by Glen Carter
“I missed you,” she croaked, wrapping him in her arms. “Seems I woke up all alone.That really sucks.”
Jack thrust a cup of coffee in her direction and kissed her on the forehead. “You looked like you needed the sleep. Besides, while you were allwarm and toasty in bed I was outside sizing up the paint job.”
Kaitlin took a seat at the kitchen table. “You really are gung-ho.”
Jack smiled at her as he opened the refrigerator. Asecond later his arms were full of eggs, cheese, and assorted vegetables. “Gung-ho for an omelette?”
“Hmmm. AmI ever.”
“Comin’ right up,my little dung-eyed princess.”
Kaitlin laughed hoarsely. “The house needs a lot of work, my prince. When’s Tommy coming back?”
“Who needs Tommy when you gotme? The Jack of all…” “Yeah. Trades. I know.”
Jack slid a cast iron frying pan onto the stove and turned on the burner. He dumped in a dollop of butter, and then took six eggs and cracked them into a bowl. He quickly sliced mushrooms and zucchini and tossed them in too, along with spices from a wooden rack above the stove. After whipping the concoction into a yellow froth, Jack drained the bowl into the sizzling pan.
Kaitlin leaned her head back and smiled broadly. “Oh, what a beautiful aroma. Now I know why I married you.”
Their eyes met. Kaitlin smiled devilishly. “That and—”
“Salt and pepper?” Jack said with a grin.
“In large amounts, please.”
It was ten minutes later, after Jack shovelled a huge portion of his famous omelette onto Kaitlin’s plate and poured her a second cup of coffee that she took her first bite and told Jack about the marching orders fromWalter Carmichael.
“You’re kidding me,” Jack said, smiling. “That’s fantastic.Who’s your producer?”
Kaitlin drew a hand across her forehead. “Maria Gonzales. And they want us in Miami fairly quickly to shoot the set up pieces.Then we’re off to Havana for the big event.”
“Gonzales? She’s not bad…pulled McCoy’s ass out of the fire on that Fallujah thing, remember?”
“Yes…I remember.”Alook ofworry crossedKaitlin’s face. “It’s a huge story.”
“Maybe the biggest story of all,” Jack teased.
“Seriously.”
“Sorry.” Jack reached over and took her hand. “It’s still just a story, Kaitlin. Nothing to get an ulcer over. It ain’t rocket science, remember. That’s rule number two.”
“What’s rule number one?”
“Never bed your producer.”
“Come on, Jack.”
Jack stopped a moment, placed his fork down, and looked deeply into her eyes. “Fronting the Cuba story is a huge deal, but believe me, you’re up to it.”
“Look what happened in Colombia.”
“Don’t even go there. Getting blown up by a car bomb and losing your memory doesn’t fall into the ‘things you can control’ category. You’re to be forgiven for not being able to make it to the dance. Besides, the network didn’t get any yarns out of me either—at least not until we got back.”
“You were too busy grieving for me.”
“Whatever.”
They both laughed. Kaitlin licked her fork and smiled, mischievously. “Whatever,my ass.”
“If you say so, babe.”
Jack had forgotten all about the car parked at the end of the driveway when he heard the knock. He walked to the front door and pulled it open. The man was standing there, with a stupid grin.
“Yes?”
“Mister Doyle?”
“That’sme.”
“Ed Malloy.” The man offered his hand.
Jack shook it. “What can I do for you?”
“I hope it’s not too early.”
“No worries. What can I do for you?” Jack took the measure of him. Grey hair cut in a style that made himn look like a cop, or an army vet. Casual clothes hung on a body that looked about twenty years past its prime, but still in decent shape. Jack placed his hands on his hips.
“You’re the Jack Doyle, right?”
Jack stiffened. He hated to hear that. One more minute and he’d tell the guy to get lost and then slam the door.
“Mister…?”
“Malloy. Ed.”
