The Last Spymaster (21 page)

He stiffened, unsure. Conflict raged on his pitted face, but it was unlikely he would side with her against Erich.

“At least give me the chance to explain how the Company—,” she tried anyway.

“Nein!”

Before he could finish giving his head an angry shake, she balanced back on her left foot and drove her right foot straight into his solar plexus in a brutal
kekomi
kick. With his expertise, she would get no second chances. His face stretched in surprise, and he doubled over, his lungs emptying. She followed with a powerful
mawashi-geri
roundhouse kick to the point of his jaw.

His head snapped, his Walther fell, and he sprawled. His skull hit the cobbles with a hollow
thwack.
His eyelids dropped, did not even twitch.

She scooped up his Walther and bolted. The noise of approaching feet was louder. She pushed away the shock of what all of this meant and, using both hands, ripped open her plaid overshirt as she dodged between two metal fence barriers. Her hip hit one, and it crashed over.

The pain hardly registered as she yanked off the shirt and leaped onto the sidewalk and slowed under the lamplight. She held up the shirt to examine the back where Volker had patted her during his commiserating hug.

Silently cursing, she found it—a clear piece of adhesive tape. In the center, between the tape and the shirt, was what appeared to be a small steel button. She recognized it immediately—a miniature tracker.

She snapped off the tape. As she picked off the tracker, she shot off again, hurdling a concrete planter, heading toward the center of the square. Using her momentum to power her arm, she lobbed the tiny device toward the distant shops. She must send Alec and the others someplace where she would not be, and this was her best hope.

Before it could land, she turned abruptly and raced away, barely avoiding a Vespa left outside a
galleria
. She turned up the narrow rue des Chaudronniers, tying the sleeves of her shirt around her waist to hide the box that contained her videotapes. The passageway roughly paralleled the rue Etienne-Dumont. Listening worriedly as the noise of angry male voices rose from the plaza behind her, she settled into an exhausting uphill run, praying she could vanish. She rounded the first bend still climbing, now slipping on the damp cobblestones in her haste. She passed more stone doorsteps, more hanging lamplights. When she arrived at last at the intersection with promenade de Saint-Antoine, she allowed herself one quick look back.

The lane was deserted. She felt a brief moment of triumph, but she did not slow. Covered with sweat, weary to the bone, she dashed across the street and into the city parking garage and downstairs into shadowy light. The underground lot stank of diesel and wet concrete. She had never seen a lovelier sight.

Gulping air, legs trembling, she took out her car keys and headed for her rented Opel. Locked inside the trunk was her small suitcase—priceless now. As soon as she had suspected Kristoph had been murdered, she pulled together tradecraft artifacts from her past. Fortunately, four of the passports in her home safe were current. By calling in old favors, she swiftly assembled disguises and pocket litter to support the passports. Everything was compacted into that suitcase.

Footsteps echoing in the emptiness, she stopped at the car and gazed cautiously around one more time. Slowly she smiled. It was not a kind smile, but an angry, knowing one. She was here; they were not. She banished her sore muscles and throbbing pulse and opened the door. With a quick gesture, she tossed her overshirt across the front seat and climbed in. The engine started immediately.

She drove up the exit ramp and paused to check the sidewalks and street. But as she steered the Opel into traffic, a sense of dread swept through her. It was an old feeling, something straight from her days as a dual mole, a warning. She concentrated, thinking, until tonight’s events at last fit together with frightening perfection: The CIA had needed to find her before she uncovered whatever they were investigating—or hiding. That was where Erich Eisner became important. It would have been a small matter to blackmail him—a phone call from Langley, followed by a secret e-mail with encoded attachments documenting her years of Cold War espionage for the CIA and that she was now a sleeper. She was the legend Erich had created and with which he had not only saved the BND but made his career. If the truth were publicized, the BND’s image would be tarnished, and he would be a laughingstock—if not worse. To buy the CIA’s silence, he would send Volker Rehwaldt to locate her.

