Authors: Fern Michaels
“Well, dear, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then I think it’s safe to say it’s a duck. The answer is yes,” Myra said.
“The boys are on the way to Manassas,” Charles said. He smiled indulgently at Myra. “It is indeed a duck.”
“What do you think Director Yantzy is going to do?” Alexis asked.
“The short answer is, whatever he has to do. Having said that, Director Span is now in the game if Professor Jordan was killed on French soil. Even though the CIA cannot operate on American soil, it can investigate the death of the real Professor Jordan. But I still think we have the edge here. I’m sure a team of agents is on the way to the
Post
if they aren’t there already. Not to worry, Maggie knows what to do should that happen,” Charles said.
Hank Jellicoe drove the roads like a bat out of hell, not caring if the police picked him up for speeding. Right now he was so pissed he could chew nails and spit rust.
Goddamn vigilantes. Once again I underestimated them. Stupid fucking dogs. I should have known better.
His eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, he yanked at the small audio gizmo in his shirt pocket. He fought the urge to bite down into it and crush it into a million pieces.
This was supposedly so goddamn foolproof. They must be laughing their heads off that they found the audio chips under the dogs’ collars. And Charlie! He was probably laughing up his sleeve, too.
That hurt, that someone like Charlie could actually outdo him.
A half mile away from 911 Sherman Way, Jellicoe reached up to the visor and clicked it. His garage door would immediately slide up, so when he pulled into the driveway, he could sail right into the garage and not waste a precious second. Seconds were going to count from here on in.
Minutes later he did just that, slowed slightly, roared up the slight incline, and came to a dead stop just as the doors started to slide down. He cut the engine, got out of the Hummer, and bolted through the house to the second floor and his war room, but not before he opened the electric box and cut the power.
Blank screens stared up at him. He reached behind his chair for the Louisville Slugger he liked to keep handy. First he yanked at the guts of the machines, ripped at some power cords, sliced others. Then he wound up and swung the Slugger time and again. Plastic, Plexiglas, bits and pieces of tubing flew in all directions. Satisfied that the room was a total shambles, Jellicoe tossed the bat across the room.
Did he have hours, minutes, seconds, what? Hours, maybe two. More than likely less. He headed back down to the first floor and the room where he slept from time to time, not that he slept much. No point in calling the room a bedroom if he didn’t sleep in it at least four hours a night on a regular basis. It was just a room. As he stripped his clothes off, he was checking out the morning edition of the
Post
on his special satellite phone. If he’d worn dentures, they would have fallen right out of his mouth when he saw, in miniature, a picture of himself under the fold on the front page of the
Post.
Jellicoe’s adrenaline kicked in as he pulled out a set of clothes from the top drawer of the only dresser in the room. Not hours. Minutes. He pulled on slacks and a loose-fitting, long-sleeve green blouse; he clipped on some ear-rings. A string of pearls went around his neck. He added two garish rings and a few clanking bracelets to his hands and wrists. The last thing he did was pull on a curly gray-white wig. He kicked off his boots and slipped his feet into a pair of serviceable women’s footwear. “Welcome to the world of covert espionage, Bertha Tolliver.”
Minutes, not hours. Minutes.
Back in the garage, Jellicoe eyed the robin’s-egg blue Caddy. He turned the power back on, climbed behind the wheel, pressed the remote to open the garage door, and drove out and down the driveway to the main road.
Little old ladies like Bertha Tolliver would drive like snails and be hindrances on the road. So that was what Hank Jellicoe did. He drove at thirty-five miles an hour and ignored the honking horns and the upraised fingers as he listened to Perry Como and tried to read the text underneath his picture in the morning paper.
Jellicoe’s heart beat erratically in his chest as he felt things closing around him. They had put it together, and that bitch at the paper was going to crucify him. The Feds were now on it, too. That meant the CIA had their agents in France already exhuming Professor Jordan’s body. For one wild, crazy moment, he felt like he had a noose around his neck. He felt vulnerable for the first time in his life. He did not like the feeling.
“Hey, check out that Caddy,” Bert said, craning his neck to get a better view of the ancient car going in the opposite direction. “That’s got to be a 1951, maybe a ′52. Get a load of those tail fins. Looks like it’s in mint condition, and get a load of that old lady driving it. Bet she thinks she’s queen of the road.”
