She’d slipped off her headphones to take his call, but the recorder was still running, linked by a short cable to the shotgun acoustical antenna pointed toward Jim’s living room window.
“Not much,” she said, “unless you’re interested in happy little screwing moans and groans. Only the living room’s in audible range. When we set up, they were boffing each other in there, now they’ve gotten upstairs, probably to the main bedroom, which is in back and out of range. Given all the exercise they were getting, they’re probably just going to put some balm on the rug burns and go to sleep.”
“You’re a hopeless romantic, my dear,” said Philip. “You’ll be relieved at midnight.”
Philip called Whitsun and relayed the news.
“I’ve check on Beauchamp since we spoke, Philip,” said the Admiral. “He has friends in this town—people who feel he was mistreated. Very unusual in Washington, people caring about you.”
“Yes,” agreed Philip, who no one in Washington, or anywhere, cared about anymore.
“To cut to the chase—Beauchamp knows just about every contract gunslinger, street gang leader, Mafioso and mad computer genius Langley’s ever used. Many like and respect him. Everyone but his former bosses, that is. If we kill him, some of those friends may come for us—they look out for their own. I’d like to spend my declining years not worrying if my car’s going to blow up under me. You know as well as I do, Philip, that these people enjoy taking revenge – pride themselves on it. Or do you think I’m wrong?”
“No, Admiral.” He’d clearly heard the “us” and “we."
“And far more importantly, they’ll sniff out Telemachus if aroused.”
Martin didn’t share the Admiral’s sense of priorities, but wisely kept that to himself.
Whitsun’s big French basset sat beside his armchair, having her ears scratched as she dozed before the crackling fire.
“We are still going after the roster, aren’t we?” asked the Frenchman.
“Of course we’re going after it—there is no project without that list!” he snapped. “Hell, they’ve even managed to delete all of the 1943 personnel records! We have nothing without that list. And if Schmidla calls me about it one more time, I’m changing my phone number.” Admiral Whitsun had had a very bad day. He paused for a second, recovering his composure. “But we’ll go after it gently for now. Pianissimo, Philip, pianissimo. I’ve asked Rourke to find someone to have a quiet talk with Beauchamp, first thing in the morning. Someone he trusts.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then we’ll increase the tempo. What’s Milano’s involvement in all this, do we know?”
“No idea, Admiral. There’s nothing special about her that Rourke’s people can find.”
Whitsun didn’t like that—didn’t like it at all.
“Not bad for an old guy, Jim,” teased Angie, feeling Jim slip out of her.
“God will get you for that,” he managed, rolling to his back and pulling her to him.
“Okay, Jim,” she said after a while, propping herself up on an elbow, fingers curling his chest hairs. “Want to tell me about your wife and daughter?”
He ran his hand down her side, letting it come to rest on her hip. “Years ago, in Tokyo, I was married to a Eurasian woman.” He didn’t want to say more, but did, feeling the old pain welling up as he spoke. “Her name was Emma, Emma Kowamoto. Her father was Japanese—an eminent professor of physics at Waseda—Tokyo University. Her mother was a German researcher, worked for one of the big electronics companies. Two very nice, very reserved people with a brilliant, wild daughter. Well, her mother was nice,” he amended.
“Emmy-chan dropped out of college—Sophia, it’s a Catholic school in Tokyo—and was a struggling artist with a studio in Ikebukuro—not one of your better neighborhoods. I walked into her studio one rainy March afternoon—I thought it was a bar. She painted these enormous, primal canvases, brimming with sensuality—several astoundingly good, I thought. I told her so, asked if she’d like to go out for dinner. Never would have had the courage to ask this exotic, drop-dead gorgeous girl out if I hadn’t already had a few drinks. Anyway, one thing led to another and three years later she was pregnant and thought we should get married. So we did. By then Emmy’d had a couple of exhibits, gotten some good reviews and moved her studio to a loft over a jazz club in Akasaka—decidedly a step up. The jazz wasn’t bad, either. Her work was selling well in some nice upscale galleries. I also remember it as the year her father finally condescended to buy me a drink. Then Kaeko came along that summer...”
