by Alan L. Lee
“Forgotten!” Alex exploded. He took a moment to calm himself. “No, I haven’t forgotten. Let’s see if the names ring a bell with you. Cowl. Accord. Fitness. Why don’t you go ask them for help? Oh, that’s right, you can’t. Because they’re dead. I could go on. And that’s precisely the point: no, I haven’t forgotten. I just don’t want to remember it all every day anymore.”
“It’s because you haven’t forgotten that I’m here. I need the old Alex. My life depends on the old Alex.”
“Well, I’ve got some bad news for you. That Alex doesn’t exist anymore.”
She ran her hand over her face before continuing. “Believe me, if there was another way, another avenue—” Her head sunk into her hands. “I would have explored it. We’ve been through a lot together, and I’m praying that deep down inside, you can understand that enough to help me.”
Crap! She didn’t want to cry. She could feel the moisture forming in her eyes and tried to hide it by turning her head and wiping her face. “Look, I have my life savings. Nearly a hundred thousand dollars. It’s yours.”
He studied her through his sunglasses. He recalled the time when their lives had been entwined. She was a strong, competent, tough woman who could more than take care of herself. Though her facial features had changed a little, this was hardly, at the moment, that same Nora Mossa. He noticed her hands were trembling.
“Alex…”
He let his name trail out to the ocean, only to hear it come back.
“Alex, please,” she begged, realizing all her dignity was lost.
He fixated on the sky. “Nora, like I said. You’ve wasted your time. The answer is no. It’s not my place anymore. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to ease out of a hangover.”
There was nothing left for her to say. She knew of no other way to persuade him. For the first time, she fully grasped how deeply she had failed him. After all these years, he had not eased an inch on how he felt about her. The way he left it was the way it remained. Dismissal. Total and permanent. As Nora got to her feet, the tears that ran down her cheeks weren’t out of self-pity but of compassion. The clock couldn’t be turned back. There apparently was no way to fix this.
“Thanks for your time, Alex. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I guess this really is good-bye.” She got no response. “If you change your mind,” she mumbled, “I’ll be at Frenchman’s Reef until Sunday afternoon. Room 410.”
She exited just as quietly as she had entered.
CHAPTER 6
The smell of fresh coffee in the early morning hours always provided the illusion that all was right with the world. Unfortunately, that euphoric state hardly ever lasted beyond a full cup.
Sitting behind his desk, George Champion, the director of the National Clandestine Service, stole a few minutes of government time to indulge in the aroma of a freshly brewed pot of French roast beans. The coffee itself would certainly end the fantasy. After all, how many times in his life had he truly enjoyed a perfect cup? Still, the odds of that were damn far better than those of solving the mountain of problems that greeted him today, none of which had any easy solution.
He pulled out a file he knew all too well. Erica Janway. If the gender had been different, he’d be looking over the file of a bona fide high-ranking member of the CIA. A person he very well could have been answering to. What had gone wrong for Janway before her death? Since she’d filed a discrimination lawsuit, no one at the agency dared to even look at her the wrong way. It had been a bad situation. The office of general counsel had insisted she be assigned to desk duty at Langley until the matter was fully investigated. Was her lawsuit merely the result of being disgracefully reassigned from her post as station chief in Moscow? That administrative move alone pretty much placed a ceiling on her career. The allegations that led to her removal were serious, but never fully proven. Just the word of two male agents who claimed that Janway sexually harassed them and that when her alleged advances were turned down, she failed to give them top-level assignments. There were also the reports of excessive drinking. To her credit, she had admitted that perhaps, due to the pressures of the job, she took a drink or two more than she should have, but she had insisted that it never clouded her judgment. When her husband had suggested she had a slight problem, she did get help. So why would a woman so obviously up-front and competent jeopardize her career with a stupid decision to chase some mid-level subordinates? Sure, men had done it for years, but Janway knew what the stakes were. She was smarter than that.