Jack laughed. “Check out the line of cars behind her. And she doesn’t give a hoot. Just tooling along in the sunshine, probably listening to some old guy singing. They called them crooners back in her day. I gotta say, though, that baby looks like it would fetch a bundle from some car collector. Probably more than a Porsche Boxster costs. I was never into cars like most guys. If it gets me there, that’s all that counts.”
“The old lady must live in that retirement village we just passed,” Bert said as he looked in his rearview window. “Bet all the old geezers in there love that car. I know my dad would if he were still alive. He’s the one who got me interested in vintage cars. A nice hobby if you’re rich, which I’m not.”
“Enough with the cars already,” Harry said from the backseat.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Wong, sir, we will now cease and desist on any and all conversation pertaining to robin’s-egg blue Caddies that only old ladies drive. Old ladies, not old men. How strange is that? Okay, okay, that’s my final word. Be patient, Harry, we are almost there.”
T
ed Robinson stopped texting and looked up. “Just for the record, 911 Sherman Way used to be called 911 Sherman Lane. Not that it matters. Hell, it’s a damn highway, so where do they get off saying it’s any kind of street to begin with?”
“I don’t think it matters, Ted,” Jack said in a soothing tone, taking note of Ted’s irritability. “It’s a given the son of a bitch will be gone by the time we get there. Who are you texting?”
“Some lady named Annette at the county tax office. She even knows Professor Jordan, says he’s a little dotty, whatever the hell that is, but a responsible man of the community.”
“You mean the
real
Professor Jordan? She’s going to be surprised when she reads the papers and finds out Jellicoe has been impersonating him. Ask her when she last had contact with him,” Bert said.
“I already did, and she said three years ago at some equestrian show. That was clearly before Jellicoe assumed the professor’s identity.”
“Well, here we are,” Espinosa said, leaning out the car window. “That mailbox says Jordan on the side. Looks like the driveway is … right there.” Bert slammed on the brakes, cut the corner short, then straightened out the car. “Stop, Bert, let me pick up Mr. Jordan’s mail.” Espinosa hopped out of the car and returned with a bundle of papers, catalogs, and assorted flyers. He was back in the car in seconds. “Move on out, buddy.”
“What you just did is a federal offense,” Jack said virtuously. “You could go to a federal prison for tampering with a person’s mail. So? Anything worth reading?”
“If I tell you, then you’re as guilty as I am. We’ll both be going to the slammer.”
“At least we’ll be together.” Jack guffawed. “So what’s in the mail?”
“A magazine called
American Rifle. Field & Stream.
Flyers from Staples, Walgreens, and Walmart with coupons. No bills, nothing personal.”
“Nice place,” Harry said when Bert stopped the car alongside a four-car garage. “Any possibility this place is booby-trapped?”
“Nothing is impossible, Harry. I’m kinda, more or less, thinking that bastard left in a bit of a hurry and wouldn’t have stopped long enough to tidy up. I say we pick the lock on the back door even though the house can’t be seen from the road. Who wants to do the honors? What? No takers. Jack, you’re it,” Bert said.
“Me!” Jack said in pretended outrage. “Do you think I carry a picklock with me at all times?”
“Yeah, I do, I saw it on that knife thing you keep on your keychain; cut the shit and open the goddamn door so we can figure out what’s going on.”
Five minutes later, with a little goading from his friends, Jack snapped the lock, and the five of them were standing in a huge kitchen.
“Let’s spread out and, for God’s sake, don’t touch anything. Grab a dish towel or something and wrap it around your hand if you want to pick up something. A paper towel will do,” Bert said.
The group split up, Jack and Harry taking the steps to the second floor. Espinosa headed for the basement and Bert toward the garage. Ted covered the first floor.
“The action is up here!” Jack bellowed a few minutes later.
Footsteps thundered up the old pine staircase. “Looks like our buddy Jellicoe got himself in a little snit and busted up this place. Nice setup. We’re talking some big bucks here,” Jack said as he walked over to the corner to pick up the Louisville Slugger. He hefted it and took a few practice swings. “This baby is what he used to do all this damage. I think I just might keep this as a memento.”
