The Temporary Agent (11 page)

Twenty-Four

They had checked in at eight o’clock, and less than an hour later Tom was ready to go.

His dark hair and full beard, both singed badly in the fire, had been buzzed down to the length of a few days’ stubble by Stella.

She had used the electric clippers that Tom carried in the duffel, along with, among other things, a change of clothes, which he was now wearing.

Crisp jeans, dark sweater, nicer work boots, and a fleece-lined windbreaker with a fold-down collar.

He looked like a workman cleaned up for a date.

Or if not a workman, then maybe—thanks to the buzz cut—an off-duty state trooper.

Either way, he didn’t look like the man who had drifted into Canaan six months ago.

More important, he didn’t look like the man who had met with Raveis and Savelle less than twelve hours ago.

Not exactly, anyway, and any change in his appearance could only benefit him going forward.

After he’d been cleaned up, Tom and Stella had lain facing each other on the strange bed, Tom in his new clothes, Stella stroking his face carefully, to avoid his wounds.

Neither had said a word.

Closing her eyes, Stella had pulled Tom’s face to hers and kissed him.

She continued kissing him even when they heard a car door open and close and heavy footsteps begin to approach.

Stella didn’t stop till Conrad’s knocking brought the private moment to an end.

The trooper was holding a small wooden box.

He entered and handed it to Stella.

Remaining by the door, he looked at Tom and said without smiling, “Nice haircut.”

“I asked Conrad to get this for me,” she said. “I had forgotten all about it till a little while ago. It was in a foot locker that belonged to my father. Some of his things are stored in my basement.”

She handed Tom the box, and he knew by its weight what it contained.

Tom opened it and peeled away the oilcloth in which it was wrapped. He looked at the government-issue .45-caliber Colt 1911.

“My father brought it home from Korea,” Stella said. “It was the sidearm he carried through the Chosin Reservoir. It’s not registered in my name, or anyone’s name, for that matter, so there’s no way it could be traced back to me.”

Conrad removed an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to Stella. She passed it to Tom.

Inside the envelope was a slip of white paper—an official-looking form, complete with the seal of the State of Connecticut, signed and dated by a state trooper named Edward Sirkin.

Printed across the top in bold letters:

TEMPORARY PERMIT TO CARRY PISTOLS AND REVOLVERS

“Apparently, when you and I first started dating, Conrad and his buddies ran a background check on you to make sure I wasn’t getting involved with someone who was trouble. A background check is required for a carry permit, so that was already out of the way. And because you were in the navy, your fingerprints are in the system. And your expertise with firearms means they waived the requirement of an NRA safety course certificate. So the permit is actually legit . . . just processed a lot faster than normal.”

Tom wasn’t sure what to say.

“You’ll need to come to the barracks at some point to get your photo taken and trade that in for a permanent permit,” Conrad said. “But you’re good with that for now, statewide. It won’t do you any good in New York, of course. Or Massachusetts or New Jersey.”

Conrad handed Stella a small paper bag next, which she also passed to Tom.

Inside were three magazines—the seven-round mag the weapon
had been issued with, and two eight-round Chip McCormick Power Mags.

“The mags are loaded with the best personal defense round out there,” Conrad said. “UltraDefense by a company called Liberty Ammunition. Plus-p load, made of nickel-plated copper, not lead, so the round is less than half the weight, which means it leaves the muzzle at nineteen hundred feet per second instead of the usual eight hundred feet per second. As you know, that’s fast for a forty-five. And it fragments upon impact, doesn’t mushroom like your standard hollow point, so you’ve got five razor-sharp pieces scattering in a star pattern through your target at over twice the speed of sound. The shock wave created by the foot-pound energy alone is enough to damage internal organs. Hit a man with this and he’s going down.” Conrad paused, then said, “You know what constitutes self-defense in this state, right?”

Tom did. And he had no intention of spending even a night in jail, never mind serving a prison term.

Yet he also had no intention of letting himself get killed.

So, then, a fine line to walk from here on out if I’m going to make it back to Stella.

Conrad had one more item for Tom.

A pair of tactical gloves.

They were made of vented ballistic nylon, with thickly padded palms and knuckles reinforced with a dense, hard polymer.

