The Last Spymaster

by Gayle Lynds

  “It makes no sense.” Still, she checked her mirrors and floored the gas in a swift kickdown. The Jag shot forward like a missile, driving them into their seats. She looked eagerly around for a state police car.

  “You can believe it now. We’ve got company.” He angled so he could study more closely a black sedan—a powerful Lincoln—that had broken out of traffic and swung into the lane behind them. It was coming up fast.

  She immediately moved the car left, into the next lane. The Lincoln’s nose made a sudden rush to squeeze in behind again. She swore loudly and braked. At the last second, the Lincoln swerved away, tires squealing, barely missing the Jag’s fender.

  “That was too close.” She exhaled.

  But already the Lincoln was speeding again, catching up. Tice lowered his window. As it opened, so did the driver’s-side window of the other car. Fresh air blasted through the Jag. The sudden din of engines and churning tires was explosive.

  Tice raised his voice to make sure she heard: “The guy’s armed. He was part of the assassination squad that took out Whippet, too. Get us out of here!”

  20

  Elaine studied the rushing Beltway. There were so many cars that gunshots could cause a catastrophic multiple-car crash. As the muzzle of a pistol extended from the Lincoln, she spun the steering wheel, moving into the next lane and the next, increasing speed.

  “Here comes another car!” Tice warned.

  Pulse throbbing, Elaine whipped the Jaguar in and out of the lanes as the two janitors’ cars jockeyed, following. The second car was a green Olds, about six years old but with a powerful engine. In her rearview mirror she spotted a third car.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “There’s the BMW. Jerry’s here. Behind us.”

  “I see it. Now he’ll know I lied about wiping you.” His smile was arctic. “Guess he won’t trust me anymore. I can see Jerry in the passenger seat. It’s just him and the same guy who drove them to your place.”

  “The BMW’s a fast car. Its speed is comparable to the Jag’s.”

  Quickly she took stock. The Jag’s computerized suspension felt elastic, as always, and the engine was running smooth and hushed, purring. It could be pushed hard and securely to its governed speed of 130 miles an hour, which meant she probably had a mechanical and horsepower edge over at least two of the cars. What she had hoped was to slip out of sight then find an open stretch and outrun all of them.

  Checking her mirrors, she pulled the Jag in behind a Ford SUV, then over in front of a Dodge muscle pickup, accelerating to eighty miles an hour. The Jag’s engine rose to a happy growl.

  She could see none of the pursuing cars. “I’m going to move again.” As Tice scanned tensely, she paced the next lane, where a blocky Hummer was pulling away from a chic Lexus. She had been studying both. As soon as she slid the Jag into the pocket, the Lexus, which had been rolling along inattentively, its eight-cylinder engine hardly breaking a sweat, accelerated and closed in on the Jag’s rear, protecting its tail as she had hoped. The Dodge pickup, which had been going much faster earlier, caught the competitive spirit and put on a burst of speed, riding the rear bumper of a new Chevy, which was to the right of the Jag’s grille. A Volvo and a Mustang and a Mercedes protected the Jag’s other side. The Hummer continued to lead, its blunt nose creating a ragged slipstream.

  The pack of eight vehicles tore through the night at eighty-five miles an hour, a lethal cavalcade of rushing steel and glass. The Jag was in the center, concealed. The steering wheel felt alive in her hands.

  “Jerry’s found us again,” Tice said sharply.

  Her rib cage contracted. As if by magic, the BMW had reappeared. It was two lanes over, Rink peering around, angling for a clear shot or a way to break through. This was the second time she had hidden the Jag then been found.

  “I can’t shake him,” she said worriedly. “Rink seems to know where we are no matter what I do.”

  “They’ve definitely tagged us. But how?” He grabbed the dead man’s cell from his backpack. “This is the only thing I took from Billy. Could there be a tracker in it? Maybe Jerry put trackers in all of his men’s cells to keep tabs on them.”

  “We don’t need it anyway. Get rid of it!” Then she knew. “Wait a minute! Is E911 stamped anywhere on it? Is it turned on? Look fast!”