“Right.Well, Ed, you’ve been standing on my porch for what? A minute now? Not counting the time you were parked down on the road. So I’ll ask again. What can I do for you?”
Mr. Brush Cut reached inside his pocket, a move that caused Jack’s heart to hit a couple of base notes. Christ. If the guy got by him, Kaitlin was upstairs, alone. Jack took a step back. Balled his fists.
Malloy produced a business card.
Jack breathed deeply before taking it. ‘Ed Malloy. Exceptional Homes for Exceptional People’. There was a phone number with an area code that Jack didn’t immediately recognize. “Great. Now what can I do for you?”
No big deal.
Mr. Malloy seemed obsessed with Victorian houses and all he wanted was a quick tour. It seemed a simple request, and Jack was a friendly sort.
“The house was built in 1902,” Jack said, beaming. “They had to bring tradesman in from Ireland to do most of the woodwork. The man-hours they spent on the spindles must have been outrageous. Like the rest of the house, they spared no expense on the finish work.”
“Very nice.”
“Though the previous owner wasn’t much of a handyman.”
Malloy nodded. “I guess not.”
Jack was about to lead his visitor into the drawing room when Kaitlin bounded down the stairs in jeans and a blue t-shirt, stopping when she reached the bottom. “I thought I heard voices,” she said, looking from Jack to the man standing next to him.
“Ed Malloy…Kaitlin O’Rourke,” Jack said. “Ed’s a broker from Florida, scouting out Victorian property for a client down south. I told him it’s not for sale—”
Kaitlin shook Malloy’s hand. “But you get the nickel tour anyway.”
Malloy smiled warmly. “Beautiful house, Ms. O’Rourke. Too bad it’s not on the market. My buyer’s very eager to pick something up on the island.”
“Sorry,” Kaitlin replied. “Gotta dash. Enjoy the look around. See you tonight, honey.”
Jack kissed her on the cheek. “Have fun.”
Kaitlin was out the door.
Jack led Malloy into the fancy parlour.
“Hurricane lanterns are a nice touch,”Malloy said.
“Not too much?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Malloy wandered to the bay window. “When it comes to Queen Annes, the more the better. It’s all about details,” he said. “Can I see upstairs?”
Jack wasn’t comfortable with the request. There was something about the guy he couldn’t put a finger on.
Malloy took a notebook and pen from his windbreaker and started to sketch.
“Why not?” Jack said. “Have you had a chance to check out some of the other Victorian properties on the island? Charlie Fitzgerald’s got a nice place for sale overlooking the harbour. You might have seen it on your way in. Problem is he wants way too much for it.”
“Way too much,”Malloy replied with out a moment’s hesitation.
Jack stiffened. “But, from the sounds of it, your buyer’s pretty motivated.”
“Not that motivated,” Malloy grinned.
Malloy continued talking as they climbed the stairs. “I hear the previous owner was a bit of a character.”
“Yes, he was,” Jack replied. Curtly.
They reached a door at the top of the stairs. “Two bathrooms counting this one,” Jack said. Then pointing towards the end of the hall, “The guest room is there. The previous owner used it as the maid’s quarters.”
Malloy walked to it, staring down at the layer of dust beneath his feet. He went silent.
Jack immediately sensed something in Malloy that wasn’t there before. He walked up next to him. “That’s the same look my wife gave that mess.”
>
For a moment, Malloy surveyed the demolition. “Renovating old places like this,” he said. “You can find lots of surprises.”
“Some. Yes.”
“Was the room in its original state when you began to decon-struct ?”
“Pretty much.”
“How about the floor?That looks original.”
“Oak, I believe. Laid by the Irish.” Jack was growing more worried by the second. “Lasts forever.”
“That wall must have been a handful. Plaster, century-old wood. And God knows what else you’d have to cart away. How’s that going?”
“Most of it’s going right out that window,” Jack replied. “I’ve got a nice pile growing out back.”
Malloy flashed a micro-expression. Jack cringed, and then asked a question.
“Excuse me?”
