The Last Spymaster (43 page)

He nodded grimly. “That bastard! For years he always seemed to be somewhere near but just out of sight, a puppeteer alternately working us, working for us, and working against us. We had to play his game—we had no choice. I tried to find him, but he was always a step ahead. When he went quiet in the late nineties, I’d hoped he was gone forever.”

“Someone knows where he is and is feeding him information.”

“Did you say anything about our meet to anyone?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I was afraid of that.” Sickened by the implications, he admitted, “I told four trusted operatives from a close-knit covert team I worked with in West Berlin. I can’t believe one of them would sell us out, but it’s the only answer. You knew them later—Frank Mesa, Elijah Helprin, Palmer Westwood, and Ben Kuhnert, but Ben’s out of commission or dead. So it’s got to be Frank, Palmer, or Elijah.”

“Good Lord! One of
them
gave us away?” They were at the end of the quiet block. Raina pressed the gas pedal, accelerating. “Can you figure out which one?”

As he watched for tails, he thought about it. “The logical time for a wet attack on Elaine and me was when we were sleeping and they were out on assignment. The house was secluded. No witnesses. So something must’ve changed after that.” He ran the day’s events through his mind. “The sole piece of new intel we got was the identity of the weapons trafficker who’s fueling the situation—Martin Ghranditti.”

“Ghranditti? I remember him. Not exactly a small-timer, but definitely on the verge of upholstery. More swagger than muscle. A real womanizer, too.” She stopped herself. “Never mind, tell me about him later. Finish your analysis.”

“Frank brought us Ghranditti’s name, so it’s not Frank.” His hands knotted into fists as he fought a profound sense of betrayal. “It’s got to be Elijah or Palmer.” He had never been as close to Elijah as he was to Palmer,
but he had a deep fondness and respect for him. After so many years of working with both, of trust and mutual duty, of covering each other’s backs, it seemed impossible either would knowingly help to terminate Raina or Elaine or him.

Raina shot him a compassionate look. “You realize both men are well sourced, or at least they used to be. It’s possible Palmer or Elijah
is
Moses.”

He searched his mind futilely for an argument against the idea. Finally, he nodded, defeated. “Oh, hell, you’re right. We’ve got to be very careful. I’ve been running the team as I always did. They report in, and we occasionally conference on our cells. That means Elijah or Palmer could phone anytime. We don’t want them to know where we are or what we’re doing or anything about Elaine. Agreed?”

“Of course. But we’ve also got to figure out how to force the pig into the open.”

“Later. Right now our top priority is to pool what we know so we can stop the weapons deal.” They had left the residential area. Traffic was thickening. “Turn north at the next intersection. That’ll take us farther away from the fish wharf. Tell me what you’ve learned, then I’ll fill you in.”

“I’ll start with Kristoph.” Raina’s hands tensed on the steering wheel. “A few months ago Kristoph took a short-term job to make final adjustments on a new software program. The morning of the day he died, he called from Geneva to tell me its name was die Sehergabe and it was for the Ministry of Justice so they could improve their ability to track court dates, lawsuits, attorneys, defendants—all sorts of things—and organize and analyze data. To keep it ultrasecret, the ministry sent the team out of the country under the cover of a private German company called Milieu Software.”

“Milieu is a Whippet front, Raina. Whippet is a CIA special unit. It’s deep in what’s been going on.”

She stared. Ripped away her gaze and swore loudly in German. “That explains a lot. Kristoph asked a favor. He wanted me to find out whether the program really was for the ministry. That terrified me, and I tried to convince him to get out of there. But Kristoph had a mind of his own. He could be very stubborn.” She hesitated, seeming to collect herself. “He wouldn’t even explain why he was asking the question. I phoned a friend
who’s high in the ministry and knows what he’s talking about. He got back to me with what I was afraid of—no one had heard of die Sehergabe.” She swallowed. “Kristoph died before I could tell him.”

