Washington, D.C.
The Eagle Has Landed
There weren’t any leaks. None of them could believe it. Their short flight to Washington, then the drive to Georgetown to a small restaurant called The Eagle Has Landed didn’t raise any curious eyebrows. There wasn’t a single TV van in front of the restaurant, not a single reporter from the Washington Post.
“I don’t believe it,” Thomas said as he ushered Becca into the foyer of the small British pub. “No flashbulbs.”
“Glory be,” said Adam.
Andrew Bushman, appointed director of the FBI six months previously after the unexpected retirement of the former director, stood tall even with his rounded shoulders, his gray hair tonsured like a medieval monk’s, and beautifully suited, when Thomas walked to the small circular table at the back of the restaurant. Bushman raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Matlock, I presume? You have pulled me away from some very important matters. I came because Gaylan Woodhouse asked me to, told me it had to do with the attempted assassination of the governor of New York. My people are directly involved in this. I will be interested to hear how the CIA could possibly be involved, what they could possibly know that’s pertinent.”
Gaylan Woodhouse eased around the back of a shoji screen. He was a slight man of sixty-three who had come up through the ranks of the CIA and had been known in the old days as the best spy in the world because no one—absolutely no one—ever noticed him, and still he was paranoid, staying in the shadows until there was no choice but to come out. He had been the director of the CIA for four years now. Thank God, Thomas thought, Gaylan had a long memory and a flexible mind.
“Thank you,” Thomas said and shook first the FBI hand and then the CIA hand. “Now, this is my daughter, Becca, who is very closely tied to this matter, and my associate, Adam Carruthers. Gaylan, thank you for putting in a good word for me with Mr. Bushman.”
Gaylan Woodhouse merely shrugged. “I know you, Thomas. If you say something is critical, then it’s critical. I hope by that you think it’s time to bring the FBI up to speed on this thing.”
“Yes, it’s time,” Thomas said.
The two directors eyed each other and managed affable smiles and civil greetings. Andrew Bushman cleared his throat. “Agents Hawley and Cobb won’t be joining us today, but I suspect you knew they wouldn’t. I will have any information needed by them sent to New York when and if it’s appropriate. Now, I need a martini. Then we can nail this thing down.”
Becca would have killed for a glass of wine, but she was taking medications that didn’t allow it. She would even have accepted Adam’s beer. She suffered through approximately four and a half minutes of small talk. Then Gaylan Woodhouse said, “What have you got that’s definitive on Krimakov, Thomas?”
Mr. Bushman’s eyebrow shot up. “Does this have to do with the attempted assassination of the governor?”
“Indeed it does,” Gaylan said. “Thomas?”
Thomas launched into the story of a CIA agent, namely himself, who was playing cat and mouse with a Russian agent in the late-1970s and accidentally killed that agent’s wife. And that Russian agent had promised that he would get revenge, that he would kill both Thomas and his family. As Thomas spoke, Becca thought about what her life, her mother’s life would have been like if her father hadn’t been in that godforsaken place, trying to get the best of a Russian agent named Vasili Krimakov. “Of course, Gaylan knows all of this already. The reason the FBI needs to be involved is because we are trying to prove whether or not Krimakov is still alive and thus was the one who tried to assassinate the governor of New York. Actually, now we’re very certain that it’s him.”
FBI Director Bushman was lounged back in his seat, holding the nearly empty martini glass in his hand. “But this guy is after you. Why would he shoot the governor of New York? I’m not getting something here. Oh, I see, Matlock—you’re the Rebecca Matlock, the young woman who escaped the police and went into hiding?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
Andrew Bushman sat forward, his drink forgotten. “All right, Thomas, tell me everything, even stuff that Gaylan doesn’t know. I need to have a leg up on him somewhere.”
“Krimakov wanted to flush me out. Somehow he found out that I have a daughter—Becca. We don’t know how he found out about her, but it appears that he did and he came after her. That’s why he’s been terrorizing her, that’s why he kicked her out of his car in front of One Police Plaza in New York.”