“I said how long have you been in the real estate business.”
Malloy gave him a number.
“You’re a damn liar.”
Jack was thankful Kaitlin was safely out of the house. He stood there, arms folded across his chest, glaring at the phoney realtor.
“What was that?”Malloy said.
“I said bullshit.” Jack took a step closer. The less wiggle room the better if he pulled a weapon. He was an idiot for not picking up on Malloy’s baloney at the get go. Now it was too late.
“If there’s some problem—I’m sorry,” Malloy said. “Maybe if we did this another time.”
“Not a chance. Out of my house,” Jack ordered. “Before I call the cops.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Out.”
Malloy glared back. Then brushed past.
Jack was on his heels until they reached the front door. Malloy, or whoever he was, stomped out without another word. Jack kept his eyes on him until he drove away.
Real estate broker,my ass. Jack grabbed a carpenters pencil from his back pocket. He jotted the plate number down and watched as the car rolled down the driveway and sped away.
There was no Victorian house overlooking the harbour. No Charlie Fitzgerald asking an outrageous price. In fact, Jack and Kaitlin owned the only Victorian house on the island. Ed Malloy’s cheap business card was the first tip off. Great slogan, but no company name anywhere. It was a red flag that Jack had stupidly overlooked. Who was Ed Malloy and what did he want?
Jack snatched a phone and punched in a number.
Dwayne Mesner answered on the third ring. “Jack Doyle, you bastard. It’s been too long.”
Jack smiled, despite himself. “Where’s the love gone?”
“I know, I know.”
They spent a couple of minutes catching up, mostly about Mesner and his newest toys. Jack hardly understood a word. Cyber this, hyperthreading that. Jack listened to the keystrokes at the other end of the line and wondered who Mesner was hacking now. Amazed at the man’s gall. Mesner had once hacked into the Pentagon’s mainframe and then contacted Jack with a story about arms supplies to an African despot. A general had been busted as a result. “I was just doing my duty,” Mesner had stated during an interview—in silhouette. “Americans need to know their military leaders are a bunch of bozos.” Even with the threat of jail time, Jack refused to give Mesner up. Three years later, the patriot was still grateful.
“How are things on your little island ?” Mesner asked, done with the subject of super-cooled motherboards.
“You gotta get out more, Dwayne,” Jack replied. “There’s more to life than Starbucks and CPUs.”
“Yeah, right.” Mesner said, fingers tapping. “And life once flourished on the bottom of the Dead Sea too—course nothing there now but salt-sucking nematodes.”
“What?”
“Never mind. What’s up?”
Jack looked at the piece of paper with Malloy’s tag on it. “I got a job for you,” he said.
Mesner was pumped when he called back two hours later.That meant the news was good.
“It's a rental,” Dwayne said immediately.
“Damn,” Jack replied. A rental meant no direct connection between the tag and the driver. But Mesner was excited and that meant Jack was still hopeful.
“It just took a little more work,” Dwayne said. “A little more of a challenge. You know how much I like a challenge.”
“What did you find?”
“Well, your boy isn’t anything close to what he claimed he was,” said Dwayne. “The first thing I did was trace the plate. That was the easy part. Boston rental company. It was a cinch getting into their system. That’s where I found the car and the credit card for the guy renting it. Ed Malloy, right?”
“Right,” Jack replied.
“Everything fell into place after that. A few keystrokes later I’m looking at his life. He say Florida?”
“Yeah, some real estate company in Florida. Here checking out property for a client.”
“No.”
“Whaddya mean, no?”
“Guy’s never worked for any real estate company, at least none of the data bases show an Ed Malloy, realtor.”
“I already suspected that,” Jack said, reaching for a pen and paper. “Go on.”
Dwayne stopped talking. Jack heard more keystrokes.
“Jack, any reason the FBI would be interested in you?”
“Not since they threatened to throw me in the slammer when I refused to turn you in. Why?”
