The Last Spymaster

by Gayle Lynds

  “I wonder about you. Who are you? I repeat, what do you want?”

  He glanced around. When he saw her Walther, he seemed surprised. He focused up the street once more and continued in American-accented English, “Well, then, I suppose there’s no avoiding it. My identification code is, ‘It never rains inside a glass bubble.’ You may call me Alec. You’re officially reactivated, Glinda. After all this time, I’m sure you’re delighted to hear again from our old Company.”

  14

  Gravelly Point, Virginia

  It was 9:14 P.M. when Martin Ghranditti arrived in his limousine for a treff—a covert meeting—at Gravelly Point, a spit of dark lawn and wetlands along the Potomac River. He lowered his window, and the scent of freshly cut grass wafted in. As expected at this late hour in midweek April, the tree-dotted park was empty. He climbed out, buttoned his suit jacket over his barrel chest, and checked the parking lot. There was only one other car—Laurence Litchfield’s. Good. He had kept the bastard waiting.

  He marched off, enjoying the notion he could keep governments, private buyers, and spy agencies—especially spy agencies—waiting. It was a small thing but pleasurable, and due to a simple fact: Like people, nations were stupid. During the Cold War he had made a fortune because ordinary Americans and Soviets had been so worried about nuclear holocaust they had paid little attention to the regional wars through which the two superpowers were fighting for political supremacy. Nicaragua. Angola. Afghanistan. Others. To avoid stirring up the public, America had secretly paid a few top weapons merchants like himself to supply the guns and bullets. He chuckled. What a great year 1984 had been. Forty wars raged. America armed 130 of the world’s 160 countries directly or indirectly. His profits were astronomical. But then, he delivered. That was why spy agencies had waited. And now the CIA waited again.

  He found Litchfield standing on the grassy bank above the Potomac, hands clasped behind, backlit by the shimmering white monuments and buildings of Washington on the other shore. As Ghranditti joined him, a passenger jet hurtled through the air toward them, engines howling, hot wind baking their faces. There was no way they could talk, so they watched it pass overhead a bare hundred feet, so fast the Doppler effect made an audible bang. Percussive crackling trailed the jet across the river’s black surface.

  As it touched down and taxied south toward the Reagan National terminal, Ghranditti said, “Dramatic, isn’t it? Let’s walk.”

  They advanced west along the inlet. Murky water slapped the marshy beach.

  Litchfield spoke curtly around his pipe: “You’re late. I need to get into Langley. What’s this all about?” Dressed in a tuxedo, his wiry frame was a black needle in the night.

  Ghranditti did not answer. Instead, he gestured above, where more jets circled, tiny lights winking. “They’re landing every eight to ten minutes now. During peak times, it’s every two or three minutes. I think you’d agree we Americans do this sort of thing well. Precision timing. Brute force. The spectacle of it energizes us.” His words took on a warning tone: “And the alternative is far less attractive—violent death.”

  Litchfield had been checking his watch. He looked at Ghranditti. “You have a point?”

  Rage churned up into Ghranditti’s throat. Still, he controlled himself. “Hannah Barculo’s people haven’t caught Jay Tice yet, and she hasn’t kept me informed. Now I know why. You’ve ordered her to tell me whatever she has to, to keep me quiet, because you want him wiped. I suspect you thought she could do it fast and make it look like he was resisting arrest. Something no one—including me—would question.”

  Litchfield pulled his pipe from his lips. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Like hell I don’t! I had my people follow Elaine Cunningham. One of the men had binoculars on her when a Whippet operative tried to liquidate her. That’s when I knew. No one kills a hunter when they want the hunt to succeed and the quarry alive.” He detected a whiff of respect despite Litchfield’s inscrutable expression. “What were you planning to do—pin the wet job on Tice? Hammer one more nail into his coffin?”

  The CIA man stared at Ghranditti. Then he bristled. “Yes, dammit! I helped you by turning Theosopholis into our snitch, and now the poor bastard’s dead because Tice scrubbed him. Tice must be terminated!” He locked his hands behind his back and accelerated, pulling out ahead.