The gloves alone, Tom thought, were effective weapons.

“There are no prints or DNA on the Colt,” Conrad said. “And none on any of the mags or the rounds in them. You might want to keep it that way, in case you need to ditch the weapon.”

Tom understood the significance of a state trooper, sworn to uphold the law, offering such advice.

Tom also understood that this—that everything Conrad had done and said—was a favor to Stella.

“I field stripped and oiled it,” Conrad said. “It’s in great shape for not having been fired in sixty years.”

Folding the oilcloth back over the Colt, Tom closed the box and set it and the paper bag on the bed.

“Thanks,” he said to Conrad.

The trooper nodded, lingering for a moment, then left.

Stella watched him get into his four-door and drive away.

“He’s off duty at six,” she said. “He’ll be back then. If you’re not, that is.”

“Doesn’t his wife or girlfriend mind?”

“He’s single.”

“I’m grateful that he’s so . . . devoted to you, but I’m curious why.”

“My father hired him a few years before his retirement, kind of took him under his wing. My mother, too. Maybe they saw him as the son they never had. A lot of the time, when I’d go over to have dinner with them, he’d be there. I think there was the hope, despite the age difference, that I’d date him. I love him like a brother, but I’ve never been attracted to him.”

“It’s pretty obvious that he’s in love with you.”

Tom remembered the day he had stopped at the diner for lunch and first saw Stella.

And the men—the steady stream of men—who filled the tiny restaurant just to interact with her.

Every man in town, it had seemed to Tom.

Or at the very least, every law enforcement officer.

And now here they were, relying on those men for their lives.

He was about to apologize to Stella for getting her involved in this, but before he could speak, she said, “You’re coming back to me, Tom. Okay? Do whatever it takes to make sure of that.”

Tom told her that he would.

He had a little over an hour before he had to leave to meet Carrington.

He and Stella spent that time lying on their sides on the bed.

Facing each other in a long embrace that reminded Tom of everything he had to lose.

Tom traveled south on Route 63, coming out of the high hills and passing through stone-bordered farmland that had changed little since first being settled nearly four hundred years ago.

Above him clouds the color of battleships crowded the November skies.

He was a mile north of Litchfield when he pulled to the side of a two-lane country road and shifted into park.

With his tactical gloves on, he removed the eight-round magazine he had loaded into the Colt before leaving the motel, then lowered the safety lever and turned the weapon sideways.

Holding the slide with an overhand grip, he racked it, ejecting the chambered round into his left palm.

The weapon was now unloaded, its slide locked back and the breech open.

He placed the Colt inside the console between his two front seats and locked the lid.

The three magazines went into his glove compartment, which he also locked.

The loose round went into his shirt pocket.

Removing the gloves, Tom placed them into the pockets of his jacket.

Despite having a carry permit, Tom saw no reason to be armed at this point.

It was Carrington he was meeting, after all.

Continuing on, Tom entered the Village of Litchfield a minute later.

A quaint old town, its hilltop Main Street lined with Colonial-era homes.

A long, sloping village green displayed monuments to every war since the Revolution.

Along the green’s south side were brick storefronts that housed fashionable clothing boutiques, antiques shops, and pubs.

The historic cemetery was on East Street, just past the village.

Two black SUVs were parked inside its entrance.

The scarred-face man—the man who had met Carrington outside the Gentleman Farmer the night before, then less than an hour later had helped save Tom’s life as well as the lives of Savelle and her driver—was standing next to the lead vehicle.

Tom parked not far from the SUVs and walked over to the man, who gestured for him to raise his arms.

Tom did, and the man patted down his torso.

Tom observed the man’s face as he checked Tom thoroughly, more likely searching for listening devices than weapons. Neither said a word.

But Tom couldn’t ignore the fact he was face-to-face with someone to whom he owed his life.

Someone that Carrington had put on his tail last night as a precaution.

Pausing on the pockets of Tom’s jacket, the man removed one of the tactical gloves, looked at it briefly, then returned it to its pocket and completed his search.

“He’s waiting for you over there,” he said, pointing to the northeast.

Tom passed headstones that had been worn by centuries of exposure, some to the point where the engravings were unreadable, until Carrington came into view.

Standing by a gravesite, his head bent.

