Agents of Treachery

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  But this was one party that Matt was actually looking forward to. He wanted to ask the “Nourwoods” a few questions.

  The party was already in full swing when he arrived: giddy, lubricated laughter and the smells of strong perfume and gin and melted cheese. He smiled at the neighbors, most of whom he didn’t know, said hello to Audrey Kramer, and then caught sight of Kate chatting amiably with the Nourwoods. He froze. Why was she being so friendly to them?

  As soon as Kate spied Matt, she waved him over. “Jimmy, Laura—my husband, Matt.”

  Nourwood was dressed in an expensive-looking blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a striped tie. He looked prosperous and preening. His wife was small and blond and plain, solidly built, with small, pert features. Next to her husband she looked washed-out. They really didn’t look like a married couple, Matt thought. They didn’t seem to fit together in any way. Both of them smiled politely and extended their hands, and Matt noticed that her handshake was a lot firmer than her husband’s.

  “We’ve met,” Nourwood said, his dark eyes gleaming.

  “You have?” Kate said.

  “Early this morning. He didn’t tell you?” Nourwood laughed, showing very white, even teeth. “Very early this morning.”

  Kate flashed Matt a look of surprise. “No.”

  “Did you ever find your earring?” Nourwood asked Kate.

  “Earring?” she said. “What earring?”

  “The one Matt gave you—his first gift to you?”

  Matt tried to intercept her with a warning look, but Kate gave him no chance. “This guy?” she said. “I don’t think he’s ever given me a pair of earrings the whole time I’ve known him.”

  “Ah,” Nourwood said. His eyes bored right into Matt like an X-ray. “I misunderstood.”

  Matt’s face went hot and prickly, and he wondered how obvious it was. He’d been caught in a transparent lie. How was he going to explain what he’d really been doing in Nourwood’s driveway at five in the morning without sounding defensive or sketchy? And then he rebuked himself: This guy’s a liar and an undercover operative, and you’re acting like the guilty one?

  The two women launched into a high-spirited conversation, like old friends, about restaurants and movies and shopping, leaving the two men standing there in awkward silence.

  “My apologies,” Nourwood said quietly. “I should have thought before I said anything. We all have things we prefer to keep hidden from our spouses.”

  Matt attempted a casual chuckle, but it came out hollow and forced. “Oh no, not at all,” he said. “I should have told you the whole story.” He lowered his voice, confiding. “Those earrings were actually a surprise gift—”

  “Ah,” Nourwood said, cutting him off with a knowing smile. “Not another word. My bad.”

  Matt hesitated. Without further elaboration, his new, revised story made no sense: why the pointless lie, how had these imaginary earrings ended up on Nourwood’s driveway, all that. But Nourwood either didn’t need to hear more—or didn’t believe him and didn’t want to hear more.

  Matt’s Spidey Sense was tingling again.

  Laura and Kate were laughing and talking a mile a minute. Laura was saying something about Neiman Marcus, Kate nodding emphatically and saying, “Totally. Totally.”

  Instead of trying to salvage a shred of credibility, Matt decided to change the subject. “So how do you like ADS?”

  Nourwood stared at him blankly. “ADS?”

  “Andromeda Data Systems. You don’t work there?” Now he wondered whether Kate might have just heard wrong.

  “Oh, right,” Nourwood said, as if just now remembering. “It’s fine. You know—it’s a job.”

  “Uh-huh,” Matt said. Maybe it was Nourwood’s turn to get caught in a lie. “You just started there, right?”

  “Right, right,” Nourwood said vaguely, obviously not eager to talk about it.

  “How’s the commute?” Matt persisted, moving in for the kill. “You must, like, live on the turnpike.”

  “Not at all. It’s not too bad.”

  There was no question about it: Nourwood didn’t work at ADS at all. He was probably afraid to be asked too many questions about the company.

  So Matt bore in. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to know, believe me,” Nourwood said in an offhanded way. His eyes were roaming the room over Matt’s shoulders, as if he was desperate for an escape from the grilling.

  “Not at all. I’d love to know.”

  “Believe me,” Nourwood said, feigning joviality, though there was something hard in his eyes. “Whenever I try to explain what I do, people fall asleep standing up. Tell me about yourself.”

  “Me? I’m an engineer. But we’re not done with you.” Then Matt flashed a mollifying grin.

  “I guess you could say I’m an engineer, too,” Nourwood said. “A project engineer.”

  “Oh, yeah? I know a fair amount about ADS,” Matt lied. He knew nothing more than what he’d gleaned from a quick glance at their website this morning and skimming the occasional article in the Globe. “I’d love to hear all about it.”

  “I’m an independent contractor. On kind of a consulting project.”

  “Really?” Matt said, pretending to be fascinated. “Tell me about it.”

  Nourwood’s restless eyes returned to Matt’s, and for a few seconds seemed to be studying him. “I wish I could,” he said at last. “But they made me sign all sorts of nondisclosure agreements.”

