by David Wind
“Yes,” Grange said, obviously puzzled, “it’s my professional opinion.”
Moving suddenly, Steven pulled Carla’s pistol from his waistband. At the same time, he grabbed Carla’s hair and yanked her to him. Before she or Grange could react, he pressed the barrel to the underside of her chin.
“Is that your professional opinion as well?” he asked her, his voice cracking.
Twisting her neck, Carla stared at him. Her eyes were level with his. He saw no fear in their blue depths. “I asked you a question,” he said, jabbing the metal roughly into the soft skin on the underside of her chin.
From the corner of his eye, Steven saw Grange reach for his weapon. “Don’t even think it. Just keep your hands on your lap.”
“Morrisy...Steven—”
“Shut up, Grange,” he snapped. Then he focused his attention on Carla. “You’re a good actress, Carla. You had me convinced. But I know better now. Who are you?”
“Put the gun down, and I’ll tell you.” Her voice held the same sharp tone of strength she had used earlier, when the car had missed them.
“Grange,” he said, “I want you to take out your weapon and set it on the floor. Use your left hand. Two fingers only on the barrel.” Grange complied without argument. When his pistol was on the floor, Steven said, “Carla, I’m going to let go of you. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
He released her and stood abruptly. He backed up several feet. “Sit next to her,” he told Grange, motioning with Carla’s Browning.
When Grange was on the couch next to Carla, he said, “Morrisy, we’re not your enemy, we’re your friends. I know you’re not involved in what’s been happening.”
Steven laughed at him. “But I am. I’m very involved.”
“I meant as the enemy.”
“The enemy? Grange, I don’t know who the hell the enemy is. I never have,” Steven said in a low voice. “And I’m starting not to give a damn. What I do know, is that the woman I love is lying in a hospital. She may never know who she is or who I am; two lifelong friends are dead; the FBI thinks I’m a spy and a murderer; and, earlier this morning—according to you—a Soviet terrorist hit man tried to kill me, along with a woman who claims to be my fiancée’s sister.
“And the more that these things happen, the more I feel like I’m stuck in the middle of a Hitchcock movie, as confused as the audience. So until Carla answers my question, you are the enemy.”
After a glance at Grange, Carla folded her hands on her lap. Looking directly at Steven, her face calm, her eyes clear, she said, “My name is Carla Statler. I’m an agent of the United States Secret Service, Department of the Treasury. Paul Grange is my control supervisor. My team’s assignment is to find the mole who is leaking foreign policy decisions before they can be implemented. We’ve been working on this assignment for the past nineteen months.”
She paused, took a deep breath, and then said, “My personal assignment in this case is as backup for the deep cover main operative in Senator Pritman’s office...Eleanor Rogers.
Chapter Twenty-four
Steven’s world titled madly. Of every explanation he’d considered for Carla’s presence and role, what they told him took him by surprise. He fought a short inner battle, which mixed disbelief with incredulity.
He burst into laughter; and, shaking his head at the two secret service agents, he tried not to lose what little of his sanity remained. “You almost got me. Jesus Christ, you people are good. You really do have your parts worked out to perfection. But Ellie a secret service agent? No! If Ellie was an agent I would have known.”
“She planned to tell you after the elections,” Carla said.
“Oh, yes, absolutely!” he said, his voice laden with sarcasm. “And with Ellie in the hospital, you can tell me whatever suits your fancy, because she may never be able to tell me the truth.”
“It’s the truth!” Grange snapped irritably, his voice echoing in the house.
Steven couldn’t stop his sneer. “Prove it.”
Grange exhaled his impatience and jabbed a finger toward the end table, and the phone sitting there. “301-555-8101. Ask for the director. The identification code for the day is Blue Three Silver.”
“Director of what?”
“Call the number, Steven,” Carla said.
He looked from one to the other, trying to see through their facades. Something about the two of them, he wasn’t sure what, told him to try.
He picked up the receiver, laid it on the table, and dialed the number with his left hand. All the while, the pistol in his right hand remained leveled at the agents. When he finished dialing, and heard the connections made, he picked up the receiver.
A woman answered on the second ring. “Line one priority.”
“The director.”
“Identification.”
“Blue Three Silver.”
The line went dead instantly. Several seconds later, it came on again. “Axelrod.”
Steven had no doubt that it was Julius Axelrod on the other end of the phone. He had seen the director several times at governmental functions, and heard the man’s distinct voice enough to remember it.
“This is Morrisy. One question. Who is Eleanor Rogers?” He heard the Director, Secret Service draw in a breath. “Is Paul Grange there?”
“Yes,” Morrisy said. “I want an answer.”
“Eleanor Rogers works for me, Mr. Morrisy.” Steven hung up, flipped on the safety, and lowered the pistol.
“No more games. I want to know what’s going on, and I want to know now. Start with Ellie.” Grange and Carla launched into a detailed synopsis, giving Steven the background on the case. He listened without interruption, digesting each piece of information and filing it away in a specific sector of his mind. When they finished, he knew they told him the truth. Eleanor Rogers, the woman he loved, was a Secret Service Agent.
Had it all been an act? Had she let me fall in love with her just for the sake of her investigation? Was I that easy to dupe?
