The Phoenix Egg

by Richard Bamberg

  Holdren took the receiver and put the suitcase back the way he had found it. He flipped the receiver on and examined its display. Nothing. She was out of range.

  Never leave important matters to an underling. He should have placed the transmitter himself.

  He pulled the door shut behind him and unlocked his own room. Except for a couple of shirts on hangers, Holdren’s clothes were still in his suitcase. He was always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

  His equipment case sat on the dresser. There were no photos of ex-wives on Holdren’s dresser. He’d never found the time to marry and raise rug-rats. His country always came first, and someone had to protect it from those who were always chipping away at its foundations.

  Holdren lifted the small gold chain with the inch long cross from under his shirt and slipped it over his head. He inserted the base of the cross into the hole in the front of his case and then dialed in the combination.

  Anyone attempting to open his equipment bag without both the cross and the proper combination would be making an unplanned trip to the morgue.

  He popped the catches and opened the lid.

  Like Romax, he carried cash, a spare passport, and spare credit cards, all in a fictitious name, among the other items he considered essential for any field operation.

  The night vision goggles were the latest thing and looked more like a pair of fashionable Ray-Bans than the older low light scopes. He took them out, checked the charge, and then slipped them into a jacket pocket.

  His answering machine’s message light blinked. He wondered what Cronski wanted now. He probably just wanted to keep up with the operation. Cronski always tried to micro-manage Holdren’s work, but then again, maybe the crew assigned to Corning had found something.

  Flipping open the case, he woke up the main processor, placed his thumb on the pad to verify his identity, and then ordered a replay of messages.

  The flat screen came online, and he saw Cronski’s image appear. His face bore the telltales of daily stress. That wasn’t good for a man his age. Deep lines shadowed Cronski’s face all the way to his hairline. At least the man maintained a healthy crop of hair. Holdren wondered if he’d had implants or one of the new drug therapies.

  Cronski’s voice sounded thin and soft.

  “Volume up.”

  “Bitter and Reed screwed up the Los Alamos assignment. They killed Corning without questioning him. We’ve learned that he had the prototype in his possession for a couple of days before his untimely demise. Unfortunately, he either passed it on to a buyer or stashed it somewhere. We need his partner alive until we recover it. That’s an order. No matter what, you must make sure she stays alive until then.

  “You should have had time to search her things by now. Why haven’t you reported in? I won’t stand for your normal methods on this job. You report in with developments, or I’ll send someone to relieve you. Do I make myself clear?”

  Holdren frowned sadly.

  Cronski just didn’t understand the complexity of fieldwork. These days there were too many players involved. You had to be careful and even then, there were times you were forced to improvise.

  Cronski hadn’t been with Holdren back in the cold war days and had moved into the agency from the CIA only five years ago. Holdren’s sources said Cronski made the lateral transfer to avoid being fired over some screw up in the Balkans.

  He shut down the computer without replying to the message and closed his case. Returning the cross to his neck, he went into the bathroom.

  The sight of his reflection’s bandaged nose made him frown again. “Keep her alive. Well, he didn’t say in what condition.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The fog was thicker near the water, and she almost missed the turnoff to Fisherman’s Wharf. She pulled the taxi onto a side street and parked it in front of a closed business near the mariner’s museum.

  She killed the engine and sat for a moment watching the street. It wasn’t deserted, but the few people she could see were on the next block and facing away from her. Caitlin opened the door. The interior light stayed out. Seeing the cabby’s body, she felt a wave of pity for him. She accepted her share of the responsibility for his death. Did he have a wife, children? She should see them and explain that he’d been killed trying to help her, but she had to wait, wait until she was safe.

  Caitlin swung her legs from the seat and got out. Then she took a penlight from her purse, flicked it on, and played it around the front seat. On the floor, light glistened off metal. Leaning over, she picked up the small handgun that Holdren had mentioned.

  Turning to rise, Caitlin found herself looking into the dead man’s open eyes. They were brown, but a third dark eye glistened wetly just above the bridge of his nose. Seconds passed before Caitlin could break away from his sightless stare.

  She straightened and put the gun into her purse. His name. She should at least know his name. Her light played across the dash and lit a photo ID of Lucas Griffin.

  “Thank you, Lucas.” She reached down and gently pressed his eyelids closed. When she pulled her fingers away, his eyes remained closed.

  She’d better get moving. But first, she grabbed a crumpled hamburger wrapper from the floor and used it to wipe down the steering wheel and everything else she could remember touching.

  Except for Lucas’ eyes. She stared at the wrapper and at Lucas. Then with her free hand, she softly ran her fingertips across his lids, smearing whatever fingerprints she might have left.

  Getting out of the cab, Caitlin pushed the door shut, and then wiped off the handle.

  She looked up and down the street. Seeing no one, she turned toward the wharf and started walking. At the corner, she dropped the hamburger wrapper into a trash can before crossing the street.

