by Gayle Lynds
She advanced awkwardly. The unrelenting pain was making her dizzy.
He frowned at her, dropped his cigarette, ground it out on the carpet, and lifted his Browning, aiming it at her again.
She paused. As he listened to Litchfield, she pointed to her bloody finger then to her purse. “I may have my little med kit in there. I want antibiotic cream.” And her remaining poisoned darts.
He gave a violent shake of his head. No. “Good, Litchfield. I’ve got it. And don’t try to get a look at me when I arrive. That’s worse than welshing. In fact, you have my personal guarantee that none of the top intel merchants will ever do business with you again. Your sources will dry up like autumn leaves.”
Watching her, he snapped his cell closed and crouched over her bag. He unzipped the compartments, then dumped out the contents.
“Hmm. No med kit. Why am I unsurprised? So, what did you really want?” He pushed through the pile. His fingers paused over the paper funnel. “Everything looks ordinary except this.” He looked up quickly, caught the expression on her face. “Ah. So this is what you wanted.”
She said a silent prayer that he would stab himself with one of the tips.
But he unfolded the funnel cautiously. When he saw the darts, he peered up at her through slitted eyes. “Bitch.”
“You’re carrying a Browning just like Jay’s. Trying to imitate him, Palmer? Your protégé became your competitor, didn’t he? We both know Jay’s better than you ever were. Probably the best of his generation. Elijah and Frank knew it, too. Two seasoned ops like them—they not only trusted him, they worshipped him. They took orders from him—not from you.”
He laughed loudly and rolled the darts back into their paper shell and slid it carefully into his sports jacket pocket. He shoved everything else back into her bag. “No, my dear. I carried a Browning first. Jay imitated me. Time we left. You’ve got a date with destiny, as the cliché goes. We’ll take your car. I’ve always been fond of Jaguars.”
47
The hush in Martin Ghranditti’s penthouse seemed charged, like the hot, stifling air before a storm. Jay gave no sign of his unease as he sifted through the papers in the death merchant’s massive desk. Raina was sitting at the office computer, checking Internet history and trying to crack the e-mail password. Her black curls shone like sable in the overhead lights.
“He doesn’t visit many Web sites,” she said. “Mostly real estate. Whatever his password is to his e-mail, it’s not the usual family names. I also tried money, guns, high-tech, and a lot of others.” She spun in the chair and gazed at him. “Don’t you think Bobbye Johnson should’ve e-mailed or called by now?”
“I’m worried, too. As for this desk, my verdict is that it’s mostly for show. Ghranditti did almost no work here. There are household bills and orders from caterers and florists, that sort of thing.” He leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head and yawned.
She paced across the carpet, leery and restless, and picked up Ghranditti’s family photo again. “That bastard. I suppose he’s to be pitied.”
“Probably. I still want to tear out his throat. Personally.”
“Me, too. Why did he do it?”
“Each of those names has ‘Ghranditti’ carefully printed after it. There was no need for that. He did it to put his stamp of ownership on them as if they were pieces of property. Land. Cars. Dish towels. He owns them. He’s paying me back.”
“He is? Why?”
Suddenly he felt old. “I’d suspected Marie was having an affair, then I decided I must be wrong. I told myself I was overreacting because I had a beautiful wife. Still, there were afternoons I’d get home early and find the kids with a sitter—or alone. They were too young to be left alone. Marie had never been like that.” He was silent. “Marie and I grew apart somehow. We both knew the marriage was dead. Then I found you.”
She skinned off her denim jacket, tossed it onto a chair, and sat on the desk, facing him. “You may not know this, but there’s another link between Ghranditti and Marie—he used to sell black-market pharmaceuticals, so it’s likely he was her supplier.”
His jaw clenched. “Makes sense. He could keep her dependent that way.”
