The Last Spymaster (10 page)

“So, he was nineteen,” Westwood murmured. “How swiftly the years pass. It’s been at least ten since I saw either of them. Berlin, of course. Did you see him often?”

“No.”

“Did he know you were his father?”

“No.”

“I can understand why his name wasn’t Tice. After all, you never married her. But why didn’t he have her name? It should’ve been Manhardt.”

“About five years ago he got fed up with being the child of a legend. He said as long as he was Raina Manhardt’s son, he was never sure whether his good marks, the awards he won, the advantages that came his way, the people he thought were his friends, were his because of himself—or because of his mother. Raina was never easy with her fame anyway, so she had the surname on all of his records changed to Maas. Then she transferred him to a new school.”

“She became Frau Maas?”

“For anything that had to do with him, yes. By then the Cold War was old news, and the BND didn’t need her in the spotlight anymore. She was able to live quietly. When he went off to university, they officially made him an orphan. She told me they laughed about that, but I think it hurt her, too.”

Westwood stared. “What did you think?”

“I had no vote.”

Westwood seemed to consider that. His eyes narrowed. “She must’ve been shocked as hell to find out you were spying for the East during the Cold War while she was risking everything to spy against it.”

Tice looked away. “It just gave her one more reason to hate me.”

Westwood separated the gold triangles. With one finger, he spun his on the desk. “I’m sorry about the boy, Jay. A tragedy. Now I know why you asked if she’d been in touch. The article doesn’t say where she’s gone. You’d probably like to talk to her.”

“It’s more than that. See the photo of her house? That’s a statue of Icarus in the picture window in front of the drapes. It’s a signal to me—one that we agreed on years ago. It tells me something’s happened, and she wants help.”

Westwood frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. How could she expect any paper to print that exact photo? How could she know you’d see it?
Maybe she left the statue there by accident, and the picture was taken and published with no ulterior motive.”

“No. There’s an editor there, a former East German. Raina helped him escape the Stasi. Without her, he’d be dead, and he knows it. We’ve had other signals over the years, but Allenwood has no e-mail for prisoners, and regular mail takes days from Europe. Besides, my mail was read before I got it. I told Raina I’d keep my
Herald Tribune
subscription, so all she had to do was ask him to print it, and she knew I’d see it. In any case, whatever’s happened has to be very bad for her to ask for my help. Since the photo goes with the article about Kristoph, I have to figure it involves him.”

“Maybe his death was no accident.” Westwood returned the clipping.

Tice nodded. He folded it and slid it into his pocket and changed the subject. “What’s Moses up to these days?”

“Good God, that monster? I haven’t heard his name in years. He must be dead or in some dungeon—or spending his millions living the high life. Do you think his hand is in this?” Before Tice could answer, a curse exploded from Westwood. “Damn! We have company!” He stared over Tice’s shoulder at the monitors.

Tice checked quickly. Two ordinary-looking vans were parked in the drive. A dozen men and women were jumping out, crouching, handguns raised. Dressed in casual clothes, they were spreading out, circling the house and dashing into the garage.

“You have another way out?” Tice scooped up his gold piece.

“Damn right I do!” Westwood grabbed his and ran to the bookcase. He yanked out a book and pressed something inside. “Come here and help me!”

Tice seized the case’s edge and dragged. As a damp stink burst into the room, he peered around the bookcase into a black tunnel.

“There’s a light switch just inside.” Westwood snatched up his M-16. “You first.”

Tice pulled out his Browning and flicked the switch. Lightbulbs glowed along an overhead line, showing a dirt tunnel that curved ahead, low and narrow, very old but supported by recent timbers. He plunged in, the soles of his shoes making a sucking sound as they hit the muddy floor. Westwood followed, and the bookcase shut behind.

“The house was on the Underground Railroad?” Tice asked.

“Hundreds of slaves escaped this way. Always have an exit strategy, right?”

