck up, there was a difference—you did not take chances, which meant you were never going to win when you went up against someone damn good, like Tice.
On the other hand, Rink was a hell of a shot and ruthless when necessary, and he could really drive. And he was loyal. There was a lot to be said for loyalty. For Angelides, it was right up there with being respectful.
He caught Rink looking at him again. “Just drive. It’s okay. I’m thinking.”
Rink gave a little grin and wheeled the BMW around the corner onto another busy street. Rink looked nice in his sports jacket and pants, Angelides decided. Neat and presentable. He liked the way Rink was watching all around. It gave him a good feeling about Rink and things in general, which meant it was time to face the music. He pulled out his cell. Then he stared at it.
“Are you going to call Mr. G?” Rink asked.
“I told you I was thinking, Rink.”
Rink sealed his lips and nodded.
Angelides turned the cell on its side and in the outside light saw E911 printed in white on the black casing. He smiled. This was more like it. That was the code that said the cell contained a GPS chip. Of course, Billy had an identical cell.
He dialed. This time, Mr. G answered quickly. Angelides said soberly, “I got some business to discuss, Mr. Ghranditti. It’s mostly good. The one bad part is I found Jay Tice, but he got away. But it’s good, too, because he’s got that hunter, Cunningham, with him. They were holed up at her town house. We had a little back-and-forth before they took off in her car, and the bottom line is, Cunningham’s set up for the murder of one of my men. I left some fresh ID, so he’s not gonna be traced back to us. Then I phoned in a tip. The cops are probably there now. Pretty soon her face is gonna be plastered everywhere.” No point in bothering Mr. G about the tracker and Billy’s gun, which was returned like an insult.
“And the purpose of that?” He did not sound happy.
“Pressure,” Angelides said fast. “I pushed Tice deep into a corner. She’s an anchor, a real heavy one, slowing him down. And Tice is just enough full of himself that he’s helped us by lifting my man’s cell, which has got that new GPS technology. Most people think it’s only for emergencies—for when you dial nine-one-one and need an ambulance or the police to find you. But that’s not true. The chip puts out a signal as long as the cell’s turned on. I’m thinking that the hotshot CIA guy you’re doing business with knows someone who could read us the cell’s location off the satellite. Which means Tice’s location.” He related Billy’s cell number. “If the cell’s not on right now, Tice is gonna turn it on eventually. He won’t be able to resist.”
There was a smile in Mr. G’s voice. “Very smart, Mr. Angelides. I congratulate you. Yes, I’ll take care of it.”
Angelides grinned and said good-bye and hung up. The man was classy. He never yelled or cussed you out. But then, he was also busy. He did not waste time. On the other hand, if you fucked up, he would order you whacked. That was the deal with Hannah Barculo—she had fucked up real bad. Mr. G could not trust her anymore.
Angelides felt a weird something. Fear, maybe. For a moment, his mind translated that into what could happen to him, but he was not going there. Jerry Angelides did not fuck up, and he was not going to—now or ever.
On the Beltway, Virginia
As Elaine drove south through the night, shocked silence filled the car. Billy’s heartbreaking plea for his life rang in her ears. Vehicles whipped past at blinding speeds. Red taillights streamed ahead in a bloody river. She was driving too slowly. She pressed the accelerator, her hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver. The Jag caught up with traffic, but she kept it in the slow outer lane. She looked everywhere for a Virginia State Police patrol car.
She watched Tice throw the recorder-player into his backpack. Her gaze lingered. The recording inside proved she did not erase Billy.
“That was tough to listen to.” She watched the highway and controlled her voice. “It was almost as if we were in the same room while Jerry was murdering Billy. I kept having the feeling I could do something to stop it. I had to remind myself it was too late.”
Tice studied her profile. Her mouth was set in a thin line, and her skin was pale. “Your prints are on your Beretta?”
She gave a curt nod. “I’
m set up. Care to fill me in on your plans for me?”
“I have complete faith you’re not going to give me trouble.”
She was silent. She must find a way to escape or report in to Litchfield.
“You’re in worse trouble now, too,” she told him. “Your prints are on the drink glasses. And on the venetian blinds, the doorknobs, the kitchen stool, and God knows what else you handled at my place.”
“Your point?”
