In the last file, aside from the six or seven pictures of some nasty-looking tribesmen wearing camo uniforms from some country’s army—not the US—he found a group picture of the four men standing on what appeared to be savanna in Nigeria. A fifth man, identified as Daniel Ostrofsky, stood with them. Charlie read the file through again. It had been an arms sting, guns to antigovernment forces in exchange for conflict diamonds. Except for a few demo pieces, the rifles had no firing pins or recoil springs. The narrative identified Ostrofsky as the broker. His cover, according to the file, was a jungle doctor and a presumed freelance troublemaker, but not a big fish in the large and murky pond of international arms dealing at the time. As with too many of Archie’s ops, this one had gone south in a hurry. Ostrofsky had been killed before he’d revealed the arms network or delivered the diamonds. The guns were lost but would resurface later in Somalia, repaired, operational, and involved in the Mogadishu fiasco. Charlie studied the blurry photo for several minutes. Ostrofsky? The face was familiar but the name…Charlie slid the iPad aside and this time he did read the newspaper. He didn’t know what he’d find but he was sure he’d seen that face recently.
He stole a peek at Sunglasses. The young man had his hands folded in front of his face and his lips moved as if in prayer. Charlie assumed his hands held a smart phone and the director or his aide was getting an earful. He hoped the guy had it right. That is, not what Charlie had found in the report—there was no way he could know that—but that Charlie was in a bar behaving himself per the director’s orders. Then again, who the hell cared what the director thought? In the middle of this thought he found the face that reminded him of Ostrofsky in the national news. Charlie let his gaze rest a second on another grainy picture. If he had to keep this up very much longer, he’d go blind. The man resembled the late Dr. Ostrofsky slightly—an older brother, perhaps? He compared the newsprint to the photo in the file. Years had yellowed the picture before the file had been digitalized and stored on the Company’s storage server. And the photos were not good to begin with. If the two were related, which seemed unlikely, the name seemed to have morphed to Osborn. He studied the picture. This Osborn stood next to the Secretary of State, the President of the United States, and a fourth man identified only as Martin Pangborn. The latter must have been important to be included in a photo op with the Leader of the Free World. Somewhere, Charlie was sure, he’d heard that name before.
What did he have now? Names without clear connections to the killings. A dead man who looked vaguely like a possibly important live one, and too many corpses scattered across the continent—from Maine to Colorado. He waited for a flash of inspiration. None came.
His phone rang. Sunglasses sat up.
Not Ike, Eden Saint Clare. “Mister Garland,” she said testily, “what are you playing at?”
“You have the advantage of me, Ms. Saint Clare.” Sunglasses turned his back and was speaking rapidly into his phone. “Playing at what?”
“There is a man here who has been following me ever since I arrived in Chicago. He has your imprimatur stamped on his forehead. Why is that?”
“I am at a loss, Eden. Are you’re sure he’s one of mine?”
“Yours generically or yours actually, yes. Either way I need to know why I am being stalked by a man in a cheap suit and bad haircut.”
“I see. What is he doing now?”
“He’s…wait. He left. He received a phone call and then hot-footed it out the door. He didn’t even finish his lunch.”
“Ah.”
“Ah? That’s all you have to say to me? Ah?”
“I am guessing, understand, but I am reasonably sure you may have seen the last of him.”
“I have? Why?”
“He’s been called off.”
“Called off? Well then, who called him on?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Not at liberty to say now. Let’s just say I had a concern for you, for Ike, and for Ruth. Will that do?”
“Will it do? You’ve told me nothing. I have a very smarmy spy hot on my trail, put there by you, and you tell me, and I paraphrase, it’s for my own good? I haven’t heard that line since I was seventeen, and it turned out not to be true then, either.”
“Eden, take some advice from one who, believe it or not, really does care. Book a flight somewhere and go hide for a while or, better yet, go back to Picketsville and ask for a twenty-four-seven watch by one of Ike’s people.”
“Now you’re scaring me.”
“Good. That was the general idea.”
Charlie hung up. What was holding up Ike?
Chapter Thirty-one
“We need a plan,” Ruth said. She had a note book and pencil in her hand, waiting for Ike to speak. “Look, I am Effie Perrine and naturally you are Sam Spade. What’s next boss?”
“I think, Effie, we reconsider your decision to put yourself in harm’s way, which you made out of a misguided sense of sentimentality. You need to get off the island, now.”
“You are being deliberately block-headed with me. I know that, and I appreciate it for a many reasons, not the least of which is because I think you cannot bear to contemplate what life would be like if I, like Eloise, were killed as a result of a CIA screw-up. And as screw-ups go, this seems to be shaping up as a real doozy. I take your point. Therefore, I will not be angry with you. I do understand. What does make me angry is the notion that you cannot see the reverse. How will it be if I lose you in a CIA screw-up, huh? How will I cope, do you suppose? Have you even thought of that? No, and who appointed you Horatius at the bridge anyway?”
