Anonymous Sources

by Mary Louise Kelly

  She had ruined everything. She, that woman, Alexandra James.

  His shot at the final $8.33 million installment was gone. Nothing he could do about that. But the clinching blow was that he would now face a life on the run. Had things gone to plan, no one would have looked for him. He would have been presumed dead in the nuclear explosion. That was why he’d made a point of shoving his electronic ID down a potted plant in the West Wing. So there would be no record of his leaving. So he would be able to vanish without a trace. He would always have had to be careful, sure, but now . . . Christ. Once those bozos at FBI put two and two together, they would be racing to paste his picture onto their Most Wanted list. Not to mention the UTN network, looking for a refund on their $16.66 million down payment. Not to mention US military intelligence. The National Security Agency. The CIA itself. They would all be chasing him. It would make the manhunt for bin Laden look like a Boy Scout treasure hunt.

  Tusk’s brain churned. Wasn’t there still a way to contain the damage? At this point, really, wasn’t it his word against hers? Nadeem Siddiqui was helpfully dead, the only positive development of this appalling day. The car . . . well, the car was a problem. But plenty of people had access to those Agency SUVs. Lots of people signed them out; other people’s prints would be all over it. No one could prove he’d known there was a bomb in the backseat. As for other inconvenient details, he could handle them. He had already remotely wiped the phones: the phone Alex had taken off Nadeem this morning, the temporary mobile she had apparently borrowed from her office, Tusk’s own devices. He had erased his last mobile just minutes ago. Crushed the chip and then dropped it and the actual phone into two separate trash cans.

  The only serious obstacle now was the girl. That notebook she scribbled in was a liability. Her word against his.

  He watched as she strode down the block, a cell phone pressed against her ear. Who was she talking to? And where had she gotten yet another phone? He could just keep her in sight as she ducked left and disappeared inside a hotel. Tusk surveyed the building. The number of floors, the location of doors leading in and out. Old habit from the field.

  Alexandra James must be eliminated.

  This time he would take care of it himself.

  54

  The nearest bar turned out to be a swanky joint on the roof of the Hotel Washington.

  The bouncer did not initially look inclined to let me in. My usual tactic when faced with a surly bouncer is to smile and bat my eyelashes, but this is harder to pull off when your eye is swollen shut. Instead I slipped him a few folded bills. He lifted the velvet rope and let me pass.

  The place was packed. We were on an open-air terrace that ran the full length of the hotel. With the nuclear doomsday rumors that must be flying, you would think people would be stampeding to get out of Washington. But, no, several hundred people were jammed in here. Some looked like tourists, some as if they’d walked over from nearby law firms and think tanks. The place was oddly quiet. No music, no Friday happy-hour vibe. Aside from a small knot around the bar, most people were piled four- and five-deep at the railing, clicking pictures on their cell phones and ogling the action below. The view was gorgeous, out across the Potomac River and the city’s stately monuments. And the White House. We were close, so close it was surprising the terrace hadn’t been evacuated. But then, we were a block outside the security perimeter, and the police presumably had enough to keep them busy today without forcing tipsy customers from hotel bars out onto the streets.

  I got my bearings and headed first for the ladies’ room. Inside I opened the tap at the sink and used my hands to scoop up great gulps of cool water. I drank and drank. Water trickled down my arms and stung when it reached my elbows, the red scratch marks where I had clawed myself. I stared down. Had that really been just this morning? I splashed more water on my face, rinsing off layers of dried sweat and blood. It was agony. In the mirror I inspected myself. Better, though still not a pretty sight.

  On my way back to the bar I swiped a pair of sunglasses off a table. They were too big—probably a man’s—but I hoped they would hide the worst of my wound.

  Apparently not.

  “Honey, you all right?” The lady bartender let out a low whistle. “You look like you seen the wrong end of a hockey stick.”

  “I’m fine. Two large G and T’s, please. Hendrick’s, if you’ve got it.”

