“Glad they’re on the first floor.”
A nonsmoker, Matteo cracked his window to create a cross breeze. “Why?”
“Things could get tight on the second. Limited access from two directions. I like the first floor better.”
“Well, Opie, you get your wish.”
“Don’t call me that.” Sammy stopped when another car matching theirs swung past and pulled in at short end of the motel. “There’s the rest of the guys.”
“I see them.”
“What do we do now?”
“Knock on the door.”
“That’s pretty smart.”
Matteo shrugged at the sarcasm. “The drapes are closed.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Agent Matteo coughed softly and cracked his own window for more ventilation. “Good point.” He rested suddenly nervous fingers on the butt of the Colt Python hanging under his left arm. “Let’s wait a minute.”
Chapter Seventy-eight
“They’re here.” Ned stood and shrugged on his barn coat that was much warmer than the sport jacket he usually wore. He picked up a shotgun and patted the heavy shells sagging his outside pocket. He didn’t need to check the .38 in his holster. It was always loaded and there were more than enough rounds bulging the other pocket.
Tom Bell came out of the bathroom to the sound of the flushing toilet. “Folks need to learn how to flush after they pee. Whoever had this room didn’t believe in pushing that little lever.”
He hefted the other pump shotgun, checked the loads, and peeked around the heavy drapes in Room One. “I can barely see through all this falling weather. There’s one government car backed in over across the lot. Another drove down to the far end by our room. How do you want to play this?”
Ned’s stomach that had been rolling steadied. It was finally time. “I just want one man to get us through those gates.”
“I’m not sure how this one’s gonna work. Hang on. I have an idea.” Tom Bell put the Remington pump back on the bed and removed his hat. “Follow me close so they don’t see that barn coat and we’re gonna just walk up while they’re trying to get through that door.
“What’re you doing?”
“We’re gonna let them look down the muzzles of these shotguns and persuade one of ’em to go along with us.”
“If that don’t work?”
“Why, they’ll try to shoot us, but bunched up as they are, I believe these scatter guns’ll level ’em all.”
“We need one alive.”
“I hope it works out that way.”
Chapter Seventy-nine
Agent Matteo glanced up at the Holiday Inn sign as if its familiarity would settle his nerves. Opie’s cigarette butt went out the cracked window, and it was time. Nerves vibrating like guitar strings, Matteo yanked the door handle and stepped out of the car and pointed at Room Twelve. “Let’s go.”
Four agents piled out of the other car and drew their weapons. They split up on both sides of the door and Agent Matteo rapped his knuckles on the blue door of Room Twelve. “Federal agents.”
Nothing moved behind the drapes.
“Federal agents. Open up!”
When there was still no response, redheaded Agent Fontaine backed up and gave the door a kick. The steel frame refused to yield, and he kicked it again while the other agents kept their eyes directed at the knob.
Matteo glanced around to see what kind of crowd they might be drawing. Through the heavy snow, he saw an old white-haired man with a cane and an overcoat make his slow, creaky way out of Room One beside the motel’s office.
Seeing no threat, he followed the others.
Chapter Eighty
Ned Parker followed Tom’s lead and kept the old Ranger between him and the shotgun that he carried. They’d barely stepped off the walkway and onto the drive when they heard a shout.
“Mr. Ned.”
Tom tensed and almost raised his own shotgun held low against his leg. “It’s you, Ned.” Tom never took his eyes off the cluster of agents with their backs to him. He paused, not frightened, but curious.
Ned spun on his heel. The stranger’s attention flicked back and forth between the twelve-gauge pointed at his stomach and the agents who finally breached the door and poured inside.
“Don’t shoot me, gentlemen. I’m with you and we have to move now. Mr. Ned, you need to come with me.”
“I saw you in the waiting room back at St. Joseph Hospital.”
“My name’s Mr. Brown. We only have a few seconds before those guys come pouring back out. They’re here to kill you. Y’all have to come with me right now before they realize what happened.”
Ned shot a look toward the opposite end of the parking lot. The only thing to see was snow, blue doors behind a veil of falling snow, and one dark opening where they’d kicked their way into Room Twelve. It was the familiar reference of ‘Mr. Ned,’ an age-old title of Southern respect that made his decision.
“Let’s go, but don’t run. Just follow me.” Mr. Brown led them to a Mercury Cougar parked on the street around the corner of the coffee shop. “Get in.”
Ned raised his eyebrows at Tom Bell, who returned the expression. “Constable, the situation has become fluid. You ride in the front.”
Mr. Brown steered onto the street while the confused agents stood in the parking lot, scratching their heads, eyes searching the motel’s doors and windows.
Ned twisted so his back was against the fender. “I don’t believe I know you.”
Mr. Brown glanced toward his passenger and then back to the rutted, icy road. “I’m one of the guys you’re looking for.”
The old constable’s face hardened and he reached for the .38 on his belt. Tom Bell’s voice came soft over the seat. “Ned. I’ve got this .45 pointed at his back. Let’s hear what he has to say, then you can kill him if you want to.”
