by D S Kane
She examined her surroundings looking for telltale signs of trouble. No one looked interested in her or acted suspiciously. She cracked the window open and turned off the air conditioner to listen to the street noise, the first indicator of danger. There was garbage in the street, and the smell of it flowed freely into the car. The neighborhood buildings seemed old and not well maintained. Some were ruins. Beads of nervous perspiration dotted her forehead.
Her life had changed so much since Riyadh. She’d been cheated out of her future, and it left her in a state of rage. She hated what the terrorists had turned her into. I feel more and more like a fanatic, acting like I’m turning me into the very hand of evil. Sneaking about, without a home to call my own, no hope of recovering what had once been my life. I can’t even enjoy spending the money I’ve stolen without drawing attention to myself, and attention might mean my death.
She hoped her meeting with Ainsley would bring her one step closer to claiming it all back.
After she’d left the hotel in Manhattan, she’d bought numerous tiny pieces of technology, a hunting knife, and another change of clothing, all of which barely fit when squeezed tight into her attaché case. Entering the Port Authority bus depot, she’d visited her locker and taken a few of her spare identities. Just in case. She’d sent Ainsley an email at his hushmail account letting him know when, where, and how she’d make contact.
The agency had taught her at The Farm how to do surveillance, but she’d never run an operation. And the operative she ran today wasn’t a real operative, since he’d never worked even one day outside the agency’s offices.
To pass the time, she counted the things she feared. There were so many.
She feared traveling. It took forever for her to reach a destination, given the “safe” choices of bus, train, and freighter.
She hated the empty hours when she pretended to be someone else, disguised sometimes as an angry dyke, ancient prostitute, or smiling grandmother.
And she worried because of the additional risks of travel she had to mitigate, such as living in hotels, so close to others she feared. Her ability to work the logistics improved with real-world practice but she found planning a trip pure torture. It had to be perfect every time.
Cassie feared exposure. It was little consolation that every operative feels this dread or that some grow accustomed to it. A rare few even become addicted to their terror. She thought them crazy. She’d already been burned.
She feared Washington, DC. Her escape from this city had left her terrified. But before her odyssey started, there were other reasons for her apprehension. The city itself was an odd mix of tenement slums and bureaucratic buildings, with good hiding places for violent crimes, which occurred with regularity.
More out of loneliness than for any other reason, Cassie hated Washington. Women outnumbered men in this competitive city. She’d been dismissed as a servant, inferior to the men who ran almost everything. She wasn’t permitted to compete with males in the agency. Among the females, she’d struggled for scraps left over by those who were more attractive, even if less intelligent. She knew she was brighter than her peers, but men never chose plain-faced, flat-chested women for anything, from choice operative assignments to relationships.
Before Evan had left to fight in Iraq, she’d been lucky. She’d had a relationship and a social life. He was her first, but now he was dead, his body blown into a smudge by an armor-piercing, focused-blast IED. And since he’d left her to fight in Iraq, her love life had been nothing short of terrible.
She hated having no real identity. She no longer knew who she was.
Worst of all, she hated herself for being afraid.
Oblivious to the few people walking the street past her rental car, she changed outfits from simple poverty to simply outrageous. Donning a bright red plastic-leather raincoat and pink spiked shellac wig, she chewed a large wad of chewing gum, put on a gold-beaded emerald green blouse, black leather miniskirt, and black fish-net stockings. She hid the Beretta she’d bought in Spanish Harlem in the back of the green leather belt around her waist. She’d bought the weapon in Harlem after Ainsley’s call. Then she applied makeup with a putty knife. Dressed in role, she was perfect for this poverty-stricken neighborhood.
She took one last look in the mirror. The only things she couldn’t change were the almond-shaped liquid-brown eyes and her heart-shaped face.
Almost ready for show time. The man she sought now rounded the corner, going away from her location. Good. Let him sweat a bit more.
Cassie exited the car, visiting a tavern across the street she thought might serve her purposes. She entered its front door and checked it out. Dark, old and quiet. Besides the faint smells of beer and cigarettes, there were no discernible odors from where she stood. Booths dimly lit near the rear exit.
She found one where the light through the bar’s sole window was blinding when she faced the street. It would be perfect. She talked briefly to the balding, fat old bartender, saying, “I’ll need privacy in about a half hour.” She pointed toward the rear. “A booth in the back.” She passed him a twenty-dollar counterfeit bill and smiled.
The old man smiled back, showing yellow teeth. “Sure. No problem. You can hook him, but no sex in here.”
She nodded, and returned to the car, where she put finishing touches on her outfit.
Seven minutes later, Cassie held a cell phone in one hand and field glasses in the other, and waited for Ainsley, who must by now be soaked with sweat, to round the corner three hundred feet away. Perspiration streamed down his face.
Cassie toyed with the thought of having him do a few more short trips around the area. But an hour and three miles of trotting in the hot autumn sun would have left him in no shape to attempt anything physical, if this was his intention. And an hour was long enough for her to know he wasn’t being followed.
The disguise gave her a good feeling. She felt like an actress about to go on stage, and the stage fright vanished. Suddenly, she was confident she could do this. And wondered why she didn’t feel fear any more. The voice in her head remained silent.