  Matt wondered whether Nourwood was a harmless king snake or a venomous prairie rattlesnake. “Huh,” he said.

  “It’s just a short-term project anyway,” Nourwood went on, his eyes gone opaque. “That’s why we’re renting.”

  Matt’s stomach flipped over. A short-term project. That was one way of putting it. Of course it was short term. In a couple of days Nourwood’s true mission would be finished. Matt cleared his throat, attempted another approach entirely. “You know, it’s the weirdest thing, but you look so damned familiar.”

  “Oh?”

  “I could swear I’ve met you before.”

  Nourwood nodded. “I get that a lot.”

  Matt doubted it. “College, maybe?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where’d you go to college?”

  Nourwood seemed to hesitate. “Madison,” he said, almost grudgingly.

  “You’re kidding me! I’ve got a bunch of friends who went there. What year’d you graduate?”

  He caught Kate giving him a poisonous look. She had this astonishing ability to talk and eavesdrop at the same time. In truth, Matt didn’t know a single person who’d gone to the University of Wisconsin at Madison. But if Matt could get Nourwood to give him a year of graduation, he’d finally be able to unearth something on this guy.

  Nourwood looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t really socialize much in college,” he said. “I doubt I’d know any of your friends. Anyway, I didn’t-—I didn’t exactly graduate. Long story.” A taut laugh.

  “Love to hear it.”

  “But not a very interesting story. Maybe some other time.”

  “I’ll take a rain check,” Matt said. “We’d love to have you guys over sometime. What’s your cell number?” Of course, Matt had no intention of inviting the Nourwoods over. Not in a million years. But there had to be ways to trace a cell phone number.

  “I should have my new mobile phone in a day or two,” Nourwood said. “Let me take yours.”

  Touché, Matt thought. He smiled like an idiot while he scrambled for a response. “You know, it’s funny, I’m blanking on it.”

  “Is that your mobile phone right there, clipped to your belt?”

  “Oh,” Matt said, looking down, flushing with embarrassment.

  “Your number’s easy to find on the phone. Here, let me take a look.”

  Nourwood reached for Matt’s phone, but Matt put his hand over it. Just then, Matt felt a painful pinch at his elbow. “Excus
e us,” Kate said. “Matt, Audrey Kramer needs to ask you something.”

  “Hope you find your earrings,” Nourwood said with a wink that sent a chill down Matt’s spine.

  * * * *

  “What the hell do you think you were doing in there?” Kate said on the walk home.

  Matt, embarrassed, snorted softly and shook his head.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What?”

  “The way you were interrogating him? That was out-and-out rude.”

  “I was just making conversation.”

  “Please, Matt. I know damned well what you were doing. You might as well have put him under the klieg lights. That was way out of line.”

  “You notice how he was evading my questions?”

  “Fine, so let it drop!”

  “Don’t you get it? Don’t you get how dangerous this guy might be?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Matt. You’re doing that Rear Window thing again. Laura seems perfectly nice.”

  “There you go: perfectly nice.’ Like that milk that’s about to go bad.”

  “The milk is fine,” she snapped. “And I’m not even going to ask what you were doing in front of their house at five in the morning.”

  A moment passed. The scuff of their footsteps on the pavement. “You still haven’t heard back from the doctor, have you?”

  “Will you please stop asking?”

  “But what’s taking him so long?”

  “Matt, we’ve been through this three times before.”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “And we always come through just fine.”

  “There’s always the first time.”

  “God, you’re such a worrier.”

  “Better safe than sorry I worry for both of us.”

  “I know,” she said, and she linked arms with him and snuggled close. “I know you do.”

  * * * *

  The next morning, as Matt was backing the Escalade out of the garage, he glanced over and saw Nourwood getting into his tiny Toyota, and another idea came to him.

  Halfway down the driveway, he stopped the car. For a minute or so he just sat there, enjoying the muted throb of the 6.2-liter all-aluminum V-8 engine with its 403 horsepower and its 517 foot-pounds of torque. He watched Nourwood back his crappy, holier-than-thou subcompact out into the street with a toylike whine and then proceed down Ballard to Centre Street.

  James Nourwood was going to work, and Matt Parker was going to follow

  Let’s see where you really work. Whoever you really are.

  He called his manager, Regina, and told her he was having car trouble and would probably be a little late. She sounded mildly annoyed, but that was her default mode.

  Matt kept his Escalade a few cars behind Nourwood’s Yaris, so Nourwood wouldn’t notice. At the end of Centre Street, Nourwood signaled for a right. No traffic light here, just a stop sign, and the morning rush hour was heavy. By the time Matt was able to turn, Nourwood was in the far left lane, almost out of sight, signaling left. That was the way to the Mass Pike westbound. The direction of Hopkinton and ADS headquarters. Maybe he really did work there after all.

