Wilderness of Mirrors (15 page)

C ran a hand through his thick silver and black hair. “I don’t believe so. She never met him. Thinks her mother’s death was part of
The Times
’ campaign against the IRA.”

Her mother had been killed
?

“Why are you telling me this?”

C slid the thumb and forefingers of both hands along opposite ends of his pen. “I don’t like coincidence.”

“Go on.”

“Samantha’s mother, Kirstin, originally worked for the CIA. They assigned her to us just before the Moscow Games. Right after President Carter decided to boycott over Afghanistan. We ran her through Moscow branch during the course of the Olympics. It was her job to ferret out the KGB agents enrolled as athletes. There was a unified fear that masses of Europeans or Americans might fall arse over teakettle for Russians who would later use that pressure to defect. If the defector was still loyal, the KGB would have had a very conveniently placed spy with loads of access to important people and places.”

“And she found Samantha’s dad.”

“Yes.” C grew circumspect. “They fell in love. She delivered Sam in New York and he asked to defect to the US to be with her and their child. But the CIA nixed it, so we chose to offer him another option. If he stayed, played for our side for a few years, we’d welcome him with open arms and a cushy job.”

“Why don’t I see this working out?”

The phone interrupted an answer. C barked, “Yes? Tell him I’ll return the call in ten minutes. No, I don’t care what Sotheby’s claims; the Chinese are breathing fire over it. Put Killburn on the job. Tell him if it turns out to be the real thing, that it was in fact stolen, he’s personally bringing it back to Beijing.” He replaced the phone in its cradle.

Nigel felt his hair lift. “Sounds interesting.”

C shook his head in disgust. “Since when do stolen flower pots fall under my jurisdiction? Now, where was I…ah yes. It worked well for a few years. The information Vasily Demidov brought through was very useful. He played his role well. Too well. After a time, he no longer wanted to return.”

Nigel imagined a fair-haired child waiting for a man who would never come.

C continued. “Kirstin stayed on at
The Times
. Her father was British and the CIA didn’t mind running her in conjunction with our MI5 contact. Then, in the summer of ‘92 we began to fear a leak somewhere in the pipeline. We suspected she’d become a double agent. We were still buying small, juicy bits through Demidov and his Moscow contact, but some thought she was using her newspaper connections and travel to feed larger, more domestic pieces of data she’d come by to the highest bidder.”

He chewed the edge of his lip then added, “Like what we’re tracking now with F-Group, an Ebay-esque world of virtual information shopping. Just last week, one of our South American agent’s cover was blown when someone bought an SIS ‘alias’ list.” He tapped his pen against the thick blotting pad. “It’s why the bloody PM has me working with MI5 on this Chinese vase thing – thinks Soetheby’s might be auctioning stolen items.”

“What type of vase was it?”

“Something rare. A Red Ming I believe.”

Nigel quieted the screaming in his mind and focused for the moment on Sam’s mother. “You believe Kirstin was selling British secrets?”

“Her journalist job was a perfect cover.”

“What happened to Samantha’s mother?”

The hawkish eyes pushed against their heavy brow. “Her car was blown up. The explosion was near enough to Samantha. Apparently she’d stayed home from school that day. Anyway, her hearing was lost to permanent nerve damage.”

“How old was she?”

“Eleven.”

“Damn.” He vaguely remembered the incident. It had followed a truck bombing.

C plowed on. “Her mother wrote an article which blasted the IRA for Tyneside and Bishopsgate. Most agree she was targeted because of it.”

Forsythe had a belly full of bile. “Yet the explosion was made to look like PIRA? By whom? Us? Wouldn’t they have just denied it?”

C exhaled. “They did. But sometimes they denied things just to be obdurate; look at Harrods. Anyway, I wasn’t Head of Section then, so I don’t know everything. There are seals on certain materials even now. It could have been a black op or even someone acting on his own behalf.”

“What other theories do you have?” There was something in those dark eyes.

“Who knows? The point is I’m not certain Kirstin was a double. I don’t know if Demidov, who got himself killed as well, was either. Or perhaps it was a charade from the start. What I do know is that you’re tangling yourself up in something nasty if your relationship with Samantha goes beyond dinner.”

Ignoring the warning, Nigel said, “Did her granddad die in the explosion?” He remembered seeing the photo of an elevenish girl tucked in his embrace.

