by Gayle Lynds
“Langley? No!”
“It gets worse.” Jay picked up his fork. “Elaine?”
“My assignment to hunt Jay came through Whippet,” she told Ben. “I was just starting to make progress when a janitor attacked me. I was able to wipe him, but when I got back to Whippet, I not only discovered everyone there had been liquidated, his corpse was lying on a desk. He was really a Whippet operative in disguise, which was strong evidence they’d tried to scrub me, too.”
As Ben stared at her, Jay picked up the story: “I’d arrived earlier, just as the wet squad was leaving, and I got a good look at most. Later I spotted two outside Elaine’s town house.” He described knocking out Billy, taking his cell phone, and planting a bug on him. “So what we know from the recording and my conversation with Jerry is that some kind of big deal is going down today and that Jerry works for a Mr. G, who’s the force behind it.”
Ben said nothing, shaking his head gloomily.
“A few hours ago,” Elaine went on, “we were attacked again. That’s because I was able to sneak a phone call to Laurence Litchfield. He told me he’d send a team to capture Jay.” She grimaced, feeling again the terror. “Instead, Jerry and his killers showed up. They ambushed us.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ben said. “Larry Litchfield, too?”
“The entanglement is deeper,” Jay said. “Kristoph was a programmer. When he died, he was on a job for an outfit called Milieu Software. Milieu is a Whippet front company. Larry runs Whippet.”
Ben swore loudly.
Jay leaned forward and clasped his hands. He looked down at them and then up at Ben. “Whippet was over in Geneva doing something that probably got Kristoph killed, so the deal isn’t confined to the United States. Raina is being hunted, too. Whoever Mr. G is, he’s got the resources to penetrate a high-security federal pen and plant Theosopholis. At the same time, Larry Litchfield wouldn’t touch anything unless he understood exactly what was going on. Whatever the deal is, he must think it’s failure-proof. Since he’s been informing on us, he must be working directly with Mr. G, because he wouldn’t bother with anyone lower. As for Mr. G, he’s got steel nuts to order Whippet butchered.”
Ben inhaled. “Holy shit. This deal must be huge.”
Jay nodded. “Huge and dangerous. We need to find out exactly what it is and stop it. That’s going to take experienced operatives. Only the best will have a chance. I want the old team.”
Ben peeled away from the window casing. “I’ll phone them.”
“Everyone but Palmer. He wanted to help because of Raina, but he’s over seventy now. I’ve already told him no.”
Ben headed toward the hallway. “Understood. Finish eating and get your showers so you’ll be ready when they get here.”
Ben Kuhnert sat at the big computer in his office, and Houri laid her head in his lap. He petted her absentmindedly as he gathered himself, shaking off unease. Finally he tapped into his online address book and ordered the computer to dial out.
Frank Mesa lived thirty miles away. He answered quickly, but his voice was turgid with sleep. “Yeah?”
“This is Ben. I need you. Bring your piece of the medallion.” “Are you crazy?” The voice rose with indignation. “Go look at your goddamn clock!”
“Your gold piece—bring it,” Ben said. “Come armed. We’ve got a situation.”
There was a long pause. A noisy clearing of a throat. A defeated sigh. “Okay. But indulge me—I’m going to throw on some clothes first.”
As soon as he heard the dial tone, Ben again went to his address book, and again the computer dialed.
Elijah Helprin was slower to respond, but he sounded fully awake. “Yes? Hello.”
“This is Ben. I need you. Bring your part of the medallion.”
There was a surprised hesitation. “What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. Come armed. Don’t forget the gold piece.”
“Give me a break, Ben. Tell me now.”
“Not until you’re here. Are you coming or not?”
“Of course I’m coming,” he said irritably. “It’ll be thirty minutes.”
“You’re dressed?” Ben asked.
“I’ve got clothes on. Why—is it formal?” He sighed. “I said I’d be there.”
After Ben and Houri left, Elaine studied the arrowhead-shaped pieces glowing in the kitchen’s light. They formed two-fifths of a disc. Including Palmer Westwood’s, that meant two were missing.