“To get you out in the open.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. It’s not so complicated when you cut right to the chase. He wants to kill me and he wants to kill my daughter. All the rest is window dressing, it’s drama, giving him the spotlight, showing the world how brilliant he is, how he’s the one in control here.” And Thomas thought, He can’t kill Allison because she’s dead already, and I wasn’t there with her.
It was Adam who ended things, saying, “So that’s it, gentlemen. We found out that Krimakov was cremated, thus leaving doubt that it was indeed he who was killed. However, the man who kidnapped Ms. Matlock whispered in her ear before he shot a drug into her—”
Becca interrupted. “‘Say hello to your daddy.’”
“So now there’s simply no doubt,” Thomas said. “The man cremated wasn’t Krimakov.”
Gaylan said, “We’ve been spending hundreds of hours on this because there was the possibility that it could be Vasili Krimakov. Now that we know it’s him, you need to stick your oar in, Andrew. Get all those talented people of yours involved in finding this maniac.”
“I’ve got a man trying to track down an apartment we understand Krimakov owns somewhere in Crete, in addition to his house. When we find it, we want agents to go over it.”
Gaylan nodded. “As soon as we know, I’ve got a woman in Athens who can fly down and check it out for us. She’s good. She’s also got contacts among the local Greek cops. She won’t get any problems from them.”
“It’s Dillon Savich who’s finding the apartment,” Thomas said.
Andrew Bushman raised an eyebrow. “Why am I not surprised? Savich is one of the best. I gather you’re telling me now so that I can cool down before I bust him?”
“That’s right,” Thomas said. “I knew Savich’s father, Buck. I asked the son for help. He and Sherlock have been in the thick of things.”
Andrew Bushman sighed and took the last sip of his martini. “All right. Now, I’ve got lots of stuff to do, meetings to hold, people to assign to get this off and running. What about the NYPD?”
Thomas said, “Why not tell the world? Have Hawley in New York interface with the local cops.”
Bushman said, “Hawley is good, very good. He’s tough and he deals well with the locals. Talk about bigfoot. He’s a Mack truck when he needs to be. All right, gentlemen, we now tell the world.”
“Well, then—” Gaylan Woodhouse broke off as his stomach growled. “We forgot to order lunch. I want a hamburger, lots of red meat, something my wife, bless her heart, doesn’t allow.”
Andrew said even as he was reading the menu, “I want everything to clear through the FBI before it goes to the media. We want our spin on things.”
TWENTY-TWO
The black government car moved smoothly onto the Beltway. It was still too early for rush-hour traffic to gnarl things to the screaming point. It didn’t help, though, that the temperature was hovering at about ninety degrees. Inside the big car it was thankfully very cool. Their driver had said nothing at all since picking them up at The Eagle Has Landed. There was still no sign of the media. So far so good, Thomas had said. There would be a media release soon now.
Adam was humming as he flipped off his cell phone. “Thomas, the photo you asked Gaylan Woodhouse to dig out for you is coming over right away. He’s sorry that he couldn’t immediately put his finger on it.”
Thomas turned from studying his daughter’s profile to look at Adam. “I’m glad they finally located it. I was afraid I would have to use an ar
tist and re-create him.”
Adam said to Becca, “It’s a photo of Krimakov from over twenty-five years ago. We’ll age it and both can go to the media to plaster everywhere.”
“Sir,” Becca said, “are you really a CIA director?”
“That’s not my title. I used it because it would be familiar to the New York detectives. Actually, I run an adjunct agency that’s connected to the CIA. Our primary focus is on terrorism. I’m based here now, though, and don’t travel much abroad anymore to the hot spots.”
“This photo of Krimakov,” Becca said after nodding to her father, “I want to see it, study it. Maybe I’ll see something that could help. Did he speak English, sir?”
