Sleeper

by Gene Riehl

  “Like a teacher? Like a schoolmarm?”

  “Not like any schoolmarm I’ve ever seen … but a little like a teacher, yes.”

  “A good thing then, because that’s what I am.”

  Monk stared at her. “When did that happen?”

  “I had all my course work for my doctorate—bioinorganic chemistry, you might remember—so after William I took a year off work to do my dissertation at Georgetown. Got my PhD a couple of years ago.”

  “Where are you teaching?”

  “A community college in Maryland, in Prince George’s County. Just a couple of lectures a week, but I’ve got my application in all over the country for a full-time university job.”

  “How do you like teaching?”

  “I’m really a researcher at heart. I’m not real comfortable in front of large groups of students. My plan is to work my way into a graduate program, then hide away in the lab and do my work.”

  “Bioinorganic, did you say? Should I know what that means?”

  Bethany laughed. “If you want to be about one in a million, you should. My interest is in metals. Magnesium, molybdenum, tungsten, and the chemistry involved. It’s not very sexy, I’m afraid … not like recombinant DNA or cancer research, but I find it fascinating.”

  “You weren’t doing any of this when we used to hang out together.”

  “I was trying to keep William interested, not drive him away. You know what they say about girls who wear glasses.” She leaned forward. “What about you, Puller? Obviously you’re still with the FBI, from what I heard at the restaurant.”

  “I’ve got too much in the pension fund to quit now.”

  “And your friend, Lisa.” Bethany hesitated. “How long’s that been going on?”

  “We’ve been living together for about a year.”

  “I hope she wasn’t upset that you didn’t go along with her just now. I know she said she didn’t need you, but she looked at me kind of funny when she left.”

  “Lisa’s fine. She isn’t like that at all.”

  “We’re all like that, Puller. Some of us are better than others at hiding it, but trust me, we’re all like that.”

  “She’s been working night and day lately. She loves the job. She doesn’t have time for jealousy.”

  Bethany smiled. “If you say so. What do I know except chemistry?”

  They fell silent as they sipped brandy. Monk checked out the fish tank. It ran floor to ceiling and was filled with a variety of miniature sharks, swimming around in circles, eyes wide with what looked like honest disbelief at what they were seeing. And it was true, Monk remembered from a TV show he’d seen on the Discovery Channel. A shark’s memory was so short-term that each turn around the tank was a brand-new experience, each sight as mind-boggling as walking around a corner and bumping into Mount Everest. As he watched, a brown and white speckled beauty wheeled toward him, then stopped dead to stare—no self-doubt, no guilt—before swooshing away to the next incredible sight. Monk turned back to Bethany.

  “Are you married?” he asked her. “I don’t see a ring, but these days you never know.”

  She shook her head. “Almost happened about a year ago, but …” Her eyes dropped to her hands on the table. “He got a job in South America. I would have had to give up my career, or put it on hold.” She looked up. “I’m thirty-two, Puller. If I don’t keep at it, I won’t get tenured until the week I retire.”

  Monk smiled, but he was aware of an uncomfortable feeling of … of what? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he wasn’t upset about her impending marriage having fallen through.

  “Forgive me for bringing up William again,” she said, “but I still feel guilty about the two of you.” She paused. “And what happened.”

  Before he could stop himself, Monk reached out and touched the back of her hand. “It wasn’t my best night either.”

  “It was a mistake. We were drunk … we were all drunk.”

  “Not drunk enough. Not too drunk to keep me from remembering.”

  “We were already over, William and I, but that’s no excuse for the way I acted.”

  They fell silent, drinking brandy, until Monk looked at her again. “You still flying?” he asked. “Skydiving?”

  “Every chance I get. It’s a lifesaver for relieving stress.”

  “Still keep your Baron in Maryland?”

  “Same airfield, exact same hanger, as a matter of fact.” She paused. “What about you? Still diving?”

