Varneys began to pace again. “How the hell did they ever find out Austin lived there?” “Don’t know yet, sir.”
Plunking down in his desk chair, Varneys exhaled loudly, swiveled around so he was facing the windows, and stared into the gloomy overcast sky. Perrone stood stiffly, waiting in silence, hoping the inquisition was almost over. Finally, Varneys turned to face him. “It’s amazing how much you don’t know isn’t it?” Perrone studied the floor as he waited for the next salvo. “So, how did Austin take it?” asked Varneys resignedly.
Perrone’s face brightened. “The good news is that he doesn’t blame us because he doesn’t know we had his apartment under surveillance. But he’s hard to read. He acted pretty stoic. Made some weird comments. ”
“Like what?”
“He said he’d always had a special relationship with garbage. I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean.” Varneys emitted a grunt in recognition of Bobby’s sarcasm. Perrone continued, “And then, when I told him I thought it was RASI that did it— he said, ‘That should be my biggest problem.’”
“Did you ask him what he meant?”
“He just smiled at me —and thanked me for stopping by—you know, dismissively.”
“Did you see anyone else we know?”
“The Corwin lady and Christina Moore. They were both worked up over the blast.” Perrone grinned. “When Corwin introduced me to Moore, I thought Moore was going to melt into the floor.”
Varneys stood up so Perrone knew the meeting was over. “Two things, agent. When the perps don’t see any announcement of Austin’s demise, they may slip and say something somewhere that implicates them because they know who really lived in that apartment. So, we need maximum penetration on RASI. Secondly, starting immediately, I want every male working at Prides Crossing to wear a baseball cap and sunglasses just like Austin does. No exceptions.”
60
At the conclusion of Bushings weekly meeting of its most senior executives, after everyone else had filed out of the conference room, Turnbull closed the door and excitedly asked McAlister, “Did you see the news report about the explosion at that Corwin lady’s apartment?”
McAlister appeared to be almost oblivious to the question. “What are you talking about?”
“The explosion at Susan Corwin’s place.”
“Who cares? Who’s she?”
“Who’s she?” replied Turnbull. “She’s Austin’s right hand. She’s the gatekeeper I’ve talked about. It was her place. The apartment was obliterated. Too bad she wasn’t having Austin over for dinner. He would have been vaporized. Would have solved a lot of problems for us.”
McAlister smiled patronizingly. “Let’s not get draconian. We still have arrows in our quiver. I’m going to Washington for a few days to make the rounds. Shake some hands. We need to shore-up our good will with the people who make the rules.”
Turnbull’s face lit up. “Damn, I hope it works. We need a break.”
McAlister walked over to the antique chinoiserie mirror hanging at one end of the conference room and carefully adjusted his tie and studied his hair from a few different angles. “I’m going to sit down with some old friends and see if I can enlist their support. I want to get some quality time with Neil Foster, Michael Petersen and Randall Lindsay. And hopefully, Graham Waters can fit me in.”
Turnbull nodded. “You’re really going for the heavies.”
McAlister flashed his newly whitened veneers. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks, Marty.”
61
The explosion took its toll. Having come so close to death, Bobby’s paranoia increased markedly, as did his sense of urgency and reclusiveness. While previously, he had believed that the greatest threat to his physical and mental well being was posed by intangible forces, the blast in his apartment caused him to realize that he had lost the protective cloak of anonymity against more prosaic foes that he had taken for granted. It was now evident that he was an identifiable and achievable target. He was alive only because of happenstance. Every day counted —now, more than ever. He became increasingly obsessive in his work. All he thought about was how much he needed to accomplish before someone or something succeeded in taking him out.
While the blast disoriented Christina for several weeks, the anxiety that descended on her wouldn’t dispel. She had always thought Perrone was just being dramatic when he said that Bobby’s life was at risk, but now she realized how vulnerable he was. She had come very close to losing him.
Christina knocked on Bobby’s office door and went in. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, his back to the door, staring at the computer screen, chin resting against his open hand. He was so pre-occupied that he didn’t hear her come in or even sense her presence as she moved to his side.
“Bobby, it’s Friday afternoon.”
He jumped—startled by the intrusion.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that. Damn.”
Christina laughed. “A little high strung are we?” She tenderly raked her fingers through his hair. “So here’s the deal. Let’s both leave the lab by seven. I’m going to make us Steak Frites for dinner and we’ll open that bottle of Chateau Latour we’ve been saving.”
Bobby smiled and the stress began to drain from his face. “Is that the steak with the garlic butter melting on top, the way I love it?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” she replied, as she bent over to look at his computer screen. “Have you tried inserting those variables I ran this morning?” she asked.
“Later. But they look interesting.”
