Dark Spies (20 page)

He seemed like a nice man, and she was happy to help him.

She looked at him, thinking how odd it was that strangers could sleep next to each other when traveling on public transportion, as if they were sharing a bed. Not that she was complaining; this guy was hot. She decided to go to sleep fantasizing about watching him fall asleep in their bed while caressing his fatigued face.

The image made her feel good.

And made her frown.

Because there was something about his face that was familiar.

Actor? TV personality? Unlikely somebody from that world would travel on a bus. And the name he’d given her—John Jones—didn’t ring any bells. Oh well, in all probability he was a nobody who just happened to have the looks of someone famous.

She closed her eyes, picturing her fantasy, and at the same time wondering, Who are you?

It was nearly 1:00
A.M.
when Ed Parker entered the Russian and European Analysis division’s archive room at CIA headquarters. He’d considered leaving this inquiry until morning, but couldn’t sleep. So he’d gotten out of bed, put on jeans and a sweater, made a call to the head of the archive, and driven over to Langley.

The archivist was already in the room, working on his computer while looking majorly annoyed that he’d been summoned by Ed to work at this ungodly hour. The man—in his early sixties and thin, aside from a belly that came from decades of sitting at a desk and drinking gallons of beer in his off hours—was wearing casual attire and socks that didn’t match, and his hair was ruffled. “Director Parker. So pleased to see you.”

“No you’re not.” Parker strode to the archivist’s desk. “You got any coffee around here?”

“Nope. But I got a bottle of Jack in my drawer in case of emergencies.”

“I have to drive home after this.”

“So do I.”

“Well, fuck it, then. If we get caught, we can spend a night together in a cell while swapping stories about the good ol’ days.”

The archivist poured whiskey into mugs, handed one to the director, and returned to his workstation. “What do you want?”

Parker placed a hand on the archivist’s computer. “Your password to your database.”

The archivist laughed. “Can’t give you that.”

“Thought you’d say that, which is why I needed you here.” He took a sip of the liquor. “The Project Ferryman files: Who last pulled them and when?”

The head of the archive spent a few minutes tapping on his keyboard and glancing at his computer screen before looking at Parker. “Helen Coombs pulled the files three days ago at 0906 hours. As per access protocols for these files, she read them in one of the booths and they were then returned to us at 0957 hours. You know her?”

Parker nodded. “She’s cleared to read the files: she’s involved in distributing Ferryman intel to our key government contacts. Anyone else read the files in the last few weeks?”

The archivist returned to his screen. “You, Mr. Sheridan, and Senator Jellicoe. No one else.”

Parker polished off his drink. “Okay. Send an e-mail to Helen Coombs telling her I want to see her at ten
A.M.
tomorrow in my office.” He checked his watch. “Correction, today. But don’t tell her why.”

The sight of Washington, D.C., with its neon lights showing glimpses of rain-drenched buildings in the darkness, made Emma feel both euphoric and irritable. The joy was plain and simple, the same elation she always felt when she reached the end of a long journey, and by Christ she’d made this journey enough times to wish away every minute of the time it took. Her irritability came from the fact that she was visiting her parents, meaning she would have to endure her mother’s cross-examinations about her love life, dietary intake, fashion sense, and latest hairstyle, as well as her ignorant and snide comments about her vocation. Her father, by contrast, was a head-in-the-sand guy whose prime motivation in life was avoiding confrontation. Trouble was, every time Mom started getting all nosy on her, Dad would tell her she was acting like Perry Mason, and Mom would say she was too young to know who Perry Mason was, and Dad would say she wasn’t, and finally Dad would get precisely what he wanted to avoid: confrontation. It happened on every trip she made to see them. And while they were going for each other’s throats, she’d sit between them feeling like she was twelve years old.