“Once a history maven, always a history maven. Okay, you have a point. About the bridge I mean, not me as Horatius, and you are right, I cannot bear the thought of nasty men—I assume the people who are coming after me are men—I cannot bear the thought of them taking you with me, excuse the cliché, in a hail of bullets. Worse, you are right. I cannot imagine how I would manage if I survived and you didn’t. Please leave now.” Ruth opened her mouth to speak but Ike waved her off. “Listen, you are still recovering from serious trauma. You have bones that as yet are not completely knit. You lay in a coma for…too long. If we have to run any distance, you couldn’t do it. It will be dangerous enough with me able to move around. The fact you cannot follow makes what I have to do ten times more difficult.”
“Point taken. Now you listen. I will not hold you back. I limp because I prefer it to the pain caused by not doing so. But then I prefer staying by your side to the pain, you see? I can, if I have to, run, jump and, more importantly, and you probably didn’t know this about me considering my public stand on firearms generally, I can shoot the eye out of a gnat at thirty feet.”
“Bullshit.”
“It is true. My father, who you may remember from your other life, did not share my views on the idiocy of having an armed citizenry. When I was at that age when daughters dote on their fathers, he taught me how to shoot. So, now you know the last dark secret that I have kept from you. All is revealed and the mystery in our relationship forever gone. I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Ruth—”
“Ike, if I can walk, jog, and shoot, I should be considered an asset, as you spooks say, not the liability you make me out to be. I don’t know how much help you can expect from Charlie. And the director, if I understand the situation correctly, isn’t going to offer up anything more substantial than a sympathy card and that after the fact. Damn it, Ike, you need me. Do not try to do this alone. Do not shut me out.”
“I just—”
“Hush, no more noble sacrifice and chivalry. Here’s the deal, Schwartz. You say you want to get married, right? That being the case, if I stay you name the day and time. If you shove me off this island, you get your ring back in the mail. I’m serious about this. Tell me I’m staying.”
“You are a hard woman, Harris. You can shoot? Really?”
“Close your eyes and think of all the things I do physically, i
f you follow my meaning. Of that array, which I can see has already started you drooling, which do you think I do best? Don’t answer, hold that thought. Now, I promise you I shoot better than I can do that. Good, you are smiling. To keep that grin on your face, I will demonstrate both of these skills after dinner.”
“Okay, okay, I surrender, but when we’re both standing in line at the Pearly Gates, remember, it was your idea.”
“You really think we are destined for the Pearly Gates? I’m thinking a better investment would be in asbestos underwear, considering where we’re likely to end up. What did you mean about my being right about the bridge?”
“The brave Horatius, if you remember, stood on the bridge to defend Rome more or less by himself as the army behind him tore the stones away. Then—”
“I know the rest. What are you driving at?”
“Horatius had the bridge torn away behind him so the invading army could not cross the river into Rome. Scone Island is difficult to reach in the same way. To get to us—note please, I did say us—they have to cross four nautical miles of angry ocean.”
“Angry?”
“Pray for a Nor’easter. And when they get here, they have limited choices as to where they can come ashore, especially if they want to arrive unobserved.”
“How so?”
“Look at the map. The east side of the island is a cliff that extends from Archie’s place in the north almost to Southport. There is no appreciable beach on which to land, even at low tide, and then they’d still have to scale anywhere from ten to thirty feet of rocks. That leaves the west shore, and it’s only marginally better. The shore flattens out on the west side, and you can see in the past where residents have attempted to build piers out into the strait, only to have winter storms tear them out. The pilings for some of them are still there, which creates a hazard to the amateur sailor. Landing, for example, on the gravel beach opposite this house is possible. However, to arrive without being seen means sailing in at night, and that could be tricky, what with your twelve-foot tides.”
“Tides?’
“If they arrive at the ebb and beach their boats, they might discover them washed away in the flood if they didn’t time their departure correctly.”
“And the reverse, if they come in at high tide?”
“Right. They might not be able to launch them across thirty feet of rocks and gravel.”
“So what will they do?”
“I don’t know, but if it were me, I would either arrive pretending to be a summer renter or I’d come in from the east.”
“I thought you said the east is no good.”
“I did. I left one thing out. You know where Archie took his nose dive? Well, there are steps chiseled into the rock face near that point. At some time in the past the owners of Cliffside had a small beach and pier down there. The pier is long gone and the steps are worn and potentially dangerous to scale, but they could be the entry of choice, because they think we will not expect them to come that way.”
“Henry Potter would spot a phony renter in a minute. You should talk to him. He could arrange a signal or something.”
“Excellent. That will be your first assignment, Effie.”
“Who?”
“You said you were Effie Perrine.”
“Right. I’m on it. What will you do?”
“Set some alarms and traps, I think. If we were playing paint ball, this would be a great way to spend a couple of days.”
“But it’s not. I’m off to con Henry Potter. How much do I tell him?”
“As little as possible. Make up some cock-and-bull story about what’s-his-name renting property he didn’t own to folks down east.”
“What’s his name? Could you possibly be a bit more specific?”
“Barstow. He was the guy looking to buy properties on the island, remember. He managed to annoy a lot of people while he was here. Henry will believe you. Tell him I’m here on special undercover assignment to catch him and expose him. I’ll probably have to modify the story later, but we need to start somewhere.”
