Out of Reach: A Novel

by Patricia Lewin

  Sam was a trained CIA officer, though his skills had never extended to the more physical requirements of the Agency. But he knew to keep his head down. Suddenly she let her anger drive out the fear. It was a more familiar and thus safer emotion. “How the hell did anyone even know about Sam? He spends his days in front of a computer screen, for God’s sake.”

  “Could they have traced his search?”

  She shook her head. Langley’s security was the best in the world, and no one was better at covering their tracks than Sam Anderson. “Not a chance.”

  “Then they must have spotted you together.”

  She peered out into the darkness. He was right, it was the only way. “They’ve been watching me.”

  “You said someone was following you along the river yesterday. When you were running.”

  She looked at him, a new fear leaping out at her. She’d forgotten about the shadowy presence in the park, had written it off to an overactive imagination. But it hadn’t been her imagination. They knew where she lived.

  “What about your niece? And the woman who cares for her?” Donovan asked, his mind making the same jump.

  “They left for Miami this morning.” And Erin would say a million prayers of thanks for that small bit of luck.

  “Check on them, and have someone keep an eye on them.”

  She nodded, frightened now in a way she hadn’t been moments earlier. If anything happened to either Janie or Marta . . . But no, she wouldn’t allow her mind to follow that path. Miami was another world, and Marta was well loved in the tight-knit Little Havana community.

  “I’ll call and have them stay down there a few extra days. And Marta knows people.” As did Erin. She’d make another call after talking to Marta, to a contact she’d made when she’d first come home from Cairo. An ex-Agency officer who freelanced in Miami. She’d have him keep an eye on her family, just to make sure.

  “They’ll be safe.” Though she didn’t know who she was trying to reassure. Donovan, or herself.

  She fell silent then, considering her next move.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  She needed to find out what Sam had discovered, what someone had driven him into the Potomac to keep quiet. “I have to get some rest before I can think clearly.”

  He glanced at her sideways. “You can’t go home. Do have someplace else in mind? Somewhere they won’t find you?”

  “Yes.” She’d go into her Agency office. She could sleep there if needed, but more important, she could retrace Sam’s steps.

  “What about Neville’s men?” he asked.

  Funny, how they’d both stopped questioning the General’s involvement. “Now that I know they’re out there, I can lose them.”

  “Yeah.” He glanced away. “I expect you can.”

  “What about you?” she asked, wondering why he wasn’t playing the gallant anymore, trying to protect her and keep her out of this. Maybe he’d finally realized she could take care of herself. Either that, or he understood that she wouldn’t be scared off no matter how many objections he raised.

  “I have to get back to the command center in Baltimore.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I expect they’re wondering what happened to me by now.”

  “Neville’s men could be following you, too.”

  He shrugged. “My movements are no secret. I’m the agent of record in the Cody Sanders investigation. If they want to follow me, they’re welcome.”

  “Be careful.”

  He smiled, and it warmed her heart. “Always.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, and reached for the door handle.

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “You’ll let me know if you find anything.”

  “Sure.” And she would. Because she had every intention of finding the Magician and his link to Neville.

  “And you’ll be careful, too,” Donovan added.

  She smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, Alec . . .” It was the first time she’d used his given name and it felt odd. “I can take care of myself.”

  William was already in a foul mood when he heard about the boys’ escape attempt. He’d just left the embassy, taking the call in his limo as the driver navigated through the D.C. traffic toward Georgetown.

  The caretaker, Ryan, had tried to run with the Sanders boy. Such foolishness. They’d set off the silent alarm when leaving the mansion and didn’t even get halfway across the back lawn before Daimon took them down.

  Which was what really angered William.

  His dogs had paid the price for Ryan’s insolence. The bitch lay dead from rat poison, and the guards had had to shoot Daimon before he tore the Sanders boy apart.

  Ryan would pay dearly for the dogs. And for his disloyalty.

  William had given the boy a place to live when no one else would take him. Otherwise, he would have ended up on the streets, whoring or selling drugs to survive. William had saved him from either fate, and this was how he’d showed his gratitude.

  William should have let Gage kill the boy the night before. It would have been cleaner and easier on all of them. And Daimon and his bitch would still be alive.

  Now the boy would suffer. William would make sure of it.

  It would have to wait, however, another forty-eight hours, until Gage returned to the mansion for the Sanders boy. William had considered contacting Gage and sending him out to take care of Ryan tonight, but had decided against it. It would serve no purpose other than to soothe William’s anger. Better to keep a low profile and let things proceed on schedule. Especially with the Americans and their inept CIA watching his every move.

  He’d never much cared for Americans. They were poorly behaved children, wielding their strength like a bully’s club. Yet like any other bully, they had to be handled carefully to avoid falling victim to their muscle.

