The Spy's Daughter

by Adam Brookes

  She skirted Billings, that evening finding herself driving towards mountains that were not there one moment, and then they were, their snowcaps rising out of the horizon. Minutes later she was in them, the air suddenly alpine, full of spruce and ice. She took a winding back road for three miles that rose through forest, the surface slowly deteriorating to a hard shale, the mountains’ flanks soaring on either side, leaving her in deep shadow.

  There was a campsite somewhere up here. She slowed, peered into the trees, driving another mile before she found it. She headed down the track towards it, ignored the signs telling her to register, and parked under the trees. Two camper vans, a few tents; some kids in fleeces and hiking boots running around. She sat in the car as the dark came on, drank some Coke, ate trail mix and Cheetos. She took the Ruger out, checked the clip and rested it in her lap.

  Sometime after seven, someone approached the car, leaned down, tapped on the window.

  Pearl was speechless with fright, and found herself jamming her feet into the floor of the car, forcing herself back in the seat. The person tapped at the window again. It was a man with a ponytail and a grizzled beard.

  “Hey, are you okay in there?” He spoke insistently, as if affronted. “I want to know if you are okay.” Pearl looked straight ahead, hyperventilating, the breath coming in small juddering gasps. There was a woman there now too, peering in.

  “Would you like something to eat?” she was saying slowly, as if Pearl were deaf or mentally deficient.

  “Go away,” she shouted, the words coming out thick and choked.

  The man shrugged and walked off. The woman stood there a moment longer, looking concerned, then turned and left too.

  It got dark and a lot colder, and she cried for a while, then put on a fleece and a woollen hat and tried to sleep, thinking of fireflies in the warm Maryland summer night.

  In Columbus, Ohio, there were reports of an odd and vicious mugging.

  More than a mugging—an assault. A homeless woman, pushing a shopping cart laden with plastic shopping bags along Van Buren Drive, was set upon by a white male, forty years old, two hundred pounds, demanding her phone. And when the woman—who had a history of mental health issues—refused, he struck her repeatedly with a closed fist and ransacked her belongings, leaving them strewn across the street. He took the phone, and left the scene in a silver car. The woman was unable to give a full description of her attacker, except that he had short brown hair and spoke English with a foreign accent and appeared exceedingly angry.

  At dawn, Pearl opened the car door and the cold air flooded in. She stood and stretched, walking a few steps under the fir trees, the ground soft underfoot with their needles. The camper vans and tents were still quiet. She felt weak and slightly sick, her body reacting poorly to the stress. Her heart seemed to be skipping a beat about once every twenty seconds, its rhythm fluttery and irregular. She needed food.

  She started the car, pulled out, and immediately the door of one of the camper vans came open and the man with the ponytail was looking out at her, frowning. She accelerated up the track to the road, then wound her way back down towards the interstate. At a Denny’s, she stopped, went in, almost the only customer there. She took a table where she could see the road and the parking lot, and ordered pancakes and eggs and bacon and coffee. The waitress brought a pot of coffee and poured her a mug, the steam rising, the smell hitting her. Pearl cradled it in her hands, feeling the warmth, gazing out of the window towards the mountains.

  At the edge of the parking lot, a white sedan was just sitting there, idling.

  The fear rose up through Pearl’s spine. Her hand began to shake, spilling coffee on the table. The waitress came with a cloth.

  “You okay, miss?”

  Pearl managed to stand, drop some bills on the table and walk to the door, her knees on the verge of giving out, her throat closing into a gag. The white sedan was still there.

  She walked to her car, got in, and pulled away as slowly as she could manage, making for the interstate, past Fishtail and Absorokee. On I-90, heading west again, Pearl put her foot to the floor. She passed Big Timber doing ninety, more. She couldn’t see the white car in her mirror.

  What she could see was the flashing red and blue of the Highway Patrol.

  47

  Pearl slowed, changed lanes. The Patrol vehicle was right behind her now. She pulled over into the emergency lane, coming to a halt. She put her hands on the wheel and the tears came again. And then a deep, soul-crushing resignation.

  This? After everything, this would be how they’d find her?

  The trooper was approaching her car from behind. It was a woman, in green, with a wide-brimmed hat and a weapon at her hip. In the mirror, Pearl saw her reach over and touch the tail light as she passed it. Why did she do that? Now she stood by the driver’s door and tapped on the window. Pearl opened it.

  “Good morning, ma’am. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  Pearl, crying now, mumbled something incomprehensible even to herself.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay? I pulled you over because I clocked you at ninety-two miles per hour. Do you understand?”

  Pearl nodded.

  “May I see your licence, registration and proof of insurance, please?”

  Pearl pulled out her wallet, gave her the licence and the insurance card, pulled the registration from the glove compartment.

  “Ma’am, there’s no need to be so upset. Just wait right here.”

  She walked back to her vehicle to run the licence. Pearl tried to get hold of herself. In a matter of minutes the trooper was back, peering into the car.

  Something not right. Pearl saw her eyes moving over the seats, the dashboard.

