by Taylor Smith
You can’t con a con man, Huxley thought.
Tucker’s Ray-Ban watchers maintained a discreet distance and Huxley stayed even farther back behind them. As the corridor widened around another babbling fountain at the next atrium, MacNeil paused again, this time to watch a young boy held firmly in hand by his father toddle around the lip of the pool, giggling with delight as the spray stopped and started.
MacNeil’s expression was unreadable from this distance. Was he thinking of his own boy as he watched the father and son? Did it occur to the man, Huxley wondered, that his son would have to bear the stigma of his father’s treachery for the rest of his days? Did a man like that care?
No way of knowing, but at that moment, MacNeil seemed to come to a decision. With a speed that was startling, he turned and headed down an eastbound spur off the atrium that led, according the Huxley’s directory, to a Nordstrom’s, another anchor store whose outside exits, he realized with a start, led directly back to the Terrace C structure where Huxley had parked the Jag.
The man was no fool and he wasn’t wandering aimlessly. He’d taken nearly a full circle back to his point of origin. This was the problem of tailing a subject on his own turf, Huxley thought, mentally kicking himself for letting down his guard. He yanked his radio off his belt. “He’s heading back to his car!”
The two suits picked up the pace, and then the radio crackled to the sound of yet another unfamiliar voice. “Watcher three, here. I’m in the parking lot and I’ve located the subject’s vehicle. I’m on it.”
“Bloody good thing,” Huxley muttered back. “Okay, let’s not lose him now.”
MacNeil was at the Nordstrom entrance now, but he paused there, glancing back. Huxley managed to duck into a Washington Redskins merchandise store. He watched through the store window as one of the suits, caught out in the center of the corridor, practically screeched to a halt in front of a cellphone sales kiosk in his effort to avoid being noticed. The other one, Huxley noted, was across the way, ogling pastries in a high-end deli.
When his gaze shifted back to MacNeil, Huxley saw him withdraw something that looked like a sugar packet from his suit coat pocket. Ripping it open with his teeth, MacNeil dumped the contents into his coffee cup and stirred it around with his finger. Then, a wry smile on his lips, MacNeil swung his arm wide, spreading the cup’s content across the bottleneck of the store entrance. Two teenage girls were leaving just at that moment, and they squealed.
“Sorry, ladies,” MacNeil told them. “How clumsy of me.”
One of the girls went down at once. The other tried to tiptoe around the spill, but a split second later, her feet flew out from under her and she landed with a painful sounding thud on the hard marble.
MacNeil turned and ran into the store.
The two suits dropped all pretense of disinterest now. “Go, go, go!” the suit at the deli hollered.
“No, wait!” Huxley called after them.
Too late. Tall, strapping fellows that they were, they reached the store entrance in a couple of strides—and the next instant, they were sprawled on the floor, arms and legs akimbo. One of them went down so hard on his face that Huxley heard his jawbone crack on the marble from twenty paces back.
It was all the evidence Huxley needed to know what they were dealing with. The compound MacNeil had spilled on the floor had been developed by MI-6’s own labs. MacNeil must have been given a sample during one of his liaison visits in London. Clear and granular, the stuff looked like silica gel in its dry form, and it even tasted a little sweet, which was why the boys and girls in Tactical liked to disguise it by putting it in the sort of sugar packet ordinarily found in restaurants. But when mixed with a hot liquid, such as coffee, tea, or even reasonably warm tap water, the polymer compound dissolved instantly and became a super-slippery lubricant with a multitude of purpose—not least of which was the property observed here, of spreading out rapidly to form a wickedly slick sheen over any contained surface, rendering that surface nearly impassable with the use of a mountain climber’s crampons. The boys in the lab called the stuff LBB—liquid ball bearings.
By the time Huxley reached the store entrance, half a dozen people had already gone down in the clear slime. He paused for a second to calculate the width of the LBB slick, then backtracked to get a running start. Hurdles had always been his event so he sailed over, but even so, the heel of one boot caught the very edge of the slick and he had a heart-stopping second before finally regaining his balance.
He searched in vain for MacNeil, then finally spotted his gray pant cuffs and black Italian shoes just before they disappeared at the top of the escalator straight ahead. Taking care to stay on his toes so as not to skid on any remaining polymer compound that had adhered to his boots, Huxley sprinted to the escalator, pushing shoppers aside as he took the rolling steps two at a time.
“Do you mind?” one matron asked frostily.
“Pardon me, mum. Pardon…pardon…Oy! Out of the blood way!” Huxley bellowed, chivalry failing at last.
Bounding off the top of the escalator, he went straight forward, knowing MacNeil had to be heading for the exit. Dodging a couple of slow-moving strollers and a display of cut glass ornaments, Huxley flew through the aisles. Sure enough, he saw the silver head pass through one of the heavy glass doorways.
Still running, Huxley ripped the radio off his belt and slammed the talk button. “Watcher three! He’s heading your way. Do not let him get in that Jag! Repeat, do not let him get away. Do you copy? Over.”
Silence. Huxley flew out the door then stood, breathing hard as he looked left and right. “Watcher three!” he snapped at the radio. “Have you got him?”
