by Taylor Smith
Are you saying he was hysterical?
He was scared…terrified. But so what? We all were.
I see. So what you’re saying is that Drummond MacNeil—son of Naughton MacNeil, a five-star general, one of the great American military men of the twentieth century—Drummond MacNeil panicked under fire.
That’s such a crock. He’s been getting that his whole life, you know, that “son of the great general” bull. He could never just be himself. He always had to live up to what his father had done. It’s not fair.
Yeah, well, who said life was fair? It had to have been humiliating, though. He was the CIA Station Chief, after all. A guy in that position has a rep of his own to maintain.
It didn’t mean anything! He was in shock. We all were. For God’s sake, there were body parts everywhere. We had to step over severed arms and legs and heads just to get down the stairwell. Anyone would have panicked. That’s what I told him.
What you told him when? When he was trying to run away? Or later, when he realized he’d lost it?
Nobody saw. He pulled himself together and we went back to help the others. Nobody else saw what happened.
But somebody did see, Carrie. You did. His pretty young wife, who looked up to him and who he was so proud of. You saw him fall apart, shaking and cringing and trying to run away like a coward. He must have been crushed.
So is that why the marriage went sour? Because he hated the reflected image of himself he saw every time he looked at you, knowing how he’d behaved that day?
I never, ever made anything of it or held it against him.
It wouldn’t matter. He knew he’d lost face. That would be enough.
I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe that’s why he stayed out so much. Why—
Pardon…? Carrie, once again, I have to ask you to speak up.
All that time.
All what time?
Damn. You know, I always thought it was my fault he worked such long hours—and that he looked for company elsewhere. With other women. My fault, because I was preoccupied with the baby. I thought it would get better once Jonah got a little older, but when we came back to D.C. after Africa, Drum just dumped me in that house with his mother and a toddler and he disappeared, for all intents and purposes. After a while, I guess I became resentful and less inclined to pay attention to him even when he was there, so he stayed away even more.
So maybe it was a combination of the baby and the bomb?
I guess so, a little of both. All I know is that I was wondering why I was bothering trying to be a wife when he seemed to have so little interest in us as a family. When he was posted to London, though, I saw it as a chance for a new beginning. After all, we’d been happy on our last posting—most of it, anyway. It didn’t turn out that way, though. It was just more of the same.
And so you came home and made the appointment with the lawyer.
Yes.
It didn’t occur to you that there might be a better way to solve the problem.
What do you mean?
Widowhood would be more lucrative than trying to wrestle alimony and child support out of a controlling guy like that, don’t you think?
Oh, so now I had something to do with his disappearance the other morning?
I’m just wondering. The MacNeils are a pretty well-to-do family. You stood to inherit nicely if anything happened to your husband. More than you’d get in child support or alimony.
You’re way off base. In the first place, assuming we did go ahead and split up, it would be for a judge to set and enforce child support. That’s what I believed and it’s what the lawyer I met with that morning confirmed. As for alimony, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Heather Childers, the lawyer: I didn’t want it.
You weren’t going to ask for alimony?
Nope. Didn’t want it, don’t need it. And if I didn’t need his alimony, I sure don’t need his estate, either.
What did you think you were going to live on? You said yourself, you’ve got no career to speak of.
That’s true, but I do have assets, money that belongs to me alone. My father was a pharmacist in San Diego and he owned a drugstore and a few properties there. Most of my parents’ estate and life insurance proceeds are still banked and invested. I lived on them for a while when I was a student, but my expenses weren’t much. After Drum and I were married, he never wanted me to touch them. Male pride, you know. He needed to be the family breadwinner. Anyway, it’s not a fortune, especially since the stock market went south, but it’s enough to keep me going for a few years while I raise my son and try to get myself started on a career.
I see. As long as you didn’t blow the entire wad on a long, drawn-out custody battle, right?
Oh, God—what a nightmare that would be. Okay, fair enough. But you know what? Call me naive, but it never occurred to me that custody would be an issue. How could it be, when I obviously had the stronger claim? Even the lawyer said it looked like Drum wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.
So what did you think that morning, Carrie, when Drum said he knew what you were up to? Did you think he’d found out about the lawyer?
Maybe. He could have. There’d been a phone message that I was afraid his mother might have heard. It would have been just like her to tell him about it.
Did you really imagine he’d let you just walk away with your son?
I don’t know. At that point, I got scared, I admit it. I should have realized when I saw him with Jonah that morning, trying to connect, obviously resenting me for having more time to spend with him. But I swear, it really was the first time it occurred to me that I might have to fight to keep my son. So that being the case, the idea that I could have had anything to do with plotting his disappearance is just loony tunes.
So, where is he now, Carrie?
I keep telling you, I have no idea. He said, “I’ll call you later,” he left, and that was it.
He said he was going to a meeting at FBI headquarters that morning?
That’s what he said, yes.
But there was no such meeting. He started out in that general direction, but before he even got to the bridges, he doubled back and ended up at Tyson’s Corner. Why do you suppose he did that?
I have no—wait a minute, how is it you know what route he took? You couldn’t possibly, unless…Oh, my God. Was he being watched? How long?