  “Yes, the power’s on.” He flipped it over and saw the white lettering. “Here’s E911. What does it mean?”

  “It means we’re screwed. Toss it!” As he lowered his window and flung it out, she described the chip inside that enabled satellite tracking. “I could disable it, but I’d need time to figure it out. And you’re right—there could be a tracker in it, too. Either way, that’s how they found us.”

  “Can you get us away again?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  The Hummer had peeled off and exited. Ahead was a Cadillac. She flicked on her high beams. As if whacked in the butt, the Cadillac shot forward. She touched her gas pedal, keeping pace. Now that they were running faster, space opened on her right again. She shifted lanes and hit her high beams and moved again. She was nearing ninety miles an hour.

  “If we stay clean,” she decided, “I’ll get off at the Little River Turnpike exit. I don’t see any of our tails, do you?”

  He craned. “Maybe you lost them.”

  “Dammit, the BMW’s back.” She checked the side-view mirror on Tice’s door. Fleet and aerodynamic, the BMW was in the next lane, back about thirty feet. Too close.

  “We’re getting near the exit ramp,” he warned.

  She urged the Jag onward, weaving from lane to lane again, praying the other drivers knew what they were doing. But no matter what she tried, the BMW stayed with her. Swearing, she hurtled past the exit.

  An idea occurred to her. It was risky, but it might work. “The Braddock Road exit is next. I’m going to try something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain.” She changed lanes swiftly, easing over to where there were only two lanes between the Jag and the exit. She inhaled, hoping—no, dammit, the BMW was still following. She must wait, be patient. She touched the gas feed and lifted her foot, accelerating and decelerating as she studied the speed of the cars in the slower outer lanes.

  “Elaine!”

  His warning was too late. She had been watching for Beltway signs, ignoring the BMW. The bullet blasted through the support between the Jag’s side windows. Bits of metal exploded. She ducked.

  Don’t think about it. There was the exit. “Brace yourself,” she snapped.

  Tice grabbed the handgrip above his head.

  As a second bullet slammed through, she gazed right and turned the steering wheel hard, holding it. Like an arrow, the car shot across the lanes inches between vehicles, leaving a trail of screaming horns and squealing tires. At the last second she slammed the brakes and slid the car neatly sideways onto the Braddock Road ramp, tires screeching.

  Tice whipped his head around. “I see him. You’ve outmaneuvered him.”

  Her adrenaline pulsed like lava. She glanced over. The BMW was fleeing helplessly onward, trapped in an inner lane.

  “We’re not safe yet,” he said. “Jerry will tell his people where we got off.”

  She slowed the car as the first intersection appeared. Despite the red light, she checked both ways and turned left. The car swept past large trees and flowering bushes. A mile later she drove into a McDonald’s parking lot and out the rear and into a mixed residential-commercial area, putting distance between them and main thoroughfares.

  She checked him. Then stared. “You’re bleeding.” Blood trickled down his right cheek, probably from one of the flying metal shards.

  “You’re bleeding, too. It’s beading along strands of your hair.” He stared down a side street. “There’s a car with a California license plate back there. Go around the block and park. Jerry will have his men looking for plates from around here, not from the West Coast. Do you feel okay?” />
  “Absolutely.” She circled the block, noting the street signs, and neatly parallel parked. A plan was forming in her mind.

  “Hold still.” He checked her eyes. “Pupil size is normal. No concussion. Turn your head.” He parted her hair away from her scalp. “The cuts look superficial.”

  More enlistment—plus the added element of compassion. His tool bag of psychological tricks was bottomless. “Told you. Let me see you.” The only cut was on his cheek. “It’s a scratch. We both got off lucky.” She hoped he remembered he had crushed her Langley cell phone and so would leave her shoulder bag in the car again when he got out. Since he had to remove plates before attaching them to the Jag, she should have time to make one fast call.

  “Turn off the engine and give me the keys.” He picked up his backpack. “I’ll be right back.”

  She scowled. She wanted him to think he had caught on to her plan to drive off again—but at the same time she did not want to look as if she were eager to get rid of him. He stared at her. At last, she broke eye contact, killed the engine, and handed him the keys, making a show of doing it reluctantly.