  “Well, your licence is clean, so congratulations on that. Can you tell me why you were driving so fast?” As she spoke she was looking at the back seat, the empty Cheetos bag, plastic water bottles, the half-inflated beach ball, with duct tape trailing from it.

  The Ruger was under the front seat, loaded.

  “No reason,” she said. “I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes.

  “Mm-hmm. Well, your licence is Maryland, and your plates are Ohio. So what brings you up here?”

  “Just a road trip.”

  “A road trip, huh?”

  Pearl nodded.

  “All alone?”

  She nodded again.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but are you in some sorta trouble?”

  Pearl felt herself stiffen, and the trooper saw it, she could tell.

  “It’s not anything,” she said. “Not serious. I just needed to get away for a few days. I’m sorry.”

  “Mm-hmm. How long have you owned this car?”

  “Just a few days.”

  “It’s not registered to you.”

  “Uh, no. Not yet. When I get back to Ohio.”

  “Mm-hmm. Okay. You got the title and bill of sale, right?”

  “Yes.” She reached for the glove compartment.

  “No, it’s okay, I don’t want to see them.”

  The trooper stood there for a moment, contemplating. She wants to search the car, Pearl thought.

  “You sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Pearl forced a smile.

  “Really. It’s just … just a family thing. I just need to get away.”

  “Okay. Well, I guess I can understand that. But I am going to have to write you a citation for speeding today. You’ll have twenty-eight days to pay it. Sign here.”

  Pearl signed—and knew that was it.

  “Now you bring your speed down and be safe, and you’re free to go.” The trooper was walking away.

  How long would it take?

  The heating and air conditioning system in the Tyson’s Corner building was faulty and had been turned off for repair. The air in the safe flat was thick with the smell of microwaved food, coffee, stress, exhaustion. The smell of an operation. Mangan had been told firmly he had to go
to the balcony to smoke. Hopko had tied her hair back and wore a pink track suit and sandals. She would sit in silence for long periods, punctuated by murmured consultations with Brendan, the contents of which remained private. Patterson, in jeans and sweatshirt, had turned silent, hard, and Mangan thought he was seeing the soldier in her for the first time. But then she argued with Hopko over the need to deploy to Columbus, and Hopko had slapped her down, telling her that her place on the operation was “not secure,” and she should prepare to return to Station. Mangan had watched her, seen her turn in on herself, the disappointment and hurt.

  Mangan’s own role seemed to have been reduced to writer of emails, his value to the operation residing solely in his personal connection to Pearl.

  And then Harker signalled.

  HAMPER 2’s vehicle, the tracker still in place, had barrelled out to Columbus airport at speed and had been returned to the rental agency. He, or they, were flying, but impossible to know where.

  Hopko bristled at Mangan.

  “So Columbus was just a feint. All of it. Clever girl. And now they’ve realised it was all just a feint. You do understand, Philip—and it pains me to say it—but we are now entirely dependent on you.”

  Pearl,

  I loved the poem. I studied Chinese, did you know that? I lived in China for a long time. I loved to read the Tang poets.

  In your last note to me, I sensed despair.

  There is so much out there for you, Pearl. You must envisage a future for yourself, a realised life, one free of the terrible choices that have been forced on you. That future is attainable for you. Will you let me help you attain it? Tell me where to meet you, and I’ll be there, with help and food and money and warm clothes and protection and a future.

  The people who are after you have left Columbus. What you did was extremely clever, but it only held them up for a few days. They are flying, but we don’t know where to, yet. It seems likely they’ve got some hint as to where you are. Has something happened? They may be coming to intercept you.

  The time has come now to let us help. Please.

  Philip

  Brendan leaned in.

  “I think I’d like some assurance that she still has her father’s laptop,” he said. “Do you think you could put that in? I mean, word it carefully, but I do think we need to know.”

  “Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” said Mangan.

  Harker and O’Riley had bought tickets to get airside, and were scouring Columbus airport, looking for the HAMPERs, but no sign. Cheltenham was working the passenger lists, but that would take time.

  From Pearl, silence.

  TOP SECRET STRAP 2 BOTANY—UK EYES ONLY

  COPY 2/3

  //REPORT

  1/ (TS) Source FULCRUM addressed a further letter to C/FE. It is printed below in full.

  Beijing

  To: Controller, Far East and Western Hemisphere,

  United Kingdom Secret Intelligence Service,

  Vauxhall Cross, London

  Dear Friends,

  Events are moving quickly. Please see summary of urgent points for your consideration.

  1/ A counter-intelligence investigation has started. It is very aggressive. Investigators from Ministry of State Security 9th Bureau are making interviews with many senior officers associated with North American operations. I will face such interview soon. This is a very serious development.

  2/ It seem probable that material passed by Monroe before his death have alerted Ministry of State Security. Rumour here that Monroe material allowed MSS to deduce it has a leak. Rumour is that source inside MSS was American operation codenamed DTCREEKSIDE. Also rumour that death of Monroe’s wife was not MSS operation. Much confusion.

  3/ While I currently feel quite secure, I must take precautions in face of investigation. I am confident of my position, but I must say I will take a pause in my business dealings with you, and will be out of contact for foreseeable future.

  4/ The matter of the diamonds remains unresolved, and I wish for conclusion at future point.