  “Not since that last time.”

  The silence was a bit longer this time, until Bethany shook her head. “William shouldn’t have blamed you, Puller. I deserved to get thrown out of his life, but he was a fool to do the same thing with you.”

  “I would have … I would have punched me in the nose. I don’t know a man who wouldn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t have. You’re one of the few I know who wouldn’t have.”

  “You’re a pretty smart lady, but you’re dead wrong about that.”

  “You’re saying you’d have banished William?”

  “I’m saying I’d have tried harder than William to keep you in my life.”

  The words had come out before Monk could stop them. He sipped brandy to keep himself from continuing. He looked at her green eyes again and noticed for the first time the tiny golden flecks surrounding the iris, highlighted by the candlelight from the center of the table. Then he stared at the fish tank, and through the tank to the front door. There was danger here, he told himself. Make sure you know how to get to the emergency exit.

  “But you didn’t try,” she said, and now her voice carried reproach. “We were friends, but after that night I never saw you again.”

  Monk held up his glass, swirled the brandy, buying time to form a response to something he wasn’t prepared to deal with right now. Or maybe ever.

  Suddenly Bethany reached across and touched the back of his hand. “I’ve got something to say,” she told him. “I haven’t had nearly enough to drink, and if I don’t say it quickly I won’t say it at all.”

  Monk tried to pull his hand away from her fingers, but it refused to obey his command.

  “The reason William and I never made it was you, Puller. The way I acted that night was exactly the way I felt about you. I never would have done it without the gin, but there was nothing dishonest about it back then.” She looked away for a moment, then back at him. “And there wouldn’t be now.”

  Monk shifted his weight. Suddenly it was awfully warm in here. It was also time to leave. He saw that Bethany’s glass was empty, so he drank the rest of his.

  “I better get going,” he said. “Lisa might need my help after all.”

  Bethany’s eyes dropped to her hands again, and when she looked up, her eyes were somehow even softer in the gentle light. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Embarrassed both of us.” Her voice dropped, a deflated sound that had lost its spirit. “I’ve got an early lecture tomorrow, myself.”

  Monk risked a glance at her face, careful to stay away from those green eyes as he reached into his pocket for his money clip, peeled off a twenty, and threw it on the table. He slid out of the booth. As Bethany came out on her side, he saw enough of her legs to make him turn away. Before they started toward the door, she moved up close to him.

  “I … I’m sorry, Puller. I think I just made a fool out of myself.”

  Monk shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re old friends. You can say anything you like to me.”

  Before he could turn away, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, a quick kiss before she started for the door. Monk followed her. On the way past the shark tank, he took one last look. They seemed astonished to see him. His eyes swung back to Bethany. To her hips. To those legs.

  The trick was to forget her, Monk knew, but the question was how.

  Without jumping into that big tank and turning into a shark himself, how was he ever going to make her go away?

  TWENTY
-ONE

  Monk spent much of the next day with Russian farmers. SOG Team 3—the team Monk led—had been assigned to follow a group of award-winning Russian farmers who were enjoying their prize of a visit to Washington, New York, and Boston. According to the CIA, two of them weren’t farmers at all, but agents of the FSB, the new name for the Soviet KGB. The name was new, but the two agents’ mission was the same: gather information, maintain contact with their old networks inside the United States, and construct new ones. The FBI’s role hadn’t changed, either. To watch and listen, to find something that might come in handy down the line.

  Today was shopping day.

  Monk and his team spent six hours watching Russians move from Nordstrom on Fifteenth Street to Robinsons-May on East Capitol, from Banana Republic on M to Discount Mart on Alabama Street. Trying on clothing, touching and feeling everything else, the farmers were indefatigable. Neither Monk nor any of his people had seen anything they could identify as a “brush pass” or a “dead drop,” but that didn’t mean much. Russian intelligence officers—IOs—were good. The best you could do was forward to New York the hundreds of photos you’d taken and hope the agents up there could match some of them with current counterespionage files.