She angled the Mustang onto Seventh Street and accelerated into the traffic. Expression pinched, she related a harrowing story of the phone call announcing Kristoph’s fatal accident, her rushed flight to Geneva, and her investigation into Milieu. She described Volker Rehwaldt’s nighttime stakeout of Kristoph’s apartment and the hug that enabled her to be tracked.

“He set me up for a CIA man who said his name was Alec.” She described Alec.

“That’s Alec St. Ann, a Whippet op. He’s very good. Been stationed in Europe for years.” He watched the street warily, thinking about Alec, who could be relentless.

“Alec knew I was sleeping. He tried to reactivate me to find out every-thing I’d discovered about Milieu. Of course, I told him nothing, but then I knew very little anyway. But I had something else he wanted—two surveillance tapes of the Milieu building’s back and front entrances for the seven days before Kristoph’s death.”

He stared at her. “Have you viewed them?”

“I haven’t had a place to.”

“We’ve got to see them. I’ll think about where we can take them that’s safe. I don’t like this business of the CIA and BND working together against you.”

“I’m not crazy about it, either. Once they got the videotapes, they planned to scrub me and make it look like suicide.”

“Those
bastards
. Alec was protecting Whippet. I’ll bet anything that Kristoph’s software is somehow involved in Ghranditti’s deal.” He paused, realized: “Die Sehergabe could mean the Seer’s Gift, right?” When she nodded, he felt a chill.

“Why does it matter?”

“A seer ‘foretells’ the future. Die Sehergabe is our top-secret ForeTell program. This is
very
bad. We were overwhelmed with data, six hundred and fifty million events every day, more information than the Library of
Congress holds—radio and data transmissions, radar signals, faxes, satellite, cell, and landline calls, and messages in dozens of languages, often encrypted. There was no way to interpret it in a timely way—until ForeTell. We got it a few months before I was arrested. It enabled us to keep track of everything while spitting out warnings, potential targets, rising enemy and terrorist leaders, where our vulnerabilities were, scenarios we should think about, on and on. It looks for patterns and relationships, identifies hidden power brokers, people with crucial skills.”

They exchanged a worried look.

As she watched the traffic, she asked casually, too casually, “So who’s really calling the shots at Whippet?”

He had known this moment would come. “I’m sorry, Raina—it has to be Larry Litchfield. He runs the unit. He’s been feeding Ghranditti information that’s nearly gotten us killed several times. He’s the only one with access to get a copy of ForeTell to give Kristoph. He’s also the only one who knew you were a sleeper. And unless it was in the heat of the moment—and obviously it wasn’t—any Whippet wet jobs would’ve had to be ordered by Larry.”

Raina stiffened as if she had just been struck.

He said softly, “I figure a child’s murder is about the toughest thing anyone has to come to grips with. Besides, children are supposed to bury their parents, not the reverse. Doesn’t get much worse.”

Fiery rage radiated from Raina. Her lips peeled back. “They killed Kristoph. Whippet liquidated him. Your protégé—Larry Litchfield—had him
liquidated!
”

He looked away. “Yes, dammit!” His body felt taut, brittle with rage and grief.

He forced himself to look at her again. Finally she glanced at him.

A well of sorrow shone from her eyes. “One of the last things I did in Geneva was pack Kristoph’s things and mail them home to Berlin. Just a dozen cardboard boxes.” She took a hand off the steering wheel to wipe one eye then the other. “It seemed so little for such a big life. Odd, isn’t it, how death affects one.” She swallowed. “My heart felt as if it’d shattered into hundreds of pieces.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Jay fumbled anxiously around, looking for a tissue. Of course, there was none. This was a rental car.

She reached into the back and unzipped the gym bag and grabbed a box of them and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’ll probably never see any of his things again,” she said, “or his room. Or any of the photos of him in our house. The things that he touched, that he cared about. All of it . . . all of it seems to matter a lot now.”

Jay watched her helplessly. “I’d like to see everything, too. Very much.”

She nodded wordlessly. Another tear slid down her cheek. He took a tissue and dabbed. He ached for her at the same time he ached for himself. Tentatively, he lowered his hand. She let him close it over the top of hers, where it rested on her thigh. Her hand was cold. Slowly she turned it over so that they were palm to palm. She slid her fingers between his, wove them together.