Afterward she would be not only worthless as a CIA sleeper but a ticking bomb for Erich. The two agencies would have to cooperate in cleaning
up after themselves. But shooting her dead would cause questions, an official investigation.

Volker had told her to go with “them”—the CIA. They planned to take her someplace in the Citroën where her suicide could be faked. It would be believable—she was so heartbroken by the death of her only child that she could not go on living. With a forged suicide note, there would be no questions, no official inquiry.

Her lips parted, and she breathed shallowly. She was in terrible danger. Both agencies would continue to search for her. The CIA was obviously driving the operation, so Washington was her best destination. She had picked up Jay’s message that he had broken out of the penitentiary. Now she would send a coded response.

She hit the gas pedal, accelerating through a stoplight. She had loathed Jay so long that working with him again seemed stupid, impossible. He had sold her out, just as he had his country.

As she turned her car toward the airport, she resumed analyzing. The CIA had kept her in reserve nearly fifteen years, although she had golden contacts all the way up to the chancellor himself. She was a major asset with the potential to deliver Germany’s most closely held state secrets as well as national and international intelligence. Still, Langley had never contacted her—until now. And then it was to blow her cover and gain nothing but Germany’s cooperation in finding and liquidating her.

The CIA had been willing to sacrifice her and everything she could provide in the future to stop her investigation into her son’s death. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. Whatever Milieu Software Technology was doing, the CIA was willing to pay an extraordinary price to find out—or keep it from her.

Bethesda, Maryland

Jerry Angelides was deeply pissed. As the BMW sped across the lit suburban streets, he sat rigidly in the passenger seat with Billy’s Colt on his lap, the fingers of his left hand drumming the barrel. He did not like to think about finding it hooked over the antenna like somebody’s dirty laundry.

Then there was the problem with the tracker he had planted on the Jag. When he turned on the reader, he found Jay Tice had gotten him again—the bastard stuck it onto the BMW somewhere. Disgusted, he turned the reader off right away. The damn tracker could stay glued so long it grew warts.

Rink cleared his throat. “You’d think that fancy car of hers wouldn’t be so hard to find,” he tried conversationally.

Angelides said nothing.

Rink glanced at him, worry in his pale eyes.

Angelides saw it.

Rink said loudly, “I’ve never fucked up, Jerry. I’d never break an agreement or lie to you, Jerry.”

Angelides sighed. He told himself to cut it out. Being steamed was not going to help, and it was just what Jay Tice was counting on. When you got angry enough, your brain short-circuited. Well, Tice was not going to win that little battle or any other one. He had made an anonymous call to the police about the corpse in Cunningham’s town house and had sent out a dozen cars looking for the Jag. With luck, one of his men would phone to say he had spotted it. It was going to be pure pleasure to turn Tice into one dead rat.

He brought his temper under control. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re not like Billy. You’re my man.”

“That’s right, Jerry. That’s right. I’m your man.”

“We’ll make sure Tice ends up hanging off a hook in a meat locker somewheres.”

“Damn right we will.” Rink nodded vigorously.

Rink was in his late thirties, a long, skinny guy with a brush cut and a broken nose that headed east, then west. It gave him a kind of distinguished look, like he might have been big in sports—baseball, or maybe a football quarterback. The only trouble was, Rink would never screw up even a little. If you did not sometimes screw up—not fuck up, there was a difference—you did not take chances, which meant you were never going to win when you went up against someone damn good, like Tice.

On the other hand, Rink was a hell of a shot and ruthless when necessary, and he could really drive. And he was loyal. There was a lot to be said for loyalty. For Angelides, it was right up there with being respectful.

He caught Rink looking at him again. “Just drive. It’s okay. I’m thinking.”

Rink gave a little grin and wheeled the BMW around the corner onto another busy street. Rink looked nice in his sports jacket and pants, Angelides decided. Neat and presentable. He liked the way Rink was watching all around. It gave him a good feeling about Rink and things in general, which meant it was time to face the music. He pulled out his cell. Then he stared at it.

