Operation Damocles (12 page)

The agony of her last look at Nathaniel welled up in her again, her throat constricting. She fought it down, and breathed deeply. Nathaniel was dead and she was a fugitive. She and the man who had originally been assigned to kill her. She shivered inside, glancing sidelong at Reed. He had helped her. She had no doubt that he had saved her life. Her reason told her that she had no immediate cause to fear him, or to disbelieve him. He could certainly have made up a better story, if what he said was a lie. What would he gain by lying? Besides, the radio had confirmed it. Terrorists? The lying bastards! They were still around. They still had power. The weapon hadn’t destroyed them, only driven them underground. They could still hurt people, still destroy lives to insure obedience in the media boardrooms. What would they do now? Where was Reed taking her?

XVIII

In Cocoa Beach, Reed took the car to a small wrecking yard and garage off Clearlake Road. Beverly sat in the car and watched as Reed had a few words with a rough, bearded man in dirty work clothes. The bearded man yelled to someone inside the garage. Reed returned to the car, collected Beverly and their luggage, and led her away down the rutted dirt and grass road toward the paved street. As they walked away, three young Hispanic men ran to the car, dragging hoses, jacks and air wrenches. By the time Reed and Watkins reached the street, the car was fast becoming used car parts.

They took a taxi to a Cocoa Beach marina, where Reed paid cash for an eighteen-foot open boat with a small outboard engine. They started down the Banana River, following the intercoastal waterway until it ended near Port Salerno. After leaving the mouth of the river for the open sea, they paralleled the coastline, keeping about a quarter-mile offshore, taking their time, running along the outermost perimeter of light surf at trolling speed, putting in occasionally to buy gas and use a restroom.

Reed scanned the sea and shore constantly, expecting any minute to see a four-wheel-drive Bronco or minivan appear over the dunes, black-garbed agents with assault rifles swarming out of it, or a Coast Guard cutter growing out of the ocean horizon with klaxons blaring. If it happened, he knew the Walther in his pocket wouldn’t be much defense in their exposed situation.

Throughout the long days that followed, Beverly remained distant and incommunicative, answering when spoken to, doing whatever he asked, never volunteering a thought or observation. Reed could see that she was withdrawing further into herself with each passing hour, but he couldn’t think of anything to do about it. She spent most of the time lying in the bow of the boat, her head resting on the gunwale, a seat cushion for a pillow, staring out to sea with glazed eyes.

Their arms and legs were red and burned by noon of the second day, and they felt like they were growing maggots in their clothes. They took turns bathing in the sea, which turned out to be a mistake. The seawater dried, leaving crusted salt in their hair and under their clothes, causing them to itch and burn and chafe.

Reed finally bought a five-gallon can of fresh water, blankets, bathing suits, deck shoes for himself, and a bottle of suntan lotion at a marina. They changed out of their clothes in the restrooms. Reed used the freshwater hose at the back of the baithouse to hose the salt and sweat off their bodies, then rinsed out their wet clothing and wrung it damp-dry. There were no public showers. They applied the suntan lotion liberally, to comfort their raw and tender skin, and put on loose shirts over their bathing suits. They were feeling better by the time they returned to their boat and left the harbor.

They camped on the beach the second night, sleeping fitfully in the cold and damp. When they arose in the early hours of the third day, a cold, wet mist was settling about them, and a fog lay over the sea. Beverly barely responded to Reed’s quiet “Good morning,” and didn’t respond at all to his further attempts at conversation. Reed had to prompt her to get her up and moving. They ate a silent meal of lunchmeat and bread, and climbed back into the little open boat. Beverly had barely touched her food. They set out again, her face downcast and morose.

She sat awhile, a freshening wind from the sea blowing her hair and misting her face with airborne dew. Rivulets of condensate ran down her back as she stared out to sea. After a while, she resumed her reclining position of the previous day.

Reed was stiff and tired, and in a disinterested frame of mind, but even so, he abstractly admired her lush figure. She was a beautiful woman. Even now, with her hair stringy and pasted to her head and face by the wet mist, her long legs and soft curves aroused him. She was overflowing the bikini top of her bathing suit. He thought that she was far more desirable this way, than with her hair carefully coifed and in the professional business suit that until now, had been his only vision of her. The blankets were almost saturated with dew, but he spread one over her anyway, hoping to conserve her body heat and prevent her from catching a chill. They didn’t have time to be sick. She didn’t seem to notice his attentiveness.

