Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  As she regrouped, she found herself staring coldly. She recognized the emotions: She was attracted to him. In fact, very attracted. Which was the last complication she needed in her suddenly overly complicated life. Her track record with men was hardly sterling. Take Phil Stageman, for instance, male prostitute of the week. And then there was the issue of her heart. Despite Dr. Jackson's assurances, in the back of her mind lurked a certain terror. She feared the act of sex would strain her heart. If she had problems with this heart, she might never have a chance at another.

  In any case, one thing was clear: Hammond did not like the looks of her. It was evident in the brusque handshake and the no-nonsense tone—"What can I do for you?" He did not say, "Make it fast," but impatience radiated from him like a neon sign. He studied her still rumpled appearance for a few seconds then dismissed that, too.

  She frowned up at him. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

  "Here's good."

  "I've got something private to discuss. It's about Anatoli Yurimengri."

  "Right." He nodded, and his earring glinted gold in the room's artificial light. "Go ahead." He looked off over her shoulder.

  She felt her urgency turn into anger. People were coming and going through the lobby. She recognized none, but he spoke names in greeting. She repressed the anger, because she needed to get his attention.

  She lowered her voice: "What makes you think Yurimengri was actually killed in that alley off Orleans Place?"

  It worked. His eyes narrowed. "That's what the investigating officers reported."

  She leaned forward, her voice confidential. "You believe everything you're told? Since you're a journalist, I figured you'd know better."

  He blinked. "Okay. I'm hooked." He took her arm and escorted her away toward the lobby entrance. "It's a nice day. We'll walk. That okay?"

  "Works for me."

  His stride was long. He was probably six-foot-three in his stocking feet. Maybe more. In boots, six-five and commanding. But she was athletic and not significantly shorter than he. Besides, he made all her instincts scream compete. So she pushed open the door and held it.

  "Thanks." He passed through as casually as if he were accustomed to such favors from women. "Who are you, lady? What's this about Yurimengri's not dying in the alley?"

  On the sidewalk beneath wind-rippled trees, she put on her own sunglasses and kept up with him easily. To stop the attraction from softening her brain, she focused straight ahead and decided in the end it made no difference whether he knew who she was. She wanted information, which meant she had to give a little herself.

  "As I told the receptionist, my name's Beth Convey. I'm an attorney with Edwards & Bonnett." That was no longer true, but he did not need to know it. "Before I say where I think Yurimengri really died, tell me how you know so much about him. Your story read more like a treatise on the man and his times. You understand the big picture and his piece in it."

  "Yurimengri was part of my beat. Obviously you're not keeping up with my series, 'Where Are They Now?' I've been digging out information and reporting about what's happened to the Soviet defectors who settled in and around the Beltway. As you probably know, we have the largest group of ex-KGB outside Moscow." His hands were shoved into his jeans pockets. "When Yurimengri was killed, I already had a lot about him. So I talked to his widow, pulled from background what seemed pertinent, and wrote the piece."

  Those were more words than she had expected. "I know the series. I just didn't connect your name to it."

  He shrugged. Complete disinterest. Or was that an act, too? "Your turn."

  "Last night I discovered a dead man in Arlington. His body was gone this morning when I returned to report it. Then I saw the photograph of Colonel Yurimengri in the Post. It was the same man."

  He was silent. "Assuming you're correct, you told the police?"

  "Of course. But as I said, his corpse was gone. The police checked with their headquarters, but no one in the county had been reported dead or injured from a gunshot to the chest that night."

  "They didn't call D.C. police?"

  "I doubt it, or they would've known about your Colonel Yurimengri. So who killed him, and why? Was he really into drugs as the police think?"

  "I don't know who would've wanted to murder him." He seemed to walk faster. "And I know nothing that'd rule out drugs. The toxicology report will tell us about the drugs, but it won't be available until next week." He paused. "Of course, being in the KGB meant he had enemies, and not just in the West. Kremlin politics never stopped being Byzantine and violent. What else do you know?"

