He raised his gun hand with the aid of the other. He fired. He missed. She fired. She hit him. Two more slaps, one hit his throat, the other his cheek. Alex couldn’t see. There were only shapes and shadows. Nor could he hear except for dull echoes and a steady ringing sound that came from inside his head. He felt hurts, also dull, in his chest and in his head. He remembered, dimly, that he had been shot, but his brain told him no, it’s a dream; you’re only dreaming. That’s why you can’t see, It’s not real.
One of the shadows grew much larger than the others. It was the shadow that had started where he’d last seen the woman and it was advancing on him. It seemed to him that he knew her, that he’d recognized her, but his mind was unable to recall who she was. He leaned further back as the shadow approached him. He saw his hands rise as if of their own will and he saw two brilliant red flashes. His Beretta had bucked and tumbled onto his chest. He heard an echoing roar that seemed strangely distant. And a fountain had erupted. It was a fountain of red; it spurted upward and arced downward. He could feel its warm rain on his face. In that instant, however, the shadow enveloped him. A weight fell across him. It covered his face. It caused his head to slam backward against a hard surface. But the weight wasn’t hard. It was soft.
His mind tried to grasp what was happening to him. All was silent. All was dark. He tried to feel what was on him. He felt softness; he felt fabric; he smelled scented flesh. A woman was on him. She was lying on top of him. A part of his brain thought he had to be dreaming. A fantasy dream. He’d had them before. He liked having such dreams; he would readily admit it, although perhaps not to his wife. But they’re the dreams that a man has a right to enjoy. It’s no sin because they’re not voluntary.
This dream woman’s breasts were covering his face. He brought up his hand to try to touch them, to feel them. His groping was awkward. She must not have liked it. She began to move away. She slid down him a little and then off him. She settled into the crook of his arm. That’s okay, he thought. We’ll just lie here together. His hand crept to her cheek. Her hair had fallen across it. He tried to be gentle as he brushed it away. He stroked it. It was wet. She must be crying.
Suddenly it came to him. He knew who she was. He thought he knew why she was crying.
He whispered, “Elizabeth? You’re Elizabeth, aren’t you.”
She didn’t answer. Nor did she move. He realized that his voice sounded bubbly and scratchy. He thought that maybe she couldn’t hear him.
This began to feel more and more like a dream. He knew that that Mr. Clew had been trying to find her. He knew that she must have come here to see him. But now Mr. Clew wasn’t able to see her because…because…
Now he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think why. But he thought that must be why she was crying.
He said, “Don’t feel bad. He does want to see you. He’ll be so glad that you aren’t dead.”
He wasn’t sure that she could hear him. There was too much other noise. There were sirens, car doors slamming, people running, men shouting.
He said to her, “Elizabeth? Do you hear me, Elizabeth?”
She didn’t answer. He caressed her face again. It struck him that the shape of it was wrong. His hand was on her cheek; his thumb should have felt her nose, but her nose wasn’t where it should have been. And his fingertips found something very rough, very jagged. He reached further past her temple toward the hairline on her brow. Beyond the hairline, there was nothing, no top to her head. She was missing the top of her head.
He tried to ask her what happened. His voice sounded like gargling.
Anyway, she couldn’t answer. She had fallen asleep.
All those men shouting. He wished they would be quiet. He heard, “Holy shit” and “This one’s breathing” and “Jesus.”
He moved his hand to cover her ear. He said, “Elizabeth, it’s okay, you just rest. In the morning, Mr. Clew will buy us breakfast.”
NINETEEN
Molly Farrell was at home, in her attic workshop, using her roof-mounted night-vision camera to scan the immediate neighborhood. It was not surveillance. She was testing her systems. She did so at least once a week, in late evening, when most of her neighbors were at home.
Her attic resembled an electronics repair shop. Six monitors, ten keyboards, two satellite phones, and an electrically operated dish that rose up through a skylight when needed. The night-vision camera showed only soft greens except for the blinding white glare from lit windows. The screens of three other computers were flashing. An unusual spurt of messages had been begun coming in while she was only halfway through her checklist. She’d go through them as soon as she was finished.
