The Price of Time

by Tim Tigner

  “Exactly.”

  The Washington wise man chewed on that for a minute.

  They sipped Champagne.

  “If we do it right, the opposition will go hard right and hard left while you each stake claim to your side of the middle ground—perhaps showing off a bit of overlap. But then what? If you both win your primaries, you’re stuck facing each other.”

  Pierce watched with anticipation as Lisa delivered the kicker. “Right before the first convention, we turn to the numbers. By then, there will be plenty of polls pitting us against each other. Whichever of us is losing in those head-to-head battles—joins the bottom of the other’s ticket.”

  Casteel raised his groomed eyebrows. “Creating a unity platform.”

  Lisa acknowledged his sage insight with a tilt of her head. “And weakening the opposing party, which will be forced to put forward a team the primary voters have already dismissed.”

  Casteel nodded along. “I like Act One. Tell me about Act Two.”

  Lisa tented her hands again. “When we’re elected, we actually run a bipartisan White House. At that point, the party out of power will know that it’s set to win in eight years, so it will be inclined to go along—if the proposals are moderate. And they will be. Lord knows we’re overdue for a few of those.”

  “The special interests will still be funding the fringes,” Casteel cautioned.

  “We have no delusions about avoiding a state of war. But we’ll have the big microphone, and we’ll have the vast majority of the American people on our side. The country is fed up with partisan politics. The middle is a solid sixty percent—which is nine more than we need.”

  Casteel drained his flute and ran a manicured hand through his George Clooney hair. “This has been contemplated before. More than once. It’s fallen apart every time.”

  Pierce felt his stomach sink, but Lisa kept shining at full power. “Why is that?”

  Again Casteel did the back and forth thing with his head. “Politicians look out for number one. Historically, the only times mixed alliances ever survived the flames of political combat were when the two parties were family. I don’t suppose you’re planning to get married?”

  Pierce exhaled in relief as Lisa put her manicured hand on his shoulder. “Suffice it to say we have a deep platonic connection.”

  21

  Stakeout

  I LOOKED UP from my book and smiled as Wynter with a y replaced my old empty mug with a fresh frosty one. “Thank you.”

  “What’s that mean, Pushing Brilliance?”

  I turned the paperback around to look at the cover, as if it were going to tell me something I didn’t already know. I could flirt if I needed to, and seeing as this was my third evening camped out on a patch of Wynter’s prime real estate, I figured flirting was the wise move. “I don’t know yet. Part of the fun of a thriller is figuring out what the title means. Often they’re intentionally ambiguous.”

  “Ambiguous?”

  “Mysterious.” I used my playful voice, mimicking hers.

  “You’re the mystery. You got the biker jacket and the biker boots, but you’re reading books and drinking light beer, night after night, hour after hour. Always leaving alone.” Wynter spoke with a bit of a southern twang and had the big blonde hair to match.

  I knew I was guilty of bad tradecraft for actually reading a book and allowing myself to be distracted by a waitress, but I wasn’t trying to infiltrate the mob. And I would redirect my attention the moment my target arrived. If he arrived.

  On the good tradecraft side of things, I was in disguise. I’d grown the start of a handlebar mustache and was wearing a bandanna do-rag. Although typically the straitlaced GQ type, I knew from prior undercover experience that I could pull off the bad-boy look.

  I was back at Berret’s Taphouse Grill because I couldn’t think of a better way to find the mysterious man with chiseled cheekbones. Or Lars.

  Since I didn’t have the license plate of the Range Rover that had run me off the road, I had investigated the i8. Turned out it had been reported stolen, then found wiped clean and abandoned. The registration was in the name and rent-controlled address of Lars de Kock.

  The lack of automotive leads left me very little data for locating Lars’s would-be killer and learning his fate. Nonetheless, I had vowed to do both.

  Cheekbones had crossed the big red line. Whoever he was, wherever he was, he was a dead man walking.

