“I think I will. I should know more today.”
“No hurry. I don’t mind doing it.”
“Thanks, Eileen.”
“It’s all right. How’s your girlfriend?”
“Ahhh … I think she kind of broke it off with me.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, that’s how it looks.”
“Maybe it’s temporary.”
“Probably not. She said she needs a few days to think.”
“About?”
“What a shithead I am, probably.”
Eileen laughed. “Yeah. All that time she wasted with you.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s funny,” Hastings said. “Jesus, Eileen.”
“Sorry. Are you all right?”
“I will be.”
“I’m sorry I laughed. It’s just that I saw it coming.”
Hastings thought for a moment. Then he said, “Do you and Amy talk about her?”
“No more than you and Amy talk about my husband.”
“Okay. Fair enough.”
“Let me guess,” Eileen said. “Something to do with Amy, right?”
“Eileen, I’m really not comfortable discussing—”
“She didn’t want to be a mom. Right?”
“That’s none of your—”
“George, it was obvious. I may be a neurotic mess, but I love my kid. And she’s my kid.”
“Yeah, she’s your kid.”
“You want to get married again, that’s fine. But you’re going to have a hard time finding someone who’ll take on another woman’s daughter.”
“Is that right?”
“Don’t be mad at me for saying it. It’s the truth.”
“You taking a little satisfaction from this, Eileen?”
“I wouldn’t say satisfied. Happy, relieved? … Yeah, kind of.”
“Well, that’s nice of you.”
“Well, I like to think sometimes you still love me. And I guess I was a little jealous.”
“You’re a rather greedy, vain young lady. Isn’t it enough that Ted loves you?”
“Oh, he’s a second husband. You always want to keep the love of the first. But seriously, George, it isn’t about me.”
“Well, that’d be a first. What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean, you idiot? I’m talking about Amy. You think I want the father of my daughter dating a woman who wants nothing to do with her?”
“I think ‘wants nothing to do with her’ is a little extreme.”
“What, then?”
Hastings said, “I think it’s fair to say she wasn’t all that enthused about being a stepmom. I don’t think it helped that she would have been the stepmom of your daughter.”
“So it’s my fault?”
“No, it’s not your fault.”
There was a pause. Then Eileen said, “You sure about that?”
“I’m sure,” Hastings said.
“Listen,” Eileen said. “Ted may have some defects, I know, but I don’t doubt that he likes Amy very much. In fact, he’s nuts about her. He cares for her. Something you never gave him credit for. And still don’t.”
“Well, forgive me for not having warm feelings for the man who stole you from me.”
“Oh, don’t be mushy. It doesn’t suit you. Stole me away—shit. You’re probably more grateful to him than anything.”
Hastings laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “sometimes.” And Eileen laughed with him.
“George,” Eileen said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” he said. “You’re right: It is for the best.”
“Listen,” she said, “enough time’s passed between us … we don’t have to be enemies, you know?”
“I know.”
“And you know I love you.”
“I know that, too.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
They said good-bye. Hastings walked into the bathroom, wondering at the absurdity of his life. Getting solace from Eileen, of all people.
TWENTY
The headquarters of Henderson Aerospace were in downtown Atlanta. At 5:00 P.M., the chief of security left his offices at Henderson. He got in his new BMW 760Li and drove out of the building’s parking garage at 5:05. The chief of security’s name was Richard Sinclair. At the age of sixty-nine, he had a trim, athletic figure. He had once been the executive director of the CIA. Before that, he had been the CIA’s inspector general.
At 5:08, Richard Sinclair stopped his BMW behind a bread truck at a red traffic light. That was when his passenger door opened and a man got in the car with him. The man pointed a gun with a silencer on it at him.
The man said, “Mr. Sinclair, my name is John Reese. You may not recognize me, but I think you remember my name.”
Sinclair stared at him for a moment, processing it. Then he said, “There’s been a mistake.”
“No mistake,” Reese said. “I want you to make a right at the light. Then you’re going to get on the interstate and travel north.”
“Wait a minute—”
“Let’s go,” Reese said.
Later, with the city behind them, Reese glanced at the speedometer. They were going eighty-eight miles per hour.
Reese said, “Slow down.”
“What?” Sinclair said.
“You’re trying to get pulled over,” Reese said. “It’s a bad idea. A man like me doesn’t have much to live for. I’ll kill you before a policeman can save you.”
Sinclair let the car decelerate to the limit.
“You won’t get away with this,” Sinclair said. “You’re going to have to be reasonable.”
“I’m being reasonable,” Reese said.
“You’ve just abducted a law-abiding citizen,” Sinclair said. “How did you get out anyway? Early parole?”
Reese observed Sinclair for a moment. God, the man wasn’t the least bit sorry. Confident, in fact.
Reese said, “Don’t you know?”
“How would I know? And why would I care?”
“Well, I think you’re being honest about not caring,” Reese said. “Someone took me out so they could kill me. Then I escaped.”
“They should have left you there.”
“Yeah, they should’ve. But they didn’t.”
