Mason laid each individually wrapped package upon the table before him like a Las Vegas blackjack dealer setting out a winning hand. The passport was first, before the safe deposit registrations and their authorizing code at the First National Bank in Washington DC and the Chase Manhattan bank on New York’s Wall Street, as well as a Social Security record and the birth certificate in the name of Adam Peterson.
Mason savoured the moment, the first of the euphoria he knew he was going to feel over the next few months, as an afterthought flicking open the passport. Without the slightest conceit Mason decided the photograph of himself inside could have been taken yesterday. He’d even avoided, which Slater hadn’t, the almost clichéd mistake of keeping the same initial letters for the new name as for the old he was abandoning.
He was going to enjoy the trip to New York to add most of his inheritance to his $850,000 stash. And now that he had an Adam Peterson driving licence he could rent a car and make his first exploratory visit to Frederick, Maryland.
It took Mason the entire following day and four separate outings to dispose of letters and photographs and memorabilia of his mother and father’s existence, none of which he bothered to look at beyond checking official-looking documents to discover if they had any financial value. None did.
Nine
A sudden and entirely coincidental flurry of external happenings balanced – even put into partial perspective – the internal difficulties from which Ann and Slater were trying to recover.
Slater had months before tendered, more in hope than expectation, for security contracts for a planned mall on the outskirts of Frederick, on the Harpers Ferry road, and in the space of a week was awarded six separate design commissions, two by nationally established names. The construction of the mall was spread over six months, sufficiently spaced for Slater to work in sequence within the building programme – as usual outsourcing each installation – without needing to take on extra staff. It was the largest combined commission he had ever won and would still enable him to take on other, additional work. Slater’s conservative forecast, predicated over the preceding four years’ income, was a year end, pre-tax profit increase of fifty percent. From his psychology knowledge Slater knew the financial guarantee would underpin the feeling of physical security it was essential for Ann to restore.
And the good fortune continued.
Daniel Slater didn’t remotely come close to being a bull or bear stock market gambler. Like thousands – millions – of Americans he studied newspaper financial sections and Internet fluctuations but his buying and selling was barely above the par of always following the favourites through a horse-race card. He didn’t win big but he didn’t lose big, either.
In his small time way Slater followed pharmaceuticals and long before submitting his hopeful shopping mall tenders he’d read a Forbes magazine biography of a geneticist who’d impatiently switched from pure science to establish his own genetic research company. When that fledgling, DNA-based firm offered a dollar a share rights issue Slater took his profit from his GlaxoSmithKline investment and bought $10,000 worth. Within a month the much hyped expectation of a common cold treatment by virus DNA engineering was, without any warning, dismissed by the Federal Drug Administration spokesman as impractical and overnight Slater’s $10,000 share speculation was reduced to $1,500, too quick and too severe for any escape selling.
Just one day after the acceptance of his mall security tenders the FDA’s licensing announcement of a successfully tested psoriasis treatment stirred the moribund portfolio. For the first time ever the already financially bolstered Slater gambled with money he believed he’d already lost, waiting until the stock rose eight points above his purchase price before selling 6,000 shares to recover most of his original investment. He sold the remaining 4,000 shares within the same week when they peaked at $4 a share, doubling his initial $10,000 stake.
That was on the Friday. On the Saturday David dropped three baskets – the last the winner – to lift his youth club team two places up the local junior league. David chose a Wendy’s instead of McDonald’s for the celebration hamburger supper and during the meal they talked of taking another weekend trip up into the mountains, without fixing a specific date.
Later that night, when she and Slater were alone, Ann said, ‘He didn’t say anything about getting his knife back?’
‘I haven’t told him he will get it back on the next camping trip.’
She remained silent for several minutes. ‘It’s all come good again, hasn’t it?’
‘Everything’s back to normal,’ agreed Slater.
‘I’m sorry, for collapsing like I did.’
It was embarrassment, not regret, Slater guessed. His was the regret for never having realized how deep her fear had been. ‘It’s all over now – in the past.’
‘It’s …’
‘Over,’ he insisted, knowing that it wasn’t but not wanting her to dwell upon what had eroded too much too quickly. Perhaps as the years passed she would come to accept how completely hidden and safe they were. But that’s what it would take, years not months. And Ann hadn’t been alone in her fear. He’d felt the uncertainty, too. It was good – reassuring – to know that was all it had been, a blip that he could now put behind him and never think of again.
Jack Mason was in the majority of CIA officers at the height of the Cold War of the 1980s to use, without Langley’s official knowledge, Agency facilities and expertise to obtain his false ID. The irony was that that majority, who anyway operated under the CIA policy of cover names, did so to protect themselves against KGB moles disclosing them to Moscow. It was during his time as a Russian spy, when he was unsuccessfully trying to uncover such protective identities, that Mason discovered and used the technique for himself.
