by Gayle Lynds
The woman looked up and stared at a wall poster of a naked man and woman sporting spiked dog collars, then at a couple wearing cellophane G-strings. For a brief moment, her face darkened and she gazed around as if she wanted to say something loudly. But breaking cover was against the rules for her, too. She stood there another heartbeat, trapped. Finally, she turned and left, the carriage’s wheels sounding retreat.
Eva took a deep breath and chuckled. The woman might decide to wait for her outdoors. Still, the temperature was dropping, and the woman must be as tired as Eva. Peering out between the strands of the beaded curtain, Eva assessed the store. She did not see the woman or the buggy. She waited five minutes then walked back, stopping at the THRILLER shelves.
The man in the shearling coat came to stand beside her and run his fingers across a list of titles. His shoes were lizard-skin tasseled loafers. His coat was three-quarter length, a pale bone color, beautifully made. It must have cost at least three thousand dollars. His horn-rimmed eyeglasses sat solidly on his large Roman nose. His thick gray hair was artfully tousled. A dapper older man, he appeared relaxed and confident in his expensive coat and shoes. As sweat misted his forehead, he unbuttoned his coat, probably to cool off.
Amused, she realized she was assessing him just as she did her shadows. And then she saw he was watching, too—but other people.
“Tucker Andersen sends his regards,” he said. His lips had barely moved, and his face remained in profile as he continued to face the shelves.
His quiet voice seemed to float on the air a few seconds before Eva computed he had spoken to her.
“Don’t look directly at me,” he continued. “You realize you’ve given Gretchen Hilton cardiac arrest. How she ever lasted in the field twenty years is beyond me. She’ll get even with you, though. You can expect descriptive words like unsavory and voyeur and sophomoric antics about you in her report. Of course, there are some who will be delighted by her discomfort.”
“Who are you?”
He slid the movie he had been examining back into its slot. “Frank Smith. That’s my real name. I understand you’re operating under the alias Debora Lane. Nice name. Let’s go outside and walk while we talk. That way we’ll minimize the annoyance of eavesdroppers, busybodies, and professional spooks like ourselves.” Without waiting for her response, he walked past the counter and out the glass door.
Eva snapped up a Washington Post from a stack on the counter and paid the cashier. Pausing at the door, she scanned the sidewalk and trees. Seeing no sign of her shadow, she left the store, too. She did not bother to look for Frank Smith; if he were serious about talking with her, he would find her.
She turned back the way she had come to retrieve her rental car—all the trainees were required to use rental cars, at government expense. They were useful for changing identities and losing tails.
Before she had walked twenty feet, Frank Smith stepped out from the side of a building. How had he managed to hide himself so completely?
She turned to face him.
He gave an enormous smile. “Ah, yes, the Farm. By now you no doubt have done paramilitary training and conquered that ridiculous obstacle course. I assume you’ve created a bomb using Clorox, although I’ve never been certain exactly why we needed to know that—”
Eva walked toward him. As she forced a smile, she let her ankle turn just enough that she stumbled. Falling into him, she pressed The Washington Post against his chest. Hidden by the newspaper, her hand flew under his shearling coat, found a wallet, and with two fingers confiscated it.
Grinning, he grabbed her elbows, supporting her.
“I’m so sorry.” She straightened. “I’m usually not so clumsy.” The wallet was now safely hidden under the newspaper.
“On the contrary,” he said genially as he guided her down the sidewalk. “That was an expert dip. I’d heard you were a pickpocket in your youth. You must’ve been quite successful, if that maneuver on me was any indication. Now you’ll see I’m not carrying any additional papers under another name, and the ones in your hand are in order. Please do check.”
Eva fought to keep surprise from her face, and annoyance. The only other person to make her had been Tucker Andersen, but then he, like Frank Smith, had been forewarned.
“I intend to.” She kept her tone businesslike. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she opened the leather wallet. Inside were credit cards, a Virginia driver’s license, CIA identification, and a membership card in the Westwood Country Club in Vienna, Virginia.
