“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll be safe.”
“School?”
“You won’t be going to school. We’ll figure out something.”
“Are we in danger?”
“Yes.”
She had been out for her afternoon walk with her dog and then the world was abruptly torn apart, the day’s innocent beginning vanished into violence. He saw that she didn’t understand what was happening.
“Are we coming back?” she asked.
“They’ll be looking for me. The house isn’t safe.”
“What about Mom?”
“She’ll be here shortly.” He pointed to the sofa. “Wait there when you’re done packing.”
Gabriel surveyed his study. They had ransacked the room. A hacksaw, a hammer, and a broken chisel lay in front of the large safe. They had failed to open the combination lock, but in an effort to force it, they’d damaged the tumbler, rendering it inoperable. They hadn’t gotten the Wilson documents, but Gabriel couldn’t get them either. They would return soon with proper tools. He saw they had broken into his locked filing cabinet, disgorging its contents to the floor, and his desk drawer had been removed and stripped. They may have connected him to the National Archive, or maybe they were searching for Agency documents, providing a pretext to arrest him. Gabriel put his framed diploma with the carbon paper inside his Army duffel bag, adding his 9mm Glock.
Gabriel called Neil Ostroff at his Times office, but he got a recorded voice. He hesitated, but then left a message. “It’s me, Jack Gabriel. We need to talk.” In the silence that came after the recording, Gabriel became aware of a weak but distinct tone on the line, and he recognized the telltale echo of a listening device. He unscrewed the mouthpiece and saw the tiny transistor spliced to four colored wires that conveyed his phone conversations to a listening post.
It had been hard for Gabriel to see the beginning of the danger, but it was easy now to see the end. As he looked at the bug, he lost hope that there would be a civilized way out of his jeopardy. The clarity of his predicament made the muscles in his neck constrict.
It didn’t take Gabriel long to find the beacon in his Volvo. Once he knew what he was looking for, he quickly inspected the logical locations. The black device was taped under the dashboard exactly where he would have put it. The beacon was smaller than the ones he had used in Saigon—a better microprocessor technology, he thought, as he examined it. He went to remove it but changed his mind.
GABRIEL ESTABLISHED A new order for the family in the minutes that followed Claire’s return. It was a difficult conversation. He didn’t remember how he started his explanation, but it was after she’d entered the living room, either when she saw blood on the tile floor or the ghostly expression on Sara’s face. Gabriel took his wife’s shoulders, as he had done the night of the Tet Offensive, and he held her. He saw that she had already prepared herself for terrible news. She was calm, as she always had been in their marriage when the stakes were high. It was only the little things that required drama.
Gabriel gave a list that explained itself. Molly was dead. Men had sacked the house. Weisenthal—remember him?—he and his wife died when their Volkswagen bus exploded near the Lincoln Memorial. The men who did this are not FBI. Gabriel had come to that conclusion quickly. He expanded on what he knew, using the names of men who were unfamiliar to her, but the names didn’t matter. Claire saw only her husband’s eyes, his worry, and his concern. He might be arrested for having the gun without a permit; they would return to open his safe. They would find a convenient excuse. I will be next.
Their eyes met. “How is this possible?” Claire asked.
Fading sunlight shadowed the yard and darkened their mood. Claire brought her family together in an embrace. “We survived Tet. We will live through this.”
They had discussed this contingency before, but always during a foreign posting in a dangerous city, where his unmasking, or unexpected civil violence, put them in danger. They had memorized the inventory of things they needed—passports, change of clothing, telephone numbers of trusted friends, false identification, and money. Their planning had helped them survive that night during the Tet Offensive, and as terrifying as the night had been, he never expected their evacuation through the confusion of Tet to be a rehearsal for an escape from Washington, D.C. He never expected to find himself at risk in America.