“There’s nothing salvageable here. He did a damn good job of destroying everything,” Bert said. “Maybe the feebs at the Bureau can salvage something, but I doubt it.”
“There’s nothing here in … I guess it’s his bedroom. A couple of sets of clothes, extra shoes, and boots. DNA, but that’s it. Guess he doesn’t care about that,” Harry said.
“Okay, let’s cover the rest of the house. We might find something he left behind that will give us a clue as to what he’s going to do next.”
Twenty-five minutes later, all the guys had to show for their efforts was the Louisville Slugger and a wad of paper towels.
“Wonder what the fourth vehicle was that he kept in the garage?” Ted said. He looked over at Bert. “Hey, Mr. Ex–FBI Director, is there any way to tell what kind of vehicle was parked in the fourth bay?”
Bert shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. “Wonder why he didn’t take the Hummer? Maybe too noticeable. For all we know, the fourth one might have been a MINI Cooper or some old junk heap that would blend in with all the other cars out there on the road. He travels light, that’s for sure. Other than a year’s supply of food in those freezers, that’s it as far as things being out of the ordinary.”
Harry looked down at his watch. “We’ve been here too long already.”
“I hear you,” Bert said as he headed for the kitchen door. “Get your pick ready, Jack, and lock this door behind us. Come on, people, Harry’s right. We’ve been here too long already.”
“Espinosa, you got it all on film, just in case, right?”
“Got it.”
“Ted, you sending all of this to Maggie?”
“Done.”
“Then we’re outta here,” Jack said, snapping the lock back into place. They were back on the highway in less than three minutes.
“What now?” Bert asked.
“We aren’t all that far from Pinewood, so head there. Espinosa, upload all your pictures to Charles so he has them by the time we get there,” Jack said.
“And what are we going to do once we get there?” Harry asked.
Jack turned around to stare at Harry. “I don’t know, Harry. Maybe try to get back into the good graces of the girls? I think that’s our top priority, and don’t try and tell me Yoko isn’t giving you the old silent treatment, either. What do
you
think we should do when we get there? I am open to any and all suggestions.” Harry ignored Jack the way he always ignored him.
“Ted,” Bert called over his shoulder, “see if you can get online and find out what that old Caddy is worth that we saw on the road before. I’m pretty sure it’s a ′51 or a ′52. I’d give my eye-teeth to have that buggy.”
“Wouldn’t you be embarrassed to be seen driving something like that on the road?” Espinosa asked. “It’s not exactly a chick magnet. Not that you’re looking for a chick magnet,” he added hastily.
“Are you kidding me? I would be the envy of every guy on the road if I had an old heap like that. Assuming the engine is solid or rebuilt. Looked in mint condition to me. Hey, guys, on the way back, how about we stop at that retirement village and ask around for the owner. She might want to sell. I bet that snappy blue color is the original. Might need some touch-ups here and there. Yeah, I bet it is original in every way except for maybe new tires.”
“You are out of your mind, Bert Navarro. You need to save your money for your retirement,” Jack said. “Besides, that car probably has sentimental value to that lady. She was alone, so maybe she’s a widow, and it was her husband’s car. She’s never going to part with it because it reminds her of him. In other words, get over it and move on,” Jack said, an edge to his voice.
“Very good, sound advice, Mr. Navarro,” Harry said, the edge in his voice sharper than in Jack’s.
The rest of the trip to Pinewood was made in total silence.
The owner of the robin’s-egg blue 1951 Cadillac sat at an antique oak table in the small kitchen of the town house of one Bertha Tolliver. The car was nestled in a carport that had sliding doors across the front. A definite screw-up by the builder, whoever he was, back in the day. From his position at the table, Jellicoe could see the roof of the car through the kitchen window but the car was invisible to anyone passing on the street.
Jellicoe was still wearing the curly gray-and-white wig and women’s clothing. He was sweating profusely. He got up, went over to the refrigerator, and popped a bottle of Coors Light.
As with all his safe houses, the refrigerator and freezers were fully stocked. The cabinets held staples that wouldn’t go bad. With the exception of fresh fruits and vegetables, he could survive here without stepping outside for a year. Right now it was temporary. At least he hoped it was temporary.