Never Trust A Lady

by Kathleen Creighton

  “On March fifteenth, our agents in Kuwait received a, uh, communication purporting to be from Jarek Singh, who, as you know, was an Indian computer expert reported missing and presumed kidnapped from his home in Cairo at the end of the Gulf War.”

  Devore said, “Ours came to our bureau in Ankara.”

  “They were apparently identical. We know Scotland Yard, the CIA and the Israelis each got one, too. We don’t know how many others. In the. uh, communication-” which Hawk knew had come via computer, in the mysterious and incomprehensible manner fully understood only by hackers and wizards “-Mr. Singh claims to have been kidnapped by agents of Saddam Hussein and forced to design and program the security system for an elaborate secret facility built as a hideaway for Hussein’s stockpile of chemical and biological weapons. Most of which, as you know, did not turn up during our inspections after the war. We know they existed. Where are they now? Mr. Singh claims to know exactly where, as well as how to circumvent the facility’s security system, and has offered this information to the highest bidder. Unfortunately-” he paused as Devore coughed and shifted in his seat “-we have reason to believe this offer was also made to some very undesirable and dangerous bidders.”

  “Khadafy, for one,” said Devore.

  The coordinator nodded. “For one. North Korea and China, almost certainly. Others we can only guess at.” He looked unspeakably glum.

  “In all fairness to Singh,” Campbell remarked, speaking for the first time, “he must have known he was a marked man. It would have taken a lot of money to put himself and his family out of Saddam’s reach.”

  “He expected Saddam to pay him off,” said Devore, “with the promise that, if he didn’t, or if anything happened to him in the meantime, the information would go elsewhere.”

  “Something like that. We can’t know precisely what Singh had in mind. We know he delivered only enough with his offer to demonstrate the probable accuracy and authenticity of what he had. The rest is inaccessible except with a key, which is what he was offering for sale. It was a clever enough plan.”

  “Except,” muttered Hawk, “Singh wound up dead anyway.”

  Once again the coordinator nodded. “His body turned up in an alley not far from his home in Cairo on March seventeenth. Estimates are he’d been dead at least three days. So apparently, Saddam’s agents caught up with Singh before his communication reached Baghdad.”

  “And so,” Devore said dryly, “begins the treasure hunt.”

  “Some treasure,” said Hawk,

  “A treasure map, certainly. The map to enough chemical and biological agents to wipe out the entire population of the globe several times over. And unlike conventional weapons, almost impossible to detect by existing security systems. A vial the size of a cigarette, a few drops of a deadly virus in the water supply of a major city…”

  The coordinator took a breath and went on, “It’s absolutely imperative that Jarek Singh’s key doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. We searched Singh’s house immediately, of course; it had been ransacked before we got there.” His eyes flicked to Devore and settled appraisingly on Hawk.

  Hawk said nothing. Devore sat forward in his wheelchair, leaning one forearm on the table as he quietly said, “We also found it so. However, our agent-” he indicated Hawk with a nod “-observed a faint marking on one wall, which suggested a painting had hung there-a mark that did not fit any painting in the house. It seemed reasonable to assume that whoever had broken into the place had taken it, but when asked about it, Mrs. Singh said her husband had suddenly shown up the day before the communications from him began arriving-”

  “That would be the day we assume he was killed,” said Campbell.

  “Right According to Singh’s wife, he was very excited about something, and in a great hurry. She thought he seemed frightened, as well. Anyway, he packed up this particular painting and told her to mail it, then pack her things and go stay with her mother in Giza until she heard from him. He gave her the address of an antiques dealer in Marseilles-”

  “Loizeau,” the coordinator offered, although everyone there knew the name.

  Devore nodded. “Then Mr. Singh left again and that was the last his wife saw of him. She did as he’d told her and went off to her mother’s, stayed there until she learned of her husband’s death, when she returned to find her house a shambles.” He raised his eyebrows at Hawk. “Would you like to take it from here?”

