Liar's Market

by Taylor Smith

  Huxley pulled a hammer out of the tan carpenter’s apron knotted around his waist. He was dressed in a paint-spotted black T-shirt, stained jeans and his ever-present combat boots. “I thought I’d get at this first thing.” He glanced around. “Where’s Jonah?”

  “Upstairs, taking a shower—theoretically, at least, if he hasn’t been distracted. I heard water running a few minutes ago, but that’s no guarantee of anything. He sees his toys or has an idea for a new game, and the next thing I know he’s engrossed and completely forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Spider-Man could be deep-sea diving in the bathtub, for all I know.”

  “The two of you are going out this morning, I hear?”

  “Shortly.”

  “And where was it you’re going?”

  “The National Cathedral. Tom Bent’s father-in-law—you remember Bent, the CIA Liaison Director?”

  Huxley nodded.

  “Right, well, anyway, his father-in-law is bishop at the National Cathedral. There’s a special service this morning to mark the fifty-year anniversary of his ordination.”

  “Well, so much the better. I’ll be able to get at this while the two of you are out of the house.” He dropped onto one knee, using the claw end of the hammer to pry the lid off the can. “What time are you leaving?”

  Carrie glanced at her watch. “In about half an hour. The service starts at eleven. You could come along if you wanted—not that you guys need an invitation, of course. But if you haven’t seen it before, the cathedral’s quite a spectacular building, a tourist draw in its own right.” She shrugged. “Of course, it’s not old or anything. It was only finished in the mid-1990s, and it’s modeled on the sort of Gothic extravaganza you’re used to, anyway, I suppose, with all the nice cathedrals you have back in England. Seen one, seen ’em all, right?”

  “I’m sure it’s very nice, but I’d better get at this while the weather holds and the windows are open. I don’t know if the fumes will bother Jonah, but they’re calling for rain in the next couple of days, so just in case…”

  “Right. Should I move the computer out of the way?”

  “I’ll toss a drop cloth over it. It should be all right.”

  She nodded. He seemed to be waiting for her to leave, but instead, she settled on one corner of the heavy oak library desk. He hesitated a moment, but when she didn’t explain herself, he just frowned and turned away. A man of few words, Carrie thought—unlike Drum.

  Drum’s voice was deep, mellow, FM-quality, and he’d always liked to hear himself talk. His height and good looks telegraphed authority, too, so that people tended to hang off his words. The brightest ones figured out pretty quickly that the whole was less than the sum of the parts where Drummond MacNeil was concerned, but the average person, herself included, took a little longer to tumble to the fact that Drum was nobody’s best friend but his own.

  Huxley, by contrast, was positively taciturn—around her, at least, although he seemed relaxed and chatty enough with Tucker and Tengwall. With Jonah, too. But whenever the two of them were alone, Carrie noted, Huxley retreated into a shell of disapproval. She watched him work, the sleeves of his spattered black T-shirt stretching taut over his upper arms as he pried the lid off the can and began stirring the contents. A metallic paint smell rose from the dark honey stain. Huxley was shorter than Drum, dense and muscular, with weathered features like someone who’d spent a lot of time outdoors. But doing what? Carrie wondered. She had no idea.

  In the eight weeks since she and Jonah had moved over to Georgetown, the Brit had been nothing but kind to her son, nothing but cool toward her—tarring her, she suspected, with the same black motives as her husband. Hardly fair, since she was as much a victim of Drum’s duplicity as everyone else who’d foolishly trusted him. More so, in fact—although what did that make her except outstandingly stupid? No wonder Huxley had so little respect.

  “So,” she ventured, “you’re not on surveillance duty today?”

  “Not today, no. Tengwall will be along shortly. She’ll drive you and Jonah to your event and stay with you there.”

  Carrie frowned. “So, we do still get baby-sat. And you’re going to stay back here to stain bookshelves?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, watching the top of his fair, wooly head as he stirred the stain.