  He snatched them and got out.

  From inside the dark car, she watched as he ran across the street, carrying his backpack, pocketing the keys. She dove into her shoulder bag. The cell phone he had destroyed was the one issued by Langley. She still had her personal cell zipped inside an interior pocket. By the time he was crouched at the other car’s front license plate, she had retrieved it and taken a North Virginia road map from the glove compartment. She bent over the map, pretending to read it, as she punched in the numbers Laurence Litchfield had given her during their interview.

  The phone rang three times before he picked up. Although the Jag was buffered for sound, she cupped her hand around the mouthpiece: “Mr. Litchfield, this is Elaine Cunningham.”

  “Cunningham!” His voice escalated from shock to excitement: “I tried to call earlier, but I couldn’t get through. Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “I don’t have much time. I’m with Jay Tice. The reason you couldn’t reach me is he smashed my cell. First, I want you to know I didn’t kill the man in my town house.”

  “I couldn’t imagine you had. We’ll straighten it out later. I’ll send people for Tice. Where are you?”

  She gave him the cross streets of the block. “He’s armed—my Walther, his SIG Sauer, and a Browning. All nine-millimeter. We’re in my car—a red Jaguar. It’s going to have California license plates in about five minutes.” She read the number to him just before Tice pulled off the front plate. “I drive. He rides in the passenger seat beside me. But there’s something else. Whippet—”

  “Hold on.”

  As the phone muted, she watched Tice jog around the California car and squat at the rear plate. Her hands were sweaty. She rubbed the palm of one then the other on her pants. Hurry up. Hurry up. She pressed the phone deeper into her ear.

  At last Litchfield was back. “I ordered your location run through the computer. We’ve found a stretch of country road outside Manassas where there’s farmland, no houses. We’ll be able to capture him there without alerting the world. It’ll be a drive for you, but I need time to get a team into place anyway. Arrive no sooner than an hour.” He gave her directions.

  She memorized them. “What will happen?”

  “It’s good that you’re driving. If Tice notices our cars closing in, pretend to drive away, escape. But in the end, let our cars trap yours between them. He may have three guns, but he’ll have only one free hand if he uses you as a shield. I’ll send our best sharpshooters.” He hesitated. “Can you handle it?”

  Her throat was suddenly dry. She swallowed. “Of course. He has to be sent back to prison. But I’ll warn you—he’s as dangerous as he ever was.”

  “I believe you. I received your first message. Have you learned anything more?”

  She watched Tice stand erect. He held two license plates in one hand, his backpack in the other. “A few things. Tice claims Whippet tried to scrub him and Palmer Westwood—” Tice broke into a jog, heading toward the Jag. “He’s coming.”

  She cut the power and zipped the cell phone back inside her shoulder bag and bent again over the road map. As she listened to the small sounds of his attaching the new plates, she studied the map, following Litchfield’s directions. They were good, and now she had them solidly in her mind. She checked her wristwatch for the exact time. With luck, soon Jay Tice would be in Langley custody.

  21

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Raina Manhardt’s last words of warning had shaken Raoul Harmont, and the dawn streets of Old Town had done nothing to dispel his unease. But now that he was safe in his study at the top of his narrow four-story house, he exulted. He counted his money again and leaned back with a satisfied smile, his hands folded over his paunch. Selling her the videotapes was the kind of business deal he liked—100 percent profit.

  He was so pleased that he laughed aloud. Then frowned. Had he heard the click of the latch to the door that opened onto his balcony?

  Impossible. Still, he spun around in his desk chair. “Who . . . ? What . . . ?”

  A man stepped inside, aiming a pistol with a very long sound suppressor. Harmont stared at the weapon, horrified, mesmerized.

  “What was in the box of chocolates?” The man’s French accent was excellent, but there was a slight American inflection.

  Harmont licked his dry lips and looked up past the broad chest and the heavy shoulders to the muscular face.

  “What . . . what chocolates?” Harmont tried.

  But before he could move, the tall man took two swift steps and slashed the gun across his face. Blood spurted. Pain exploded.

