Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection

by Stuart Woods

  She exhaled slowly. “No,” she breathed.

  “Do you have any overdue debts?”

  “No.”

  “Do you carry any large credit card balances?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever forged another person’s signature to obtain money?”

  “No.”

  “Do you owe any person money?”

  “No.”

  “Do you own a house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a mortgage on the house?”

  “No.”

  “Have you lied about anything during this examination?”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “That concludes the test,” the man said. “You are a liar.”

  EIGHT

  KERRY SMITH LED BOB KINNEY over to the conference table in his new office and picked up something the size of his hand, enclosed in bubble wrap. “This is a piece of Teddy Fay’s airplane,” he said, unwrapping the object.

  Kinney took it from him and turned it over in his hands, then handed it back, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hands thoroughly. “You’re right, these are pretty small pieces,” he said.

  “Right,” Kerry said. “That greasy, gritty black stuff you’re wiping off your hands is the residue of a combination of burnt aviation gasoline, saltwater and plastics explosives. It’s on nearly every piece of the airplane we’ve found.” He picked up a larger object, unwrapped it, and read an attached tag. “This is about a quarter of the right-side passenger door of the airplane.” He held it up, but Kinney did not touch it.

  “It looks pretty much like the other piece you showed me, but larger.”

  “Yes, and please note that the inside of this part of the door—we can distinguish it from the outside, because the outside has part of a stripe that ran the length of the airplane—is bare metal, with no trace of the upholstered lining of the door.”

  “Yes, I see that. What are you getting at, Kerry?”

  Smith walked around the conference table and picked up a very large chunk of the airplane that was leaning against the wall. He unwrapped it. “Do you recognize this?”

  “It’s obviously the other door of the airplane,” Kinney said.

  “The left-side pilot’s door,” Kerry replied. “Please note its condition. It’s bent, on a line from upper left to lower right, but the upholstery is intact, and the Plexiglas window is still in the frame. And it has no gasoline or explosive residue on it anywhere.”

  Kinney tried to relax the knot in his stomach. “What are you telling me?”

  “It would appear that this door was not attached to the airplane when the explosion occurred.”

  “Well, if Fay was sitting in the pilot’s seat at the time, his body would have taken much of the force of the explosion, wouldn’t it?”

  “Some, perhaps, but compare it to the fragment from the other door. Quite a contrast, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. What do you posit?”

  “I posit that Fay opened the door, removed it from its hinges, threw it out of the airplane, set the timer on a bomb, then jumped out.”

  “Maybe there’s another explanation,” Kinney said.

  “I don’t think so. Also, this door was found much closer to the shore than the other fragments of the airplane, indicating that it began its fall sooner.”

  “I see,” Kinney said, feeling a little sick. “And you think Fay was wearing a parachute?”

  “Imagine you’re about to die,” Kerry said. “Do you choose a six-thousand-foot drop into the cold sea as a means of dying or an instantaneous death from the explosion?”

  “Apart from the airplane door, what evidence do you have that Fay might have jumped?”

  “It’s the evidence we don’t have,” Kerry replied. “We don’t have any fragment of a corpse, and not only is there no explosive residue on the pilot’s door, there’s no Teddy residue, either. No blood and guts.”

  “We both know that a highly fragmented body in the sea would be eaten by some assortment of creatures very quickly.”

  “True.”

  “Do you have anything else from shore that might point to Fay’s survival?”

  “There is one thing,” Kerry said, “but it’s not much.”

  “Tell me.”

  “As part of the shoreside search, we entered and searched a number of houses, most of them closed for the season.”

  “And?”

  “And we found a bicycle in the garage of one of them.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m sorry, what I mean to say is, we found a woman’s bicycle, but we contacted the owner, and he told us there was also a man’s bicycle in the garage. It’s gone.”

  “Any other evidence in the house?”

  “One anomaly: the water in the hot water heater, which was turned off, was slightly warm, indicating to us that someone might have heated it in order to take a bath or shower. It would take several hours, at least, for it to cool to the same temperature as the inside of the house. The owner of the house is being transported from his home in Boston as we speak, so that he can tell us if anything besides the bicycle is missing or out of place.”

  “I want to hear about that as soon as you speak to him.”

  “Of course.”

  “If you were Teddy Fay and you had escaped from that airplane with your life, what would you do?”

  “I’d search for dry clothes and transportation,” Kerry said.

  “And where would you go?”

  “The nearest town was Kennebunkport? From there I’d go to Kennebunkport, then find a ride to Boston. It’s a transportation hub, and he could have taken a train, plane or bus anywhere, even overseas. Ireland might be a good guess. We know Fay had access to all sorts of apparently genuine information documents.”

  “I suppose you’re already checking on passengers?”

  “I’ve got a team on the phones right now, checking every mode of transportation.”

  Helen knocked on the door and opened it. “Kerry, there’s a Mr. Taylor on the phone for you from Kennebunkport.”

