by Gayle Lynds
"Meaning he was fooling you. He may have had no Russian accent at all. Okay, that makes sense. What's point two?"
"The box of makeup we found in the station wagon. Point two is that the sniper who was trying to kill you was obviously an expert at disguise. Point three takes me back to your idea, which started my mind to working on all this—that Caleb Bates may be a nervous Russian defector who's gone undercover. Point four is what I'd told you about the photo for Caleb Bates that I'd seen in the Stone Point weekly—remember, there seemed to be something familiar about him, something I couldn't quite put my finger on."
"I remember." She frowned. "What are you getting at?"
His broad features coalesced into chiseled granite as he stared over her shoulder. "Point five: We have no concrete evidence Alexei Berianov is dead. It's just a report. None of our people saw his corpse—"
The deviousness of it took her breath away. "No Russian accent. Access to and probably very good training in disguise. Knows our culture inside out. Berianov may be alive—"
He nodded grimly. "The way money greases palms in Moscow, it would've been easy to fake his death. If so, Berianov could be not only alive but here. And if his body and face were padded up, I think he'd look exactly like the photo I saw of Caleb Bates in the Stone Point newspaper."
"You think Berianov is Bates?"
"Yes. It'd explain why I haven't been able to locate him for weeks at a time. He's been underground as some kind of wealthy owner of a hunt club." He shook his shoulders under his jacket, trying to relieve tension. "Which leads me to point six: We're being hunted by a well-organized, vicious group, several of whom speak English with Russian accents. And to point seven: Stone Point was where I was set up for murder. My going to Stone Point could've been the final blow to Berianov's patience with me. I was getting much too close. He had to take me out of action."
"So the group that's after you . . . and me . . . seems to be Berianov's. Which is enough to scare the skin off most people, me included. Logically, it makes sense that they're up to something that they think we're close to discovering, or maybe we've already stumbled onto it."
"Yes, the terrorist event my boss asked me to look into." He grimaced with worry. "But what is it? And when and where?"
PART THREE
33
There were days when a deep and brooding shadow seemed to fall over the office of FBI director Thomas Earle Horn. A parade of all the hard, twisted, and empty people from his long career came to weigh heavily on him at the end of a long day of murders and rapes, terrorists and hate crimes, corruption and spies. Horn had been a policeman, a U.S. attorney, and a federal judge in Denver before being appointed to the appellate bench for the Tenth Circuit and eventually tapped for the FBI directorship. He had seen every kind of violence one human could inflict upon another. Yet as the faces flashed through his mind, they were, to him, all—criminal and victim alike—sad and lost souls.
Today he was having one of those moments. He was sitting contemplatively in his semidark office, a big, thick-necked shadow himself, when National Security Adviser Cabot Lowell entered unannounced through his private door and headed straight for an armchair. For an instant, it seemed to Tom Horn that Cabot Lowell, staring at him as he sat down, wrapped in all his ancestry and power, was no more than another lost soul.
Then his sense of who he was kicked in, and he said coldly, "It's customary to call before you appear in my office, Cabot."
Lowell said, "Do you have an undercover agent placed close to the community of Soviet defectors? A man who supposedly resigned from the Bureau under a cloud some ten years ago but who has actually been working for you ever since?"
Surprised, almost stunned, Tom Horn snapped, "You know I can't, and won't, answer that, Cabot. If it were true, it'd be part of an ongoing investigation." He leaned across his desk toward the national security adviser. "And I have to say, I'm more than a little annoyed you'd even ask such a question."
"That's unfortunate, Tom. Still, I require an answer. "
Horn studied Lowell's solemn face and cold blue eyes behind the rimless glasses, the mouth thinner than a razor and with no trace of humor. "Really? And when did the daily operation of this agency come under your authority?"
"The day the president assigned the attorney general and me to find the deep mole in the Bureau. Or determine there was none."
All the shadows and lost souls of his melancholy were swept from the director's mind, replaced by a white anger he could barely keep from exploding. "The president did what?"
