The old man reacted quickly and flattened himself on the seat just as a second shot blasted into the car. This one imbedded itself into the driver’s side door, missing Tracie by inches.
She had always prided herself on her ability to focus, and now she needed every ounce of concentration she could muster. She wanted to return fire but knew the key to surviving beyond the next few seconds would be getting Kiley’s car started so they could escape.
A third shot rang out, slamming into the door next to the last one. Finally, Tracie located the ignition wire and pulled it away from its terminal. She yanked the starter wire loose and jammed the two bare ends together.
The Impala rumbled to life, the engine coughing and sputtering for a second before smoothing into a silky purr. Another slug ripped into the door and Tracie cursed. She slammed her hand down on the accelerator pedal and the car shot forward. Something metallic screeched along its side.
Tracie shifted her hand to the brake pedal and shoved it to the floor. The tires skidded along the uneven barn floor and the Impala shuddered to a stop, rocking violently on its springs.
“Get up, quick!” She pushed Kiley upright and lifted herself into the driver’s seat. Fumbled for the headlight knob. Found it and pulled, and immediately the barn’s interior was flooded with light. Fifteen feet in front of the car was the main entrance, two massive hinged doors that opened by swinging outward from the middle.
The doors were currently closed, of course, presumably secured from the outside with a padlock. Tracie hit the gas hard, praying the doors weren’t as solid and heavy as they looked.
They were.
The Impala hit the closed doors at maybe ten miles per hour, not having had enough of a head start to build up much speed. The impact was enormous, though, and both occupants were flung forward despite having braced themselves as best they could.
Tracie hit the steering wheel hard, the blow knocking the wind out of her lungs. Kiley’s head struck the windshield and he moaned, the sound clear even over the roar of the big engine and the noise of the storm.
She kept the accelerator pedal jammed to the floor.
Sheet metal crumpled and one headlight went out, and the big car bucked and writhed like an injured animal. For one horrible second Tracie feared they would lose the battle with the heavy wooden doors, and then they blasted through and into the rain.
The engine sputtered and complained, but the car shot forward. She could barely see the rutted track through the heavy rainfall as the car’s one working headlight struggled to illuminate the scene. The tires spun, spewing mud and field grass out behind the Impala in a red-tinted rooster tail made visible by the rear running lights. In the back of her mind, Tracie hoped the mud had covered their attacker.
She eased off the gas slightly, now willing to sacrifice a little speed for increased control. The last thing they needed was to slide off the rough track and into a tree. The forest crowded against the left side of the car and she thought about moving slightly right but elected to stay in the established wheel-ruts.
They struggled forward, fishtailing in the rain-saturated field, even at their relatively slow speed. Beside her, Kiley was saying something, but Tracie couldn’t make out his words above the guttural rumble of the big V-8 engine and the still-pounding storm.
The wreckage of Edison Kiley’s home was clearly visible now. It would have been clearly visible even without the one headlight. The fire that had just been starting when Tracie struggled to release Kiley was now burning freely, the flames reaching into the rainy sky like a massive bonfire.
Then they were past. Tracie continued along the trail, and halfway between the burning house and still-deserted road it veered right and merged with the long driveway. Once all four tires were on the paved portion, she hit the gas and the engine stopped sputtering and released a throaty roar.
The car leaped forward and in seconds Tracie hit the brakes and yanked the wheel left. Halfway through the turn she punched the gas again and the big Impala fishtailed one last time before gaining traction on the wet road and screeching away from the scene of the attempted murder.
She watched the rear view mirror intently, concerned about being followed, but the blazing wreckage that was once Edison Kiley’s home grew smaller and smaller and eventually disappeared as they rounded the sweeping turn. The yellow-orange glow was replaced by rain-lashed darkness, complete and unrelenting.
8
Tracie gingerly turned the knob to Aaron Stallings’s home office. Her hands looked as though she had jammed them inside a blender and punched “puree.” Knicks, cuts and scratches adorned practically every square inch of skin on both hands, and the finger with the half-missing nail was swollen, ugly and purple. Whatever she had impaled her other finger on while working to free Edison Kiley had left a bloody mess in its wake, and dark bruises had formed overnight around her knuckles and the backs of her hands.
She arranged her face into an implacable mask, determined not to show weakness to her boss. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was in pain, even though it would have to be obvious the minute he got a look at her hands.
She entered briskly, all business, and was surprised to see not one chair placed in front of Stallings’s desk, but two. The second chair was thickly stuffed, considerably more comfortable than the one provided for Tracie.
And it was already occupied.
By Edison Kiley.
After escaping the scene of the attempted murder last night, Tracie had brought the scientist straight to Langley, where she checked in, as she had been instructed to do, with night duty security personnel.
After a short delay, two case officers had appeared, pushing a wheelchair in front of them as they walked. They opened the Impala’s door and helped Kiley into the chair. If they noticed the heavy damage the car had sustained, they kept it to themselves. Then they turned and began wheeling him to the on-site infirmary.