Sinclair gave him a side glance, making no attempt to hide his disdain. Reese almost admired him for it.
“So now what’s your plan?” Sinclair said. “Kill every one who ever worked at the CIA?”
“I don’t have that kind of time.”
“You’ll get caught.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know why?”
“Tell me why.”
“Because you’re a loser. You always were. They made a mistake letting someone like you in. Uneducated, unrefined. After the Church Committee, they lowered the standards to let people like you in the Agency. State-school graduates, army rejects … men with no honor. Men with no sense of duty or country.”
“Right,” Reese said.
“Men like you don’t belong in intelligence.”
“Hm-hmm,” Reese said. “Tell me, Sinclair, did you ever do any field work?”
“In Korea, I—”
“In Korea, you worked in communications. You went from Yale to the CIA, communications to analysis to administration. I know. You think I harbor some sort of working-class grudge against you, you’re flattering yourself. The truth is, you don’t know me at all.”
“Then why kidnap me?”
“Sinclair, you know full well why I’m here. Twelve years ago, in your capacity as inspector general, you signed an affidavit swearing that the CIA did not ask me to perform any contract work after I retired.”
For the first time, Sinclair revealed signs of anxiety. His hands tightened on the steering wheel; his mouth became a grimace. Now he remembered.
In a voice less confident than before, Sinclair said, “That was not my idea.”
“Whose was it?”
“Somebody made the decision,” Reese said. “Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Reese. You know Agency politics. Nobody ever decides anything. Everything’s done by committee and/or group so that no one has to take responsibility for anything. You want to blame me, but you know—deep down you know—it wasn’t my decision.”
“My defense, Mr. Sinclair, my sole defense against the criminal charges was that I was acting with the authority from and at the direction of the CIA. Woods knew it and I know others knew it, too. Why did you abandon me?”
“We didn’t—”
“You did. You denied me. You specifically wrote and signed that affidavit.”
“I didn’t write it. I just signed it.”
Reese, his voice raised now, said, “You just signed it? You son of a bitch, do you know what that did to me? Do you understand what that did to me? That was my life you were playing with. I was helping you guys.”
“Look, it was too risky. The politics involved. We didn’t want another congressional investigative committee. We had no choice. Woods was dead. No one else wanted to stand by you. We didn’t know you.”
“Woods knew me.”
“But Woods was dead. We couldn’t be sure you were clean. So we did the—we did the politically sensible thing.”
“‘The politically sensible thing.’ You lied, you piece of shit. And I lost everything.”
“Listen to me. Listen to me,” Sinclair said, for now he was genuinely fearing for his life. “We didn’t think it would go that far. We tried to take it back.”
“Bullshit. You bore false witness against me. You who speaks of honor and duty.”
“No, we did. We tried to stop it. Clifford, Jim Clifford, the general counsel at the CIA, he told the prosecutor later that the affidavit was flawed. But the prosecutor wouldn’t listen. The prosecutor said it was ‘essentially accurate’ and that was good enough. He said you were a bad man and you needed to be punished.”
“He didn’t even know me.”
“But he believed it. He said it was too late. ‘The evidence is the evidence.’ That’s what he kept saying. ‘The evidence is the evidence.’”
“And then he went on to become a senator.”
“Yes. Yes, he did. And you can’t touch him. He was an ambitious young man and he wanted a conviction. It’s what ambitious men do. In and out of the CIA. You can’t change it now. It’s done.”
“Take this next exit,” Reese said.
“Reese, don’t do this. I can—don’t do this.”
“You can what? Sign another affidavit saying you lied the first time? Even if you kept such a promise—and I don’t think you would—who would believe it? I’ve had you at gunpoint.”
“You can’t kill me. Please. Listen to me. I’ll testify. I’ll give a deposition.”
“It’s too late for that.”
Sinclair opened his mouth to press his case further.
“Stop talking,” Reese said.
They rode in silence, save for the times Reese gave him curt directions. Left here, right there. Thirty minutes passed and they were on a narrow country road lined by trees. They were in the Chattahoochee National Forest. Richard Sinclair tried not to imagine the worst. A freshly dug grave waiting for him in the secluded woods …
Reese directed Sinclair to drive down a dirt road. Darkness enveloped them. They drove a few miles, the forest closing in.
Reese said, “Stop here. … Turn the ignition off. … Now hand me the keys. … Now get out this way. This way.” Reese gestured for Sinclair to follow him out the passenger door.
Once out, Reese made him turn around and place his hands on the roof of the car. Reese went through his pockets and found his cell phone. He put the cell phone in his pocket. Then he grabbed Sinclair by the back of his suit jacket and propelled him down the road, ahead of the car.
“Keep your hands above your head,” Reese said. “Keep walking.”
Reese kept pace a few steps behind him. Then he stopped after a few feet.
“Keep walking,” Reese said.
Sinclair continued walking, his feet sinking slightly in the soft, muddy dirt. He was conscious of the cold, the complete darkness, the helpless feeling of being alone. It was dark, but he did not contemplate running. He tried to avoid thoughts of a bullet hitting him between the shoulder blades.