Saigon. Gabriel had been awakened by his Marine guard shortly after 3:00 a.m. in the bedroom of his CIA residence a few blocks from the embassy. Viet Cong had attacked the main American compound, and all personnel were being ordered to a predesignated evacuation point. Gabriel had grabbed the rucksack he kept packed for this possibility. It contained gold coins, maps of the city, his 9mm Glock, black-market Canadian passports, and telephone numbers of safe houses they could seek out if their route through the streets was blocked. Outside, frantic people rushed through darkened streets, no one taking notice of Gabriel and his family, and in this way they moved cautiously, one street at a time, stopping, peering from the sheltering corner, venturing forward. Chaos everywhere. Gabriel had been frightened and calm, the two opposite emotions helping them survive the terrible night.
GABRIEL JOINED CLAIRE and Sara in the Volvo. He pointed to the homing device under the dashboard and drew a cutting finger across his throat. He didn’t know if the device had remote recording, but he did not want to chance that their conversation could be picked up and compromise their next move. Gabriel raised an eyebrow, confirming that Claire understood, and he nodded at Sara, who acknowledged that she too understood. All three sat quietly in the car.
Gabriel took Claire’s hand, and his expression conveyed the gravity of the moment. They looked at the graceful town house they’d lived in for two years. The brick façade had enchanted them when they first saw it, and slowly they had warmed to the modest home set between grander structures on the pleasant tree-lined street in Georgetown. It was the home they’d hoped for and dreamed of. Its windows were now dark. He had a deepening sense that they would never see the house again.
Gabriel pulled away from the curb, but upon coming to the end of the block, he suddenly stopped the Volvo. He tore the beacon from under the dashboard. He knelt beside a parked Chevy and fixed the device to the car’s gasoline tank.
He got back in the Volvo and turned the ignition. “That will buy us a few hours.”
23
The Folger Theatre
Phillip Treacher and his wife were seated in aisle orchestra seats in the Folger Theatre, watching as King Richard in Act IV was asked by Bolingbrook if he was content to resign the throne. Treacher found the casting of a whiny actor for Richard an odd choice to play the somber, sullen king, the light shading of mood eviscerating the inherent comedy of the petulant tyrant struggling with self-doubt. Treacher had hoped for irony but found only flatness and sincerity.
His Pageboy began to buzz. It began as a simple note, indistinct and forgettable, like the first chirp of a smoke alarm. Treacher heard it, and then it continued to buzz, drawing the attention of a bald man directly in front, who whipped his head around and hissed violently, “Shhhhhhh.”
“I’ll be right back,” Treacher whispered to his wife.
He’d told Casey he would be at the theater that evening if there was any news. He didn’t find Casey outside the building, but his second choice paid off. He found him in the men’s room. The two men stood next to each other at the bank of urinals. Casey was the first to finish, and he stooped down to see if any of the stalls were occupied.
Treacher followed Casey to the porcelain sinks, running hot water over his hands, and caught Casey’s eye in the mirror. “Have you found them?”
“Not yet.”
“What about Charlottesville?”
“I don’t think they went there. We checked the sister’s home, but she knew nothing.”
Treacher looked sideways at Case
y.
Casey ignored Treacher’s gaze. “He knows we have the Volvo’s license plate. He’s not an idiot, and he’d expect us to alert police. I think they’re still in Washington. We’re going on that assumption.”
“Where?”
“We don’t know. She withdrew the entire balance from her bank account. Six grand. They won’t get far on that. Money will be their problem.”
“What did you find in the house?”
“His gun, but we left it. We informed the FBI, and he’s now considered an armed fugitive and dangerous. We went back with an acetylene torch to open his safe. There were no carbons.”
Treacher reproached quietly, “They weren’t in his office, so they had to be in the house. I don’t have to remind you that if his memo ends up in the Times we’ll find ourselves buried in scandal.”
“Don’t lecture me,” Casey snapped.
Treacher scrubbed his hands vigorously in the sink and cast a scalding look at Casey. The two men stood side by side, separated by a gulf of mistrust. “What’s next?”