  I was semi-certain that my nemesis would walk back into Berret’s bar sometime soon. My reasoning was based on both logic and experience. If Lars’s assailant was willing to write off a $150,000 car, then his disappearance had to be the tip of something much bigger. Lars was no millionaire. Add to that the fact that the CIA con was much too slick and sophisticated to be a one-off, and the odds of a repeat performance were high.

  Of course, I had no way to gauge when the next episode would air. I could only hope it would be sometime soon.

  Knowing that men are creatures of habit, I installed a bug in the wall lamp beside the corner table where Lars and Cheekbones had dined. I then set myself up in a spot that gave me both a convenient casual view of the entrance, and a reflected view of the suspect table.

  I was now three evenings into my costumed stakeout. I wasn’t yet discouraged by the lack of action. Stakeouts took time. But I found myself asking how many more days I’d give it.

  I ignored Wynter’s hint about leaving alone, but gave her a friendly smile. “There’s nothing mysterious here. I’m just a man enjoying life between jobs.”

  She smiled back and moved on.

  I mused that I actually was, in fact, just a man enjoying life between jobs. Sitting on a Virginia barstool was a far cry from riding a Harley through Yosemite National Park, but nonetheless I had freedom and purpose and was happy to be catching up on must-read fiction. I’d done so much work-related reading during my days at the CIA that I rarely felt like burying my nose in a book at night. That was a drawback of the job. I wondered if other professions suffered similar side effects. Bartenders, pilots, and gynecologists for example.

  I had not set a sunset on my surveillance operation. A date on which I’d fold tent and move on if Cheekbones didn’t show. That would clash with the whole freedom aspect of my vacation adventure. I would move on the minute I thought of a better move. That was an additional benefit of my reading selection. Smart espionage thrillers kept me in the right frame of mind and generated new ideas. Was that why they called them novels? I wondered.

  I pulled a painkiller from the front pocket of my jeans and washed it down with a swallow of beer. Between those pills and the soft braces on my ankle and knee, I was nearly back to normal. At least neither joint gave me grief while walking to and from my car or sitting on a barstool. It would still be a few days before I’d want to start kicking down doors. Perhaps it was a good thing that Cheekbones hadn’t rushed back to Berret’s.

  They walked in as I turned the last page of the chapter that explained the title of my book. A thirtyish woman with amber eyes, a short blonde hairstyle, and an athletic stride—accompanied by a man whose features created a memorable clash of hard and soft.

  The hostess led them straight to the corner table.

  22

  Iron Woman

  THE TOP FEMALE FINISHER in an Ironman race—don’t get her started—swims the 2.4 miles, bikes the 112 miles, and then runs the 26.2 miles in about nine hours. Skylar Fawkes had come close to earning that honor a total of seven times. But she didn’t remember ever feeling as wrung out as she did that evening, walking into Berret’s Taphouse Grill.

  Tom’s out-of-the-blue recruitment pitch had hit her like the first ray of sunshine falling on Noah’s Ark. The truth was, she’d been battling depression, mentally circling the drain.

  The purses for peak performers at the pinnacle of the triathlon circuit were usually under $100,000, so very few professional triathletes were able to earn even middle-class wages. Sponsorships were the only way to
get rich, but those were limited to the super elite, the known-name winners of multiple championship races.

  Skylar hadn’t become a triathlete for the money. For her, it was all about passion and personal bests. But still, one had to live. So she had taken a firefighting job that eventually gave her the injury that had cost her the ability to compete. Adding insult to injury, the resultant hypersensitivity to smoke had also disqualified her from her second profession.

  It was the injustice and stupidity of that avoidable accident that drove her into and fed her depression. She’d been kicking herself for six straight months, unable to extricate herself from her self-imposed funk but unwilling to ask for help.

  Then, in one golden hour, a new opportunity opened before her like the gateway to Heaven. A job that would challenge her mentally and physically while allowing her to serve her country in a starring role. It wasn’t a perfect replacement for her chosen profession; it was better. Triathletes had short careers.