“I’m a golfer,” he explained, indicating the country club card. “Because of the sort of work we do, I’ve been fortunate to play some of the best courses on the planet. Of course, my favorite is St. Andrews. Scotland, you know.” He rubbed his gloved hands together in delight. “And the whiskey is like velvet.”
She handed him his wallet. He talked a lot but said little. “Why are you here?” she asked.
“Tucker Andersen needs you for a job. He’s cleared it with the Farm, and I was ordered to collect you. Your supervisor is sending someone to retrieve your rental. I’ll drive us to the airport. We’re to wait there, ready to fly off at a moment’s notice, when Tucker sends word where we’re to meet him.”
An excited thrill coursed through Eva. She owed Tucker. Her life in the museum world had exploded when her husband had betrayed her, lied to her, and used her. In the end, she had gone to prison for a crime she had not committed. But Tucker had offered her a reprieve because he needed her expertise in illuminated manuscripts. During the mission, she was able to prove her innocence. At the same time, she had discovered she had a talent for clandestine work, and that it gave her life meaning, a reason to go on. When the mission was over, she asked to join the CIA. The only problem was, she had fallen a little in love with Judd Ryder, and Judd wanted nothing to do with the CIA or any covert agency. She closed her eyes a moment, shaking off the hurt.
“I’ve not been told what it’s about.” He shook his head in disgust, giving her the impression he hated being kept out of the loop. If so, he was in the wrong profession.
Eva found her cell phone, a disposable one issued by the Farm.
Smith saw her. “Tucker has a new number.” He relayed it. “Go ahead, call him. Might as well get it straight from the horse’s mouth. No, no. Really. My feelings won’t be hurt. Tucker will tell you exactly what I’ve told you.”
Eva studied Frank Smith. Screw his feelings. She tapped the numbers onto the keypad. Lifting the cell to her ear, she listened to the ring. Soon Tucker’s voice came on in a recording: “I can’t talk now. Leave your name, number, day, and time, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
She left a message for Tucker, confirming she wanted the assignment.
18
Washington, D.C.
Tucker Andersen had spent much of the afternoon at his desk, going through Catapult mission reports. After the phone call from Judd Ryder, he sat motionless, hands splayed on his desktop, mulling what Judd had said about the Padre, Eli Eichel, limestone chunks with cuneiform writing, and a murdered woman who had been impersonating Eva. Finally he picked up his phone again and made a call.
“David R. Erickson,” a strong voice answered.
“It’s Tucker Andersen, David. I need a helicopter, and I need it fast for a short trip into Maryland. It has to carry a dozen people and medium-sized equipment. No big machinery. Can you do it?”
Erickson was a top “scavenger” in Langley’s Support to Mission team, which built and operated CIA facilities, created and maintained secure communications, managed the CIA phone company, and hired, trained, and assigned officers to every directorate. As far as Tucker was concerned, he was a magician. Erickson found the unfindable—supplies, equipment, and personnel—often languishing unused and forgotten.
“It’s your lucky day. A couple of choppers I liberated yesterday just arrived at Langley from Andrews.” Ten miles southeast of Washington, Andrews Air Force Base was not only home
to Air Force One and several air commands, it was the CIA’s transfer point for VIPs and persons of interest. “One of the choppers is a Bell 412. Should work perfectly for what you need, and it’s free until tomorrow. You lead too boring a life, Tucker. I’ll call you with the details.”
Tucker hung up and went to his coat rack. A knock sounded on his door. “Enter.”
It was Bash Badawi again, wiry and casual in jeans and a black short-sleeved T-shirt. He watched Tucker put on his sports jacket. “Leaving?” he asked. “Aren’t you the one who complains about being lashed to your desk?”
“I’m going down the hall to see Bridgeman,” Tucker told him. “What do you want?”
“The same thing as the last time—something to do. How about letting me buy you a drink? You can tell me what you have going on.”
“I may have a job for you,” Tucker decided. “Wait here.” He marched through the doorway and down the corridor.
In the reception area, Gloria was busy at her computer.
Tucker stood in front of her desk. “I need an audience.”
“My, my. I’ll check.” She punched the intercom button. “Tucker would like to see you.”
Scott Bridgeman’s baritone announced, “Send him in.”