“Assume the worst,” Casey said. “We picked up a conversation from the wiretap. It went to voicemail. He has called the reporter twice.”
“You need to quash that. Understand?” Treacher’s voice was querulous and demanding. He closed the hot and cold faucet handles firmly and repeatedly wiped his hands with a paper towel. Treacher glanced at his watch and, conscious of his hostile tone, added in a conciliatory manner, “You were right about Weisenthal.” He faced Casey. “Do they know who set the car bomb?” Casey’s silence was his answer. Treacher considered what else to ask and what he didn’t want to know. “A man dies. It’s a sad thing. What happened to Kelly?”
“Drowned,” Casey said.
Treacher pondered and nodded. “Weisenthal. Ainsley. Kelly.”
Casey said nothing.
Treacher balled the paper towel and dropped it in the wastebasket at the door. When he turned to face Casey, he saw grim impatience. “Where will Gabriel go? Hotel? Airport? Union Station?”
“He won’t get far. He doesn’t have a gun permit. Police want him for questioning in the theft of federal documents.”
“You’re on top of this?”
“Of course,” Casey grunted. He fixed his eyes on Treacher. “He saw me. He’ll place my face soon enough.” Silence opened between the two men, standing at opposite ends of the bathroom. “He is well trained. Well trained and clever. That will be our challenge. He won’t be taken into custody.”
Treacher heard Casey while he was opening the bathroom door, but he didn’t stop, and he continued through the lobby, stunned.
TREACHER WAS ALONE at the bar in the theater lobby. His head spun dizzily with the quickening implications of his growing jeopardy. Suddenly, everything was speeding up. Everything was heading toward catastrophe. Jesus fuck.
“Sir?” the bartender asked.
Treacher looked up. He had the face of a man who had seen his ghost. His eyes burned with the searing heat of treachery and the closing doors of time. Old grudges against Weisenthal rose up, and hard feelings were fresh.
“What will it be? Scotch? Beer?”
Double fuck.
“Sir?”
Treacher saw the bartender’s pleasant smile, and he was seduced by the man’s offer.
“Double scotch.”
Treacher smelled the alcohol before he tasted it—the familiar fragrance. He took his drink to the periphery of the empty lobby, where the silence mocked his predicament. He stood at the door, open on the hot night for the tepid breeze. He took one sip from the glass, then a longer pull, and he breathed deeply as the alcohol hit his stomach. The old heat of the scotch took hold and brought clarity to his thinking and settled the twitch in his neck.
How had he gotten to this precipice? He stepped outside. He was alone under a menacing sky that spread across the darkened city. He imagined the brightly lit windows of his office in the West Wing and, a few steps away, the curved brow of the Oval Office. He saw jeopardy in everything he had worked for. No words fully expressed his contempt for human frailty. Terror’s drumbeat filled his head, and old resentments came alive with fury.
All he had worked for was glowing brightly in the night, and he couldn’t get it out of his mind that all of it could vanish.
His hands tried to grasp the moment, but colorless, formless, tasteless time didn’t yield. None of what he’d become was his to own, only his to lose. He looked at his palms, pale as milk, but he saw only staining blood.
24
Hotel Harrington
Gabriel understood that the best choice to escape danger was often the least obvious one. For that reason, he chose to spend the night in room 918 at the Hotel Harrington. Police would be checking guest registries at hotels across the city, which made the obvious choices risky. He presented his business card to the pleasant Southern girl at the front desk, who understood that guests requesting room 918 were not to be questioned. It was a normal thing to offer his card, which had been a source of quiet gratification to him during his years of service, and he showed it automatically.
The long-serving manager emerged from the back office. She was conservatively dressed in a ruffled blouse buttoned to the neck. He didn’t have to ask for the key. She simply presented it. They had never exchanged a word in this transaction, not even to chat, but he felt her disapproving eyes.
A half hour later, Gabriel opened the room’s door for his wife and daughter. He’d advised Claire to wear scarlet lipstick, hike up her skirt, and try to give a convincing appearance of an adulterer’s girlfriend with daughter in tow.