“No, he died of heart failure a few days later.”

“Which is why Sam went back to New York with her mother’s brother.”

C nodded and tapped his watch.

Forsythe’s ten minutes were up.

“You’ll go down to Monroe and see Dr. Branden, then?”

“Not Dr. Brothers?”

“No. Being stood up doesn’t sit well with that woman.” A stormy expression blew through C’s features. “Just go, and I’ll think about lifting the ban on your passport in a fortnight.”

“I have others.”

“Try using one and I’ll have you served as sushi.”

Nigel stood. “I don’t think it would be fair for me to cancel dinner tonight.”
Not if I’m going to find out what she’s really up to.

C, phone in hand, said, “What? Oh right. Valentine’s Day. Christ. I’ll have to tell Suri to send my wife flowers.”

Nigel closed the office door and headed for the medical wing, his mind occupied with more than a little.

“H
e belongs to The Liberal Club.”
As if that went five inches in explaining him.

“Uh oh. Has he fallen prey to Ms. Sienna? You know the clientele at Groucho’s slink from Soho to Whitehall when they’re feeling paparazzi pressure.”

Sam sidestepped a puddle and most of the question. For all she knew, he had. “He’s not what you’d expect.”
Not what I expected anyway.

They entered the restaurant and grabbed a table by the window. Jane swept aside the café curtains to people-watch. “So why the reluctance? He sounds delicious and you’ve been gagging for a bang.”

“Quiet, girl.” Sam looked round, glad no one was close enough to hear. She scooted her chair to the right so Tam could lie between her and the wall. “I just don’t want to be a part of something permanent. You know that.”

A striking young waiter approached.

“How are you, ladies?”

Jane perked. “Lovely. You?” She turned the sunshine of her exotic beauty on him.

Smitten, he smiled back. “Awesome. What can I get you?”

“Margherita all right?” Jane turned to Sam.

“Mmmm.” She let Jane flirt her way through the order. When he walked away, they both admired the view.

“I get it,” Jane continued after gathering her breath. “It’s not like I want marriage and kids. Well, not at the moment. But it’s only a date… ” She paused and electrified the room again with her smile.

Their waiter was in the vicinity.

“Thank you.” Jane took her drink – topped with two maraschino cherries - and touched his hand. “That was so sweet of you.”

Sam slid her Diet Coke from the tray.

Tam got the next once-over. “He’s a good looking dog. German shepherd?”

“Yes.”

“You’re from the States,” Jane purred. “What part? Sam’s a New Yorker.”

He tilted his head warily. “Boston born and bred. I hope you’re not a Yankees fan.”

“Not enough to cause alarm. But my Uncle John would be talking shit.” It hurt remembering he was dead. “You do know
you’re
considered a Yankee here?”

“So I’ve been told. They still suck.”

“John was a NYC police sergeant.” She prodded Tamar with her toe. “Trained this guy to gut Red Sox Fans.”
Trained him to gut anyone who came within an unwarranted hairsbreadth of me.

Tam rumbled as if a steak waited on his doing so.

“Make him stop,” Jane hissed.

Boston Waiter waved away the menace. “I’m only scared of cat-sized dogs. Almost had my leg sawed off by a Pekinese.”

They laughed. Then Samantha sucked on her straw, waiting. When no one spoke, she pulled out her thickest New York accent and said, “Cute Boston guy, you single or what? My girl here likes you and has no plans. Take her out dancing. Better yet, if you can cook, you’ll probably be able to tell me the color of her bedroom ceiling by midnight.”

“Sam!”

“I cook and – ” He held up his empty left hand.

Thank God for small favors.

Jane scribbled her number on a napkin. “Call me later.”

He tucked it into his pocket and patted the ass in question. “I will.”

A moment later, Jane leant in, slating Sam six ways to Sunday while smiling like a snagged cod.

“Don’t bother, Jane. He’s got his back to you taking someone’s order.”

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Now you can’t complain about being alone tonight, and I’ll have something to badger
you
about Monday.”

“Which leaves today.”

“And pizza.” Sam pointed to the steaming plates being brought in by another server. “Thank you.”

“They’re really hot. Would you like me to cut them?”

“No, we’re good. Ta.” Jane scythed into hers with passion.

