Before she could form a workable theory, a floorboard creaked, and the door eased open.
She planted her feet in a fighting stance, considered pulling out the corkscrew, and decided against it. Daniel, her Krav Maga instructor, counseled using one’s body as a weapon whenever possible—it was unlikely to be used against you by your assailant the way a gun, a knife, or even a corkscrew might. She raised her fists up to her cheeks and waited.
Three seconds later, a tall, lean figure slipped into the shadowy hallway. The intruder wore a dark, hooded coat and was in stocking feet. The first sound she’d heard had probably been him removing his shoes or boots so he could pad undetected through the house where her children lay sleeping.
Her children. Finn. Fiona.
Her fear bloomed into fury, and she didn’t hesitate. She pulled back her left fist and rotated it into position, dropped her hips, then drove a powerful uppercut into the trespasser’s chin. She connected with jawbone, and his head snapped back and banged against the wall.
And then, with a motion so fast she never saw it, his hand snaked out. He clenched her throat, one-handed, squeezing off her air supply and lifting her feet from the floor.
She clawed at his hand, pulling at his fingers until, finally, she wrenched his pinky free and bent it back until she heard a satisfying snap. He howled and loosened his grip.
She raised her right knee and aimed it at his groin, but he swept her left leg out from under her with a quick kick. She toppled backward into the kitchen and bounced off the dishwasher. She landed in a heap on the floor.
She scrambled to her feet and yanked the corkscrew from her pocket just as he flipped on the kitchen lights.
She blinked in the sudden brightness, then squinted to see if she recognized the intruder who blinked back at her.
He was an old man. His face was pale and papery against the hood of his black parka. His eyes were cornflower blue and sharp under heavy lids.
She knew those eyes.
She’d seen them just hours ago in the face of grinning grandpa standing on a wraparound porch festooned with Christmas lights and holly wreaths.
“Jack Pierce?” she croaked disbelievingly. Her throat was raw and tender.
The man glanced down at his right hand. His pinky, bent at an unnatural angle, dangled limply.
He looked back at her. “In the flesh. And you must be Sasha McCandless-Connelly. I’d shake your hand, but I believe you’ve broken my finger.”
She arched a brow. “No need to shake. It spreads diseases. Besides, I usually reserve friendly greetings for visitors who come in through the door, not the window.”
Whatever response Pierce might have given was lost in the din when Connelly and Mocha thundered down the stairs and barreled into the kitchen.
Mocha was barking, her ears pressed flat against her skull and her teeth bared. Connelly’s teeth were also bared, and he gripped his Glock in his right hand. As he skidded to a stop, he aimed the weapon directly at Pierce’s center mass.
“Don’t shoot him,” Sasha said wearily.
Connelly kept his eyes on the man but addressed her. “Are you sure?”
“It’s Jack Pierce.”
“Really? Then what the devil was all the racket?”
“He let himself in. Through the laundry room.”
“What?”
Pierce gave a sheepish chuckle. “You’ll want to tape over that window. Had to cut a hole in the glass to get to the latch, you know.”
Connelly lowered his arm, and Mocha yawned and wandered over to the visitor to sniff his socks.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” Connelly asked Pierce.
“A cuppa tea would be delightful if you’ve got one. And a paracetamol. Eh, that’s acetaminophen to you Yanks,” he added helpfully.
“Sure.” Connelly eyed Pierce’s injured hand. “You do that breaking in?”
“Nah, your women there bent my finger back until—”
“Let me guess. Until she broke it?”
“Bingo.”
“It’s sort of a thing with her when she meets new people.” He raised his palms as if to say what can you do?
Sasha bit back her response while Connelly bustled around the kitchen.
She wondered what about the message she’d sent had prompted the retired MI6 agent to break into their home. Not to mention how he’d found them. They were vigilant about keeping their personal information off the Internet. And yet, here he stood.
“So much for a quiet anniversary,” Connelly whispered as he walked past her, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head.