  “Stop!” Harmont shrieked and lifted his hands.

  The man batted them aside and struck again.

  A tooth shattered. Blood poured. “Tapes of the lobbies!” Harmont screamed. “Surveillance videos—”

  “The entrances to the Milieu Software building?”

  Harmont nodded frantically as his fingers smeared the blood across his cheeks. His mouth flamed with pain.

  “Originals?”

  “C-copies.” His right eye was swelling shut.

  “I’ll take the originals. Where are they?”

  Harmont felt a surge of hope. He squinted his good eye and opened his desk drawer. “Here. She paid two thousand. The originals will cost you five.”

  The American laughed loudly. “Really?” Still laughing, he grabbed Harmont’s collar and dragged him from his chair and out onto the balcony.

  Terrified, Harmont struggled. “What are you doing? No! Just one thousand francs!” He felt his feet leave the balcony’s floor. Felt himself thrust into space. “Take them!” he begged. “You can have them! Take them . . . take them . . . !”

  Too late. Screeching, Harmont flailed and dropped through the air.

  Langley, Virginia

  Pleased with himself, Laurence Litchfield hurried down the quiet seventh-floor corridor. All of his carefully laid groundwork had paid off. Elaine Cunningham had finally called again, and now Martin Ghranditti’s killers were on their way to a blood rendezvous with Cunningham and Jay Tice.

  He savored the triumph as he turned into a small conference room where three analysts on the graveyard shift were sitting at the table, file folders and cans of diet soda at their elbows as they stared at the TV that hung from a wall. A sense of urgency mixed with camaraderie filled the room.

  Tuned to the Qatar-based satellite channel al-Jazeera, the TV showed a woman wearing a khimar, a head scarf, sitting behind a desk as she read an editorial, each word radiating righteous anger. A translation streamed across the bottom of the screen: “. . . the Great Satan’s goal is to occupy the Middle East. They started a cruel war to get our oil and expand their military empire, and now Allah’s punishing them. They have created what they said they wanted to stop—outstretched hands among al-Qaeda and jihadists around the globe. Mus
lims who doubted us now fight with us. . . .”

  “Nothing’s changed on al-Jazeera, I see,” Litchfield said cheerfully as he took the empty chair waiting for him at the head of the table. He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles and smiled to himself.

  Reg O’Toole raised a remote control and turned off the set. His black face was smoothly shaved, his eyes bright and alert. But then, it was daytime in half the world. “You’d think they’d be as bored with using ‘Great Satan’ as we are of hearing it,” he grumbled. “I liked it when bin Laden started calling us a snake.”

  “You would,” said Geraldine Genowicz. “No dignity. Hey, ‘Great Satan’ works like any known brand. We’re Tide detergent. We’re Ford cars. Of course they went back to using it. They ring the bell, and Pavlov’s dog drools.” She was in her early thirties, with braces on her teeth and freckles sprinkled across her nose.

  “So what have you got for me?” Litchfield said, interrupting the exchange. Langley analysts and operatives were hired because they were among the best brains in the country, but along with that came a certain amount of anarchy.

  “Some good intel,” said David Quintano. In his early fifties, he was the senior of the three. He slid his reading glasses down from his forehead to his nose as he consulted his file folder. “As you know, one bomb exploded yesterday in front of the U.S. Embassy in London, killing two Brits and a U.S. Marine. A second bomb didn’t—and that was a real break for us, because it was connected to a cell phone. We tracked the cell’s SIM card to a Muslim bookstore in the East End. The owner had bought a whole box of SIMs. We didn’t have him arrested, so he wouldn’t know we were on to him. NSA has been tracking the SIMs, listening in on conversations.”

  Litchfield sat up straight. “That’s interesting.”

  “There’s more,” Genowicz said. Her expression was sober, her freckles standing out like peppercorns against her rosy skin. “Pakistani intelligence arrested two men in Peshawar before they could destroy a half-dozen CDs, most made recently. The discs contain details about future operations as well as the usual how-to instructions for making bombs, acquiring passports, stealing credit cards, and so forth. Plus some phone numbers that’ve turned out to be important.”