A few rows away stood the scarred-face man’s partner, watching Tom as he approached.

When he was finally beside Carrington, Tom saw that it wasn’t a gravestone Carrington was looking at but an aboveground granite crypt.

The engraving on it was worn, too, but still clear:

Hon. Benjamin Tallmadge

Born Feb. 25 1754

Died March 7 1835

Carrington glanced at Tom, smiled, and said, “That’s the Tom I remember.”

Tom didn’t understand at first, then realized Carrington was referring to his buzzed-down hair and beard.

Looking back at the crypt, Carrington said, “I’m glad you’re here. There are things I need to tell to you now. And a few small confessions I need to make. But first things first. Do you have the cell phone I gave you?”

Twenty-Five

Tom removed the flip phone from his pocket and told Carrington that it was powered down.

Carrington said, “Good.” He took the phone from Tom and proceeded to remove its battery.

“I hope you’ll forgive the violation of your privacy, but I needed to hear what Raveis and Savelle said to you. This phone is equipped with a hot mic, which means it’s also a live transmitter that remains active even if the device is shut down. The only way to disable it is to remove the battery.”

He slipped the now-inert phone into one pocket of his jacket and the battery into another.

“I tried to let you know that I’d be listening with that little gesture of mine,” Carrington said, “but that was as specific as I could get with Raveis’s men observing us.” He paused, then said, “And five years ago, we thought there was no privacy left. You should see the ways they have these days to eavesdrop and track.”

“Why did you need to hear my conversation with Raveis and Savelle?”

“We’ll get to that. Another thing I should confess is that I recorded your conversation with them as well. In case they tried later on to deny ever having talked to you.”

Tom was about to ask why Raveis and Savelle would want to do that, but then he remembered that the flip phone had sat on the nightstand from the moment he arrived at the motel to the moment he had picked it up and left.

“You heard Stella and me talking,” he said.

Carrington nodded. “I’m sorry about that, too. Truly, Tom. It was an invasion of your privacy, yes, but I needed to know what was in the documents Savelle e-mailed you.”

Tom had never considered Carrington to be an ends-justify-the-means kind of man.

In the nearly eight years he had spent under Carrington’s command, he had never once seen his commander act in that manner.

It had always been the exact opposite, in fact.

Tom couldn’t ignore this, but he chose not to dwell on it now. There were matters more urgent, more pressing questions he needed answered.

“Why did you need to know what was in the documents Savelle e-mailed me?”

“We’ll get to that, too.” He looked at Tom closely, glancing at the cut on his scalp, then down at his hands. “You don’t seem too worse for the wear. But you always were as tough as nails.”

“That wouldn’t have mattered if your men hadn’t showed up.” Tom paused. “How are Savelle and the driver? I never got her name.”

“Her name is Durand. She sustained a concussion but should be out of the hospital by now. Savelle is resting at home.”

“Where does she live?”

“Manhattan. Why?”

Tom shrugged, then said, “Your men were carrying firearms in New York City. They shot and killed four men. How are they not on Rikers Island right now?”

“They’re fully licensed and bonded bodyguards with permits to carry within the five boroughs. And even in a tyrannical city like New York, defending oneself and others from imminent harm is still legal.”

Tom asked what the names of his men were.

“The one with the shaved head and scars is Hammerton. He’s former SAS. He has worked for me from the start. This one over here is Simpson. He was Secret Service, back before it was moved from Treasury to Homeland Security and fell to shit.”

Tom studied Simpson.

Tall, lanky, dressed in jeans and a leather coat that reminded Tom of what submariners had worn during the Second World War.

Black leather lace-up boots with thick soles, mirrored aviator sunglasses.

Midthirties, tops, which made Tom wonder why he was no longer working for the government.

Tom looked back at Carrington.

“They were using that phone to track Savelle and me.”

“Yes.”

“You told me that you trusted her. And Raveis. So why have your men follow us?”

“What was it you said to your girlfriend, Tom? That I was in a dangerous business. The more accurate statement would be that I’m in business with dangerous people. You trust blindly, and you won’t last very long. I learned quickly to take any and all precautions.”