Reed managed to pull a pair of fiberglass oars from beneath the seats and, cutting the sputtering outboard engine, he moved to the center of the boat, his back to Beverly, and began to row, trying to work out the kinks in his muscles. After a while, he felt better, and his mind began to function again. He rested occasionally, then resumed rowing, not expecting to get anywhere fast, just doing it for the rhythmic, calming activity.

As the sun began to climb, the heat made Reed’s damp clothes itch and chafe, and the stagnant sea smell was the worse for his discomfort. Finally he removed the shirt he was wearing, and used it to blot his underarms and face of the sweat he had worked up.

He stopped rowing, and turning around, rummaged in the suitcase for the undershirt he had worn under his suit. He looked at Beverly, noting that she still hadn’t changed position. Aware that she had to be as uncomfortable as he was, he decided to try to do something to bring her out of her vacant stupor and get her mind working again. He was beginning to fear she might withdraw from shock to the point that she would sink into a catatonic state and never awaken.

“Mrs. Watkins,” he ventured, and got no response.

“We’re surrounded by . . .” Sharks, he had started to say, then thought better of it. Don’t be a childish ass, he thought to himself. I don’t want to risk inciting her to panic. It might do her even more harm. He thought for a minute, then said, “Mrs. Watkins, tell me about your husband. What was he like?” Reed watched her face. She gave no indication that she had heard him. Her staring eyes hadn’t flickered; her expression remained unaltered. What was his name, Reed wondered, Daniel? No, Nathan. No, Nathaniel. That was it, Nathaniel.

“Mrs. Watkins, tell me about Nathaniel,” he shouted. “Where is Nathaniel?” Her eyes flickered briefly. Reed was beginning to worry, thinking he might already be too late. He nudged the sole of her foot with his toe, shouting, “Where is Nathaniel, Mrs. Watkins. Where is he?”

Finally, he shipped the oars and moved forward, crouching over her, shaking her arms, chafing her hands and legs vigorously between his palms. He raised her up until she sat limply upright in his arms, leaning into his chest. He rubbed her back and pinched her shoulders, working her muscles hard. He held her in the crook of his arm and splashed seawater in her face with his right hand, and slapped her cheeks lightly. “Who are you?” he repeated, over and over. “Where is Nathaniel?”

Finally, her brow furrowed, and her eyes blinked. She looked at him, searched his face, registered puzzlement.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“Bev . . .” her dry mouth worked. She swallowed, trying to moisten her throat. “Beverly Watkins,” she finally managed hoarsely.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

She stared at him quizzically, her throat working.

He reached around with his free hand and retrieved the thermos bottle of cold coffee he had bought the day before. He poured the cap half-full, and holding her in one arm and the cup to her lips, gave her a drink of the bitter liquid. She swallowed, choked a little, then took some more, and the color began returning to her cheeks.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

She looked at him, her face worried, then her eyes widened, and she glanced from side to side, toward the beach arid the sea, panic rising in her face.

“Where is Nathaniel?” he asked relentlessly.

Her face froze, and she stared intently into his eyes. Suddenly, her eyes went wide, as comprehension flooded through her. Tears welled up, and her face contorted in anguish and rage. She began clawing and pushing to get away from him, and screaming, “He’s dead! He’s dead! They killed him! Oh, God, Nathaniel!”

She rolled out of Reed’s arms, facedown across the seat, deep, racking sobs shaking her back.

Reed moved back to his seat, taking long breaths, shuddering with cold, emotionally spent. After a time her sobbing diminished, then began again, more quietly. Reed sat motionless for a while, staring unseeingly out to sea, his mouth a grim line. Finally, he took up the oars and began rowing again. After a while, he started the engine and picked up speed.

The cold, damp sea and monotonous shoreline had become a gray, netherworld limbo that sapped the brain of thoughts. He had decided that regardless of the risk, they needed to find a town and mix with the living. They needed to sit in a restaurant, among familiar sights and sounds, and eat a hot meal. After that, a warm motel room, a hot shower, a long sleep and some dry clothes. Familiar things the mind could deal with. Physical comfort. It was all he could do for her now.

