Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  "Nothing I can see," he admitted.

  There was the usual assortment—a couple of pocketknives, billfolds with cash, credit cards, Arizona driver's licenses that could easily be fake, a Snickers bar, two men's combs, a Bic lighter, and a crush-proof package of Camels that Jeff had emptied and found contained only cigarettes. There was nothing indicating where the men had been going or what they had planned. There were not even matches from a local diner.

  Beth still ached, but continuing to move relieved a lot of her misery. Earlier they had used presoaked tissues from the sniper's makeup box to wash their faces of blood and clean their scratches and other small wounds. After that, they had applied dark foundation powder to reduce the reflection from moonlight on their faces.

  He decided, "I can't wear a baseball cap onto the farm. None of the people we saw wore hats. I'll stand out with one on, or if I have long hair."

  "You want me to cut your hair?"

  "That's the idea."

  She fished in the makeup box and pulled out scissors. "Just call me Delilah." When she turned to face him, he had taken off his cap. In the small confines of the Ferrari, she was suddenly struck again by his maleness. By the density of his body and the appealing length from his wide shoulders to his narrow waist and hips. She liked the power in his face, with its square jaw and large, intelligent eyes.

  But since she had told him about her medicine and what it meant, he had been removed. He seldom looked at her directly. His body remained beside her, but little else. She felt bereft, as if the warmth had gone out of a fire. She repressed a sigh. Her condition was going to frighten away all men, and there was nothing she could do to change that. A hard, lonely knot seemed to tighten around her heart.

  He turned away. Scissors in hand, she silently reached up and smoothed the back of his long hair. It was bristly, as strong and quirky as he. She hated to shorten it. She bit her lower lip. Then she made the first cut. A hank of rich brown hair fell into her lap.

  She sighed. "If we're going to do this, we might as well go all the way. To get a different look, I'll have to make it really short."

  "I know. Do it."

  She hesitated then went to work. She clipped quickly. No point in dragging it out. She sheared the top of his head, then around his ears, and finally the back of his head. In the map light, it was far from a perfect job, but it was short. All of a sudden he looked like a boxer or marine.

  "I'll even it out later," she decided. "Better yet, get someone who knows what they're doing to fix it up." Good advice, if they survived.

  He turned to her. "Thanks." He smiled.

  For a moment it seemed as if they had gone back in time to when they had first discovered they had liked each other. It seemed long ago. Then his expression changed. He was again cold, distant, very businesslike.

  He dropped the strap of the night-vision binoculars around his neck and opened his door. "Make sure you've got your Walther and flashlight."

  She slipped her gun into her waistband. Carrying flashlights, they climbed out of the car and trotted down the hill toward the farm's entrance.

  "Look," she said. "The mansion's lights are going off now, too. The second floor is completely dark. And the first floor's going dark, too."

  He gazed through the chain-link fence and nodded. "Don't take any stupid chances," he warned. "Follow my lead."

  "Aye, aye, Captain." She forced a light tone to her voice, which she did not feel. Nervousness swept through her. She watched his big frame move easily with the darkness, almost as if it were his friend. Then he dropped to the grass and weeds, and she followed. They slithered on their bellies. Twigs and rocks bit her flesh as they approached the gate. In position, they looked up at the farm, ghostly and deserted in the moonlight. Time stretched. She could almost hear the beating of her heart.

  "Here comes one." Jeff's voice was low in her ear.

  The headlights were high off the ground. As the vehicle rounded a shallow curve and headed down toward the gate, she saw it was a pickup.

  "We'll use the lights of the car for a distraction in case someone's monitoring the surveillance cameras," he warned. "Get ready to move."

  The heavy wrought-iron gates inched opened. The headlamps were brilliant, dazzling. She closed her eyes then opened them to slits, keeping watch. Heat from the pickup's motor warmed the air. The exhaust stung her nose.

  "Now." His voice was hidden by the growl of the engine.

