The Last Spymaster (29 page)

He noted the stubbornness in her chin. It had been there for days, propelling him to rush closing the purchase of the island. “Did you take your medication? You get like this when you don’t take your OxyContin. You
must
take it. You don’t need any damn psychologist!”

As if his gaze were too much, she looked away. “I’ve been cutting back. You knew I’ve wanted to make some changes.” She spoke to the long wall of books, to the rich leather bindings, the gold-leaf letters, the rococo designs. “I don’t
think
anymore. I don’t even remember what I look like really. It’s been so long. Years and years. Do you remember what I look like? What I used to talk about? What I wanted? If you do, please tell me.”

He glared at the back of her platinum head, horrified. “You ungrateful—!” His cell buzzed. He snatched it from his jacket and saw the number. It was Jerry Angelides. “I’ll be back,” he told her and rose to his feet, looming, waiting for her to cringe.

Instead, she looked up over her shoulder with those brilliant green eyes and shrugged. She did not know the power of those eyes.

“You really do work much too hard, Martin,” she said.

Confused, he strode out of the library and across the foyer. As he slammed into his office, he punched the TALK button. “Did you get Tice and Cunningham?”

“We came close, Mr. Ghranditti.”

“You phoned to say that!”

“It’s like every time we get closer.” Angelides’s voice was strong, assured. “I’ve got the boys fanned out. We had some car trouble, so we’re doubling up until everything’s fixed. Tell your Langley man we need better tips. No more of this dumb crap of having to chase Tice all over the place. I figure now’s a real good time for your source to nail where Tice is, because he and Cunningham have gotta be flat on their asses. They’ve gotta go to ground to sleep. But the boys and I are fine. Rarin’ to stay on the road, you might say.”

Ghranditti took a deep breath, collecting himself, his mind still partly on Marie. She would listen to reason, he decided. Eventually she always did, and he would tell her doctor to increase her dosage. The immediate priority was the shipment. And Angelides might well be correct.

“I’ll inform my source,” Ghranditti told him. “Keep up the search. You have the manpower. Use it!”

Outside Herndon, Virginia

The narrow black ribbon of a road curled through the rolling Virginia countryside. The moon was low in the sky, its light thinning. Elaine wheeled the Jag onto an asphalt driveway where a sign announced
PRIVATE PROPERTY—KEEP OUT
and followed it across a stone bridge and through tangled woodland. Ahead she could see a glen where old stone buildings from the nineteenth century stood around a circular drive. Looking stately and solid, the two-story main house was at the far end, an upstairs window alight. On either side was a single-story cottage, but both were dark.

As the nose of the Jag entered the glen, floodlights burst on. Elaine drove around toward the big house and parked, but before she could turn off the ignition, Jay was out of the car.

As she hurried after him, the front door opened. She stared, surprised, and smiled grimly to herself: Now she knew who had enabled Jay’s escape. In the doorway, holding a large, slender dog by her collar, was the Bureau of Prisons lieutenant who had escorted her around Allenwood—David Oxley.
Barefoot and dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt, he no longer seemed slight but wiry, and his black eyes were far from weary—they were steely and sharp. He surveyed the compound then disappeared indoors.

Jay was on his heels, and Elaine followed, locking the door behind. The place gave off a deserted air. They were in a large living room, where cardboard packing boxes were stacked high against a wall. Bedsheets covered sofas and chairs and what looked like a baby grand piano. To her left, on the far side of the room, was a closed door. To her right, a hall extended. On one side, an enclosed staircase rose to the next floor, the door open as if the owner had just run down. On the other side stood a stone fireplace.

Their host smiled. “The CIA has arrived.”

“Indeed I have. And the inside man’s waiting.”

Jay glanced over at her. “Always have a good backup plan.”

“You’ve sure proved that point.” She studied Oxley. “So what’s your real name?”

He gave a low chuckle. “Ben Kuhnert, at your service.” He peered pointedly at Jay. “You look like field trash. What have you been rolling in?”

