The Spy I Loved

by Dusty Miller

  One or two of the faces on that list were suggestive, according to the biometrics people. Their places of origin and most recent movements were interesting.

  ***

  Emil and Conrad, after carefully going over the cabin for the more obvious clues, wiped everything down. They had everything they came in with, as they drove out through the mostly symbolic gates. This was a pair of slightly-incongruous and rather badly-done totem poles standing where the road left the clearing, went out past the store and disappeared into the pre-Cambrian wilderness.

  After being useless so far, now Conrad was questioning their hasty exit.

  “But why? We know he’s up to something—and he is, after all, their biggest asset. Surely they wouldn’t have sent him here if there was nothing to be found, Emil.”

  “Yes, but he has clearly made us. And that means our job is done.” Their cover was blown.

  What part of that did the man not understand?

  There were other lakes, other fishing camps, camping and trailer parks, hotels and motels, bed and breakfasts, all sorts of places giving access to the hinterlands. They could camp anywhere on Crown land, which was almost worse than a motel—like a guerilla camp in wine-resort country.

  There were hundreds of thousands of square kilometres of Crown lands, undeveloped private lands, and parks. They had some really big wilderness parks up here although the logging roads threading every which way somewhat negated that. The parks were a façade, with logging going on a hundred metres, even less, from scenic shorelines and watercourses.

  It really was vast, he told Conrad.

  “Don’t worry. Our friend will have company every step of the way—in fact we may have had company in that camp. It’s definitely possible.” Their employer was nothing if not thorough, and seemed able to provide sufficient, even lavish funds.

  This was always a consideration—running a proper operation took money, otherwise it just wasn’t going to happen.

  Even the most fervent martyrs needed a little sponsorship sometimes. Looking in the mirror as he adjusted the volume on the radio, their dust hung in the air in a blue haze behind them. The Pines had winked out of existence—but only temporarily, to be sure.

  When they were a half a kilometre from the camp, just coming up on the first intersection, Emil stopped the truck. There was a young couple, sitting in a sky-blue sedan. Both were fair, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, and both wore steel-rimmed spectacles. The man got out, giving an impression of high-school furtiveness with the little goatee and the pot leaf emblem on his ball cap. Just their luck, a camper-truck went by, heading straight for The Pines. Inside was a family grouping with Ma and Pa in the front seat and three kids in the back. Since western intelligence agencies rarely involved the kids, there wasn’t much to worry about.

  “So. You were taken out by a sixteen-dollar part.”

  “Yes. Be careful. This one is very resourceful—but not as good an actor as he believes himself to be.” Emil glanced over at an impassive Conrad.

  He heaved a deep sigh and then gave the slender young man standing by the door a terse grin.

  “All right. Wait a half hour or so and then give it a try.”

  The gentleman handed over a set of keys and a sealed envelope, bulging with what was hopefully cold hard cash and the appropriate documents.

  “Your own arrangements are in order?” Emile handed him an SD card with some minor briefing notes, photos of the subject, maps and a few pointers recorded on it. “Ditch that as soon as you’ve read it.”

  “Yes. We’ll call you later.”

  It was unreadable to anyone’s system but their own, at least theoretically. Nothing was beyond decryption, a good rule of thumb that was ignored at one’s own peril. It had the usual auto-wipe feature in case of tampering, but at this level of investigation there wasn’t much on there anyways. Any kind of official involvement was the kiss of death to a stringer or part-time operative. You could keep all their secrets and your employer still wouldn’t ever talk to you again. They just wouldn’t risk it, assuming you weren’t a threat and they didn’t just off you. In this country, you could be out on bail for years and the jails weren’t much safer—an incongruous thought.

  Losing a lucrative, yet part-time assignment, was a pretty fit punishment sometimes. It sent a message. It didn’t invite or provoke severe reprisals on the part of foreign governments, who also had to endure a certain amount of internal surveillance. This included foreign agents, moles and their own citizens with causes of their own.

  “Call me once in a while. Don’t be calling every five minutes.” He shook his head decisively. “And good luck with those alleged lake trout. If you get a really big one, make sure you take good pictures and email the hell out of them.”

  “Absolutely.” The fellow tipped his abominable ball cap and stepped back.

  It was all part of their cover. Just a game, really. As long as all parties understood the rules, not too many people got hurt and it was really sad when they did, too. It was like the whole community mourned sometimes.

  Emil put it in gear and drove away. Their new home was less than sixteen kilometres away. He’d been having one or two thoughts on how they might go about disguising themselves. Step one might be to get rid of the mustaches. For that little operation, any sort of track going into the bush would suffice. He’d hated that damned mustache from day one.

  His plan was to go thirty or forty kilometres and look for tails. The vehicle must be swept for tracking devices. It was nothing they couldn’t deal with. They had multiple identities, and the current ones would die un-mourned.

  Different faces, different names. Different boat, different haircuts, different jackets. It was easy enough to switch rental cars. They would do more trolling next time, with the convertible top raised to keep out sun and rain. According to the weather people, there was a day or two of rain and mist coming up.

