“You did not think we could get to you, did you?” Olivia felt the cold muzzle of a pistol at the base of her skull.
“How did you find me?” Was that her voice, so calm and steady?
A moment of silence, then the man said, “Reach for your weapon, slowly, and give it to me.” He dug the muzzle into her neck. “Do it, now. If you try anything stupid, believe me, you will regret it.” He held out his right hand.
Actions and consequences sped through her mind. She realized she didn’t have a chance, not now. She passed him her Glock. “How?”
He said close to her ear, “Nice red Porsche the federal cop drives. Easy to follow.”
28
Olivia
She heard Agent Cliff’s voice from the Farm, telling her to blank out fear, to focus on what would come next. Gay would worry soon something had happened, try to call her. Then he’d come looking, maybe track her phone, but he’d be too late. And this man had no reason to let her live once he had what he wanted from her. Whatever would happen was all up to her.
“Drive out of this hideous place and turn right on Wilton Avenue.”
Olivia drove slowly out of the Willow Springs strip mall, turned right.
“Where are we going?”
“It is not your problem. Drive slow, but not too slow. Go straight until I tell you.”
“Where are you from in France?”
He laughed, a scratchy, Gauloises laugh.
“You like the accent? Most American women do, it makes them think of sex and sweaty sheets.”
“Or of smokers’ breath, heavy on the garlic.”
She heard an angry hiss, felt the muzzle dig in, and she flinched.
“Ferme ta gueule! Keep your mouth shut, bitch. No, stop, do not go through that yellow light.”
Olivia stopped as the light turned, watched the crossing cars stream through the intersection, homeward bound. She wanted to ask him which French arms dealer he worked for, but she had to pretend she knew as little about the flash drive as she could. “What do you want?”
“You know very well what I want. You are going to take me to Mike Kingman or you are going to summon him to us. You are lovers, of course you know where he is. You will tell me now or I will have to persuade you.”
“I don’t know where he is, no one does. Don’t you mean what your employer wants? You know, the man who tells you what to do, the man who gives you orders? Who do you work for?”
The muzzle dug in again. She said, “Listen to me, whoever you are, if I knew where Mike is, if the CIA knew where he is, I wouldn’t be in a CIA safe house, hidden from you people. Of course you know all about Monday night, about those two men who came to my house. One of them was called Razhan, an Iranian security agent who’s been killing people for fifteen years for his masters. But you’re French. Who’s your master?”
Olivia felt his gloved hand reach around her neck and squeeze, hard enough that she jerked and the RAV swerved. He cursed, dropped his hand. She looked at him in her rearview. He was wearing sunglasses, a hat and scarf. She wouldn’t know him if she walked past him on the street, but she’d never forget his voice. She grinned at him. “You know Kingman is gone, disappeared. Everyone’s thinking he stole whatever it is your boss wants and plans to sell it to the highest bidder. Chances are he’ll try to sell it to your boss, so why threaten me when your boss can buy whatever it is from him? What’s a few million euros, petty cash to him, right?”
She heard contempt in his voice. “You give me an excellent joke. You are saying this agent is a traitor? This man you have sex with?”
Olivia shrugged. “Sex is only sex, isn’t that what you French say? Enough people believe Kingman’s a traitor. He’d be a fool to tell me, tell anyone, where he is. Hey, maybe he’s already contacted your boss.”
The muzzle against her neck relaxed a tiny bit.
Was he thinking through this new development? Would his boss be willing to pay Kingman for the flash drive rather than have him kill both agents? It would be much cleaner.
Olivia said, “Besides, do you think I haven’t already tried to call Mike? Do you think he’s stupid enough to have his cell phone on? It would be traced and he’d be found—caught—and this something you want would be in CIA hands. I’ll bet you he’s smashed his phone, bought a burner that can’t be traced to him. Seems to me he’s calling the shots, and you people are blundering around trying to take me when I have no idea what’s going on or where he is. If I did, I’d tell my superior and he’d find him, arrest him.”
“Even if part of what you say is true, you may be in this with him.”