8
Mocha’s barking woke the twins, who stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing their eyes and yawning. Fiona dragged her blanket behind her. Finn’s hair stood up from his head in little spikes.
Fiona stopped short and blinked at the stranger sitting at the kitchen table. Finn froze a step behind her, mouth open, and gaped.
“Morning, sweetness,” Sasha said.
“Mom, who’s that man?”
“Fiona, Finn, this is Mr. Pierce. Mr. Pierce, these are the twins—Finn and Fiona.”
Jack Pierce smiled, and his eyes crinkled as he sized up the kids. “Hmm, Fiona and Finn. Let me guess. You’re six?”
“Yes,” Fiona lied.
“Five and a half, Fee,” her outraged brother corrected.
“I’m estimating,” she explained, unperturbed. “Besides, it’s rude to let old people know when they’re wrong.”
Connelly’s laughter exploded, and he sprayed coffee onto the counter. “Sorry,” he gasped as he wiped up the coffee. “Fiona, it’s also rude to call someone old.”
She fisted her hands at her hips and narrowed her eyes. “How old are you, Mr. Pierce?”
“Fiona!” Sasha shook her head.
Pierce chuckled. “I’m eighty-five and a half.”
“That’s old, right?”
He nodded gravely. “Indisputably.”
Connelly raised an eyebrow. “An octogenarian got the jump on you?” he stage whispered.
Sasha shot him a death glare, but it was Pierce who responded.
“In fairness, your wee slip of a girl did break my finger. Pathetic, really, considering my training.” He winked at Sasha.
She was busy doing mental math. “So, you were … twenty when the bomber crashed?”
“Thereabouts.”
“And you were already an MI6 agent?” He’d more or less confirmed his affiliation with the intelligence agency by mentioning his training. She figured there was no harm in putting it out in the open.
Pierce blinked but didn’t deny it. “It was a different time.”
Finn and Fiona were poking one another and whispering. Finally, Finn spoke. “You were here when the ghost plane disappeared?”
“The ghost plane?” Pierce furrowed his brow.
“The plane crashed in the river and then vanished. We think maybe it was a ghost plane,” Fiona explained.
“Your guess is pretty close to the truth,” Pierce told the kids.
Connelly and Sasha exchanged a look.
She crossed the kitchen, took Archie Cowman’s tin box down from the windowsill over the sink, and sorted through the contents until she found the photograph.
She passed the picture to Pierce. “This is you, right?”
He held it gingerly by the corners and stared down at the faded image for a long moment. The twins bounced on the balls of their bare feet in silent excitement.
Finally, Pierce nodded. His voice was full of amazement. “Yes, that’s me. I can’t believe he kept this picture all these years.”
“How did you come to be there? When the plane crashed, I mean. Pittsburgh’s a long way from England,” Connelly prodded.
Pierce didn’t answer. He flipped the photo over and studied the writing in the lower right corner. Then his lips thinned.
When he looked up, his eyes were alert and searching. “How did you connect these initials to me? Seems tha
t’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it, love?”
The question was addressed to Sasha. She answered it with one of her own.
“How did you find us? I didn’t put my address in the PicaPage message—only my phone number. And we’re not listed anywhere.”
“If you know who used to employ me, I’m sure you can imagine I have some nonpublic sources available to me. So that’s the answer to your question. What’s the answer to mine?”
She glanced at Connelly, wondering how much she should divulge about their own nonpublic sources. To a retired foreign intelligence officer. In front of a pair of five-year olds who couldn’t keep a secret.
Connelly swallowed his coffee, then said, “We have some nonpublic sources of our own.”
“Ah, yes, the former Homeland Security agent and his wife, the innocuous civil attorney.”
Pierce’s tone made clear that he already had some idea about their involvement in sundry criminal investigations.
“So, now that we all know what we know, why did you come here?” Sasha plucked the photograph from between his fingers and returned it to the box. She secured the lid and placed the metal container back on the windowsill.
