The Last Spymaster

by Gayle Lynds

  Her head was cocked, listening. “The other guy’s here,” she whispered. Her eyes flashed, and in them he saw rage, a deep sense of violation. This was her home, and three intruders had broken into it tonight.

  “We’re gone.”

  She nodded, and they slid outside. As she locked the door, he surveyed her postage-stamp lawn and the other rear yards. A black wind blew against his skin.

  “The rest of the wet squad could be anywhere around here,” he warned. “Truce? Otherwise, I take the Colt.”

  Her grip on the weapon tightened. “Like hell you will.” Her eyes widened then narrowed. “Temporary truce.”

  “If you fire, you’ll draw the man in the house and everyone else.” He studied her for a moment, finally deciding she was smart enough to mean it. “This way.”

  They took off at a run toward the side yard, hugging the shadows. At the front he pressed against the wall. She slipped in next to him, her small face tense and alert. A midnight-blue BMW was pulling into a driveway across the street. He frowned and looked at her.

  “It doesn’t belong to any of the neighbors,” she whispered.

  A man got out, scanned both ways, and dashed toward her place.

  “He was at Whippet, too.” Tice kept his voice low. “That makes three of them so far. My car’s two blocks away. We’ll take yours.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “Damn right you will.” That left him free to use his weapons. He peered farther around the corner. The street was empty.

  They ran again, quietly crossing her front yard and escaping down the sidewalk, watching everywhere. She pressed the door release on her key chain. Ahead, the Jaguar’s lights flashed.

  “Stand outside until I figure out what’s been left on your car.”

  She started to object then nodded.

  As she stood sentry, he searched under the right rear fender, running his hands over the grime. At last he found the lump, the size of a shirt button. He pried it off.

  “It’s a tracker.” He held up the innocent-looking piece. “Get inside. Hurry.”

  They jumped in then let the heavy doors close softly. He looked for the Colt—she had slid it into the pocket of her door. The handle stuck up.

  As the engine purred to life, she scrutinized the area and touched the accelerator, maneuvering expertly into a left turn. “Don’t put on your seat belt yet.” She backed up and turned left once more, inching out of the tight slot.

  “What in hell do you think you’re doing!”

  “I have an idea.” Her blue eyes were constricted and angry. “It won’t take more than ten seconds.” She backed up once more.

  “You want to leave the tracker on their car?” he asked.

  “A surprise gift.”

  “More like an insult. Good psychological warfare. And it will waste their time. You’ve given me an idea.” As she swung a hard left into the street and pressed the gas pedal, he leaned across her lap and wrapped his hand around the big Colt.

  “Hey!” She pounded a fist against his head. The Jag swerved.

  Blinking, he jerked back into his seat.

  She swore, kept checking the Colt. “I barely missed crashing the car!”

  “But you did miss it.” He took out his pocketknife and opened it then cocked the Colt’s hammer. “You’ll like this.” He stuck his knife blade into the open space beneath the gun’s hammer and broke off the tip. The small piece of metal was almost invisible inside the weapon. It would jam the first time anyone tried to fire it.

  She breathed deeply, scowling. She glanced at her town house. “The lights are on. Both floors. Either they’ve found their friend and are searching for us, or they haven’t found him and are about to give up. In any case, they’ll be out the door any moment. What’s your idea?” She braked the car at the end of the driveway where the BMW was parked.

  He handed her the tracker. “It’s got a magnetic attachment. Do your worst.” He had no intention of letting her drive off as soon as he got out.

  She stared at it then up into his eyes. He saw cool calculation, that she knew exactly what he was doing and why, and acknowledged his superiority only because he had the only operating gun. She snatched the tracker.

  She left the engine running, and they got out swiftly, scanning the street. He dropped the Colt’s finger loop over the BMW’s antenna and yanked the antenna high. She planted the tracker under a fender. They ran back to the Jag. Inside, he turned and watched through the rear window as she floored the accelerator. With a low growl, the car shot off effortlessly. The G-force slammed him deep into the leather seat.

  “Christ. Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?”

