Cross Roads (19 page)

“Hold on there, Emery,” Number 6 said.

“Master Emery to you, agent. Dock him, Master Wong.” Harry dutifully made a checkmark on his clipboard. He looked even more bored, if that was possible.

And then all the agents were talking at once. Harry scribbled furiously, as did Jack. Bert smiled benignly.

Jack pointed to the video camera for Number 6's benefit. He looked disconcerted for a moment but decided to plunge ahead. “What the hell are you guys talking about? We didn't miss anything. And what the hell does that screwball Jellicoe have to do with the CIA? We can whip that guy's ass, his people's asses, and anyone else who gets in our way. Now, if we could advertise the way he does, things might be different. While we work to serve our country, that SOB works to make money at everyone else's expense. And damn straight, I don't like the guy or his people. So mark that down, Master Wong.” The agent stepped back in line and straightened his shoulders.

“Wait a minute, let me get this straight,” Jack said. “You're saying my friends at the FBI made up that stuff? That is what you're saying, isn't it? With all due respect, agent, I'd probably say the same thing you just said if my ass were on the line. What you're really saying, then, is Jellicoe, head of Global Securities, is out to get the CIA, and he made that all up. Jesus, you guys are something else, you know that?”

The second agent in line stepped forward, sweat rolling down his face. “Yeah, that's what we're saying. We have the best intel in the world. No, we don't share. I'm telling you that bullshit rumor that is going around was started by Jellicoe himself.”

“Okay, duly noted. Your venom speaks volumes,” Jack said. “Master Navarro, they're all yours.” Jack moved over to where Harry was standing. He scribbled notes on a blank sheet of paper under the top sheet. Harry did likewise.
I think they're telling the truth,
Jack wrote.

Yeah. What now?
Harry scribbled back.

They're the top eight agents out at Langley. At least one or two of them should know what's going on. We can't act too interested
, Jack wrote back.

So, how do we play it? Sounds like a grudge against Jellicoe to me. Maybe we should pretend we love and adore the son of a bitch!
Harry scribbled.

And the FBI. Maybe we should show them their last e-vals. They passed, didn't they?

Good idea. With flying colors. They were a dedicated team, I kid you not, not like these buffoons.

Buffoons?
Jack didn't know Harry knew the meaning of the word, much less actually knew how to use it in a sentence. Jack shrugged and walked away, his eyes on the massacre going on in front of him. Bert was right, it was pitiful.

The moment the fourth hour was up, Bert blew his whistle. “Let me put you out of your misery right now, agents. Unless Master Wong saw something that I didn't see, you all failed. Not only did you fail, but you failed miserably.” He pointed to the video camera. “It's all there in glorious color, agents. It will go out with your e-vals tomorrow. We'll be seeing you here the day after tomorrow. Master Wong, do you have anything else to add?”

Harry held up his hand. “I think this is one of those times when a picture, in this case, video, is worth a thousand words. Front and center, agents. Watch!”

Jack, Harry, and Bert watched the eight agents wince, cringe, and bite at their lips. Harry was right, these pictures depicted the FBI's lean, mean fighting machines. “That's how it is supposed to be done. You might as well have been wearing tutus and ballet slippers. Not one of you came close to meeting the e-val requirements. We all know what that means. You don't go back to the field, you go back to the Farm for additional training. These e-vals will be part of your permanent record.”

“Unless…” Bert said.

The eight agents pounced on the single word like white on rice. “Unless what?” they said in unison.

M
aggie Spritzer rubbed at the back of her neck. It was late, and she should have gone home hours ago, but her gut—more importantly, her reporter's instinct—was telling her to stick with what she was doing. She blinked, rubbed the grit from her eyes, then drained her coffee cup. She needed a refill, but it would just have to wait. She sifted through the pile of printouts for the fifth, or maybe it was the sixth, time—she really couldn't remember. These were the blog comments she'd printed out because they sounded more legitimate than the others. She dropped to her knees and spread them out on the floor behind her desk. Then she put on her hateful reading glasses and stared at the neatly lined-up, printed comments. One stood out above the others. Written by someone named Emma Doty, whose blog name was Sparkle. Maggie frowned. What kind of idiot would not only sign her real name but offer up her personal e-mail address on a blog? A real idiot, that's who. All the blog said was she had information, but she wasn't putting it on a blog. Maggie picked up the printout, swiveled around, and opened her e-mail program. She quickly typed in a message before she could change her mind. She identified herself, typed in her cell phone number, and asked for the recipient's phone number, saying she would call her when she got the number.

Maggie swiveled back around and again dropped to her knees to pick up and move the papers in front of her. She wondered if all the people who blogged were crackpots looking for five minutes of fame. She rubbed at her eyes again. She really needed to go home.

Maggie quickly weeded through the scattered printouts. She immediately tossed three of them when she saw they were sightings of Hank Jellicoe, one by the Space Needle in Seattle, the second in downtown Atlanta, and the third one riding a horse in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. All sent within five minutes of each other. She rocked back on her haunches just as her cell phone rang. Thinking it was Ted, she growled, “I know, I know, I'm leaving now.”