  The tone of her voice made him glance up. “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…look, forgive me, I don’t mean to snoop, but this is a little confusing.”

  “What’s confusing?”

  “You. Here. I mean, don’t you have anything better to be doing?”

  “Worried about the waste of British tax dollars, then, are you?”

  “I’m just not quite sure what your real job is, Huxley. Are you just liaising with your CIA brothers over here? Looking to nab Drum for the greater glory of MI-6? Watching me in case I decide to skip out of town, too, with God-only-knows what deep, dark secrets? Or are you really just a frustrated woodworker passing yourself off as an international spy?”

  “All of the above, I guess.”

  “Don’t you have anyone back in England who wonders where you are?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Family…a wife, children. I notice you seem to like kids. You’ve been really good to Jonah during all of this, by the way. I want you to know I appreciate it.”

  “Jonah’s easy to like. He’s a fine young fellow.” Huxley looked up at her sideways. “You’re doing a good job with him,” he said.

  It was just about killing him to say it, too, Carrie noticed. But there was no point in confirming his worst suspicions about her by pointing out his all-too-evident reluctance to let a friendly word pass from those stubborn lips to her compliment-starved ear. “Thanks,” was all she said. “So, you didn’t answer my question. Do you? Have family back in England?” she added when he pretended to forget what she’d asked.

  “I have my mum and dad, and a brother.”

  “In Yorkshire?”

  He glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah. Bravo. Not many Yanks would figure that out.”

  “Ah, well, accents. It’s a talent, I guess. Not a terribly useful one, but there you go. Story of my life.” She pursed her lips. “So, Mr. Huxley is a Yorkshireman, he has a mum and a dad still living. And a brother. But he’s not married?”

  “Not. Not anymore, at least.”

  “Aha, I see. Another marriage bites the dust, falling victim to the demands of the global espionage. It’s a dirty job, but you guys have to do it, right?”

  Huxley said nothing, only grimaced and went back to stirring the thick, viscous liquid in the can.

  “And so this week,” Carrie went on, “you’ve been assigned to spend your Sunday morning staining shelves and—what? Planting bugs? Is that why you’re really hanging back here today?”

  The lines in his weathered face deepened as he rested an elbow on one thigh and frowned up at her. “No. Nor microphones or cameras or any other surveillance devices. I’m staining these shelves…uh—” he lifted the tin and read the label “—deep golden brown, satin finish, because I said I’d do it as part of the deal with your friend for keeping the real workmen out of her folks’ house while we watch over you lot and wait to see if that hubby of yours decides to show up again. And I’m doing this on what, technically, I guess, you could call a day off—or at least, a few hours off—because your son has asthma and the weather’s cooperating. It seemed like a good idea not to leave it for a rainy day when the windows have to be shut up tight. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Carrie felt her face go warm. “No, I don’t. I appreciate it, actually.”

  “Well, good. Glad to hear it.” He put the can back on the tarp and gathered up his brushes.

  “It’s going to be nice,” Carrie said.

  “What?”

  “The stain. On the shelves.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He glanced around the room. “It’s quite the place, this.” He glan
ced back at her. “Must be nice to have friends in high places. Bishops, CIA bigwigs, Georgetown profs with fancy digs. Me, I’ve never had that talent for cultivating the right people.”

  Carrie frowned, but ignored the personal dig. “Those friends—they’ve worked for what they’ve got. This place, for example. It didn’t always look this good. It was a run-down tenement when the Overturfs bought it. I’ve seen pictures. The place was a dump. It had four ratty little apartments, and they lived in one with their three young kids while they rented out the others to pay off the mortgage. They only started renovating the place five or six years ago, and they’ve built up a lot of sweat equity in the place, turning the four apartments into two. My friend Tracy and her boyfriend lives in one, her parents in the other. It was only last year, when Tracy and Alan bought a place of their own over in Alexandria, that her folks decided to return the house to its original state.”

  Huxley only nodded.