  Her voice was hard. “Zero to sixty in less than eight seconds. It’s just a V6. A V8’s faster—only six-point-six seconds.”

  “A V6 is impressive enough.” They whipped up her street past trees and cars. He stiffened. “Here they come. There’re two. They’ve seen your car’s gone. They’re running to theirs.” The pair moved like well-oiled machinery, showing the same trained intelligence he had seen when the gang had slipped away from Whippet house.

  With a squeal of tires, she tore the Jag around a corner. “Where to?”

  “Just get us far away.” He inhaled and faced forward again. “Hopefully we’ve got some conversation to listen to from the bug I planted on the guy we knocked out. Personally, I’d like to know who those bastards are and what in hell is really going on. I’ll bet you’d like to know, too. We’ll start with the live action.” He took out his wireless audio receiver and hit them POWER button.

  17

  As Elaine Cunningham pushed the car onward through the city night, they listened for voices from the wireless receiver, but there were none—no cursing about the missing Jaguar, no complaints about finding the gun hooked over the antenna. Not even any ambient street noises. There was only silence.

  “Is it broken?” she asked.

  Jay Tice frowned. “I tested it. I know it works. Okay, I’ll try the tape recorder. Maybe it picked up something earlier.” He pulled it out and hit REWIND then PLAY.

  Static crackled. Someone moaned weakly—the intruder who was locked in the pantry. With relief, they glanced at each other. Tice raised the volume. Footsteps. He fast-forwarded through more footsteps and occasional moans as she drove north. Finally there was the noise of a door opening. It made the same squeak as her town house’s rear door.

  A voice asked, “Billy?” Pause. Louder this time: “Billy, where the hell are you?” The door closed. The man’s voice again: “Rink, you parked yet? Get here quick.” There were noises of searching, more doors opening and closing, and shouts of “Billy!” A door handle rattled loudly, and the moaning resumed. “You in there, Billy? Dammit, answer me!” There was a noisy crash.

  “There goes my pantry door.” She spun the car through an intersection.

  He paused the tape recorder as she kept pace with the traffic. They were perhaps two miles from her town house, probably in Bethesda now.

  “Any sign of pursuit?”

  She checked her rearview mirror. “Nothing so far.”

  “Good. Pull into Rite Aid. I’ve got one more way to throw them off so we’ll have time to listen to this.” He dropped the tape recorder into his backpack and took out two Virginia license plates and QuakeHold! putty adhesive.

  As she cornered the car into the driveway next to the drugstore, she asked, “Where did you get that?”

  “I scavenged the plates and bought the QuakeHold!”

  He finished applying the pads of adhesive to the plates’ backs as she cruised into the parking lot, which stretched behind a dozen strip-mall stores. Pole lamps showered surreal blue-white illumination. She stopped the car near overgrown bushes. The lot was half full.

  “Turn off the headlights,” he told her. “Put it in park, and keep the engine running. Lower your window so we can talk if we have to.”

  She did as he said, ordering her nerves to quiet. This mig
ht be her chance to escape. As soon as she was away, she could phone Litchfield to send a capture team.

  Tice grabbed his backpack, gun, and license plates and opened the door. He got out and closed it. She watched him survey the lot and pad off. Turning her head fractionally, she saw him reach the car’s tail. He would need two hands to attach the plates, which meant it would take him several seconds to retrieve his Browning and fire. Her rib cage was as tight as a tourniquet as she studied her mirror. At last he lowered himself to go to work.

  Smiling grimly to herself, she looked down and quietly shifted back into gear.

  “Bad plan.”

  The voice was hushed, yet both words were enunciated so clearly, the threat in each so palpable, that a shudder shot through her. Her head lashed left, and she stared through her window into the barrel of Tice’s Browning.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told him coldly.

  Tice smiled—but there was no hint of humor or goodwill in it this time. “You lie rather well,” he told her, “but not to me. You’ll be dead if you so much as roll those big Michelins of yours one inch.”

  Her heart hammered. “You’re going to draw attention to us if you don’t get those license plates changed.” When he did not move, she returned the gear to park.