“Negative. He didn’t come this way.”
Huxley started running toward the parking structure. “What do you mean, he didn’t come that way? I thought you were with his car.”
“Uh, roger that. It’s right here in front of me. A silver Jag, Virginia license plate DRUMR. But the subject didn’t come this way.”
“Bloody hell,” Huxley muttered, just as a squeal of tires sounded off in the distance. He turned and ran over to the ramp leading away from the parking structure, but all he saw was a steady parade of nondescript foreign and domestic sedans and SUVs on the ring road circling the mall, either arriving for a day of that great American pastime, shopping, or heading off toward the anonymity of the surrounding highways.
MacNeil was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
McLean, Virginia
August 12, 2002—1:15 p.m.
Two black-and-white Fairfax County police cruisers stood nose to tail across the entrance to the MacNeils’ white rock driveway, blocking access. Carrie spotted them the moment she turned up Elcott Road and her anxiety level rocketed.
It didn’t help that her nerves were already thrumming after Drum’s surprise appearance at Jonah’s day camp and then her subsequent meeting with the divorce lawyer. How had it come to this? Was she going to have to fight to keep her son?
Heather Childers had advised her to note down every example she could remember of Drum’s absences and her own presence as the stabilizing force in Jonah’s young life. “From what you tell me, Carrie, I can’t imagine the courts won’t grant you custody. Mothers still have distinct advantage in these cases, especially where one partner has a career that’s as time-consuming as your husband’s seems to be. In circumstances like that, in fact, the working partner often concedes that the child is better off with the other parent. One way or another, there’s not much question that Jonah is better off living with you. Your husband is bound to realize that.”
“You don’t know Drum. In the first place, he genuinely loves his son. He really does, I know that. For all I know, Jonah may be the only reason he hasn’t left me long before now.” Carrie shook her head. “I don’t know what Drum expected out of a wife. Whatever it was, I haven’t met the specs. Aside from having me show up dressed to the nines on those rare occasions when circumstances demanded a
spouse on his arm, he hasn’t needed me in a very long time.”
Yet, there had been a time when he couldn’t get enough of her, Carrie thought. When he’d wanted her body, and even included her in his other, secret life. Back in Tanzania, before Jonah was born, Drum had often taken her along on his upcountry intelligence gathering trips. It had started on their honeymoon. Even that trip, she now suspected, remembering “chance” meetings with some well-connected local figures, had been partly about his business.
It was during their honeymoon, on safari in the Serengeti, that he’d told her what he really did for a living. “But you can be part of it, Carrie,” he added.
It was early morning, just after sunrise. They were in an embassy Land Rover, standing up in the back through the open roof, photographing a pride of lions dozing less than ten feet from the vehicle’s nubby tires. The lions—one male, three females and a couple of cubs—lay bloated and panting in the shade of a baobab tree, waiting out the heat of the day, unconcerned about the prying lenses of human interlopers who they knew by now posed neither challenge nor threat. The ravaged carcass of an antelope brought down during the night lay a short distance away, hyenas and vultures picking at the scattered bones. Every once in a while, the male lion raised his matted mane and sent a desultory growl in the direction of the scavengers, who scattered briefly, waiting to see if he was serious about protecting the kill. When it became clear that all the lions were too satiated to move, the sly, ugly birds and grinning hyenas moved back in to squabble amongst themselves over the remains.
“Here we are,” Drum had said, wrapping himself around her back, “cruising around, seeing the sights. Maybe seeking out new artists for your gallery? What could be better?”
Carrie adjusted the long telephoto lens of his Nikon, focusing on a herd of zebras grazing warily at a cautious distance from the lions. “So, I’m…what?” she asked, smiling as he nuzzled her neck. “Your cover? You married me to provide an alibi for nosing around places you’re not supposed to go?”
He pinned her tightly in his arms, pressing her against the edge of the open roof, kissing her ear even as the metal rim dug painfully into her ribs—threat and caress intermingled even then, Carrie realized now. “You make a great Mata Hari,” he murmured. “And the debriefings are so much fun.”
It had been exciting, Carrie recalled, disgusted now to think how titillating she’d found the notion of being married to a spy—the intrigue, the undertones of danger. But in her clearer moments, it had all seemed so benign, just a game, really. After all, America wasn’t on a war footing. At that point, even the Cold War was ancient history—no more using hapless Third World countries to fight proxy wars. And if she’d married a spy—well, he was out there in the field to gather intelligence, wasn’t he? And intelligence was just another word for information. Washington didn’t need pawns, anymore. Now, maybe, there was a chance to do some good, unselfish work in the world, setting policies based on the real needs of real people instead of on strategic games and stupid stereotypes. There wasn’t a whole lot wrong with that, was there?
My God, girl, but you were naive, Carrie thought. Twenty-two years old and dumb as dirt.
“Anyway,” she added to Heather Childers, “Drum’s extremely touchy about any suggestion he’s not the perfect paterfamilias. I walk away, and his ego gets a big-time bruising. And when Drum’s backed into a corner, his instinct is to come out fighting. Believe me, he doesn’t like to lose.”