“Kaeko?”
“Our daughter. It means “beautiful,” he said with a little smile, “and she was a beautiful child. You know how some kids first look like little trolls when they’re born? Well, Kaeko was beautiful right out of the starting gate.
“We lived in a high-rise apartment in Tokyo’s Shinjuku district. I had to travel a lot in my job. The Agency, of course. One day—it was Wednesday, a rainy, warm spring Wednesday—I came home to find the police there. They told me Emmy had taken LSD the night before—they’d found it in the kitchen—then at some point she’d gathered up Kaeko—she was five years old—gathered up Kaeko, gone out on the balcony and jumped to the street, nine stories below.” He paused, his face unreadable. “Emmy wasn’t crazy and she never touched drugs in her life. Sure, she’d run with a wild crowd, but that had been before we lived together. Since then, she’d been devoted to her art and our daughter. She was happy! We were happy! So that was bullshit. I believe but could never prove that they were murdered. God knows why. Probably something to do with me.”
He looked at Angie. There were tears in her eyes. “They were so beautiful,” he said huskily. “I miss them so much.” The pain, the sense of loss rose up and for the first time in years overwhelmed him. The next thing he knew, Angie was holding his head to her breast as he clung to her and sobbed and sobbed.
After a while, with knowing hand and generous mouth, she gently reminded him of how good it was to be alive and to be loved.
Chapter 8
Jim rose early, salvaging his sodden newspaper from the wet and hated azalea, where the paperboy’s careless throw had again wedged it. Padding in slippers and robe into the kitchen, he was grinding the coffee beans when the pounding of the doorknocker brought him back to the front hall. He looked through the side window. “Open the fuckin’ door, Jimbo,” said a deep voice with a Brooklyn accent.
“Kessie!” exclaimed Jim, opening the fuckin’ door.
“How are ya, Jimbo?” A big, bluff-faced middle-aged guy in a good suit walked past Jim and into the kitchen. “Save the beans for tomorrow,” said Kessler, spotting the half-filled grinder. He set a white bakery bag and a holder with three cups of coffee on the breakfast bar.
Fred Kessler was FBI. He and Jim had worked together for years, first in Asia, later in Washington where Kessler had been FBI Counterintelligence and Jim CIA Domestic Liaison. Then Jim had retrained in information systems—or as Kessler said, “gone geek.” They still kept in touch—an occasional Redskins game, poker once in a blue moon—but hadn’t spoken in months.
Kessler took a half-dozen fresh corn and blueberry muffins from the bag, put them on a plate atop the breakfast bar. Sitting, he pulled out a stool for Jim, sliding him a cup of coffee as he sat. “Cream, no sugar, right?”
“Right,” said Jim, peeling off the lid and sipping. He nodded at the one untouched cup of coffee. “Here to give me the black spot are you, Kessie?”
Kessler snorted. “Would Commander Milano care for some coffee and pastry?”
“She’s still asleep.” Jim bit into a corn muffin. “So, Kessie, what’s the message? How come they sent you?”
“They were gonna send Billy Budd, ‘cause you work so well with the CIA brass...”
“Right.”
“But the new DCI, some guy named Rourke...”
“Billy Budd, Harry Rourke and I were together in Japan, years ago, before Rou
rke went to ‘Nam. It was just after you pulled your stint in Tokyo.”
“Okay, well, Rourke thought you just might beat the crap out of Billy Boy, too, so they sent me. Apparently you’ve become a real loose cannon in your old age—beating up serving United States Naval officers. For shame.”
“You’d have beaten him up, too.”
“Yeah. From what I hear.” Uncapping his coffee, he took a sip.
“Okay, so you’re here because you’re bigger than me. What’s the deal?”
“You have something they want—I don’t know what it is, I don’t want to know. You give it to me, I walk out of here with it, there’ll be no more trouble, and five million dollars will be deposited in both yours and Commander Milano’s checking accounts by the close of business tomorrow.”