  At the same time, Ghranditti slowed. “No. Jay Tice must be taken alive!”

  Litchfield turned, frowning, eyes narrowed beneath the black slash of his brows.

  “You thought I wasn’t serious?” Ghranditti stopped and planted his feet. “I want Tice back in prison! Every waking instant he’s there he knows he’s not only lost everything, he can’t rebuild. His honors and medals are dust! His old friends are dead to him! Do you have any idea what that’s like for a man like Tice? It’s been destroying him. Eating him up!” A flush heated his face. “Kill him? No! That’d put him out of his misery. I want him to have a very long life—in prison!”

  “Tice is a traitor, Ghranditti. Even you should be able to figure out he’s worth less than a skin rash. Alive, he’s a threat. His escape proves it.”

  “He’s no threat to me!”

  “Wrong.” Litchfield strode off again.

  Ghranditti stared a few seconds then hurried to catch up. As he matched Litchfield’s stride, he demanded, “What haven’t you told me?”

  “Do you still want the software?” Litchfield countered, glancing at him.

  “Of course. Only a lunatic would turn down three million dollars.” He had found money was the key to Litchfield; governments were foolish to pay their best people so little.

  Litchfield puffed worriedly on his pipe. “I told you the program required some work. That’s finished. But to do it, we needed someone with expertise but not enough experience to understand the implications. We found a young German whiz known in computer circles there. He was an orphan, according to his university records. We liked that. If anything went wrong and he had an ‘accident,’ there was no family to get upset and dig around. So we hired him and isolated him in Geneva.”

  “And?”

  “He began to get suspicious. It turns out he wasn’t an orphan, and his last name was changed. Originally, he was Kristoph Manhardt.”

  Ghranditti’s fleshy lips parted. “Manhardt? Raina Manhardt’s son?” Pain pulsed behind his eyes.

  Now he understood Tice’s breakout. Tice and Raina had had a fiery but covert Cold War affair. That was the way people lived then. When sex, lust, love erupted between East and West, it was always forbidden and usually volcanic and, for safety, very clandestine. Theirs had been so well hidden that he had not learned about it until much later.

  To protect himself, he lied: “Raina Manhardt was formidable in her day. But I don’t see how that impacts Tice.”

  “Raina and Jay shared a bed during the Cold War. Kristoph was the right age to be his son. Plus Cunningham discovered a section of Jay’s Herald Tribune was missing—a section that had an article about the kid’s death. You put it together. Cunningham was sure to make the connection between Raina and Jay.”

  Ghranditti massaged his temples, fighting a headache. “Tell me the rest.”

  “We didn’t know who the kid was until the story ran, and by then we’d left Geneva. When we checked the records of his cell phone, we found out he called Raina that morning. My people are back in Geneva, but she’s been there since he died—two days—probably sniffing around the whole time. We don’t know what the kid told her, or what she’s learned. If she or Tice finds out about the software, it could lead to me—then to you. And if they do it fast, they could send the shipment into the toilet.”

  Ghranditti looked off across the park, but what he saw was in his mind—the Jay Tice of twenty years ago, the remorseless drive, the chameleon personality. His gut clenched. At the least, Tice deserved to be hurled into boiling oil or whipped to bloody death. He glanced at Litchfield, a pragmatic man who merely wanted
money. The world must seem simple to him and most of humanity; they dreamed of so little.

  But now Litchfield had changed the game. As much as it galled Ghranditti to abandon Tice’s just punishment, the truth was that the future of his wife and family was far more important.

  He heaved a sigh. “Very well. But Hannah’s fumbled enough. My men will find and wipe Tice. It’s just as well for you, too. You and Whippet will stay clean.”

  “It’s too late for that. Most of Whippet’s been purged. Worse, in their own house. The only ones who survived were out on assignment here or overseas.”

  “Hannah, too?” He gave no indication he already knew the answer.

  Litchfield gave a mute nod.

  Ghranditti let out a long stream of air and asked casually, “Who did it?”