  She got to her feet again. “Anyway, I’d better go make sure Jonah’s getting ready upstairs. Can I get you anything before we leave? Some coffee, or something to eat, maybe?”

  “I’ve had my breakfast, thanks.”

  “Oh…well, all right. I’ll let you know when we’re leaving. We should be back by about one or one-thirty, at the latest.”

  “Oh, joy,” he muttered.

  He went back to stirring the nut brown liquid stain in the can. Carrie frowned at his back, then left, returned the glass to the kitchen and went upstairs, trying to remember what it felt like to have a life that wasn’t under twenty-four-hour-a-day scrutiny by snippy Brits.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Washington National Cathedral

  October 27, 2002—10:37 a.m.

  Tom Bent phoned to make sure Carrie and Jonah had received their second official invitation to the special service marking his father-in-law’s golden jubilee, and that they’d be coming. The first, apparently, had gotten “lost in the mail,” although there was little doubt that it had actually arrived at Elcott Road but not been forwarded on by Althea to Carrie’s new address in Georgetown. If Tom hadn’t been keeping as close tabs on Carrie and his godson, the occasion might have passed without their even knowing about it.

  So a few days after the second invitation went in the mail, Tom had followed up with a phone call, during which he’d told Carrie there would be a parking space held for her in the cathedral’s staff lot. When Carrie and Jonah arrived at the cathedral that morning, she happily bypassed the long line of cars waiting to enter the main parking area and showed her ID to the traffic cop on duty, who directed her into the small lot on the north side of the cathedral.

  As the Passat pulled in, Carrie saw Tom talking to a younger man outside a carved side door that she knew led directly to the cathedral’s administrative offices. When he saw her, he smiled a welcome and pointed out an empty space nearby.

  “Hey, Tom, thanks for the priority parking,” Carrie said, climbing out of the car.

  Tom gave a dismissive nod to the fellow at his side, who slipped off his sunglasses, followed the direction of Tom’s gaze, then turned away and headed inside. He seemed vaguely familiar, she thought. Was this someone whose name she should know?

  When she and Drum had first married, she’d felt gawky and shy on the diplomatic cocktail circuit, but her husband had been adamant on the importance of schmoozing and small talk and remembering the names and foibles of potentially useful people—so much so that it was a reflex now to slip into vigilance mode every time she found herself out in public, lest she commit some social faux pas that might embarrass him. But, Carrie thought, catching herself in mid-neurosis as she racked her brain to remember where she’d seen that man before, surely desertion was a fairly major breach of etiquette? And as for treason—well, also a bit of a social blooper, was it not?

  If there was one, small silver lining to this whole grim episode, she decided, it was that Drum had lost all claim to superiority in the realm of social graces. Never again would he have the power to make her feel like the girl from steerage skulking in the shadows of the first-class deck, praying no one would notice.

  But that said, why did that fellow at the door look so familiar? Was he one of the cathedral’s deacons, maybe someone she met at a previous service? No, he didn’t have a deacon’s air of rumpled geniality. Also, priests and deacons tended not to wear sunglasses, she’d noticed—blurred their insight into other people’s souls, maybe. However, they were standard issue for poker players and spooks. And now that she thought about it, his pinstripe suit did look like a bad James Bond knockoff.

  That was when Carrie remembered where she’d last seen him.

  As Tom pulled up alongside her, she leaned in to accept his kiss, then cocked a thumb at the closing door through which the other man had passed. “Are you expecting trouble here this morning?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That fellow you were talking to—I recognize him. He was at the house the morning you guys showed up to tell me Drum had absconded.”

  Tom sighed and nodded. “CIA security detail.”

  “You have a bodyguard now?”

  “Off and on. It’s routine whenever the threat level goes up—all that color-coded nonsense, you know. I can never keep track of it. I think we’re at puce or chartreuse or something this week.” He waved a dismissive hand, but Carrie wasn’t so easily put off by nonchalance, no matter how reassuring it was intended to be.