  She considered. "He mentioned West Virginia. That he hadn't realized something about Stone Point, West Virginia."

  He nodded casually. Almost too casually. "He was alive?"

  "Since he spoke, I think you can assume that, yes."

  Hammond compressed his lips, and she suspected he was suppressing a sharp response. "What else did he say?"

  "Nothing more. What do you think he meant about West Virginia?"

  "In the first place, Colonel Yurimengri might not be the same guy as the one you supposedly found."

  They reached the corner. "He's the same. It's not only his face. Both were shot in the chest. Don't try to convince me it was just a coincidence two identical men in two different locations inside the Beltway died from gunshot wounds to the chest on the same night. Not hardly." She glanced up as they turned back toward the Post.

  She almost stumbled with shock. Then fear. She stared at his profile.

  He moved on without her and apparently without listening to what she had said. He continued with his own thoughts: "And in the second place, it's asking a lot for me to know what some stranger meant by referring to West Virginia. That state's got enough mountain wilderness to hide all the outlaws, misfits, and politicians in the nation." He stopped and swiveled to look at her again, inadvertently giving her a second view of his profile. "Not to mention lawyers, who deserve their own special hell. Are you coming? You're the one who initiated this consultation."

  As he waited, her chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. He had the straight forehead. The aquiline nose. The jutting chin. Only the long hair was different. Last night, the hair of the killer who had chased her had been short. But the profile was identical, she was sure. Although she could not explain the difference in hair, she knew that this Jeffrey Hammond—the Post journalist who glared not six feet ahead of her, the tall, powerful man with something hidden inside him, whom she had initially found so attractive—had to be the one who killed Colonel Yurimengri and then chased her with a gun. It was only by some miracle he had not caught and killed her last night, too.

  As she forced herself to breathe normally, her terror grew into rage. She fought it, made herself think, analyze: He had met her with a coolness and gruffness she had not believed was entirely real. Maybe he had not recognized her. Or maybe he had, and he was covering it with his power tactics. When she had not identified him immediately in the Post's lobby, probably he believed she had not seen his face. After all, it had been a dark night, and she had been running furiously to escape.

  She must not alarm him. She had no evidence, only what she had seen. It would not be enough for the police, especially after her unfortunate encounter with them this morning.

  "Let's go." Hammond's face seemed to tighten. "What are you waiting for?"

  She forced herself to smile a neutral smile. "Nothing. Nice day, isn't it? Strange, but nice." As she walked toward him, she felt a sudden sense of inevitability. If she were going to die, at least now she knew the truth about who had killed Yurimengri. . . and by whose hand her own death would be.

  He turned away and resumed his long-striding gait back toward the Post. "How did you happen to go there anyway?"

  Her taut nerves jumped. How did you happen to go there. He was a trained newspaperman with a superb sense of detail, and he had not asked where in Arlington she had found the dying colonel. She smiled soberly. He would not ma
ke a mistake like that if he were not on edge, and unless he already knew where Colonel Yurimengri had really been killed.

  She lied, "A client was interested in buying the building. He wanted me to check it out, but I was late getting out of the office, then I was late getting away from home after dinner. So when I arrived and the door was open, I walked in and found him."

  "Wait a minute. Where in Arlington was this?"

  Right. And if he were gullible enough to think she would believe he had forgotten to ask, she had a rusty bridge to sell him. She kept her gaze on the Post's entrance, eager to reach it. She played along with his ruse and told him about Meteor Express and Renae Trucking. But then she asked, "How did you meet Yurimengri? From what you wrote, it almost seems as if you had some kind of personal connection with him. Were you friends?" She hesitated. "Enemies?"

  He did not break stride, and she could discern nothing more than a stiff disdain as he ignored her last comment. "I already told you, he was part of my beat. I interviewed him quite a bit over the years. In case you haven't noticed, it's my job—it's every reporter's job—to make each piece as accurate as possible. I'll take your question as a compliment." Then he looked down at her.