She gave him a quick look again in the rearview. “But you should call your boss, ask him what he wants you to do, right?”
A snort. “I do not need to speak to anyone until you tell me everything you know. Shut up, keep driving straight. We are leaving this ugly city.”
They were already several blocks down Wilton, and traffic was thinning out. They’d end up in Maryland unless they turned at some isolated place he had ready for her and Mike. Olivia said, “Your boss wants this something Mike Kingman has. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”
“Stop your ridiculous lies. You already know, you are playing the games with me. Be quiet and keep driving. I will tuck you away if I have to, make sure Kingman hears I have you. Then he will come to me, or I will wring your neck like the chicken.” He was leaning forward now, his breath on her cheek. “Turn right on Krager. It is what you call a shortcut.”
There was a red light coming up ahead, and a busy intersection. A chance. Olivia readied herself, studied the cars. She saw a big black Ford F350 driving fast toward the light on Krager, saw the driver was yelling at the person in the passenger seat, not paying much attention. She slowed a bit as if she was going to turn then suddenly floored it into the intersection. She saw a brief flash of the truck driver’s terrified face, felt the muzzle of the gun fall away, heard the man cursing in French as they slammed into the rear driver’s side of the truck. She was ready when the airbags exploded, but the Frenchman was leaning forward, thrown sideways. She pushed back hard against the airbag, reached down, and pulled her small Walther PP2 from its ankle holster. She flattened herself under the airbag and fired through the front seat, heard him yell in pain; she kept firing until the magazine was empty.
“Bitch! I could kill you now, but you are going to pay first.”
He didn’t fire back, so she knew he didn’t want to take the chance he’d kill her. He shoved the door open and ran. Olivia jerked up, pulled herself free of the collapsed airbag, and saw him—a tall man in a long dark winter coat, his face hidden by a thick black scarf wrapped around his neck, clutching his shoulder. Her Walther was empty. She looked in the back seat, saw her Glock, grabbed it. Horns were blasting, people yelling, and the driver of the truck she’d hit jumped out and stared dazedly at the RAV smashed into the rear of his truck and the woman running with a gun after a fleeing man.
Olivia yelled “Federal agent!” and didn’t slow. The man was running flat out, shoving people out of his way, but she was gaining on him. He was only half a block ahead of her when he turned off Krager onto Baker Street, then ducked into an alley connecting Baker and Mansford. He was fast even holding his hand against his shoulder. When she came through the alley onto Mansford, she couldn’t believe it, he’d already jumped into a taxi. Too dangerous to shoot at him or the tires. She memorized the license plate, stood for a moment, hands on her thighs, panting. Then she pulled out her cell. She didn’t call Gay, she called Dillon.
When Savich jumped out of his Porsche twenty minutes later, Olivia was sitting on the sidewalk, her RAV’s engine still sending up small plumes of black smoke. Two police cruisers and a fire truck were blocking off traffic, an ambulance standing by with nothing to do. Chas Gaylin sat beside her, three METRO officers hovering nearby.
She jumped to her feet. “Please tell me you got him.”
“METRO’s all over the taxi. You sh
ot him in the shoulder, so we’ve alerted the hospitals and clinics in the area. Are you all right?”
She smiled. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Dillon, I couldn’t see him through the front seat, the airbag was collapsed on me, so I just kept shooting until my Walther ran out of ammo. Luckily he decided he shouldn’t kill me, so he gave it up and ran.” She reached down, pulled the PP2 out of its holster. “I love this little pistol, it probably saved my life.”
Savich smiled. “My wife always wears her ankle pistol as well. You did very well, Olivia.”
Gay rose, introduced himself, and shook Savich’s hand. “If it’s all right with you, I’ve been told to take Olivia to another safe house.” He stared at Olivia, shook his head. “This shouldn’t have ever happened. I was an idiot to let you talk me into getting the fricking pizzas. Believe me, Mr. Grace isn’t happy with me. I’ve got a big dressing-down coming and I deserve it. I’ll probably be reassigned.”