The camera paused on Paul Bannerman’s house. It was four houses down from her own. Paul and Susan had bought it when Cassie was born. He had lived much more simply before he met Susan, but still within this well-protected compound. The Bannerman home, made of stone and split timbers, overlooked the waters of Long Island Sound in a section of Westport known as Greens Farms Estates.
It was one of some twenty homes in the complex. No two architectural styles were alike. All were pleasant in appearance and tastefully landscaped, but none were so grand as was implied by the name. No three-car garages, no colonnaded fronts, no gatehouses manned by private guards. They were the sort of homes bought by the moderately successful. They blended into Westport unnoticed.
Some of Bannerman’s neighbors were doctors and lawyers and others owned various businesses in town. Most of his neighbors were only that: neighbors. But some of those who ran businesses were Bannerman’s people. They had come to Westport with him and they’d stayed. Those businesses, for the most part, were entirely legitimate. Among them were a popular restaurant, an antique shop, a bookstore and a quaint bed & breakfast. There was a firm that installed home security systems and another that serviced computers. Bannerman himself had his travel agency in a double storefront on the Boston Post Road.
Molly had once run the restaurant, called Mario’s, but she’d turned it over to Billy McHugh who enjoyed tending bar there most evenings. The bed & breakfast belonged to his former landlady who had since become Mrs. McHugh. The bookstore was Carla Benedict’s project. She owned it jointly with her partner, Viktor Podolsk, with whom she also shared a modest Cape Cod just inside the pillared entrance to the compound. Podolsk, the handsome former KGB major, was thought to be the only man, ever, with whom Carla Benedict had been seen holding hands.
Such intimate displays had seemed as alien to Carla as a salad would be to a piranha. But Carla, in his presence, was unfailingly soft-spoken and bordered upon being amiable. She had been so, in his presence, ever since he recovered from the bullets that she had put in his chest in the lobby of a Moscow hotel. It had been inadvertent. She had fired at movement. Viktor, as it happened, was trying to protect her from two other gunmen who’d appeared in the lobby. Carla, who’d grown fond of Viktor by then, and who’d already lost one lover to a shooting and had carved up another with a broken wine bottle, very nearly had a breakdown, convinced that she was cursed. The black widow syndrome, someone called it.
But Viktor had survived with Carla’s encouragement. That encouragement consisted of “Don’t you fucking die,” as Carla kept pressure on his bubbling chest until medical help could arrive. Since that day, it was assumed, they had mated many times without Carla, ever once, trying to eat him.
Molly’s own home was two houses further in, a Victorian, the oldest in the complex. It was furnished with period antiques. The antiques had been gathered by Anton Zivic, the other and more senior former KGB agent. Zivic shared the house with her, but they kept separate quarters. John Waldo used her living room couch on occasion but he was always gone before breakfast. He had broken in sometime during the night, but there was never any sign of forced entry. He would leave a note telling Molly that he’d been there. The note would suggest some additional refinement to Molly and Anton’s security system. Molly would promptly install that improvement, but Wal
do always managed to subvert it.
This frustrated Molly in the extreme. She would very much like to have responded in kind, but she couldn’t because Waldo had no home of his own. He slept here and there, one night here, one night there, and had done so as long as she’d known him. His penetration was all the more galling because the security system was of her own design. It was Molly who ran the computer store and the firm that installed home security systems. Every house in the complex had one of her systems. They’d come highly recommended by Bannerman himself after Greens Farms Estates had a series of burglaries. Nothing much was ever taken because the burglar was John Waldo and Waldo was merely making a point.
All the neighbors seemed to like Paul Bannerman and his family although several had wondered and gossiped about him. They had often seen visitors come and go at odd hours. Even odder than the hours was the range of his acquaintances. Some were well-dressed, some were scruffy, some were men, some were women. Several spoke with thick foreign accents. A few stayed with Bannerman for days at a time in the apartment that was over his garage.