  “We got it. And no bar brawls on my shift, okay, hon? We got enough going on down there as it is.” She motioned toward the White House.

  I smiled to be polite, paid, and picked up the drinks.

  At the far end of the terrace, I elbowed my way in to claim a space at the railing. People pressed against me on both sides. The first drink went down in one long swallow. The bartender had made it strong, and the gin froze my throat. I felt better almost instantly. Hyde was right. I don’t generally stop at one, or at two for that matter. But today I would. I would savor the second one, maybe even order something to eat, then go to the bureau to write my story. Everything would be all right.

  I sipped the second drink and looked out. The river sparkled, a silver ribbon under the setting sun. A few blocks away the Washington Monument stretched skyward. And below me, just past the Treasury building, there was the White House. A giant American flag billowed on the roof. Was it my imagination, or were there people up there? I thought I could make out the dark silhouettes of figures scurrying around the edges.

  I squinted and craned forward, trying to see.

  “It’s Secret Service. The ERT, I would imagine—Emergency Response Team. Useless little gits.”

  The voice in my ear was flat, accentless. And yet I knew it. My breath caught.

  Behind me, leaning down so close his tongue flicked against my ear, stood Edmund Tusk.

  He had positioned himself so that I was pinned between him and the metal railing. His flaccid belly pushed against my back. I felt bile rise up my throat.

  “You followed me?”

  “Why, yes. I think we have some unfinished business, don’t you agree?”

  I arched my neck and twisted around to look at him. His eyes were cloaked behind the enormous spectacles. His face was expressionless. Bizarrely, he was wearing what appeared to be a brand-new, ill-fitting Nationals baseball cap.

  “Nice disguise. Suits you,” I said, frantically scanning the crowd over his shoulder, searching for some way out.

  “Thank you. I thought so. You’ll notice as you look around that we’re packed in quite tight. You won’t be able to run. Also, that is a gun you feel. Pointed at you.”

  Something round and hard was in fact digging into my side. Tusk had his suit jacket thrown over his arm, and he pushed it aside slightly, allowing me to glimpse the steel in his hand.

  “A pity it’s come to this, my dear. You. Thom Carlyle. That poor Irish woman—what was her name? Polly Murphy.” His lips curled up. “So much youthful beauty gone to waste.”

  “Was that you?” I whispered. “The woman next to me on the plane?”

  “Well, not me personally. I would have gotten it right.”

  I shrank away from him. “And Thom Carlyle? Nadeem talked about it this morning. Did you—did you order him to kill Thom?”

  “God, no. That was Mr. Malik’s unfortunate initiative. Quite stupid.” Tusk paused. “I presume you have figured out who Nadeem Siddiqui is? That he and Shaukat Malik are one and the same?”

  I nodded.

  “If I may ask, how did you survive your little tête-à-tête with him this morning?”

  I closed my eyes and pictured Nadeem, his mouth slack with lust, pawing at my thigh. My stomach lurched with disgust.

  “I seduced him,” I mumbled.

  “You seduced him? Really?” Tusk looked impressed. “I wouldn’t have thought he was the type. Resourceful of you, though. Shame we didn’t recruit you for ourselves.”

  “What about the bomb? How did you—”

  But he shook his head. “No. As pleasant as thi
s little debriefing has been, we’re done. I’d like for you to hand me your notebook, please. And then we’re going to take a walk.”

  I swallowed. Perhaps it was the gin that spoke next.

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No. Just shoot me, if that’s what you’re going to do anyway. But I’m not going with you.”

  There was a silence. Then Tusk lost his temper. “You don’t have to make this difficult, you know,” he hissed. “You didn’t have to make any of this so difficult. This is all . . . so . . . unnecessary. You are such a bitch.”

  He blinked rapidly several times behind the thick lenses. I sensed his effort to steady himself.

  After a moment he spoke again, his voice more controlled. “I have been curious to meet you, though. I have wondered: what kind of a mother wants her own child dead?”

  I froze. The world went quite still and white. “What did you just say?”