  “If Tice realized Whippet was after him, my bet is on him. His connections used to be deep, and he’s probably got more than enough money stashed to pay for it.” He slowed, his analytical gaze considering Ghranditti. “Can you guarantee your people are strong enough to terminate him?”

  “Without question.” Inwardly, Ghranditti smiled. “What about your hunter? Did Tice scrub her, too?”

  “No, she arrived at the house afterward. In fact, she’s the one who reported the massacre.”

  “I don’t want her killed. She could lead us to Tice.”

  “For the moment, I agree. I’ll have Whippet’s computers and files searched, and I’ll find out what Cunningham’s learned.”

  “I want her basic information now.” Ghranditti already had it, but again Litchfield did not need to know that.

  As traffic on the George Washington Parkway rumbled in the distance, the two men stopped, and Litchfield pulled out his cell phone and a fountain pen and a small pad. He turned away and spoke quietly. When he hung up, he tore off a sheet and gave it to Ghranditti. They walked off toward the parking lot.

  Ghranditti mulled. “You said the software’s finished. Do you have it?”

  “It’s on its way to me.”

  “I hope the route’s fully secured.”

  The corners of Litchfield’s mouth rose in a small smile. “Forget it, Ghranditti. You know I’m not going to give you details.”

  Another jet blasted toward them, booming, seeming to hang suspended in the air. Then it swooped past overhead, whining like a demon. At the parking lot, the men exchanged brisk nods and separated. Ghranditti’s chauffeur was already opening the limo’s rear door.

  Ghranditti settled into the leather. As the door closed, he weighed his meeting with Litchfield: He had lost, and he had won. But overall, he decided, he had won, because Litchfield was still ignorant about the extent of his knowledge. He needed Litchfield—his software was critical to the deal. At the same time, Litchfield needed him—as the broker, he had sole initial contact with the buyer. The only potential problems were Jay Tice and Raina Manhardt. But if Litchfield’s people handled Manhardt in Geneva, and Jerry Angelides handled Tice here, all would be well.

  As the limo glided off toward the parkway’s northbound lanes, he dialed Jerry Angelides and announced, “I have a change of orders for you.” He described the new development with Jay Tice, Raina Manhardt, and Kristoph Maas. “As you can see, Tice is suddenly a far larger danger than we realized. Therefore, your capture is canceled. Tice must be erased. Make sure he knows he’s going to die. I want him to know!”

  Langley, Virginia

  The lights of CIA headquarters were ablaze in the dark Virginia night. Still in his tuxedo, DDO Laurence Litchfield strode along the seventh floor, hands clasped behind his back. Voices occasionally sounded from behind closed doors. This floor contained the offices of the director, the executive director, the top three deputy directors, including him, and various other officials and support staff.

  This was the soul of U.S. intelligence, where security was as integral as arteries. Seldom could anyone—even he—find fault. Windows were configured with state-of-the-art devices to prevent eavesdropping with laser beams. Special cipher locks sealed offices, recording each person who entered. If someone unauthorized managed to get in, heat sensors and motion detectors would trigger alarms that brought security running, weapons ready.

  As he passed the closed doors and absorbed the atmosphere, he remembered the giants who had walked this storied floor—statesmen, presidents, kings, and of course the great Allen Dulles, although only after retirement. It made him feel taller, as if he were worthy of the long line of Litchfields who had led Massachusetts from wilderness to revolution. Espionage, too, was a profession for titans, or at least it once was.

  But now the CIA was in trouble, ravaged on all sides—Congress, the president, the public. After the Cold War, the budget was slashed, and several DCIs fell in love with the Pentagon, ceding operations and budget and technical innovations like the great Predator drone to it. In that postwar atmosphere, human intelligence—HUMINT—was considered superfluous and unreliable, and the espionage community was ordered to put its money and resources into flyovers, satellites, and glitzy gizmos used in “technical” spying. It was a mistake both shocking and dangerous.