“It’s also likely he knew she’d signed up for drug rehab. At the same time, you said Palmer thought he was the trafficker in the DEADAIM operation. So those were two very large bad events for Ghranditti—he’d just lost a fortune, and he was threatened with losing his girlfriend, too, because if she cleaned up, she might want nothing more to do with him. On the other hand, if he wiped you, he’d get revenge, and he could keep your wife. So I’ll bet Ghranditti’s the one who had the bomb planted under your car. When the wet work went bad, it would’ve driven him nuts knowing he’d liquidated her, and he’s been stalking you in his own weird, crazy way ever since. All you have to do is look at that family portrait to know how much he wanted her and hated you. It’s got to be him who blackmailed you into prison.”
Repressing a shudder, Jay inclined his head and studied his hands, remembering the feel of death between them. “It’s logical.” He looked up. “There’s at least five years between his second child and his baby, Kristoph. That’s a big gap for a man who plans everything, and it tells me that if he’d known about us earlier, he would’ve blackmailed me earlier—and had the baby then. His Kristoph must be about two years old now. That means he was conceived a few months after I was arrested—after someone told Ghranditti about us.”
Raina leaned forward. “Palmer was one of the very few who knew about us. As Moses, he told Ghranditti. Then he blackmailed you into prison.”
He could hardly feel his heart beat. He had modeled himself after Palmer—Palmer’s sharp intelligence, his wise habits, his common sense. They had decades of trust between them. When he was young, he had often wished Palmer were his father. It was unthinkable the older man would betray him—or anyone.
He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he admitted the truth: “As soon as we found out Ghranditti was handling the Majlis shipment, Palmer would’ve been nervous as an elephant with a bellyache that if we captured Ghranditti, Ghranditti would let something slip, and eventually I’d have to realize he was Moses.”
“That means Palmer was the rat inside DEADAIM, too.”
His jaw flexed angrily. “Yes, he has to be Moses. He hadn’t had a big operational success in several years, so not only did he look like a hero for thinking up the idea of cutting his gold medallion into pieces, it appeared he’d enabled us to keep going so we could pull off the triumph Langley wanted.”
“The pig betrayed both sides to get what he wanted—renewed prestige and the job of ADDO.”
“And plenty of reason to continue being Moses. He had the experience, the contacts, and the brains—and the ambition for money.”
“I’m so sorry, Jay. This must be awful for you. You cared about Palmer.”
“Not anymore.” He gazed away.
She held his face in both hands and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs until he looked at her. Her eyes probed, and in them he found an odd kind of solace and perhaps even love. “You never told me what happened when you vanished for those three days after your family was wiped.”
He sighed and took her hands and kissed the palms. “You have beautiful hands.” He stared at them, remembering. He looked up. “I still love you, you know.”
She nodded. “I know. Tell me.” She waited.
“Two Libyans planted the Semtex. I cornered them in Tripoli, and they admitted it. But they wouldn’t tell me who’d hired them, and they denied it had anything to do with the shipment. Hell, they probably had no idea about the shipment. They were terrorists for hire, and they were far more afraid of their employer than they were of me.” He paused, trying to find peace with the unforgivable. “If I’d gotten up early that morning and moved my car myself, the kids and Marie would still be alive.”
“But you’d be dead. And I’d hate that. Tell me what
happened to the Libyans.”
His life rushed over him in a cold wave. He recalled slipping into Tripoli. Finding the killers. Interrogating them. With sudden insight, he saw it all—who he had been, what he had done, why he had done it. He was among the elite. That was how you felt. How you had to feel. The Clandestine Services had to attract the highest quality of people, because it expected them to pay the highest costs. You began to see yourself as so crucial to America’s survival that you were above the law, ethics, and sometimes ordinary decency. Old values faded. Unsavory ones took root. To his shame, he had been seduced. In the end, he had seen it all, done it all. There was a sour taste in his mouth.
He confessed in a low voice, “I executed them.”
She nodded, surprised but not surprised, and sat on his lap and held him close. Slowly he wrapped his arms around her and rested his head against her breasts.
“The life of a spy is corrosive,” she murmured. “None of us escapes.” She hesitated. “Do you want to talk about the exchange at Glienicke Bridge? About Dr. Abendroth?”