  His encounter with Erin Baker had been particularly distasteful. The woman’s arrogance was topped only by her stupidity. He could have killed her with nothing more than a word, and her government would do nothing. They would not even acknowledge her, except to put a star on a wall and claim it a fitting memorial. She was a fool. And it would cost her her life.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to tolerate her or her country much longer. Just another forty-eight hours and he’d be on his way home. Maybe forever, this time. Cody Sanders would be on his way to his new life, and both Erin Baker and Ryan would be ending theirs.

  XXI

  ERIN SHOULD HAVE SPOTTED a tail.

  It was a critical skill for covert officers. Without it, you risked not only your own life, but that of your foreign agents. So the Agency dedicated six weeks of training to equip their officers with the skills necessary to spot and evade surveillance. After that, there were simulations and fieldwork that improved on the basics and kept you sharp. Erin had excelled at both.

  Since returning to the States, however, she’d been lax.

  She wasn’t running agents here, and she hadn’t thought to watch for someone following her. Though she should have. She’d sensed someone on the trail behind her Sunday morning. That should have alerted her and made her more conscious of her surroundings.

  Well, it wasn’t a mistake she intended to repeat. Now that they’d woken her up by hurting Sam, she’d give them a taste of her dust.

  As she approached her car, she saw the small reflective tape on her bumper. For someone who didn’t know better, it would look like part of her license plate. For those following her, it was a means to keep tabs on her at night. It set her car apart from all the other taillights. Not very original. Or effective, if a subject happened to notice—as she had. They’d have been better off planting an electronic homing device on the underbody. The mistake, however, would allow her to continue the charade awhile longer. She’d lose them before they even realized she’d spotted them.

  Without touching the tape, she climbed into her car.

  She’d parked on a side street, just off Constitution Avenue near the west end of the mall
. Pulling out, she headed east on Constitution toward Seventeenth Street, where she turned left, heading toward Dupont Circle.

  Her final destination was her office in one of the Agency’s nondescript buildings. Sam had been working on something he hadn’t gotten a chance to share with her, and she needed to find it. From her office, she could access the CIA mainframe and hopefully retrace his steps. First, though, she’d lose the tail, and Dupont Circle was a good first step.

  Traveling north on Seventeenth, she passed the White House grounds and the old Executive Office Building, which looked like a brightly lit wedding cake. She crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, and as she neared K Street, where Seventeenth turned into Connecticut, traffic picked up.

  She was closing in on one of Washington’s prime nightlife areas and the people who came with it. So she remained in the right lane, slowing occasionally, much to the dismay of those behind her, as if looking for an address. On Dupont Circle, she did the circuit twice before exiting on Massachusetts Avenue, heading south.

  If the driver on her tail was any good, he was still with her, and if he was really good, he might even suspect by now that she knew he was behind her. She was going to assume the latter, because it was always safer to overestimate your opponent.

  When she reached Fifteenth Street, she took a right and crossed first M Street, then L, while watching for K. It was time to get rid of her car, and her destination was Georgia Brown’s, a restaurant that specialized in low-country cuisine and Southern hospitality in the heart of Washington, D.C.

  She’d gone there once with a colleague from Georgetown and had made note of its centralized location for future reference. It would work well tonight, and when she spotted it, she turned in and pulled up to the valet stand. Grabbing her heels, she slipped them on, then shoved her flats into her purse before turning over her keys and going inside.

  “I’m meeting someone who’s already here,” she said to the hostess, and walked toward the back of the restaurant. She breezed through the kitchen door, again pretending she had every right to do so, and within minutes was out the rear door and back outside, on foot this time.

  Switching her shoes once again, she headed back toward Connecticut Avenue, then up toward Dupont, grateful for the flats, which made walking so much easier. Though they wouldn’t help her with her next move, where she needed to become one of the night crawlers who frequented the clubs in the area. Thus the heels in her purse, waiting to be slipped back on at the right moment.

  She had numerous clubs to choose from. Her first choice, Club Five, was loud, crowded, and perfect for what she intended. Unfortunately, it was closed on Mondays, as were quite a few others, so she’d have to try her luck someplace else. At least she’d have less trouble getting in someplace than she would on the weekend.

  In the end, she went to MCCXXIII, called Twelve Twenty-three, a trendy spot on Connecticut Avenue that catered to the ultrachic. She had no trouble getting in dressed as she was, but she could only hope that the crowd wouldn’t be too slim or too full of themselves to help a woman in distress.

  Taking a seat at the bar, she scanned the crowd for potential targets—someone about her size and coloring, but a bit out of sync with the glitzy crowd. Someone trying to fit into the designer set while dressed in JC Penney. The first criterion was easy to satisfy, the second was no more than an educated guess. If she approached the wrong person, this wouldn’t work and she’d have to leave and try somewhere else.

  Two women seemed like good candidates, both with groups that were drinking and dancing heavily. It was just a matter of waiting for one of them to head for the ladies’ room. So Erin ordered a glass of wine, smiling at the bartender to make sure he would remember her, and waited.

  After about fifteen minutes, one of the women climbed out of her booth and headed for the ladies’ room. This was Erin’s chance. She looked over her shoulder toward the front door, then quickly paid for her drink and followed the woman.