  Best regards, and be alert for my contact in future under HOPSCOTCH protocol. I will be back in touch when all clear.

  Your friend,

  Z

  ENDS///

  Pearl turned south, into Idaho, driving in darkness as much as she could in the faint hope she’d be less visible to the cameras. During the day she lay up in car parks, on the backstreets of tiny mountain towns, then in a manicured suburban street in Idaho Falls; she would start out as the sun went down. She ate microwaved pizza slices on gas station forecourts, drank bottled water and coffee. She felt her concentration fraying, her thinking becoming cloudy.

  Then west again, into Oregon in a cold rain that gave way to a sunset so beautiful she began to wonder if she was hallucinating. She’d entered the high desert. She stopped for a moment by the side of the road, got out, and the air was redolent with sage and wet stone, the chirrup of some small animal. She stood and watched the light fade.

  Her situation seemed impossible, right here, right now. The notion that they were out there, that they were closing in on her, ridiculous. And she felt again a sense of inevitability, of how it would probably end. It came on as a flood of regret, breaking on her as sadness.

  The light went, leaving the horizon a deep indigo. The stars began to show. She got back in the car, pushing on towards Bend in darkness.

  At two in the morning she could keep going no longer, so another motel. The place was called The Pines Suites 24/7, and it sat back from the road behind a gas station, a single-storey block, the rooms opening directly to the parking lot, the musty reception area of dun carpet and wood veneer. A man was asleep behind the counter, his head on a desk. Pearl, reeling from tiredness, cleared her throat.

  “Uh, hi.”

  The man stirred, sat up, looked around, his eyes slits, a frown. He turned, saw her, yawned and slouched towards the table. He hitched up his jeans.

  “Can I get a room?”

  “Sure can. Need some ID. Pay cash or card?”

  “Cash.” She held out her driver’s licence for a moment, took it back.

  “Sorry, can I see that again?” he said. She held it out to him, and this time he took it from her.

  He was looking at the driver’s licence. Looking hard. Then he looked up at her.

  She had the green contacts in, but wore no make-up.

  “Uh, okay,” he said. He looked down, tapping out her name on the keyboard.

  “And your vehicle tag number?” he said.

  Pearl told him.

  He keyed it in and printed a registration form.

  “Just sign please, and that’ll be sixty-seven dollars.”

  He wasn’t meeting her eye. He stood straighter than before and his movements had become stiff and directed. She saw how he gripped the edge of the counter as he waited for her to count out the money. He leaned slightly away from her.

  She felt her own autonomic response kick in, heart rate rising, adrenalin spewing into her chest. Get out, now.

  She tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry she had to catch herself, lick her lips, start again.

  “Has anyone been asking for me?” she said.

  He was looking at the computer screen.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

  “I thought, maybe, someone had been in. Asked.”

  “Like I say, I don’t know.”

  “What did they say?”

  He looked at her now, mustering some aggression.

  “Look, you want the room or not?”

  “Can you tell me who they were?”

  The man looked behind him, as if looking for someone, wondering if he should go and get them, that they could provide an answer.

  “Look, I don’t know anything, okay?”

  “Did they offer money?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “I can offer more money.”

  He stopped speaking.

  “I
can give you five hundred dollars. Right now. You just tell me what happened. Who they were. When.”

  He was calculating, glancing over his shoulder again, then back at her. He gestured with his chin, and she noticed a tattoo on his upper arm. Something military, a dagger, some stars. The word IRAQ underneath.

  “You got five hundred dollars?”

  She nodded.

  “You show me first.”

  She opened her purse, showing him the corner of a hundred-dollar bill. He leaned over the counter, his eyes hungry. She’d left the Ruger in the car. He looked over his shoulder one more time.

  “Okay. There was a guy come in. This morning. Big guy. Foreign. He was asking for Pearl Tao. Said he was a PI. That’s it.”

  “What kind of foreign?”

  “How the fuck am I supposed to know what kind of foreign?”

  “Was he Asian? Chinese?”

  “Uh, no. No. He was, like, European maybe. But my dad said he saw the car outside, and there was a woman in it and she was, like, Asian. Okay? That’s all I got.”

  “What did this man say? Did he leave a number to call? Anything?”

  “Jeezus. Yeah, okay, he left a number. You show up, we’re supposed to call him. Now just give me the fuckin’ money, okay? Why’s he looking for you anyways?”

  Pearl counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “Please don’t call him,” she said.

  “Ain’t up to me,” he said, smirking.

  Pearl thought of the Ruger, the gunmetal cold against her skin, the weight of it in her hand.

  “What car were they in?” she said.

  “Shit, I don’t know. It was red. An SUV. Now you taking the room or not?”

  Pearl said nothing and turned to leave. As she reached the door, she looked back, and saw he wore a self-satisfied grin.

  “Don’t call. Please.”

  He made a get lost gesture. She walked out into the parking lot, into the darkness, back to the car. It was cold, no moon, but bright starlight. She got in, reached under the seat for the Ruger, held it in her hand, laid her finger along the trigger guard and worked the slide. She looked back at the door to the reception area, the light coming from it.