“Ben’s making two phone calls,” she told Jay.
He nodded, reached down the table, and snagged the remote control. The television was behind her, near the fireplace. He turned it on to a news station.
Suddenly she was exhausted. As reporters’ voices droned, they ate in companionable silence. News from around the world included more terrorist bombings and attacks. She glanced at Jay occasionally, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the tired slouch in his shoulders. When they finished eating almost simultaneously, she looked up to smile and comment.
But his gaze was in a laser lock on the television. He snapped up the TV remote and increased the volume.
“Elaine,” he ordered, “look!”
She slid around on her chair.
“. . . According to a police spokesman, the murdered man was Victor Malone,” the newscaster read. A photo showed on the screen.
“Oh, no,” she breathed. “It’s Billy!”
Jay’s voice was tight. “Jerry seems to have done a damn good job of covering him with a legend.”
“. . . was a college student from Chicago,” the newscaster was saying. “Until recently, he lived in a Takoma Park motel under another name. It’s believed Ms. Cunningham employed him to do repair work. . . .”
She felt the color drain from her face as her CIA photo filled the screen—her expression somber, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was easily identifiable.
“Elaine Cunningham’s nine-millimeter pistol was found in a neighbor’s trash can. She works for the CIA and is considered dangerous. . . .”
28
Milan, Italy
The airport café was busy, most of the tables full. The constant hum of humanity on the move floated through the arcaded entrance to Raina’s ears, while the odors of garlic and aromatic tomato sauces wafted from the rear with each swing of the kitchen door. She ate risotto alla Milanese, glancing occasionally at her tail who sat at a table near the entry and devoured his meal. It was better to know exactly where he was than to force the issue of a clear exit.
For a moment she felt terribly alone. Memories washed over her. She paused eating and was catapulted back to 1989, to November 9, to that unforgettable night when the volatile Berlins had combusted not into a nuclear World War III but into outrageous celebration. For the first time since 1961, Communist citizens crossed freely into West Berlin. Tens of thousands from both sides converged on the hated Wall, laughing, hugging, climbing it, dancing on it, chipping away at the pitted concrete, wildly kissing complete strangers, and uncorking champagne bottles.
She had found a baby-sitter for Kristoph and used the pandemonium to steal over the border for a few rare hours with Jay in a little hostelry near the Lehrter S-Bahn station. It had been two months since they had been able to be together. As soon as he heard her in the hall, he opened the door.
At the sight of him, desire riveted her. Then she flung herself into his arms. He pulled her into the room and kissed her neck, her face, her ears, her mouth, and kicked the door shut. His mouth was hot and sensual, shooting electrical charges to her core. She wanted to devour him, crawl into him, be him. Nothing else mattered. Just Jay. Only Jay. She had to have him.
The sex was explosive. After an hour they peeled apart and lay side by side, panting, sweating, their naked skin pressed together. And they talked. With Jay in those days, talk was like sex—thrilling, incredibly satisfying.
That night she thought the world was theirs. Soon their work would be finished. Jay could r
etire and write about the history they had lived. She could quit the CIA and BND, dust off her easel, and return to the painting for which she yearned but no longer had the heart. They would put behind them the bad marriages and the awful spy games and their invisible wounds and be together at last, have a home, raise Kristoph, have more children. They would live the lives others took for granted.
With the promise of that glittering future, she folded herself back into his arms for more sex, this time slow, deliberate, building.
But life turned inside out after that. Although the Cold War was over, as long as she was BND and he was CIA, they could not live together, much less marry, because that would increase the odds her triple-agent past would be uncovered. She asked when he would resign. When she could resign. But Jay made excuses. Then Erich turned her into a national symbol, an icon of hope, and the spotlight on her intensified the risk. Still, if they were free of both agencies, they could pack up Kristoph and slip away, and no one—not Kristoph, not their countries, not them—would be hurt.