Champion had worked with her on one occasion. While he was station chief in Berlin, they ran a joint operation together. It was a large-scale undertaking, and her professionalism and problem-solving skills were impressive. This one red flag on her record, though, proved to be a major downfall. The fact that one of the accusations came from the son of a prominent US senator—a senator who also served on the subcommittee charged with overseeing the nation’s intelligence agencies—was a deadly thorn in her career.
Janway was reassigned to an important post at Langley, but essentially, it was desk duty. She withstood the injustice (as she perceived it) for almost a year before filing the lawsuit. If her career wasn’t over before, it certainly was then. Now, she was dead.
Add to that, the latest headache provided by the station chief in Rome. Nora Mossa, who Janway mentored, was AWOL. Her apartment had been searched and secured when she failed to make a scheduled check-in. Field assets like her were known to go off grid at times, but she wasn’t on an assignment, and after several hours, an alert was sent out. Factor in the Janway connection, and Mossa’s disappearance became even more concerning. The agent was now actively being searched for all over the world. A heads-up was even sent out to other governmental agencies. The organizational chart of the CIA was much like any other major conglomerate, which meant Champion, near the top, rarely met or even knew a majority of those on the lower rungs of the ladder. Mossa was an exception. He knew her name. She’d been part of that joint operation with Janway. She was one of Janway’s most prized assets. Mossa’s file indicated a result-oriented field agent who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty. She was also well trained, able to assume new identities and disappear with ease. That’s all he needed at the moment, an experienced field agent who, when she didn’t want to be found, likely couldn’t. It would take a lot of resources, but she had to be located. Until evidence was presented to the contrary, he was going with the assumption that she hadn’t met the same fate as Janway.
Outside his partially opened door, Champion could hear that his administrative assistant, Mrs. Prescot, had arrived. She was a carryover from the office’s previous occupant and the one before that. Loyal and efficient, she’d likely be in that outer office until she chose otherwise. He could tell she was making a fresh pot of coffee before settling in her chair. Shortly after, there were voices, and then came a polite knock at his door. Mrs. Prescot poked her head in.
“Good morning, Mr. Champion.”
“Same to you, Mrs. Prescot.”
“Mr. Peters is here to see you.”
“Show him in, please.”
She opened the door fully, motioning Karl Peters into the office. Smartly dressed in a dark suit, the Hofstra alum carried a small brown paper bag, slightly moistened at the corners.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Peters?” Mrs. Prescot asked in a nurturing way. “We have coffee, tea, water, soda.”
He sheepishly held up his brown paper bag, careful to put a hand under the bottom. “No thanks,” he said. “I stopped for a latte on the way.”
“Very well then.” Mrs. Prescot was closing the door when she paused. “By the way, Mr. Champion…”
“Yes?”
“Your coffee is getting much better, but…”
“But it would be better if I wait for you to make it.”
Mrs. Prescot smiled and closed the door behind her.
Champion still had a warm look on his face when he addressed Peters. “Latte! What the hel
l?”
Peters removed his beverage from the soiled bag. Licking his fingers, he said, “What can I say? Acquired taste. Double chocolate mocha, to be exact.”
Champion just nodded. “To each his own.” He raised his coffee mug and took a drink.
Peters slurped his still-hot latte, the sound of which produced a pained look from Champion. Peters looked up innocently. “Sorry, sir.” He cleared his throat before beginning. “On Janway’s computer at the house were files that pertained to nuclear capability for Pakistan, North Korea, China, and Iran. Essentially, just background stuff on who has what, and in the case of Iran, how far they are from getting nukes and by what means they might acquire the materials needed.”