“You think he’d seek custody just to spite you?”
“Maybe,” Carrie said, recalling Drum’s behavior that morning. Why was he suddenly so prickly and competitive on the subject of Jonah?
“All the more reason to have our ducks in a row,” Heather said. “So you go home and do that homework. Tell me, how would you feel about shared custody?”
“I’m not sure. How would that work?”
“However we set it up. Some kids spend three days a week with dad, four with mom, then vice versa the following week.”
“That sounds pretty disruptive. Kids need stability.”
Heather shrugged. “Sometimes a non-custodial parent gets the child on alternate weekends and certain specified holidays. And once in a while, we run into cases where a parent gives up parental rights and custody entirely—gives them up willingly or has them taken away.”
“Drum will never give up access to his son. And to be honest, I wouldn’t want him cut out of Jonah’s life, anyway. A little boy needs a father.” Carrie groaned. “God, this is horrible no matter how you slice it, isn’t it? What am I doing to my poor baby?”
“In my experience, Carrie, these things go as well or as badly as the parents decide. Contrary to popular opinion, many kids adjust reasonably well to their parents splitting up. There’s always an initial shakedown period, of course, while everyone gets used to the new arrangements, but eventually it settles into a routine. If the parents handle it well and don’t use the children to emotionally blackmail one another, then they adjust. The important thing is for Jonah to understand that it’s not his fault and that his parents still love him unconditionally. And when the situation at home has been really tense, having two homes actually seems to beat the alternative.”
“But that’s the thing. I don’t think our home life has been horrible. It’s just…I don’t know…bleak, somehow. Probably more from my perspective than Jonah’s, in fact. I’m not even sure how aware he is of the tension between his dad and me.”
“I’m sure you’ve made every effort to protect him.”
“I really have. And Drum hasn’t been terrible, either. He may not be around all that much, and he’s a fairly stern father because that was the example he grew up with, but he loves Jonah, there’s no question of that.”
“Well, it’s up to you to decide what you think is best, Carrie. Just keep in mind that sacrificing your life isn’t necessarily going to make Jonah a happier human being. You also have to consider what kind of example you’re setting as far as self-respect is concerned, given what you tell me about your husband’s track record for extramarital affairs.”
Carrie sighed. “There is that. I don’t want Jonah to grow up thinking it’s all right to behave the way his father does. Or, for that matter, that women are supposed to be his personal playthings and doormats.”
“Your future daughter-in-law and granddaughters wouldn’t thank you for it,” Heather agreed. “Anyway, what you need to do now, Carrie, is try to come to a decision on how you’d like to see this unfold. And one other thing…”
“What’s that?”
“Does Drum know you’re considering leaving?”
“I don’t think so. At least, I didn’t, before now. There’s a chance he might have gotten wind of it, though. I should have given you my cell-phone number instead of the one at the house, where anyone can hear messages. Your secretary left a message for me yesterday and I think my mother-in-law may have picked it up.”
“Oops. Sorry about that. Let me get your cell number and I’ll make sure no one here calls the house again. But the reason I asked if Drum knows you’re looking to walk away…well…I hesitate to raise it. I don’t want to scare you. But we should at least consider the possibility.”
“Of what?”
“That he might try to take Jonah away.”
“But you said the courts—”
“I don’t mean through a legal custody decision. As far as those proceedings are concerned, we always have to presume that the other parent will resist any attempt to strip him of custodial rights. That’s why we have to have our arguments and evidence well prepared in advance. But your circumstances are a little more complicated. In this particular case, it’s action outside the legal venue I’m concerned about.”
Carrie sat back, uncomprehending for a moment. And then, as it dawned on her what Heather was suggesting, she was horrified. “You think Drum might try to kidnap Jonah?”
“You said he doesn’t like to lose. From what Tracy has t
old me about him, I’ve got a pretty good idea of his line of work. If anyone has the skill set to pull off something like that, it would be someone with that kind of background.”
Carrie felt an icy chill run through her veins. “Oh, my God. After I dropped off Jonah at day camp this morning…”
“What? What happened?”
“I realized he’d left his asthma inhaler in the car. When I went back to the rec center to give it to him, I found Drum there.”
“Trying to take Jonah out?”
“No, I don’t think so. At least, he said he just came to see Jonah swim. But his timing was off. The kids were getting ready to do an arts and crafts project. I found Drum and Jonah sitting off to one side of the classroom when I got there. I got the impression Jonah wasn’t too happy about whatever they were talking about.”
“Has Drum ever done that before—shown up at your son’s school in the middle of the day?”
“Not that I can remember, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
“A little suspicious, though.”
“If I were really paranoid, I’d say it was. He’d been on his way to a meeting downtown when he got word it was canceled, apparently. The rec center’s more or less on the way back to the office, so it’s not unthinkable he would have taken advantage of some unexpected free time to drop in. He had no way of knowing the kids didn’t have their swim session until the afternoon.”
“Still, Carrie,” Heather said, “you might want to think about telling the camp administrators not to let Jonah leave with anyone but you.”
“You really think Drum might try to kidnap Jonah?”