  The gates were wide open. The night was aglow with the vehicle's light. Her heart pounding, she followed Jeff as he crouched and slipped low to the ground past the gates and the pickup. They were inside. Unspeaking, they rolled off to the side into the dark, jumped up, and sprinted away from the cameras.

  On the first floor of the farm's mansion, the old man resisted looking in any of the mirrors. He was having the strange sense again of not knowing who he was. He hated the queasy feeling, and he longed to be simply, and always, himself. But then he thought about the tragedy of his people—the increasing suicide rates across Russia, the starvation, and the homeless children who wandered ragged and begging. There were thousands of dying villages as the collective farms disbanded. That was not his country. It was a travesty. A sick joke. It infuriated and mortified him. In the world's eyes, even in the eyes of her people, Russia was a reeling giant, sick and impotent.

  With an effort, he shrugged it all away and resumed his march through the dark mansion, planting plastic explosives with electronic detonators that could be triggered from a distance. The big house seemed ready for its fate, milk-white moonlight streaming in through the windows and ink-black shadows behind the furniture. There was no color anywhere. Upstairs a board creaked as it adjusted to the cooling temperatures of night.

  Once the explosives were arranged, the old man strode outdoors to stand in his battered denim jacket and jeans on the front portico to survey Caleb Bates's land. It was quiet, too. As usual, he was the last to leave.

  The moon had risen, and it was full—a good omen. He headed down the steps and out into the cool night to make his rounds. A sense of anticipation began to overtake him. Much had been done, but there was still much to do. And of course there was the lingering issue of Beth Convey and Jeff Hammond. The quiet grounds beckoned like a tomb.

  35

  Moving at a steady lope, Jeff led Beth off the drive and onto the grass. They held their pistols lightly at their sides, kept their flashlights dark, and skirted the fences and hugged the trees for cover. The grounds seemed deserted, glowing in the moonlight with nothing moving anywhere, only them. Whoever operated the farm seemed to rely on the high fence and the monitored front gate for protection, dispensing with guards. Or perhaps everyone had gone.

  Jeff said nothing to Beth. Guilt fueled him, and he could hardly look at her. She was foolishly brave, which had made him afraid to tell her she could not go with him. If he had left her in the car, he knew she would simply have waited until he was out of sight and then tried to break into the farm on her own.

  With his peripheral vision he kept anxious watch over her. They stopped at the first building—the dark barn. Using hand signals, he gestured her to wait at the corner. At least she did what he wanted when they were in action. But not this time. This time she continued around to the window, which was where he had intended to go. She flattened back against the wall, her pistol up in both hands, and peered around inside. He stopped next to her.

  "I don't see anyone," she whispered. "Just chickens and cows."

  "When I tell you to do something, do it!" His voice was low and outraged. "I don't want you to get killed!"

  "Why not? I'm going to die soon anyway. That's what you think, isn't it?"

  "I—"

  She jogged back around to the front of the barn. He was on her heels.

  She stopped at the door. "Cover me. I'll open it."

  "Beth, stop. We're not going in. There's no reason to. We're looking for evidence, not trouble. Let's get to that garage. It's off to
the side, and it's where everyone was coming from. If we find nothing there, we'll try the mansion."

  Her long eyelashes lowered and raised. "You're right."

  They ran again, finding cover where they could. At last they arrived at what appeared to be a large garage. It was the width of nearly three, with a second story. The opening was just as it had appeared in the binoculars—double wide and two levels high.

  "Some garage," she muttered. "It's big enough for tanks."

  They scouted around and found no windows. There was one other door, at a rear corner near the hill. She turned on her flashlight briefly to scan the area. When she saw nothing useful, he pressed his ear against the door, listening.

  "Anything?"

  "Not a sound." And they had seen no light as they had circled the structure. He felt the door. It was metal. "Nothing ventured, etcetera." He tried the handle. "Locked, dammit."

  Suddenly a man's voice sounded behind them, old and quavery. "Maybe I can help you folks? Thought everyone was gone. You two are real late, ain't you?"