How long what?
How long has he been under surveillance? Since we arrived back in the States? Or longer? Since the girl—Karen Hermann—was killed in front of the embassy? Or since that woman in Hong Kong was thrown off her balcony? Oh, God—tell me it’s not since the embassy bombings in Africa. I can’t believe it. And to think I used to tease Drum about being paranoid.
Paranoid about what?
Everything.
That’s an occupational hazard for CIA types, isn’t it? Comes from overestimating their own importance in the grand scheme of things.
So, you had him under surveillance that morning, but you lost him. That wasn’t too bright now, was it?
No, I agree it wasn’t. It wasn’t the FBI who was watching him, though. Until the incident at Tyson’s Corner, we knew nothing about the allegations surrounding your husband. If we had, you can be sure things wouldn’t have gotten so out of hand.
Aha, I see. Is that a little interagency rivalry I’m hearing there, Agent Andrews? Everybody knows the FBI doesn’t have much use for the CIA—and vice versa. So that’s it, is it? Langley began to suspect Drum was up to no good. It must have been the Brits who accused him, right? That’s why Mr. Huxley here is being allowed in on this. But the CIA being the CIA, they didn’t want you guys sticking your noses in their business. They decided to keep it in-house, watch him themselves until they could figure out what, if anything, he was up to. Only they blew it and he got away on them. Good job, guys.
But it figures, you know? Drum kept saying he was going to end up the scapegoat.
For what?
Everything that went wro
ng, starting with the embassy bombing in Dar es Salaam. It got worse after September 11, but maybe that wasn’t so paranoid. Everybody really was looking for a scapegoat after that disaster. London was a major listening post, so Drum was one of those called back to testify about why the intelligence community missed the warning signs. In the end, he was cleared of any blame, but it certainly didn’t help his paranoia to be put on the hot seat like that.
I kept telling him he wouldn’t have been tapped for the operations job at headquarters if there’d been any concern about his loyalty. What did I know? Who’d have guessed they were watching his every move?
So please, Agent Andrews, you tell me what’s happened to my husband? And how the hell, if he was already under investigation, did these brilliant watchers manage to lose him that morning?
CHAPTER TEN
McLean, Virginia
August 12, 2002—8:12 a.m.
The forest-green Town & Country van parked across the road from the MacNeil residence was something a suburban soccer mom might drive, the kind of minivan that hauled kids, snacks and juice coolers to neighborhood playing fields all over America every weekend. The magnetic signs mounted on the sliding doors suggested an especially enterprising soccer mom, one who cleaned houses on the side to earn a few extra bucks for the kids’ college or orthodontist funds. Cheerful redand-yellow script on the placards proclaimed the services of MIGHTY MAID—MIGHTY GOOD! A cartoon drawing of a stout woman in a black-and-white uniform grinned at passersby as she wielded a feather duster in one muscular arm and a broom in the other.
But although this van did serve multiple purposes, they weren’t the obvious ones.
It was parked in the driveway of a sprawling, periwinkle blue Cape Cod style home owned by Bernice and Morrie Klein. The elderly couple had lived across Elcott Road from the MacNeils since the two Klein daughters, now grown and married, had been toddlers. The towering blue spruces, hickory trees and willows dotting the rolling green lawn had been saplings when the Kleins moved in, and extensive flower beds on the half-acre lot had been Bernice Klein’s pride and joy. But she and Morrie could no longer keep up with the weeding, feeding and dead-heading, and the mow-and-blow gardeners who took care of yards in that neighborhood couldn’t be trusted to do it properly, either, so the colorful beds had been replanted with low-maintenance shrubs.
The Kleins’ tan Cadillac Seville was parked next to the Mighty Maid van. The nine-year-old sedan carried handicapped plates front and rear, but these days, it rarely left the black-topped driveway. Bernice had a heart condition and crippling arthritis. Morrie had emphysema. Most of the time, it was either too hot and muggy or too cold and damp for either of them to be comfortable out of doors. Morrie thought they should keep the car in the garage, but Bernice had the idea that a vehicle in the driveway added a measure of security, lending the impression someone might be coming or going at any moment. Given her bum ticker, Morrie didn’t like to argue, even though it meant the Caddy’s paint job suffered from too much exposure to the elements. Who knew how much longer they’d even be able to manage the car? he thought. Let it stay outside already, if that made Bernice happy.
Morrie had been vice president of a major auditing firm back in the days when that meant something, integrity-wise, but he’d retired from the business nearly twenty years earlier. Then, up until 1990, when the General had passed away, he and Naughton MacNeil from across the road had played golf twice a week at the Army-Navy Club.
Bernice and the General’s wife had also been friendly at one time, exchanging recipes and plant cuttings, and taking occasional shopping excursions together when the boys were out golfing. But then, there’d been a falling out over some imagined slight Bernice couldn’t even remember anymore—hadn’t been aware of at the time, either, for that matter. Althea MacNeil always had been quick to sense insult where none was intended, and the time finally came when poor Bernice simply ran out of energy to deal with her prickly moods. As a result, the Kleins had more or less lost touch with the family across the road—although if they happened to be outside when the son’s pretty second wife passed by, she always gave them a friendly wave.
