by David Wind
Shortly after the new field control supervisor arrived in Pittsburgh, he’d discovered none of the agents had seen Morrisy or Statler since they’d found the car. He had further found out that Morrisy and Statler had not made any calls from the room, nor had they ordered any room service.
By six, Grange’s replacement decided it was time to make sure about Morrisy.
He went to the room. When there was no answer to his knock, the supervisor and his team went in. It was empty; the beds had never been used. He’d called in on Priority One.
After Axelrod issued a code two alert—a check on all car rental agencies, the airport, buses, and taxis—the director called Coblehill, who was still awaiting the results of the alert query.
Coblehill took another generous drink of the brandy-laced coffee. He’d had bad feelings about this operation from the outset. Every day the mole remained free, more problems arose.
The retired general found himself thinking about the attack on the Chinese ambassador, earlier that night. It was as if he didn’t have enough problems to face already. Murphy’s law, he decided.
With a little luck, the newspapers would report what they were told, which was that while the Chinese diplomat had been having dinner in Georgetown; his driver had been parked a few blocks away, and had been smoking in the car. Apparently, there had been a gas leak.
It was thin, he knew, but it was the best they’d been able to come up with. Because it was so obvious, it just might work. Besides, Xzi Tao had refused to comment at all, except to say the attack came from the Potomac and he expected the authorities to conduct a full-scale investigation.
Before his thoughts could darken further, his phone rang. He glanced at the phone board. His private line was blinking. He depressed the speaker button. “Coblehill.”
“Amos,” came Julius Axelrod’s voice. “We found out how they got away. They rented a car, and not under Morrisy’s name. It was Statler who signed the papers.”
“But—”
“Exactly,” Axelrod said. “Our people never expected the car to be rented by one of us. They figured that if Morrisy wanted another car, she would set it up so he would have to rent it.”
“Could he have forced her?”
“No. She knew what she was doing. She must have assumed we’d check for both of them, not just Morrisy. Why else would she have put the Priority One telephone number on the rental papers?”
“What now?”
“They’ve been out of contact for eighteen hours. Time’s running out. We have no choice but to find out how the Bureau got into this. We need to know who their contact is, why they’ve kept us in the dark, and then we sift through every last bit of their information.”
“There’s only one way to do that,” Coblehill said with obvious resignation.
“I know that, Amos,” Axelrod replied.
Coblehill sighed expressively, and dialed a number known only to a handful of people in the world. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mr. President, but...”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Opening his eyes slowly, Steven focused on the fractured rays of sun slanting through the small opening between the barely meeting drapes. He started to turn, but a flash of pain stopped him. Then he remembered.
Very carefully, while lying on his stomach, he shifted his body on the bed so his legs came off first. He slid from the bed to his knees and, grabbing the mattress for leverage, stood.
There was pain with every movement, but less intense than last night. He looked around. The room was empty. Where was she? As he started forward, he saw a note stuck on the mirror. Went to the store. 7:00 a.m.
He checked his watch. It was five to eight. He walked gingerly to the bathroom, used the toilet, and looked in the mirror. There was a bandage on his cheek. She must have done that after he’d passed out.
Peeling back the corner of the gauze, he gazed at the plaster tape Carla used to butterfly the jagged cut together. It was a professional looking job and, with a little luck, the scar wouldn’t be too bad.
He washed what he could of his face, and rinsed his mouth with cold water. No sooner had he shut the faucet off than the room’s door opened and closed.
He turned cautiously. Carla stood there looking at him. She held two bags; one was small and white, the other larger and brown.
“What?”
“Codeine and antibiotics,” she said, holding up the smaller bag first. When she lifted the larger one, she added, “Coffee and rolls.”
He held back a surge of anger. By going out, she had put them into danger. “I asked you not to call anyone.”
“You need medication for the burns. I called Joshua. Steven,” she quickly continued before he could interrupt, “he was on duty last night. He arranged with another doctor to call in the prescriptions. It’s all right.”
“And Ellie?” he asked, knowing Joshua would have sent some word.
She shook her head. Her eyes did not quite meet his. “No change. But there are two agency people with her at all times.”
Steven exhaled softly. Too much time was passing, and Ellie was not recovering from the coma. It wasn’t good. He shook the thought away and concentrated on his own problems. “We can’t take the chance that Joshua’s phone was tapped, or that someone was watching him. We’ll have to get out of here.”
“I covered myself,” Carla stated. “I called Joshua from a pay phone, and gave him a number to call. He called me back from a pay phone in the hospital lounge. We’ll be all right, for a while. But we’ll leave soon. I turned the car in and got another in case they made the first one.”
The tension eased. She had made the right move. He went over to one of the chairs, and sat on the edge of the cushion. “How could he have known about the meeting? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Carla didn’t answer. She put the brown bag on the table and removed two covered Styrofoam coffee cups and two wrapped rolls. She opened the other bag and took out an amber prescription bottle with a white twist cap. She got a glass of water from the bathroom, and brought it to him with two codeine tablets and an antibiotic.