Molly knew that they’d wondered because they’d asked her about him. She’d explained that the visitors were tour operators mostly. Travel agents host their colleagues all the time. The odd hours were explained by the distances they’d traveled. It wasn’t a nine to five business. She knew that these answers satisfied most of them, but that many still gossiped among themselves, especially when a visitor seemed Mid-Eastern in appearance. They, like many, had been sensitized to any stranger whose features were suggestive of Islam.
Molly also knew what they said to each other because she had wired nearly
all of their homes while installing their security systems. All the neighbors had computers. Some had multiple computers. Because these were tied to their security systems, the computers were easily compromised as well. She’d installed a highly sophisticated implant that resembled the FBI’s Carnivore system. In addition, she’d developed a simpler version of the FBI’s Magic Lantern. The former allowed her to read all their e-mail. The latter recorded all keystrokes. By reading those keystrokes she could read all their passwords. She could also read any encryption codes that their owners might have employed. These implants , unlike hidden video cameras, were virtually impossible to detect.
She drew the line at installing video cameras. Security was one thing, voyeurism another. These people were her neighbors; some were friends. Nor did she eavesdrop as a matter of course. That would have consumed too much time to little purpose. It was only when a neighbor seemed unduly curious about all those comings and goings. And, as Molly would freely admit, she did it because, well…she could.
She’d especially enjoyed developing the system that she’d installed in the Bannerman house. It was overkill, really, much more than he’d asked for. There were motion detectors, external video cameras, and pressure plates on each set of stairs. There was an arrangement of different-sounding alarms depending on the nature and location of the threat. But Bannerman had told her that enough was enough. To begin with, there had never been an intrusion, not even an attempt, at least not at his residence. The various alarms had gone off several times. The greatest threats that they’d detected were some door-to-door evangelists who were alerting Westport’s residents that Jesus was coming.
The alarms weren’t klaxons; they were musical tones. The thought at the time was that musical tones would be less distressing to his daughter. Nor were they all alarms. Some were simply signals telling Paul and Susan that this or that friend was on his way. The signals had no real purpose. Paul and Susan didn’t need to be warned, for example, that Carla was about to stop by. Molly simply thought they were fun. The musical tones that signified Carla were the tum-TUM-tum cello notes from Jaws. Billy’s was a fee-fi-fo-fum. John Waldo was announced by “Tiptoe Through The Tulips.” None of them were greatly amused by those choices, but, as Molly explained, it was too late to change them because Cassie had learned them all by heart.
John Waldo has asked, “Okay, smart-ass, what’s yours?”
“Just a theme from some movie.”
“What movie?”
“Pretty Woman.”
“A hooker,” exclaimed Waldo. “I feel better.”
She completed her checklist, retracted the camera and closed up the motor-driven skylight. She sat down at the first of the flashing computers and opened the first of the messages. She muttered, “Oh, my God” as she read the text. She wet her lip and began opening the others.
They were all from different sources. All were on the same subject. Roger Clew had been attacked in his building’s garage. Some said shot, some said bludgeoned, one said both. Several said that his condition was grave and that he was not expected to live. Clew’s driver, who was with him, suffered multiple gunshots and died on his way to the hospital. A second victim, a woman, was dead at the scene. The woman was thought to be one of the assailants. Clew’s driver and the woman had apparently shot each other. The woman had seemed to be known by the driver. He’d been conscious long enough to give his own name and Clew’s. When asked about the woman, he called her “Elizabeth.” He said the words, “Elizabeth tried.”
Tried, thought Molly? Or was he trying to say Stride?
She inserted a disk. She copied all of the messages. She slid her chair to another workstation. She recalled that on the morning before this, Roger Clew had downloaded a number of files to be stored within Bannerman’s system. She inserted a new disk. She copied those as well. She slid back across the floor to still another workstation and clicked to a list of music titles. She moved her cursor up the list. She clicked on “Pretty Woman.”