  He was halfway back to the trolley barn when William finally called. He didn’t sound so much angry as resigned. Philip Carter, William told him, thought Monk’s idea of going back to Thomas Franklin was a perfect way to put more pressure on the man, force him, perhaps, into some kind of a mistake. Carter wanted Monk to do so as soon as possible.

  “Good to hear it,” Monk told William. “I was sure Carter would—”

  He stopped talking when William hung up on him.

  He forgot about the trolley barn and headed for Crystal City instead. It was three-ten that afternoon when he walked through the big bronze doors of Franklin’s Global Panoptic Building.

  He strode across the marble floor of the lobby and prepared himself for a long delay. As a rule, FBI agents didn’t spend much time waiting to be seen—few businessmen were capable of ignoring a G-man’s presence for more than a minute or two—but Thomas Franklin would be an exception. A man whose closest friend was president of the United States had little to fear from an FBI agent, and to prove it Franklin was easily capable of making him sit around for at least an hour.

  So he was surprised when the blond young woman behind the reception desk had no more than glanced at his credentials when she picked up a telephone and spoke a few quiet words into it, then hung up, turned to Monk, and smiled.

  “The chairman asks if you’d care to use his private elevator.” She pointed across the lobby. “It’s the last one on the right. Mrs. Waverly will be down in a moment to get you.”

  Monk thanked the receptionist and turned just in time to see the elevator door open and a middle-aged gray-haired lady step out and smile in his direction.

  “Welcome, Special Agent Monk,” she said when he got to her. “The chairman is happy to make time for you. He’s always been a great fan of the bureau.”

  The elevator was lined in dark walnut with polished brass inserts. Against the back wall the letters GP were fashioned from the same brass, and a faint smell of very expensive pipe tobacco hung in the air. But despite the trappings, Monk hated it as much as he hated all elevators. At least there were only two of them. His claustrophobia was much worse when the tiny cars got crowded.

  They rode together in silence to the top floor. The doors slid open and Monk saw that they were inside Thomas Franklin’s office. Franklin was standing by his desk, and came forward immediately with a huge smile on his face.

  Somehow—in his office at the top of the building he owned—Franklin appeared even taller than Monk remembered. And even better dressed. In his light gray silk suit and pale yellow necktie, Franklin looked like an ad in the New Yorker. Monk couldn’t help glancing down at his cotton Dockers and blue golf shirt, but the moment passed as Franklin offered his hand.

  “I’m pleased to see you again, Agent Monk. May I offer you coffee … or a soft drink, perhaps.”

  “Nothing, thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time than I have to.”

  “I’ve got all the time you need. Why don’t we just get started.”

  They turned to the furniture grouping on their right, a round table surrounded by five brocade upholstered chairs. On the table sat a silver carafe and four crystal water glasses. They sat across the table from one another. Franklin waited for Monk to begin.

  “I’m here about the party Saturday night,” Monk said. “About something that happened at the party.”

  Franklin shook his head. “I’m really embarrassed about that, Agent Monk.” He grinned. “Or should I say Mr. Towne? That panic room hasn’t done much but cause panic. I wanted to apologize to you but I only just heard about it.”

  Monk stared at the man. He’d expected a number of reactions to his visit, but not this one. He’d been the one in the wrong place. He’d been the one using the phony name.

  “About that name,” he said.

  Franklin held up his hand and grinned. “Forget it. Actually I’m glad you didn’t tell them who you really were. My security guys would have overreacted, and Saturday night was not the time to make a scene.” He paused. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to apologize.”

  Monk smiled. It was almost a shame to ruin the mood. “Unfortunately, that’s not why I’m here. Not directly anyway. I’m relieved you’re so understanding, but there’s more to it than that.”

  Franklin leaned forward. “Sounds serious.”