  "I see."

  "If I were you, I'd forget it. You've made a report to the cops. You can't do more than that." His voice dropped, and he continued persuasively, "You know what Washington's like. Security clearances and closed-door sessions. Investigative reporters like me and freedom-of-information fanatics. Leakers, stone-wallers, and whistle-blowers. It's a culture of secrecy that breeds curiosity and hunger for revelations. But those are rotten reasons for a civilian to get involved. You can get yourself caught up in forces that chew up the innocent as well as the guilty. This whole thing about the two men who might be the same probably looks fascinating from the outside, but more than likely it's a coincidence. The police will think you're nuts if you push it. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble."

  He was warning her off, giving her reason to lose interest.

  She said, "You're probably right. There's nothing more I can do."

  "Good thinking."

  But as he was about to go in the door, and she was feeling hopeful of an escape, he stopped. His shoulders stiffened under his blue cotton shirt. As he turned back to face her, she held her breath. She was both afraid and furious. The two emotions battled within her like warring factions. Ever since the transplant, she was like this—divided, fighting herself.

  "At least one man's been murdered." His voice was measured as he laced his words with meaning. "If you're right, the killer could be after you, too. You could end up dead."

  There it was at last: You could end up dead. He was threatening her. Her chest tightened. But before the fear could take her over, anger shook her. It was this new, riveting rage that had begun with her transplant. She knotted her hands at her side.

  She needed to reassure him, so she lied again: "I've got a lot more important things to do than chase a phantom." She forced a smile. "You're right. Thanks for your time." But as she left, she could feel his gaze hot and suspicious on her back. It made her skin crawl.

  10

  The U.S. government's far-reaching legal arm—the Department of Justice—occupied an entire city block between Constitution and Pennsylvania avenues, from Ninth to Tenth streets. It sprawled across the exact midpoint between Capitol Hill and the White House, showing its importance to both, while indicating a political distance and resistence to influence that was necessary but often elusive.

  Erected in 1934, the pale stone building boasted the usual Classic Revival porticoes, the Art Deco architectural touches, and the highly principled quotations carved above the entrances. Similar public-style buildings appeared in most cities, large and small, across the country, but what appeared nowhere else this Wednesday was a critical meeting in the office of Deputy Attorney General Millicent Taurino.

  A slim, diminutive woman of forty-two, Taurino was dressed in a demure knit suit with a collar low enough to display a blue butterfly tattoo just beneath her left ear. She rested her determined chin on her knuckles, elbow supported by the arm of her desk chair, and contemplated the life-sized portrait of Chief Justice John Marshall, which hung to her right on her office wall.

  With her free hand, she waved flame-painted fingernails and concluded, "So you still have nothing." It was a statement, not a question.

  FBI director Thomas Earle Horn, a burly, slope-shouldered, thick-necked former defensive tackle for the Buffaloes of the University of Colorado, sat in a leather armchair facing the deputy attorney general. He turned his gray slate eyes toward the third person in the office. "Bobby?"

  Bobby Kelsey, assistant director of the FBI's National Security Division and, as such, overseer of the Foreign Counterintelligence Program, the FCI, bristled. "I wouldn't call Ames, Nicholson, Groat, Pitts, and Lipka over at NSA nothing. They were turncoats. Traitors. The worst of the worst, spying against their own kind. We caught them, and every damn one of them's in jail, Ms. Taurino. That's something. In fact, that's a lot."

  Millicent Taurino was still contemplating the stern countenance of America's seminal chief justice as if solace for her current problem could be found through him. "Those are past successes, irrelevant now." She raised her head and spun around in her desk chair to face the two FBI officials. "The Bureau's got two hundred spy cases nationwide it's investigating. That's one heck of a lot of open files for peacetime. Worse, our conviction rate's in the toilet, a fraction of what we should be doing. Now that we've put top priority on catching foreign spies and stopping terrorist attacks, we need to see serious results."