“That’s very original. You should give up the police business and go into writing fiction.”
“I’ll leave that to politicians. Now hustle on down to the store. Talk to Henry Potter. Set a password, on the off-chance Charlie can drum up some help, and stock up on anything that looks edible. We’re about out of comestibles and I don’t want to miss dinner.”
“You’re hungry?’
“Yes, but that’s not why. After dinner, you said you promised a demonstration of two of your more impressive skills. I don’t want you begging off because the antecedent dinner did not occur.”
“Spade, you sly dog. No wonder Brigid O’Shaughnessy fell for you.”
“That’s not how the story goes, but thanks anyway. Now go find Potter, and I will call Charlie. It’s time to find out how deep this hole we’re about to jump into is.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Charlie had a small Swiss Army knife with the logo of a corporate airport located in Savannah embossed on it. He fished it out of his pants pocket and cut out the newspaper article with the picture of the Presidential party. He folded it and stowed it in his jacket pocket. The rest he pushed aside with his plate and half empty beer glass. Sunglasses maintained his studied indifference to Charlie and anything else within ten feet of him. The kid needed some training if he wanted a long-term career in the agency. On reflection, Charlie realized that try as he might, he did not recognize this man. The agency employed a large number of people, many, perhaps even most of whom, agents in particular, didn’t work in the Langley compound. Failure to recognize one in particular should not surprise him. But, since the director’s fingerprints were all over this operation, it seemed logical that the kid should come from the Big House. Charlie was not one to panic, but at that moment the thought occurred to him that the director might not be the only one tracking his phone calls. Indeed, the director might well have been tracking the trackers, so to speak. That would explain some, but not all of his recent behavior. He raised his beer glass and scanned the distorted image of the man at the bar through its thick bottom. This guy could represent a threat from a totally different quarter.
Either way, he thought, someone had him on his or her radar. He let his gaze slide across the rest of the bar, looking for any other semi-familiar faces or maybe stereotypical ones. He didn’t find either. If a fellow spook occupied any of the remaining tables and booths, he wasn’t going to locate him today, which meant that they were very good or not present. It had been a long time since Charlie had worked in the field, and the disconcerting idea crossed his mind that he might have lost a step.
The pub filled up with lunch seekers all, or nearly all, of whom were busily engaged with their smart phones, e-readers, and PDAs, texting, checking the Internet for e-mail, stock quotes, playing Angry Birds, or God only knew what else. The conversational noise, which a decade ago would have approached raucous, amounted only to a communal murmur as luncheon companions occasionally looked up from their devices to report some tidbit of news gleaned from cyberspace to their companion and then only to refocus, cross-eyed, on the tiny screens that now defined their existence.
As much as he disliked this pervasive noncommunication, it did serve his purpose at the moment. There would be so much traffic jamming the several wireless networks servicing the immediate area that if anyone were fishing in the cyber-pool in an attempt to locate and then monitor any specific phone, they would have to sort through more than two dozen sending/receiving modules concentrated in this single quarter acre of Georgetown. And since his was neither registered in anyone’s name nor on any particular network, and because Ike would be using a satphone, he felt confident that when Ike finally called, it would go untracked. Charlie had put his second cell phone on vibrate. At that moment it danced across the table and he managed to grab it before it slipped off the edge and onto the floor.
He flipped it open all the while keeping an ey
e on his watcher. His sunglasses glinted and the expression on Charlie’s watcher twitched. He turned away and judging by his body language, began talking into his own phone. For the people he represented, Charlie’s boss or someone else, the hunt was on. Good luck with that.
“Ike, we’d better keep this short. What can you tell me?”
“That would be my question to you. Here’s all I have. I am in position to meet an assassin or two with, I think success. More than two and I have a problem. My main concern is marking their approach. The island is a closed system. Once they’re landed, I have the advantage. But for me to survive, I have to know when and where they hit the beach. Can you spring anybody to help me?”
“I can try. My problem is I have been condemned to purgatory or more accurately, Barratt, Colorado, to investigate Neil Bernstein’s disappearance and probable death. The director made it clear I am to stay away for at least a week. That is the preamble, by the way. The immediate answer is, probably not. I would come myself in a New York minute, you know, but the use of CIA personnel in a domestic situation is not only against the law…I know, yadda, yadda…but it would be a career-ender for anyone who’s caught doing it. Our peerless leader will be very unforgiving if the malefactor were found out. The best I can do is to ask for volunteers. I have access to some assets, as you may know but had better keep pretending you don’t, that, under normal circumstances, the director cannot keep from doing their job if I require them. It assumes, of course, their deployment has something to do with my job description and this hardly qualifies as normal. I will try but…”
“Don’t compromise either yourself or them, but if they were able to monitor the possible entry points to the island, I could probably do the rest. There is a local cop up here who is green enough to be schmoozed into helping me without involving the rest of the locals.”
“I might be able to manage something. Then, if they get careless with their government issued equipment after that, well, that would be a shame but…”
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