He listened to the pain in her voice and said nothing. Abendroth’s liquidation had always stood between them, solid as an executioner’s wall, the true cause of their first breakup. Finally, by the time he knew she was pregnant with Kristoph, he had realized he could not stay away from her, no matter the cost.
“Not yet,” he said.
They tightened their grip on each other, clinging in an eerie hush. He did not seem to know quite what to do. The feeling of his head upon his shoulders was wrong. His legs looked unfamiliar. Confused, he listened to the steady beat of her heart, hoping in it he would find a lifeline to a better world.
The penthouse’s melodic voice shattered his trance: “You have visitors. To view them, please turn on any television set to Channel 100.”
She shivered and jumped up. He grabbed the remote off the desk and switched on the TV. The channel showed an interior view of Ghranditti’s private elevator. Six policemen in body armor and helmets stared stonily ahead. They carried M-4s and had pistols and grenades on their belts.
“Oh, God,” she murmured, her voice tight with fear. “It’s an antiterrorist unit. That elevator doesn’t stop on any other floor but this one!”
He blinked. Thought. “Quick. Grab all of the remotes. Anything with batteries. We want batteries!”
Langley, Virginia
Laurence Litchfield was feeling lucky. Bobbye Johnson had released him again to do some sort of important business, so he had been free to answer Moses’s call. And the news could have been worse. One way or another, he would at least have Cunningham.
He grabbed his briefcase and left his office, checking the door to make certain it self-locked, and hurried toward Bobbye’s. He needed to deliver the copy of ForeTell to Ghranditti. The hall was quiet. Most of the office personnel were gone for the day except for Connie, her number one secretary. Excellent. He would make his excuses to her and escape Bobbye’s questions.
He leaned against the doorjamb, feigning a weariness he did not feel. “Hello, Connie. Or rather, good night. I’m taking off. Let the director know, will you?”
“Of course, Mr. Litchfield.”
He was suddenly curious. Since they had spent the day together, he knew what Bobbye was working on. There was nothing new that had to be addressed. “She’s got you here late. It’s time you demanded combat pay.”
She was a large blonde with a full figure and coquettish eyes. “You tell her.” She chuckled.
When he was DCI, he intended to keep her in the job. With her institutional knowledge, she would be hard to replace. “Why haven’t you gone home? For that matter, why hasn’t she? Is there some new emergency?”
“Nothing big. She got an e-mail that needed to be handled by the techs. I think it had some kind of conversation that had to be lip-read. She asked me to call down while she picked up her other line.”
“Glad it’s nothing big. We’ve had more than enough excitement for one day. Good night again, Connie.”
Uneasy, he peeled away from the door. He took the elevator down to Decryption. As always, the room was littered with fast-food wrappers and cans of soda. He found Bobbye sitting beside Hiram Kukkahameni in his cubicle, both wearing earphones. She was bent over, her back intense, as she wrote on the pad in her lap. Litchfield was riveted—Hiram’s computer screen showed Alec St. Ann and him talking in front of the elevator in the Milieu building in Geneva. Instantly he knew—it had to be from Raina Manhardt’s copies of the surveillance tapes, which was a strong indication Bobbye was in touch with Jay Tice.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he backed away. When he was out of sight, he exhaled and circled back through the maze.
As he approached the cubicle a second time, he called out, “Has anyone seen the director?”
Bobbye appeared in the cubicle’s opening. “Yes, Larry. What can I help you with?” She seemed unfazed.
“I just wanted to let you know I’m leaving and thought you might go with me to my car. Something has come in.” He looked around. “Probably we should have a quiet discussion about it.”
“Oh?” She took his arm casually and guided him back to the big room’s entrance. “And what’s that?”
“The elevator trip to the basement is short. Mind indulging me by coming along? I’m dead tired.”