Olivia said, “Gay, I’ll speak to him, explain it wasn’t your fault, that I insisted since it was only a short drive.” She glanced over at the intersection. “My poor RAV, it really came through for me, gave itself up. Now I’ll have to get another one. Hey, maybe the pizza’s still okay, just needs to be heated up—”
Savich nodded. “Yes, to all those things. First, though, I’d like you both to come with me to the Hoover. Agent Hildebrandt, I’m going to make sure you’re never lost to me again.”
29
Mia
New York City
Wednesday evening
Two hours later, Mia walked into her condo, shed all her winter gear, turned up the heat to roast. What a day, since six a.m. this morning to Boston, then to Connecticut, then back home. She wasn’t exhausted, though; she was revved. She looked around her small living room and realized she hadn’t cleaned before she’d left. It showed. She picked up a sweater draped over a living room chair, dropped it on the blue comforter on her bed, decided it was enough, and walked back to her table, spread all her work out, and googled Jordan Jeffers, the captain of the lacrosse team who’d accidentally hit Alex’s earlobe with his lacrosse stick before a hit-and-run driver ran him down. She had a few minutes before changing to meet Miles Lombardy, Alex Harrington’s senior staffer.
Of course she got caught up in the tragic story of Jordan Jeffers. When Mia looked at her watch, she jumped out of her chair, knew she had to hurry. She thought about Miles as she changed, fair complexioned and only a couple of years older than she was. He was known as a political whiz. She remembered he looked like a wise owl in round glasses and neatly trimmed goatee. They both knew the rules: he wanted to find out what she was going to do and she wanted to find out what he knew about Alex. She hoped her wits would win out.
Mia wound her long blue-and-green woolen scarf around her neck, buttoned her coat to her chin, pulled her watch cap down to her eyebrows, and found her Uber waiting for her. At least she wasn’t walking from the Guardian, head down into a tonsil-freezing glacial wind. The streets weren’t congested. The only New Yorkers outside were those leaving work, rushing toward the subway.
She directed her Uber driver to the Confluence, one of the current downtown in-spots only two blocks up from the Guardian, on a small side street. Her Uber pulled up to the restaurant with five minutes to spare. Even though it was frigid outside, it was warm inside and the bar bulged with happy hour New Yorkers. The Confluence sported a huge old mahogany bar trucked from a 1920s speakeasy in Chicago. Its specialty was mango-chutney pizza, served up by a waitstaff of mostly flamboyant would-be actors and dancers.
Mia was impressed when she spotted Miles at a booth near the back and wondered how he’d managed to snag that primo spot. She smiled at his wave, thought again he had the air of a wise owl. She wove her way through the happy crowd, everyone forced to speak louder to be heard over the pounding jungle-beat music. Mia had no doubt Miles’s phone call as she was leaving Coach Wiliker’s office to meet him that evening was an assignment from Alex Harrington. Miles was to charm her, pass on some of Alex’s talking points, pump her on what she’d found out in Boston and whether she’d do right by candidate Harrington in her upcoming feature on him. Mia smiled at Miles. This would be fun.
“Mr. Lombardy, good evening.” She began unwinding the scarf around her neck. “Isn’t this a great place? A bit on the noisy side, but who cares? The pizzas are incredible, and the waitstaff will give you a little performance if you ask them. If the music’s not playing too loud, they’ll sing, maybe mime from a show. Cats is always popular, singing and dancing.”
“That sounds like fun. There’s a place in L.A. where all the wannabe actors do the same thing.” He slid out of the booth and helped her off with her coat.
“Thank you. I heard this was your first year in New York,” she said. “How are you surviving our winter?”
He smiled, stuck out his hand, shook hers. “I’m from L.A. where it’s always warm, the sun always shines. You do have to worry about skin cancer from too much sun. I do love the energy of New York, the feel of excitement in the air, but I’ve got to be truthful, I hate the weather.”
“That answers my question.”
“This place is a find. I haven’t been here before. I’ve enjoyed a few places in the Village, but never made it here. Do you think our waiter would dance a Gene Kelly number?”