He was afraid to speak. He wanted nothing to interrupt this moment. It felt as if the whole world were there between their hands. He listened to her breathe. He knew it would have to end, but when she squeezed his hand and slid hers away to grip the steering wheel again, he still felt bereft.

Miami Beach, Florida

The ice-cream parlor was bright with sundaes and milk shakes and cones of ice cream painted across the glossy white walls. Round tables were spaced close together, with wire-frame chairs tucked around each. With effort, Marie Ghranditti smiled as the children raced to the counter to order.

“I want Chocolate Huckleberry Mound, please,” Aaron announced, his nine-year-old voice piping with excitement as he rested his chin on top of the old-fashioned glass counter. “Two scoops. Jimmies on top.
Please.
”

“And what does my Mariette want?” Marie stroked her daughter’s black ringlets.

“Screamin’ Dreamin’—the ghost ice cream!” Although seven, she was still a pixie. The top of her head barely reached her older brother’s shoulder. She had a Three Investigators book by William Arden under her arm.

“And Kristoph?” Marie said. “What would you like, darling?”

His wrinkled face beaming, Armand picked up Kristoph. The two-year-old leaned over, peering down through the glass, his brow furrowed, his thumb in his mouth. He removed it and said, “Chocolate.”

“Armand?” Marie prompted.

Eyes twinkling, he said, “I second Kristoph’s choice. Chocolate, plain and simple.”

“Dante, you must choose, too.”

“I don’t know, madam.” The bodyguard appeared uncomfortable, his shoulders tense, his eyes nervously darting. This was hardly his usual hangout. Thankfully his pistol was only a small lump under his left armpit.

“Then I suggest a hot fudge sundae, and I’ll have one, too.” Her smile felt plastered to her face. “Everyone likes hot fudge sundaes.”

“Whatever you say, madam.”

As the teenage boy behind the counter filled their order, Marie sent the
children to choose a table. Armand and Dante delivered their cones. When Armand had his, too, Marie sent the men to the table to keep the children company.

Was it her imagination, or was Dante observing her more closely than usual? It seemed to her he was, his black eyes less suspicious than Martin’s but far more wary. She was dressed normally, in a sweater and skirt, but she was wearing a scarf to hide her dark hair. She resisted an impulse to adjust it, to make certain not a single dark brown strand showed.

As the two sundaes arrived on the countertop, she took out her billfold.
Your back is to Dante. Just do it.
She handed the teenager a twenty-dollar bill. When he turned to the cash register, she opened the flat pill box she had put into her billfold and sprinkled the powder over the hot fudge. She stared, willing it to dissolve.

When the powder had vanished, she carried the dishes to the table and set Dante’s in front of him. “Didn’t you have hot fudge sundaes when you were a little boy, Dante?”

He nodded. “Yes, madam.”

Kristoph climbed into Armand’s lap and nudged his forehead against Armand’s crepe-paper cheek, then resumed licking his dripping cone. Armand’s arm encircled him and gave him a gentle hug. Armand had arranged everything for this afternoon.

She found it hard to talk. Dante had not tasted his sundae. She wanted to urge him, but that would not be wise. She dug into hers in hopes he would get the idea. Dante still did not eat his. The children chattered and devoured their cones. She encouraged them to talk about school.

Finally she said, “Dante, do you want to hurt my feelings? Remember, this is a special occasion. My birthday. Please have fun. Enjoy your sundae.”

He glanced at her, surprised. She saw a faint look of shame. She held her breath. At last he picked up his spoon and ate.

She smiled broadly. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

For an instant, she felt proud—then guilty. The powder was two pulverized OxyContin pills. A single crushed OxyContin tablet had the power of sixteen Percocet pills. Soon Dante’s respiratory system would slow, and he should lose consciousness.

The party continued as Dante finished his sundae with no apparent symptoms. The children poked each other and giggled.