Sam studied the glistening triangle. Three days of Italian food. It should have made her howl with glee. Instead her senses were overcome with basil and dread.

“I hate the huge chunks.” Jane worked a piece of tomato loose from the top of her slice. She looked up, her tone changing when she saw Sam’s countenance. “If you’re so upset about going, cancel. You tell me to all the time.”

I should call him right now.

“Seriously, Sam,” Jane tilted her head, “call it off if it’s that bad.”

“I think I will.”

Satisfied, Jane sprinkled pepper flakes on her slice. “He may not look like Lady Kate, but what if he acts like her once the lights are out?” She shuddered in mock horror and set the jar wobbling.

Sam laughed despite her mood.

“You’ll kiss him and suddenly he’ll be wearing a maroon turtleneck and crap accessories. It’ll be over on the spot.”

Sam, still smiling at the thought, shook her head. “I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Then maybe,” Jane said, “you should go for it. Worse things have happened than a man and a woman falling for one another.”

Not to me. That never, ever ends well.
“I’m going to cancel.” She’d made up her mind.

“Well, at least eat your pizza first. It’s getting cold.”

Eight hours of physical exams, lengthy debriefings and Dr. Monroe’s ominous Scottish mutterings had left Nigel worn to shreds. If his blood pressure had been 110 / 70 at 11:00, it was off the charts now.

He stood under The Firm’s scalding shower and let it beat the frustration from him. Six weeks they said. Six weeks until his ribs would heal completely. In two he’d be considered fit for duty.

Until then -
rest?

It was a foreign concept, and as repugnant as any other four-letter word.

He turned and let the water fill his ears. Deaf for a moment, he imagined his life without hearing. His nose sifted the air. Soap. Sweat. Cotton fibers. Slightly iron-laden water.

Staring at the wall, he realized he’d been counting the tiles. Lateral eye movements. Goddamn EMDR already seizing control of his brain. It was supposed to be a way to alleviate ghastly memories. To stop triggers from leading to anxiety. Building new templates to reroute old roads that only ended up in bad places.

Instead, his heart was pumping like the 1812 Overture and he knew there were 320 tiles on the wall.

And then there wasn’t a shower at all.

He was in the hotel room in Moscow, the lights beating down on him. His feet and hands were bound and Ivan was belting him with too-fast Russian and his fists.

Nigel could have gotten out of the ropes.

Could have cut Ivan’s throat with the same sharp fragment of loose chair bracket.

But there was too much riding on ‘getting in’.

Too much to save even Irina, who would probably end up back on the streets peddling her frail wares to foreigners with money and bullocks for brains.

“How did you get this?” Drasnov pointed to the neat stacks of cocaine standing at attention on the chipped, cheap TV stand.

“A little white rabbit gave it me.”

Slam. The chair rocked back and Nigel’s head hit the floor.

He was pulled up.

Drasnov leaned in, breath stinking of Zalivnaya Riiba. “What is this joking, eh? Some kind of Estonian hobby? You’re wasting my time. Where did you get this? It stinks of government. Who do you work for? Who sent you to me?”

Then the gun was out – Ivan was indelicate as neon knickers – and pressed up against Nigel’s temple. He could feel the grit of whatever was left on the hotel rug mix with his sweat under the nose of the SIG P220.

“
Meie isa, kes Sa oled taevas: pühitsetud olgu Sinu nimi –”

“In Russian.”

From the room’s dark corner, another of Ivan’s rats emerged. “He’s praying. He thinks you’re going to kill him.”

Ivan’s eyes flicked between the men. “You recognize it? Say the rest.”

Nigel complied, glad to have finally found a use for the Lord’s Prayer. “Sinu riik tulgu. Sinu tahtmine sündigu, nagu taevas nõnda ka maa peal. Meie igapäevast leiba anna meile tänapäev. Ja anna meile andeks meie võlad nagu meiegi andeks anname oma võlglastele. Ja ära saada meid kiusatusse, vaid päästa meid ära kurjast. Sest Sinu päralt on riik ja vägi ja au igavesti. Aame.”

The gun waved at The Rat. “Is it right?”

“Da. My Estonian grandfather made me say it before bed each night,” The Rat scoffed. There was a bit of London in that accent. Another piece of the puzzle to jiggle around.