Pierce stared down into his empty mug as if searching for an answer in the cluster of tea leaves on the bottom. When he looked up, his blue eyes held a hint of steel.
“I was going to steal the box.”
Finn gasped. “Why?”
“To keep a secret. But maybe, after all these years, it’s time to share it, eh?” Pierce surveyed their faces, then nodded to himself.
“Definitely,” Fiona told him.
“Why don’t I make some scrambled eggs and toast while Mr. Pierce tells us his story?” Connelly suggested.
“That sounds wonderful,” Pierce agreed. He shifted in his seat to catch Sasha’s eye. “May I borrow the contents of your box for my story? A show and tell, if you will.”
He winked at the twins, who giggled in unison.
She gave him a long look before she passed the box back to him. Despite his outward appearance as a genial grandpa, it wouldn’t do to relax too much. She recalled the grasp of his strong fingers around her windpipe, squeezing the life out of her. Jack Calvin Pierce had been trained in the service of Her Majesty, and Sasha was confident that training had included several techniques for disarming, disabling, and applying deadly force to his adversaries.
He took the box from her and placed it on the table reverently. As he lifted the lid, she settled into a chair and draped Fiona’s abandoned blanket over her feet. Java materialized and made himself comfortable on the blanket.
“I was a young man working for the Queen of England—”
“You worked for the Queen?” Finn exclaimed.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. I was a spy.”
Fiona’s eyes were comically large, and her mouth hung open. “Wow, cool.”
“Your government and mine were working together to keep the whole world safe from the Soviets.”
The amazement turned to confusion.
“Russia. It used to be called the Soviet Union,” Sasha explained.
“Oh. So you fought the Russian spies?” Fiona asked.
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Were they evil?” Finn wanted to know.
Pierce pursed his lips and considered his answer. “They were just people. They had a job to do, and so did I,” he said finally.
“So, the plane,” Connelly prompted from his spot at the stove.
“Right. England and the United States were working on a secret project.” He picked up the newspaper clipping and gestured with it. “It was a plane that could turn invisible.”
“A stealth bomber?” Sasha asked.
He shook his head. “Not quite. You could call it a prototype of—or a precursor to—the modern stealth bomber, but you have to remember, it was the 1950s. The technology was primitive. They devised a solution to escape visual detection. Yes, radar and infrared sensors were also a concern, but the early heat-seeking systems were still being fiddled with. The simplest, most elegant solution was to create a ghost. As I said, your kids have the right idea.”
“So, the plane wasn’t visible to the naked eye?” Connelly asked.
“That’s correct. One of your local paint manufacturers paired up with an aluminum company to create a lightweight airplane body coated in a special paint color.”
“Wow,” Finn whispered.
“They called it Chamela. It was a play on chameleon. The paint somehow absorbed the colors of its surroundings and blended in. So, in the night sky, the plane was black and starry. In the daytime, it was blue with fluffy white clouds or gray with dark storm clouds. Whatever the surroundings were, Chamela reflected it.”
“Mr. Pierce, that sounds fantastical.” Connelly twisted around and fixed him with a look.
Pierce raised both hands, palms up. “I’m not spinning a yarn here, I promise. It’s true. I saw it with my own eyes. It worked. We were coming back from a test run when the plane crashed in the river.”
“You were on the ghost plane?” Fiona breathed.
“I was. It was frightening. The plane went down fast and broke apart on impact. The water was frigid and ….” He trailed off and stared down at the table.
Connelly caught Sasha’s eye and gestured for her to do something.
Like what?
“Can I get you some more tea, Mr. Pierce?”
He blinked and looked up. “Yes, that’d be lovely. But I must insist you call me Jack.”
“Okay, Jack,” Finn piped up.
Pierce laughed and rested a gnarled hand on Finn’s mop of hair.
