by Hunt, Angela
On the twelfth of July, I find myself back at CIA headquarters, EODing—” entering on duty”—for the first time. I am given my own badge, and this time I am smart enough to leave my cell phone in the car.
I enter a small room where a dozen other men and women are sitting at desks. “Welcome to CIA 101,” the instructor begins. “I am here to acquaint you with the designations of different security classifications and the risks and consequences of not handling them correctly.” In other words, his tone seems to say, a security clearance is like a loaded gun—useful if handled properly, deadly if not.
On July 16, I receive a telegram. At nine o’clock the following morning, I am to report to Reagan National Airport, Hangar Seven, office 304. I am to bring a maximum of two suitcases and a small personal carry-on. An officer will be waiting with further instructions. I should clear at least fifteen days for my visit and travel, and under no circumstances should I reveal my new employer, my destination, or the purpose of my travel to family or friends.
That final warning makes me smile. How can I reveal my destination when I don’t know where I’m going?
Chapter Sixteen
Sarah
Dr. Mewton glances over her notes one final time, then pulls off her reading glasses. “I suppose that’s everything on my agenda. Holmes, if you could have your analysis of that Echelon chatter to me by the end of the day, I’d appreciate it. Sarah, those briefs on memory implantation should be considered priority one. I know Mr. Traut would be grateful for a feasibility report ASAP.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Good.” She stands and picks up her folder. “Oh—I almost forgot. Dr. Renee Carey is scheduled to arrive sometime tomorrow afternoon. Sarah, I’ll arrange a private meeting for you. You can reserve this room, if you like.”
I blink, stunned by the announcement. I glance at Judson, who shows no reaction at all.
“How long—?” I turn back to Dr. Mewton “—how long will she be staying?”
“Mr. Traut feels she should stay long enough to complete an evaluation of your psychological state. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, however, let me know. I’ll see to it that Dr. Carey completes her work in record time.”
Judson spins his chair toward the doorway. “Might be nice to have a fresh face in our cozy little nest.”
“Officer Holmes.” Dr. Mewton presses her hands to the tabletop. “If you would give us the room, please.”
Jud takes the hint and wheels out of the conference room, but not before casting a grin in my direction. I wait until the door closes, then cross my arms and look at Dr. M. “You still disapprove?”
“I can’t resist you and Mr. Traut,” she says, her voice like chilled steel. “Yet I want to know if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable during this woman’s visit. I’m giving her a room on the first floor, and I can arrange for Shelba to deliver her meals to the room as well. She doesn’t have to eat with us.”
“I don’t mind having her around.”
“Well…you might also want to consider other aspects of her stay. Since you don’t usually have close contact with our visitors, I thought you might be more comfortable if we made special arrangements—something like a veil, for instance. We could divert your aunt in London while the Office of Technical Services creates some kind of concealing mask…”
Something that might be pity flits into her blue eyes. She swallows hard and regards me with a look I haven’t seen on her face in years.
“I don’t need to hide,” I say, surprised to hear a quaver in my voice. “I don’t want a disguise.”
“But—”
“She’s family, right? Aren’t people free to be themselves around family?”
Dr. Mewton’s face tightens into its usual lines. “You watch too many movies.”
Chapter Seventeen
Renee
In the last two days, I have been pushed, prodded, stepped on and frisked—twice. I have traveled aboard a jet, a shuttle bus, and a ship. I have been addressed in British English, American slang, and Castilian Spanish. I think I’ve been cursed at in French.
Now I am standing on a wharf in La Coruña, Spain, where I have just stepped off an American ship filled with what I suspect are Navy SEALs. But they don’t wear uniforms, and they don’t talk much—none of them have addressed me with anything more personal than “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am.”
I have my passport out and ready, but no one is asking to see it and there’s no sign of an immigration office at this port. Not much of anything, really, but shipping containers and a few burly men who are helping secure the ship.
Even though I’m standing next to the sea, this does not appear to be a beach vacation.
I slide my passport back into my purse and grip the handle of my rolling suitcase as if I were confident of my next step. Actually, I haven’t a clue about what’s supposed to happen next. I have no papers to validate my security clearance, and nothing but my passport and my Virginia driver’s license to prove my citizenship and identity. I could be mugged and tossed into the sea by one of these longshoremen, and no one would miss me for months, if ever.
All I know is my contact is supposed to meet me here and deliver me to Sarah.
A small black sedan whizzes down the dock and completes a u-turn at the end of the pier. A moment later it pulls up and the automatic window lowers. A man peers out at me from beneath the wide brim of a black hat. “Señora Carey?”
“Sí. Yo estoy—” Why didn’t I brush up on my Spanish before leaving? Because the ticket I was instructed to purchase took me to Gatwick Airport, outside London. I had no idea I’d be visiting Spain.
“Welcome to La Coruña,” the man says, switching to English. He steps out of the car, and I am amazed to see that he is wearing the garb of a priest—an old-fashioned priest, at least by American standards. The black cassock, wide hat, and white collar render me temporarily speechless.
The CIA sent a clergyman to pick me up?
My contact bends to give me a hand with my luggage. “Only one suitcase?”