Lowell brushed a thin strand of his wispy gray hair from his eyes. "He ordered an outside investigation of the Bureau." The national security adviser made his voice a shade softer. "This mole business has been going on too long, Tom. You know that, and long before your watch, I might add. It's high time we found out once and for all if the loss of information and the ruined operations really were being caused by a mole operating so deeply that he's escaped detection—for God-knows-how-many years."
"I see," Horn said through gritted teeth. "And exactly what does a possible undercover agent of ours have to do with the mole?"
"We think the agent is the mole."
He hesitated. "You'd better have a hell of a lot of evidence. Who exactly is 'we'?"
"Millicent Taurino, Don Chen, and me."
"So? Doing your own investigations now?"
Lowell didn't answer.
"No, you'd need some real investigators, wouldn't you. Within the Bureau." The two men locked eyes in the curtained twilight of the director's office. Horn said, "I should resign, you know. No director can function under such conditions."
"But you won't. You want to find the mole as much as we do." Lowell's ruthless mouth gave a wry smile. "You—and the Bureau—will get the credit, of course."
Horn thought that one over. The offer had considerable attraction. "Only fair, considering it seems some of our own people did the actual digging. Sooner or later I'll find out who they are, too, you know."
"Perhaps." Lowell shrugged. The fate of Eli Kirkhart was of no concern to him or the attorney general. The president would never know, even if he were still in office.
"How did they come to this stunning conclusion about my undercover man?"
"Think about it." Lowell inclined his short frame an inch, his pale eyes as bright and ruthless as a Grand Inquisitor searching for sinners. "He has direct access to you, correct? And to all those under you who know about him. That would be most, if not all, of the top brass of the Bureau, correct?"
"More or less, yes."
"He can come and go under your protection, without having to account for his presence to anyone else. For those not in the know, he has a cover job that explains his presence in the building. If worst comes to worst, and he's actually detained by agents not in the know, you'll do everything you can to make certain he's taken care of. He's probably got a code signal to alert his handler. He'll either be quietly released, or cleared and then released."
"It's far more complex than that. But say all of it might be possible. Suppose such a nameless undercover agent existed. . . . What proof do you have he's the mole?"
Lowell leaned back. "Let's stop being coy, Tom. We're talking about Jeffrey Hammond, former special agent and now foreign news analyst and investigative reporter for the Post. A man who has connections to almost every KGB defector in the country and is probably responsible for the exposure of many double agents the Bureau's caught. A man supposedly under a cloud with the Bureau, but actually completely trusted by you and a small cadre. What better cover for a mole? A fixture rarely visible, always there, and accountable, in the final analysis, only to you."
Horn was silent. Each word of Lowell's analysis of Hammond as the mole had hit him like a hammer blow. It made complete sense, would account for the type of intelligence lost, and explain the invincibility and longevity of the mole. But not Jeffrey Hammond. No, he didn't believe that. Lowell and his investigators were on the right tra
il, he was suddenly sure of that. . . but they were chasing the wrong fox.
The answer Horn saw in his mind was far more shocking, but it gave him a grim satisfaction, even celebration, which he took care not to show. Lowell's erroneous guesses about Jeffrey Hammond had revealed the situation to Horn in a new way, and now, suddenly, he knew who the mole had to be. The mole's placement was simple, cunning in its cleverness. But he would not tell Lowell. He would give none of them, including the president, the satisfaction. The Bureau—his Bureau—would deal with its own problems. It always had, and it always would. He would not betray that trust.
He made his expression solemn and concerned. "I think you may be right, Cabot. Yes, it makes sense now that I give it some thought. Still, we must be certain. This is a serious matter. We need a smoking gun. Have your people continue to investigate Hammond, while I alert mine to make certain he does no more damage."
Cabot Lowell nodded and stood. "Smoking gun or not, we need to put an end to his activities quickly."
"We will. You can assure the president the mole has nowhere left to hide."