Her eyebrows rose above her glasses. “I do believe you’ve charmed him.”
“Hardly.” Tucker headed for the Catapult chief’s door.
* * *
Scott Bridgeman was tired and frustrated. He’d had a long day that had included another run-in with his number two, Tucker Andersen. The old spymaster behaved as if it were still the freewheeling days of the Cold War, before Twitter, Instagram, and Wikileaks could blow a black op and the careers of those involved into smithereens. Tucker’s recklessness was going to backfire sooner or later and spray shit that could seriously hurt Bridgeman.
Bridgeman watched Tucker walk in the door. The old man’s gray hair lay in an untidy fringe at the back of his bald head, and his chinos and sports jacket were, as usual, rumpled.
Controlling his irritation, Bridgeman gestured. “Have a seat.”
Tucker dropped into a chair and crossed his legs. “You have word about the week Judd Ryder needs to investigate his imposter?”
“When I asked the ME for seven days,” Bridgeman said, “he acted as if what I really wanted was to rip out his organs. So the answer is no. Ryder doesn’t get a week. However, I did manage to get him three days. Be grateful for it. And he’d damn well better turn up something so I don’t look like a jackass for going to bat for him.”
“Maybe that’ll be enough to figure out the basics of what’s going on.” For a moment Tucker looked appropriately appreciative. “I’ve got good news. The immediate problem between the Padre and the Carnivore is over.” He described a two-sniper kill at a private hunt club in Maryland, the facts of which he said were Judd Ryder’s eyewitness account. “The good end is we no longer owe the Padre anything, since he’s dead. The bad end is he’s no longer available as a source. On the other hand, it’s possible there’s evidence at the kill site about what was really going on between the Padre, the Carnivore, and the Eichel brothers. Eli Eichel was a notable Kidon.”
“Eli Eichel, the Choirmaster,” Bridgeman said.
“Yes. Which means we’ve got confirmation that international assassins are operating on U.S. soil. Second, there were pieces of cuneiform writing that the Eichels wanted from the Padre, which appears to be why the Padre and his people were killed.”
Bridgeman felt a moment of relief. “So it could be something personal after all.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Third, one of the dead women was impersonating Eva Blake. Blake is ours, a trainee at the Farm.”
Bridgeman gave a slow nod. “That’s bad. Were there any other witnesses besides Ryder?”
Tucker shook his head. “No, just Ryder.”
Bridgeman sighed. “What do you want?”
“A helicopter and a team to go to the site to do a thorough investigation.”
“All right. Do it. But if you find nothing at the hunt club, this nonsense ends. We use common sense and walk away from Judd Ryder and some crazy internecine war among assassins. You go immediately to the ME and apologize so he can act like the public servant he is and inform the public.”
“I understand.”
But Bridgeman heard hesitation. He glared into his employee’s eyes. “You’ve already ordered up a chopper, haven’t you?”
Tucker gazed back evenly. “Of course.”
Bridgeman fought an impulse to deck Andersen. “You have my authorization for it, and for the team,” he said calmly. “But I want their report the instant you have it. And ‘instant’ means instant! Now, get the hell out of here.”
19
Tucker hurried back to his office. When he opened the door, Bash was standing in front of the big window, hands clasped behind him, staring out. Turning to face Tucker, he had a hopeful look on his face.
“You’ve got a job for me?” he asked.
“Yes, you’re leading a Langley investigative team. Sit down. I’ll fill you in.”
For the next half hour Tucker paced his office. To give Bash context, he described what had happened since Judd’s phone call that morning describing his double and the double’s murder. Bash stared off into space, sometimes closing his eyes, occasionally asking questions.
“In particular, I want hard drives, handwritten notes, GPS records. Anything that will help us understand the situation,” Tucker finished. “Go give Erickson a call about that helicopter.”
With a nod, the young spy vanished out the door.
Sitting down, Tucker called Dorothy Kunz. They had met when both were serving at the Athens station. While Tucker had stayed in the Clandestine Service, Dorothy had transferred to various directorates. For the past five years, she had been chief at the Farm.