Mr. Brown swallowed. “Let me explain.”
Ned threw a look out the back window to see if they were being followed. “You better drive real careful.”
“That’s my intention. Look, I’m going to get some distance between us and those guys back there, then we can talk.”
“You with them?”
“Yes and no.”
“You’re gettin’ closer to Hell every second.”
“Yes, I’m CIA, and they are too, but they’re here to either kill you or take you into custody. I’m not with them. Not anymore. I’m trying to help you.”
“Murderers don’t kill people one week and then help them the next.”
“You’re right about that.” Mr. Brown took a left and merged onto the icy highway. Only one lane was passable and he fell in line with other drivers leaving Washington. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and back through the windshield. “People weren’t supposed to die. I went to your town as part of my job, but I was lied to.”
“That’s what you say.”
“Look, I know you’re going to find it hard to believe me, but I’m telling you the truth. I’m trying to do what’s right here.”
Ned angled his head to see Tom’s .45 pointed at the driver just as he’d said. He forced himself to relax and settle back. “Go to talkin’, but first tell me where you’re from.”
“Texas, sir. Gilmer.”
“How could an East Texas boy turn out like you?”
It was evident the question stung. Mr. Brown stared past the rhythmic wipers and followed the single-file line of cars creeping through the storm. He told them everything that had happened from the time they arrived at Curtis Gaines’ airplane hangar, to his final change of heart outside of the roadhouse. He explained Gold Dust, what it was supposed to do, and how it had mutated.
They listened without interrupting as Mr. Brown talked, though Ned’s face stayed beet-red in anger. His explanation ended when an exit appeared. “W
e’re getting off here.”
Ned squinted into the storm. “Where we going?”
“To a safe house.”
“What’s that?”
“A place in the country that I’ve rented for a few years.”
Ned rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. He wasn’t in charge and it aggravated him to depend on someone else. “Where is it?”
“No. I’ll tell you more when we get there.”
Tom Bell slipped the Colt back into its holster. “I’m putting this up. That don’t mean I believe you.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Mr. Brown said and turned again, leaving the city behind.
Chapter Eighty-one
“How’d that happen?” Agent Joe Hill felt his blood pressure rise. The familiar burn of stomach acid rose in his throat.
Agent Matteo stood on the opposite side of the polished desk, hands folded in front of him. His gaze kept slipping off Hill’s flashing eyes and toward the snow-covered trees outside. It had stopped for the moment and a flock of small birds swept through the sky like a school of fish in the ocean. He felt like a fish separated from the school, easy prey.
The operation at the motel was his, and his failure was unforgiveable. The only thing he could think to do was shift the blame and hope Hill saw a glimmer of truth in his story.
“I think someone tipped them off.”
“I’m listening.”
“This whole thing smelled from the outset, sir. It looks like those two old guys aren’t who they say they are. They’re too good, and they stay one step ahead every time we get close. Opie, I mean Agent Fontaine, agrees. We feel they may be working for another organization.”
Agent Hill leaned back the chair and picked up the cold briar pipe on his desk. He bit down on the stem. “So you think the Russians are behind this?”
“Not at all. I’ve talked to a couple of the other guys. We think it’s another agency here in the Company.”
“Another department in this building?”
“We considered that possibility, but it didn’t make sense. At first we thought it was an overlapping department, not realizing they were in our territory, but that’s not it. I…we…think it’s a different black team that’s gone rogue.”
Hill swiveled in his chair and clicked the pipe stem against his teeth, studying a photo beside his desk lamp of him with a glistening McCloud trout. Written in ink across the image was, “You’re saying it’s an overlap.”
“That’s the only thing that makes sense. Our theory is they’d been monitoring the Gold Dust mission, and when it went south they saw an opportunity to take us down. You know as well as I do that our financial allocations have taken a hit the past couple of years, with most everything focused on the war in Vietnam.
“Somewhere along the way, word got out about what we were doing, and when the bacteria got out of hand, they pounced. They’re taking out our guys, or turning them. I don’t trust half the people in the other suits.”
“You realize Parker is nothing but a small-town cop.”
“He was. But we found out that a significant amount of the Gold Dust operating funds are missing. Some were paid out, but when the accountant got involved, he noticed that the payouts from Mr. Brown were much higher than other operations. Maybe cash turned him and Parker. Money does that.
“In my opinion, Mr. Brown paid this Parker guy to look the other way, but when his grandkid nearly died, he decided to take matters in his own hands. No amount of money can replace a child.”
“That part I do know. Parker called me.”
Surprised, Agent Matteo paused. “How’d he get your name and number?”
“Not just the number, my extension too. That gives credit to your idea of a rogue team. He’s saying one thing, that he’s looking for whoever coordinated the mission, but at the same time, he runs into some of our best men who were assigned to take him out…”
“See, this guy’s a ghost! He knows more than he should.”
“There’s holes all through this thing, and a dozen amateur slipups.”