He looked from one to the other. When he spoke, his voice was deadly level. “Was our engagement part of her cover?”
“Oh, Steven, no.” Carla raised her hand toward him and took a half-step forward. She stopped suddenly when he tensed. “Just before you gave Ellie the ring, we talked. She knew you were in love with her. She was in love with you. It was very difficult for her.”
“Especially if I was the mole.”
“Ellie had no doubt about you,” Grange interjected smoothly. “She tried convincing me, but she couldn’t. However, being engaged to you assured her of having access to you at all times, so we agreed to let her go ahead. It also helped to solidify her cover.”
“You agreed to let her go ahead,” Steven said, his thickening voice the precursor of a growing rage.
“That’s right,” Grange said with no hint of apology. “And it wasn’t an easy decision to make. I was faced with two bad choices: Either pull Ellie off the case because of her involvement with you; or leave a possibly compromised agent in place. My decision was based on her ability to handle her job, and to handle you.”
“In other words, you couldn’t pull her because you couldn’t replace her,” Steven said dryly.
“Not quite. If we were absolutely certain you were the mole, we wouldn’t have needed Ellie on the case any longer.”
“You have a way with words.”
“Morrisy, try to understand that there’s more to this than you know about. The focus of the operation wasn’t just Pritman. We have other operatives working on other suspects, including one operative inside the upper echelon staff of the White House. She’s being phased out now.”
Grange’s admission surprised him. “Why the White House?”
“Because the President asked for it. The White House staff has been cleared.”
“Which is why we know that what’s happening isn’t something the President or his aides have set up to discredit Pritman,” Carla added.
“Ho
w can you be that certain? You work for the man.”
“No,” Carla said in a low and fervid voice. “We work for Julius Axelrod.”
“Six weeks ago,” Grange cut in, “in an effort to pin down the mole, we set up a program of false information, which we gave to three separate committees. Each committee received a similar but slightly different version of a new foreign policy initiative. One committee was White House staff. The second committee was a senatorial committee, and the third a house committee. In each of those groups were people of whom we had reasonable suspicions. Three weeks after the meetings, the information found its way to the Soviets. Any guess as to which group?”
“Pritman’s,” Steven whispered.
“Yes,” Grange said.
“He’s not a mole and he’s not leaking information.”
“I hope not,” Grange said.
“And that’s the entire story?”
“Up to this morning’s murder attempt.”
“I see,” Steven said, thoughtfully. Then he sat straighter, and glared at Grange. “I have a few more questions that I want straight answers to. I know now how the FBI knew I was at the hospital. What I don’t know is how this man you call Anton knew I was at the motel. And why, all of a sudden, do they want me dead?”
Grange’s face went taut. He glanced at Carla, and then back to Steven. “What do you mean; you know how the FBI knew you’d be at the hospital?”
“They tapped the car phone.”
Grange seemed to think about it for a moment. “Tapping a cellular is easy. They get a direct link to the transmission tower relay. But that’s not the answer you’re looking for.”
Steven nodded. “No. It’s just an answer. Like why Carla helped me with those feds. A joint operation to make me believe in her, right Carla?”
“Wrong,” she said.
He ignored her, and spoke to Grange. “What about the attack this morning?”
Steven saw Grange staring at a spot beyond him. Then the agent closed his eyes. “Because I’m stupid,” Grange said, opening his eyes and reaching into his jacket.
With the movement, Steven lifted his pistol. His heart pounded hard again, and his finger tightened on the trigger. “Don’t!”
“Would you stop acting like we’re your enemy and put the fucking gun down! We’re on your side.” Grange withdrew a radio transmitter from his jacket. He pressed the call button. “Jamison. Sweep Morrisy’s car.”
“It’s not the staff car we had last night, it’s my own car,” Steven said.
“It doesn’t matter. If you were bugged, it would be on all the vehicles you use. You’re partially right about Carla. After they took Ellie out, Carla’s job was to keep an eye on you and to see if she could learn something about the mole.
“But we aren’t working with the Bureau,” Grange added quickly. “In fact, we still don’t know why they’re involved.”
Grange’s name crackled out of the radio. He pressed the button. “What?”
“We’ve got a positive read. Witt found the transmitter.” Grange exhaled sharply. “Pull it,” he said to the agent. “Now you have your answer. The transmitter is how they knew where you were.”
A moment later, a second voice came over the radio. “Paul, we’ve got another problem. The steering assembly and brake lines are rigged with C-3. There’s more on the gas tank.”
A cold chill raced through Steven. He glanced at Carla and saw her eyes had dilated.
“Detonator?” Grange asked.
“Not yet. I’m looking.”
“Get rid of the transmitter,” Grange ordered again.
The radio came alive again. “Paul, I can’t pull the transmitter, it’s wired to the explosives. The detonator is a remote, the charges are rigged with fail safes. There’s a hell of a lot more charges than I thought. If this car goes, it’s going to take a lot of things with it.”
“Get up here,” Grange ordered.
While he was listening to the exchange, a cog clicked into place. The blood drained from his face. Placing the pistol on the table, Steven walked to the window. The cooling ball of the sun was in its final descent, casting a dull orange-yellow glow over the mountains.