Sasha fixed another cup of tea for their guest and carried it to the table along with a plate of toast, the butter, and some jam. Connelly scooped eggs onto five plates and poured milk into glasses for the twins.
Once they’d all settled around the table, Fiona piped up. “So, the tugboat captain saved you?”
Pierce picked up the spoon from the raspberry preserves and absentmindedly dropped a glob of the jam into his tea then stirred it in. Connelly raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Pierce turned to Fiona. “Yes, the captain saved us. We were flailing around in the icy water, trying to cut ourselves loose from the seatbelts. Our uniforms were heavy and dragged us back down.” His voice grew soft as he recounted the memory.
Finn was a statue, poised with a forkful of fluffy yellow eggs hovering just outside his open mouth. Frozen with anticipation, he waited to hear what happened next.
Pierce went on. “The first crew member to break free made it to the surface and waved his arms, hollering for help. The captain spotted him and came to our rescue. The rest, as they say, is history.”
They ate in silence for a moment. Then Finn asked, “But where did the plane go? Did the spies take it away in the night?”
Pierce gave a soft laugh and sat back in his chair. “I imagine the plane is still on the bottom of the river, blending into the river’s bottom. After all this time, it’s probably become a part of the riverbed.”
“But, there have been divers and sonar teams,” Sasha protested. “It would have been detected.”
“Would it have? As I said, the impact was considerable. Small pieces, scattered along the bottom of the river, moving with the currents, undetectable to the human eye. I believe it’s still there. But, of course, I don’t know for certain.”
Connelly dangled the Soviet dog tags over his fingers. “And the owner of these?”
“He’s likely become part of the riverbed, too,” Pierce answered softly.
Sasha studied his face. His expression was impassive.
“What was he doing there, though? He wasn’t on the plane. At least, he wasn’t on the manifest.”
Pierce wrinkled his forehead. “I imagine he was sent there to spy on us. The Cold War, you know. The fifties … it was a fraught time. It’s hard to explain to someone who didn’t live through it.”
“But, you say he died. Did you see him—in the water?” Connelly pressed.
“He wasn’t on the plane, but there’s no doubt the Soviet Union had heard chatter about Project Ghost.”
“Project Ghost?” Finn echoed.
“Right, that was the codename for the invisible paint project. I’m sure he was tracking our flight in an effort to see if, well, he could see us. When the plane hit the water, the sudden change in environment would have confused the paint, for lack of a better word. The plane was visible as it switched from blending into the sky to blending in with the water.”
“Was it?”
Despite Sasha’s casual tone, Pierce’s head jerked. “I mean, I’m told that’s what would have happened. I can’t know for sure because I didn’t see it.”
“Because you were on the plane.”
“Right. Because I was on the plane.”
They both fell silent. Connelly narrowed his eyes and studied Sasha for a long moment.
Then he turned his attention back to Pierce. “How did you come to have grandkids in town, Jack?”
The shadow lifted from Pierce’s eyes. “Ah, now that’s a cracking good tale. I was taken to the hospital to be checked over. A lovely nurse, Bettina Ford, took such good care of me that I swept her off her feet and took her back to England with me.” He smiled at a private memory.
“You and Bettina got married?”
“Aye, and we had a daughter. Our Catherine loved her summer visits to her grandparents in Pittsburgh. So much so, that when she graduated from university, she settled here. And now, I have grandkids of my own here.” He winked at the twins.
“Speaking of your grandkids, I’m sure your daughter and her family must be wondering where you are. Do you need to use the phone?” Sasha asked.
He waved a hand. “They’re accustomed to my shenanigans and my comings and goings.”
“How did you get here?” Connelly asked. “The roads are closed.”
“Catherine’s husband keeps a pair of snowmobiles in the garage. He’s quite the outdoorsman, Eric is. I just borrowed one and zipped down from Fox Chapel. I cut the engine when I reached your back alley and hid the contraption behind your garage.”
Full Fathom Five Page 5