Champion swiveled in his chair and peeked beyond his office windows at the workforce beginning to filter in. He gave the discovery a moment of thought. Janway was assigned to WINPAC (Weapons, Intelligence, Nonproliferation & Arms Control Center), so it was certainly within her scope to have such information. Peters seized the opportunity to sneak in another sip of his latte, concentrating on drinking more quietly. “Forensics went over the place twice and came up with nothing. Neighbors along the street didn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary, and it’s generally quiet down there. She did have some e-mail correspondence with Nora Mossa that dates back a few months. Trivial stuff, basically, and nothing recent. Still, it’s being analyzed to make sure nothing is coded. On the Mossa front, it’s been three days. No communication. No sightings. However, some sort of altercation took place in her apartment. Furniture was broken, and it looks like she packed in a hurry. Traces of blood were found on the floor, but the DNA wasn’t hers. There’s no husband. No serious boyfriend. She hasn’t made contact with her mother in Oregon.”
Champion seemed uncomfortable when he told Peters, “Of course, we’re not sure she wasn’t taken either.” He didn’t wait for a vague supposition. “We need to find her and quickly. If she’s running, it sounds like she has a reason. It bothers me that she hasn’t made an attempt to be brought in. Intensify the search. Let the other agencies know this is now a priority for us.”
Peters knew when he was being dismissed. Rising, he said, “I’ll see to it, sir.” He was half out the door when Champion called out.
“Did you talk to the husband yet?”
Peters shook his head. “I tried briefly. He’s pretty torn up and not exactly in a cooperative frame of mind, especially considering who’s asking.”
“He’s a big-time lawyer who can generate headlines we don’t need. Give him a few days to reflect and try again.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” Peters said, regretting the choice of words.
CHAPTER 7
At sixty miles an hour, the screeching tires indicated the current rate of speed was ill suited for the tight roadway. Sharp turns were maneuvered with varying degrees of pressure on responsive brakes. The vintage Porsche convertible jolted forcibly forward upon entering a straight section of road and then proved its craftsmanship when precise handling was called for.
The difficulties of making it from one section of St. Thomas to another required an elevated level of patience and skill, since there was mazelike traffic feeding into Carnival Village. Several horns along the way cursed at Alex as he finally made it past the logjams and then beyond Havensight Mall, where the cruise ships docked. It would be smooth sailing from here; up into the mountains for a short stretch along Frenchman’s Bay Road, down again and then rising once more, where an impressive view of Charlotte Amalie’s waterfront revealed itself.
The brisk, refreshing wind tossed his hair about and helped soothe his distressed nerves. The car’s stereo system was cranked nearly all the way up, the last fifteen minutes devoted to Sting. Even though Alex sang along, there was no canceling out the thoughts uppermost in his mind. For years he had been able to stow away fragments of his life. Images, thoughts, and emotions, all neatly tucked away, lying dormant. Now, all the healing and comfort of a new life had been ripped apart; shattered in one unexpected brush with the past. No matter how hard he tried to dismiss the intrusion, the damage was done. Yesterday on the beach marked the first time in four years he had uttered the code names of those who’d been betrayed. Men and women who had placed their trust in his hands, a miscalculation that cost them their lives. There were detractors who had questioned whether the bright Alexander David Koves had been thrust into a lofty position too soon. When he claimed a trusted government source was a traitor, responsible for the deaths of his assets, he had few supporters left. What hurt the most, though, was the absence of backing from the woman he loved, Nora Mossa. He could handle the weight and pressure from his superiors but not the skepticism from one he held close to his heart. So he returned to Langley, walked into CIA headquarters a government employee, and an hour later, was escorted out, no longer on the US government’s payroll. It was the only thing he had quit on in his life.
Unable to fully enjoy his annual Carnival party, he made a stealthy getaway from the packed crowd, promising to return shortly in a better mood. He realized only one solution would ease his mind.
He greeted the guard on duty at the entrance to Frenchman’s Reef Hotel with sympathy, understanding the man’s lack of enthusiasm: the guard was missing the last night of Carnival Village. The two recognized each other, having played pickup basketball together at Griffith Park. He waved Alex through. Familiarity often made life a lot easier on St. Thomas. Alex parked and bypassed the hotel lobby, heading for a side elevator. A few minutes later, he found himself hesitating before knocking on the door. His arms felt the weight of his decision and resisted. Was this what he really wanted? Did he miss the action that much? He got off the rock enough to exorcise the boredom, but an element of excitement was missing. In the final analysis, there was the pain he knew would never escape him if Nora got killed after pleading for his help. Her death would haunt him ten times more than the souls that already did.
