Once a Spy (31 page)

Pitman sat against the desk, blasé as ever. Obviously the spook had let it get to this point because he saw the bluff.

Charlie decided: Better to cede the round and hang up before it was too late.

“Fine, fine,” grumbled Pitman. “Fine.” He rubbed his jaw.

With manufactured nonchalance, Charlie dropped the handset into its cradle.

“They took your father for a debrief,” Pitman said.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“No. They do intend to neutralize him, but they need information first. They’re worried that in the time since he figured out what was going on, he secretly spread out a security blanket. They’re jetting an ace interrogator up from the Caribbean.”

“What do you mean by a ‘security blanket’?”

“Like, a timed drop.”

“And what do you mean by a ‘timed drop’?”

“A dead drop that will be cleared after a set time period unless he’s around to put a stop to it. Then the contents go to, say, the
Washington Post.”

While such a measure was practical, Charlie suspected that Drummond’s patriotism would have precluded it. “Where did they take him?” he asked.

“I heard Cuba,” Pitman said, rubbing his jaw again.

“Not the island?”

“No, it’s someplace around here. That’s all I can tell you.”

“How can I get more information?”

“Call four one one,” Pitman said. His hand shot from his jaw to Charlie’s stomach.

It caught Charlie off guard and felt like a blow from a heavyweight. Pitman sprang up, tackling him hard about the rib cage. Charlie tumbled backward. His right wrist smacked into the thick steel trunk of the gumball machine lamp, costing him his hold on the Colt. It fell onto the desktop and slid to within inches of Pitman.

Snaring it, Pitman said, “On second thought, you may want to call nine one one.” He curled a finger around the trigger and aimed the gun at Charlie.

The odds were that a professional like Pitman would reclaim the Colt. Charlie had bet on that beforehand. And been right. Accordingly it was with gusto that he yanked the lamp’s power cord, plunging the room into total darkness. Then he whisked Pitman’s silenced SIG Sauer P228 from the back of his own waistband, leveled it, and pulled the trigger. The gun nearly kicked out of his hand. The plume of flame lit the office, showing Pitman lifted by the shoulder and thrust into the wall. He slid to the floor and lay still, apparently unconscious again, blood darkening his shirtfront.

Another time, Charlie would be in shock. Now, all he thought about was getting to Drummond. He recognized it was a long shot. Which buoyed him: For once he had relevant experience.

Part Three
The Triggerman

1

Pitman was
lying on the office floor, still breathing but unconscious, when he began to intermittently glow green. It was the reflection, Charlie realized, of the neon sign sputtering on across the street at the Mykonos Diner. The
Sea Dog
was a go.

Sitting at the desk, Charlie tried to devise an alternative plan. His approach was no different than if he were playing the horses, which begins with an evaluation of the past—the speed, the endurance, and the style demonstrated by the horses during their previous trips. The next step is to create a mental picture of them competing in the forthcoming race. To Charlie’s surprise, his thinking wasn’t just clear but electric. Adrenaline strengthened his focus and quickened his acuity, which had the effect of slowing the pace of the rest of the world, allowing him to weigh options he otherwise might have overlooked. Like nuclear fission.

He recalled a story Drummond used to tell in which the scientists arrived for work at the secret headquarters of the Manhattan Project. A lot of the early atomic bomb research was conducted at Columbia University, on Manhattan’s Morningside Heights, in a subterranean complex built solidly enough that vibrations from the adjacent IRT subway line wouldn’t disturb the hypersensitive instruments.

The entrance was in the campus grocery store in the basement of Furnald Hall, an undergraduate dormitory. All day long students and professors bought coffee and snacks. The students had no idea that the cashiers from whom they finagled six-packs were really employees of the U.S. Army. No one suspected that Gibby, the dim stockroom guy, held
the key—literally—to the Allied nuclear effort. When Gibby was sure no one was looking, he admitted certain “professors” to the employee washroom. Within the far toilet stall was the entryway to a tunnel leading to a secret warren of offices and laboratories. When the war ended, the complex was sealed off to prevent radioactive leakage. Or so everyone was told.