  Beth and Jeff spun around. He wore a cowboy hat tipped low over his brow. His lined face looked almost skull-like in the moonlight. He had turned on a flashlight, and it was trained on them. He reached over and, with an age-spotted hand, flipped a switch on the wall.

  Instantly an overhead floodlight burned on, illuminating the back of the concrete structure and the three of them as they stood gathered tensely at the door.

  "Now, I'm just the idiot caretaker," he said drily, "but seems to me you were supposed to be gone by now." He glanced at their pistols but said nothing.

  Jeff's face was immobile. Quickly he took in the old man and the fact that he was neither surprised nor afraid they were armed. He relaxed a fraction. "You're right. We're late. Hope we're not going to catch hell for it. We don't have our assignments. Do you know where we're supposed to meet everyone?"

  The stranger's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I don't get to have that kind of information. You know that. You lose your assignment, my guess is you're in deep shit. Excuse me, miss." He glanced at Beth apologetically. "I wouldn't want to be you. You know how the colonel can be."

  Beth said, "We didn't explain well. We just got back, and that's why we're late. Tell us about the colonel? How's he been?"

  The old man backed off. "How do I know? He don't talk to me."

  Now they knew with certainty Bates—Berianov—was part of the picture here.

  "Well," the old caretaker continued, "you two should go on in. Somebody's probably waiting to send you on your way." He glanced up. White moths were gathering by the floodlight, diving at it out of the dark from all directions.

  "The door's locked," Jeff said. "How about opening it?"

  The old man cackled with laughter. "Talk about dumb. That's me." He pulled out a clanking key chain and unlocked the deadbolt. "When you leave, close up after yourselves, okay?"

  "Will do." Jeff headed inside.

  As Beth followed, she glanced back and saw one old hand reach up and close so swiftly on a moth she almost missed it. As the caretaker looked down at his cupped hand, his shoulders tightened under his jeans jacket, and she heard a soft crunch. He had killed the moth, squeezed it to death. He switched off the floodlight, plunging them into darkness, and turned away. The last vision Beth had was of him stepping away into black night, his bright, sharp eyes, slowly vanishing like the grin on the Cheshire cat. Eyes that had not looked old at all. Shuddering, she felt an unsettling sense of having seen those eyes before.

  "Let's go." It was a whisper. Jeff had opened the garage door.

  Putting her hand on his shoulder, she let him lead her into utter blackness. She closed the door behind them.

  Jeff's foot hit a hard surface, and he reached out and felt a wall until he realized it was a door. A second door. He inched it open. Intense light spilled toward them through the narrow opening. He listened again and peered around through the door's crack. Then he opened the door wider and looked again.

  He turned to say into her ear, "Deserted."

  They exchanged a look. Using hand signals, he gestured to her to stay close behind. His chest tight, he raised his pistol, clamped his flashlight against the binoculars to pin them against his chest, and slid around the corner into a big central area. His back to the wall, he scanned the gun across the two-story room, looking for trouble. She followed immediately, her pistol ready.

  They stared. Then slowly lowered their weapons. From the walls hung no tools, no empty gas cans, no old tires or rusted car parts. The building was simply an empty shell. Not only was it no garage, it was something they had come nowhere near guessing. Surprised, they studied the concrete floor. In the center was the mouth of an over-wide driveway that descended at about a five-percent slope and disappeared.

  She said, "What in heaven's name is this?"

  "We'd better find out."

  They listened for the sound of vehicles or voices. Silence. They moved down the tunnel, their weapons ready. That was when they heard the hum of a ventilation system. Above them, exposed pipes, conduits, ventilation and heating shafts, support beams, and fluorescent lights were fastened to the rock ceiling. Nothing was painted. It was all raw concrete, plastic, metal, and stone.

  She said, "The building was set against the hill. That may explain it. What we're in now could be part of a natural cave system. There are quite a few in Pennsylvania."