Standing behind him, she began to massage his neck. Eyes closed, he let his head relax forward as she continued to knead his muscles. After a while, she could feel the tension in his body ebbing and she kept it up for several more minutes until Bobby stood up and faced her, his eyes looking into hers. As their lips met, Bobby pulled her against him, one hand underneath her sweater pressing against the small of her back. Her perfume mixed with the scent of her warming skin and sent heat surging through him as her heart beat began to accelerate against his chest. Without separating, he managed to pull off her sweater and push her jeans to the floor, while at the same time, she fumbled to unbutton his shirt while unzipping his pants with her other hand. As Bobby lifted her, she wrapped her legs around his waist giving him easy entry. A few minutes later they lay entangled on the floor exhausted.
Christina had a dry Bombay Gin martini waiting in a shaker, with three olives skewered on a silver pick resting in the over-sized cocktail glass. Bobby had moved into the sparsely furnished Prides Crossing guest house after his apartment had been destroyed. The lights in the dining room were dimmed to almost nothing, and the table was set with a crisp off-white linen table cloth, candles burning in a wrought iron candelabra. She handed him his drink as he settled into the sofa. Bleary eyed from hours of reading the computer screen, Bobby sighed. “Thank God for you, and thank God for gin.”
Christina laughed. “Rough day at the ranch, huh?”
Bobby smiled. “Not without its pleasant surprises, however.”
Christina blushed and sat down close to him, resting her head against his shoulder. Snuggling into him, she planted a soft kiss on his cheek. “What a combination,” he said. “Your lips, a martini, and steak frites cooking. I could smell it across the lawn as I walked here.”
“The gin, the steak or me?”
“All three,” replied Bobby.
“And your favorite is?” she asked.
Bobby smiled. “Now you know you don’t have to ask.”
“That’s right. Because it’s the gin. I’m no fool.”
Bobby put his arm around her waist, drew her even closer to him and whispered in her ear, “I’ve known Bombay longer than you. You’ll move up. Just give it time.”
As the evening p
rogressed and the Chateau Latour was almost gone, Bobby seemed more relaxed than she had seen him in weeks, so she decided it was time.
Hesitantly, she said, “There’s something I have to talk to you about. I’ve been meaning to for a long time.” Christina could see Bobby gearing up to make a sarcastic comment—but she cut him off with a shake of her head.
“I’ll behave. Now what is it?”
Christina spoke haltingly, her voice soft. The expression on her face had turned dour. “You remember when we met?”
“How can I forget?”
She looked at him and then broke eye contact. “Well—it wasn’t really a coincidence.”
Bobby wrinkled his brow and looked at her.
Christina agonized over each word as her voice grew unsteady. “I knew you were coming to that store. So I got there ahead of you.”
Bobby’s voice lost its playfulness. “What do you mean?”
Christina answered his question with her own. “Well—how did you find out about the store?”
Recalling perfectly, Bobby replied, “From George—at Azur Reve. I told him I needed to buy some clothes—and he recommended it. He had Steve, the driver, take me there.”
“Right. And when you left the house—George must have called and told them.”
“Who’s them?” Bobby asked.
Christina’s eyes watered and her face lost its color. “The CIA guys.”
Bobby’s face reddened.
“Calvin Perrone’s crew.”
A bewildered look came over Bobby and his voice grew louder. “Perrone. What the hell does he have to do with you?”
Christina was having trouble speaking coherently, and she avoided Bobby’s searing eyes. “It’s not him really –it’s his boss. Perrone’s just doing what Varneys—the head of the CIA told him.”
Bobby’s face flushed dark red and his eyes took on a wild look. “Varneys—Orin Varneys? When did he become head of the CIA? That son of a bitch tried to destroy me when I was a kid.” Bobby stood up and began walking around the room aimlessly. “Christina—what’s going on?”
Christina began to cry as she recounted to Bobby the phony NSA letter she had received from Perrone, the nature of Project WS, the video they showed her and what she had agreed to do, and that they had set her up at Bolongo Beach so that she could meet him while he was in St. Thomas. Bobby crouched down on the floor in a corner of the room with his face hidden in his hands. When he finally looked up several minutes later, his eyes were swollen. “Why would you do that to me, Christina? Why would you betray me?”
“I never betrayed you, Bobby. Never.” Christina was having trouble catching her breath.
“How can you say that? You betrayed me from the first moment we met. It was calculated. It was a lie from the beginning. You and Varneys. Why would you do that to me? Why would you want to hurt me like that?”
Christina was shaking. “Nothing was a lie. Everything was real. All I agreed to do was meet you once. Nothing else. The deal with them was finished in that store. Everything after that was me—just me—not them.”
Bobby looked at her as if she were a stranger. “I trusted you.”
As Christina walked toward Bobby, her arms outstretched, she looked frail. “And you were right to trust me.”
Bobby turned away. “They have photos of us don’t they? Recordings of everything we said. Probably have videos.”
Christina stood alone in the middle of the room, her head bowed. “Bobby stop it. I love you.”
Bobby had now retreated into the coldness of his intellect. His words came quickly and cut with precision. “When is the mission over, Christina? Is it when we have one baby or three babies? What does it take to end it?”
“Bobby—stop it. Please.”