  She wanted the new job and all it represented so much that she feared it would be yanked away. Easy come, easy go. So she’d sweat the interview and the polygraph even though she had nothing to hide. When Tom finally closed his briefcase with an approving nod, Skylar thought she’d collapse right there on the hotel room floor. Then he proposed dinner so she could ask questions. Her preferred response was, “No, thanks. I just want to hop into a hot bath and put spa music on Pandora.” But ironically, that honest answer wasn’t an option.

  So there they were, ordering drinks at a corner table in her first CIA bar. Skylar didn’t drink alcohol, so she passed on Tom’s recommended “Fierce” and ordered a club soda with lime. She figured the social slight would be outweighed by the upside of having an agent who didn’t drink but knew how to appear as if imbibing.

  “This is your time to ask me questions,” Tom said as Wynter walked away. “What would you like to know?”

  She had her first question tip of tongue. “Where would I be based?”

  “This part of Virginia. Langley and the D.C. suburbs up north are for bureaucrats and analysts. Ops works out of The Woods.”

  “The Woods?”

  “The Woods surround The Farm.”

  “Got it.”

  “That’s for training and staging. Our operational work, of course, is overseas.”

  Wynter dropped off their drinks but chose not to interrupt their conversation.

  Tom took a healthy swallow of beer. “As you’ll recall, if it isn’t all a blur, the Dry Cleaners and Wet Wipes work off the books. We like it that way, removed from the restrictions, inefficiencies, and hypocrisies that always accompany bureaucratic oversight.”

  Skylar squeezed her lime. “But you don’t live here?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Without releasing her glass, Skylar used her index finger to point at the keys Tom had set on the table. “Your Mercedes is a rental.”

  “Nice catch. I like that operative eye of yours. It will serve you well.

  “My duties involve so much travel that I don’t bother with a personal vehicle. I skip the hassle and expense and charge everything to my corporate card. You’re going to love FIFO in that regard. Most of the operatives don’t own residences either, preferring to pocket more of their paychecks, but not all. Some want a place they can call home, and that’s fine too. It’s all about personal preference.”

  Skylar saw the sense in that. She wanted a family someday, and felt the pressure of the biological clock in that regard, but until that time she’d forgo the knickknack mantel in favor of a bigger bank account. Having experienced rainy days, deluge days, she was eager to sock away as much as possible. That might actually be quite a bit, given that they let Tom rent a Mercedes. His Swiss watch was another good indicator.

  Wynter returned to their table, holding her order pad. “Have you made your menu selections?”

  Skylar ordered the Baked Brie Cheese in Puff Pastry with Grilled Shrimp, Tom the Macadamia Nut–Crusted Mahi-Mahi Fillet. “And another round,” he added.

  Over their delicious dinners, Tom continued to tout the perks and bennies of FIFO. She was interested but already sold. By the time Wynter cleared their table, Skylar was dreaming of a warm bath, dimmed lights, and soothing music.

  Tom finally read her mind. “I know it’s been a long day, so I’m going to leave you to enjoy dessert in peace if you’ll be so kind as to save the receipt. I recommend the chocolate lava cake.” He pulled two hundred-dollar bills from a money clip, creased them the long way, and left them tented on the table. “I’ll pick you up at the hotel at this time tomorrow. Then we’ll drive to either FIFO HQ or the airport. Your choice entirely. Until then, I have to insist that you have no contact with anyone—even if you’re not inclined to take the offer. We’re giving you twenty-four hours to reflect. Use it for that purpose, and Skylar—”

  “Yes?”

  “Congratulations.”

  23

  Role Reversal

  I USED THE MIRROR behind the bar to watch Wynter working. She was holding my phone beneath her order pad in a manner that appeared completely casual and relaxed. While photographing car keys was hardly a crime, most people tensed up when acting surreptitiously. Not this one, bless her heart.

  With her mission complete, Wynter slipped me my cell phone in a pass-by move that looked like she was leaving a check.