“I doubt it tonight. Looks like they’re too busy running their feet off to dance and that music is blasting anyway. Please, call me Mia.”
“Mia. And I’m Miles.” Mia slid in, laid her coat beside her.
A waiter wove his way through the standing patrons to their booth. Miles said, “A beer, please, whatever pale ale’s on tap. How about you, Mia?”
She started to nod, then ordered the house white. She leaned forward and raised her voice so he could hear her. “So what’s going on, Miles? Has Alex—Mr. Harrington asked me to call him that—decided to drop out of the race? Get married now in Tahiti? What?”
He laughed, a nice full-bodied laugh that fogged up his glasses. He took them off, wiped them on a napkin, slid them back on. “Mr. Harrington asked me to check in with you, and I was glad for the opportunity. We met only briefly at the fundraiser, didn’t get a chance to talk when you were at campaign headquarters yesterday. I have quite a bit I’d like you to be aware of for your article—Mr. Harrington’s hopes, his campaign, his plans. He also wanted me to ask you whether your trip to Boston went well, what your impressions were.”
Mia nearly smiled. Right out of the gate, down to business, no pretending over a social drink, and that was a pleasant surprise. She said on a grin, “He could have sent me an email.”
“I prefer a more personal approach. How else can I be sure you understand what’s really important to him—his program for minority schools, gun control?”
She saw then he looked tired. “A lot of late-night strategy sessions with Mr. Hughes and Alex?”
He gave her a singularly sweet smile. “Sure, and it’ll only get more intense as the election heats up. I’m used to that, but what I’m not used to is this cold. When will it warm up around here?”
Their waiter magically reappeared through the packed-in crowd, a small tray held up high, and expertly set their beer and wine in front of them. “Might warm up in April, sir, if we’re lucky. Sorry I can’t stay. Holler when you’d like more.” He disappeared again, weaving his way through bodies, too graceful not to be a dancer.
“Here’s hoping for April,” Mia said, and she clicked her wineglass to Miles’s beer.
Time to bait the bear. “I had a nice conversation with Pamela Barrett, Alex’s fiancée, and of course with his professors at Harvard he’d picked out for me to talk to.” She sipped her wine. “Turns out Boston was very informative, particularly my interview with Juliet Ash Calley, Alex’s former fiancée.”
Miles showed no hesitation, no sign of alarm. “I never met Ms. Calley but Cory told me she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. I looked her up, and I ag
ree, she could give all the L.A. girls a run for their money. I read she’s a concert pianist, though I’ve never heard her play.”
“She’s mainly classical, and immensely talented. Cory’s right, I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman.”
“I’m a jazz man, myself. New Orleans.”
“Do give her a listen, Miles, she’s incredible. Let me add, what’s really refreshing is that her beauty doesn’t seem to matter to her at all.”
Miles took a drink of his beer, wiped a bit of foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was told she’s really sensitive, arty, if you know what I mean, so it was a good thing they didn’t marry.”
“I wonder if Alex was afraid she’d upstage him, take the limelight, get all the publicity?”
“No, that’s not Mr. Harrington—music, politics, they’re two entirely different kinds of fame. Seems to me it just wasn’t a good fit.” He paused a hair. “What did she tell you?”
Worried now, are you, Miles? Which meant that Alex was worried. Mia cocked her head at him. “I understand why you could be concerned Ms. Calley might have bad-mouthed him to me.”
“I have no reason to suppose Mr. Harrington would be worried. In fact, he thought you might see her. Understandably, he wouldn’t want to be blindsided. I mean, he is running for a high office. You’re known as an excellent interviewer, Mia, so who knows what she might say to you, out of bitterness, perhaps, or something else—”
“You mean like revenge?”
Miles shrugged. “Who knows? Anything could be possible since Mr. Harrington was the one who broke off their engagement—” Miles’s voice died. He looked down at his USC ring as if it were his consigliere. Evidently the ring didn’t have any wise counsel because Miles took another quick swig of his beer and carefully set the mug on a napkin.
“Is that what Alex told you, Miles? He was the one who broke off the engagement?”
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