Finally she wrote a formal resignation to the CIA. She was through. Finished. Jay was still her handler, so she gave him the letter. As soon as Langley officially confirmed her separation, she told him, she would leave the BND. He disappeared for a month. Now it was years later, and Kristoph was dead, and those dreams were scar tissue. There was no Jay and Raina, Raina and Jay. They were backstory, like the Cold War. Like their dead spouses and Pavel Abendroth. Yet she was still captive, trapped in another DMZ, because Jay had stayed with Langley, and he had refused to accept her resignation.
She blinked and peered around the café. She looked at her watch and paid her bill and picked up her suitcase. As she shuffled out, the skin on the back of her neck crawled. She could feel the man’s hot gaze tracking her.
Moving through the terminal, she forced herself back to work. To the exterior world of suitcases and flight tickets and feet that hustled and flew. To the peril of a stranger with a gun and an assignment. She caught glimpses of him as he followed, nonchalantly finishing a piece of focaccia. As she approached her gate, she passed shops and restrooms and spotted his reflection in the glass of an information booth. She slowed to check on him.
He stuffed the last bit of bread into his mouth and licked his fingers and passed her without a look, removing an Alitalia ticket envelope from inside his jacket. Then he joined the mob waiting for her flight to be called. He already knew what plane she was taking, and he was going to be on it.
Staying calm, she stopped beside a family talking in Polish some twenty feet away from him. Only first and business class had been called; the mass of people waited restlessly. His gaze brushed over her, then he casually ignored her. When the loudspeaker blared more seat numbers, about a third of the throng rustled into action, flooding between them.
Before he could look at her again, she darted back to the ladies’ room. Locked in a stall, she kicked off her shoes as she skinned off her wig and Melissa O’Dey dress and padding. She dropped everything to the floor. On the toilet seat, she popped open her suitcase. No motion wasted, she stepped into men’s Levi’s and zipped them shut. Yanked on a wig of black hair that swung to her shoulders. Slithered into a sports bra that flattened her breasts. Pulled on a man’s blue work shirt. Took moist wipes and scrubbed away her wrinkles. And grabbed a large gym bag and shook it open, then stuffed the old-lady costume into the suitcase and closed it. Tugging and adjusting, she slid the suitcase inside the gym bag and zipped it tight. Breathing deeply, she put on her favorite running shoes and tied them.
And listened. A mother and daughter spoke Italian at the sinks. She heard footsteps, flushing toilets, but nothing that told her the restroom had been invaded by security or a crazed male spy who had lost his target.
Avoiding eye contact, she strolled out with no more than a casual glance from a few of the other supplicants. She did not return to the concourse. Instead, she shifted her emphasis of movement from hips to shoulders, from female to male, and crossed directly into the adjacent men’s room. She garnered even less notice there.
Locked in another toilet stall, she tied her new black hair into a ragged male ponytail with a thick, dirty rubber band. Peering in a hand mirror, she stuck on a black mustache and a short, uncombed black beard. Shoved her arms into a Harley-Davidson stenciled denim jacket, and slapped on narrow, evil-looking sunglasses—“shades.”
This was as good as it got. Fresh passport and ticket in hand, she shut the suitcase and gym bag and slouched across the restroom, gripping the bag, now drawing attention in her flamboyant new persona. “Gunnar Hamsun” was flying to London, where he would catch his connection to Dulles International. She would buy props for him in terminal stores.
When she emerged onto the concourse, the last call for Melissa’s Alitalia flight to Dulles was sounding. In the distance, her shadow stood next to the boarding gate, shifting his weight from foot to foot, cell phone to ear, as he glanced at his watch and glared around the empty waiting area. There was no one at the gate but him and airline personnel.
As the flight attendant unhooked the door to close it, signaling no more passengers could board, the man’s face reddened. He barked into his cell, snapped it closed, and dashed stiff-backed into the airline tunnel.
As Raina strode away, she smiled grimly to herself, her gaze wary, watchful.