“Yes…that’s right.”
“You travel light—a real talent. You must teach me that trick.”
I bend to peer beneath his hat brim. “And who…What shall I call you?”
“I’m Father Paul.”
“Oh.” I want to ask if his real name is Father Paul, but paranoia bridles my tongue. If this man is an actual priest, I’ll offend him with the question. If he’s a CIA officer in alias, I’ll offend him with my stupidity.
Before I can ask where we’re going, he’s tossed my bag into the trunk and he’s opening the rear door. With one hand, he gallantly offers me the backseat.
“Um…thank you.”
In an effort to appear confident and in control, I rummage through my purse as he strides to the driver’s door. I dredge up my cell phone and study the keypad, wondering if I could dial an international version of 911 if this priest turns out to be some sort of renegade, but that idea is as ludicrous as the thought that I might actually have someone to call in Spain.
Father Paul starts the car and pulls away from the ship, ignoring curious glances from some of the dockhands. I shiver as the cool breeze from his window fills the rear seat. “Do you know—” I hesitate, not wanting to create an international incident or an unintentional security breach. “Can you tell me if we’re going far?”
His gaze catches mine in the rearview mirror, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Not far at all, señora. In fact, we are almost there.”
I glance around, unable to tell that we have left the port. The sea no longer lies behind us, but is located on my left. We are passing a marina filled with small boats, most of which look like pleasure craft or fishing vessels. My driver pulls alongside a curb, kills the engine, and bounds out of the vehicle before I can gasp another question.
I fumble with the door and let myself out, then step to the back of the car, where the priest is placi
ng my suitcase on the pavement. “We’re stopping here? But I’m supposed to go to some sort of facility.”
“Sí, señora. And this man will take you there.”
“What man?” I straighten and shade my eyes from the glaring sun. Another man in a clerical collar is lumbering over the dock, a sheen of perspiration on his wide forehead. No old-fashioned cassock for him, but black pants and a black short-sleeved shirt. He’s built like a guy who rips phone books for fun.
“I—I’m supposed to go with him?”
“Sí. Upon his boat, La Reina del Cielo.”
“The queen…”
“The Queen of Heaven, of course.”
I take a step back, not certain I want to go anywhere on a boat dedicated to heaven, but the perspiring priest has reached us. He lifts a questioning brow at Father Paul, who nods and points to my luggage.
I turn and gesture toward the comforting solidity of the city behind me. “Um…”
“This way, Dr. Carey.”
The second man’s accent is as American as baseball, and he calls me doctor, which I take as a reassuring sign. I give him an uncertain nod and follow, remembering at the last moment to wave and thank Father Paul.
He and his sedan have already vanished.
I grip the railing at the side of the boat and brace myself against the pounding rhythm of the waves. The sweaty priest has yelled over his shoulder a couple of times, but I couldn’t hear a word over the roar of the outboard engines. Each time I nodded and gave him a tight smile, hoping he wasn’t asking if I wanted to stop and pick up a few locals for some suds and a good time.
I’m not skilled at judging distances on land or sea, but we’ve been jouncing for about twenty minutes when a rocky island rises out of the ocean. A rectangular multistory building of whitewashed stone crowns the summit. Its orange tile roof gleams beneath the sun, and crashing waves enfold the rocky escarpment.
If there’s a road leading to that building, I can’t see it. I can’t even see a dock or a landing.
Mr. Black Shirt cuts the engines to idling speed. “The Convent of the Lost Lambs,” he shouts, nodding toward the mountaintop structure. “Built for a group of cloistered nuns in the seventeenth century.”
I’m not sure if he’s saying this to entertain or enlighten me, but I study the structure and nod as if impressed. “It’s beautiful. How did they ever get building materials up there?”
“They used stone cut from the rocks,” he says, sighing like a teacher with a slow pupil, “and the island used to have trees. The nuns didn’t build it, but no one bothered them once they got up there. As far as the locals know, a couple of dozen nuns are still cloistered in the place.”
“So…there are no nuns?”
He snorts with the dry amusement of a man who seldom laughs. “Sister Luke comes and goes with a companion every now and then, but she ain’t no mother superior.”
He shoves the boat into low gear and steers toward a dark spot in the rock. I focus on the jagged cliffs and am surprised when a closer perspective reveals the dark area as an inlet…no, the mouth of a cave. The opening is no more than twenty feet wide, and not even ten feet tall….
I tighten my hold on the railing. “You intend to take this boat through that crack?”
My driver gives me another grin. “It’s the most covert approach to the convent in daylight. And we need to proceed, Dr. Carey, because you’re expected there for dinner.”
I brace myself against the back of my seat and gape in silent horror as my escort launches the boat forward. The sea spits up in white plumes as we near the rocks, and I close my eyes as spray spatters my face. The boat labors up and down the peaks of the waves and I’m certain we’re going to crash into the rocks, but somehow my driver manages to maneuver the boat into a channel.
The crashing sounds of the sea retreat as soon as we enter the cave. I open my eyes as the boat rumbles forward, and I see that the mammoth cavern ends at a wall of rock. In front of the rock, armed men in camouflage pants and white T-shirts stand guard on a wide dock, their faces tanned and grim.