If Thomas noticed that she hadn’t called him Father or Dad, he didn’t let on. He had, after all, been a dead memory that had suddenly come alive and was now in her face. He’d also brought terror into her life. He also hadn’t been around when her mother was dying, when her mother died. She’d been alone to handle all of it. The pain was sharp and so bitter he thought he’d choke on it. Soon he would tell her how he and her mother had e-mailed each other every day for years. Instead, he managed to say, “Yes, he did. He was quite fluent, educated in England. He even attended Oxford. Quite the bon vivant in his younger days.” He paused a moment, then added, “How he despised us, the self-indulgent children of the West. That’s what he called us. I always enjoyed locking horns with him, outwitting him, at least until that last time when he brought his wife with him to Belarus. The fool was using her as cover—picnics, hikes, pretending it was a vacation, when all the time he planned to kill the West German industrialist Reinhold Kemper.”
“Krimakov,” she said, as if saying his name aloud would help her remember more clearly, picture him standing in the shadows, “he had a very light sort of English accent, more so on some words than on others. He was fluent in English. I don’t think he sounded particularly old, but I can’t be certain. Krimakov is your age?”
“A bit older, perhaps five years. He’s in his mid-fifties, if he’s alive.”
“I wish I could say for certain that he was that old but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Thomas sighed. “I’ve always thought it unfair that nothing’s easy in this life. He’s had years to plan this, years to think through every move, every countermove. He knows me, probably now he knows me better than I knew him back then. When he finally found you—my child—then he was in business.”
“I wonder where he is,” Becca said. “Do you truly believe he’s still in New York?”
“Oh, yes,” Adam said, no doubt at all in his voice. “He’s in New York, planning how he’s going to get to you in the hospital. He’s licking his chops, absolutely certain that you’ll be there with her, Thomas. He’s got to believe he’s trapped you now. He’s flushed you out and now he’s got his best chance to kill both of you.”
“It was an excellent idea, Adam,” Thomas said, “to let everyone in the media believe that Becca is still at NYU Hospital, recovering from internal injuries and under close guard. I pray he disguises himself and tries to get in.”
“I have no doubt he’ll want to. I hope he doesn’t smell a trap. He’s smart, Thomas, you know that. He might have figured we’d do exactly what we have, in fact, done.”
“I’m worried about the people at the hospital who are playing us,” Becca said. “He’s—” She paused a moment, trying to find the right words. “He’s not normal. There’s something very scary about him.”
“Don’t be worried about the agents,” Adam said. “They’re professionals to their toes. They’re trained, and their collective experience probably exceeds the age of the world. They know what they’re doing. They’ll be ready for him to make a move. Another smart thing done—the FBI has installed security cameras to record everyone who goes in and out of that room. They’ve scheduled doctors and nurses to go in there at given hours. Our guys will stay alert. Our undercover agent who’s playing you, Becca, Ms. Marlane, won’t take any chances if he does show up. She’s got a 9mm Sig Sauer under her pillow.”
Thomas said, “Then there’ll be that black government car pulling up and a guy who looks remarkably like me getting out and going into the hospital.”
Adam said, “Yep. Twice a day. I hope Krimakov does try to get in. Wouldn’t that be something if it all ended there, in the hospital, in New York?”
Becca said, “He managed to down Chuck with no one the wiser. So far he hasn’t failed at anything he’s tried.”
“She’s right, Adam,” Thomas said. “Like I said, Vasili is smart; he improvises well. If there aren’t any leaks, it’s possible he’ll sniff out the trap. But even if he’s fooled into thinking she’s there, perhaps believing that I’m there with her, under guard, for twenty-four hours, it’ll give us time to try to come up with some sort of strategy.”
Adam nodded and said, “If he doesn’t go down in New York, then he’ll go down here.” He sighed. “Strategy is all well and good, Thomas, but I can’t think of anything at the moment that isn’t already being done.”
Thomas said, “I keep wondering if the agents playing our parts should be told it’s a former KGB agent who might come there. Maybe it would make them sharper.”
“Knowing a killer is coming is all they need,” Adam said. “Besides, they’ll know who they’re dealing with quick enough. I believe that Krimakov will make a move real soon now. Maybe he’ll even make a mistake.” Adam looked at Becca, whose hands were fisted in her lap. She was too pale and he didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do about it.