  They were driving down the road, winding through the hills, clad in their dark pines and lighter green maples, beech and oaks, with the odd birch peeping through as if it felt naked and was maybe a bit shy about revealing itself.

  “So what do you think?”

  Conrad sensed what he meant. They were being paid a per diem and expenses. It was interesting, perhaps absorbing work at times, and it was all for a good cause.

  “It’s all right.” He grinned slightly, watching the scenery go past on the passenger’s side.

  They were passing over a culvert, a vast swamp stretching off to the horizon. A person could get lost out there in a hurry, he thought.

  “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

  Conrad’s eyebrows rose but he said nothing.

  At least Emil was in a better mood now.

  Sooner or later the Englishman would get what was coming to him.

  That was all that really mattered, that and getting EMERALD.

  Get in, get the job done. Get paid, and get the fuck out.

  That’s how it would be.

  Chapter Eight

  His observers had departed, leaving fifteen minutes before he came out the door.

  He approached the boat cautiously, taking a good look at everything. It would look a bit off for a man to examine the bottom of the hull. There were times when there was this sick thrill at the possibilities, and sooner or later these turkeys would try a bomb. Standing in the water in his bare feet, Liam lifted the gunwale as high as he could get it, trying to see the whole bottom, first one side then the other. Mark was in the kiosk, becoming a bit curious, and so he gave it up. He clambered into the boat.

  Liam stuck his hand in the regular place.

  Ah. So.

  The transponder chip was still there. If so, why? While they weren’t all that expensive, it did leave a bit of a trail. It was a giveaway. Speaking of which, he peeled it off. He held it over the side with his right hand, a foot deep in the water, which would interfere with the extremely short-wave type signal. His scanner, located in his telephone, (
as he faked a short call) indicated no other devices aboard. Either they had new technology or there was nothing else there. He stuck their transponder in his pocket for the time being.

  Liam was setting off shortly after the sun had burned the mist off the lake. There were few signs of life in the camp, although he’d heard some of the other boats go out before dawn. Only a pair of crows sitting atop the outdoor lighting masts seemed to care, squawking their comments back and forth.

  The boat fired up. He undid the rope and cast off. The water was smooth as glass, looking every colour of the spectrum in some mad, splashy palette. He headed upriver, into the sunrise. It wasn’t long before he was well away from camp, idling back and enjoying the peace. It was time to deploy his rig.

  Over the side it went.

  He fished listlessly, here and there, bringing in an embarrassing number of bass, trout and some rather small pan fish which he released. With his lures trailing, he looked like any other ambitious angler out for the bigger game fish. Every so often he pulled his outriggers, stopped in water with some shallower structures, put a hook out and if he caught something, he hung onto it. He could always say the fishing wasn’t that good and then be suitably impressed when some other lucky stiff pulled out a fifteen-pounder and patiently explained how it was done, Buddy.

  His thoughts kept turning to the girl. The odds were good that the opposition had noticed their departure the other night. He wondered what they might have thought of that. To show her any sort of attention only endangered her. His cabin had not been entered in their absence. Liam had taken a calculated risk. What exactly they might have made of his computer, the only thing he’d left behind that night, was a matter of guesswork. They had already had a look, though. It was surprising they hadn’t just lifted it. That would be an intelligence coup by any normal standards. If they could crack into it. Ordinary thieves should have simply taken it, in which case after a certain number of attempted entries, the system would crash, thoroughly wiping itself in the process.

  To fool with the thing and not initiate auto-destruct took some kind of special knowledge—or instinct.

  Then there was the whole problem of Lindsey herself.

  He had no choice but to stick around for a few more days. His cover was blown, but that didn’t mean they knew very much. However, some things were clear. They knew he was here, and one must assume they knew why. To think otherwise was too optimistic. The opposition knew that a satellite had gone down from media coverage if nothing else, and they knew approximately where to look. They had some minimum of knowledge regarding EMERALD. From their point of view, to recover the debris, hopefully the guidance system and surveillance hardware, all of the onboard software, was extremely difficult. They were operating, borderline illegally, in unfriendly territory. They would only step over the line when it seemed worthwhile to do so.

  Why not, if possible, keep an eye on the Canadian and allied searchers in the hopes of snatching it out of their hands at the last minute?

  The logic was good, and now Liam was in the hot-seat. Whatever he had found was hot, in the radioactive sense, and heavy, in that it seemed to be about seventy kilograms in mass. It was also buried in the muck. It would take some digging and some lifting to get it out of there. All the while, agents from at least one unknown entity were all over them like a dirty shirt.

  It was when he caught a big mature rainbow trout in the middle of the lake that he had the perfect idea. He took the opposition’s transponder chip out of his pocket. Holding the gasping trout carefully, head up, he stuffed the chip down its gullet. He grinned to see the thing’s muscles contract and then it went down.

  He didn’t see where it went, but he was certain it hadn’t come back up, taking a quick look around his feet and even checking to see if had fallen on his shorts.

