The Tin Man (14 page)

Thea sat on the toilet, hugging her knees to her chest, inwardly beating herself to a pulp. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry, scream, or kick herself around the barn. What had she been thinking? It was so pathetic. So humiliating! Now, on top of thinking she was a total bitch, he’d also be thinking she was a total whore. And desperate. A desperate fucking bitch of a whore.

Not exactly every man’s Venus
—or even the tough, self-sufficient image she worked so hard to project.

Frankly, right now, she mostly wished she w
as dead—or that she’d taken his advice and gone back to New York while she still had the chance (and her dignity). Now, they were stuck together—at least until they talked to Riley Witherspoon in Philadelphia, which is what any sane person would be focusing on right now. Finding her grandfather, not fucking some guy who clearly wasn’t interested. What the hell was wrong with her? But she knew the answer, didn’t she? And it wasn’t some dissociative disorder or some primal urge triggered by blood and gore.

She took a deep breath
and blew it out.

What was done was done. There was no erasing the mortifying fact that she had offered herself to him like a bowl of candy and been
summarily spurned. Well, maybe not summarily, but spurned. Definitely. And she had the barbs in her heart to prove it.

On the other hand, hadn’t she seen a glimmer of hunger in his eyes? She shook her head
, wanting to scream. Don’t think like that! Don’t hold out hope! It will only lead to more disgrace. 

Disgrace.
Now there was a good word. And it perfectly described how she felt at this moment. Disgraced. Like the time her mom walked in on her giving her high school boyfriend a blowjob. She was so ashamed, it took weeks before she could look her mother in the eye again. Even now, she couldn’t think about it without feeling the scorch in her heart. She cringed to think what it was going to be like to have to face Buchanan in a few minutes. And not just face him, but also spend hours in a car with him alone.

Somebody please, kill me now.

She drew a deep breath and blew it out with vehemence. Okay. Enough wallowing. Time to call lights out on the pity party. Time to pull it together. Head up, shoulders back, chest out. Never let them see you sweat. Hadn’t that always been her motto? Wasn’t that how she’d gotten where she was, despite her tender core?

If
Buchanan didn’t want her, so be it. It was his loss, right?

She went to the sink, splashed cold water on her face, and ran a brush through her hair
before returning it to her bag. She pulled out some clothes and a pair of boots, put them on, and checked her look in the mirror: the fitted long-sleeved t-shirt made her look stacked, the tight denim mini-skirt made her legs look even longer than they already were, and the boots made her look both cool and hot at the same time.

Oh yeah
, she thought, feeling her confidence return,
it was definitely his loss
.

Zeus licked his lips as his gaze caressed the vintage Aston Martin DB5 before him, every bit as drool-worthy as the genuine article. Just like the original Bondmobile, the museum’s replica was tricked out with deadly gadgets that could be activated with the push of a button: wheel caps that converted to razor-sharp tire slashers, bulletproof shields, an ejector seat, oil jets to grease-up the road behind, and dual machine guns that sprang out of the driving lamps, among other features.

In 2010, a collector bought the genuine article at auction for $4.6 million, but there was an exact replica on permanent exhibit at the International Spy Museum in Washington, D.C.

Zeus, earbuds snugly in place, was standing beside the ersatz Bondmobile now, feeling an affinity that bordered on entitlement. In keeping with the mood of the museum, he was listening to
The Best of Bond
, a compilation of themes and selections from the movie soundtracks. As he studied the car, Shirley Bassey belted out the theme from
Goldfinger
, the 1964 classic starring Sean Connery—the best Bond ever, in his immodest opinion.

He’d always felt a special connection with Ian Fleming’s suave MI6 agent. Like Bond,
Zeus preferred his martini’s “shaken, not stirred,” was aloof and debonair, and had a way with the ladies (and the gentlemen, too, for that matter, but that was neither here nor there). And, in a sense, he had a license to kill. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

He even looked a bit like Bond, if he did say so himself
—the character in the novels, not the actors who played the secret agent in films. In the novels, Bond was six feet tall with a slim build, black hair that swooped down over the right brow, cold blue-grey eyes, and a cruel mouth. Agent 007 resembled, in Fleming’s own words, not Sean Connery or Roger Moore, but the 1940’s film star Hoagy Carmichael.

With one last sweeping look at the Aston Martin,
Zeus stuffed his hands in the pockets of his classic black trench and moved on. As he stepped up to the sign in front of the next exhibit, his cruel mouth twitched at the corners as he scanned the text:

At the museum, you can adopt a cover identity and learn why an operative needs one. You’ll hear spies, in their own
words, describe the challenges and the “game” of spying. What motivates them? Patriotism? Money? A compromising situation? Their own egos? Do you have what it takes to live a life of lies as a spy?

His father (
or so his mother used to tell him), was a spy for the British Secret Service. Just like James Bond. And, being a stupid, naïve little boy, he’d bought every word of her bullshit. Worse yet, he’d devoured every book, television program, and film having anything to do with espionage, always imagining he was peeking behind the curtain of his father’s secret world. Not just Bond, but also
The Saint
,
Danger Man
,
The Avengers
,
The Man from U.N.C.L.E
.,
Smiley’s People—
the whole bloody lot.

It wasn’t until after his mother’s death that he learned the ugly truth. And now, he was
determined to make that deceitful SOB pay for his lies. In spades.

* * * *

As Buchanan waited beside the idling Mustang for Thea to emerge from the cottage, he started to feel bad about the cows. From the barn, he could hear the miserable lowing brought on by the missed morning milking. He wasn’t about to do the job, but he might manage to give them some breakfast. How hard could it be, after all, to throw down a bit of hay?

