Trial Run

by Thomas Locke

  The driver’s forehead creased. “Señor, excuse me, but the business where you just left. There are security cameras everywhere.”

  “They’re all out,” Charlie replied. “Nobody saw anything.”

  The driver looked from one face to another. “Of this you are certain?”

  Trent called back, “They didn’t see a thing. Not today.”

  “As far as they are concerned, you didn’t show up today. If you want to change that, fine.” Charlie stuffed the ten thousand dollars into the driver’s pocket. “It’s your choice.”

  87

  As Trent took the highway into the Central Valley, Charlie reached out to contacts he had developed over the years. They arrived at the Bakersfield airstrip just after two. The plane was waiting for them. As they crossed the lot, the man leaning against the stairs called over, “One of you named Hazard?”

  “That’s me.”

  “A buddy said you needed a lift to Albuquerque.”

  “That’s an affirm.”

  “I’m your man. I didn’t hear how many of you there’d be.”

  “We are . . .”

  “Eleven,” Joss said, joining them.

  The pilot was about what Charlie had expected, an overweight vet with solid arms, a few faded tattoos, and a moustache he took great pride in cultivating. His pale blue eyes twinkled in the fierce inland sun but showed no humor. Only steel.

  Joss turned and surveyed the perimeter. “Is it always this quiet?”

  “Pretty much.” The pilot surveyed the group straggling toward his plane. “Looks to me like your crew’s seen enough action for one day.”

  “Joss, why don’t you go help them load up.” The plane was a twin-engine King turboprop, a common workhorse among independent pilots. “Maybe you and I should talk business.”

  “Sure thing.” But the pilot hung back far enough to survey Charlie’s wound and announce, “You’re leaking.”

  “I’m okay.” Actually, his back had started protesting against the jouncing ride an hour earlier. Charlie’s head swam from the Advils he had swallowed. But the wound hurt enough to shout through. He wanted to get the business done now in case he fogged out later. “Our mutual friend told me a price, but I want to make sure he got it right.”

  “Eleven passengers to Albuquerque, you got any luggage?”

  “No.”

  “Call it fifteen. That sound right to you?”

  Charlie continued to walk away from the plane and the group. “How does fifty sound?”

  The man’s grin held no more humor than his eyes. “Sounds like serious trouble.”

  “I want you to fly us to a commercial strip near Nogales.”

  “As in south of the border.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you don’t got no ID’s.”

  “No. But I have a friend who runs a hotel. You get us down, he’ll get us in.”

  The pilot kicked at a pebble. “Trip like that, I’m thinking seventy-five would sound a whole lot better.”

  Charlie knew he should argue the man down. But he just didn’t have the strength. “Twenty now, the rest when we land.”

  The pilot started to slap Charlie’s back, then thought better of it. “Mister, you just bought yourself a taxi.”

  88

  Shane awoke late to brilliant sunshine and the sound of her ringing phone. When she answered, Trent’s words were, “We don’t ever need to visit Nogales.”

  When she came downstairs, Shane still floated from the joy of reconnecting with Trent. She entered the dining area to find Elizabeth and Gabriella seated together by the window. They stared out over the sunlit sea, talking with the quiet ease of old friends.

  Shane said, “I just spoke to Trent.”

  “And we have talked with Charlie. They will join us here in a few days, as soon as he manages to find everyone papers.” Gabriella smiled at her. “From the look on your face, I must assume your young man had something nice to tell you.”

  She blushed her way into a seat. “I’m starving.”

  “Please eat fast. The realtor meets us in half an hour to take us to our new home.”

  Sea froth from the passing storm blanketed the beach and clung to the cliffs. They left the Guernsey harbor on a boat built to resemble an Edwardian launch, a broad-beamed wooden craft whose wheelhouse was a glass-sided affair lined with embroidered settees. An empty brass champagne bucket was fastened to the underside of the center table. A metal vase held six blooming roses. Shane felt as though she should be dressed in crinoline and bows.

  The sea was a crystal blanket that lied in its promise of endless calm. Gulls sang a discordant shanty overhead as they sliced through the eight miles that separated Starn Island from Guernsey.

  Their guide was a local realtor named Edith, a blowsy woman who accented her bulk with a pleated ankle-length dress and matching navy jacket. Once they were under way, she unpacked a wicker hamper and offered them cheese and grapes and biscuits and wine. “Starn Island is a place for growing myths. It’s not much good for anything else. Even the sheep tend to bed down hungry. I probably shouldn’t be telling you such things. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

  The front of the wheelhouse was made of doors that folded back in accordion style. The air was spiced with sunlight and seaweed and the water’s biting chill.

  The woman continued, “My granddad fished these waters since he was a nub. The island has known many names over the years. A number of the locals still call it Realta. My granddad prefers Reannig. Realta, Reannig, Starn, they’re all old Gaelic, don’t you know. They all mean heaven. Or star. The Gauls used the same word for both. The three words come from three different strands of Gaelic, or Celtic as it’s known in these parts. The Celts once had kingdoms that ringed these waters.”