He took the antibiotic, but said, “Not yet,” to the codeine.
They ate the light breakfast in silence and, when they finished, Steven stood. His wounds and the confinement of the motel room made him feel vulnerable. “I want to get out of here.”
Carla nodded. “After I change the dressings.”
It took her a quarter of an hour to put on the fresh bandages. When she finished, she insisted Steven take the painkillers. This time he didn’t argue.
While Carla put their things together, Steven went to the dresser and picked up the phone.
“What are you doing?” Carla asked, alarmed.
“I have to make a call.” He dialed information, got the number of the FBI, and called. An operator answered, and he asked for Agent Blayne.
The operator informed him that Blayne was not in. Steven asked for the supervisor on duty.
A sharp edged voice came on the line, identifying himself as Conklin. “I need to speak with Agent Blayne,” Steven said.
“Agent Blayne is not in. May I take a message?”
“Can you get me through to him?” Steven asked.
“He’s in the field. Who—”
Steven cut him off. “This is Steven Morrisy. Will that help me get through?”
There was a hesitant pause, and then, “Give me a number. I’ll have Blayne get back to you.”
Steven exhaled in annoyance. “Don’t be an ass, Conklin. Give Blayne this message. Tell him his source is corrupt. Tell him to find out why.”
“And he’s supposed to believe you?”
“I really don’t give a damn if he does or not—that’s his problem. But he and all of you are being played like puppets. I’m not the one you’re looking for. Tell Blayne it’s either his source, or someone who’s feeding his source.”
“Morrisy—”
Steven hung up abruptly and turne
d to Carla. “Let’s go.”
“They may not have had enough time to trace the call.”
“Yes they did. The minute I gave him my name, he activated a computer trace. If he doesn’t have this number already, he will within the next few minutes.”
When they were on US 1, four and a half minutes later, Steven said, “The one good thing about last night was that I learned the mole is definitely not Chinese.”
Carla shook her head. “Of course not. I told you the mole is Russian.”
Steven smiled. He felt a tugging in his cheek. “No, it’s smoke and mirrors. You, your agency, and everyone else looking for the mole is working under a false premise. Someone who has an intimate knowledge of the workings of our intelligence community is making it appear to be a Soviet mole leaking secrets. Whoever he is, he is not an agent of a foreign power.”
Stopping for a red light, she turned to him. “How can you be so certain?”
“There’s no other explanation—at least not in my mind. Why didn’t you leave last night, when I asked you to?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“I couldn’t.”
He smiled. “Semper fi?”
Her mouth tightened; she stared directly into his eyes. “No, you. I...I care for you Steven.”
Caught by surprise, he could only stare at her. He wanted to say something, to tell her it couldn’t be, but he sensed she knew so already.
He nodded, and she started driving. A half block later, he pointed to the Beltway.
“Where are we going?”
“To Greyton.”
The sun had set three hours before Steven and Carla crossed Greyton’s town line. The air was freezing. Gusts of wind threw random snowflakes against the windshield. For most of the trip, Steven had given himself over to seeking out an answer by backtracking through his mind. The only answers he found were too outrageous even to consider.
Nevertheless, he had to start considering any possibility, he told himself as they passed into the more populous outlying area of Greyton. Time was running out. It was Monday evening. A week had passed since they’d pulled Ellie out of the frozen lake.
A half mile before downtown Greyton, Steven instructed Carla to turn onto Edmond Street. Banacek’s house was the third on the left.
When Carla shut off the ignition and looked at Steven, he accurately read the fatigue drawn over her features. “Are you ready for this?”
“Do we have a choice?”
“No.”
Leaving the car, they went up to the front door. Steven felt the pain kick in again as the effects of the codeine wore off. He’d take more when they left Banacek.
Banacek opened the door before Steven could knock. He stood in the doorway, his barrel chest expanding the uniform shirt to its maximum.
“Good evening, Sheriff,” Steven said. “This is Carla Statler.”
Banacek looked Carla over from head to foot. “I thought it was Rogers,” he said, stepping back to let them enter.
“No, it’s Statler,” she told him, her voice weary. She opened her purse and extracted a slim leather case, which she held up for Banacek’s inspection.
He looked at the identification. “Sure has been a lot of federal tin around here lately. Why don’t we talk inside?”
The sheriff led them into the large and cheerfully decorated room. Steven and Carla sat on wooden spindle-back chairs at a highly varnished pine table while Banacek poured three cups of coffee.
Once the sheriff joined them, he said, “I called the number you gave me. Spoke with the director. He asked me to go along with you for now. But I’d sure like you to bring me up to date on what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Steven matched Banacek’s somber expression. “I’ll tell you what I can,” he said, and detailed most of the events of the past week, culminating with last night’s attack on Xzi Tao and himself.
When Steven finished, Banacek lit a Camel filter and took a deep drag. “If Miss Rogers was Secret Service, why in the hell was the FBI involved in this?”