And the irony was, during her short adulthood she’d experienced far more of the world than her parents. Upon graduating from college, she’d given the finger to their dogmatic belief that a career in law awaited her and instead accepted a position with a charity that specialized in aid to the Third World. She’d chosen the career path because she desired travel, was by nature a person who wanted to make the world a better place, and knew it would shock her mom and dad. Among many things, Emma was a rebel who would frequently eschew sensible paths in favor of impulsive adventure.

She pulled out her cell phone and saw it was nearly 6:00
A.M.

The man by her side was still asleep, or more like unconscious. She’d never seen a guy look this tired, and felt guilty for having to wake him.

But Union Station was minutes away.

She nudged his arm.

Good Lord, it felt like steel.

He remained asleep.

She prodded his thigh.

It was as solid as a mature oak tree.

He was motionless.

What was left? There had to be something he could feel. Not his hands. They looked leathery and immune to pain or any other feeling, since they were covered in scars.

That left the face. Touch him there? Just like she’d fantasized?

She raised a finger and smoothed the back of it against his cheek.

His eyes opened and he exclaimed, “Ulana, too dangerous to make it.”

Definitely not the same accent she’d heard before.

British, she decided.

“You okay? We’re pulling up to Union Station.”

Will collected his thoughts, silently cursing his involuntary outburst.

“You dream in British?”

Will smiled and made no effort to conceal his English accent. “Sometimes, yeah. I often switch between accents without knowing I’m doing it. I’m half and half. Mother was British; father American.”

“Was?”

Will nodded. “Was.”

The coach pulled into Union Station, and as it did so Emma recalled killing hours in New York City’s Penn Station by reading a discarded copy of the
New York Times
. There was something she’d read in the paper that was nagging her, but she’d only been half awake and she was struggling to recall what she’d seen. “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you on TV? You look familiar.”

Will tensed. “I’ve been asked that before. Guess there must be some actor out there who I resemble.”

“Maybe a better way to look at it is that he resembles you.” She smiled, and then thought, God, did I just say that?

Will smiled back at her. “Thanks for the pillow. It was a lifesaver, and it really was a very kind gesture.” He got to his feet as the coach came to a halt in the station’s bus deck and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Emma.”

Emma shook his hand and kept hold of it as she asked, “You make this trip a lot?”

Will lied. “Too often.”

“I hope we bump into each other again.”

“Me too. Just make sure you bring your extra travel cushion.”

He walked down the aisle, leaving Emma wondering who decided that it was inappropriate for a girl to give a guy her telephone number when he hadn’t asked.

She also wondered why her fellow passenger wasn’t carrying any luggage.

Strange.

Still, she was envious, because her cruddy backpack felt like it weighed as much as she did; it would be great one day to travel footloose and fancy-free.

She gathered her things and exited the coach into the station’s basement bus parking zone. Though it was only recently built, she knew every inch of Union Station’s new bus area—it was as big as a cathedral, modern, spacious, and minimalist, had multiple tiers that were accessed by elevators, escalators, and stairwells, and a glass roof over the upper level containing bathrooms and retail outlets. But as she entered the ground floor to head toward the H Street NE pedestrian entrance, she reflected that this was the first time she’d seen cops in the building.

She could see four of them standing in two groups. The nearest pair were approximately fifty yards away and were looking at the faces of the commuters passing them. Farther ahead, two more cops were doing the same.

Ten yards ahead of her, John Jones stopped for a second before continuing on toward the exit and the police who stood in their way.

Why did he stop, she wondered?

She glanced at the cops again; there was no doubt they were looking for someone.

She returned her gaze to the back of John Jones.

He was walking slowly, his hands now in his jacket pockets.

Did cops make him uneasy?

Scare him?

It came crashing home.

The
New York Times
article.

A photo of a handsome man who was described as half English, half American.

An image that matched the face of the guy who’d sat next to her on the bus.

A rogue British intelligence officer.

On the run in the United States.

Her heart beating fast, she tried to decide what to do. Call out to the police, saying an armed fugitive was heading toward them? That was the logical option. Maybe she’d be entitled to some kind of reward for playing a part in the capture of the man named Will Cochrane.

