At first, he almost felt as if he was forcing himself upon her. She seemed to be fighting him, as she had in the past, when it had been only playful; but for a few moments it seemed real as she twisted away, seeming to recoil from him, to reject him.
“No,” she gasped, flailing at his shoulders with her fists.
At the word, he felt anger rise within him, and he grabbed her hair, pulling her head back.
“Yes,” he said. He began to kiss her naked shoulders, then breasts, then throat. He heard her gasp again, and he covered her open mouth with his.
In a moment, something changed. She began to return his kisses and to move with him. She drew up her legs and wrapped them around him; her arms snaked around his back and she began to rake his skin with her nails…
*
Afterward, they lay quietly, wrapped in each other’s arms. He stroked her hair with his fingers, feeling his pulse slow, feeling the heat rising from their bodies.
Yet as close as they held each other, he felt a widening chasm between them.
His hand touched her cheek. It was damp.
She knows.
*
He didn’t sleep. Hours later, when her breathing at last became long and steady, he slid carefully from beneath the sheets. Gathering his bathrobe from a hook on the door, he stole from the room, drawing the door shut behind him. Then he entered the den. In the dark, he felt for the hidden latch at the bottom of his bookcase and eased open the panel. His fingers probed inside for what he needed. He withdrew it, then clicked the drawer back into place.
In the living room, he pulled his key card from his wallet, then carefully opened the door to his apartment and headed for the elevators.
Three minutes later, his task completed, he returned.
Then sat alone in the dark on the living room sofa, stroking the cat.
He knew that tomorrow, they would engage in a complex minuet of forced affection. Both would try to be light and frivolous, pretending that everything was normal.
And of course it would not be. Could not be.
Until morning, he would sit here and try to learn to live with this new pain.
THIRTY-FIVE
Bethesda, Maryland
Monday, December 22, 5:02 a.m.
He arose at five in the morning. He pulled on his sweats and went down to the gym on the first floor. After warming up with some katas, he hit the machines and free weights, using the ultra-slow-repetition routines that he’d practiced for many years-the kind of high-intensity workouts that build the most muscle in the shortest amount of time.
After just over half an hour, sweating profusely, he went back to his apartment and headed directly into the shower. He winced as the hot water stung the places on his back where she had scratched him. In spite of everything, he had to smile, marveling at the intensity of her passion even after she had discovered the truth about him. Some things about women, he thought, would always remain a mystery to him.
After feeding Luna, he dressed, sat at his desk in the den, and went back to puzzling it all out.
She had left yesterday in the early evening, telling him that she had to get ready for work on Monday morning. He’d expected that; keeping up the charade any longer was just too awkward for both of them.
There was no way he’d fool her again, of course. Her reaction to the dog bite made it clear that Cronin had told her about the Doberman. Now she had confirmed, at least in her own mind, not only that he was a vigilante; she also knew, specifically, that he had to be Navarro’s shooter. She’d tell Cronin all about it later today. They still wouldn’t have proof, of course, but with their suspicions now confirmed, they would be all over him like fleas on a dog.
He would still have ways of eluding them, even while they were watching him closely. However, before he disappeared, he had some unfinished business to take care of.
For now, though, he had to put himself in their shoes. How would it go down today? He had begun to work it out on Saturday night, while lying awake next to her in the dark.
It was unlikely that she’d tell Cronin much by phone; he would need a detailed report from her, and that would take at least an hour, plus travel time. And other members of the task force would probably attend, too.
But where and when? Maybe at police headquarters in Alexandria, though possibly somewhere else. And probably after work-unless she was so upset that she’d take the day off and go see them in the middle of the day.
Timing was important. To make sure he had enough time to react before they arrived later today, he had to know exactly when she left her house or workplace and went to meet them.
Which is why he had sneaked from bed on Saturday night while she was asleep, gone down to the garage, and hidden the real-time GPS tracker in her car.
*
He was filling another coffee cup at 7:47 a.m. when he heard the computer program for the tracker start to beep. It automatically activated a computer alert when the subject vehicle was in motion. He went back into the den, sat, and zoomed in on the screen map.
The flashing red dot representing her car entered the maze of highways in Falls Church, moving east toward Route 29. He remembered that she worked for an insurance company in Fairfax; so she’d probably get on 29 and shoot straight west. Once he was sure she was on her way to work, he’d probably be okay for hours, maybe all day.
He sipped his coffee and watched. Watched her turn onto 29 east.
He sighed. It was looking as if her meeting with Cronin amp; Company would be first thing in the morning. That didn’t give him as much time as he’d like. He watched for a while as the red dot continued on 29. If she were meeting the cops in Alexandria, she might next take 120-Glebe Road-south, cutting off a lot of miles.
The red dot intersected 120 on the map.
But turned north.
What the hell?
He watched the red dot track along Glebe all the way past the George Washington Parkway, where it picked up the end of Route 123 and veered north again.