“Are you going to call Mr. G?” Rink asked.

“I told you I was thinking, Rink.”

Rink sealed his lips and nodded.

Angelides turned the cell on its side and in the outside light saw E911 printed in white on the black casing. He smiled. This was more like it. That was the code that said the cell contained a GPS chip. Of course, Billy had an identical cell.

He dialed. This time, Mr. G answered quickly. Angelides said soberly, “I got some business to discuss, Mr. Ghranditti. It’s mostly good. The one bad part is I found Jay Tice, but he got away. But it’s good, too, because he’s got that hunter, Cunningham, with him. They were holed up at her town house. We had a little back-and-forth before they took off in her car, and
the bottom line is, Cunningham’s set up for the murder of one of my men. I left some fresh ID, so he’s not gonna be traced back to us. Then I phoned in a tip. The cops are probably there now. Pretty soon her face is gonna be plastered everywhere.” No point in bothering Mr. G about the tracker and Billy’s gun, which was returned like an insult.

“And the purpose of that?” He did not sound happy.

“Pressure,” Angelides said fast. “I pushed Tice deep into a corner. She’s an anchor, a real heavy one, slowing him down. And Tice is just enough full of himself that he’s helped us by lifting my man’s cell, which has got that new GPS technology. Most people think it’s only for emergencies—for when you dial nine-one-one and need an ambulance or the police to find you. But that’s not true. The chip puts out a signal as long as the cell’s turned on. I’m thinking that the hotshot CIA guy you’re doing business with knows someone who could read us the cell’s location off the satellite. Which means Tice’s location.” He related Billy’s cell number. “If the cell’s not on right now, Tice is gonna turn it on eventually. He won’t be able to resist.”

There was a smile in Mr. G’s voice. “Very smart, Mr. Angelides. I congratulate you. Yes, I’ll take care of it.”

Angelides grinned and said good-bye and hung up. The man was classy. He never yelled or cussed you out. But then, he was also busy. He did not waste time. On the other hand, if you fucked up, he would order you whacked. That was the deal with Hannah Barculo—she had fucked up real bad. Mr. G could not trust her anymore.

Angelides felt a weird something. Fear, maybe. For a moment, his mind translated that into what could happen to him, but he was not going there. Jerry Angelides did not fuck up, and he was not going to—now or ever.

On the Beltway, Virginia

As Elaine drove south through the night, shocked silence filled the car. Billy’s heartbreaking plea for his life rang in her ears. Vehicles whipped past at blinding speeds. Red taillights streamed ahead in a bloody river. She was driving too slowly. She pressed the accelerator, her hands gripping the steering
wheel as if it were a life preserver. The Jag caught up with traffic, but she kept it in the slow outer lane. She looked everywhere for a Virginia State Police patrol car.

She watched Tice throw the recorder-player into his backpack. Her gaze lingered. The recording inside proved she did not erase Billy.

“That was tough to listen to.” She watched the highway and controlled her voice. “It was almost as if we were in the same room while Jerry was murdering Billy. I kept having the feeling I could do something to stop it. I had to remind myself it was too late.”

Tice studied her profile. Her mouth was set in a thin line, and her skin was pale. “Your prints are on your Beretta?”

She gave a curt nod. “I’m set up. Care to fill me in on your plans for me?”

“I have complete faith you’re not going to give me trouble.”

She was silent. She must find a way to escape or report in to Litchfield.

“You’re in worse trouble now, too,” she told him. “Your prints are on the drink glasses. And on the venetian blinds, the doorknobs, the kitchen stool, and God knows what else you handled at my place.”

“Your point?”

“You can bet Jerry or one of his people has phoned in a tip. The police will seal off my place and do forensics. They’re going to discover you were there. Langley’s been keeping your escape quiet, and they can probably control the local cops once they find out—but only for a while. It’d be better for you to turn yourself in now.”