  The daring and initiative that had been the CIA’s hallmark grew rare, leading to even more risk aversion in a profession that required risk. In the past year he had almost quit because it had become apparent the White House wanted a more compliant CIA, one whose clandestine service was controlled by the Pentagon. If that happened, it would be the death of the sort of independent thinking and information gathering and clean analysis that was most useful to any nation, where ideas and facts were more important than rank. That was when he knew there was only one answer—he must strike out on his own. It was not enough to be right. Sometimes, if only to test one’s will, one must prove one could still win.

  As Litchfield tapped in his door code, Bobbye Johnson, the DCI, appeared in the corridor, walking toward him, a worried expression on her face. She was in her shirtsleeves and dark gray suit pants, her auburn mane of hair rumpled. The hollows on her broad face were deep, showing weariness.

  He assumed a pleasant smile. “Hello, Bobbye. I thought you would’ve gone home by now.”

  “Too much going on. You just get in?” Her voice had the moderate tones of the well-bred, well-educated Midwesterner. Her father had been Robert (“Red”) Sunday, a tough OSS operative who had served in the Burma theater during World War II. She had inherited his brains and courage but not his good luck. The political situation was stacked against her. She had a gift for ignoring it.

  “Traffic was bumper-to-bumper,” he told her. “You know how it is. Want to come in?” He opened his office door and turned on the light.

  “Not tonight. I’m going to fill you in and leave.” Still, she glanced inside. “Whenever I see it, I have to remind myself it’s your office now—not Jay’s.”

  He leaned against the doorframe, hiding his annoyance that he had to waste time with her. “If things ever slow down, I’ll make some radical changes. You’ll see.” He surveyed the desk, once Tice’s, and the tall-backed chair, also once Tice’s. All of the furniture had been Tice’s—side chairs, tables, lamps, credenza, and the easy chairs grouped around the coffee table near the windows. Tice had put his books into storage, but the massive shelves remained. Litchfield had remembered the titles and replaced those he wanted while adding others more to his taste. He enjoyed working in Tice’s sandbox, coloring it with his scent. He would never change anything more.

  Johnson was looking at him. “All of Whippet’s files, secure computers, and papers are in-house now. I’ve ordered a search for anything that would hint at who hit Whippet and why. Did Hannah ever mention she was concerned that one of their operations had generated particularly bad heat?” She offered no apology for stepping onto his management turf. She did this sometimes, shifting gears to when she had been an operative and hands-on spymaster herself.

  “Not a word. Have you discounted my theory that Tice did it?”

  “I’m interest
ed in the truth, whatever it is.”

  “Of course.” He was unworried the probe would reveal Hannah’s attempts to eliminate Tice—she would never have committed that to paper or e-mail.

  “We took over forensics inside Whippet house,” Bobbye continued.

  “The police are working the exterior and grounds. We found no unknown fingerprints. No hair, no billfolds, no matchbooks conveniently publicizing some bar or motel. Too bad real life isn’t a TV show where the perfect clue is left behind. We have hundreds of samples from the bloodbath. Everything’s being checked. I’ve sent our bodies out to canvass the neighborhood for witnesses. So far all they’ve got is that one shot was heard. People thought the noise was a car backfiring. A grandma in her sixties was visiting down the block, and she saw a man leave—older, wearing a cap. He was fast. According to the timing, he must’ve exited after the massacre.”

  “Older? He was fast? That’s it?”

  “She said it was too dark to see more. What caught her attention was that he looked as if he were her age, but he moved as if he were considerably younger.”

  “Tice! He might’ve gone back for a final check. He wouldn’t worry about any corpses calling the police on him.”

  She nodded. “If Cunningham hadn’t reported the attack, we might not have known about it for hours. Okay, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve had three calls from the Oval Office just since nine o’clock. We’ll be answering a lot of questions in the morning. The joint intelligence committee will have the knives out for us.”

  Litchfield noted the “us.” “We’ll get it under control, Bobbye.”

  She started to leave, arms crossed, head bent in thought. She turned. “Have you heard anything at all about Moses, whether he’s working again?”

  “Not since you asked the last time—six months ago now?” When she shrugged, he continued. “The way I see it, his heyday’s long over. He’s retired or dead. Most of the new people don’t even seem to know he existed. Why?”