“Looks like they’re back…in the form of Special Agent Ed Malloy.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding. Here’s the catch. Guy’s retired. Pension of fifty-three thousand six hundred dollars a year. Checks sent to a marina in Panama City, Florida. He’s got a boat there—registered as a thirty-foot cruiser named Gee-man—FL 6671 AB. Owes a registration fee of fifty-four bucks.” Dwayne chuckled.
“Stink pot.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Jack replied. “Tell me you didn’t screw around when you were in the Bureau’s mainframe. That would make me an accessory.”
“Nah,” Dwayne replied. “Did you know Hoover wore women’s clothing?”
Jack ignored him.
“Jack?”
“What else did it say about our friend?”
“Just stuff on postings. Turned down twice for SAC in Boston. Also something about a kidnapping case he worked. It didn’t have a good outcome.”
“What’s SAC?”
“Special Agent in Charge,” Dwayne said. “Big cheese.”
“Where’d he work? Field offices, I mean. Besides Boston.”
“Different places. Last was Boston.Hey, but this is cool. Guy was on the ground in Dallas, Texas. November twenty-second, 1963. Mean anything to you, Holmes.”
“Not a thing.Why?”
“Funny.”
“That’s it?’
“That’s all for now.”
“Stay out of trouble, Dwayne. And thanks.”
“No problem. Catch ya later.” Mesner hung up.
8
MONTREAL
Hello, son-in-law.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s not like you to worry.”
“You insult me.”
“It was not my intention. How were you discovered?”
“I won’t say, here.”
“The call is secure. Speak freely.”
Poole would not. Ears were everywhere, especially from above. He was alive, but he’d been careless somehow and it had nearly gotten him killed.
“Are you there, son-in-law?”
“Your son-in-law is dead.”
“No matter. Are we well?”
“Yes.”
“But the loss was complete.”
“It was.”
Poole clamped shut his eyes.The missile had detonated with a flash that nearly blinded him. Then the concussion. His ears had bled. Half the Taliban men were killed in the firefight that followed. Poole
had managed to escape. Stumbling through the night until he reached the
village. It was all gone. Kirill. The bunker. His opium.
“They won’t be happy in Moscow.”
“Fuck them. I’m the one who’s owed.”
“Understandable.”
“Does this call have a point?”
“It does.”
“Go on.”
“There is someone for you to meet.”
“Then handle it.”
“In the usual way?”
“You know what to do.”
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“You insult me again.”
Poole hung up. He placed the cellphone on the floor and lay down next to it. The wood was cool against his face. He counted a hundred push-ups after which the muscles in his chest seemed hot to touch. He rolled over and completed three dozen crunches. Breathing evenly, his heartbeat steady; he took a magazine from a stack on the coffee table next to him. Most of them dealt with the same man. He’d read them all.
A glossy face stared back at him, a man exuding power and confidence. The currency of any true leader. Under other circumstances, Poole might have been impressed. He felt suddenly energized. A meeting would take place. The man on the phone would lay the framework for that. Then the work would start. Poole was ready.
He rose from the floor and surveyed his surroundings. His little hideout had served him well, but once gone, he could never return. It didn’tmatter. He had something else in mind.
They had fucked him. Now the assault would be reciprocated. Poole smiled to himself, then raised his boot and smashed the cellphone at his feet.
9
An hour after speaking with Dwayne Mesner, Jack was standing in the cool of the shed, staring vacantly at unopened cans of green paint. He was thinking about cracking one open, at least get a whiff of it to get him in the mood. After that, maybe he’d change his clothes, come out and throw up a ladder and then start painting the trim on the front of the house, which right now was the last thing he wanted to do. Jack was damned by taking on work for which he was neither qualified nor enthusiastic. He was still bothered by his visitor. He squinted at his watch and decided it was too nice a day to be climbing a ladder anyway. Taking his life in his hands. If Malloy missed the morning ferry, he’d be waiting for the one that docked in an hour. Jack decided to take a ride.