It was unsigned.
Sally read it over his shoulder. “That sounds ominous,” she said. “You never told me—what did you do to the Russian?”
“He tried to kick me in the head before knifing me, but I was a little quicker.”
“Did you have a weapon?”
“I had taken precautions. I cut his leg in a way that demanded immediate medical attention, and he took my advice about getting to a hospital.”
“Would he have known where the Santa Fe hospital is?”
“A professional assassin always knows where the nearest hospital is,” Teddy replied. “I did give him directions, though.”
“How badly was he injured?”
“Enough so that he would have bled to death without emergency treatment. He knew enough to apply a tourniquet, but he would still have needed immediate surgery to repair the damage, and he will be off that leg for some time while healing. He won’t be coming after me anytime soon, if at all.”
“You know, I used to have a boyfriend who went looking for bar fights, which he usually won, but he would come home from time to time with wounds I’d have to stitch up.”
“And where did you acquire that skill?”
“In school. I’m a registered nurse.”
“Well, then, you’d be handy to have around in certain circumstances. I’ve had to stitch myself up a couple of times, and it wasn’t much fun.”
“And you, sir—where did you acquire that skill?”
He poured them both a brandy, and they took it out to the deck, where the moon illuminated the sea. “All right, I’m going to tell you everything—or almost everything—so you’ll know that I trust you.”
“I already trust you,” she replied.
“I know, but you make me feel the need to share.”
“All right, share.”
“I grew up in Virginia, small town, and I graduated from UVA, then got a master’s in political science. Late in my last year of grad school a professor—a mentor, really—introduced me to a man over dinner, a very interesting fellow. He asked me a lot of questions, and I began to suspect that he was an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. I was right. He called me a week later and invited me to a small dinner party at his home in Georgetown, specifying that I should come alone. The other guests, men and women, seemed to know him and each other very well. As it turned out, they were all CIA. The next day, the man turned up at my apartment in Charlottesville and invited me to join the Agency.”
“And you took him up on it?”
“After a long conversation about my background, interests, and skills, he suggested that I attend a training course at a place called The Farm—actually Camp Peary, technically a naval installation, but occupied by the CIA, near Williamsburg. Before I even met the gentleman I had been very thoroughly vetted and found to be a candidate for the operations side of the Agency.
“I took all the usual courses—lock picking, use of radios, hand-to-hand combat—I even learned to fly at the airstrip there. I was particularly adept in the urban survival courses and in various technical classes, and after about nine months there—longer than the usual course—I was taken to Langley to visit the Technical Services department, the function of which is to provide agents with communications equipment, clothing, disguises, firearms, as well as other weapons—in short, everything necessary to help an agent survive and successfully complete his mission.
“I loved what I saw happening there, and I was taken on in the department as a trainee. After twenty years there I was deputy director of Technical Services. I was offered the director’s job, but that was mostly an administrative position, which didn’t appeal to me.
“I retired from the Agency soon after, took my pension. I also ‘borrowed,’ over the years, a lot of specialized equipment and weapons, enough to stock a very nice private workshop. For some years after retiring I was something of an outlaw—I won’t go into the details of all that, since I broke the law in numerous ways. But I became the subject of a big search by my former employer, which was getting pretty hot. At that point, I encountered two young men in the Arizona desert who were unknowingly being pursued by some Russian gentlemen who meant them no good. I managed to extricate them from that situation, and in gratitude, the father of one of them, who had connections in high places, managed to obtain a presidential pardon for me.
“That was about six years ago, and I joined the two young men at Centurion Studios. They are Peter Barrington, the director, and his partner, Ben Bacchetti, who is now head of production at Centurion and who will probably eventually run the studio. After that, I lived happily ever after, until I lost my wife, but then I was fortunate enough to find you.”
“My God, what a story,” Sally said.
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe it. I got it off my chest.”
“Oh, I believe every word of it,” she replied. “I don’t think you would ever lie to me.”
“I thank you for that,” Teddy said, then he took her to bed.
? ? ?
DAX BAXTER SAT in the study of his home in Bel-Air and regarded the two gentlemen who sat across the desk from him. “All right,” he said, “you’ve been on the case for, what, thirty-six hours?”
“That is correct,” the heavyset, balding man across from him said. His name was Grovitch. His companion was Medov—tall and lean, with thick black hair.
“Where is he, and what is he doing?”
“He has returned to his home on Malibu Beach,” the man said, “in the company of the woman, Sally, from Santa Fe.”
“So she took up with him?”
“Apparently,” Grovitch said. “We don’t know yet what are her intentions, to stay or go soon. If she stays it might be of usefulness to take her first, as a lure for neutralizing him.”
“Not just yet,” Dax said. “What is his correct name?”
Grovitch consulted a notebook: “Billy Barnett,” he replied. “He is employed at Centurion Studios, in the group of Peter Barrington.”
“I know who Billy Barnett is,” Dax said, “just didn’t know that Ted Shirley was Billy Barnett.”
“He is,” Grovitch replied. “This is definite.”
“That changes things,” Dax replied.
23
TEDDY SAT AT a table on the executive side of the Centurion Commissary, across from Peter Barrington.
“It’s good to see you, Billy,” Peter said. “Are you ready to go back to work?”
“Not just yet, Peter. Perhaps in another week.”
“How have you been feeling? We all know how much you must miss Betsy.”
“I do, every day. But in fact, I’ve met someone who has helped me readjust, and faster than I would have believed possible.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Sally Ryder.”
“Tell me about her. Where did you meet?”
“In Santa Fe. I took some temporary work on a film there, and she was an assistant production manager. We just connected, somehow.”
“I’m happy for you, Billy. Did you leave her in Santa Fe?”
“No, I brought her back with me. She’s shopping in Malibu Village right now. I’m hoping to find her some work at Centurion. She’s done just about everything on a movie set, and she’s very, very good.”
“That’s high praise, coming from you,” Peter said.
“It occurred to me that she might be good in Betsy’s old job.”
“You think she’s that good?”
“I do.”
“Well, there’s a problem there. Right after you left for your break, Ben sent over a woman from the executive offices, on a temporary basis, and she’s settled into Betsy’s job very quickly. I hired her permanently yesterday.”
“I see,” Teddy said, disappointed.
“However,” Peter said, “my number-two production assistant has found herself pregnant, so she’s leaving soon and giving up her job in favor of full-time motherhood. Perhaps I could have a talk with Sally about that job.”
“What a good idea,” Teddy said.
“Are you in love with Sally, Billy?”
“Yes, I am.”