“We’re not sure,” Carla said. “Our best guess is the person we’re looking for is using the Bureau as a smoke screen. Because of the delicacy of our operation, we couldn’t and still can’t let them know about Ellie, or us.”
“Do you think Blayne will believe the message you left for him?” Banacek asked Steven.
Steven shrugged. “Realistically, no. But I can always hope. Sheriff, where’s Ellie’s ring?”
“At my office.”
“What about the home owner listings?”
Banacek studied Steven’s face for a moment. “To be frank, I didn’t know when you would show, or even if you would, and I wasn’t so sure that I was going to bother. I’ll have something for you by tomorrow, late morning. They buried Londrigan and Lomack yesterday.”
Steven stared at a small picture on the wall behind Banacek. “I hope no one else will be hurt.”
“So do I.”
“We’ll be going now,” Steven said, standing. “We’ll be at my house.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
Steven shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any,” he said leading Carla out.
Just before ten, Carla turned the car onto Steven’s long single lane drive. His nerves were on edge; although he’d put up a front of bravado with Banacek, he wasn’t overly sure if he was ahead of the mole or not.
As Carla drove slowly up the drive, the headlights on bright, Steven took the nine-millimeter from beneath the seat while studying the illuminated snow-covered drive.
He felt a small measure of relief when he saw no tracks in the snow that had fallen sometime during the week. He also knew the absence of tracks wasn’t proof there had been no visitors. Tracks could be covered.
Carla stopped at the garage door and looked at him. He took out a set of keys and nodded. They left the car together, both of them armed.
After opening the door, they searched the house cautiously, making sure there were no unexpected surprises. Following their search, Steven drew all the shades and curtains, in an effort to keep the house looking unoccupied. He knew there would be telltale signs of occupancy, but he did his best anyway.
Once certain everything was okay, they brought in their bags and the groceries they’d picked up after leaving Banacek. He’d taken a painkiller at the store, and the pain had receded to bearable limits.
After putting the car in the garage, they stood in the center of the living room where Carla looked around. “It suits you.”
“Tired?” Steven asked.
She shook her head. “I could do with some more coffee.”
Steven turned on the boiler and reset the thermostat while Carla made coffee. She brought the pot into the living room, poured the coffee, and set the glass carafe on the table.
Then she walked to the fireplace and looked at the photographs lining the mantel. Steven followed her every move, waiting patiently until she returned to the couch and sat near him.
“Now,” Carla said, turning her upper torso to him.
“Now what?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“You asked me to be patient and trust you. I think I’ve been both. Now, I want to know what you’ve got in mind. And why you’re so damned certain we’re wrong about the mole.”
Steven glanced at the desk where he’d been working when he’d gotten Savak’s phone call last Monday. Had it only been a week since they’d found Ellie? So much had happened that Steven found it hard to believe—and all of it connected to what had brought him here in the first place.
“You’re right. It is time. But you’ll have to bear with me.”
“I’m all ears.”
Steven looked across the room, to the photo of Ellie and himself. “In order to understand why your mole is after me, I’ll have to go back to when I started in politics. I’d been in private practice for two years, working with the local people and about as happy as I thought I would ever be.
“Arnie Savak came home one weekend to visit. He reminded me of our talks in the POW camp in Nam, and after.” Steven met Carla’s eyes. “When we were in the hut together, those last few weeks, we used to spend hours trying to figure out how, if we ran America, we could stop war and bring some form of peaceful stability to the world.”
“Fantasy politics.”
“Call it what you want, but we came up with a working theory—under optimum circumstances of course.
“Until Savak came to me, I’d never really thought about it after leaving The Nam. But that weekend he brought it up, and told me he was working on it. He outlined everything, including the man who he believed could pull it together—Philip Pritman. We spent three days talking, arguing, and remembering. Before Arnie left, I agreed to join the senator’s team.”
Steven drank some of his coffee. “It was the best decision I’d made in years. I love Washington, and love the ability I have to help get things done. Between Savak and myself, we were able to guide the senator toward the very things we’d been striving for.”
Carla leaned forward eagerly. “Entente.”
She said the word almost like an invocation. Steven nodded without feeling any surprise that Carla knew. “I imagine Ellie gave the agency as full a report as she could.”
“Which wasn’t much. Something to do with parallel pacification treaties.”
“We kept it close to the vest. Just Savak, Pritman, and myself. Simon Clarke knows some of it, but not the real scope or the basis behind the proposal.”
“What is Entente?”
Steven moistened his lips. He had been keeping the secret for so long that talking about it to Carla felt like betraying a trust. Then he realized how paranoid and foolish his thinking had become over the last few years. “Entente is an extremely complicated method of turning adversaries into allies by making a political aggressor into a defender.”
Carla shook her head. “Which means what…a reworking of the political doctrines which have been with us for ages?”
“Yes and no. Entente has always been with us, but this time we’ve evolved it far from its roots and mistakes of the past.”