“I beg your pardon,” a sweet-sounding voice said on the other end of the line. “This is Emma Doty, and I would like to speak to Miss Spritzer. If I dialed the right number, that is.”

Maggie's fist shot in the air. “You did. I mean, you dialed the right number. I was…I thought you were my boyfriend. It's late, and I'm still here at the office.”

“I can always call you back tomorrow, Miss Spritzer. I'm two hours behind you time wise. I live in Prairie City, Idaho, a small town, two thousand or so people. I just received your e-mail. I thought you must be anxious to know information to send out an e-mail this late. I want to help if I can.”

“Oh, I do, I never sleep; well, hardly ever,” Maggie said, yawning. “I would love to hear whatever it is you think I should know. I'm wide-awake,” she said, yawning again.

“Well, I read your paper online every day. I lived for many years in the Chesapeake area. When my husband passed away a while back, I came home to where he and I grew up. We were childhood sweethearts. I'm disabled and housebound these days, so my life is pretty much my computer. Don't you go feeling sorry for me, now; my children take real good care of me. Now, the reason I did the blog was because the man you appear to want to know about, a Mr. Henry or Hank Jellicoe, that isn't going to happen. Well, you might find him, but he isn't real. The reason I say that is, that's not his real name. His real name is Andrew Graverson. I went to school with him. He was Andy Graverson back then.”

Maggie's heart started to pound in her chest. “Mrs. Doty, how can you be so sure?”

“I'm sure because my husband was sure. That man never made a mistake in his life, and the first time we saw a write-up about how successful Mr. Jellicoe had become, Matt, that's my husband, did a little poking around. Went to our old school on a vacation visit home one year, checked out the senior-class picture. Back then we didn't have year-books in our schools. It was Andy, all right. But if you need more proof, I have a picture of Andy, Matt, Joey, and Will all showing off a tattoo they got in their senior year when the Fireman's Carnival came to town. They're all gone now but Andy. And of course me and Will and Joey's widows. We all belong to the same quilting group. Most times it's here at my house because it's hard for me to get out. One of these days I'm going to get a van that's wheelchair equipped. One of these days.” She sighed, knowing full well it wasn't going to happen. “We all have pictures. I'd be more than happy to overnight them to you if you think it would help. The boys were inseparable best friends back then.”

Maggie could hardly find her tongue. “Do you have a scanner?”

“Lord, no, child. I'm lucky I have this ancient computer that's on its last legs. The profits from our next quilt come to me. I'm hoping to make enough to at least put a down payment on a new computer. But that's not till Christmas, when the church raffles it off at the bazaar.”

“Okay, overnight everything you have that you think will prove Andy Graverson is Hank Jellicoe. I'll send you a check to cover the mailing if you give me your address. Do you know why he changed his name?”

“No idea at all, Miss Spritzer. Matt and the boys wrote him a couple of letters maybe fifteen or so years ago when he was becoming famous, and they all came back as undeliverable. I guess he had his reasons.”

“When and why did he leave Prairie City?”

“After graduation, and for the same reason we all left. No work in our little town. I think Andy went to Boise. Matt went to Colorado, and when he got a job and was settled, he came back for me. Will and Joe lit out for Nevada. We all stayed in touch except for Andy. There were no jobs in Prairie City, like I said. Summers we all picked potatoes, and no one wanted to make a career of doing that. I'm not complaining; we all had good lives. Why are you trying to find Andy, if you don't mind me asking?”

“I wish I could tell you that, Mrs. Doty, but right now I can't. I promise I will tell you when it's the right time. I don't know how to thank you.”

“My thanks will be your telling me I'm right. I just hate it when people think because you're getting up there in years, you can't remember anything. I remember everything.”

Maggie laughed. “I'll look forward to receiving the pictures. By the way, where is the tattoo on Andy, and what does it say?”

Emma Doty laughed out loud. “It was a silly thing, really. Like I said, we all picked potatoes. They make sour mash from potatoes. It kind of foamed, so they had the words
spuds and suds
tattooed on the back of their left hands. I hated it; so did Matt as he got older. I think all the boys regretted it, but by then it was too late. When we would go to a social event, I always made Matt wear a Band-Aid on his hand. Your Hank Jellicoe has the same tattoo, unless he had it removed at some point, which is entirely possible since he could certainly afford to have it done. If there's nothing else, Miss Spritzer, I'll say good night. My son will send off the pictures to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Doty.”

The moment Maggie powered down, she thought she was going to explode upward and hit the ceiling. “When you want something done, call on a woman!” she shouted to the empty room. Now that she wasn't the least bit sleepy, she powered up her cell phone and called Ted. “What do you have?”

“Nothing. I'm sleeping.”

“Well, I have something, and if you can't match what I have, you are fired, so get your tail out of bed and get to work.”

Maggie's next call was to Abner Tookus, who was awake but cranky. “Do you have anything?”

“Jesus, Maggie, I just got on all of this. What's with you, anyway?”

“Yeah, well, you're going to be begging me to take all that oceanfront property off your hands for a song, because I've only been on it for forty minutes, and I hit the mother lode. You better have something for me by morning, or I'm going to be a real-estate mogul. Chew on that, Abner Tookus!”