  “There’s been a threat warning? About another terrorist attack?”

  “Well, nothing specific. But…” He sighed. “It’s because of this business with Drum. Some people think the information he took with him when he disappeared must have hit the buyer’s market by now.”

  “So, he did steal critical intelligence? That’s been determined for sure?”

  “Hard to be certain—so much is stored digitally these days that it’s hard to trace what might have been copied or downloaded. But the default assumption is that he had a shopping list of some of our most critical secrets. We also have to assume that the shopping list included the names and addresses and other pertinent information on certain senior or undercover officials. I hardly belong among those top operators that anyone’s going to target, but—” Tom sighed again. “Because of my proximity to the Director, the security people have opted to err on the side of caution.”

  “So now you have to have a bodyguard with you everywhere you go?”

  “It’s all overblown, as I say. Fortunately, I am senior enough that I can tell these eager beavers to back off when they start to get too annoying.”

  “Oh, Tom, I’m sorry.”

  “No reason to be. It’s nothing you did. Anyway, seems to me that if someone wanted to do me harm, they’ve had plenty of opportunity before now, given all the traveling I do. If I wanted to spend my life hiding under the bed, I wouldn’t have got into this business, would I? Hey, there’s Jonah!”

  Carrie turned to watch Jonah, who was grinning up at the grotesque stone faces projecting from the cathedral’s gutters high overhead on the building’s limestone walls, showing them to Tengwall, who’d driven them over.

  The cathedral’s official name was the Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. Completed in 1990, eighty-three years after construction began, it was the sixth largest cathedral in the world and the second largest in the U.S.A., after Saint John’s in New York City. Although it was the seat of power of the Episcopal bishops of both the U.S.A. and Washington, the cathedral had been built through private subscription with the intention of welcoming all the nation’s faiths, and had been the site of many an interdenominational service of both celebration and mourning. As long as two football fields, the nave was as tall as a thirty-story building from its marble floor to the Indiana limestone vaulting overhead. The top of the cathedral’s central tower was the highest point in the District of Columbia.

  Carrie knew all this because not long after their return from London, Bishop Merriam himself
had given her and Jonah a “backstage tour” of the cathedral’s towers, carillon, pipe organ and stained glass windows, as well as the inside scoop on some of the hundred and ten uniquely carved gargoyles which served as downspouts to carry rainwater away from the building’s foundation. Some had been carved to resemble the cathedral’s financial patrons, while others were self-portraits of the carvers or models of fanciful animals. There were also numerous stone caricatures of cultural icons of the day, including Darth Vader, a placard-toting hippie and a Yuppie carrying a briefcase. Every time they’d been back since, Jonah had delighted in revisiting his favorite “garglers.”

  “We tried to get here a little early,” Carrie told Tom. “He likes to explore—although maybe it’s not such a good idea for him to wander this morning. There’s quite a mob lining up out there to get into the main parking lot.”

  “Ah, well,” Tom said, “the bishop’s very well connected, don’t you know. Half the cabinet’s expected to show up. You know how these politicians like to stay on the side of the angels. That way, they can feel confident telling the world God’s on their side.” He leaned down and rubbed his hands together as Jonah and Tengwall approached. “Hey there! How’s my godson?”

  “I’m good, Uncle Tom.”

  “You look real handsome, I must say,” Tom told him.

  Jonah’s eyes dropped and he smoothed his navy jacket proudly. “I got a new suit.”

  “So I see. Very impressive.”

  Carrie smiled. The suit came from the juniors department at Brooks Brothers. When she’d heard that her mother-in-law had also been invited to Bishop Merriam’s jubilee, she’d called to offer Althea a peace offering in the form of a ride to the service.

  “No, I’ll make my own way over,” Althea had replied coolly, making sure Carrie understood that she wasn’t forgiven for the mortal sin of having stood up for herself. Carrie had thought she was going to have the phone hung up on her, but then Althea came back. “Am I going to see my grandson at the service?”