She said, more to herself than to either of them, “If they don’t get him, then how do you come up with a strategy to catch a shadow?”
Thirty minutes later, their driver pulled up in front of a white two-story colonial house, set back from the street on a gently sloping grass-covered yard, right in the middle of Bricker Road in the heart of Chevy Chase. It looked like many of its neighbors in this upper-middle-class neighborhood, lots of surrounding land, lots of oak and elm trees, and beautifully landscaped lawns.
“Your house, sir. No one followed us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Simms. You took excellent evasive action.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thomas turned to Becca, who was staring out the car window. He took her hand. “I’ve lived here for many years. Adam probably told you no one knows about this house. It’s a closely guarded secret to protect me. Given Krimakov’s actions, he hasn’t discovered this house. Don’t worry. We’ll be safe here.” Thomas looked over at the oak tree just to the side of the house. He and Allison had planted it sixteen years before. It was now twenty feet taller than the house, its branches full and laden with green leaves.
“It’s lovely,” Becca said. “I hope it does all end in New York. I don’t ever want him to find out where you live. I don’t want him to hurt this house.”
“No, I would prefer that he didn’t, either,” Thomas said. He gently took her hand to help her out of the car.
“Mom and I always lived in an apartment or condo,” she said, walking beside her father up the redbrick steps to the wide front porch. “She never wanted a house. I know there was enough money, but she’d always shake her head.”
“When your mother and I were able to meet, she usually came here. This was her house, Becca. You’ll see her touch everywhere, and I’m sure you’ll recognize it as hers.”
His voice was low, so filled with pain, with regret, that Adam turned away to focus on the rosebushes that were blooming wildly beside the brick stairs up to the front porch. He saw two agents in a car half a block down the street. He wondered if Thomas would tell his daughter that this house might look like a home-sweet-home, but the security in and around the place was state-of-the-art.
“It’ll be dark in about three hours,” Adam said, looking up from his watch. “Let’s make our phone calls, talk to the guys in New York, get the status on everything, make sure they stay alert. I have this gut feeling that Krima
kov is going to try to get into NYU Hospital soon. Now we can tell them exactly who they’re up against. As you said, Thomas, there are always leaks. Detective Gordon, for example. I can see her telling everyone in sight. If he doesn’t act in the next twenty-four hours, then he won’t, because he’ll know it’s a trap.”
Adam looked down at Becca, who was staring intently at the house. He knew she was trying to visualize her mother there, perhaps standing next to her father, smiling at him, laughing. Only she wasn’t there, had never been a part of the two of them. He said, “Get rid of that ridiculous hair dye, will you, Becca?”
Thomas turned at his words. “That’s right. Your hair is very blond, like your mother’s.”
“Mom’s was more blond than mine,” she said. “All right, Adam, but I’ll have to go to the store. Who wants to go with me?”
“Me and about three other guys,” Adam said. The look on her face had changed, lightened, and he was pleased.
At seven o’clock that evening, Savich and Sherlock, Tommy the Pipe, and Hatch arrived at Thomas’s house for pizza and strategy, pizza first. Adam doubted there would be much helpful strategy, but it was good to have everyone together. Who knew what ideas might pop out after hot, cheese-dripping pizza?
Savich was carrying a baby draped over his right shoulder. The kid was wearing only a diaper and a little white T-shirt. Adam looked at Savich, checked out the baby’s feet, and said, “You’re this little guy’s father?”
“Don’t act so surprised, Adam.” He lightly rubbed his hand over his son’s back. “Hey, Sean, you still awake enough to punch this guy in his pretty face?”
The baby sucked his fingers furiously and poked out his butt, making Savich grin.
“He’s nearly down for the count,” Sherlock said, lightly touching the baby’s head, covered with his father’s black hair. “He sucks his fingers when he doesn’t want to be disturbed and he knows you’re talking about him.”
Twice Dead Page 22