Probably heading now for the big cloverleaf entrance onto the GW, just a mile ahead.
He sipped more coffee, staring at the screen.
But the dot kept moving past the GW intersection.
He clicked the mouse several times, enlarging the street map.
Then the hair began to stand up on the back of his neck as he watched the red dot approach a place that he knew very well.
He put down his cup.
Surely she would continue right on by.
But she didn’t. Annie Woods’s car made the right turn off 123.
And onto the access road the led into the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Stunned, he zoomed in to the maximum magnification. Watched the red dot pause at the security entrance, then move on, entering the Agency campus. Then loop around to an area he knew was set aside for employee parking.
Where it stopped moving.
*
He stood on his balcony, staring blankly at the neighborhood.
He wracked his brain for something, anything, that could make sense of what he had just seen. But came up empty. It was as if all the laws of nature had been repealed-as if up and down were suddenly reversed, while gravity and inertia no longer existed. Everything he knew was coming apart, spinning crazily into chaos. And he had no idea why.
Start with what you know about her.
He realized then that he actually knew very little. Nothing but what she had told him. Except for the house in Falls Church, which was real enough; he had been there. But what else did he really know?
She was young, extremely smart, very athletic. She claimed to be an insurance claims investigator, obviously false.
What about her name? The crime victims he had met, including Susanne Copeland, all called her Annie Woods. But was it real? Could she have fooled them, too?
The funeral. He recalled all the Agency faces there. Of course, Arthur Copeland had worked for Langley as a contractor. But
what if there was more to it?
The thought occurred to him: How did Annie know Susanne?
He went back inside. He needed answers.
He spent a few minutes working out his pretext. Then pulled a fresh phone and battery from his desk drawer, dialed into the “spoof” website, and programmed in an internal Agency phone number he knew by heart. That one would show up on the Caller ID when he dialed the main number.
“This is Mel Riggins in DS amp;T,” he told the Agency operator. “I need a couple of updated phone numbers, if you would?”
“Certainly, Mr. Riggins. Could you give me the employee names, please?”
“First is Susanne Copeland. Second, Ann Woods. That’s Ann with no ‘e.’”
“A moment, sir.”
There were a few clicks, then the woman came back on the line. “Are you ready for those numbers, sir?”
“Go ahead,” he said. He took down the numbers, then said, “Wait a minute. Isn’t Susanne Copeland in D.I., Middle East?”
“Mmmm…yes, Directorate of Intelligence, but actually with Eastern Europe.”
“I see. Maybe they transferred her. And Ann Woods, where is she now?”
“Let me see… I have her in the Office of Security, special investigations… No, wait a minute. There’s a notation that she transferred some months ago… Okay, yes, she’s now working out of the office of the NCS deputy director.”
Suddenly, he could no longer speak.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Riggins?”
“No,” he managed to say. “Thanks much.”
He broke the connection. Set the phone down and gripped the edge of the desk.
“Garrett,” he said through clenched teeth.
It had been bad enough dealing with the police.
*
He sat at his desk with a notepad and pen, drawing those lines and circles they call “mind maps.” He liked the technique; it helped him visualize connections between all sorts of random data and ideas. It took another hour before he thought he had sorted it out.
First, there was the CIA and Grant Garrett, plus Annie Woods-an OS investigator now working for Garrett. That looked as if it could be about Matt Malone.
Second, though, there was Annie Woods and Cronin. That was completely separate. It was all about the vigilante killings.
He looked at the linked bubbles of names. The one and only connection between both investigations was Annie Woods. And-as insane and ironic as it was-it looked as if her presence in both of them was all his fault.
After all, she hadn’t known he was going to show up at that funeral. In fact, she had no idea who he was, then. Or even later, when he also turned up at the prison. Or at the victims meeting. Since then, he had been pursuing her- not the other way around.
He remembered strolling outside with her on the street after that meeting. How she’d tried to brush him off; how he’d insisted.
It had been an incredible breach of mission security. He recalled, with bitter irony, that Sinatra song about the warning voice in the night. Don’t you know, you fool? No, he didn’t know. How could he have known? But he’d been a fool, all right. He had not simply walked into a trap; he had set the damned trap for himself. Set it by falling in love, by ignoring the fact that any woman with half a brain would want to know his background.
How could he have been that big of an idiot? So it served him right that, of all the women on the planet, he had picked the one woman who would be most dangerous to him.
And now she knew all about his ties to the vigilante killings. What would happen if she also found out about his connection to Matt Malone? Or did she already know?
Did Garrett?
He took the sheets of note paper he had been scribbling on and fed them, one by one, into his shredder. The loud whirring and grinding sent Luna scurrying from her hiding place under his desk and out of the room.
Intel. He needed more information. Most immediately, he needed to know more about her. Who she really was, what she was really up to.
He dialed in Wonk’s number. After the social preliminaries, he explained what he wanted.