When Drummond used to talk about the Manhattan Project, it was with the same patriotic pride he reserved for D-day and the lunar landing. Tonight it seemed significant to Charlie that, unlike the Normandy beaches and the moon, the Manhattan Project facility was two blocks from Drummond’s office. Also, dropping letters from
Columbia
netted
Cuba
.

Charlie imagined a subterranean complex of sparkling modern laboratories, teeming with scientists in gleaming lab coats, corridors patrolled in lockstep by guards in crisp unitards. Then he applied what he’d learned the last two days: Odds were, to avoid drawing attention, the Cavalry would keep personnel to the absolute minimum, and their security force would more closely resemble the small Manhattan Project unit in the grocery store. Which meant they would be susceptible to attack.

All at once, Charlie had an idea of how to carry it out.

“I hope you’re okay,” he said to Pitman. “We have a lot of work to do.”

2

Alice heard
a baby crying in the next room. She knew that Iraqi interrogators, believing no sound induced greater psychological stress, were fond of piping recordings of wailing infants into the cells of their subjects. It certainly would explain the twinkle in Dr. Cranch’s eye when he’d left the room a few minutes ago.

“I’d estimate you’ve told me ninety percent of what I want to know,” the interrogator had said. “Most likely the omissions are the result of fatigue and the shock of your having been discovered. So let’s table our discussion until you’ve had a chance to get some proper rest.”

Since the Dark Ages, sleep deprivation had been recognized as an effective means of coercion. In most modern civilized countries, it was an illegal form of torture. Alice knew from experience that after seventy hours, her electrolyte balance would go haywire. She would lose her ability to think rationally. She would say things she shouldn’t. Thankfully, she’d learned this during a training exercise. If the same were to happen here, people would die. And she’d be number one.

As Hector peeked through the transom, a far better scenario presented itself. The nominal butler stood on the other side of the door, a Beretta tucked into the waistband of his too-tight white linen uniform trousers. He’d been peeking through the transom more often than the position of watchman warranted. That he was on duty tonight, rather than the more resolute Alberto, was a stroke of luck.

Twenty-five or so, Hector was tall and dark and built like a Greek statue, with chocolate-brown eyes, waves of glossy black hair, and sparkling teeth. But these classically handsome parts went together poorly,
like stripes and checks. He was unaware of it, or at least he didn’t let it impede his efforts as a lothario. Not only was he a chronic flirt but he often called Alice “baby.” Who calls the boss’s girlfriend “baby”?

Still, under the current circumstances, seducing him wouldn’t be easy.

The door opened and he entered to clear her dinner. His eyes took their usual extended tour of her sleeveless dress.

“Hey, baby, how was the grub?” he asked.

She tried but couldn’t think of a single come-on that hadn’t been uttered or performed a zillion times in a zillion cheesy singles bars. Also the crying infant from the next room, evidently a looped recording, was hardly Barry White.

“My compliments to the sous chef,” she said finally.

God, what a flirt, she thought.

Yet he lingered, tensing his arm muscles more than was necessary to lift an empty plastic bowl. In doing nothing, she realized, she was doing all that was required.

“Hector, I’m bored,” she said.

He flashed his Romeo smile. “I’d entertain you myself, but …”

“How about bringing in a TV?”

“The doc said no TV. Sorry, baby.”

“Just for a little while? I won’t say anything.”

“I ain’t worried what you’d say, I’m worried what the boss would say. The smallest TV in this place is, like, fifty inches. How’m I gonna explain why I’m lugging that shit in here?”

“How about a portable radio, then? I’ll make it worth your while, Hector.” She visualized Rita Hayworth batting her eyelashes, then tried it herself.

Flattery tinted his beefy cheeks. “They say you’re a dangerous lady.”

“What am I gonna do with a radio?”

“I don’t know—build a bomb?”

She would put a radio to better use than a bomb. She could sling a channel selection dial at him with nearly the same lethality as a Shaolin throwing star, which wouldn’t draw the attention from the household that an explosion would.

“At least something to read?” Her real aim was a deck of cards.