It told Bannerman that she was on her way.
Cassie was still up. She’d been waiting for Molly after hearing the tones. Cassie met her at the door and greeted her in French. She exclaimed, “Ma tante jolie. Bon jour, bon jour.”
Susan’s voice called out, “She’s learning French. Don’t get her started.” She said, “Anyway, honey, it’s bon soir, time for bed. Ask Aunt Molly if she’d like to tuck you in.”
Molly saw that she and Paul were busy clearing dinner dishes. Susan asked, “Have you eaten. I can heat up a plate. Paul makes a terrific Osso Bucco.”
“I’ve had dinner, thanks. And you shouldn’t be standing,” said Molly to the hugely pregnant Susan.
“I’ll be lighter on my feet any day now,” said Susan. To Cassie she said, “Come give us a kiss. And say goodnight in English if you don’t mind.” She said to Molly, “The world already has enough problems without six year-olds speaking French. First grade. Do you believe it? Computer Science, too. The Little Bo Peep days are over.”
Molly lifted Cassie, pretending to groan, and carried her to her mother. She got her kiss and her hug and then a kiss from her father. Her father, smiling softly, looked questioningly at Molly. He saw that her eyes had flashed hard for an instant. Molly handed him the disks that she’d copied and said, “Look at these, then turn on the TV.”
Molly said to Cassie as she walked toward the stairs, “I know a very old lullaby in French. It guarantees the nicest kind of dreams.”
Cassie said, “After French, I really want to learn German. That way I’ll know what you’re all talking about. Even Grandpa Lesko speaks German.”
They did often speak German when discussing certain subjects while Cassie was within earshot. And Lesko had to learn it by total immersion after moving to Zurich with Elena.
She said, “Tell you what. I’ll teach you some German. That way you can surprise him when he gets here next week.”
“Will you teach me something nasty?”
“What for?”
“It’s fun to tease him.”
“Ahem,” came Susan’s voice from the dining room.
CNN’s Headline News already had the first reports. They were sketchy. The story was ‘developing.” Bannerman had gone through the first of the discs by the time that Molly had rejoined them. Susan had been looking over
his shoulder as he scanned the eight separate reports. She said, “It looks as if they’ve rushed to be the first one to tell you. But I guess it’s good to have friends.”
Bannerman answered, “They’re not friends. They’re just people I know. This one woman is a judge who lives in Roger’s building. This next one is a captain with the D.C. Police who says that we met a few years ago. None of them would have our home number.”
He’d no sooner said it when their phone started ringing. He made no move to answer. The phone took a message. The call was from an assistant to the Secretary of State. He said, “Sir, Mr. Leland has just heard the news. He’s anxious to speak to you. He’s saddened and shocked. You can reach him at either of these numbers.”
He listed a home phone and a cell phone.
Bannerman walked over. He shut off the ringer. He said, “That phone will be ringing all evening. Let’s let the machine take their messages for now. I’m going to call that Washington policeman.”
Bannerman had been on the phone for ten minutes. He ended the call saying, “Thanks, Greg. I owe you.” He still couldn’t put a face to that Police Captain’s name, but they had indeed met at some function years before and the captain seized the chance to be “owed one.”
He said to Susan and Molly, “Roger’s alive. He’s at the Georgetown University Hospital. He’s in surgery now. He’s in critical condition. They thought at first that he’d been shot in the face, but the X-rays only showed blunt force trauma. He’d tried to get his gun out, shot himself, just a flesh wound, but that bullet also hit whoever did this to him. They know this from the blood and the tip of a man’s finger that they found on the concrete near Roger.”
“The dead woman,” said Molly. “Tell me that wasn’t Stride.”
“It does sound as if Clew’s driver was saying her name, but the dead woman wasn’t Elizabeth. Whoever she was, she looked nothing like Stride. This woman was about ten years younger, not as tall, and her hair was dark brown, worn shoulder length. They’ve already run her prints. They have not found a match. She carried a purse, but no ID.”
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