“Let me read this back to you, Dylan. This lady friend of yours lives at a home in Alexandria, and she works for an agency which, on this open line, shall remain nameless. She was married in July 2002 in Georgetown to a man, first name Frank, and was divorced from that gentleman in January of this year. Do you have anything else?”
“I wish.”
The researcher chuckled. “I am certain it will be enough. Call me at noon.”
*
A couple of hours later, he dialed back. Wonk answered at the first ring. “Dylan?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Well? What did you find out?”
“Dylan…are you sitting down?”
“What’s wrong?”
“You simply are not going to believe this.”
“Believe what?”
“In fact, you will not like it one bit.”
“Wonk! For God’s sake, will you get to the point?”
“Ann Woods is her married name. Her ex-husband’s name is Frank Woods. She kept his surname, most probably for career reasons.”
“All right, so what’s her maiden name, then?”
He hesitated again, just for a few seconds. “Ann MacLean.”
It felt as if something were crawling up his back. “Did you say ‘MacLean’?”
“Dylan…she is his daughter. Kenneth MacLean’s daughter.”
Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia
Monday, December 22, 12:05 p.m.
Dr. Carl Frankfurt led his client through the final security checkpoint, and then to the front doors. Parked near the sidewalk was an old white Chrysler with its four-way flashers on.
“That must be your sister. Why didn’t she just come into the lobby?”
“She’s afraid of prisons, Doctor. And who could blame her?”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. She didn’t even visit you since you’ve been here.”
“Well, she’s a good soul. She’s never denied me help when I’ve asked.”
“You’re fortunate. I wish that every other resident here had support like that.” Frankfurt faced the man and stuck out his hand. “This is a big step for you. Enjoy the next few days.”
His client took the hand and clasped it in both of his. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Merry Christmas, Adrian.”
“Oh, it will be that.”
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Monday, December 22, 4:32 p.m.
She emerged from the Old Headquarters Building and pulled her coat tight around her, trying to shield herself against the frigid, buffeting wind. Snow was in the forecast. The thin bare limbs of the trees around the CIA campus clawed at the darkening sky like black, skeletal fingers. The clouds reminded her of dirty padding spilling from a torn mattress.
Head bent forward against the wind, she walked rapidly toward the lot where her car awaited her.
And her decision.
Of all the days of the past weeks, this one had been the most difficult. She had not been able to eat breakfast or lunch. She drank coffee only to relieve the headache from caffeine deprivation-and the stress. She avoided Garrett, hunkering down in her office, going through the motions of working, but accomplishing nothing.
All because she had been dreading this moment. This decision.
As she reached her car, she pressed the key fob button. The vehicle’s lights flashed twice in response. She entered, tossing her purse onto the passenger-side floor. Because there was a manila envelope on the seat itself.
She sat motionless for a moment, gloved hands on her lap. She listened to the wind rising and falling, felt it rock the car, almost imperceptibly.
She took off her thin gloves deliberately, one finger at a time. Placed them carefully on the seat beside her, next to the envelope. Looked at it for a moment, then picked it up a
nd held it a few seconds.
She had to face this now. Once and for all.
She straightened the metal clasp on the envelope. Opened it. Withdrew the sealed plastic sandwich bag and held it before her, staring at its contents.
Eight small, dark, half-moon shapes.
Her gaze moved automatically to her fingertips. To the nails that she had clipped short on Sunday morning. At his place. Before she showered.
She looked at the clock on the dash. Cronin would be in his office until five. She could call him, right now. And when she told him what she had, he would wait.
She reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and caught her reflection. Just her eyes, imprisoned in a horizontal rectangle. They were like the sky: dull gray, bleak, empty.
You have to decide.
Who and what will you betray today?
She shut her eyes. Held them closed a moment more.
Decided.
She replaced the plastic bag within the envelope. Fastened the clasp. Placed the envelope on the seat again.
Then she keyed over the ignition. Backed out of her parking space. Headed for the exit.
She did not look into the rearview mirror again.
THIRTY-SIX
Bethesda, Maryland
Wednesday, December 24, 11:21 a.m.
Hunter stood in the middle of the living room, going over things in his head one more time, just in case he missed anything.
He’d never kept much here in the way of personal items, and he’d moved a lot of it out, a bit at a time, in recent weeks. What little was left now was in the trunk of the car downstairs.
He had already packed his bug-out bag and had Luna’s pet carrier ready to go. He’d shredded the files from the hidden drawer in the bookcase, stuck the other items in the bug-out bag. Though the computer was still up and running, he planned to take it with him. But just in case he couldn’t, the hard drive was ready to be pulled out and transported. Or destroyed at the touch of a button, if it came to that.
He had also moved his other vehicles late last night to one of his other safe locations before returning here by Metro. That left only the BMW downstairs, which they still didn’t know about, and which he’d use to make his escape.
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