  Hawk didn’t say anything for a moment. He’d rather not have been there at all, if the truth were told. He hated meetings like this, always had. In his opinion, they were a waste of time. He knew where he needed to be, which was out there tracking down those other paintings. Most of which, it appeared, according to the records of the auction house, were in a town called Cooper’s Mill, North Carolina.

  Sprawled in his chair, idly spinning a pencil on the polished tabletop, he looked across at Campbell and said casually, “You know, something else Mrs. Singh couldn’t seem to find was the shipping receipt from when she mailed that painting. She said she came straight back home to pack, and left it on top of the dresser in the bedroom. You guys take it?”

  Campbell and the coordinator looked at each other. Campbell said quietly, “We found out about Loizeau’s having the painting the same way you did. Mrs. Singh told us.”

  “So,” said Hawk, sitting up straight, “that means whoever trashed Singh’s place probably found it, went straight to Loizeau’s. got the information about the auction from him and then killed him. I’d be curious to know,” he added, looking across at Campbell, “how you guys found out about that auction.”

  There was another uncomfortable silence; rival law enforcement agencies never enjoyed revealing their sources and methods. This time it was the coordinator who said, without expression, “We had immediately placed Loizeau’s shop under electronic surveillance.”

  “Ah,” said Hawk, smiling slightly. Phone tap, of course.

  “I’d like to ask you that same question,” said Campbell, his eyes glittering. “Loizeau was dead when you got there?”

  “That’s right,” said Hawk evenly, showing his teeth.

  “So, it would appear,” said the DECCA coordinator, unnecessarily shuffling through the file in front of him, “that only three people were able to follow the trail as far as Rathskeller’s. The two of us-” his nod took in Hawk as well as Devore “-and whoever ransacked Singh’s house and killed Loizeau. Are we in agreement that those two are most likely one and the same?”

  Three nods answered. “All right, then-”

  But whatever the DECCA coordinator had been about to say would have to wait, because right then someone’s beeper went off. The coordinator reached for his, checked the number and handed it to Campbell. “It’s IAFIS.”

  Alarm ran through Hawk like an electrical charge. It couldn’t be his sample, the prints lifted from Jane’s tube of toothpaste. It was too soon. A futile search through the millions of prints in the FBI’s data banks should take hours, even days.

  Campbell went to a phone on the wall near the door and punched in a number. He spoke quietly, then listened, eyes on the floor. After a moment or two, those same eyes, glittering bright, found Hawk across the room. And then, carelessly covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he said, “That fingerprint sample you delivered this afternoon? It seems IAFIS has a match.”

  Chapter 12

  “Impossible,” Hawk muttered. He stood by the windows, tensely smoking. Not Jane. No way. I don’t believe it. Impossible.

  “I’m afraid,” the coordinator said mildly, “it’s not only possible, it’s a fact.” He glanced at Campbell, who nodded.

  “Atkinson says he’s never seen IAFIS get a hit so fast, or so positively. The thumbprint lifted from that toothpaste tube you sent them is a perfect match with the one you guys found on the shopping list in Loizeau’s pocket. And-” it was his turn to flick a confirming glance at Devore “-the one from the Flight 310 bomb fragment.”

  �
��I’m not saying it isn’t,” growled Hawk, “I’m just saying it can’t be Jane’s. My God, if you’d ever met the woman-”

  “I have met her,” Campbell said under his breath. There was a rueful twist to his mouth, and he was absently rubbing a spot on his midsection, just below his ribs.

  Hawk snorted, and muttered for the FBI agent’s ears only, “Why in the hell didn’t you just ID yourself?”

  “I was about to when she decked me. I don’t know how-”

  “Lucky shot. Don’t feel bad. Believe me, she was at least as surprised as you were.”

  Then aloud he said as he strode angrily across the room to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray the coordinator had politely produced, “Dammit, I’m just saying this woman is no terrorist. There has to be some explanation.”

  “I can think of one,” Campbell unexpectedly said. Three pairs of eyes focused on him. It was Hawk’s he chose to meet, his own eyes glittering dangerously. “Cadysle wasn’t alone at that auction. She shared a ride, and she shared a hotel room. Maybe that’s not all she shared.”