“You can bet Jerry or one of his people has phoned in a tip. The police will seal off my place and do forensics. They’re going to discover you were there. Langley’s been keeping your escape quiet, and they can probably control the local cops once they find out—but only for a while. It’d be better for you to turn yourself in now.”
“Doubtful. Did you recognize any of the voices or names?”
“No. What about you?”
He shook his head. “Whoever Jerry is, he’s not to be taken lightly. He said he reported to someone named Mr. G and that a big deal was going down. Did that mean anything to you?”
“Nothing.” And if she knew, she would not tell him. “I suppose it could be drugs, knockoffs, or stolen merchandise of some kind. Or maybe it’s perfectly legal. ‘Mr. G’ is a tantalizing bit of information but worthless without some context.” She glanced at him. His expression was thoughtful. “Where do you want me to drive?”
“We’ll get to that later. Let’s assume I’m telling the truth—that my goal all along has been information. I’ll obviously get nothing from Whippet now. At the same time, I’ll assume you’re telling the truth that you have no idea what the real story is. That means I’ve got to look elsewhere, and the best candidates are Jerry and his pals. Not only did they know about a highly secret Langley unit, they had the skill to liquidate it and escape. Plus they knew you were hunting me, or they wouldn’t have arrived at your place. Sounds to me as if they have a very well informed source somewhere inside the government—maybe inside Langley itself.”
She tensed then nodded. It was one more reason to contact only Litchfield.
He seemed to make a decision. He reached into his backpack and removed a Timex wristwatch. He handed it to her. “There are two buttons on the left-hand side. Touch the top one.”
She propped it on the steering wheel so she could look at it and watch the traffic. She pressed the button. The watch’s face changed. “There’s a long series of numbers.”
“Right. Keep pushing it.”
She did. More numbers. They changed eighteen times before the face returned to a regular LED reading of the hour and minutes.
“Okay, now hit the second button,” he told her.
This time, words appeared—OPEN and LOCK. She alternated the buttons. “What does it mean?”
“That’s Frank Theosopholis’s watch.”
She peered at him sharply. “You wiped Theosopholis. The body’s been found.”
“He followed me through the penitentiary’s electronic gates and jumped me before I could get out of the building. I was unarmed. That’s when training counts. He was carrying a shank, but I ended up using it on him. I couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to come after me, until I examined the watch more closely. Each of those number series controls one of the gates, commanding it to open and relock. There’s a subminiature wireless receiver in the watch, too. It looks to me as if the codes reset themselves automatically when the prison computer reset the locks. The other thing is, there was a tracker inside—that’s how the first assassin found me. And finally, Theosopholis was always in the cell next to mine.”
“Why would he jump you? Didn’t he want to escape, too?”
“He was trying to stop me. I think he’d been planted to keep an eye on me just in case I did try something.” He fished in his backpack and this time brought out Billy’s cell phone. He put on his glasses and turned it on. The LED light glowed. Pressing buttons, he scowled. “I’ve been away too long. I should be able to find his phone book in here, right?”
She held out her hand. “You’re going to end up erasing whatever’s in there.”
He laid the cell on her palm and said dryly, “Fun, isn’t it—the glamorous life of being on the run from the law.”
“Yeah. About as much fun as getting a Brazilian bikini wax.”
The corners of his lips twitched toward a smile.
She propped the cell on top of the steering wheel. Checking the traffic, she touched MENU and worked her way through options.
At last she shook her head and handed it back. “Billy may be too dumb to still be alive, but he was smart enough to have password-protected records.”
As he took the cell, she peered at him. Traffic lights flashed across his stern features. The cleft in his chin seemed deeper, the planes and angles of his face more acute. His oddly compelling personality, which so easily could turn from warmth to violence, had somehow segued into sincerity. To say he was smooth was an understatement. She wondered why he had bothered to tell her so much—then she knew. He was “enlisting” her, a form of psychological seduction. As insurance, he wanted her on his side. But two could play at that game.
“Want a suggestion?” she said. “Hit REDIAL. That way you’ll call whoever he tried to reach last.”
“Good idea.”
He touched the button and lifted the cell to his ear and gazed at her, his eyes radiating inclusiveness, but she did not believe it for a moment. She softened her face and grinned encouragingly. He was armed, and she was not.
“It’s ringing,” he told her.
“Good.” She checked her rearview mirror, hoping again to spot a state police car.