  The tunnel flattened out, and they stepped into a paved area as wide as a football field where white painted lines indicated slots for motorcycles, cars, and trucks. It was empty now, a deserted underground parking garage, probably the source of all the vehicles that had been leaving the farm. The low hum was getting on her nerves. There was a sense of oppressive grayness everywhere.

  As they continued on, watching, she studied the walls for an opening. "There's a door." It was in a dark nook where the wall angled in and out. She was amazed she had noticed it. It was painted gray, difficult to distinguish from the rock around it.

  She tried the knob. "Locked." She stared at it, thinking there was something familiar about it.

  Jeff called, "It's probably just a utility closet with gauges and switches for pipes and ventilation. Come here, Beth. I've found something else. Another ramp."

  But she was still considering the locked door: No, not a closet. Something else. She tried to focus. Metal construction. Shelves? A storage room?

  "Beth? There's another tunnel here. Let's go."

  She abandoned her reverie. Jeff was standing where another tunnel sloped down toward the rear. This one was as wide as the first but had a steeper grade, perhaps ten degrees. Beth forgot the door. She ran to follow him down. They passed between more rough-hewn rock walls. Soon they heard the sound of rushing water. The air grew dank. The temperature dropped. The noisy water turned into a roar. Almost in unison they stopped their rapid descent.

  "Look at that!" Jeff said.

  She echoed his astonishment. "Who would have thought?"

  Below them extended a massive, arched cavern. The walls were at least four stories high. To the left, a wide waterfall crashed down into a pond so black that it looked bottomless. Green and brown moss covered the cavern wall above it. But to the right extended the majority of the cave, and there was the more compelling sight—

  "My God, it's the Oval Office!" Jeff stared. Alarms went off in his brain. "The windows, the colonnades, the patio furniture overlooking the Rose Garden. A lot of the West Wing."

  "But nothing's finished," she said, wondering. "It looks as if it's just been tacked together and paint slapped on."

  The Oval Office reproduction stood out like a glaring warning. They trotted down the damp ramp, their footsteps echoing. The rest of the replica of the two-story West Wing of the White House was cut away, with walls and floors ending midair. Still, someone had taken the time to fill out much of the Rose Garden, from the broad lawn flanked by flower beds to the "limestone" steps on which stood a podium. But this ti
me, the limestone was unpainted particle board.

  "It's all fake. Even the grass." She shivered.

  He pulled open a French door that had never held glass and strode into the president's sham office. "So's the furniture." Particle board was the material of choice here, too, from the big desk to the chairs on either side of the fake fireplace.

  She turned in terrified wonder, studying the third-rate rendition. "What is this? What does it mean?"

  "Maybe this is what the terrorist plot is all about. The presidency. The Oval Office. What you're looking at is the kind of replica an army or a secret service builds to train troops, guerrillas, undercover agents, anyone who needs to attack, defend, or infiltrate. Remember when I told you about the simulated American city the KGB built as a training ground for spies in the Ural Mountains? That's what this reminds me of."

  Above ground in the security building, Alexei Berianov sat before a wall of monitors, watching their progress. As soon as Ivan Vok had reported he had tracked the station wagon to where it had been abandoned in the parking lot of the Philmalee Group, Berianov knew he was in danger. Beth Convey and Jeff Hammond were no longer traceable, and he was vulnerable here. He had kept close watch for them. When they had invaded his farm, his needle-nose security cameras recorded all their moves. The tiny cameras were hidden in trees and in eaves, and they surveilled inside and outside buildings. Small and nearly invisible, they were very different from the clunky ones at the gates that he had ordered to satisfy the Keepers.

  Once the pair had stumbled onto his farm, it had been inevitable they would fall into his trap. The deduction was simply an extension of what he knew: Both were driven to succeed. Now they had seen the prize . . . the simulated White House grounds he had built for Sergeant Austin and his guerrillas to practice on.

  It was obvious Convey and Hammond were not only worried but excited. It was at this peak—just as they thought they had solved the puzzle, just as they felt a heavy duty to their country—that he would destroy them. There was little glory in taking out the weak. But the strong . . . that was intriguing. That was worthwhile.