  No one spoke. Hawk felt his heart lurch and his pulse quicken, not sure whether or not to be glad that someone else had finally given voice to the suspicion that had been nibbling at him for a white, now.

  Devore coughed and said, “You are suggesting Carlysle had an accomplice? The woman she was with…”

  The coordinator glanced down at his file and supplied, “Connie Vincent.”

  “I’m saying, when I went down-” and Campbell flushed brick red under his olive skin “-Cartyste was in her seat, bidding. Vincent wasn’t. I felt something-a prick, like an insect bite-on my thigh. I remember thinking I must have an ant in my pants, and what the hell was I going to do about it, because I couldn’t leave the bidding right then, and the next thing I know I’m looking up at all these worried faces.” He shook his head and made a sound replete with self-disgust. “All I know is, there’s no way Carlysle could have been responsible.”

  Again there was silence, until Devore diffidently cleared his throat and said, “Agent Hawkins?”

  “Vincent bought the other paintings,” Hawk said with a carefully noncommittal shrug. “She could have pulled the switch.”

  And Jane knows it, he thought. He was remembering their conversation in the truck, Jane’s sudden silence and subsequent evasiveness.

  He paced again to the windows, reaching for his cigarettes with jerky, angry motions. He was furious with her for not telling him her suspicions, with himself for not figuring it out sooner. Most of all, though, he was furious with himself for dismissing someone as a suspect solely because she was a woman. Well, perhaps not solely-he’d suspected Jane, after all.

  But for God’s sake, he thought in disgust, Vincent looks like somebody’s mother. All right, so Ma Barker was somebody’s mother, too. But…she wore those damn glasses on the end of a chain, like a librarian, or his second-grade music teacher. And button-up-the-front sweaters.

  He stared out the window and drew deeply on his cigarette while a chill scattered goose bumps down his spine. Pink sweaters. That’s what he was thinking of. Pink sweaters made of Merino wool.

  She knows.

  Yes, there was no doubt in his mind that Jane had figured it out. The question was, what was she thinking of doing about it? He thought again of Loizeau, and the possibilities terrified him.

  Behind him, Devore coughed and said, “If Vincent does have Jarek Singh’s painting…”

  “I think it’s safe to assume it’s for sale,” said the DECCA coordinator.

  “And.” said Campbell, “we’re fairly sure she hasn’t moved it yet”

  “How do you know she hasn’t?” Hawk asked, turning.

  “We’ve had agents in Cooper’s Mill since early yesterday,” the coordinator said blandly, while Campbell again flushed dark underneath his tan. “Since we, uh, lost track of Mrs. Carlysle in Georgetown. They’ve been concentrating on Carlysle, of course, but it’s a small town. They haven’t reported any unusual activity, any strangers in town. My guess is, it’ll take some time to broker a deal and arrange for pickup or delivery-”

  “But not too much,” murmured Devore. “She must know we would be onto her sooner or later.”

  The coordinator nodded, looking grim. “It’s possible Mrs. Carlysle has been a red herring-designed to give Vincent just enough time to complete her deal. Once Singh’s key is out of her hands, we’d have a devil of a time proving it was ever there.”

  Hawk made a growling sound deep in his throat. The DECCA coordinator glanced at him as he placed both hands on the table and abruptly stood. “All right then-Agent Campbell, you will leave immediately for Cooper’s Mill. You will coordinate the surveillance efforts down there, concentrating now, of course, on Mrs. Vincent. And we’ll have a Hostage Rescue Team in place and ready to move in if anything does break.

  “I imagine you-” he nodded to Hawk with a thin smile “-win want to clarify as soon as possible exactly which of the prints on that tube of toothpaste belong to Mrs. Carlysle and which do not.” Hawk nodded a grim confirmation. The coordinator also nodded, making it a dismissal. “A helicopter is standing by. Agent Hawkins, you’re welcome to hitch a ride.”

  Hawk glanced at Devore for a confirming nod, then muttered, “Thanks,” and headed for the door. Behind him, Aaron Campbell pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Hawk could feel the FBI man’s glittering black eyes resting appraisingly on him as he followed him out of the room.