The cops were heavily armed and were wearing body armor. Together, they’d easily overpower him. Plus, he’d looked so tired on the coach that she doubted he had any fight in him.

She was forty yards away from the nearest cops. Though they weren’t looking in her direction, they’d easily hear her if she shouted.

The sensible path to take was to do precisely that, and then duck for cover.

Trouble was, the man who’d been so grateful to her for use of her travel pillow never once looked or sounded like he was a threat. He seemed like a good person, someone she’d felt totally comfortable around while she closed her eyes.

To hell with alerting the cops.

She’d never been one to do the sensible thing.

She jogged as fast as her heavy pack would let her until she was side by side with the FBI’s Most Wanted. “Mr. Jones,” she said, breathless and smiling, “I’ve got a favor to ask—you mind carrying my damn bag? It’s killing my back.”

Will looked at her. His face looked focused and serious. “I’m—”

“Only need you to hold it until we’re outside. Maybe payment in kind for the pillow?”

Will hesitated. “Sure.” He took the backpack and slung it over one shoulder.

As they walked closer to the first pair of cops, Emma said, “Got another favor to ask: Do you mind holding my hand? Ever since I was a kid and got in a bit of trouble, cops freak me out.”

“Your hand?”

Emma grabbed his hand impatiently. “Yes. It would reassure me.”

Will was frowning, trying to figure her out.

But she pulled him closer. “I’m just a scared girl, okay?”

As they walked nearer to the cops, looking every bit a couple who were visiting or returning to D.C., Will whispered, “You know who I am.”

Emma’s heart was now racing, though externally she hoped she looked calm. “Some stuff I read. But I also know you like fruit, dream in another accent, and don’t have anyone to look after you anymore. That’s more interesting to me.”

The first two policemen were now looking at Will. “I can’t let you do this. It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t think you’re a danger to me.” She pulled him even closer and put on a fake smile. “Just act like you love me.”

Urgently, Will replied, “I’m no danger to you, but what could happen next may well be.”

Keeping her grin fixed on her face, she muttered, “Use your U.S. accent. Your face looks a bit thinner than in the photo the press is showing, and the clothes help make you look different. We’re visiting my folks. You’re my new boyfriend and I’m showing you off for the first time. I’m a charity worker, based in NYC. Surname Jones. We met two weeks ago at Huckleberry Bar in Brooklyn. Still getting to know each other. I haven’t been to your home yet, because I’m a Bible Belt gal who ain’t hopping into bed for any guy until he pops the question. What do you do for a living?”

As they got closer to the police, Will felt respect for Emma’s quick thinking, courage, and commitment, but was increasingly worried for her at the same time. “Therapist with my own practice in New York. I counsel trauma victims, particularly war veterans.”

“Clever. Cops will like that.”

Barely moving his lips, Will responded, “Clever things don’t always work out in real life. If anything bad happens, fall to the ground, lie flat with your hands over your head, and after I’m dead tell them that I had a gun pointed at your gut.” The police were now staring directly at them. “Why are you doing this?”

Emma squeezed his hand. “Seems to me, someone’s got to look after you.”

Will used his eye contact in the way he’d been trained to do when operating in hostile environments without wishing to be conspicuous—never keep your head down to avoid looking at anyone, because it looks odd, or fix your gaze on someone, because it may unsettle them and cause a confrontation. Instead, act normal by briefly glancing at people before respectfully looking away. That’s what he did with the cops as he and Emma walked past them.

The police, by contrast, made no attempt to hide the fact they were scrutinizing everyone, while their hands rested over their sidearm holsters. They continued staring at the couple as they moved farther along the concourse toward the other two cops who were forty yards ahead.

The first group of police said nothing to Will and Emma, and they were now behind them.

Emma was mightily relieved.

Will wasn’t, because he’d known they wouldn’t be challenged by the first group of officers; they were the spotters, in place to signal to the second group if they had a possible sighting. And between the two sets of cops was the takedown zone.