  Matt followed him around the curve, but then Nourwood abruptly veered into the right lane, onto Washington Street, which made no sense at all. This was a local road. Where was the man going?

  When Nourwood turned into a gas station, Matt smiled to himself. Even those damned gas-sipping toy cars needed to fill up from time to time. Matt drove on past the gas station—he couldn’t exactly follow him in—and parked along the curb fifty feet or so ahead. Far enough away that Nourwood wouldn’t notice but close enough to see him leave.

  But then Matt noticed something peculiar in his rearview mirror. Nourwood didn’t pull up to a gas pump. Instead, he parked alongside another car, a gleaming blue Ford Focus not much bigger than his own.

  Then Nourwood’s car door opened. He got out, looked around quickly, then opened the passenger’s side door of the blue Ford and got in.

  Matt’s heart began to thud. Who was Nourwood meeting? The strong morning sun was reflected off the Ford’s windows, turning them into mirrors, impossible to see in. Matt just watched for what seemed an eternity.

  It was probably no more than five minutes, as it turned out, before Nourwood got out of the Ford, followed by the driver, a slender, black-haired young man in his twenties wearing khakis and a white shirt and blue tie. With crisp efficiency, the two men switched cars. Nourwood was the first to leave, backing the Ford out of the space, then hanging a left out of the gas station onto Washington Street, back the way he’d come.

  Matt, facing the wrong way on Washington Street, didn’t dare attempt a U-turn: too much oncoming traffic. There was nowhere to turn left. Frantic, he pulled away from the curb without looking. A car swerved, horn blasting and brakes squealing. Just up ahead on the right was a Dunkin’ Donuts. Matt turned into the lot, spun around, and circled back. But the blue Ford was gone.

  He cursed aloud. If only he had some idea which way Nourwood was headed. West on the turnpike? East? Or maybe not the turnpike at all. Furious at himself, he gave up and proceeded toward the Mass Pike inbound. He’d surely lost the last chance to flush the guy out: Tomorrow was the big day. In the morning, it would be too late.

  As he drove onto the ramp and merged with the clotted traffic on the pike, his mind raced. Why had Nourwood switched cars? Why else except to elude detection, to avoid being spotted by someone who might recognize his vehicle?

  The inbound traffic was heavy and sluggish, worse than usual. Was there an accident? Construction? He switched on his radio in search of a traffic report. “—According to a spokesman for the FBI’s Boston office,” a female announcer was saying. Then a man’s voice, a thick Boston accent: “You know, Kim, if I worked in one of those buildings downtown, I’d take a personal day. Call it a long weekend. Get an early start on my weekend golf game.” Matt switched the radio off.

  Just outside the city, the lines were long at the Allston/ Brighton toll plaza, but not at the Fast Lane booths. Matt had never gotten one of those E-ZPass accounts, though. He didn’t like the idea of putting a transponder on his windshield, an electronic dog tag. He didn’t want Big Brother to know where he was at all times. Sometimes it amazed him how people gave up their right to privacy without a second thought. They just didn’t think about how easily tyranny could move in to fill the vacuum. His brother, Donny, back in Colorado—he understood. He was a true hero.

  As he glanced enviously over at the Fast Lane, he saw a bright blue car zipping past. The man behind the wheel had dark hair and a dark complexion.

  Nourwood.

  He was quite sure of it.

  Miraculously, Matt had caught up with him on the highway—only to be on the verge of losing him again! Stuck in the slow lane, with three cars ahead of him. The driver at the booth seemed to be chatting with the attendant, asking directions or whatever. Matt honked, tried to maneuver out of the line, but there was no room. Then he remembered that even if he’d been able to get over to one of the Fast Lanes, he couldn’t just drive through without a transponder. A camera would take a picture of his license plate and send him a ticket, and that was exactly the kind of trouble he didn’t need.

  By the time he handed the old guy a dollar bill and a quarter and cleared the booth, Nourwood was gone. Matt accelerated, moved to the left-hand lane—and then, like some desert mirage, caught a glimpse of blue.

  Yes. There it was, not far ahead. Nourwood’s cerulean blue Ford was easy to spot, because it was weaving deftly in and out of traffic, crazy fast, like Dale Earnhardt at Daytona.

  As if he were trying to shake a tail.

  Matt’s Escalade had far more cojones than Nourwood’s silly little Ford. It could do zero to sixty in 6.5, and its passing power wasn’t too shabby either. But he had to be careful. Better to stay back, not draw Nourwood’s attention. Or get pulled over by the cops: Now that would be ironic.

  Just up
ahead were the downtown exits. Matt normally took the first one, the Copley Square exit. He wondered—the thought dawned on him with a dread that seeped cold into the pit of his stomach—whether Nourwood was headed toward one of the city’s skyscrapers to conduct surveillance, as these guys so often did when a terrorist operation was in the works.

  Maybe even the Hancock.

  Dear God, he thought. Not that. Of all buildings in Boston, not that.