“Forest duff. But we got away clean.”

“You got away dirty. You both need showers and clean clothes. Zahra’s should fit Ms. Cunningham. Come here, Jay. You’ve got to meet Houri. She’s an important member of the team. Let the nice man shake your paw, Houri.”

The dog sat, her feathered tail whacking the floor, and Jay took the raised paw and shook it. “Smart dog. Isn’t ‘houri’ what a beautiful young woman in paradise is called?”

“It is. And Houri’s a beautiful dog. Also smart, as you say. It’s the nature of her breed. In fact, she’s so smart that her philosophy is
kul kalb yijji yoomo
.” He translated the Arabic: “ ‘Each dog’s day will come.’ It usually means there’ll be a reckoning, but she translates it literally.”

Elaine walked to framed photographs standing on the fireplace mantel and picked up one. She looked across at Kuhnert. His cheeks and chin and prominent nose were broad and sturdy. His skin was neither pink nor dark but lightly golden. The array of pictures showed what looked like five generations, not only from the Middle East’s windswept deserts and mosques to the green hills of Virginia and the Islamic Center on Massachusetts Avenue, but
from Berlin’s Brandenburg Gate and Town Hall to Washington’s Capitol Building. No one was dressed in Bedouin robes or burqas, but some wore
hijab,
traditional clothing. From the photos, it looked to her that Kuhnert was Arabic on one side and German on the other—and Muslim on both.

“I hope you have good security.” Jay surveyed the room.

“Motion sensors, floodlights, a few other tricks, and Houri. Among her many talents, she’s an early-warning system. She let me know you were here before you were close enough to trigger the lights.”

“Have you packed up your computer?”

“Not yet. It’s in my office.” Ben Kuhnert nodded across the living room, and Jay hurried toward the closed door.

Ben’s office was about ten by fifteen feet and mostly bare—two dozen cardboard boxes were packed near the door. Tice strode past. There were two desks, one with a laptop and the other with a powerful desktop computer. Worrying about Raina, he sat at the PC, flicked it on, put on his reading glasses, and tapped the keyboard. It had been hours since he was last able to check for a message from her.

He called up Internet Explorer, typed in
www.iht.com
,
and soon the online version of the
International Herald Tribune
appeared. He clicked
CLASSIFIEDS
and went to
INTERNATIONAL REAL ESTATE MARKETPLACE
and then to
PARIS AND SUBURBS
. There were dozens of places listed for sale or rent. That was a good sign. His heart rate accelerated.

A voice interrupted from the doorway. “Elaine seems like a good one,” Ben said.

“I wouldn’t have brought her if she weren’t. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Meet us in the kitchen when you’re finished. I’m going to show Elaine where to hide her car.” He vanished.

Jay leaned close, hoping. When he saw an ad signed “Billie B, owner,” his breath caught in his throat. Billie Burke had played Glinda in
The Wizard of Oz.
The name was one of his and Raina’s recognition codes. The Realtor in another was R. Bolger. Ray Bolger’s role was the Scarecrow. When he found a third listing describing a villa with a “garland” of roses
carved into each pillar, excitement coursed through him. He hit the
PRINT
button. Judy Garland had played Dorothy. He studied the three ads. Each related in code a different time and place to meet in the D.C. area.

Raina would try to go to all, and he would, too. If they missed each other, they would use the same schedule the next day, and the next if need be, until they connected. But if Mr. G’s shipment went out today, and Raina and Kristoph were involved, tomorrow would be too late.

He sat back and lifted his chin and closed his eyes. Still, after eleven long years, he would see her again, talk to her, watch the way her nose crinkled when she laughed—and it would not be next week or next year, but very soon. If all went well.

Before he could stop it, the grief for Kristoph he had been forcing away shot through him, piercing as a stiletto, and he was back in Berlin during those grim days when his marriage imploded and he had fallen in love with and turned Raina. Three years later, after Marie and the children were killed, Kristoph was born. Kristoph had grown into a terrific kid, interesting, full of so many questions you thought you would lose your mind. But he had loved every minute he was able to be with Kristoph.