"He'll be pleased."
As the private door closed, and Cabot Lowell's soft steps disappeared, Tom Horn came to another conclusion: He would deal with this one personally. Make the arrest himself, just as J. Edgar Hoover used to do in the old days before World War II when the FBI was becoming a legend. He owed something to the past, to all the Bureau men and women who had sacrificed to keep America free. He had an obligation to serve his country, and this was his chance. He would honor that, and he knew exactly how.
As the sun dropped low in the sky, and a narcotic warmth spread across the highway, Beth and Jeff continued to discuss the worldwide threat of a terrorist act by Alexei Berianov in America. He told her the warning had come from some secret informer named Perez. Frustrated and worried, they watched other cars for signs they had been recognized, but as the Ferrari followed the trail of vehicles that snaked up into the forested Catoctin Mountains, they saw no one and nothing suspicious.
Jeff pulled the Ferrari into a gas station and mini-grocery north of Thurmont, Maryland, that served a pricey area of young, upwardly mobile Washingtonians who had laid out big bucks for weekend retreats in the country. Gray, eerie shadows cast by leafing sugar maples surrounded the station buildings as he pumped gas and Beth ran in to buy supplies.
Immediately she noted the television set hanging on the wall above the cash register, and that it was tuned to CNN Headline News. As she casually monitored the TV screen, she quickly chose cheese, a baguette, fruit, and raw carrots. Then in a gourmet refrigerated case, she saw small jars of a lesser caviar—sevruga, not her favorite, which was beluga, but without a doubt, this was what she needed. Caviar. Without another thought, she grabbed a jar and hurried to pay.
But as she stood with her arms filled with groceries, a photo of Jeff appeared on the TV screen. Her knees went weak. But she flashed a brilliant smile to the young man behind the register. "Hi." She set the food on the counter and reached across for a paper sack.
His face was speckled with acne. As he rang up her items, he asked, "You from around here?" He almost licked his lips as his eyes glinted at her.
She smiled more, hoping to distract him from the news. "Just moved to Thurmont. You work here regularly?" She handed him cash and bagged her groceries.
"Sure do." As he extended his hand with her change, the news story shifted. Now her photo was on the screen, too. ". . . lawyer who was recently fired from her job at a prominent Washington, D. C., law firm. A witness allegedly saw her shoot and kill a man in Georgetown. According to the victim's driver's license, he was a tourist from Miami. No weapon has been recovered. Convey is believed to be in the company of fugitive Jeffrey Hammond, driving a yellow 1987 Plymouth station wagon. Conflicting accounts . . ."
The youth's palm stopped midair, her change still in it. His eyes rounded with astonishment, and he turned to her. "Is that you?"
"Don't be silly." She grabbed the change and her groceries and rushed out the door. Her heart pounded so hard it seemed to thump against her ribs. Would this never end? Would she and Jeff be hunted the rest of their lives?
As soon as she jumped into the Ferrari, Jeff peeled away into traffic. The sun was lower in the sky, spreading a fiery glow across the mountaintops. They ate as he drove, and she told him about the newscast. She was growing so accustomed to watching for danger that it seemed automatic. Which made her less than happy. The feeling of being hounded and hunted was oppressive. Claustrophobic.
"You bought caviar?" Jeff finally asked, repressing a smile. "That's a little rich for fugitives, isn't it?"
"You bet. I know it seems outrageous, but I wanted it. Actually, I had an incredible urge to have it." She explained lamely, "I'm not usually an impulse shopper."
"Well, thanks for sharing. It was good."
"Thank Mikhail Ogust." She smiled. "At least he had good taste in some things."
Jeff watched her swallow pills. "You have to take them at regular intervals, don't you? Seems like a lot."
"Not so much. It could be worse."
It was a fact of her life. Suddenly she wanted to tell him about it, but she felt shy. How he reacted would say a lot.