  And he vanished. She heard small sounds at the rear of the car as he worked. Then he appeared at the hood and disappeared again. More noises, and he was back in the front passenger seat.

  She flicked on the headlights. “I’ll bet you thought I was sticking around just to see your pretty face again.” As he closed his door, she was already rolling the car toward the lot’s exit. “Turn on the player.”

  He fished it out of his backpack. “Get on the Beltway and head west. Find other Jags or BMWs or Mercedeses. Blend in. Okay, back to your pantry and your visitors.” He touched PLAY. The noise of three quick footsteps sounded from the small machine.

  “Jesus,” said the same man as before.

  “Hey, Jerry.” Greetings from a weak voice.

  There were shuffling sounds. “What in hell happened, Billy?” The words bristled with fury. They were from the man called Jerry. “Who did this to you?”

  “I’m not sure. I smelled cigar smoke. I’m not sure.”

  “I told you to call if there was trouble. Why didn’t you call? Shit—you don’t have your cell phone. Where’s your Colt? Your cell and gun are gone, Billy. What in fuck have you done!”

  “Jerry, please. Hey, Jerry. Come on. It’s not so bad. It could happen—”

  “Tell me everything,” Jerry demanded.

  The second man—Billy—sounded tense and frightened and young. “I didn’t screw up. He . . . they . . . somebody tricked me. I remember something over my head, then I got conked out. Maybe I got hit twice. There was a stool in the way, and I leaned over—and, yeah, that’s what happened. I leaned over to move it, and somebody threw something over my head to blind me, and I got hit hard a couple of times.”

  “You don’t even know how many guys did this to you? You didn’t see a face? You don’t have one single name? Not even a sex? Could it have been Cunningham?”

  “Gee, Jerry,” the voice pleaded. “Yeah, sure, I think it was Cunningham. It must’ve been, right?”

  “Cigar smoke, Billy. Does the broad smoke cigars? Of course you don’t know. You weren’t awake long enough to figure it out. So let me tell you. There’s a cigar butt in the trash, soaked in whiskey. Someone put it out in a hurry. There’s a wet drink glass in a folding bar—vodka-wet. From morning? I don’t think so. With two different alcohols, odds on, it’s two people. There’s dust knocked off both ends of a venetian blind in the living room, like two somebodies was looking outside. Billy, I’ve got to conclude you fucked up. It’s a sad thing to say, but you fucked up bad. I taught you better than this. You laid yourself wide-open to fuck up because you believed the broad was asleep or wasn’t here because the place was dark. This caused you to hurry in without being properly concerned. I coulda walked into a trap, too, because you fucked up. Then where would Mr. G be? He’s got that big deal, and no way he stands for these fuckups. He’s relying on me, and I’ve been relying on you, and now I’m disturbed because you have seriously fucked up.”

  The other man gasped. “Please, Jerry—”

  There was the faint sound of a third man’s voice. “Where are you? Hey, Jerry. Where are you!”

  Jerry bellowed, “In the kitchen pantry, goddammit! We’ve got a big problem, Rink. I had a bad feeling something was going to happen. Guess this was it. Okay, Billy, so here’s the way I figure it. You got ambushed by two people. There’s no sign of a break-in, so I figure one was probably Cunningham. It’s possible the other was Tice. No direct evidence of him I can see, except for the cigar smoke and the fact you got tricked. Tice likes to do that, ’cause it demoralizes you. So he leaves a stool tipped over. Like a dummy, you picks it up, giving him a perfect opening. Then he’s gone like a yanked tooth. So why didn’t he wipe you? Or more likely, why didn’t he take you with him so he could grill you?”

  “I don’t know, Jerry,” Billy said, worried.

  “What’s going on?” said the third man.

  “Shut up, Rink,” Jerry snapped. “Shut up, and learn something. The reason is, Billy, because he wanted me to look around like an asshole then feel like a real jerk because I couldn’t find you. And I waste a lot of time, too, so he can make a clean getaway. Fortunately, there’s a tracker on that Jag of hers, and they won’t get far. But then I ask myself, is that all there is to it? Remember, this guy’s real smart. He maybe thinks he’s the smartest man in the world, he’s so smart.”