“Yeah,” a man answered.
Tice’s pulse quickened—he recognized the voice. He raised his brows at her. “Hello, Jerry. This is your new friend, Jay Tice.”
“Tice?” Jerry asked. “What the fuck? How did you—!”
“I know it’s late,” Tice said, “but I hope you’re not too tired to talk.” There was a stunned emptiness in Tice’s ear.
The tones were suddenly hearty: “Sure, buddy. Great idea. Where are you? How about a drink? We can talk face-to-face. You’ve been on my mind a lot lately.”
“It’s mutual. Actually, I’ve been thinking about Mr. G, too. Sad that he’s so pissed at me.”
Again there was a pause, as if Jerry were trying to figure out how Tice knew the nickname of his boss, much less that he might have an attitude about Jay Tice. “Well, Jay—you don’t mind if I call you Jay, do you? Sure seems like I know you well enough to call you Jay. That’s it—Jay and Jerry. So, Jay, it’s not like I’d say Mr. G is pissed. No, I wouldn’t go that far at all. It’s more like he’s a busy man, so he has to turn over certain responsibilities to me. Right now, you’re my responsibility. Bottom line, Mr. G’s thoughts on the matter are none of your damn business. But, hey, I’m glad you called. How’s Cunningham? You ice her yet?”
“Had to, Jerry,” he lied. “Very sad. I know you understand. But as you pointed out, one has one’s responsibilities. Couldn’t let Cunningham live. Besides, you know the type. No respect.”
She shot him a look.
“Boy oh boy!” Jerry sounded impressed. “Do I ever know the type. So now you’re all alone?”
“You got it.”
He remembered Jerry’s words:Then where would Mr. G be? He’s got that big deal, and no way he stands for these fuckups. In negotiation, a prime rule was to use what you knew and plumb for weakness.
Jerry was protective of his boss, so Tice made his voice sympathetic as he threw out bait: “What’s this I hear about Mr. G’s being in real serious financial trouble? A man like you, someone with your brains and ability, might want to consider looking for a new job. That new deal of his is all over the grapevine, you know. It’s falling apart. It’s going into the dumper fast, which means he’s going into the dumper. And you’ll go with him.”
“Like hell it’s going into the dumper,” he said indignantly. “Mr. G’s fine. Wha
tever made you think—”
Tice had hit a nerve. “We both know how hard it is to pull a deal like that together. The word’s out he’s an amateur.”
“Not Mr. G! Who says that? He’s been doing this for years. He’s at the top. He’s the best in the business.” But there was a faint inflection of uncertainty.
“As I said, the word’s out, Jerry. You’ve got a lousy hand. Mr. G’s a loser. Your reputation’s about to take a serious hit. Consider working for one of his competitors. In fact,” Tice said casually, “consider working for me.”
Jerry’s voice was a growl, going on the offensive. “I heard you did a lot of shady business. I heard you sold out on a lot of things. Make a lot of money, Jay? Didn’t do you any good, did it, ’cause you aren’t good enough to stay out of the joint. You fucked up big-time. I’m getting the picture. Well, let me tell you, Mr. G’s deal is closing tomorrow right on schedule, so you’re way behind the curve. Guess you’d like to know where I am and how we know that right now you’re on the Beltway real close to Falls Church. In fact, hey—not that I want to worry you—be sure to keep yourself alert, ’cause my boys will be there any second. My driver’s on his cell right now with a guy who’s got the scoop. I hate fuckups, Jay. I really do. They’re disgusting no-goods who’re wasting the planet’s real estate. That’s you. Be sure to wave hello to me and my boys. Thanks for calling. I’ll let Mr. G know you send your worst. Sayonara, Jay. Arrivederci. Go to hell, buddy.”
Silence filled Tice’s ear, while he remembered “Mr. G’s deal is closing tomorrow” and “He’s been doing this for years. . . . He’s the best in the business.” Whoever the man was, and whatever the deal was, there might not be enough time to stop it. With a flick of his finger, he turned off the cell.
“What did he say?” Elaine asked instantly.
“Looks as if the deal’s illegal, and it’s closing tomorrow. No more details than that.” Gun in hand, he swiveled to face her. “We may have trouble. Jerry claims he’s got someone reading our location. He and his people are on their way. If that’s true, how in hell did they manage it?”