Outside Herndon, Virginia
By the time a car’s motor sounded out on the drive, Elaine had finished showering and thrown on jeans and a sweater she found in Zahra’s bureau. She grabbed her Walther and ran downstairs.
“Stay in the kitchen, Jay,” Ben called.
“Elaine’s got her pistol.” Carrying an M-16, Ben was striding out of his office, all sinew and wiry muscle. His Browning was visible in the shoulder holster, strapped over his T-shirt. Houri was beside him, heeling. Her eyes were bright and vigilant.
“Elaine, I’m going to give you instructions,” Ben told her. “Do exactly as I say. Nothing more. Nothing less. Got it?”
When she nodded, surprised, he shot orders over his shoulder as he unlocked the front door but did not open it. He stepped back as the engine noise stopped. There was no sound of a car door closing.
Ben used hand motions to order Houri to the left side of the front door, where she would be quickly visible to anyone who walked in. Elaine was also to his left, between him and the kitchen. He leveled his weapon at the closed door and checked Elaine as she loosened her knees, found the right balance, lifted the Walther in both hands, and aimed at the door, too. He nodded approval.
When the bell rang, he raised his voice and said, “Come in.”
The knob turned. The door opened. Stepping inside, backlit by the floodlights, was a short man with a full head of bushy gray hair.
He stopped, and the grin on his face vanished. He stared at the M-16 then across to the Walther and around to Houri. He had swarthy skin and black eyes and a stocky body encased in a crew-necked sweater and zippered jacket. His casual pants were pressed to a sharp military seam. He looked a decade younger than Jay and Ben.
“What in hell is going on!” he demanded.
“Continue in slowly,” Ben ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” The man started to leave.
Ben nodded at Houri. Instantly she was up on all paws, growling. Her lips rose, showing sharp fangs. Her rumble deepened, warning of imminent attack.
Ben told the stranger, “I wouldn’t try that again. If I decide to be nice, I won’t shoot. I’ll let the dog take you down. On the other hand, she’s trained to kill.”
The short man glared at Ben.
His face impassive, Ben stared back.
The rising growl of the dog sent shudders along Elaine’s spine.
The man’s eyes shifted. He checked the dog again. His shoulders slumped. “What do you want?”
“Show me your gold piece. Carefully.”
“Call off Houri first.”
>
Ben nodded at her again. But the growls did not stop. She moved her nose, pointing behind the stranger out into the floodlit night.
Ben’s finger tightened on the trigger. The muscles in his jaw worked. “Who’s with you?”
Silently, an older man with thick white hair and a sun-wrinkled face with raptor features rolled around the doorjamb. Elaine recognized him instantly—Palmer Westwood.
Westwood ignored the dog and the weapons, and his old eyes glowed warmly at Ben. “It’s been a long time, Ben. I expected a better welcome than this.”
Ben paused, seeming to consider the implications of this unexpected visitor. Again he nodded at the dog. This time the menacing rumbles stopped.
“Do you have your gold piece?” Ben demanded.
“I do.”
“I need to see yours, too.”
In slow motion, the two men slid their hands into pockets and brought out similar gold triangles.
“Follow Elaine,” Ben ordered.
She backed toward the short hallway, keeping her Walther trained on them. They started after her together, but Ben cocked his head. The dog moved between them, separating them. Ben locked the front door as Elaine continued to back up, leading them single file into the kitchen. The aroma of strong coffee percolating on the counter permeated the air. A fire hissed in the fireplace.
Their eyes widening with surprise, both men looked silently across the room to Jay, who stood at the window, his expression neutral. The muzzle of his Browning tracked their progress.
“You’ll see where you need to put them.” Ben spoke from behind.
They glanced around then headed toward the table and laid down their gold pieces. Palmer Westwood nudged his into the other side of Jay’s, then the first man tucked his into Westwood’s. Each piece fit perfectly. Elaine lowered her pistol. Jay holstered his and picked up a coffee mug from the windowsill.
Ben relaxed his M-16. “Stand down, Houri.”