A long minute passed. And another one started and Sinclair heard the car start. For a moment, he was illuminated by the car’s headlights and he saw his own shadow before him. Growing and then ending as the BMW turned around and drove off in the other direction.
After the car was out of sight, Richard Sinclair began to shake—the reaction to a near-death experience. He managed not to cry, but it wasn’t easy.
It took Richard Sinclair almost three hours of walking before he saw a house with a light. He knocked on the owner’s door and managed to talk himself in. His first telephone call was to his wife. He explained to her briefly that he had been carjacked but that he was all right. His wife asked him if he had telephoned the police. Sinclair said he had not but would take care of it later. He asked her to call their son in Smyrna to come get him.
After finishing that call, Richard Sinclair started thinking. He would have about two hours to decide what he would do.
He had almost wept out there on that dark road. Almost wept like a child. He thought now that it was because he’d been relieved that he had not been shot. The shame he felt did not extend from betrayal, but from having been frightened and, to his mind, humiliated.
His car had been stolen. He would have to report that. But what about Reese? Did the police have to know that it was Reese who’d abducted him? If they knew, they would want to know what it was all about. Who was this man who had kidnapped him? What did he want?
He had never met John Reese before tonight. Reese was a number, an unknown man working overseas. Woods had known him. But to Sinclair and other members of management, Reese had been a nonentity.
He wondered if Reese had believed him. For what he had told Reese was mostly the truth. They had tried to persuade Preston to with draw the affidavit. Maybe they hadn’t tried hard enough, but they had made some attempt. Okay, so no one had gone around the U.S. attorney’s office and informed the judge or Reese’s lawyer. But that would have been asking too much. It just hadn’t seemed that important. Reese was a nobody. For all they knew, he could have been dirty. Many of the green badgers were. Mercenaries, most of them, just trying to line their own pockets. What did they owe such people? Certainly, Gelmers had said Reese was a crook and a traitor. Selling C4 explosives to the Syrians, for God’s sake. Why had no one warned him that Reese had escaped from prison? Why hadn’t it been on the news?
The problem for now was, How much should he tell the police? If he told them the whole truth, it could bring scandal to him and his family. He might lose his well-paying job at Henderson Aerospace. He might even be subject to criminal charges for perjury and withholding evidence.
And if he didn’t say anything about Reese, what then? If he said a stranger had carjacked him so he could steal a high-dollar vehicle, what then? Would Reese go after Preston? Now Senator Preston. Would keeping silent make him partially responsible for Preston’s death?
Sinclair thought about it and decided that it wouldn’t. After all, Reese had not killed him. Maybe Reese was just insane. Maybe he just wanted vengeance in small doses. Steal a man’s vehicle, frighten him, bring him to the verge of tears. Maybe that was all he had in mind for Preston. And what did he—Sinclair—owe Preston anyway? He barely knew the man.
Besides, Preston was a senator now, and a powerful one at that. He would be well protected. Sinclair asked himself what Preston would do if their positions were reversed. He knew the answer, and it gave him some comfort.
Before his son arrived, Sinclair remembered that his car was equipped with
a GPS device. Maybe he could find the car without alerting the police at all. A phone call placed to the national dealership could resolve everything.
That was how he found the car. It was left at a downtown parking garage. He never did call the police or anyone else.
TWENTY-ONE
They had flipped a coin to see who would go in the theater with the senator and his wife. The Senator’s daughter was in the university’s play. Holiday, by Philip Barry. Hastings won the coin toss and took a seat behind the senator and Mrs. Preston. Emily Preston played the lead.
For most of the first act, Hastings was pretty bored. He probably had not seen a play performed since he was in high school. South Pacific or Oklahoma, one of those. He read the program and saw that the play had been written in the twenties, by the same guy whohad written The Philadelphia Story. Hastings watched Emily Preston and compared her to Katharine Hepburn. Emily Preston wasn’t affecting a British or a Yankee accent, but she was trying to affect something he couldn’t quite figure out. She was an attractive young lady, but too masculine-featured in the face. Not as pretty as her mother.
There were parts during the play when people in the audience laughed and Hastings didn’t. It made him think of Homer Simpson watching Garrison Keillor on television, Homer crying out, “I don’t get it.” Hastings didn’t get Philip Barry. But even he could see that the male lead had been miscast. A young midwestern student trying to channel Cary Grant or Ronald Colman, and it just wasn’t working.
He saw Klosterman in the lobby during the intermission.
“How’s the play?” Klosterman asked.
Hastings grunted.
“Do you want me to go in for the third act?”
“If you want,” Hastings said.
“If you don’t mind,” Klosterman said. “I’m getting bored out here. Any sign of an assassin?”
“No.” Hastings turned his cell phone on, checking for messages.
Klosterman said, “Carol call?”
“No.”
“You expecting her to?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d forget about it if I were you.”
The Silent Places Page 10