She seemed reluctant. “Fine, but talk fast. I’ve got a project to wrap up.” He punched the elevator button. “What’s the project?” “I’ll let you know soon.” Her eyes were bright with a wicked light. Then the light vanished, and she was her usual boring self. “Tell me what’s so important.” The elevator landed in the garage.
He held the door so she would be sure to walk out first. “It’s Moses. I got a call from him tonight.”
She turned swiftly. “Tell me!”
He strode past, carefully checking the quiet, well-lit area. He could hear her footsteps speeding to catch up. By the time she was at his side, he was halfway to his car, and no one was in sight. Still, there were video cameras.
“He’s up to his usual tricks.” He took out his keys and punched the remote, unlocking the car. “And, of course, it will cost us a fortune. He claims to know where Jay and Raina Manhardt are.”
“And you’re going home?” She frowned. “This is unlike you, Larry.”
He opened the driver’s door. “Climb in, Bobbye. You should drive.”
“To see whom? Moses? Jay?” She planted her feet, and her eyes narrowed. “What in hell’s going on? What are you up to?”
She did not have her purse. She was dressed in a blouse and skirt. It was clear she was not carrying a weapon. He slid his hand inside his suit jacket. “Get in, Bobbye. You wanted Jay. I think I’ve found him. Get in now.”
Her eyes remained narrow, and she cocked her head slightly as if she suddenly had an insight she did not like. Her gaze settled on his hidden hand.
“Get in the fucking car. I don’t want to put a bullet in you here where your death will be immortalized on film. Still, Jay always said to do what we had to do and worry about cleaning up later. See how much respect I have for the man? I’m still quoting him.” He tossed her the keys.
Her expression furious, she caught them and climbed into the car.
48
Washington, D.C.
As Jay sprinted off through the bright kitchen, Raina threw batteries from remotes, two digital cameras, and four mobile phones into the microwaves.
“Set the timers for five minutes,” he told her. “Make sure the temperature is on high. Turn the gas burners up as far as they’ll go. One good spark, and our visitors will have something a lot more immediate than us to worry about. Meet me in the recreation room.”
He tore down the hall and back into the large room. Rushing past the entertainment center, he dumped the battery out of the laptop and shoved it into the microwave on the bar. He punched buttons, setting the microwave on high. Raina arrived just as he turned to look for her. He
hit START, and they ran toward the big glass door. In the foyer, the elevator chimed faintly.
At his side, Raina swore in German and glanced behind as the recorded greeting played.
“We might still make it.” Always have a good backup plan, he muttered to himself.
The glass door opened automatically, and they dashed onto the terrace as a strong voice snapped orders from deep within the penthouse.
The terrace was rimmed by a solid low wall. Treetops and the lights of the city spread to the horizon. Jay gestured, and they raced around the penthouse. As the police searched, light spilled out from room after room. At the master suite, Jay swung a leg over the wall. There was a slight sound of metal rubbing metal. He reversed direction, grabbed Raina’s arm, and yanked her behind potted ficus trees.
As they crouched, the barrel of an M-4 appeared at the bedroom door, followed by a helmeted head and armor-encased policeman. The M-4 moved from side to side, searching. Jay breathed slowly, waiting.
A bellowed warning sounded inside. Orange light flashed. An explosion thundered. The building trembled under their feet. Blue and orange light blasted into the night from the rec room. The acrid odor of smoke gusted out the door of the master suite. Loud detonations rang out in a series of bursts.
As the policeman on the terrace bolted back indoors, Jay touched Raina’s arm and ran back to the wall. The escape ladder was riveted into the building, only a few inches for the toe of a shoe. The ladder looked as old as the building and was none too safe.
Jay was ten feet down when he looked up. “Come on, Raina!”
“It’s six stories!” The glittering night sky framed her pinched face.
“I know. But it could be twenty. Come on!”
Her face disappeared, and a leg appeared over the wall.
“Goddammit, Raina!” he said in German. “Would you rather die from being ripped up by automatic gunfire or go fast with a nice swift splat on a brick driveway? You don’t have any fucking choice! Hurry!”