She explained, "This blue-and-brown capsule is CellCept. It's to reduce the chances my body will reject a 'foreign' object. In this case, my new heart. I also take Cytovene. That's this green capsule. It helps to prevent disease. These others are prednisone, an anti-inflammatory, and Prograf, an immunosuppressant. I also take coenzyme, flaxseed oil, vitamin E, and alpha lipoic acid. Not so much."
Until medicine made more advances, she would be on all these or similar strong drugs the rest of her life. But it no longer mattered. She savored the rhythmic pulse of her heart and wondered about Mikhail Ogust. Wondered how much he had really impacted her, and whether she would ever find peace with it all. But she also said silent words of thanks to him and his family. They had given her life.
Jeff was direct: "Do the transplant and drugs make you afraid for your future?"
"If you're asking whether I can have a normal life, I guess what we're doing now is hardly normal. At least for me. And I seem to be coping."
"Coping exceptionally well," he corrected. "But these drugs have dangerous side effects, especially over a long period of time."
"What you're implying is if my heart doesn't kill me, one of the side effects could. And you're right. Kidney damage, hypertension, diabetes, anemia." She shrugged a bit too casually. "Risk defines life. I'm just going to do everything I can to keep myself healthy and expect no side effects. Meanwhile, I figure science will come up with even more long term answers for transplant recipients while I wait." He was making her uncomfortable, asking questions she tried to avoid asking herself.
"Good attitude. I'd do the same, or try to." He saw her uneasiness and wondered whether she would live long—that is, if she survived their current trouble.
She said, "Does it bother you, the uncertainty of my health? It's not something I think about much. But it's always there. I'd understand if it did. If the tables were turned, I'd probably be asking the same questions you are."
Her features had turned neutral, her beauty buried behind an impersonal mask. He had a sense she had just put on her cross-examination face. Or maybe the poker face she wore into a boardroom where she was meeting the opposition for the first time. She had raised a defensive bulwark, and she had done it quickly and automatically. He was glad. Relieved. He wanted distance. Fantasies were one thing. Real life another.
He said, "Must've been pretty hard for you back there, waiting for a heart."
"You could say that. I think the worst part is realizing that to survive, someone else has to die. That does something to the spirit. To benefit from another's death when one is so close to death oneself seems . . . impossible. Unconscionable. And yet, the drive to survive is so strong. Incredible."
He did not know what to say. They continued north
another five miles until she insisted he turn over the wheel. "You're tired, Jeff. I can see it in your face. We don't know what we're facing ahead. Do us both a favor and get some sleep."
She was right, and he did not fight her. He pulled off the highway, and they traded seats. As she drove off, watching for patrol cars, he fell into a troubled slumber.
Northeast of Washington, a wiry man in his early thirties paced a Silver Spring, Maryland, hotel room, puzzled and worried, fighting off simmering rage. He returned to the portable computer on the bedside desk and logged onto the Internet again. He e-mailed the Kremlin in code and disconnected.
Smoking furiously, he marched around the room, waiting. Finally he pulled a bottle of Miller Lite from the mini-bar. He twisted off the cap and drank deeply. He liked the light American beers. They lacked bite, but by drinking them he felt he came closer to comprehending the culture. Yes, there was something curious about a nation willing to forgo taste to cut back on calories. Too much food was available here. A good famine would wipe out such shallow priorities.
He fell into his desk chair, put out his Camel, and lighted another. He glanced down at his watch, which he wore on his right wrist above a small white scar. It was a very useful watch, waterproof, with a radiant digital dial, a stop watch, and a timer. When he was working, he could slide it up under the sleeve of his tight-knit black turtleneck where he had access but it could not be seen unless he exposed it.
Time was growing short. Agitated, he stared at the stack of printouts on his desk. They held background on Caleb Bates, Alexei Berianov, Anatoli Yurimengri, Mikhail Ogust, Beth Convey, and Jeff Hammond. He checked his e-mail again. This time there was an answer. Instantly he responded, slammed his fist down onto the desk, rose, and hurried out.
* * *