  When removing a hook from the aggressive and voracious perch of the area, he’d been amused to see not only his own little minnow, a universal bait, but the thing was tucked in amongst what looked like a half a dozen more.

  It was like they were all looking out at you with the most solemn and accusing look on their faces, mouths gaping and gills still going in some cases.

  He held the fish over the side.

  “There you go, lad. Lead them buggers a merry chase.” The thing would move at about the right speed and it would take them a while to figure out the deception.

  By that time, he would be well on his way.

  ***

  God, it was hot in this country.

  Aubrey Herschel was a rogue CIA agent. With contacts among some of the world’s major arms dealers, he was living in an airless stucco villa jammed between the sea to the north, and the coast road and the desert to the south. He had a long list of warrants and indictments waiting for him if he should be identified in the wrong country. He would be arrested on the spot and held for extradition hearings. He was wanted by the U.S., the British, and the Germans on a long series of money-laundering, espionage and arms deals. In the last couple of years, he’d only been outside of his present situation a couple of times. These were rather hairy expeditions, to places like Switzerland and Liberia, attempting to negotiate some kind of immunity in exchange for something—anything really. U.S. officials did not come here and there were times when he had to go to them.

  This was especially true now that Mossad had openly called for his assassination in some influential U.S. diplomatic and intelligence circles. The Russians, the Chinese, weren’t too happy with him either. On balance, he was always welcome in Chile—if he could get there, and was something of a national hero (going by the medals and orders bestowed upon him by a grateful Supreme Commander, the late Mister Abdullah Jones) in Togoland, on Africa’s equatorial southwestern coast.

  The trouble with taking refuge in South America was how to get there from here. If he showed his face in London, Paris, Lisbon, South Africa, it really didn’t matter where, in order to get a connecting flight, they would grab him for sure. He had very few illusions on that score. As for more indirect methods of travel, he had a luxury car, a gift from his protector. It didn’t have a hope in hell of crossing the thousands of miles of desert to the south. There were unfriendly or tightly controlled borders to east and west. Going by sea was an option. The only trouble there was getting a big enough boat…enough fuel, a captain. There was the problem of evading detection during escape and even afterwards. On the high seas he was fair game for anyone.

  His present protector had been very good to him, by his own lights at least. At first it had been a God-send. It tended to pall over time. You couldn’t get any decent wine, you couldn’t get a decent cheeseburger, and pizza was unheard-of. He was damned sick of Sigrid by this time. She was becoming a screaming harridan, soused with gin by noon most days, and wracked with her own fairly rational fears. He couldn’t even send her out of the country—she was as hot as he was, and the Mahdi would take a keen interest in their reasons for going.

  There were no really good excuses any more.

  Speck was on the line. Aubrey had a long list of cut-outs, shell companies registered in a number of handy tax and investment havens. Speck was listed as the director or CEO of more than one such entity. There were holding companies within holding companies. If he could nab EMERALD, it was a bargaining chip in more than one sense. He could sell it elsewhere, being already persona non grata in all the nice countries where he had once lived. Or, he could ransom it back for his own freedom and the right to go home. He didn’t give a shit who ended up with it, all he wanted was immunity—in writing, from the federal prosecutor and the Department of Justice.

  He had offered his testimony in any number of cases—one of the reasons why requests for meetings on neutral territory with certain officials in the State and Justice departments had been granted.

  At this point in time, he would be prepared to testify to all sorts of things. He was an embarrassment to all of his former friends. He was a gift to his enemies. His former colleagues were al
l retired and writing their sanitized memoirs.

  He was the scapegoat in more than one book.

  It was him they wanted more than anything.

  He could never go home. That was the reality. Not as things presently stood—and so the urgent need for EMERALD. The trouble was the change in administration. The new president was a liberal and a cost-cutter when it came to military expenditures. This included the intelligence community. A new broom swept clean, and Aubrey’s old cronies were on the outs. Their replacements were responsible for some kind of a budget, no matter how much of it was secret and off the books. Someone had started asking questions at Langley and from there it spread outwards. He was a big liability. He had been created by them, and he had made them rich, helped them accomplish their goals in a dozen shit-ass little countries. That’s gratitude for you.

  He loved the work.

  Aubrey had his own agenda, fighting the enemies of America. He had sucked them in ever deeper, and now they would destroy him to cover their own asses. The truth was that he had gotten a little too big for his own britches, a little too pushy, a little too rich now come to think of it…

  And now he was near enough to going broke that he had, feigning reluctance all the way, accepted an allowance from the Mahdi.

  Stuck in this godforsaken country as he was, he needed something to sell.

  The fact that he was destabilizing the West kept him in good graces with his protector. His protector also had him under heavy, full-time surveillance. This much was a given. While he treated all of the household staff members with the utmost civility, even liked one or two of them, the fact was that they owed their loyalty to someone else.

  Someone who would kill them and all of their family members if they screwed up in the slightest. Their bodies would hang in the marketplace for all to see.