“He specifically say no books, no magazines, no nothing to read.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Baby, I wish I could.”

Alice sighed. “At this point, I’d be happy just for a pack of cards.”

He shrugged, probably just averse to saying no again.

“Even in maximum security prisons, they let inmates play solitaire,” she said.

“I know, I know, but—”

“What if I play strip solitaire?”

“How do you play that?” he said with indifference. He was a poor actor.

“Each time I lose a hand, I remove an article of clothing. And I only have one article of clothing.”

“You’re probably super-crazy-good at solitaire.”

“How about if I start out with the dress off? Will that do it for you, baby?”

Hector grinned, and still was grinning when he returned with a deck of Bicycle cards in hand. A bonus: Bicycles had “air cushioning,” plastic coating intended to prevent cards from sticking to one another. To a card thrower, it was a full-metal jacket.

She rose to accept the deck. “Hector, have I ever told you that you’re my favorite person?”

He held back. “The dress,” he reminded her.

She unbuttoned the dress and let it spill down her bare breasts and hips to the carpet. Hector’s mouth fell open like a mailbox.

He dumped the cards on the picnic table, then turned away, probably to hide the protuberance at the front of his trousers. Still, he would be able to draw and fire the Beretta well before she could throw a card.

Putting on a lackadaisical air, she took up the deck and extracted a joker from the top. She pinched the center of the card with her thumb and ring finger, as firmly as she could without creasing it, and placed her index finger on the far corner. Card-throwing power is generated by the wrist, but the key to the throw is finesse: The wrist needs to be as relaxed as if propped up by a pillow. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs and stomach, then exhaled slowly. She bent her arm ninety degrees at the elbow, bringing the joker toward her abdomen. With a motion similar to
that of a Frisbee toss, but much quicker, she released the card. It sliced the air, likely in excess of fifty miles per hour, toward Hector. The whipcrack alerted him. Just as a corner of the card bit into his jugular. The “crying infant” next door masked his cry.

Alice leaped at him, landing a blow to the side of his head. He sagged beneath her, out cold. She took his Beretta and cell phone, hauled him into the bathroom, used her full strength to lift him into the “water bed,” then lowered and bolted the lid. There was no water in the basin, which was fine—the idea was containment. The villa was big enough that ten minutes would pass before any of the other household staff members or security guards would miss him. If she couldn’t escape in that time, she never would.

“Don’t turn on the water,” came his muffled plea.

To her ear it was serendipity. “But, Hector, that would be like a cone without any ice cream.”

“Please.” His deep breathing was an unmistakable precursor to anxiety-induced hyperventilation. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“What do I want to know?”

“Señor Fielding’s really CIA.”

“CIA
what?”

“The real deal: spy, covert ops man—whatever you call it.”

Two days ago Alice more readily would have accepted this—the Drummond Clark connection begged the question. Now she was inclined to dismiss Hector’s information as preposterous. And she hoped it was. What CIA officer would sic the likes of the Knife on an innocent little girl? Hector certainly sounded like he believed what he’d said, though. A CIA link also might explain Fielding’s willingness to subject her to torture. Most criminals feared backlash from intelligence agencies, who famously took care of their own—often, on learning their captive was such an agent, the thugs released him at once and gave him a first-class ticket to wherever he wanted.

“Hector, the way this will work best is if you tell me something I don’t already know,” Alice said, twisting the knob on the face of the tank. Water swelled the hose running from the showerhead into the basin, splashing Hector.

“Okay, okay, okay.” He began to sob.

She turned the water off. “Off for now,” she specified.

“You know about the old CIA guy you talked to up in Brooklyn?” he asked. “Señor Clark?”

“I know a lot about him. Do you know something I don’t?”

“You know Fielding’s gonna snuff him?”

“Why?”

“Something he knows, I guess.”

She scoffed. “CIA men don’t usually snuff one another.” But of course she was here in the first place because Fielding allegedly had Lincoln Cadaret snuff an NSA man, Mariáteguia—probably because of something Mariáteguia knew.

“He’s not doing it himself.”