“And when did they transfer your fellowship from Stanford to Brown? I bet that didn’t happen until after you agreed to work with them—they wanted you real close to Boston didn’t they?”
Christina’s eyes had become wells of despair. She pleaded, “Bobby please. Stop. I love you so much. Don’t do this.”
Bobby waved his hand dismissively. “Love. How can there be love without trust?”
“I never lied to you,” she said.
“My whole life I’ve trusted almost no one. But I trusted you, Christina.”
She looked at Bobby, but saw only his narrowed eyes glaring back at her. The door slammed behind her as she ran out.
That Monday morning when Susan arrived at the lab, Bobby wasn’t there and Christina’s office had been emptied. Susan knocked on the door of the guest house and when no one answered, she went in. The remains of Friday’s dinner were still on the plates. She called Bobby’s cell number repeatedly over the next hour, but there was no answer. Finally, several hours later, he picked up her call. “Where are you Bobby?”
“I’m at a motel in Concord.” His voice sounded hoarse and tired.
“Why?”
“I had to get away.”
Susan paused for a moment, digesting his answer. “Do you know what’s going on with Christina? Her office is empty.”
Bobby shot back, “Did you know about her? Were you in on it too, Susan?”
“What?”
“She’s been a CIA plant from day one. My meeting her was no accident—it was a pre-arranged plot.”
“What are you talking about?” replied Susan.
“She admitted it. Perrone set up the whole thing. You fell for it and so did I.”
Susan’s voice rose. “Bobby—your paranoia is out of control. Where did you come up with this crazy stuff?”
Bobby’s voice was loud and strident. “She confessed it all on Friday night. She’s a CIA operative who agreed to get pregnant with my kid to fulfill Varneys’ sick vision of the future.”
“Varneys?” Susan sounded bewildered. “You mean that guy you told me about that you knew years ago?”
“Yes. Now they made him the head of the CIA. Can you believe that?”
Susan sat down, stupefied. Her mind was reeling. So that’s why Perrone made the holiday offer that was too good to refuse. I never should have had anything to do with him. I was duped. She buried her head in her hands and massaged her forehead as a throbbing headache pounded into her. “Bobby, I have to come see you. Where’s this motel? I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Susan’s car pulled up to the nondescript roadside building and she found room 327. When she entered, the air was stale and heavy with the stench of old pizza and liquor. Bobby was sitting at a little work desk which was littered with pizza boxes, plastic cups from the bathroom and an assortment of liquor bottles. Looking despondent, it was obvious he hadn’t shaved or showered in several days. “You look terrible. This place is a real dump.”
“Who gives a crap?”
Susan pulled over a chair and sat down opposite Bobby. “Look. The CIA is what they are and I won’t argue with you about them. But I’ve gotten to know Christina really well and I don’t buy what you’re saying. Tell me her side of the story.”
Bobby picked up one of the plastic cups and downed whatever was in it. “She told me on Friday night. We were sharing a nice bottle of wine and then she got very serious and told me she had to unburden herself and she did.”
“And she said what?” Susan asked.
“That she agreed to meet me at Perrone’s request because the CIA wanted her to have kids with me to propagate my intellect.”
Susan raised her eyebrows.
“She said they showed her some tear-jerk video that convinced her. She says she only agreed to meet me once, nothing more.”
“And you don’t believe her?”
Bobby shook his head and picked up another plastic cup that was half full.
Susan’s face
flushed red. “So what was the last thing you said to her? Tell me the exact words.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Bullshit Bobby. You can remember the serial number on your parents’ computer from when you were three years old. Tell me what you said to her.”
Bobby downed whatever was in the plastic cup and stared at the half-empty pizza box in front of him. “I think I called her a lying scheming whore who betrayed me and ruined my life.”
Susan got up from the chair and slammed it against the desk. “You sanctimonious son of a bitch. God help me to keep from slapping your face.” She walked to the other side of the small room and just stood there, glaring at him. Then she bounded back and stood over him, looking down at him with disgust. “You need to get over yourself, mister. You’re so damn self-righteous and judgmental. Stop thinking you’re the only good person in the whole world.”
Bobby looked up at her. “What are you getting so huffy about? So she’s right and I’m wrong—it’s that simple for you? Somehow she’s the victim.”
“Bobby—did Christina ever talk to you about her childhood? Did you ever wonder why she was so knowledgeable about night terrors and could bring you out of them so well?”
“We never talked about that.”
“Well—she talked a lot to me. Maybe it’s easier for women to talk to women about some things. Or maybe you just never cared enough to really engage her in a discussion. Christina’s step-father started raping her at age nine. It went on for five years. He got her pregnant. That’s when her mother finally threw him out. After the abortion, Christina had a breakdown. She tried to kill herself twice when she was fourteen. It took years for her to rebuild the self-esteem that bastard destroyed. That’s the girl you accused of being a lying whore and chased away. You know Bobby—you’re not the only person in the world who’s had hardship and suffered. You need to get off your high horse.”
Miracle Man Page 26