They ran in single file, backs bent, dodging the lightbulbs. Soon the boggy reek was overpowering, like a closed grave. Tice listened for pursuit, but the only sound was the fast
slap-suck
of their footfalls. Then the tunnel became solid concrete, paved on all four sides to keep out swamp water.

“Watch for a white X painted on the right.” Westwood’s breath rasped.

Tice said nothing. His heart was pounding. He did not want to emerge breathless. God knew who or what would be waiting. Back aching from running crouched, he slowed the pace, and Westwood did not complain. Tice lifted his head, watching for the sign. The tunnel seemed to extend endlessly.

They passed another lightbulb. Behind him, Tice could hear Westwood gulp air. He turned to look, but Westwood gave him a weary nod, indicating they should go on. Two lightbulbs later, Tice finally saw the white mark in the distance.

“Not much farther,” he told Westwood.

“Thank God. That’ll make three-quarters of a mile.”

At the X, Tice sank back against the rough wall. Westwood plodded up to him, sweat dripping from his face.

“You okay?” Tice asked.

Westwood lifted his head and let it fall. He leaned farther over, almost double. The M-16 dangled from one hand; the other gripped his thigh so the arm could support his torso. His tan looked gray.

“We’d better wait here awhile,” Tice decided.

But after only a minute, Westwood said, “Above you is a trapdoor.”

Tice saw it. He stuck his gun into his waistband and shoved the wood panel. It gave slightly. He straightened his back and used his leg muscles to push again. The door lifted free. Dirt rained down. The noises and odors of the swamp assaulted him. He slid the door outside and straightened until his eyes rose above ground level.

They were at the edge of a logging road. Bald cypresses loomed along
it, their roots sunk deep into the coffee-colored swamp, their big branches a canopy.

Tice sprang up and pulled himself out. He looked around carefully. “It’s clear.” He leaned back inside and offered his hand.

Westwood took it. Tice pulled. As Westwood scrambled out, gratitude shone in his eyes then was gone. Tice smiled at him and crab-walked off, staying low, thinking he had heard something. Westwood sat on the hole’s lip, legs dangling inside. He cocked his head, listening. Insects and frogs and birds made a ceaseless racket.

When an owl suddenly hooted and lumbered into flight, Westwood jumped to his feet. “They’re here.”

Tice swore. Now he heard the unmistakable sound of people running lightly on dirt. He looked back toward the house.

“Not just on the road—in the swamp, too. They’re trying to surround us!” Westwood raised his M-16 and sprayed a fusillade.

“Not yet!” Tice grabbed the old spy’s arm. “We can’t even see them!”

But his voice was drowned out by a return volley. They dove for cover. Before Tice could stop him, Westwood opened fire again. This time Tice spotted a figure moving among the vines. He squeezed off two quick shots. A strangled cry greeted his effort. That should slow them.

As the return fire died off, Tice whispered, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Westwood nodded. “This way.”

They dashed into the tangled growth. Hulking trees and jungly vegetation closed in. As voices shouted from behind, they settled into rhythmic slides through the water, weaving around obstacles. The wilderness fell into suspicious silence. They clambered up onto a weedy berm and ran. The gloom deepened. Breathing hard, at last they emerged at the sun-drenched North River.

Now he saw Westwood’s goal. To their left, a dock extended out, then paralleled the bank, tucked in where the river had carved an indentation. Tethered to the dock was a high-wing Cessna Caravan floatplane rising and falling with the river’s undulations. The white craft glistened, a sporty maroon
stripe extending nose to tail. Beside it, branches overhung the steep bank, which plunged straight into the river.

“A welcome sight, isn’t she?” Westwood said.

Tice loped onto the dock. “Hurry. They can’t be far behind.” He untied the lines.

Pulling keys out, Westwood unlocked the cockpit door and scrambled over into the pilot’s seat. As he flicked on the power, Tice jumped into the copilot’s spot and closed the door. Westwood touched switches and dials. Tice turned around and rested the Browning on his forearm, aiming at the trailhead.