  The closer they drew to the island, the punier it became. The sea looked immense, capable of swallowing it whole with one decent blow. Starn Island was dominated by a single peak that rose in emerald splendor from an atoll that scarcely seemed large enough to support its weight.

  The island was rimmed by a beautiful beach. A few pleasure boats were anchored along its length, visitors taking advantage of the calm day. Shane counted eleven parasols sprouting like seafront blossoms. Sheep dotted the hill’s lower reaches. Stone cottages and one larger manor adorned the single expanse of flatland.

  The realtor expertly maneuvered their vessel into the rock-walled harbor and docked by a barnacle-encrusted mooring. Otherwise the port was empty. Fishing nets dried from a collection of lobster cases. They alighted to the welcome of bleating sheep. Shane saw a few people emerge from the cottages to stare their way.

  “Nowadays the only legends these residents care to speak of relate to the most recent occupants of Starn Manor.” The realtor waved carelessly at the locals, who replied by shrinking back inside their homes and shutting the doors. “The latest owner, one Horace Talburt, was rather fierce by all accounts. He renamed the island the Royal Seat of Talburtistan. After one particularly bad meal in La Rochelle, he officially declared war on France. Quite mad, of course. But a gentleman to his friends. The islanders adored him.”

  The manor appeared genuinely decrepit. Its stone walls were liberally dosed with lichen. Several windows were cracked and patched with tape and wood. Three shutters hung like flags of defeat. The front steps were cracked and pitted. The door did its best to resist the realtor’s efforts to unlock it, then shuddered and moaned as it opened. The interior was dim and dusty and smelled of mildew and cats.

  The realtor led them from one massive room to another, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. “The island’s history is really quite unique. In 1828, a sea captain and merchant prince performed a great service for King George the Fourth. In return, the king granted the captain the title Magistrate of Starn, along with sovereignty for two hundred years. The title passes with ownership. As does the royal charter, which has another seventeen years to run.”

  The kitchen was in
horrid condition. A stone Victorian sink was topped by a hand pump. A wood-burning stove dominated one wall. Opposite this rose a massive fireplace whose interior was shaped such that two stone benches hugged the side walls. The benches were worn smooth with use.

  The realtor led them back to the broad central staircase. “Upstairs you’ll find twenty-six bedrooms and three baths, one for each floor. I suppose you want to inspect the lot?”

  “Not really,” Gabriella replied. “Elizabeth?”

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  The realtor sighed with relief. “That suits me, I don’t mind telling you. When I heard you were coming, I brought over the finest builder in the Channel Islands, Murphy’s his name. He didn’t like trusting those stairs any more than I did. Talburt didn’t spend a quid on this place in thirty years.” She walked over and rapped her knuckles on the oak-paneled wall. “Still, the place is sound as a bell. But you don’t need me telling you that everything needs redoing. Murphy’s still busy preparing his quote, but he doubts you’ll see a penny back from two million pounds.”

  Gabriella walked over and took Elizabeth’s hand. “What do you think?”

  Elizabeth stared down at their intertwined fingers. “You’re asking me?”

  “Of course. It’s your money.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Elizabeth. You brought us here. I need your wisdom.”

  In the interior shadows, her white-blonde hair looked as ethereal as sea foam. “Everything so far has been totally on target. I say we go for it.”

  Gabriella turned to Shane. “You agree?”

  “We have a million dollars sitting in the bank,” Shane replied. “I need to get Trent’s take on all this. But I think he’d say the money came to us for a reason.”

  Gabriella turned to the woman and said, “We agree to the asking price. On one condition. We will make a down payment of five million dollars. We will make no further payment for five years. At which time the entire remaining sum will be due.”

  The agent opened her mouth and shut it several times. “You have clearly given this some considerable thought.”

  Gabriella glanced at Elizabeth. “You have no idea.”

  “You received word?” Elizabeth asked.

  Gabriella nodded. “I think the word you used was image.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “After Charlie rescued you?”

  “Yes. It was waiting for me.”

  The agent clearly was flummoxed by the exchange. She cleared her throat and asked, “You are saying the current owners must carry the note?”

  “Yes. This is a firm offer and not open to negotiation.”

  “Well, it’s not my place to say, really. But if you want my opinion, given the current state of the market, they would be utter fools not to accept.”

  “In that case, we’ll take it.”

  89

  Murray Feinne had never been to Langley before. He was astonished at how much the foyer resembled the images he had seen in countless films. And how simple it was to enter the CIA’s main building. There were guards everywhere, of course. And the level of vigilance was very high. But he was permitted to stand inside the foyer and watch the tide of people hurry through the turnstiles, flashing their ID’s at the electronic monitor and then once more at the guard station. They were perhaps more silent than in a normal corporate environment. There might be a higher level of tension on the faces he saw. But otherwise it was just another governmental office complex. Except of course for the seal embedded in the floor. And the wall of stars representing unnamed fallen agents.

  “Mr. Feinne? Jack Parrish. Sorry to keep you waiting.” A young man with a military buzz cut offered Murray a visitor’s ID on a lanyard. “I don’t need to tell you to wear this at all times, do I.”