I don’t know where they picked up their tans, because this cavern is as dark as the grave and illuminated only by a few electric lights. I can’t shake the feeling that we have entered some mythical kingdom set in the bowels of the earth.
One of the guards calls a greeting to the pretend priest, while another tosses a rope over a cleat at the bow of the boat. A moment later Mr. Black Shirt stands and moves toward me. I instinctively sink lower in my seat as he grabs my suitcase and sets it on the dock.
“Dr. Carey.” The first guard removes a toothpick from between his front teeth and extends his hand. “Welcome to the Convent of the Lost Lambs.”
Somehow I gather my wits and allow myself to be hauled onto the dock. Once there, I smooth my damp blouse and thank the guard for his help.
“No problem,” he says, a faint light twinkling in the depths of his eyes. “I’m to show you directly to your room. Dr. Mewton wanted you to have a chance to rest before she meets with you.”
Like a dullard who’s always the last to get a joke, I look at Mr. Black Shirt. “Let me guess—Dr. Mewton is Sister Luke?”
He winks and gives me an impenitent grin.
“And Sarah? My niece?”
The young guard interrupts. “You’ll have to speak to Dr. Mewton, ma’am. We’re not authorized to discuss other personnel.”
I am too tired and overwhelmed to argue, so I follow the guard pulling my suitcase, which bumps in an uneven rhythm over the stone floor. We enter an elevator, an unexpected convenience, and ride in silence to the first floor.
In the elevator, I study my escort more closely. The young man is probably in his late twenties or early thirties, with a clean, military look about him. He wears no wedding ring, but an eagle tattoo peeks from the bottom of the shirtsleeve over his upper arm. He must be fond of body art, because he also sports a tattoo on the back of his right hand.
I study his face last. I’ve made a living from reading people’s thoughts and feelings in their expressions, but though this man’s ruggedly handsome face reminds me of every young male TV star, dignity and concealment have made a mask of his features. His mouth is clamped, his eyes are fixed on the elevator door, his expression is locked and guarded.
Obviously, I’ll not be exchanging convent gossip with him any time soon.
I exhale in relief when we exit the elevator and step into sunlight. A door stands at my right, though it is barred, and a window looks out on what might be a lovely garden, if anyone cared enough to tend it.
My escort approaches another door that looms straight ahead. After sliding his key card through a scanner, he leads me into a narrow corridor that looks just as it might have when the nuns lived on this mountaintop. Several roughhewn doors stand in this simple hallway; he opens the first and reveals a surprisingly spacious room with a large window, narrow bed, antique wardrobe, bureau, desk and chair. I’m surprised to discover that the room also contains a modern bathroom, complete with toilet, tub, and shower. Apparently the CIA believes in the value of home improvement.
The guard sets my suitcase beside me. “Do you need anything else, ma’am?”
I glance around. A pitcher of ice water waits on a stand, along with a pair of crystal glasses. “Thank you. Everything looks…fine.”
“Good. Someone will page you on the intercom when Dr. Mewton is ready to see you. Until then, she’d like you to relax and refresh yourself.”
The guard closes the door, and silence descends as his heavy steps fade from the hallway. When I am completely surrounded by quiet, I try the handle of my door…and am startled when it turns in my hand. I half expected to find myself locked in.
I peer into the hall, glance right and left, but no one else moves in the corridor. Later I might explore my surroundings, but I need to pull my clothes from the suitcase and let the wrinkles fall out. I need a glass of water, and I need to wash twenty-four hours of grime from my
complexion.
Before unzipping my suitcase, however, I cast a longing look at the bed. It is covered with a thick white comforter and a lush mix of colorful pillows.
More than anything, I need ten minutes to close my eyes. I crawl under the comforter and let my head sink into an oversize bolster. Before I can even kick off my shoes, exhaustion overpowers me in a warm, irresistible wave.
Chapter Eighteen
Sarah
Judson and I monitor my aunt’s arrival on the computer in my apartment. Dr. Mewton doesn’t know that I’ve tapped into the intercom and the security cameras, but I doubt she’d be surprised to discover that I’ve been snooping.
Though I remained quiet and pretended to be nonchalant as I watched the woman disembark, my pulse quickened as she passed a guard and moved toward the elevator.
I switched to the elevator cam. The guard stood in front of the camera, blocking my view of all but the tip of a perfect nose.
I muttered beneath my breath and clicked to a security cam on the first floor. I forced the camera to zoon in on the elevator door and caught my breath as it opened. The woman passed by the lens in a blur of motion, far too quickly for me to get a good look.
But then she paused outside the door of her room. I adjusted the security cam, and while the guard carried her suitcase inside, Renee Carey glanced up and I snapped her picture.
Enlargement of the image reveals a perfectly symmetrical combination of two eyes, a slender nose, two lips, two cheeks, two ears, one chin. Skin as smooth as porcelain; large eyes rimmed by lush lashes. An arresting dark spot above the corner of the mouth, reminding me of the intentional mistake Amish quilters reportedly sew into their creations to remind themselves that only God is perfect. Still, whether mole or freckle, this spot deserves to be called a beauty mark.