With some effort, he rolled back the big barn door. The
pungent stench of dung slapped him hard as his gaze fell upon a row of cows in a metal stall. They were mooing and pawing anxiously at the straw-covered floor. Their udders looked heavy and swollen.

“Sorry, la
sses, I wish I could be of more help,” he said as he pushed past their hindquarters, doing his best to avoid being kicked and/or stepping in a steaming pile of green muck. At the back of the barn, he found a rickety set of wooden stairs, which led, he presumed, to the hayloft. He climbed them, grabbed a pitchfork off the wall, and started forking hay into the long trough below. The work was more strenuous than he’d realized and he started to work up a sweat. Clearly, he needed to spend more time at the gym.

He was nearly finished when he heard
Thea calling his name.

“I’ll be right there,” he
answered, raising his voice to be heard.

“Where the hell are you? And what are you doing?”

He could tell by the echo that she had come into the barn.

“I’m feeding the cows,” he
told her, pitching another forkful of fragrant, dusty hay over the ledge. 

  “It stinks in here,” she said in a nasal tone
suggesting she’d started holding her nose. “What possessed you to feed the cows?”

“They were hungry,” he replied.

She didn’t say anything more. When he was finished, he brushed off his hands, returned the pitchfork to its pegs, and trotted down the stairs, holding his breath as he picked his way past swishing tails and twitching haunches.

He found her waiting on the other side of the car,
gaze glued to the ground. He felt a pang of sympathy. She was obviously embarrassed by what had passed between them. He wanted to say something, some magic words that would ease the tension and make her feel better, but nothing immediately came to mind. When he saw her bag waiting near the boot, he hurried around and loaded it. By the time he got in behind the wheel, her seatbelt was fastened and she was gazing out the window, seemingly at nothing.

“What are we going to do about the bodies?” she asked without looking at him.

“I thought I’d phone in an anonymous tip when we got into Intercourse,” he replied, wincing a bit inside as he spoke the last word. It now felt like a hot button, and things between them were strained enough. “I’m hoping we can find a payphone somewhere. I’d rather not use my cell.”

“There’s a payphone at the general store,” she said, sounding far away. “It was used in that movie
Witness
with Harrison Ford.”

He loved that movie, though he wished the cop and the Amish woman could have found a way to be together.

They set off, not saying another word to each other until they reached the center of town. After locating the store and the phone box, he pulled up out front and turned to her.

“Do you have any change?”

She dug around in her purse before handing him a fistful of coins, still avoiding eye contact. He flinched inside. Was she going to give him the cold shoulder all the way to Philadelphia? Inside the phone booth, he hesitated, not sure who he was supposed to call. When he saw a man in a black suit and hat approaching, he leaned out of the booth.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said, smiling politely, “but what’s the law enforcement agency with jurisdiction
in these parts?”

    “
The Lancaster County Sheriff,” the man replied, tipping his hat. “You’ll find the number in the front of the book.”

Buchanan
thanked him, found the number, and placed the call. The phone rang three times before a woman’s voice answered.

“I’d like to report a homicide,” he said. “Multiple homicides, actually
—at the Schuler farm.”

“Please hold the line,” she said, “while I connect you with a deputy.”

Screw that, he thought, hanging up. Hobbling back to the car, he slipped in behind the wheel and stepped on the gas.

* * * *

Frank Aslan—handcuffed and lying on his side in complete darkness—began to come around. The first thing he tuned into was the music—a pounding disco beat somewhere far away. The pain registered next. Something near his tailbone was throbbing like an abscessed tooth. Where was he? How had he come to be here?

Little by little, he began to remember snippets: Two men.
Twins. Bulgarians, he believed, dressed in matching tan suits, had grabbed him, cuffed him, and thrown him in the trunk of a car. For hours, it seemed, he was locked in that trunk, slipping in and out of consciousness.

“Where is it, professor?”

He cringed at the memory of the icy voice. His twisted captor. A man in a classic tuxedo, black-leather tool belt, and eye mask. He called himself “Zeus,” but seemed to think he was James Bond. Aslan did not know the man. Of that, he was certain. There was something about Zeus—an irritating sort of glib superiority—he was sure he would have recognized, had they ever met before. Being a humble man who placed a high value on humility, Aslan had always despised haughtiness in others. Pride, his father used to tell him when he was a boy back in Pakistan, was the worst of all sins, for it was the first step on the slippery slope leading to the rejection of God.

“I am a fan of your work,”
Zeus had told him in a proper English accent. “
Media Cartel
was very insightful. A seminal work, you could say. I hear tell you’re currently at work on a new edition—and that you’ve learned things. Things it would be better for you not to know.”

Who was this man? What did he want? And what was with this strange place he called
Tartarus and the Spy-Who-Loved-Zorro get-up?

“I presume you recorded the conversation,”
Zeus had said, his voice cooler than a shaken martini as he drew a power drill from its place on his tool belt. As he squeezed the trigger, the motor revved threateningly. “Where is it, professor? Don’t make me ask you again.”

Aslan
gulped, staring at the spinning bit in terror. Images from his youth in Pakistan flashed behind his eyes. The black box, reeking of his own waste. The room with the watering can. The blinding light. Gasping for air. Liquid flooding his nose and mouth. They had not broken him back then. Would he find that strength again? He had been a young man, young and strong, still a student. Now, he was old and frail. His chest felt tight, he could barely breathe. His brain was squirming with the memory—the man’s face, his terrible breath, his chilling voice repeating over and over: “Who organized the demonstration?”