  “No.” Murray followed the young man to the guard station, where he showed his driver’s license, was photographed, and signed in. Then he was led down a series of halls and into a large waiting room that held three clusters of quietly urgent conversations.

  The young man said, “Wait here, please.” He disappeared into the inner sanctum, then returned to say, “The director will see you now.”

  The current director of the Central Intelligence Agency carried himself with the rumpled disdain of a tenured professor. Murray had seen him on television for years. The director had served as advisor on international affairs to an earlier president, then been brought back by the current administration to clean up an organization whose greatest talent had become its ability to waste time with infighting.

  The director spoke softly on the phone as he waved Murray forward. He hung up and offered his hand without rising. “Have a seat, Mr. Feinne. Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You are here because allies within the intelligence community vouched for you. Mind if I ask how a corporate lawyer in LA became so connected?”

  “An associate set this up. I have never been anywhere near your world.”

  The director glanced at his assistant, who had taken up station by the side wall and was frowning at Murray. “That is extremely odd, since these contacts insisted that this meeting was of the highest possible importance.”

  “It is.”

  The director’s gaze carried the impact of supreme power. “Mr. Feinne, you have thirty seconds to explain.”

  “You have a dead agent on your hands by the name of Elene Belote.”

  The aide stiffened slightly and came off the wall. The director stilled his staffer with a glance. “I’m listening.”

  “You also have another agent who is probably still missing. His name is Rod Aintree.”

  The aide said, “Mr. Aintree is in the mental patients wing of a secure facility outside San Francisco.”

  The director asked, “As of when?”

  “Day before yesterday. We received word of his admission last night.”

  When the director’s attention turned back to him, Murray went on, “The chief of national intelligence has an assistant by the name of Amanda Thorne. She has been operating a clandestine facility outside Santa Barbara. The operation has two divisions. One is run by a gentleman named Kevin Hanley, a theoretical physicist formerly with military intelligence. The other division is headed up by Reese Clawson. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”

  “And if I have?”

  “I’ve traveled here today,” Murray said, “to hand you their heads on a platter.”

  The director inspected him a long moment, then turned to his assistant and said, “Clear the rest of my morning.”

  The officer who came for her was the one Reese Clawson thought of as Flat-Face. Female inmates tended to know their prison guards far better than male prisoners. This was part of staying safe. Abuse among female prison populations was fairly constant. Not that Reese had much to worry about on that score. Word seemed to travel with her to each of her new locations that she was to be left alone.

  The guard was short and wide and had freckles that were stretched into a second coloring. Her face looked smashed by a frying pan, flat and utterly round, her nose a miniature indent. Most of the guards shared two things—odd physical appearances, and gazes as dull and flinty as old iron.

  “Clawson, you’ve got a visitor. Bring your gear.”

  She still had an hour before the morning claxon. So Reese took her time closing her book and rolling off the bunk. Inmates did everything on their three-by-six foam mattress. Hers smelled bad, but it was not the worst she had known in her fourteen months of incarceration.

  For most inmates, visitors meant a sliver of activity in their dull grey existence. For Reese, it meant something else entirely. She pulled her sweatshirt over her prison blues, then filled the front pouch with her meager belongings. The book she left on the empty bunk. Her hand lingered on the blank notepad, then she decided to leave that as well. Why she had spent prison money on a journal was a mystery. She would never have dared write down her recollections
. Even so, she had found a sense of bitter glee over the havoc she might have caused. But the thoughts remained locked inside, where they belonged. Because if she started writing down what she knew, she would sign her own death warrant.

  Her cellmate was a huge Native American, so big she jammed onto the wall and spilled over the lower bunk’s rim. She asked sleepily, “Going somewhere?”

  “Out of state, most likely.”

  “What, you read smoke in the sky?”

  “Something like that.”

  The woman shut her eyes. “See you when you wake up, girl.”

  Reese followed the guard down the concrete alley and through the buzzed security doors, down another hall, past the main security point, ever closer to the forbidden outside. Reese was good at pretending she did not care about ever breaking out. But now and then she caught a whiff of the world beyond the wire. And her heart skipped a beat. Like now.

  She had assumed they were leading her to the narrow concrete-lined quadrangle where vehicles parked for prisoner transfers. Instead, the guard led her into an area she did not know, another windowless hall, another series of metal doors. But as far as Reese was concerned, any change in the routine was interesting.

  The guard stopped by a door with a wire-mesh window and waved to the security officer in the bulletproof cage. The door buzzed. The guard opened it and said to the person waiting inside, “Rap on the glass when you’re done.”

  “Thank you, Officer.” The visitor did not look up from the file open on the metal desk. “Sit down, Clawson.”

  Reese did as she was told. Not because she was good at following instructions. Because she caught another faint whiff of a fragrance from far beyond this realm.

  The woman on the other side of the desk turned a page in the file she studied. She wore a pin-striped suit and a white silk blouse with a frilly bow at the collar, which on her looked absurd. She was bulky and mannish with long dark hair clenched tight inside a gold clip. The frilly collar appeared odd, like she had intentionally dressed to draw attention away from her expression, which was cold and hard and calculating. She turned another page in the file and continued reading.