  A few minutes later, she reached the wharf. There was a small crowd, but nothing like what she’d seen on more pleasant nights. She stopped under a street lamp and eyed her reflection in a storefront window. Her blouse and jacket were rumpled, and a twig clung to her hair. Both of her knees looked like she had been crawling through grass. She plucked the twig from her hair, took a brush from her purse, and ran it through her hair a few times. As always, it fell back into place with a minimum of fuss.

  Her pantyhose proved more difficult. Caitlin walked back up the street to the next corner and went around it. The side street was deserted, for the moment. After making sure no one could see her, Caitlin pulled up her skirt and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her pantyhose. She stripped them down to her ankles in one clean motion, then stepped out of one shoe at a time and pulled the pantyhose off. Wadding them into a small ball, she wiped them across her knees several times, and then stuffed them into her purse before slipping her shoes back on.

  She stopped in front of the window again. The marks on her knees were nearly gone. Caitlin brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt with the back of her hand then headed across the street. Her bare feet stuck to the bottom of her shoes then pulled loose with each step. At the entrance to Alliotto’s she hesitated, turned to look around once more. No one appeared to be interested in her. Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Caitlin went inside.

  The hostess, a strikingly beautiful, fiftyish woman, eyed her softly as she approached. “Good evening. Will you be dining?”

  “Yes, but I need to make a stop first. Where’s the ladies’ room?”

  The hostess nodded her head. “That way, miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the empty ladies’ room, she used the first stall, and then went to the sink. The mirror’s clear reflection revealed more flaws than the storefront window had. She wet a paper towel and washed her face and legs. Then she opened her purse and removed her makeup case. It held the basics, mascara, lipstick, and powder. Caitlin used each sparingly, and then eyed her reflection one more time. Much better, not perfect, but much better.

  She put everything back in her purse and went out to meet the hostess. The older woman gave her an ap
proving smile.

  “Right this way.” Carrying a menu, she led Caitlin to a table next to the window and pulled a chair out for her.

  “May I send a waitress over with a before dinner drink?” She held out the menu as Caitlin sat.

  “Yes, please, a brandy Manhattan, with olives. Ah, make it a double.”

  Caitlin felt uncomfortable ordering a double, but she needed to calm down as much or more than she needed to keep her wits about her.

  The hostess nodded and moved away. Caitlin scanned the dining room, quickly taking in each patron. None appeared threatening or appeared to take any notice of her.

  At the near end of the room, above the door to the kitchen, an exit sign glowed dimly. Looking over her shoulder, she could see the hostess’s podium near the front door. It felt comfortable to be near an exit, but she got out of her chair and sat down in the opposite chair so she could see anyone entering the dining room from the front.

  She looked over the menu and had narrowed her selection to a few things by the time the waitress arrived with her drink. Caitlin made the final cut, ordering calamari for an appetizer and a shark steak for her entree.

  As soon as the waitress left, Caitlin picked up the glass and downed a third of the Manhattan in one gulp. Its smooth warmth spread to her stomach.

  Now what, Ms. Maxwell? You’ve shaken the killer for now, but you’re a thousand miles from home and don’t know who to trust. The first order of business is to get some food in you, and that’s taken care of. But then what? You can’t trust anyone in this town, certainly not the police. Who else is in on this? Is that Romax character a real policeman? Is Patricia Ferguson in with them or did she really call the police? Holdren implied they had patrol cars available and certainly no one but the police had access to patrol cars. And just what the hell do they want with you?

  She needed help, but from whom? The only person she knew in San Francisco besides Koenig and Teigue, and she wasn’t sure she could trust them, was ... John Blalock. God, she hadn’t seen him in twelve years. Only by accident had she even learned he was in San Francisco. She’d come across a reference to him on the Web a few months ago and had tracked it to a home page that indicated he now did business in the Bay Area. She could probably trust him or at least she had been able to once, but she hadn’t seen him since before her wedding.

  A lot had changed since then.

  He’d once saved her life. Would he be as willing to do it again?

  The calamari arrived. It had been sautéed in garlic and lemon before being browned in olive oil and tasted delicious. While she munched on it, Caitlin took the notebook computer from her purse. She pushed the appetizer plate to one side, set the notebook down, and powered up. She logged into the restaurant’s free Wi-Fi. Activating her Web browser, Caitlin searched the area phone directories for John Q. Blalock, but it yielded nothing. She dropped out of the telephone database and called up a search engine. A minute more and she had a list of references to John Blalock.

  One was the item she’d noticed last month. The article concerned the return of stolen industrial secrets to a small Bay Area firm by the Blalock Security Service of San Francisco. It provided a brief bio of the owner of the service. When it mentioned the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs, Caitlin realized it had to be John Q. Blalock.

  She cross-referenced to Blalock Security Service and found its Web page address. Accessing it, she received a list of services offered and a list of references to past employers of the Blalock Security Service. She recognized many of the companies on that list.

  The page had the usual feedback notation at the bottom, but it also had an emergency response button.

  Caitlin clicked on it, and her screen went red. A second later, an icon, a yellow rose with the electrical symbol for a lightning suppressor, appeared with the subscript.

