34
Near Harpers Ferry, West Virginia
USA
SMITH PULLED HIMSELF CLOSER to the tree, escaping the heavy raindrops exploding against his head, though it wasn’t much of an improvement. He’d spent the last two hours bushwhacking to a road running parallel to the one he’d left the Triumph on and had been completely soaked through for most of it.
On the brighter side, there was no way in hell he’d been followed—assuming the man he’d met with was even interested in doing so. More likely, he could be taken at his word. A truce had been called and now it was just a question of whether Smith would honor it—which, of course, he wouldn’t.
And that was just about guaranteed to make things interesting going forward. Whoever the man was, he was clearly not someone to be screwed with. Nor someone accustomed to passing out second chances.
Smith heard a car approach and retreated a little farther into the woods. He didn’t recognize it when it crested the hill, but it slowed and started hugging the edge of the road when it got close.
Smith darted from cover, timing it so he could grab the handle and jump in before the vehicle came to a full stop. The sudden acceleration nearly caused the door to clip his foot as the driver executed a perfect 180. Engine noise filled the cramped interior and steam rose from the tires as he fumbled with his seat belt.
“You’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“Don’t insult me,” Randi Russell said, casually sipping from a Starbucks cup despite their speed and the rain.
He looked around at the shabby upholstery of the nineties Honda for a few seconds, then craned his neck to take in a backseat full of old CDs and dog hair. Not your typical Agency-issue vehicle.
“Did you sweep the car for bugs?” he said.
“Nah. I stole it. Best way if you want to be absolutely sure.”
Smith leaned an elbow on the windowsill and rested his wet head against his hand. She’d always had what his grandmother euphemistically called “sticky fingers” when he was a kid. But instead of candy bars and comic books, she tended toward things like Humvees, small aircraft, and cars.
“I really don’t need this right now, Randi.”
“Don’t be such a prude. I got it from long-term airport parking and I’ll have it back before the owner ever knows it’s gone—detailed and with a full tank of gas. Besides, I believe you got me out of bed to come save your ass. A little gratitude would be in order.”
* * *
C ARPET!” MAGGIE TEMPLETON WARNED.
Smith leaned against the doorjamb to remove his muddy running shoes before proceeding into the outer office.
“Towel!”
He grabbed the one folded neatly on top of a safe that served as a filing cabinet, using the thick cotton to catch drips as he made his way toward an open door at the back.
“So you’re certain you’d never seen the man before,” Klein said by way of greeting.
“Positive.” Smith arranged the towel on a chair before carefully lowering himself onto it. Despite the effort, he could hear the metronome-like drip of water falling to the floor.
Randi slipped in with a coffee refill and fell into the chair next to him, taking a hesitant sip as Klein pressed the intercom button next to his phone.
“Star? Could you come in here for a moment?”
She was just a few doors down and appeared a moment later, looking even more impressive than usual. The familiar piercings, tattoos, and black leather boots were all in evidence, but were now accessorizing a rather frilly pink dress. Smith suppressed a smile, suspecting how it must have happened. In the constant battle of wills between her and Klein, the old man had undoubtedly made the mistake of saying something to the effect of “couldn’t you just wear a dress?”
Those kinds of exasperated suggestions were pretty much his only recourse, though. A former librarian still in her early thirties, Star was a genius at tracking information—particularly information that hadn’t yet made its way to the digital world. She was, in the very real sense of the word, indispensable.
“I need to find someone,” Smith said.
“Sure.” She acknowledged Randi with a friendly grin. “Name?”
“I don’t actually know.”
“That’s okay. Male or female.”
“Male.”
“Where does he work?”
“Dunno.”
“Where’s he live?”
Shrug.
“Do you know where he’s from?”
“America. I’m fairly confident about that. Ninety percent.”
Her smile began to fade. “I’m probably not going to need a notepad to remember this flood of information, am I?”
“I doubt it.”
“Okay, what can you tell me?”
“Late sixties to early seventies. Probably retired U.S. military. I’d bet decent money marines—I can smell a jarhead a mile away. Five foot ten, probably a hundred and seventy pounds, only about two of which are fat. Gray military cut, no hair loss.”
“Original color? Any hanging on from when he was younger?”
“No.”
“Eyes?”
“Green,” Smith responded and then ran a finger from his collar to beneath his chin. “And he has an old scar along here.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that should narrow it down to a little over a million people.”
Smith smiled easily. “If it was simple, anyone could do it.”
“Uh-huh. When do you need it?”
He opened his mouth to respond but she held up a hand and retreated through the door. “Never mind. I already know what you’re going to say.”
Randi watched her disappear around the corner before speaking. “I have to admit that I’m looking forward to seeing what she finds out. It sounds like he had you dead to rights and didn’t take the opportunity. Why? Has he figured out a way to use you? Is he trying to convince you he’s something he’s not? That you’re on the same side? Does he really think you’ll give up just because he trashed your car and had some thugs point guns at you?”
“I can answer one of those questions,” Klein said.
Randi turned to him. “Which?”
“He’s not trying to portray himself as someone he’s not.”
Klein slid two pieces of paper across his desk, one meant for each of them. Smith took his and leaned over it, trying to stay ahead of the drops splattering across the text as he read. It was an immediate transfer to the Amundsen-Scott research station to relieve the current doctor. He had to rack his brain for a few moments to come up with the location of the facility.
“What’s yours say?” he asked Randi.
“I’m being reassigned—effective immediately—as an advisor to a rebel group in Yemen.”
“Sounds cushy.”
“Really? What’s yours?”
“South Pole.”
“Antarctica,” Randi said, a hint of admiration crossing her face. “Well, we’ve learned two things about your new friend: He has a hell of a lot of juice and a certain amount of style.”
“A little too much of both for my taste,” Klein said.
“Can we assume you’ll do your magic and make these transfers go away?” Smith said.
Klein looked uncharacteristically doubtful.
“Fred?”
“I’m working on it but it’s not a simple matter.”
“You’re saying that I might be moving into my bunk in Antarctica in a couple of days?”
“Could be worse,” Randi said. “You could be barricaded in an apartment with a bunch of lonely Yemeni freedom fighters.”
Klein frowned. “I haven’t been able to determine how these transfers were done and on whose authority. What I’m finding is the same kind of maze that I leave when I get you your indefinite leaves of absence.” He paused for a moment. “Look, I don’t want you to worry about this. I’m going to get it done but, as always, I have to do it in a way that doesn’t expose Covert-One or the president.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I need you to figure out what we’re into here. We have a slight advantage in that whoever this man is, he thinks he understands the limitations of your resources as an army scientist and CIA operative. Based on what we’ve seen so far, though, he isn’t going to be fooled for long.”