“You have the account numbers, of course.”
“I don’t. They do.” He wiped his face with the napkin.
Jim thought about it. “Can you wait a minute?”
“Sure,” said Kessler, biting hungrily into a blueberry muffin.
Going upstairs, Jim went quietly into his bedroom. “You awake?” he said to the mound beneath the covers.
“No.”
“Old friend of mine’s here. The bad guys say if we give him the Eldridge stuff, they’ll give us each five million bucks and leave us alone.”
“And you believe that?” said a sleepy voice.
“No.”
Angie sat up, the bedcovers falling to her waist. “Does your friend believe it?” She was topless, and Jim knew from recent close observation, bottomless.
“Yeah, probably. He’s a tough guy, but a kind of innocent tough guy.” Jim’s eyes dropped to her breasts with their startlingly large, dark areola, recalling the feel of them, swollen and hard beneath his fingers. “Just thought I’d ask.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” she said, lying down and pulling the covers up to her chin. “You do know it’s six a.m.?”
“I’ll be back up soon.”
Whitsun called Philip. “No sale.”
“Ah, people of character,” said Philip.
“Possibly,” said Whitsun, “though probably just people who don’t trust us. And who can blame them? Time to increase the tempo, Philip. I think we may allow some bodily injury at this point—nothing permanent, just a painful warning. Preferably to Milano, but play it by ear. And do play it carefully, Philip, very carefully.”
“My people aren’t musicians, Admiral, though they do find joy in their work.”
Chapter 9
After Kessler left (“Call me.”), Jim and Angie headed north, taking the Capitol Beltway to the Old Georgetown Pike, following it as weaved over wooded hills and dells to the Great Falls National Park. The big dirt parking lot was almost empty—it was Wednesday, a magnificent autumn Wednesday, with the wind swirling off the Potomac, shaking the trees along the hiking trails. They followed the main trail north as it wound beside the river and the remains of the old C&O Canal. The canal was a scenic ruin, mostly sunken and dry, just a few locks, thick retaining walls and parts of the tow path preserved here and there.
“So, what about you and George?” asked Jim as they walked.
“I requested assignment to the Bureau just to try to find out what really happened to my Dad,” said Angie. “Kinda naive, huh? Well, obviously, I didn’t find out anything on my own. So, I confessed all to grumpy old George and asked for his help. He said it dovetailed with something he was working on and he could probably help me. And that’s all I know, swear to God.”
“He told me to save you, when he was dying,” said Jim.
“Yeah, I know. I heard him. And just what are you supposed to save me from?”
Jim shrugged. “He didn’t say. He said you were the same as my Emma, whatever that meant. How about a hint?” he asked, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.
“He may have meant the widgies,” she said, not looking at him. “Did your wife get the widgies?”
“The widgies?”
Angie nodded. “When I was a kid, we moved a lot because of them. I’m a bit of a freak, you see.”
“Widgies?” he repeated.
They stopped. Angie turned toward the river, then back toward Jim, her face mirroring her indecision. “I’ve never told anyone this before,” she said uncertainly.
“I’d never hurt you,” he said, meaning it.
“Well, no, not now you wouldn’t,” she said with a thin smile. “But maybe later?”
“Angie!” he pleaded, so afraid she was slipping away from him.
“Okay,” she said. “Look, the best way to describe the widgies is to show you one, otherwise you’ll think I’m crazy. Next time one comes along, I’ll tell you. In fact, I think you’ve already seen one without knowing it.”
If she weren’t so level-headed, thought Jim, I’d think she’s crazy. “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll talk about it. And what about you and Erik?” he asked as they resumed their walk, clambering over a moss-covered log that blocked the path, seemingly alone in the woods.
“Erik,” she sighed, taking his hand. “You know, we make a colorful pair, Jim, you and me—the spy and the whore. I’m not a nice girl. You’re supposed to say, ‘Yes you are, Angie,’” she added after a moment.