Adam Peterson had been born on the same day, month and year as Mason in a one-street, two-store farming hamlet six miles east of Coon Rapids, Ohio. He’d attended the local school that did not aspire to a yearbook in which an identifying photograph might have appeared and did not go on to college, but left as soon as he was able to become a farm hand, like his five brothers. He’d died just short of his twentieth birthday beneath the blades of a combine harvester. Because birth and death certificates are not coordinated within the United States, it was comparatively easy, although necessarily time consuming, for Mason to obtain Peterson’s birth certificate and Social Security details and substitute his own photograph and physical details for a passport, driving licence and other documentation to become, whenever he chose, Adam Peterson. The only time he’d used them was to open the about-to-be re-accessed safe deposit and banking facilities in Washington DC and New York.
Before which he put himself behind the wheel of a car for the first time in more than fifteen years, determined, as he was determined about everything, to discard any giveaway institutionalized hesitations. Mason had been caught, during his jogging and walking re-entry into Washington DC, by the compactness of automobiles, even though the era of the fin-tailed, chrome-encrusted car had been history well before his imprisonment. As observant as he’d been trained to be, he’d isolated makes and models and decided upon a Toyota Yaris that he could confidently ask for before approaching the Hertz office just off M Street. And encountered his first unanticipated challenge.
‘You don’t have a credit card?’ frowned the clerk, curiously.
‘I prefer to deal in cash. Nothing wrong with cash, is there?’
‘We got your validated credit card number and rental approval, we’ve got something to charge against in the event of your keeping the car longer than you first thought you’d need it. Or any other problem,’ said the girl.
‘Like my running away with it,’ sneered Mason, recovering. ‘How much do you think I’m going to get trying to sell a Toyota Yaris with a Hertz insignia at the back and no ownership papers!’
‘It’s what the company prefer. People don’t often want to rent in cash.’
‘I do. And I know you have the
facility for it.’ It was a gamble, because Mason didn’t know.
The girl’s face became fixed. She took her time getting a thick regulations book from her desk drawer and even longer finding the process. Without argument Mason agreed to the $500 deposit and paid the extra for every offered insurance cover, tensed that she might want to confirm the non-existent Adam Peterson reservation at Guest Quarters, the only address he had to offer. She didn’t.
Mason set out the first afternoon to confine himself to the city but after just an hour of in-town driving he felt confident enough to amuse himself by crossing the river to climb the familiar Washington Memorial Parkway and pass the tree-shrouded Langley headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency to join the traffic-congested Beltway. The moment he began going south Mason accepted how easy it would be to reach Frederick but just as quickly dismissed the idea. By the time he did that, pacing himself still, his driving had to be as automatic as the gear box, with no distraction whatsoever from his preoccupation with the occupants of 2832, Hill Avenue SE. Mason left at the first convenient slip road to turn back north, indulging himself as he descended back into Washington by slowing once more to pass Langley before going into Georgetown over the Key Bridge. The following day he took a different route, driving through Annapolis as far as Baltimore, where he lunched overlooking the harbour and chose a different, slower route back that intentionally delayed his return until after dark for him to regain further, night-driving experience.
The next day he set out to rearrange his wrongly placed banking facilities. He drove to the First National Bank and worked his way through the various departments, restoring to himself full control of the inheritance account Patrick Bell had administered during his imprisonment, after his mother’s death. It took so long to establish the briefly needed safe deposit facility that he was tempted to abandon it, but he forced the patience, knowing that it was essential he had such a hiding place for the Glock until the very moment that he needed it. After finally achieving it he withdrew all but $3,000 from the checking account, drove directly to Reagan airport, where he returned the car and recovered his full cash deposit. He recognized the two police officers to whom he’d surrendered after Howitt’s abandonment as soon as he entered the concourse. Having missed his intended shuttle because of the bank delay and with time to spare before the next, Mason lingered, although keeping himself as unobtrusive as possible, and tested himself as a crowd person. Neither officer showed any recognition, not even when Mason passed within yards of them on his way to catch his plane to New York. There was no in-flight challenge when he bought his ticket in cash.
Neither was there when he presented himself at the Chase Manhattan Bank as Adam Peterson and produced his identification documents at the securities section, although there was a slight delay in locating the duplicate bank key for the double lock deposit box. There was no curiosity from the securities official at his not having accessed the facility for so long, but on their way to the vaults Mason followed Patrick Bell’s lead and talked generally of being glad to be back in America after so long abroad in the Middle East and the oil fields of Uzbekistan and latterly Scotland. The bank officer dutifully smiled when Mason remarked that the Middle East was better for getting a suntan than the former Soviet republic or the north of the British Isles. There was no attempted comparison between his signature on that day’s access register and the Adam Peterson documents, but Mason himself was satisfied with the match. The official’s unlocking with the bank key was a second’s operation but Mason patiently endured the explanation of the summoning bell for him to be escorted back up when he’d completed his business.