Cassie grinned, seeing his lost, defeated, and exhausted expression. She hit her cell phone’s Redial button. “Ainsley, proceed now to the tavern directly across the street from you and sit in the booth closest to the rest rooms, on the side facing the street side window. Take everything in your pockets—everything—and place it all on the bench across from you in the booth. I’ll be with you directly.”
She waited until he entered by the front door, then examined herself in the rear view mirror to ensure she looked within role. Still no noise from the voice in her head, so it must be safe to do this.
Taking a deep breath, she exited the car and walked into the alleyway, entering the bar through its rear exit. Passing the rest room, she noticed odors she’d missed when she entered before. The tavern’s rear smelled equal parts of urine and beer, but there were other odors, some more terrible—she could smell fear and blood from a fight—and others, savory, like shepherd’s pie.
As she passed the restroom she saw the back of Ainsley’s head. He sat facing the light, rubbing his eyes, blinded by the sunshine flowing through the dark bar’s only window. She removed the chewing gum and dropped it into a tissue she placed into the pocket of the coat.
Standing right behind him, less than one foot away, she quietly removed her Beretta pistol with its silencer from her belt and unlocked the safety. Pulled to load a shell. Ready to fire. Cassie shoved the pistol into the back of his neck and whispered, “Slowly get up and place both your hands on the table.”
He did, saying, “Sheesh, you’re very touchy, aren’t you, Cassie?”
“I expect you’d be if people were trying to kill you.” She patted him down and found the workout—running all over the city—seemed to have left him with an unexpected erection. She sighed, wondering how he’d managed this. Maybe he found danger arousing?
She found nothing else of consequence and
nothing dangerous.
Cassie sniffed the air. His perspiration smelled sweet, with no trace of aftershave or cologne. And no scent of fear on him. She moved to face him and sat. “Wow, Ainsley, I must guess you’re really glad to see me.” She pointed to the bulge in his pants and although he didn’t reply, his face got red.
Cassie examined the contents of his pockets on her bench seat in the tavern stall. Once again, there was nothing dangerous. She handed back his wallet, keys, a scrap of paper with a shopping list from the supermarket, and a black plastic comb. He put everything into his pockets.
He passed her the cell phone she’d left for him in a waste basket outside the agency’s office building. She exchanged this for a sealed envelope she’d lifted from the same waste basket, containing his cell phone. She checked the cell phone she’d given him, to ensure he hadn’t used it to make any outgoing calls, and then dropped it into her gaudy purse. No outgoing calls meant it might be safe here, for at least a while.
It felt good to finally be in control. She forced her face into a serious expression, wanting to smile so much, her face hurt. “Sit, please, Lee. Can I buy you a drink?”
He nodded. “Lagavulin, straight up.”
“Yum. Strong and smoky single malt. If I’d known you were a man of taste when we worked together, maybe I’d have responded differently to your clumsy passes.” She pointed to the bartender and held up two fingers. “Lagavulin straight up.”
The bartender lifted the bottle from the shelf to show her he had the correct brand. She nodded.
Cassie made an attempt to sound casual, her voice low and even. “Did you know you’re the one person I never expected or wanted to hear from?”
The bartender brought their drinks and Cassie handed the old man two counterfeit twenty-dollar bills. She told him to keep the change, and he vanished.
“You’ve no tradecraft, no experience in operations, no idea what ‘covert’ even means. Not in the least interesting. So tell me, Lee, why are we finally in a bar on a date?”
Ainsley took a sip of the single malt. From his expression she could tell he savored it. Then, for the first time, he looked at her. “Cassie, you look great, even in costume.” He must have realized she was about to dismiss him, and held up his hand to stop her. “Well, see, I found traces on our server. Traces of traffic no one was ever supposed to see. Found ’em by accident.”
He drew his hand through his long blond hair. “Someone used one of the secure workstations in the basement to send and receive email, and this wasn’t agency business. I don’t know who it was, but the message scraps I found led me to believe the message sender was being threatened by a Muslim Brotherhood offshoot. The incoming stated they were owed a life and threatened to take out someone’s entire family unless their mole at the agency offered up some substitutes. And the agency mole begged for the lives of his or her family, claimed they’d already offered you up, and said they could deliver one more if you weren’t enough or if you evaded them.”
He flinched, seeming to recall the event. “I can’t tell you much more, except if I’m right, then I’d be the most likely substitute, since I know more about how to track and trace data moving through the agency’s computers than anyone else. I’m therefore a big threat to our mole.”
He looked squarely into her eyes, his grin sheepish. “I guess no one expected you to survive this long.” He wiped sweat from his brow with the napkin from the table setting.
She thought about the facts and opinions he’d had offered up. “And, Lee, how do I know the mole isn’t you?” She purposely showed teeth through her smile, not feeling at all friendly.
He frowned in return, his brow furrowed. “You can’t, and the only reason I’m begging your help is I’m convinced I’m your substitute. My only hope for survival is for you to find this person who has a family he or she loves and fears will be murdered if they can’t kill you, before they offer up me. And know this: I could have given them—whoever they are—your location by backtracing your cell phone, but instead I chose to be here with you. So isn’t that proof I’m not the mole?”