“No time to warm her up thoroughly, dammit.” Westwood revved the engine.

“Just get us out of here!”

Westwood revved it again, adjusting instruments. The propeller turned over. The engine coughed, then took hold. The plane bounced eagerly as the propeller spun faster. Westwood moved the throttle, and the aircraft coasted from the dock, heading toward the center of the water. The backwash shimmered like mercury.

But as Westwood nudged the plane around to face the breeze, a gunman materialized on the riverbank. He hesitated, apparently stunned by the sudden open vista and dazzling sunshine.

“They’re arriving,” Tice said.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

As two more appeared, Westwood continued to work the instruments and increase pressure on the throttle. The propeller spun faster, invisibly. But as the plane picked up speed, a bullet slammed into the tail with an explosive
bang
. He cursed loudly, watching readings, inching the throttle toward liftoff. More shots crashed into the river and thudded into the tail. As the aircraft shook from a sudden fusillade, he moved the throttle with a strong stroke.

Miraculously, the nose lifted, the pontoons slapped the surface, and suddenly they were skimming away over the water, the gunfire falling behind. As the plane climbed toward the cloudless sky, Tice looked around and
down. They were flying smoothly. The only sound was the engine’s sweet hum. He dropped back into his seat and took a deep breath.

“Still some juice left in the old boy, right?” Westwood said, pleased with himself.

Tice gazed at him. “If they didn’t before, whoever’s behind all of this is going to assume now that you’re with me—or know where I’m heading. Is there someplace safe you can go?”

“There is. I’m taking us to a friend’s house on Chesapeake Bay. He’s abroad, but I have a key. I’ll be fine.” He paused, then resumed gravely, “So this is about Raina and the boy. You know, Jay, I’m still somewhat in the game. Let me help.”

“And get yourself killed? I don’t think so.”

“At least tell me what you’re planning. Someone should know, in case of the worst. If Raina needs help, I can step in.”

Tice paused, staring straight ahead, his face impassive. At last he shook his head once. “Bad plan. What’s your cell number? I’ll try to check in when I can.”

Palmer’s lips thinned in frustration, but he gave him the number.

Tice memorized it. “You still miss the work, don’t you?”

“Damn right I do. Take my advice, Jay—as soon as you and Raina are finished with this business, throw yourself on the government’s mercy. Go back to prison. That way you may survive.”

Tice did not respond.

Westwood stared searchingly. At last he nodded and looked away. “You’re right, Jay. I’ll never understand what happened to you.”

Tice’s thoughts were elsewhere. He twisted around and studied the dock, small but still visible at the edge of the swamp. One of the men was talking into a cell phone.

“Circle back,” he said.

“What?” Westwood said. “Are you crazy?”

“I want to see what they look like.”

“Ah.” Westwood banked, and they returned in a graceful curve.

Along the river, a scattering of the curious and the horrified had appeared on other private piers to stare at the clustered men and women,
whose guns hung from their hands. The black orbs of their sunglasses peered up at the plane.

Tice studied the angry faces, adjusting for the years he had been locked away.

“Recognize any?” Westwood wanted to know.

Tice sat back and glanced at Westwood. Betraying no emotion, he lied. “No. Nothing but strangers.”

Washington, D.C.

Martin Ghranditti advanced across the vestibule of his penthouse near Lincoln Park, his footsteps silent on the lush carpeting. He sniffed, inhaling the expensive scent of his fine furnishings. Although he’d had a busy day, he was still dressed impeccably in his charcoal suit. Rolling an unlit Cohiba cigar between his fingers, he contemplated his new paradise in the South Pacific. The excitement of that and his new weapons deal invigorated him. He was eager to learn what progress had been made. Ahead, the elevator door opened. As expected, Jerry Angelides waited inside.