The officers ignored Tracie, saying nothing to her, acting as if Kiley had driven himself to the facility, even though they were likely well aware of Tracie’s status—or maybe lack of status, she thought wryly—as an ex-operative.
The damage to the car didn’t seem to have extended to the engine, as it idled smoothly at the gate during the exchange. Tracie was not invited onto agency property, nor was she offered a parking spot. The case officers didn’t ask whether she required medical attention, and they didn’t offer her so much as a blanket, although she shivered uncontrollably the entire time they were assisting Kiley.
The last she saw of the old man was the back of his head as the agents escorted him away from the Impala. At the time, she had assumed she would never see him again.
But she had been wrong. Here it was, less than twelve hours later, and the man she had saved was here. He turned his head and smiled warmly at her. “I’d get up,” he said with a smile, “but…” He gestured at his left foot, wrapped in a swath of bright white bandages and elevated on a padded divan.
It was the first time she had gotten more than a fleeting look at him in the light, and although there was no denying the man’s age in his wrinkled appearance, he looked fit and healthy, with the obvious exception of his foot injury.
“Don’t even think about getting up,” she said, returning his smile. She moved to his chair and extended a hand, but he was having none of it.
“Get down here,” he ordered, and as Tracie leaned over, he wrapped two bony arms around her shoulders in a hug and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said. “I can never repay you for what you did last night, so I won’t insult you by trying. Just know you have my gratitude, and if there’s ever anything you need that I can help with, any time, night or day, all you have to do is ask.”
This was uncharted ground for Tracie Tanner. Secrecy formed the basis for everything in the world of covert operations; it was the key to survival. Praise was rare. Information was parceled out with a miser’s touch and guarded jealously. With th
e exception of contacts she had made in her past life working in and around the Soviet Union and East Germany, Tracie was unused even to seeing the people she had helped, much less hugging them and receiving their thanks.
“Uhh, no problem, Mr. Kiley,” she said uncomfortably. He released his grip on her and she straightened.
“Please,” he said. “I think we’ve become sufficiently acquainted that you can call me Edison. And I know better than to ask you your name,” he added with an impish smile.
Tracie didn’t have a clue how to respond, so she said nothing and returned his smile as she sat in the hard-backed wooden chair next to her new best friend.
Stallings had remained tight-lipped during the exchange, and now he cleared his throat. “I’ve got a couple of things to add regarding last night’s…debacle.”
Tracie met his gaze steadily. She doubted the CIA director would act out his usual repertoire with Edison Kiley present—pounding his fist on his desk, roaring angrily, and generally acting like an unreasonable lout—but she wouldn’t have bet money on it, either. It seemed she was about to find out.
“While I will admit,” Stallings said, “that you delivered Mr. Kiley to the company in one piece, more or less”—he glanced pointedly in the direction of Kiley’s injured foot—“I had envisioned something a little less dramatic than a gun battle and a house burned down to its foundation.”
“So had I,” Tracie answered coolly. “And as for a gun battle, it was a little one-sided. I only discharged my weapon a couple of times, and that was solely to remind our attacker that he wasn’t the only one with a weapon.”
“Be that as it may, you didn’t do yourself any favors by leaving your personal vehicle at the scene. While we’ve ensured that it’s not traceable back to you, I think you’ll agree it’s a complication we don’t need.”
“I do agree.”
“Fortunately,” he continued, as though she had never spoken, “we’re a little more on the ball than you are. A company wrecker was dispatched to Dr. Kiley’s home within two minutes of your arrival at Langley last night, and the car was towed away before the first of the authorities showed up. The area surrounding the home is so remote that the first fire/rescue vehicle didn’t show up for nearly another two hours.”
Tracie was well used to Stallings trying to bait her. She knew she should keep her mouth shut but just couldn’t manage it. “Yeah, well, given the fact that there was an armed killer standing in the dark somewhere between Dr. Kiley—”
“Edison,” he said. It was the first time he had spoken since Stallings started talking.
“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling at Kiley, then turned her attention back to her boss, sitting behind his desk like a massive gargoyle.
“Given the fact that there was an armed killer standing in the dark somewhere between Edison and my car, it seemed as though it might be prudent to make our escape via some other method. Or do you disagree?”
Stallings glowered at her. Had the old man not been present, Tracie was certain this would have been a fist-pounding moment.
Instead, the spymaster shook his head and continued. “We’ve been keeping a close eye on the police investigation, and it’s safe to say they are completely stymied. They’re operating on the assumption that the damage to Dr. Kiley’s barn came from a vehicle smashing through the closed door, which is obvious, of course. The tire tracks in the mud leave a trail even Stevie Wonder couldn’t miss,” he said, again casting a disapproving glance in Tracie’s direction.
“However,” he continued after an uncomfortable silence, “they don’t know whether the vehicle was being driven by Dr. Kiley, or by whoever set his house ablaze, or by someone else entirely. For that matter, they don’t know whether Dr. Kiley is even alive. They suspect he is not, given the nature of the attack and the age of the victim.”