  He looked smug. “She didn’t even live a day, did she? Your daughter? Very strange. A perfectly healthy baby dying like that.”

  The gin glass slipped from my fingers and smashed against the tile floor. It felt as though I had been punched; my breath came in sharp little pants.

  “How—how did you . . .”

  “Oh, it always pays to know your enemy. Find out something they don’t know. Or something they do know and would prefer you didn’t. Tends to come in handy. In your case, I thought it might prove difficult to dig up some dirt. But it wasn’t. Everyone has their secrets, I suppose.” Tusk smiled triumphantly. “It wasn’t hard. I mean, when your day job is tracking down international terrorists and weapons traffickers, digging up a birth certificate in Maine doesn’t present much of a challenge.”

  My mind was reeling. “But that was all sealed. I was a minor. And it wasn’t my fault—”

  “Wasn’t it? You didn’t exactly fatigue yourself trying to save her, did you?”

  I stared at him.

  He continued, “You know, as a general rule, I find that when one wishes to keep something secret, it’s best not to write it down. Even in one’s own diary.”

  And now I could not breathe at all. I pictured my apartment in Harvard Square, my journals lined up on the bedroom bookcase. I live alone, no need to hide them. Had Tusk come personally or would he have sent someone? Surely the latter. They would not have had to read back far to discover my deepest fear. That her death had been my fault, all my fault. The memory of that day—the blood, her little body—crashed over me. The gin bubbled back up, a hot stream searing my throat. I doubled over and retched.

  He leaned in close, his breath moist and rancid in my ear. “What kind of a person are you, Alex? But, no. Let me put this a different way. Would you like to live to have another? Would you like to live to be a mother?”

  Then he pushed the gun hard into my rib cage, bruising me.

  “Shall we take our walk, then? Straight ahead. Slowly. I’ll tell you where to go.”

  I knew that leaving a crowded place was the worst thing I could do. He would kill me for sure. My eyes darted around the bar. Perhaps I could cause a scene. Would he shoot me on the spot if I just started screaming?

  I was so busy scanning for escape routes that I did not notice the matter was now out of my hands.

  I did not notice the crowd had parted, didn’t notice it had gone quiet, didn’t notice the three new guns trained on us, didn’t notice anything at all until the voice of Ralph McNamara rang out.

  “Mr. Tusk. It’s over.”

  “AND YOU ARE?” TUSK ANSWERED coldly.

  “Captain Ralph McNamara, US Secret Service. Drop your weapon, please, sir.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that would be a good idea, Captain. If you’ll step aside, Miss James and I were just leaving.”

  “Your weapon, sir,” repeated McNamara.

  “I know it hasn’t been a banner day for you boys,” Tusk replied. “What with a nuclear bomb turning up in the White House and everything. But do you think it’s wise to compound the error by threatening a senior officer of the Central Intelligence Agency?”

  McNamara stood his ground. “Last chance.”

  “I think perhaps you’re misreading the situation.” Tusk lowered his voice. “At the Agency we work in more . . . shall we say nuanced ways than you law-enforcement types. We run double agents, for example.” Here he cocked his head in my direction. “And when the situation requires, we clean up our mistakes. Which is precisely what I am doing now. What I have been ordered to do, by someone well above your pay grade, Captain. Regrettably, national security considerations prevent me from going into greater detail. But I think you’ll find it very much in your interest, from a career-advancement point of view, not to screw up my operation.”

  McNamara hesitated. “You’re saying—you’re saying that she is a double agent?”

  Tusk inclined his head in confirmation.

  I still felt shell-shocked, but this was too much. “You’re out of your mind,” I told Tusk. “Completely out of your mind. A double agent? What two sides am I supposed to be working?”

  I turned to McNamara. “Look, you know who I am. Galloni vouched for me. I’m a journalist for the New England Chronicle. That’s it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Do whatever you need to do to me. Just please, don’t let him go.”

  We all stared at each other.

  “I think we’re finished here. Back up, gentlemen,” warned Tusk.