###

It took them five days to drift down the Florida coast to Miami, stopping overnight in cheap motels at Fort Pierce and Boca Raton. Once in Miami, Reed felt both relieved and sad that the boat journey was over. It had been physical misery, but it had suspended the feeling of desperate flight for a time, and the sick feeling in his gut when he was reminded that there was no way back to his former life. Now he must become active. He must begin to plan.

Beverly was still distant and introspective much of the time, especially in the evenings. She still wept occasionally, quietly and to herself. He couldn’t help her, so he quit worrying about her, telling himself she would eventually tire of grief, as the mind does, and slowly begin to put it behind her. In a couple of days, he thought, he would try to distract her, turn her attention to other things. Maybe take her to a nightclub and some of the more garish parts of the city. Give her a little color and excitement. Maybe it would draw her out of her shell. First, though, he had to get some of their immediate cares out of the way. At least she was coherent now, and there had been no further comatose lapses.

Reed finally came to terms with their situation, and the feeling of sick panic faded. He was a survivor. He accepted. He had spent his life in similar situations, fearing discovery and death, and his mind began following habitual paths, running through prospective travel plans, and weighing their chances of success. They needed identification documents and new personas. Those tasks came first, and were the easiest to accomplish. Secondly, they needed money. Fortunately, that, too, was not a problem.

Reed was single, and had worked in one remote hellhole after another for almost fifteen years. One day, ten years ago, he had been rummaging through his bureau drawer for something and discovered that he was pushing five payroll deposit slips out of his way, trying to find a spare apartment key among his jewelry. When on assignment, he lived on the other salary that he drew and banked under his cover occupation. His normal pay was sent automatically by electronic transfer to his personal bank account in Arlington, Virginia.

He decided to establish a secret account, just for future emergencies. He happened to be on assignment in Amsterdam at the time, and he had promptly opened an account in a bank, under a secret identity. He had drawn out alternate paychecks, once each month, and put them in the Amsterdam bank, half his annual salary after taxes, for the past ten years. He had $275,000 in savings and accumulated interest, and his agency had no knowledge of it. It would take a couple of days to transfer a few thousand dollars to a local bank, but then they would have a little breathing room. He decided then and there to take Beverly Watkins to California with him, if she would go, and to help her get established where he could help her and watch over her for a while. He felt responsible for her suffering, and wanted to at least help her to safety. He felt he owed her that much. That was the reason he gave himself, at any rate.

He rented connecting rooms on the second floor of a small motel, near a swim beach in south Miami. It was an older, two-story structure, built in the shape of a “C,” with parking inside the center courtyard. It was run by a retired couple from Chicago, and while it was by no means a resort spot for the rich and famous, it was clean and well-managed. Tenants appeared to be passers-through. Reed noted that a preponderance of the cars were loaded down with luggage and beach paraphernalia, and sported out-of-state plates.

Reed bartered the boat near there, in a Cuban-run pawn shop-cum-gateway to the Miami black market, for new identity documents. His livelihood had depended on his having a great deal of arcane knowledge about the underbelly of society in a dozen countries. He knew where to find reliable “fix-it” shops in most of the major cities in America, Europe and the Middle East, where documents such as licenses, passports and birth certificates could be forged. That was why they were here. The shop in Miami was one he had used several times. They were completely professional.

Their birth certificates and other documents were put on quality counterfeit forms and letterhead stock, from county seats in Indiana and Oklahoma, near Beverly’s and Reed’s respective points of origin. The vendor had hundreds to choose from.

To be effective, new identities had to hold up under mild scrutiny, and Reed had long ago learned that it paid to keep the professed origins as factual as possible, so that accents of speech and colloquial vernacular were genuine, and knowledge of the area of origin was accurate.

The documents they received were “aged” to look convincing. They were dipped in mild acid and air-dried under an ultraviolet lamp, to fade the ink and fray the microscopic fibers of the paper, so that the documents looked as if they had been issued years ago. The driver’s license photographs would have to wait a few days, until their appearances were sufficiently altered.

Reed bought new bathing suits and leisure clothing for Beverly and himself in a local department store. He bought a bottle of baby oil and three ounces of tincture of iodine in a supermarket pharmacy, and mixed them to make a tanning solution. They both dyed their hair black, and Beverly started wearing her shoulder-length hair in a ponytail, thus changing her appearance from that of a professional woman, to one with a more youthful, bohemian flair.