  “That’s the owner of the house,” Kerry said, picking up the phone on the conference table and pressing a button. “Hello? Yes, Mr. Taylor, thanks for calling. Have you had an opportunity to look around the house?” He listened for perhaps two minutes. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. Our agents will see that you’re transported back to Boston, and we’re grateful for your help. All right, put him on.” Kerry covered the phone with his hand. “The agent in charge there wants to speak to me again.” He turned his attention to the phone again. “Yes, I’m here.” He listened intently for ten seconds. “Thanks.” He hung up.

  “Tell me,” Kinney said.

  “Mr. Taylor is missing some clothing: a couple of shirts and some underwear, a gray suit and a Burberry raincoat, in addition to his bicycle.”

  Kinney nodded.

  “And the agent told me they dug up Mr. Taylor’s garden and found a parachute.”

  Kinney exhaled loudly. “The son of a bitch is alive.”

  “Yes,” Kerry replied.

  “And I’ve just told both the president and the national media that he’s dead.”

  “I tried to stop you on your way out, and I tried to call you, but your cell phone wasn’t on.”

  “I’m never going to turn it off again,” Kinney said.

  NINE

  HOLLY STOOD UP and put on her sweatshirt. “I didn’t lie on the polygraph,” she said to the examiner. The man opened a side door, revealing another small room, which held a steel table and some matching chairs. “Go in there and sit down,” he said.

  Holly went into the room and sat down, and the man closed the door behind her. She found herself facing another mirror. Knowing that she was probably being watched, she sat still and tried to breathe normally. She sat that way for what seemed an hour but was closer to five minutes, then two men walked into the room and took chairs on the opposite side of the table. One of them, Bob, t
he younger of the two, carried a thick folder.

  Bob opened the folder. “You lied on your polygraph,” he said.

  “No,” Holly replied evenly. “I did not.”

  “The examination you have just taken is the most sensitive and reliable in the world. Nobody beats it; certainly not you.”

  “I didn’t lie on the examination.”

  “I’m giving you an opportunity to come clean, and this is the only opportunity you will have to do so and explain yourself.”

  “I have nothing to come clean about,” Holly replied.

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Tell me what, exactly, you think I’m lying about.”

  “You know, exactly, what you lied about.”

  “No, I don’t. I am baffled by your accusation.”

  “Tell us right now, or you’re out of here.”

  “Well, I guess I’m out of here,” Holly said, standing up.

  “Sit down.”

  ON THE OTHER SIDE of the glass, Lance Cabot sat with the more senior polygraph examiner, watching Holly’s responses. “I believe her,” he said.

  “She lied,” the examiner said.

  “How certain are you?”

  “She said no, and I got a reaction that indicated a lie.”

  “How big a reaction?”

  “A small one, admittedly, but in my professional judgment, she lied.”

  HOLLY HAD INTERROGATED many prisoners during her careers as a military and civilian police officer, and she was determined to stand her ground.

  “Not only did you lie on your polygraph,” the man said, “but you have now made yourself liable for criminal charges.”

  “You, sir,” Holly replied, “are full of shit.”

  The man slammed his fist down on the tabletop. “Liar!” he shouted. “Do you think we want liars in the CIA?”

  The other man, who was older and grayer, spoke up. “Bob, why don’t you go get a cup of coffee and let Holly and me chat for a minute?”

  Bob stalked out of the room without a word.

  The other man gave Holly a rueful grin. “I’m sorry about that, Holly,” he said. “Bob is pretty intense about his work, and he sometimes gets a little too excited. My name is Dan, and I want to help you straighten this out, if I can.” His tone was fatherly and reassuring.

  Ah, the good cop, Holly thought. “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory.

  “That’s great, Holly,” Dan said, “because we don’t want this conversation to be an impediment to your career.” He tapped the thick folder on the desk. “I’ve read your service record, and it’s a very fine one. Of course, your C.O. put some stuff in there after he was acquitted at his court-martial, but that’s easy to see through. It’s clear to me that you were telling the truth, and he was lying.”

  “Thank you,” Holly said, and she meant it. The words made her feel good inside, but she knew that made her vulnerable to what Dan was trying to do.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me about your questionable answers on your polygraph,” he said, “and I’ll do whatever I can to fix this.”

  “Dan,” Holly said, “I’d like to help, but I just don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I gave truthful answers to all the questions I was asked. Now, it might help if you told me what you think I lied about.”

  “First of all, Holly, I believe you. I don’t think you lied. You seem like an honest person to me. However, Bob is very good at what he does, and he is convinced that you lied.”

  “Well, why don’t you get him in here with his record, and let’s go over the answer he’s concerned about.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not how we do things here.”

  “Well, Dan, I have to tell you that I don’t think very much of how you do things here. Not so far, anyway.”

  “Holly, I think we’re both trying to straighten this out, but I have to stick to procedures.”

  “Is your procedure to accuse me of lying with no evidence of what you think I’m lying about?”