Alone in the locked examination room adjoining the vaults Mason felt something approaching a sexual excitement, the first he’d experienced – and welcomed – after years of monk-like abstinence, at the moment of opening the box to gaze down at its contents. Everything lay before him as he’d left it eighteen years earlier: the money neatly stacked according to its wrap-secured and identified denominations. He’d opened the deposit before the never suspected affair between Ann and Sobell, never imagining the gravy train was going to dry up even if he were suddenly re-assigned to another overseas posting. Against that possibility and his not being able to regularly travel to New York Mason had ensured there were sufficient support funds for the facility in his open Adam Peterson account, reflecting as he put in most of his withdrawn inheritance that had his sentence run its full term there would not have been sufficient to cover the regular cost. Although it was unnecessary, because he could remember to the last dollar how much was there, he still counted each wrapped and labelled bundle. Well aware, from the closeness with which he’d kept himself up to date from newspapers and television, of bank reporting requirements under anti-drug trafficking legislation, Mason divided into two piles the cash he intended taking with him, keeping that with which he was going to replenish his account just short of $750 than that which would have triggered the legal necessity.
Like a child on their birthday saving the biggest present until last to unwrap, Mason left until last the second section of the deposit box. The Glock, snug in its still oiled cloth, the eight ten-milimetre bullets separate in their glassine envelope, appeared reassuringly before him. He’d illegally obtained the Austrian-manufactured handgun during his Viennese tour and had it shipped undetected back to the United States in the embassy’s diplomatic bag. It had been an absurd oversight not to have obtained more ammunition, but he’d never imagined the need for the revenge he intended. Although he fantasized about inflicting as much agony as possible upon Slater and Ann – the rattlesnake of the Capote book he’d read in the prison library remaining his favourite – Mason realistically decided that he’d have to use the handgun, for which he would have to get more shells. He’d driven the 300 miles from Washington to New York to avoid any airport detection with the weapon upon his return from Vienna and recognized as well that with the anti-terrorism hysteria that gripped the country since 9/11 he was going to have to repeat the car journey eventually to get it back to Frederick. It would, Mason thought philosophically, provide further driving experience.
For the moment, though, the incriminating Glock had to remain where he’d left it, all those years ago. Until the time came to use it upon the two people he hated more than he’d imagined it possible to hate another human being.
The securities official responded at once to Mason’s summons, returned with him to the vault for the box to be restored and double locked, and escorted him back to the main, public section. The service manager to whose position he was directed was a proud-busted black girl named Helene Balanda who wore her hair ethnically braided and who, like the First National official in Washington, almost at once embarked upon an unexpectedly strong sales pitch for the various customer services up to and including cheques printed not just with fine art images but photographically those of the customers themselves, an identification that Mason actually allowed himself to laugh at. Mixed with the amusing absurdity of his risking such a choice was another stir of excitement, very definitely sexual this time. He greatly expanded his foreign posting invention with accounts of having used the various banks of the countries in which he had worked, with funds still having to be transferred, and talked of continuing to bank at the Chase Manhattan, although of there being a possible branch switch because of the uncertainty after such a long time out of the country of exactly where he might permanently resettle. He expected to be living in hotels for the foreseeable future. She accepted his account refunding deposit and, visibly disappointed, promised a replacement, name-endorsed plain-paged chequebook – for which she received no commission – and bank and Visa cards within a week. Mason said that because of his uncertain accommodation he’d personally return to collect them. Within that week he might have established a Post Office box number for his mail.
His biggest hurdle surmounted without the slightest hindrance or question, Mason left the bank with the rest of the day – and the nigh
t if he chose – at his absolute choice, enjoying afresh and in a new city the still unfamiliar freedom. He took his time walking up town, via Broadway. He hesitated at 42nd Street and its sex show and hooker reminders. On impulse he turned east, disappointed that there appeared fewer erotic offerings than when he had last been in the city, and on further impulse he cut into Grand Central Station and lunched leisurely in the basement fish restaurant off oysters and soft-shelled crabs and imported Chablis.
There were a few loitering hookers hoping for afternoon business who might have stood more chance if they’d waited for the kinder street-lit darkness but within a few yards of turning up 6th Avenue, towards the park, Mason isolated a blonde so much better dressed and made-up that he wasn’t absolutely sure she was a working girl. He was re-asssured when she answered his smile and further encouraged by her careful, vice squad protective approach – ‘Are you a stranger, looking for directions?’ – when he slowed.
‘I might be.’
‘Is it a hotel or an address you’re looking for?’
‘I don’t have either. Perhaps you could recommend me?’
‘There would be a finder’s fee.’
‘How much?’
‘That would depend upon the sort of accommodation you’re looking for.’
‘I like everything fully appointed. Are you familiar with such accommodation?’
‘Fully appointed accommodation costs $350. It comes with a complete survey.’
‘I think I need to see it.’
‘I think you need to, too.’
Mason liked her perfume and the name she used – Miriam – and the clean, just showered smell when they got into the cab, and that she didn’t try to crawl all over him. He was glad, too, that it was an apartment, just off Columbus Circle, and not a pay by the hour professional hotel. When they got inside Mason decided it was where she lived, not her workplace. He declined her offered drink and when he handed over the four $100 bills he told her he didn’t expect any change.
Time to Kill Page 9