“How long are you planning to keep Dr. Ki—uh, Edison—under wraps? He’s the link between two bombings and the death of NCC’s CEO, not to mention a half-dozen other corporate executives. I’m sure he’s already spent plenty of time with the police—”
“I have,” Kiley said.
“But they’re going to want to speak with him again,” Tracie finished. “They certainly need to know he’s alive, if only for his family’s peace of mind, don’t you think?”
“I have no surviving family,” Kiley said. “Ruth and I were both only children, and we were never able to have kids of our own. When she passed away six years ago, I became the only remaining Kiley.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tracie said.
Then she turned back to Stallings. “But still, what’s the point in keeping him under wraps? The police will need to question him, and since my car was removed from the scene and he doesn’t know who I am, there’s no way anything can come back on me. You obviously believe Edison can be trusted, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought him here. You told me he’s worked with us before, so he knows how to keep his mouth shut.” She spread her hands. “I don’t understand. What gives?”
Aaron Stallings was staring her down, his face turning interesting shades of red and purple as she talked. “Are you finished?” he said. “Would it be alright if I spoke now?”
The urge to give a flippant answer was almost overwhelming, but based on her volatile history with Stallings, Tracie knew that would be a mistake. So she choked back the response that had almost leapt out of her mouth and waited for the CIA director to continue.
After a moment, he got his temper more or less under control and he spoke. “Yes, he knows how to keep his mouth shut, and yes, I trust him. Edison Kiley was working with the agency before you were even a twinkle in your old man’s eye. I personally worked with him on a number of operations nearly a quarter-century ago.”
Tracie blinked in surprise. Aaron Stallings was the rare presidential cabinet-level member whose appointment was more than simply the standard payoff to political hacks and party loyalists who had contributed to a president’s election. He had risen through the ranks of the CIA over the course of nearly four decades of service. It was said he had dirt on just about every major player in Washington, and undoubtedly knew more secrets than anyone else alive.
Tracie had known all this about her boss, of course, and yet over the entire period of her employment at the agency, Aaron Stallings had held just one job: CIA director. It was hard for her to imagine the man ever doing anything except sitting behind his big desk, manipulating agents and politicians like puppets on a string.
“You two worked together?” she finally said.
“Dr. Kiley did some electronics work for us, very advanced, high-tech stuff at the time, although back then nobody called it that. So, I hope that answers your questions about what he is doing here.”
Tracie considered Stallings’s words. “You’re no sentimentalist,” she said, gazing at her boss thoughtfully. “I’m sure you’re glad Edison is okay, but he’s not here because you feel the need to keep him safe. The police could—and I’m sure would—assign protection to him until this mess gets straightened out, and he would be in no danger.”
Stallings was watching her closely, and she thought the corners of his mouth might have twitched in as close an approximation of a smile as she was likely to see from the man.
“And if that’s the case,” she continued, “then you think all of this—the murder of Allan Nesbitt, the bombing at the Washington Arms Hotel, and last night’s torching of Edison’s home—is related to something that happened while Edison was working for the agency.”
She shook her head, unsatisfied with the logic. “But that doesn’t make sense. You said it was decades ago that Dr.—that Edison—worked for the CIA. And besides, you said you thought the attack at the Washington Arms was a case of industrial espionage.”
“I said industrial espionage was one possibility. But I never really thought that was the case.”
“Which was why you sent me to retrieve Edison in the first place. I get it. But obviously last
night’s attempt on his life cements your theory about this being CIA-related.”
Stallings nodded. “If it was a case of industrial espionage, there would be no reason for the attackers to take the additional risk of going after one scientist, not after they’ve already decimated the entire management structure of National Circuit Corporation. It will take months, probably years, before the company is back on its feet. Mission accomplished.”
“And yet they took that risk. Obviously you called me here because I’m involved somehow.”
“You’re going to be.”
“Care to explain how?”
Stallings leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together behind his big head. “What do you know about the Bay of Pigs?”
9
Tracie shrugged. “Probably not as much as I should,” she admitted. “I know what I learned in school, that a U.S.-led paramilitary force, comprised mostly of exiled Cuban citizens, attempted an invasion of Cuba in the early 1960s with the goal of overthrowing Fidel Castro and the country’s Communist leadership. The incursion originated at the Bay of Pigs.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I know that the attempt failed. If I remember correctly, everything fell apart within just a few days. There were charges made that the U.S. government abandoned the Cuban exiles, or at least failed to give them the support they needed. I know that some in the Cuban expatriate community still blame our government for mishandling the invasion. That’s really all I know, and I’m not absolutely certain that’s even all accurate.”
Kiley was nodding next to her as she spoke, keeping quiet but listening closely. Stallings said, “That’s a fairly accurate description of what occurred, at least from a layman’s point of view.”
Tracie crossed her legs and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin resting in her cupped hands. She was concentrating so hard that she barely noticed the pain in her sliced and bruised palms. “Are you saying these attacks on NCC and Dr. Kiley are related to something that happened a quarter of a century ago?”
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 55