  “Of course not. We just have to be very careful here. We don’t want this thing to rise up and bite us on the ass, or you either, a few years down the road.”

  “Well, Dan, in that case, I think you should either reexamine me or launch a full-scale investigation into what you consider my lie.”

  “I’m trying to avoid those alternatives,” Dan said.

  “Well, you’re not trying hard enough,” Holly replied.

  BEHIND THE GLASS, Lance was chuckling to himself. “Are you sure you want to go up against this woman?” he asked Bob.

  “I still think she lied.”

  “So, reexamine her. Do it now.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. She knows what she lied about, so she’ll be expecting the question, and she may know enough about the polygraph to beat it.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to launch an investigation based on this blip,” Lance said. He looked over his shoulder. “Bob, get back in there and tell her what she lied about. Maybe we can elicit some sort of confession, or at least, a concession that she might not have been entirely truthful.”

  “Whatever you say, Lance,” Bob replied, then left the room.

  BOB WALKED BACK IN and sat down. “I’ve got the record, here,” he said, opening a file. “You were asked if you had ever stolen anything from the army.”

  “And I replied, ‘yes,’” Holly said.

  “Then you were asked if you had stolen anything worth more than a thousand dollars,” Bob said.

  “And I replied, ‘no.’”

  “That’s where the problem is, Holly.”

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  “What did you steal?”

  “A Colt .45 pistol. Well, I didn’t exactly steal it.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “After shooting on the range one day, I found a .45 that somebody had left on the bench. Rather than turn it over to the range master and get somebody in trouble, I took it with me, planning to find out to whom the gun was assigned. I put it in my safe, then I forgot about it. More than a year later, I found it in the back of the safe, and I took it to the range master and told him what had happened. He told me that he had already done some juggling with the books and reported the gun broken, unrepairable and destroyed. He told me to keep the gun, since it was off the records, so I did. I still have it somewhere.”

  “How much was the gun worth?” Dan asked.

  “I don’t know; that was seven or eight years ago. Right now, you could buy a new one for around nine hundred bucks on the Internet and have it shipped to a licensed dealer.”

  “The army lists the value of a new Colt .45 as a thousand and fifty dollars,” Dan said. “Although I doubt that the army owns a new one these days; they switched to the Beretta years ago.

  “So when you were asked if you had stolen anything worth more than a thousand dollars, you figured the gun was worth nine hundred?”

  “I just thought it was worth less than a thousand. After all, it wasn’t new. But during the test, I remember wondering what the value was now. I finally decided to stick with under a thousand, but maybe my momentary indecision caused the blip.”

  Bob and Dan looked at each other, and Bob shrugged. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll write an addendum to the examination, giving Holly’s explanation,” Dan said. “I don’t think we’ll hear any more about it.”

  “Anything else?” Holly asked.

  “No, I think that will do it,” Dan replied.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, then shook hands with both men and left the room, looking for Daisy.

  It was not until they were outside again that Holly realized she had been sweating profusely under her sweatshirt. She walked slowly to her next class, taking deep breaths to calm herself.

  TEN

  TEDDY FINISHED INSTALLING the Peg-Board on the walls of his workshop, and he began hanging his tools and outlining the
m with a Sharpie. Someday they would find this shop, though not before he wanted them to, and he wanted it to be just as well-ordered as the shop at his Virginia home, which the FBI had visited after he had abandoned it. Somehow, it was important to him to impress the FBI.

  When he had finished hanging the tools, he uncrated the multipurpose lathe and machine tool he had bought, set it on a thick, rubber pad, then secured it to the floor with lug bolts. Then he set up his computer station and began installing the software he had bought. He connected and tested the DSL connection he had arranged with the phone company, and then he set up a multistage connection to a server at CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia.

  When Teddy had been a highly placed member of the technical services department, he had had access to the mainframe, and before he retired, he had set up a system of downloading files and software to an external location, while making it appear that some other member of the agency had done so. Now he began identifying and downloading every document in the Agency in which his name was mentioned. The process took him most of the day.

  Then he began scanning the files, searching for any information that might be of use in finding out more about him. He had done this earlier in his career as an assassin, but now he wanted to eliminate anything that had surfaced about him since the Agency’s undoubted contact with the FBI to discuss him.

  It was past eight in the evening before he finished cleansing the Agency’s files of any useful reference to him. He took one more look around his new workshop, found himself pleased, then went back to his apartment and ordered a sumptuous dinner from Restaurant Daniel to be delivered to his apartment.

  As he dined, he thought about what the FBI must already know about him, and what they could find out from the trail of evidence he had left. They would certainly have discovered his visit to the cottage north of Kennebunkport and perhaps even have found his parachute. Now they would be checking all modes of transportation to Boston and beyond, and, once they had run down everything, they would know that he had taken the bus to Atlantic City. From there it would be tougher. The only possibility they had of tracking him from Atlantic City would be if they located the concierge who had arranged the limo to New York, and then the driver.