He remembered strolling through the Tiergarten when the boy was a lanky five-year-old, holding his hand. Odd how vulnerable a young hand was, and how strong. And how devastatingly brief childhood was. Years passed in the beat of a heart, and children were too old or too busy or too blasé. Or they were halfway around the planet, as Kristoph had been. He had looked over the boy’s blond head that afternoon and into Raina’s eyes, as blue and deep as the ocean, at the love brimming for both of them. He ached for the past, for them.

It was not good to dwell. In an act of iron will, he pushed aside his grief and checked the fake e-mail address he had created after escaping Allenwood. He paused and stared. Raina had sent a message. Excited, he leaned close and read:

K worked for Milieu Software. Our old Company is interested in purchasing it. Tried to jog, but it’s too hot out.

He inhaled sharply. So Kristoph had worked for Milieu, and Raina was being hunted. His chest tight, his gaze roamed the small office as he thought uneasily. Finally he decided there was only one thing to do—call his contact. He listened to the house’s silence—Elaine and Ben were still outdoors. He took out one of his disposable cell phones and tapped in the number.

The sleepy voice was suspicious: “Yes?”

“It’s me again.” He watched the office door. “There’s some kind of big deal going down today. Someone called Mr. G is one of the principals. His people took out Whippet, and now they’re trying to erase Elaine Cunningham and me. Milieu Software and Larry Litchfield are involved—Kristoph worked for Milieu. Also, you should know Raina’s coming in. She’s hot, so she’s probably using a legend. . . . Yes, dammit, I’m sure! Anything about Moses?”

“Still nothing.”

Disappointment surged through him. “I’ve got to go. They’ll be back any minute.”

He hung up, turned off the computer, and stood. Feet firmly planted, he took a moment to center himself. This was the most critical operation of his life, and it was about to enter its final, perilous stage. He could not afford even the smallest mistake. Planning carefully, he strode to the door.

Milan, Italy

In her white wig and body padding, Raina Manhardt stepped out of the Alitalia tunnel with the last of the passengers from Geneva. Bent over, walking slowly on the blue-green carpet, she was in her persona of Melissa O’Dey. She carried her suitcase in one hand, listing toward it, infirm. She watched from the corners of her eyes as people hurried off to claim their baggage or check the monitors for their next flight. She checked her flight, too—it was on time. She had a one-hour layover.

As she moved away, her mind kept racing ahead to whether Jay would meet her in Washington. She had never expected to see him again. But now she hoped to, dreaded to. The conflict was nothing new. She remembered November and December 1985—first Pavel Abendroth had been assassinated, then Jay’s whole family was murdered in a car bombing. Jay and she met twice shortly afterward, but guilt about Dr. Abendroth loomed between them. Neither wanted to see the other again.

Then in late December her husband had visited, and they decided to divorce. He was a colonel in the Soviet Army. Six months later, in May, he was killed, too, in a skirmish with mujahideen outside Kabul. When Jay heard, he added a personal note to his usual coded packet. With an exchange of more messages, they arranged to meet far from anyone who might recognize them, in Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia.

Perched on cliffs above sapphire waters, Dubrovnik was a medieval port city on the Adriatic, with storybook houses and ancient battlements and limestone pavement polished to a smooth sheen by centuries of wear. Jay rented a small
pension
for them, with feather beds and rock fireplaces.

Nervous, unsure, she found him waiting in the rose garden. He jumped to his feet and froze, shocked, as he stared at her swollen belly. Then his eyes misted, and he was holding her, his arms locked around her, crushing her close.

His breath was warm against her neck. “I’m happy. Are you happy about this?”

“Very,” she had whispered. “But I should tell you that you’re not—”

“Don’t.” His voice was husky with emotion. “You’re here. A baby’s coming. That’s all I need to know.”