GABRIEL SAT ON the closed toilet seat and let Claire inspect his scalp wound.
“It’s the same spot,” she said. She teased blood-matted hair away from the wound and gave her judgment. “People keep hitting your head, but they don’t knock any sense into you.”
“Spare me the sarcasm. Stitches?”
“A Band-Aid will do. How did you know about this room?” she asked, dabbing with a wet washcloth. “Don’t move,” she admonished.
“I’m not moving. You asked a question.”
“And?”
“It’s an Agency safe house.”
“The two-way mirror? The film camera?”
“You can guess.”
“Safe house. What an appalling euphemism.” Claire faced him and contemplated his grim expression. “While we were waiting downstairs Sara asked if you’d ever killed anyone. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”
Gabriel grunted. “Good to know.”
“What’s next?”
“The Band-Aid.”
“What’s next in our lives?”
Gabriel frowned. “We have a choice to make. It’s not my choice. It’s ours.”
Claire’s eyes had drifted to the street below the bathroom window. Men and women who lived normal lives were leaving normal jobs, going about their day with normal concerns. She was no longer one of the ordinary people thinking of her daughter’s school and the petty crises of work.
She turned back to her husband. She was indignant. “You haven’t done anything wrong. We need to leave the city. We need to leave the country.”
Her suggestion startled him. It was an unthinkable choice that he wasn’t prepared to reject, and he let its implications settle.
“This isn’t going to blow over,” she said. “Twenty-two years ago, something terrible happened. The men responsible are still at work. You are the least naïve man I know, Jack, but your admirable desire to avenge a friend’s murder puts all of us at risk—and it will put you in jail or get you killed. You owe it to me and to this family to move beyond this.”
Her voice had risen to an angry vibrato. She took Gabriel’s hand and placed it on her chest, looking calmly into his eyes.
“You don’t want to be a lost, bleating voice in the wilderness sacrificed to the corruption of this town. We don’t want to visit you in federal prison or grieve at your grave. We have a choice to live
our lives as we had planned.” She looked at him fiercely. “Move on. Don’t look back. Let the bastards win. You’ll have time to think, time with your daughter, time, if you want, to write a novel.”
He began to protest, but she stopped his mouth with a kiss. “We move to the Caribbean,” she said. “Not Cuba. They don’t need doctors, and I couldn’t stand the idea of living in a Communist country. I don’t want to be called a defector. Someplace in the West Indies. I can set up a practice. We’ve always talked about sailing around the world.”
“On six thousand dollars?” he said.
She kissed him again. “We’re clever. We’ll figure something out.” She placed the Band-Aid on his scalp. “Done.”
“WHAT ARE YOU reading?” Gabriel asked Sara, who sat cross-legged on the sofa wearing bulky Koss headphones, carelessly flipping the pages of a magazine, and then he saw that the headphone’s plug-end was loose on the carpet.
She pulled a headphone from one ear. “What?”
“Were we talking too loud?”
“Arguing too loud.” She lifted the cover of TV Guide and looked at him with an air of sufferance. “There’s a drawer full of porn in the TV cabinet.”
Gabriel confirmed her discovery. Months-old copies of Hustler, Playboy, and Penthouse were stacked in the drawer with paper cups and a half-empty bottle of bourbon. He could only imagine what she thought of the hotel room—spare furnishings, gaudy velvet paintings, bordello lighting, a carpet with cigarette burns, and the 16mm film camera pointed at the two-way mirror and the adjoining room.
“Mom said you’ve killed people.”
Gabriel’s eyes were averted when he heard Sara, and he turned his attention to her. “Yes, I have.”
He surprised himself with how easily the words came. He had rehearsed this moment many times, and always he’d come up short. The many hollow explanations had all been wrong.
“Tell me when to stop,” he continued. “What I say might anger you. Some of it might surprise you. Most of it won’t change your mind.”
The Coldest Warrior Page 18