“That’s my point.” Matteo’s eyes returned to the window and the flock of birds swooping in unison. “The other old guy must be a pro, but we think he’s not alone. Most likely an operative who came out of retirement, and he’s good, too. We still have one agent missing from the team that was supposed to take them out in Tyson’s Corner, and then failed again in the row house. The whole thing’s suspicious. It looks like Agent Larry Brimley’s working for them. In my opinion, that’s how they managed to kill the entire team.”
Hill lit the pipe with a paper match. “Back to the motel.”
“Yes, sir. I called the mission a go, and we moved on the motel room. It was snowing hard. Those steel doorframes are a bitch, but we finally got in and the room was empty. We canvassed the entire motel, but found out they’d disappeared only minutes before we arrived. See, they know our schedule right down to the minute.
“We spoke to everyone, from the manager on down. The manager said he saw two old men leave with a younger man while we were in the target room. We think it was Brimley or Mr. Brown.”
“I don’t see the connection. It doesn’t make sense for either one of those guys to wait until then, and Agent Brimley’s possibly wounded.”
“It does to us. Again, money. Brown’s gone rogue, pulled Brimley in, and they tipped the old men off we were closing in. We think they’re after you, and then they saw you weren’t with my team, they disappeared to wait for another opportunity to take you out.”
Hill realized his pipe had gone out and lit it again. He swiveled in his chair to study a second large photo on the wall of him kneeling and holding a fat trout in the same Missouri creek. An unfamiliar feeling of unease coiled in his stomach, knowing someone higher in the Company was looking for an opportunity to take him down for the Gold Dust fiasco. He’d never been personally targeted, but had seen it happen more than once. “Let’s say you’re right. Now what?”
Agent Matteo shrugged, uncertain. “That’s the part we haven’t figured out. If it was me, I’d be trying to learn more names. Real ones. ”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Let me know the minute any new information comes to light.”
“Yes, sir.” Relieved that he might have saved his job with a partially manufactured story and conjecture, Agent Matteo spun on his heel and left.
Agent Hill puffed his pipe. The whole failed mission was spinning out of control. He was too close to retirement for such an issue. For the first time in his career, he was going to kick this one upstairs.
The pipe stem clamped in his teeth, he rolled a sheet of blank paper into his IBM Selectric typewriter and wrote his resignation. Finished, he yanked it out and signed it with his Christian name.
With that done, he leaned back and reflected on how long it had been since he’d been fishing in his favorite Missouri creek, the Crane.
Chapter Eighty-two
The storm slacked off and the picturesque Virginia countryside was directly opposite the bustle of Washington. Leafless branches loaded with snow reached for the cloudy sky, making Ned homesick. Travel was slow on the buried two-lane road that wound like a snake through the rolling countryside.
Low rock walls stacked by the hands of slaves matched the length of the highway, defining the property lines of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses set well back from the road. The CIA agent ignored their glowing windows and concentrated on keeping the car between the ditches on the treacherous, icy road. Other cars and drivers hadn’t been as lucky. More than a few abandoned cars were sideways in the ditches. One had plowed through one of rock walls.
It was dusk when Agent Brown turned onto a trackless driveway and killed the engine beside a dark farmhouse. Ned and Tom Bell stepped out, keeping their weapons close at hand as Mr. Brown unlocke
d the door. They entered the house that smelled musty from disuse.
Ned unsnapped his holstered pistol, just in case. “What’d you call this place?”
“A safe house I maintain. Not even the Company knows about it. We have to be gone in the morning, though. We can’t take any chances by sitting still.”
Once inside with an alarm set, Mr. Brown moved around the kitchen, closing the blinds. “How’d you pull that off back there at the motel?”
Ned’s attention never wavered from the agent. He didn’t trust the man any farther than he could throw him. “Wasn’t anything to it. Tom here saw a couple that rented the room for only a couple of hours.”
Mr. Brown frowned. “I don’t get it.”
Tom Bell grinned. “They went in without any luggage. I waited about fifteen minutes and knocked on the door. They were…how do you say it?…in flagrante delicto. That’s Latin for—”
“I know. A misdeed.”
“Indeed. Folks caught with their pants down, or off, tend to do what an officer of the law says. I suggested they leave right then and go back to their own spouses, and we kept the room.”
Shaking his head, Mr. Brown adjusted the thermostat and the farmhouse rattled as the furnace in the basement bellowed glorious heat smelling of burned dust. “I saw what you were doing. So your plan was to ambush those guys and kill them all?”
“Not all of ’em.” Ned hung one arm over the back of the chair and crossed his legs as if they were having a family discussion back in Miss Becky’s kitchen. “We were gonna take one of ’em with us, whether they all surrendered, or there was only one left breathin’.”
“But lawmen can’t do that, Constable.” Mr. Brown lit a cigarette, shook the match out, and dropped into an ashtray from the Washington Diplomat Motel.
“You’re not one to be talking about rules and what the law can and can’t do.”
Gold Dust Page 27