Now she could go home.

 

Fifty miles away, with only twenty minutes to go before the clock struck midnight, the Sisters hovered around the conference table with Charles and Lizzie Fox.

Annie stretched her arm so that she could slap her hand down in the middle of the table. “This is it, girls, the clock is ticking. It's either yes or it's no. We vote
now
!” Without a moment's hesitation, Myra's palm came down hard on top of Annie's. The Sisters followed suit.

Lizzie drew a deep breath. “That makes it unanimous. Who has the phone?”

Nikki looked at Kathryn, who was rummaging in the pocket of her jeans. She laid the phone carefully in the center of the table. “Ari Gold said all you have to do is power up, hit the number one, and we'll hear his voice.”

Charles Martin felt like he should voice an opinion of some kind, but one look at the women's faces told him that was not the way to go. He didn't think he'd ever been as frightened in his life as he was at that moment.

All eyes turned to Lizzie, who reached for the phone. The silence in the room was so total, the click of Lizzie hitting the number one sounded like a thunderclap.

“What time is it in Israel?” Alexis whispered.

“Who cares?” Annie hissed, just as Lizzie introduced herself on the phone. They were in awe of the silver-haired, silver-tongued lawyer as she laid out their demands, then proceeded to rattle off questions, to which she made squiggly notes on a yellow legal pad that no one but her could or would understand. The silence continued, broken only when Lizzie asked a question or made a comment. The gel point pen she was using made no sound as she made notes.

“Since you agree with me on all fronts, Mr. Gold, the next thing we need to do is schedule a video conference for tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock our time. Of course I trust you and the others, Mr. Gold. About as much as you trust me and the ladies of Pinewood. Just so we're clear on this, blanket immunity all across the board. Total. The monies are to be wired into the account number I gave you earlier. I will expect confirmation from the bank when we begin our video conference. Which now brings me to my last question. If you can't or won't cooperate on this point, all of what we've agreed to is moot. The ladies want to know where you dropped off Mr. Jellicoe.”

The Sisters leaned forward, hoping to hear Ari Gold's response. They could hear nothing coming through the phone but Lizzie's wide-eyed look of surprise stunned them. “And how do I know this is true? Yes, yes, a video of his departure will do nicely. Yes, of course I understand that you and the others wanted proof of his departure. Then, Mr. Gold, I think that concludes our business for the evening. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”

Everyone started talking at once. “What? Did we commit? Are we…”

Lizzie placed her pen in the middle of the legal pad. “It's a go all around. They agreed to everything, even to interceding with the powers that be in Washington. Don't put too much faith in that promise. If you dissect it, it means that any one of those guys will guarantee you a safe harbor for the rest of your life. Providing you can get there. They agreed to your monetary demands, and the money will be offshore by ten tomorrow morning, at which point we will move it again to an even safer place.” Lizzie stopped long enough to take a deep breath and a long swallow of the coffee Charles had just poured for her.

“Hank Jellicoe?” Nikki asked tightly. “Did they give that up?”

“Yes, Nikki, they did. Mr. Gold said Hank got off the plane right behind you. He followed several of the maintenance people and entered the terminal through a different door. He's here, or he was here. Mr. Gold said they had video of him walking down the steps and across the tarmac. He said he understood your haste and desire to reach the terminal and that there was no reason for any of you to look back.”

“But we did look back. We even talked about the fact that no one got off the plane and that Gold's group was heading right back,” Kathryn said.

“Be that as it may. I can only report on what he said. He did volunteer to show the surveillance video they took from the plane tomorrow morning when we do our video conference. As far as proof, that should be sufficient to prove it's the truth. Ask yourself why he would lie about something like that at this stage. By the way, Mr. Gold is the spokesperson for the entire group. That, too, will be verified in the morning. Lord, it is morning already.”

“Did his words ring true, Lizzie?” Isabelle asked.

“They did, but remember this, first and foremost, important or not, the man is a high-ranking professional intelligence officer. They always sound truthful until you catch them in a lie. If everything goes off on schedule, you all sign on, I take the early-evening flight to London, hand-deliver the contracts so each country's seal can go on them, then I fly home the following morning. Don't worry, they are paying my fee”—she grinned—“and they're sending a private plane for my trip, and it will fetch me back. That's a win-win in any book.”

Lizzie started to gather up her papers and stuff them in a battered briefcase. “If you all don't mind, I'm going to call it a night. I want to call home and tell Cosmo I won't be home for a few more days. He's going to love having Jack all to himself.”

“Run along, dear,” Myra said. “Cosmo and Little Jack are more important right now than sitting here hashing and rehashing all this. What time is breakfast, Charles?”

“Seven,” Charles said smartly. Lizzie saluted and, moments later, was gone.

“I guess that means we're back in business,” Alexis said in a jittery-sounding voice.

Without missing a beat, Charles said, “When do you plan on telling your significant others that you are…ah…back in business?”

Kathryn reared up, her eyes sparking, “Speaking strictly for myself, Charles, when I get around to it. Bert does not own me. We're not married. We are not even engaged. I am a free agent, which means I am accountable to no one except to the people in this room, and that's by my choice.”