  It was late afternoon by the time Jane got home, tired, depressed and still frustrated and fuming over the fact that she’d been forced to fly all the way to Charlotte, for heaven’s sake, and then wait for another connection back to Raleigh-Durham, because, as it turned out, there was no such thing as a direct flight from Greenville to Raleigh.

  Then she’d had to explain to Lynn, who’d been anxiously waiting for her at the gate, why she’d arrived on a flight from Charlotte instead of Washington. But that was easy. She’d simply told her daughter the truth, that she’d been unable to get a direct flight. These days, who could?

  And it had been equally easy explaining her lack of luggage. “It got lost-they’re sending it on later,” she’d said in an irritable tone, and instantly won her well-traveled daughter’s sympathy.

  “Did you file a claim?” was the first thing Lynn had thought of. “You know-in case it doesn’t turn up. The things you bought at the auction-”

  “Those I have,” Jane had said, holding up her tote bag. “And I took care of everything in Charlotte. By the way, where’s Tracy?”

  “She’s at Dad’s. And could you please drop me by there, on your way home? That’s why we haven’t been home all day. Good thing we thought about checking the messages, huh? We’ve been trying to reach you at the hotel all weekend. Dad wants us to go skiing with him. We’re driving up tonight. He’s got the resort booked for the whole week, isn’t that cool? He got this great deal at the resort, because it’s the end of the season, you know? That’s always the best time to go-either that or really early. He said I could bring Kevin, and Tracy could bring anybody she wanted, but it was such short notice Kevin couldn’t get off work, and Tracy couldn’t find anybody that could go either, so it’s just us. And Dad and Pamela, of course.”

  “Who’s Pamela?”

  “Dad’s new girlfriend. She’s pretty cool. She’s only a couple years older than me, I think.”

  “Than I,” Jane had murmured automatically, feeling unspeakably tired.

  Much too tired to fight David on this ski-trip notion of his, not that she would probably have done so anyway. It wasn’t that she never stood up to her ex-husband; she’d just learned to pick her battles carefully.

  And so, it was without further argument that Jane made the detour into Raleigh to drop off Lynn and her baggage at her father’s tree-shaded two-story brick house on its elegant, old-money street. Though maybe there was a little bit of selfishness in her lack of resistance, as well. It wouldn�
�t be such a bad thing, she thought, to have a week by herself to decompress. Recover her equilibrium. Reestablish contact with reality.

  And there was that other matter, too. The one she’d been trying so hard not to think about. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I’ll find out. Tomorrow I’ll know.

  She pulled into her own graveled driveway just in time to watch the sun drop into a lake of molten gold.

  No dogs came running to greet her as she drove her station wagon into the carport; no cat came to wind, complaining, around her ankles when she unlocked her door. Since dogs and cats did not tend to mix well with the local indigent wildlife, it had long ago been put to a family vote whether to opt for pets or for bird and squirrel feeders, and salt licks for the deer that came at twilight and dawn, and cracked corn for the mallard ducklings that hatched in the sheltered coves in the spring, and the Canadian geese that grazed and made messes on the sweep of grass that ran from the rear deck down to the water’s edge. The vote had been unanimous, although there had been times when the girls, particularly Tracy, had been sorely tempted by the frequent kitten-and-puppy giveaways in front of the Winn Dixie.

  The house seemed unnaturally quiet, its rooms filled with an aura of expectancy, as if they waited in hushed suspense for the return of laughter and running footsteps and the blare of MTV. This is what it will be like soon, thought Jane. From now on.

  From the kitchen windows she watched cardinals and chickadees and goldfinches peck at the overflowing feeders, pleased to see that Tracy had remembered to fill them before she left, as she’d been told to do.

  Carrying her tote bag into the living room, she placed it on the couch and withdrew the painting. Eagerly, she tore off the wrappings. She carried the painting over to the nice little spinet piano she’d bought with part of her divorce-settlement money, and moving aside the metronome and her parents’ framed wedding portrait, placed the picture on top of the piano, leaning it against the wall. Then she took a step back.