  “It is serious, I’m afraid.” Again Monk hesitated, but his eyes never left Franklin’s body. It was important to catch his initial reaction.

  “I saw a painting up there, in your private collection room. A Madonna I know to be stolen. A da Vinci. Perhaps you saw the story in the paper.”

  Monk watched Franklin’s face, but he showed nothing you wouldn’t expect. Slight lift of the eyebrows was all. Pretty damned normal considering what Monk had just told him.

  “I need to see the painting again, Mr. Franklin.” He paused a beat longer this time. “And I’m afraid I have to ask how you came to have it.”

  Franklin smiled. “You sure don’t waste a lot of time getting to the point … but you’re mistaken. Trust me, if I had a da Vinci, I’d know about it. I’d know everything about it.”

  “I’m sure you would, but I still need to see for myself.”

  Franklin’s tone was suddenly less pleasant. “Of course. Have you any particular time in mind?”

  “Would today be convenient?”

  Franklin glanced at his watch. “A bit late in the day for you to drive out to Gettysburg, isn’t it? With the commuter traffic it would take you three hours. And a couple more to get back.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I can see that it is.”

  Franklin stared to his right, out the window. Monk followed his gaze. In the distance he could see the Washington Monument against the blue sky. The single black cloud he’d noticed during his shopping spree with the farmers had vanished. Franklin turned back to him.

  “How about this,” he said. “Why don’t I give you a ride out to the farm in my helicopter. You can look at every painting I’ve got. My pilot will bring you back to your car afterward. We can get the whole thing done in two hours.”

  “I couldn’t impose on you like—”

  “Nonsense. You have a problem, I have a big stake in helping you solve it. Making things happen is what I do for a living. Let’s get this resolved as quickly as possible.” He picked up the phone on the table. “Call John, Mrs. Waverly. Have him warm up the chopper. We’ll leave for the farm in ten minutes.”

  On the rooftop, Monk was happy to get out of the elevator, but as he stepped out and saw the size of the red and white Sikorsky sitting on the pad, its main and tail rotors spinning and ready to go, he cursed under his breath. It was much smaller than the one the other night, way too sm
all as far as Monk was concerned. He didn’t mind flying in the slightest, but the passenger compartment would be narrow, the roof low, and leg room nonexistent. He could already feel the tension rising through his body as he considered getting back in the elevator and trying this again another time, but he kept going. Now he could see the pilot in the cockpit, reaching over his head and adjusting switches. Even though the rotors were not yet moving at flying speed the noise was deafening, and the turbulence was enough to blow Monk’s hair sideways.

  Outside the chopper, the copilot, a slender young woman in a dark blue skirt and matching jacket stood at the passenger door waiting. Franklin led the way. The woman touched her hand to her cap as they moved past and climbed the single step up into the compartment. Once they were inside, she slid the door shut.

  Six gray leather seats filled the confinement of the passenger compartment, arranged in two rows of three, opposing each other. Franklin sat on the right-hand side. Monk lowered himself into a seat opposite. Franklin reached to the carpeted floor beside his chair and came up with a headset complete with microphone attached. He gestured for Monk to do the same. Monk bent to get his own headset and slipped it on just in time to hear Franklin’s voice.

  “Have to use these,” he said, his voice extraordinarily clear. “Or make hand signals all the way to the farm.”

  Monk nodded, then tried to keep his voice casual. “A twenty-minute flight? At least that’s how long it took the other night.”

  “A little longer today. The birds I lease for parties are bigger and faster.” Franklin looked at his watch. “We’ll be at the house by four.”

  Monk checked his own watch. Damn it. Almost a half hour until they landed again.

  The pilot’s voice came through his headset.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Franklin.”

  “Take us a little east today, John. I want to show off for my guest.” He smiled at Monk. “My little part of the forest is gorgeous right now, Agent Monk. The golf course, too. Please forgive me if I take a couple of extra minutes to show you.”