  “Searching–”

  Caitlin watched the screen for a minute, growing impatient, but then the subscript changed to: “Found–”

  She waited another thirty seconds, then the screen shifted into a chat mode with Blalock Security Service at the top and her screen log-on at the bottom.

  “You have an emergency?” appeared in the top box.

  Caitlin put down her fork and typed. “Yes, I do. Is this John?”

  “Yes. State your problem.”

  “John, this is Caitlin Maxwell, from Colorado.”

  There was a noticeable hesitation before the next line appeared. “Hello, Caitlin. It’s been awhile. What’s your emergency?”

  “Is this secure?”

  “As secure as anything can be.”

  “I’m in San Francisco. I’m being hunted by people I don’t know. They’ve broken into my room, tried to kill me.”

  He responded immediately, “Are you safe where you are?”

  “I don’t know. I’m in a public place.”

  “Safe enough for the moment then. Do you want to go into detail?”

  “Not over the net. I used the restaurant’s Wi-Fi, but they may be able to track it back to me.”

  “Right, I’ll meet you. I’m going to send an encrypted address. The decryption key will be–”

  Caitlin leaned back. Security over the web was always a problem. You couldn’t encrypt things unless the other party knew the decryption key and you couldn’t send it to them through unsecured channels, or anyone else could use it to decrypt the same message. How was he going to do this?

  Letters appeared on the screen. “The name of the last place I saw you.”

  Ah, that limited the choices. “All right.”

  “Sending.”

  A download symbol appeared briefly and then disappeared.

  “File received. How soon?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “All right, I’ll–”

  Caitlin stopped typing as she noticed movement by the entrance. A woman, wearing a dark suit with her blond hair pulled back in a tight knot, had come in, and stood talking to the hostess. She appeared to be showing her a photo.

  A premonition seized Caitlin. She killed the connection and quickly returned the notebook computer to her bag. She stood up.

  The hostess shook her head and handed the photo back to the stranger.

  Turning away, Caitlin walked slowly toward the nearest exit. When she ducked into the kitchen, she spotted her waitress.

  “Excuse me,” Caitlin said and touched the young woman on the arm.

  The woman turned and started as she realized who was talking. “You shouldn’t be back here, ma’am.”

  Caitlin dropped her voice into a conspiratorial tone. “Look, my ex-boyfriend just came in the restaurant looking for me. We broke up a few weeks ago, and he’s been really pushy trying to get me to come back. I don’t want to have a public scene with him. You know how some men are–”

  “Do I ever.”

  As the waitress spoke, Caitlin fished a roll of bills from her purse. She peeled off a pair of fifties and held them out. “Do you think you could show me the back way out of here and then forget about me?”

  The waitress stared at the money. She nodded. “But there’s no need to pay me. I’ll take fifty to pay for your food and drink, but I’ll be happy to help you duck the bum.”

  “Please, consider it a tip,” Caitlin said, still extending both bills.

  “All right then.” She took the bills, and they disappeared into a pocket in her blouse. “This way.”

  Caitlin followed her through the kitchen to the rear door. The waitress held the door while Caitlin examined the loading dock. No one was in sight.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Anytime.”

  Caitlin walked quickly past dumpsters that smelled strongly of fish and sour milk and then slowed as she approached the street. Hugging the wall, she peered around the corner. A light green Ford sat at the curb by the front entrance. Another woman, dressed much like the one inside, stood by the driver’s door.

  Who in hell were these people?


  Were they with Romax and Holdren?

  Caitlin noticed the license plate. It was a federal government plate. She took a photo with her cell’s camera. Just as she turned to slip away, another car screeched to a halt next to the first.

  The front doors opened. Romax and Holdren stepped out.

  CHAPTER 8

  Holdren climbed out before Romax could kill the engine and strode purposefully toward the agent stationed at the front of Alliotto’s. He took his identity card from a breast pocket and flashed it in the woman’s face.

  “Agent Bailey?” he asked.

  The muscular woman eyed his ID. She studied it as though memorizing its information. “Wesson, Special Agent Bailey’s inside.”

  Wesson was average height for a female NCIX agent, about five feet eight and from the way her muscles stretched the sleeves of her jacket, she had to weigh over one-fifty.

  “Inside? I thought I made myself clear that no one was to approach the suspect until I arrived.”

  “Yeah, well Agent Bailey thought it made more sense to check the place out and see if the suspect had already left. There’s not much point in standing around waiting for someone who’s not going to show.”

  Holdren felt a familiar pounding in his temples. He should have known better than expecting the local NCIX agents to take orders from outside their chain of command.

  “She did, did she? If she’s spooked the suspect, there’ll be hell to pay when I talk to the director. I didn’t go through months of work to see someone else barge into my case and fuck it up.”

  Wesson’s attitude chilled. “Cool down, Agent Holdren. We haven’t fucked anything up. I’ve been watching the outside since she went in and no one has come out. But come to think of it, we were told you had her and let her get away once tonight already.”

  “Yeah? Well, don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “What makes you think she’s coming here anyway? The assistance request didn’t specify.”

  “She took a cab from the Pacific Rim and gave this destination.”

  “Did you talk to the driver?”