She remembered the men who showed up at her hotel. She wasn’t convinced, and let the silence hang between them like a shroud.
His face showed panic, and even in the air-conditioned bar, perspiration flowed down his face. Cassie sniffed the air, smelling the close-by, hard odor that was a confession of his terror. She felt an unanticipated sexual thrill run through her all the way to her core. It felt like an electric current turned on inside her.
She ignored the sensation and considered his story with care, looking for logic flaws, and she found none. The big question was, did she believe him. And if she did, what should she do? What could she do?
“Almost everyone working at the agency is married with the exception of us, and most have families. Director Greenfield, Assistant Director McDougal, at least four project managers on the analysis side, over eighty country managers, both contracts administrators, and all six covert operatives who aren’t NOCs. They all have families. It’s a long list of suspects.” She spat the words out.
At this, Lee smiled back. “Not so. I tried to find a way to narrow down the list and changed the security on the basement terminals so only director-level employees can log into them. No one below director level complained and asked to use the terminals. So it’s either Greenfield or McDougal. Both are married and have children.” He hid his nose in the glass, sniffing the smoky Scotch.
Cassie shrugged. “What if someone hacked their way into the secure terminal area? Someone without a family. Bob Gault, for example.”
He shook his head. “I’d have noticed. So the only question left is, do you trust me?”
Cassie stared back. He’d asked the one question at the heart of her dilemma. If she trusted him, she’d conclude he’d delivered valuable information. She decided that for the time being, she’d suspend her suspicions. “Okay. I guess you’ve earned your favor. So what do you want from me?” She sipped her drink and waited.
“I need you to find the mole.” He put his glass down on the table. “If you agree to help me, you’ll need a way to contact me.” He looked ready to offer her a piece of paper he suddenly had in his hand, but she interrupted him, reaching across the table and touching his hand.
“I have a favor to ask first, to prove your value.” Their eyes locked together. She reached into her handbag and handed him the piece of paper containing the printed phone number and initials carried by her intended assassin in Riyadh. She had also printed the license plate number on the paper. “I need to know whose phone number this is, probably in Saudi Arabia. Whose initials might these be? And who owns the vehicle with this Saudi license plate? And this one in Washington. It was outside my apartment building the day McDougal fired me. Who are they? Where do they live? What do they do? Let me know as soon as you can.”
She reached once more into her handbag. She handed Ainsley the assassin’s cell phone in a plastic dry-cleaning bag labeled “Golden Tulip Hotel, Riyadh.” She said, “Have agency forensics process this. Tell me everything about it, fingerprints, purchase place and date. Everything.” She reached into her bag one final time and removed one of her untraceable cell phones. “This is how we’ll stay in touch. Keep the battery charged. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. And, Lee, never use this phone, ever, except to keep it on you at all times. Clear? I’ll be in touch soon.”
She saw relief on his face. Ainsley nodded in acceptance. “Sure. And thanks.”
He put the paper he’d held into the table’s ashtray, took a match, and burned the paper. Then he picked up the ashes and rubbed them against his fingers until they were just a smudge on his skin.
The darkened flesh of his fingers morphed into Evan’s ashes and her eyes suddenly blinked with tears. But only for a second.
Cassie rose and slowly backed away from the table until her rear touched the exit door to the alleyway. She pushed it open with her hip, turned, and disappeared as fa
st as she could.
On the Greyhound bus back to Manhattan, Cassie thought about whether she was now ready to hunt those who hunted her. But this investigation would reach way beyond her resources. She lacked enough cash and had no plan.
She couldn’t decide whether she trusted Lee. If she didn’t, she should let him twist in the wind. It would be simple for her to let him suffer the fate she had so far avoided. Would his death satisfy the hunters?
If not, she should make every effort to help him now, before they came after him or tried to murder her again. Which they were probably now planning.
Could she hold herself responsible if she did nothing and let Ainsley die? In the end, Cassie didn’t know if she could live with the guilt of his death added to the load she carried for murdering her assassin and her unborn child.
She resolved to help him.
Cassie decided Washington, the home of her former agency, was more dangerous than Manhattan. New York was gargantuan, with more and better places to hide. But when she returned to Manhattan, she procrastinated and did everything but try to help Lee.
Lying in bed the following night, sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, questioning her opinion of Ainsley. He was bright. She’d always known this. And despite her behavior, she realized now she’d always found him attractive—tall and thin, an expressive face with a small nose, and long, straight blond hair. Unbidden, she remembered his considerable erection.
She remembered meetings they both attended at the agency, and how he often showed her a charming smile. Heat warmed her thighs, wrapping to her core. Her hand fell between her legs, but she shook herself and rolled onto her side. Not tonight. Not Ainsley. As she drifted off toward sleep, she thought, we share a big problem right now. That is, if he isn’t setting me up. But she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t the mole.
Cassie googled him, hacked into everything electronic she could find related to him—bank accounts, apartment lease, credit-card expenses—and found nothing to confirm he was, indeed, setting her up. She relaxed.