  “He doesn’t know you, Jerry,” Rink said.

  “Damn right he doesn’t. So he’s made a fool of you, Billy. And now he’s trying to make a fool of me.”

  “But I—” Billy tried.

  “Shut up! Let me think!”

  There was a steady drumbeat of footsteps. The sound stopped.

  “What are you doing?” Billy said. “Come on, Jerry. Stop looking like that! What’re you doing?”

  “I’m not doing, I’m thinking. I think this real smart genius might’ve booby-trapped you, Billy. You think you got a bomb on you?”

  “Jerry!” The voice was terrified.

  “But I woulda spotted a bomb, right? Nope, so what’s he gonna do—? Shit!” The word was a long, drawn-out bellow of sudden understanding. “It’s on you somewheres. I’d bet the bank on it. That guy . . . that guy!” The noises of rustling and movement. “Here it is! Look at this. Both of you, see this? This is a bug. You got yourself bugged, Billy, a little present from that asshole traitor. So he may’ve heard every goddamn word. . . . Shit! Shit! Shit! If he’s listening, he knows I bugged the Jag!”

  “Jerry!” Billy begged. “Please!”

  “Aw, come on, Jerry. It’s not so bad,” Rink tried. “I’ll bet Tice isn’t listening. I’ll bet—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Jerry’s voice was cold and frighteningly calm. “I treated you real good, Billy, and I tried to teach you. I guess you didn’t understand the part where just because I’m a nice guy, I’m not some kind of sucker or dummy. ‘Nice’ doesn’t mean a pussy. It means nice. Polite. I got manners. We got to live in this world, and nice manners is pleasant. Like being kind to animals and old ladies is pleasant. See, I’m still trying to teach you. I’m being pleasant. This is Cunningham’s gun. Probably a backup. A real good 9mm Beretta. She kept it in a lockbox at the back of her closet. There was this magazine there, too. I brought everything, thinking there just might be a time they’d be useful. Like I said—think ahead, don’t jump ahead.”

  “Jerry?” Billy whimpered.

  “Come on, Jerry,” the one called Rink said. “Come on—”

  There was the clicking noise of a clip being shoved home. “And this is her sound suppressor.” The light whine of metal being screwed into metal. “I just didn’t figure it’d be so soon I’d need it. I hate it wh
en people fuck up bad when they’ve had every opportunity to do things right. I also really hate it when they lie to me or they break agreements. You done only one of the three, Billy, and for that I will always have fond feelings for you. But you see the way it is. I can’t let Tice get away with this. Otherwise, he won’t respect me. He has to understand he’s interfering with my responsibilities. I hope you’re listening, Tice.”

  “Jerry!” The word was a scream. “Nooooo! I didn’t fuck up! They—”

  Rink said, “You’re not going to—”

  There was a loud pop.

  “See how I did that, Rink? Right between the eyes. Not a speck of blood on either of us. Tice, I sure do hope you’re listening. Now you got one more mighty big problem—you got yourself a killer on your hands. Oh, yeah. It won’t take much for me to set Cunningham up. After all, it’s her Beretta, right? Her fingerprints, right? Even if you’re taping this, you can’t exactly turn the tape over to the cops, now, can you? Of course, she could, but then your ass would be in an even tighter sling, which means you’re not gonna let her anywheres near a cop. So you can’t let her go, and if you keep her, pretty soon her name and photo are gonna be plastered all over newspapers and big wide-screen TVs, which we both know makes you even more vulnerable. I think you’d better kill her, Tice, don’t you?”

  The tape went dead.

  18

  Geneva, Switzerland

  As thunderheads tumbled across the black sky, the narrow Old Town lane seemed to reverberate with the hulking profile of the man from Langley— “Alec.” The fog coiled up around his calves, tentatively touching the hem of his khaki raincoat. He moved only one enormous hand, delivering a thin brown cigarette to his lips.

  The acrid smoke drifted through the night’s damp to where Raina Manhardt hid in the recessed doorway. She digested his presence, his words, and the message intended to make her his tool:You’re officially reactivated, Glinda.