Kunz had a warm voice. “Yeah, Tucker. I know you want something. You never call unless you do. Someday I’m going to get you drunk again and pry all your secrets out of you.”
He smiled. They had spent one liquor-filled evening together, but no secrets were shared. “I always thought you got me drunk because you wanted my body.”
She laughed. “What are you looking for, Tucker?”
“You’ve got a trainee there I—”
“That would be Eva Blake. You were involved in us signing her up.”
“I need to talk with her.”
For the first time there was hesitation in Kunz’s voice. “I’ll check. I’m putting you on hold.”
“Sure.” Tucker turned to stare out his window at a line of barren maple trees growing in front of a wood-stake fence at the end of the Catapult property. Somehow they made him think of a line of soldiers, steadfast, ready for anything.
“Eva Blake has been in field training in Williamsburg.” Kunz’s voice sounded in his ear. “I thought I remembered, and of course I was correct—she phoned in not long ago to say she had a family emergency and had to leave immediately. She refused to give details. She said it was a personal matter, and she didn’t know when she’d be able to come back.”
Tucker sat up straighter. “That doesn’t sound like Eva.”
“Perhaps not, but it’s what she did and said,” Kunz confirmed. “It’s a pity, because she was excelling.”
“Which one of your people saw her last?”
“Gretchen Hilton. I checked with her. She was Blake’s shadow today. She says Blake was doing a good job until she pulled a too-cute trick. She led Gretchen into the adult entertainment section of a video store while Gretchen supposedly had an infant with her. Gretchen was writing her up for it. Amusing, of course. Shows Blake’s resourcefulness.”
“Was Blake in touch with any of the other trainees?”
“We sent out queries. They said no. What’s this about, Tucker?”
“Blake’s been doubled. The double’s dead now. Murdered.”
“And you’re not going to tell me more?” Kunz asked.
/> “We don’t know anything more yet.”
“Maybe Blake was being honest with us—she’s got a problem in her family, and she’s gone to take care of it. End of story.”
Tucker nodded to himself. “Has the murder board met about her yet?” The “murder board” was a group of Farm instructors who decided, among other things, whether a trainee had done something that indicated they were unfit.
“They’re investigating now,” she said. “They’ll discuss what they learn later today.”
Tucker sighed. “Let me know what happens.”
Ending the connection, he turned in his chair to peer out again at the long line of maple trees. Instead of soldiers ready for anything, for a moment they looked dead.
20
Montgomery County, Maryland
No other cars were in sight when Eli Eichel turned the gray Dodge van onto the drive leading into the Esti Hunt Club. He was smiling to himself, eager. Soon he would have three more limestone pieces.
“We’re late?” Danny asked. He sat slumped in the passenger seat, playing a video game on his iPad.
As usual, it was just the two of them, the Eichel brothers. There was a time when Eli would have resented the loneliness of it, wished for a wife again, for friends.
“No, we’re fine,” he told Danny.
“I like it here.”
“I know, Danny.”
“There’s no color.” Danny looked up long enough to sweep his big hand across the windshield, indicating the grayscape of barren trees standing in white snowfields.
“Color depresses you,” Eli said.
Danny sighed with pleasure. He was understood, and Eli knew that was all that mattered to his younger brother now.
Small and wiry, Eli had Levantine eyes and olive skin, and could pass for a Middle Easterner or a Creole, a southern Italian or a Corsican. He took pride in his physical advantages and used them constantly. He was sixty-five years old.
Danny was a decade younger, tall and hulking, with a thick body and an overlarge bony face anchored by a protruding jaw. When he was a child, he had been teased brutally for being so much larger than the other boys. In truth, the teasing was triggered by his lack of interest in them. He would not join their war games or soccer or other sports where his unusual size could help them win. Still he came home with bloodied cheeks, bruises on his back and legs, because he had let them beat him, unable to comprehend their emotions or confusion, himself unable to martial anger or outrage against them. He failed reading and history in school. He did not bar mitzvah. But within the family it was recognized he was blessed, and the rabbi agreed. Danny had one enormous God-given talent—he could build and fix anything. In particular, his eye-hand coordination was a marvel.