  Once inside the ladies’ room, she draped her coat on the couch and fiddled with her makeup, letting her hands shake just a bit. By the time the other woman emerged from the stall, Erin was nervously adjusting her clothing and looking distressed.

  “Great dress,” said the woman, eyeing the beaded black silk.

  “Thanks, it was a gift.”

  “Not a bad gift.” The woman pulled out her lipstick and touched up her mouth. “What is it?”

  Thank goodness for the D.C. crowd and designer recognition. “Versace.”

  Erin could almost see the other woman trying to figure out if the dress was an original or a knockoff. “Looks like you got yourself a nice sugar daddy.”

  Erin shrugged while rummaging through her purse. “Damn, I left my cigarettes at the bar.” She turned to the other woman. “I hate to ask you this, but do you smoke? I could really use a cigarette about now.”

  “Sure.” The woman pulled out a pack and handed it over.

  Erin’s hands shook as she took one, then tried to light it and failed. “Damn,” she said again, and let her voice choke on the word.

  “Here.” The woman took the lighter and lit the cigarette. “Are you okay?”

  Erin took a deep drag, then let it out. She started to nod, just as the tears slid down her face. “Not really.” She turned away and headed for the separate lounge area while wiping furiously at her eyes.

  The woman followed. “What is it? Can I help?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

  “Try me.”

  Erin hesitated, not wanting to appear too eager to tell her story. “My boyfriend, I mean my ex-boyfriend, just showed up. I don’t think he saw me, but if he did . . .” Her hand trembled as she brought the cigarette to her mouth again.

  “What? You’re with another guy?” The woman shrugged. “He’ll get over it. They both will.”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m alone.” Erin dropped down to the couch. “We just broke up, and well, he didn’t take it very well.” She sucked in more smoke. “I’m afraid of what he’ll do if he sees me here.”

  “Afraid?” The woman sat down beside her. “Will he hurt you?”

  Erin felt a twinge of guilt about lying to this woman, whose concern seemed genuine. She held out her arms, showing off the bruises, gone purple and yellow, she’d gotten courtesy of Bill Jensen’s testosterone junkie at the Farm. “That’s why I left him.”

  “Son of a bitch.” The woman draped an arm over Erin’s shoulders. “What can I do to help?”

  “I’m not sure, but I need to get out of here without him seeing me.”

  “What about the back door?”

  “I thought of that, but if he sees me and follows me out there . . .”

  “Then you’ll really be all alone, in an alley.” The woman thought a minute, then said, “Come back to my table with me. I’m with a whole group of friends. He won’t dare bother you if you’re with other people.”

  “I can’t do that. I don’t want to get you or your friends involved.”

  “No, it’s okay, really.”

  Erin shook her head. This wasn’t the way she wanted the interaction to go. “You don’t know him. He won’t hesitate to cause a scene or even pick a fight. No, I just can’t . . .”

  “Can I call someone—”

  “Wait, I have an idea.” Then, “No.” She shook her head again. “Oh, never mind.”

  “No, what? If I can help.”

  “Well . . .” Erin paused, again hesitating to ask a favor. “What if we exchanged clothes?”

  The woman backed off, shocked, again eyeing Erin’s dress.

  “He’ll never recognize me in that outfit. It’s just not . . . me.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, please.” Erin grabbed the other woman’s hands. “The dress is an original, and this is only the second time I’ve worn it. You can have it.”

  “I can’t, it has to be worth a mint.”

  “If you hate it, you could sell it. You cou
ld probably get a lot, I don’t know, maybe a—”

  “No.” The woman pulled her hand free. “I mean I can’t take it from you.”

  Erin met the other woman’s gaze. “He gave it to me.”

  “Oh.” For a moment, neither spoke, a silent understanding running between them. “Still . . .”

  “Please.” Erin opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. “I’ll pay you, and I’ll send back your clothes, too.”

  The woman put her hand on Erin’s wallet. “I don’t want your money.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “Oh, hell, why not? When will I ever be able to afford a dress like that?”

  Erin’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”

  Within minutes, Erin was dressed in the other woman’s clothes. A short leather skirt, red, that exposed more than it covered, and a white short-sleeved sweater.

  “It looks better on you than me,” said the woman. “But you still look too . . . polished. Let me do your face.”

  The woman pulled a makeup case from her purse, and by the time she’d finished, Erin looked like a different woman. Instead of the sophisticated socialite who’d just left an embassy reception, she looked like a party girl, her eyes transformed with heavy liner and dark shadow, her lips with bright red lipstick, and her hair moussed into stylish disarray. Erin liked it. It made her feel . . . young. And free.

  “Wow,” Erin said, deciding the woman would do well at the CIA. “You’re good.”

  The woman grinned. “It’s not bad, is it.”

  “Not bad at all.” Erin primped a moment longer, then put away the last of the makeup. Picking up her coat, she handed it over. “You’ll need this, too.”

  “But—”

  Erin held up a hand to stop her protest. “I can’t take it. It’s a dead giveaway.”