  The Cold War's passing had brought no end to espionage. As the world's last standing superpower, the United States was still the preferred target, both economically and militarily, which left it in the position of constantly having to protect itself against spies and terrorists. That was the official story. Unofficially, everyone who knew anything agreed that the spy business was addictive. Plus, equally unofficially, America intended to remain number one, which meant it must not only spy, too, but be better at it.

  Taurino looked sharply across her desk at the men she had summoned. "Where's the red meat, guys? Where's the Big One you claim's in your lap somewhere? This mole who's burrowed so deep into the inner sanctum of the FBI? We've got to find and stop him!"

  "These things take time," Thomas Horn announced. The FBI director's voice had a decidedly patronizing tone that was trotted out when dealing with civilian bosses. It seemed to go with the office, the wraith of J. Edgar Hoover whispering instructions in each director's ears.

  "Well, now." Taurino nodded sagely. "I'd say that was quite a breathtaking observation, Mr. Director. Time. Consider tempus fugit. 'Time flies.' Let's see, how long has it been since your two predecessors started this internal investigation? Nine years? No, wait, that was when I was appointed last year, wasn't it? So a decade ago now, right? My heavens, how time flies when one is having so much fun." She gave Horn a withering smile. " 'It takes time.' That's the wisdom you have to give us after ten long years, Tom? I must remember to write a memo to the attorney general. He'll want to fill in the president."

  "We don't appreciate sarcasm, Millicent," Tom Horn snapped.

  "And we don't appreciate sloth. Are you sure you care whether we expose this deep-penetration agent of yours? Perhaps he or she is simply a convenient excuse to cover the Bureau's leaks and failures. By my count, it seems to me as if someone out there used information supplied by your traitor to sour more than forty Bureau missions. Even in the high-risk world of spying, that's too many to be coincidental. You may not be scared by that and what this Judas could do in the future, but I am!"

  The FBI director jumped to his feet as if scalded. "That's all, Ms. Taurino. When you're ready to talk rationally, call us. Bobby, we're leaving!"

  Kelsey stood up to join his boss.

  "Sit down, Mister Horn!" The deputy AG stabbed a slender, red-tipped finger a
t the director. "You're not J. Edgar, buster. Those days are dead, and they sure as hell aren't coming back. Today the president and the AG can get a new FBI shlump for a dime, and assistant directors run a dozen for a nickel. You work for us! Now sit your ass back down and talk to me."

  The two men exchanged angry glances then slowly sank back into their chairs, faces red but expressionless.

  "Thank you, gentlemen," Taurino said, "it's so kind of you." With a final chin-jutting glare, she became all business. "Now. The Soviet Union is gone, the Cold War is over, but the losses of information continue. The KGB has supposedly been disbanded, but our missions, agents, and plans are bleeding out. Am I right?"

  "I beg your pardon, Millicent," Tom Horn said, carefully making his voice conciliatory, "but when I referred to time, what I should have referred to was degree of difficulty. Three directors have grappled with this problem. A deep mole so carefully planted or turned, and so carefully used, as to go undetected for God knows how long is a counterintelligence nightmare."

  "Ten years, Tom? How many of your people have even been in the Bureau ten years?"

  "Most of our senior personnel, from top to bottom. The vast majority of agents stay in all the way to retirement. But who says all the leaks have been one person, Millicent? Maybe there have been a series of moles or traitors, each passing the torch to another when he or she leaves the Bureau."

  "Was the KGB that good? Is its successor, whatever it's called? I can never keep those Russian names and acronyms straight."

  Bobby Kelsey interjected, "The acronym is FSB. They're that good, all right. Almost as good as us. But there's another problem: We can't be certain our mole is Russian. Our other allies are skilled at this game, too. Maybe the leaks to the Kremlin are cover for other espionage we haven't been able to pin down yet."