On the whole, the neighborhood wasn’t as chummy as it used to be. Bernice and Morrie had once had a wide circle of interesting friends, but in recent years, company had slowed to a trickle as health problems and the Grim Reaper took their toll on everyone of their generation. With their two daughters living out of state and busy with their own families, the old couple didn’t get many visits.
The cleaning van showed up three days a week. In between, an oxygen delivery company and the St. John Home Nursing Association came by. In recent weeks, a panel truck belonging to a fix-it service called Handy Andy had also been on site.
So although the Kleins appeared to be virtual shut-ins, any busy neighbor who took the time to notice would have been reassured that their needs were being attended to. Not that the residents of the manicured homes on Elcott Road felt obliged to take much notice. It was one of the pluses of living in an upscale area—you didn’t have to be your brother’s keeper. That’s what people had checkbooks for.
East Hampton, New York
8:12 a.m.
In point of fact, however, the Kleins had long since decamped.
Not long after Memorial Day, Bernice and Morrie had been spirited away in the middle of the night and flown up to the Hamptons, where they’d been settled for the duration into a luxury waterfront seniors’ apartment complex. Daily maid service was provided, and gourmet meals were served in the palm court dining room. A shuttle bus took residents to and from local shopping areas, movie houses and community theater. The on-site activities club included a book group for Bernice and regular poker games for Morrie.
That particular morning, the Kleins, early risers, were out on the double swing on their front balcony, enjoying their first and only coffee of the day. The cool, salty air smelled tangy as breakers crashed on the rocky Atlantic shoreline. At each corner of the porch, hanging pots of trailing red geraniums and sweetly scented alyssum swung gently in the mild on-shore breeze. Through the screened balcony door, Frank Sinatra serenaded them from the stereo. Bernice warbled along to As Time Goes By, images of a smoky Casablanca cabaret floating through her thoughts.
Morrie held up his coffee cup and did his best stiff-lipped Bogey impression. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
Bernice smiled. “Isn’t this the life?”
“You can say that again.”
“I forgot to tell you, I talked to Susan yesterday.” The younger of their two daughters lived in Boston.
“How’s she doing?” Morrie asked.
“Good. The kids are in summer camp and Eric’s off on a business trip somewhere…San Francisco? Seattle? I forget. He’s back in a couple of days. She says they might drive out to see us next weekend.”
“That would be nice. We could squeeze them in here, I guess?”
“Oh, sure. Susan and Eric in the spare room, the kids on the blow-up mattress in the sitting-room. Or vice versa…I don’t know. Whatever they want. The kids will love the water.”
“So, does she think the old folks have gone ga-ga?” Morrie asked.
“Not Susan, no. You know her. She was the one who always told us we should get out of D.C. for the summer. It’s Valerie who thinks one or both of us must have had a stroke, the way we decided on the spur of the moment like that to come up here. She keeps asking me, are we all right? I told her, ‘Honey, your father and I are having more fun and feeling younger than we have since the Truman administration.’”
“She believe you?”
Bernice’s blue eyes twinkled. “Well, I might have mentioned the tango lesson.”
“Oh, sweetie, you shouldn’t have. Now she’ll really think the blood’s not washing over the old brains.”
“I said we only went out on the floor the one time—though I did let it slip that this Saturday was bossa nova night.”
Morrie grinned. “You’re
a very naughty girl, you know that?”
“Don’t be surprised if people in white coats show up. I think she thinks we’re a danger to ourselves.”
“She’s going to have us declared mentally incompetent.”
Bernice gave a dismissive wave. “Hmph! No one’s more competent than you, honey.”
He took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. She snuggled into his side, resting her snow white head on his shoulder as they rocked contentedly, humming along with Frank while seagulls wheeled and swooped over the waves.
It was a real tonic, this surprise vacation. They’d been cautioned not to reveal the real reason for it, nor did either of them feel it prudent or necessary to mention to anyone, including their daughters, that the whole shebang was thoughtfully being provided free of charge. That was their own business.
Besides, Morrie thought, stroking his wife’s soft, warm fingers, getting it for free is just the icing on the cake.
McLean, Virginia
8:17 a.m.
Back in Bernice and Morrie’s living room on Elcott Road, a stabbing pain woke Mark Huxley. He shifted position, but the cramp in his back was relentless. One bloodshot eye forced itself open and focused blearily on the dial of the heavy chronometer strapped to his wrist. A little over two hours gone.
His arm dropped across his eyes. “Bloody hell.”
He’d fallen asleep draped awkwardly on the chintz-covered sofa. It wasn’t that he was overly tall, just five-ten, but clearly even that was too long, and he was too solidly built for the overstuffed couch to do double duty as a cot. His head had gotten wedged into the corner of one arm, while his legs hung awkwardly off the end, boots planted on the thick Chinese carpet. Now he had a crick in his neck and a spasm in his lower back.
He shifted position, trying to find a reasonably comfortable angle, loathe to wake up any more than he already had. He’d done twenty-three straight hours of surveillance, and at this point, he could happily sleep the next twenty.