  But McNamara squared his pistol. “Sorry, I don’t take orders from you.”

  For a long moment we stood there, the air hot and heavy, the crowded bar hushed.

  Then Tusk shook his jacket off his arm to fully expose his gun. He held it tight against my ribs. “Too bad. It would have been easier to do this my way. One move—from any of you—and I will shoot her.” He glanced around and I could see him weighing his options.

  Then he was pushing me away from the entrance, back to the railing.

  I stopped, not sure what was happening.

  “Let’s go. Over it,” he ordered, raising the gun to my temple and hoisting his own plump leg over the edge. What, did he want me to jump? I shook my head. I’d rather be shot.

  But when I ventured a look, I saw that it was not a sheer drop, as I had imagined. On the other side of the railing was a slim stone ledge, maybe a foot wide. It appeared to circle the top floor of the building. It was invisible from the roof terrace unless you leaned right out over the rail. Tusk pushed the gun harder into my head. I climbed over.

  Now we stood side by side on the ledge, our backs pressed against the solid brick of the building. Our heads were level with the ankles of people on the terrace. They were so close, only a few feet away. But if I tried to twist away and clamber back up, Tusk would surely shoot me. And there was no margin for error here. Just a foot of ledge between us and the dizzying drop. I recalled the elevator ride up. The bar was on the eleventh floor. That meant a free fall of a hundred feet, at least. You wouldn’t survive.

  “We go this way,” Tusk said, nodding toward the front of the building. Nervousness had crept into his voice. We began to inch along.

  Above us I could see the Secret Service guards holding the crowd back from the railing. McNamara had a walkie-talkie to his mouth and was speaking fast. I concentrated on squeezing my shoulder blades against the wall and stepping as slowly as I dared.

  “What happens now?” I asked. “Do you have a plan?”

  Tusk didn’t answer. I was about to take that for a no when he spoke.

  “There are advantages to a life in the clandestine service. Such as acquiring the habit of noting every entrance and exit to a building before you walk in. Every fire escape. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, after a while. You just keep the map in your head. So. In this case, if I’m not mistaken, this ledge is going to wrap around. At the corner up there. And then your friends will no longer be able to see us. For a few seconds at least. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find our way into
a window and to a service elevator from there.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we shall see for how much longer you remain useful to me.”

  I shivered. We inched along another few steps. A bird swooped past, quite close, floating lazily on the evening breeze. My heart pounded. We were getting close to the end of the building. I glanced up at the rooftop again.

  Strange. Captain McNamara was looking right at me.

  Duck, he mouthed.

  What? I stiffened.

  “Keep moving,” ordered Tusk.

  I looked back at McNamara.

  Duck! he mouthed again, his face twisting with urgency.

  So I did.

  A bullet tore through the air. Tusk cried out and clutched his arm, the arm holding the gun. A scarlet stain erupted on his shirt. He spun around and staggered, and before I could run, before I could think anything at all, he had grabbed my wrist. He was teetering, pulling me backward, toward the edge. I dug in my heels and closed my eyes.

  And then another bullet ripped across the sky. It took me a split second to understand we were being fired on from the White House roof. This time the Secret Service sniper found his mark. The shot hit Tusk between the shoulder blades. There was a crack, lead against bone. Then a moment of perfect silence, before Tusk crumpled. I quickly wrenched my hand free. He swung his good arm, clawing behind him, grabbing for a gutter, a loose tile, anything.

  There was nothing and he fell, wide-eyed, into the gathering twilight below.

  55

  It was hours before they let me go.

  Hours of questioning by investigators representing God knows how many federal agencies. Captain McNamara stayed by my side, and he insisted that the interrogations unfold mostly in the emergency room of George Washington University Hospital, where doctors x-rayed me, sewed a long row of stitches above my left eye, and wrapped my scalp under a turban of antiseptic bandages. I was resting, propped up against a pile of pillows, when Hyde showed up. He kissed me softly on the cheek. Then he announced that unless I was under arrest, I was leaving with him.