  I opened up Photos, hit PLAY on the movie she’d recorded, and watched until I found a frame with the focus I wanted. The license plate number was hand written in pen on the Hertz tag.

  Since Cheekbones and his latest victim had just placed their orders, I knew they wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. I left my book and beer to reserve my seat and headed for the parking lot. I expected the Bluetooth transmission to cut out while I walked, but their voices kept coming through my wireless earbuds.

  The matching Mercedes took a minute to find. Even though German cars were above most government pay grades, there were plenty of rich college kids in town, and the C 300 appeared to be a popular model with that crowd. I popped a GPS tracker under the rear passenger fender and was back on my barstool before Tom and Skylar received their orders.

  The pitch Tom—certainly not his real name—was delivering was undoubtedly the same one Lars had heard. Most of it was fantasy, but all was close enough to the Hollywood portrayal of the CIA that outsiders would eagerly swallow it whole. Especially those hungry to hear their dreams coming true.

  I was listening for information that could be identifying. Anything beyond the BS sales pitch. Some hint at Tom’s true purpose or the interests of his sponsoring organization. But when the talk wasn’t about the fictitious job, it was all about Skylar.

  “How’d I do?” Wynter asked, stopping by my stool with empty plates in hand.

  I used my watch to lower the volume on my earbuds and tuned Wynter in. “You, my dear, do excellent work.”

  “I’m guessing this means that I won’t be seeing you again after tonight?”

  “You’re a good guesser. But I’ll be back.” After closing, and only to retrieve my bug.

  “Just not tomorrow?”

  Technically, it would be tomorrow. “Probably not.”

  “And tonight? Time to celebrate mission accomplished?” She ran a nail down her forearm.

  “I’m afraid my mission is just beginning.” I produced a Ben Franklin I’d previously prepared. It was more than I could afford, but less than she deserved.

  Wynter winked and straightened up. “Story of my life.”

  I tuned back into my earpiece in time to hear Tom give Skylar twenty-four hours to think it over. Then he dropped some cash and a balled-up drink napkin and rose to leave. This was the point where I had walked in, two weeks earlier. There was no question of my sitting with Skylar as I had with Lars, but I had to decide which of them to follow.

  I decided to play it safe and stick with Skylar. A man with Tom’s excellent tradecraft would be on the lookout for a tail, and I coul
d track him electronically in any case. Skylar, meanwhile, was in immediate danger. Lars had disappeared sometime between his leaving Berret’s and my arriving in L.A.

  Given what I’d just heard, the pickup twenty-four hours from now was likely to mark the beginning of the end. That would be the moment the metallic teeth of Tom’s trap snapped around her ankle. But I couldn’t be certain. The day he’d given her to think might well be a ploy designed to drop her guard.

  Lars had stayed at the hotel across the street, so I assumed Skylar would be sleeping there as well. People followed patterns.

  I waited until I saw the tracking dot representing Tom’s Mercedes move, then I rose from my barstool. I wanted to get ahead of Skylar. I assumed she’d be skipping dessert despite her host’s offer. That she, like me, was only waiting for him to drive off.

  I walked past her without a sideward glance, then paused closer to the door. Whipping out my cell phone, I pretended to be consulting it while using the self-portrait feature to keep an eye on Skylar. I’d no sooner focused than she rose, at which point I continued my exit.

  Pacing my strides to coincide with her footfalls, I walked straight for the Brown Pelican Inn. Reaching the door a few steps in the lead, I held it open.

  “Thank you.”

  I felt an electric jolt as our eyes met for the first time. “You’re welcome.”

  I followed her up the stairs to the second floor, then down the east hallway. As we approached the second-to-last room, I stopped to make a show of patting my pockets while noting the number, then reversed course while she keyed into the corner room.

  Returning to Berret’s parking lot, I hopped into my twelve-year-old blue BMW 335i and pulled across the street to park it at the inn. Then I popped the trunk, grabbed my roller bag and backpack, and headed for check-in.

  24

  Gaining Insight