Steven tried to draw some comfort from the peaceful scene, but could not ease the tension rampant within him. “I know why.”
“Why what?”
“The change of plans—why they want me dead instead of being handed to the FBI.” He turned to Grange. “The protection you arranged for Ellie. Is it good?”
“She’s one of us, Steven. The protection is the best.”
“She’s going to need it.” Steven walked across the room, stopping before Carla. “Do you remember what happened the other night, in the hospital?”
“A lot of things happened,” Carla said, puzzled.
“One very specific thing happened. Ellie opened her eyes. She grabbed my hand and spoke. She mumbled gibberish, but if someone heard about it—”
“—they might think that she told you something, especially after you roughed up the FBI men and started to run,” Carla finished for him, her eyes reflecting the understanding of his thoughts.
“Which is why the mole is trying to kill me now. He thinks Ellie told me who he was.”
“Or he can’t take the chance she may have given you some sort of a clue,” Grange added as the other two agents came into the living room.
“How bad is it, Witt?” Grange asked the shorter of the two.
The agent Steven had seen when he’d first arrived said, “Real nasty, and very professional.” Grange’s expression wasn’t one of defeat. He introduced Witt and Jamison to Steven, and said, “There’s a way to turn this around. It’s a slim chance, but we don’t have much choice. We’re going to move the car. If some is following it, we’ll spring our own trap, away from here. But if the car isn’t being tailed, we’ll have to assume the sanction will come at the farm because the position has been marked.”
Grange paced as he drew out his plan. Steven followed it carefully, listening while Grange detailed every contingency. The supervising agent decided on using the state park to plant the car. Jamison, in an agency car, would stay a mile ahead of Witt, in the Bronco. Two other agents would trail Witt and Jamison at a five-minute interval, to see if Steven’s Bronco had a tail. There would be no contact between Witt and Jamison, and the other two agents.
When Grange finished, and gave everyone their orders, he turned to Steven. “I’m sending you to another safe house.”
“Why? If he’s looking for me, I should be here.”
“It won’t be the mole who’s coming after you.
It will be Anton, or someone like him.”
“I want to stay.”
Grange put his hand on his shoulder, and pressed gently. “I know you do. The best way for you to help is by doing what I ask. You’ll be the bait, Morrisy, but we’ll be in control.”
Steven looked past the surface of Grange’s eyes before he nodded his acceptance of the agent’s plan.
For the next ten minutes, Steven sat quietly on the couch, watching Grange efficiently set about his plan. When he was finished, and the vehicles dispatched, he reported everything to Axelrod. Only then did he sit down again.
“When did you realize Carla wasn’t Ellie’s sister?”
Steven glanced at Carla. She was regarding him with a curious stare. “There were a lot of little things which made me suspicious. But I wasn’t sure until we got here.”
“Suspicious of what?” Carla asked.
“Last night, when you took Grodin out. I thought it was a brave but stupid thing to do. I didn’t see the whole thing, but I remember the way you took his gun, and covered him. Your stance was that of someone who’s handled weapons before, but not casually or for sport. There was the matter of that,” he added, pointing to the nine-millimeter Browning on the table.
“The night when I came home and you were there. Your pistol had slipped between the cushions, and you’d left it behind. I
wondered why you would have a weapon like that. It didn’t fully register, and when everything got hectic, I forgot about it.
“This morning, when the car tried to kill us...” He paused, looked at Grange, and then back to Carla. “My first reaction was to help the people. Your first reaction was to get away.”
“Steven you don’t under—”
Cutting her off, he waved away her protest. “It’s all right, because I now know what I didn’t then. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help them, it was because you had to protect me.”
“That’s what tipped you off?” Grange asked.
“No, that’s what started to make me think about Carla. When I finished telling you about Nam, and we got into the whys and wherefore, she said, ‘It must have been difficult knowing he had penetrated the mission’s cover.’”
Steven looked at Carla. “No one uses terminology like that, not unless it’s their job.”
<><><>
Witt drove Steven’s Bronco west on the narrow two-lane highway. Jamison was a mile ahead, in one of the agency cars. They had been on the road for fifteen minutes and were in communication by walkie-talkie, using a frequency that would not affect the bomb’s detonator. Witt had seen no other vehicles for the last five minutes, and was beginning to feel the tension of driving a bomb. He thumbed the transmitter, and said, “Jamie, where the hell is the turn off?”
“Another mile or two. There’s a state park direction sign.”
Four minutes later, Jamison reported the turn off. When Witt reached it, and the sign that said the park was eleven miles farther down a narrow and tree lined road, he breathed a sigh of relief. Turning onto the narrow road, Witt drove for two miles without seeing any oncoming headlights.
Just as he was beginning to think that Grange’s crazy plan would work, headlights flared in his rear view mirror. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel of the rolling bomb. “We’ve got company,” he radioed to Jamison.
“Make out who?”
“Too far back,” he said as he slowed the Bronco. “I’m going to pull over and let him pass.”
“Wait,” Jamison ordered. “Let me flip around. Keep coming until you see my headlights, then, pull over.”