He took a leap of faith and willed his right arm to knock. Through the peephole, he could see the light inside eclipsed by movement. When it was determined he was friend, not foe, the door opened.
“Let’s go. You’re making me miss my party,” he said.
Nora stood slightly stunned. “Does this mean—”
“It means tonight you’re going to a party,” Alex cut in. “We’ll address that other thing tomorrow.” Nora was still motionless.
“Well, let’s go.”
Back at his house, the party was lively. The deck was full of bodies and the overflow was positioned on the beach. Some were dancing to the music, but the conversations and laughter spoke volumes to the level of entertainment. The abundance of food and drink were set out on a lengthy buffet table, caterers making sure there was never a shortage of anything.
The house brought back memories for Nora. They had been a couple when she was last here. She had nearly forgotten about Alex’s past as a professional football player. He never talked about it much, and the only visible tribute to those days was an oil painting of him when he was an Oakland Raider. It hung in the family room above the fireplace, his fierceness when fully engaged as a strong safety perfectly rendered. When she read sports stories about him, it was said he delivered hits with all the force of a runaway train.
Alex made introductions when necessary and told Nora to make herself at home. The party consisted of people who all seemed to enjoy each other’s company and stories. It was the first time in days that Nora felt secure enough to let her guard down. She drank, ate, and danced like it was a weekend back in college at the University of Oregon. Every now and then she would observe Alex moving about, being the perfect host. She was grateful beyond words that she had been right about the kind of man he was.
CHAPTER 8
Alex had thought Nora was completely out of his life for good. He’d made that intention clear years ago—ironically, in this very city.
As the Lincoln Town Car sedan rolled along the Arlington Memorial Bridge, it daw
ned on Alex that he hadn’t been in the nation’s capital since shortly after the day he’d walked away from the CIA.
The sun was retreating on the Virginia side of the Potomac, slowly making way for the moon to work its photogenic shift under a virtually cloudless sky. Joggers with varying degrees of athleticism made their way across the bridge, sweating in the humid air.
There were few architecturally designed wonders that could rival the view provided by the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument when they were lined up. Crossing the bridge, Alex momentarily witnessed the postcard. The Town Car glided up 23rd Street and then turned onto K Street, heading east. Downtown Washington was still experiencing some residual after-work traffic, mere child’s play compared to the actual rush-hour madness. The sedan stopped in front of the Mayflower Hotel. Alex dutifully tipped his driver but waved off the hotel bellhop, handling the single suitcase himself. He checked in and a moment later was relieved to discover not much had changed in the expansive luxury suite. He stretched out on the outer-room sofa and once again studied the notes and materials Nora had given him. He’d already gone over them several times and was no closer to an answer. Feeling he needed a set of expert eyes, he’d made copies and forwarded them to a knowledgeable party prior to departing St. Thomas. That person was one of the main reasons he was back in Washington. Alex hooked up his laptop, logged on, and sent two e-mails. Each contained his room number and the same short message. “I’ve arrived. Come now.”
Since Nora was also staying at the hotel, she was the first to show up. She didn’t come empty-handed. Alex accepted the quart of rum and liter of Coke as she entered. Despite a sheepish smile, she looked depressed. She was a woman used to being in control, and the past few days had totally thrown her for a loop. Every morning since she had hastily left her apartment, Nora had checked the Internet offerings of several Rome newspapers. There were no headlines about a dead man being found in a missing woman’s apartment. By now, the decomposing stench of a dead body would’ve forced neighbors to inquire. No headline and no scandal could mean only one thing. The body had to have been removed. Doing so would require resources and more than one person.