“Yes you are, Angie,” said Jim. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”
“I went after Erik with cold premeditation. His grandfather’s a senior consultant to and a founder of guess what? GDR, Inc. And GDR is, as you well know, a CIA-sponsored front for research into all aspects of voodoo physics.”
“And how did you know that?”
“George told me.”
“I see. And you were really going to go through with the wedding?”
“No, he was going to get his ring back—he just got it back sooner than later.”
“Did you care about him at all?”
“I tried to convince myself that I did,” she sighed. “He can be quite charming. But mostly he’s insecure and immature. And he can be very mean and temperamental, as you saw. And he’s not all that bright. His grandfather bullied him into the Navy—Erik wanted to be a Marine. He’d probably have been happy in the Corps. I should have left him the first time he hit me—that’s what they tell you to do, those women’s groups. But I wanted to see what I could find out about the Eldridge and those ongoing experiments.”
“Did you find out anything?”
“No,” Angie laughed. “I’d never have made it as a Marta Hari. In fact, I never met the old man, who apparently thinks Erik’s an idiot.”
“Perceptive of him.”
“I wanted to know if they were doing to other people what they did to my Dad,” she said in a tight little voice.
The path eventually turned and opened out onto a small point beside the river. They stopped beneath the sprawling green canopy of a stately old willow, the tips of its outer branches brushing the river as it swirled past.
“Seems immortal, doesn’t it?” said Angie, looking up at the tree.
“Nothing lasts forever,” said Jim, following her gaze.
“Time to talk about us,” said Angie, turning to him.
“Not a word mincer, are you?” he said, meeting her gaze.
“Hey, that’s how they train us, you know? It’s just that, Jimbo,” she said in a softer tone, straightening his collar, “I’m blunt and smart and tactless and can be a flaming bitch on wheels. So, if any of that’s going to be a turnoff, you tell me now. We’ll always be friends and last night can just fade to a warm memory. I care about you, James Beauchamp, a lot, but I’m not up to any more pain right now.”
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
“How so?”
“Oh, I had you pegged as one of those women whose life is run like a successful small business, their mate carefully selected for stability, income and ease of dominance. Everything done to a closely-held five-year plan. Typically, they’ve had an earlier relationship that left them emotionally cr
ushed. They’re sometimes attracted to me—I’m funny and fun, old enough to be thought safe. I serve as the friend they lack, the sort they’d marry if they weren’t terrified of emotional risk. And if they find themselves too attracted to me, they retreat into the sanctity of their marriages—though they still continue to hang out with me. Boats longing for the sea but yet afraid.”
“And you get nothing out these sorts of relationships?”
“Oh, on many levels they’re great people. But in the end, you realize that though it was better than nothing, it was nothing and you’d have been no worse off collecting first editions instead.”
“And you thought I was one of these stunted souls?”
“What was I to think, after you got engaged to that dick Saunders?”
“You were wrong.”
“I know. I apologize. Your reasons are now clear.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a judgmental asshole, Jim?”
“Lots of people. Usually women,” he grinned.
They must have been watching, awaiting their opportunity. They broke from the undergrowth, running, two guys closing fast, about 30 meters away. Both were white, the one in the lead was thin, with a pockmarked ferret face and scraggly long blond hair; the other, just behind him, had broad Slavic features, a body-builder’s profile and a skinhead haircut. They were maybe in their mid-twenties. The first guy held a Bowie knife, grinning with happy anticipation as he closed on an immobile Jim. His companion, Blondie, held a short iron pry bar, raising it high as he covered the last stretch of ground.
Jim’s .45 was safely locked in his bedroom table. Idiot, he thought. “Swim for it!” he snapped at Angie. The Potomac was deadly here above the cataracts, but her only chance lay in the water.
“Sorry! Can’t swim!” she said, stepping out from behind Jim as he faced their attackers.
Crouching, scared more for her than for himself, he waited, heart pounding in his ears, adrenaline surging. He didn't know what Angie was doing until she fired—a 9mm Beretta, he learned afterwards—shooting carefully, firing two-handed, like they’d taught her in Officer Candidate School.
The Eldridge Conspiracy Page 7