Before Tom could ask if breaching protocol in their initial contact was his way of taking precautions, Carrington looked down at Tallmadge’s crypt and said, “This man has been a hero of mine since I was kid. My father would tell me bedtime stories about him. On my birthdays he gave me books about the Culper Spy Ring and Washington. That began my lifelong fascination with the Revolution. And with codes.

“It’s amazing,” Carrington continued, “how close Washington came to losing to the British. I mean, the man lost more battles than he won. Defeat after defeat, for years. What turned things around was that he embraced espionage. And Tallmadge here was his spymaster. Very few people have ever heard of this man, and yet I believe we never would have won our freedom without him and the men and women under him.”

Tom looked at his former skipper closely and saw that the man looked tired.

“I was hoping to keep you from getting involved in this, Tom. That’s why I broke so many protocols—so you wouldn’t show. I know you passed on this kind of work for a reason. But I should have known you would have answered even the sketchiest of distress calls from me.”

“Why did you contact me at all, then?”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

It took Tom a moment to understand what that meant.

His conclusion wasn’t a pleasing one.

“Savelle came to you and asked for me,” he said.

Carrington nodded. “You specifically, yes. On Raveis’s behalf. She wanted me to contact you and set up a meeting.”

“How did they even know about me?”

“She obviously knows the details of Cahill’s life. And yours. I wondered about that, too, and the only answer I can come up with is that Savelle wasn’t lying when she said you should be the one to bring Cahill in. Because of what you and he went through.”

The math was simple enough: How many others owed Cahill an equivalent debt?

And Tom had a history of leading rescue missions.

“Anyway, like I said, I tried to keep you out of this. Something in my gut told me there was more going on.”

“Like what?”

Carrington shrugged. “With a man like Raveis, it could be anything.”

“Who is he, anyway? What does he do?”

“Like me, he recruits and provides security personnel to corporations. Bodyguards here in the states and PMCs for our government overseas. But I’m small time compared to him. Hell, I’d kill to have a tenth of his business. In reality, though, Raveis is a power broker. He has connections in every government agency: CIA, DOD, FBI, DHS, ATF. The alphabet soup of law enforcement and intelligence organizations. You name it and he has someone on the inside. When politicians or CEOs or the ultra-wealthy need something done, something sensitive or even illegal, he’s the person they call. Or rather, they call their lawyer, who contacts someone who meets with him.”

Tom remembered what Savelle had said about Raveis’s interest in Cahill being personal.

“Raveis is working for Cahill’s family,” Tom said.

Carrington shook his head. “No. They turned their backs on him a long time ago. Whatever his reasons may be, Raveis is serious about finding Cahill. I’d bet good money you aren’t the only person he has searching for him, though I’m thinking right now that you may have the best chance of finding him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your Stella may be on to something, Tom.” Carrington smiled. “She’s a smart one. Where’d you find her?”

Tom ignored the question. “What do you mean, she may be on to something? The boxing coach?”

“Yes. And she’s right about something else, too. There’s collecting data and there’s processing it. Savelle is Raveis’s informant in the NSA. I can tell you that much for certain. But this is in no way a sanctioned NSA operation. You need to understand that, Tom. This is all Raveis. And since Savelle’s affiliation with him is off the books, she can only do so much for him before putting herself at risk of being exposed. She can steal files, sure—that’s easy—but she can’t exactly assign a dozen analysts to process and interpret them for her.”

“You said Raveis has other people searching. Have any of them found what Stella found?”

“I have no way of knowing,” Carrington said. “But the bigger an operation, the more opportunity for leaks. And outright betrayal. Which might explain how a Chechen hit team knew where you and Savelle were last night. What it doesn’t explain is why they tried to kill you. And in the most brutal way possible. I mean, if they wanted you dead, why not just shoot you both when you were trapped and get out of there? Why risk setting a car on fire, then sticking around to make sure its occupants don’t escape? Why was it so important that you both burn alive?”

“A message,” Tom said.

“But a message for who? Cahill? Raveis? Or whoever—or whatever—connects them?”

“What do you mean by ‘whatever’?”

“Corporation. Institution. Government. With Raveis, it could be anything—or anyone.” Carrington paused. “Everyone works for someone. Even a man like Raveis.”

Tom took a moment to consider the possibility of crossing paths with men even more powerful than Raveis.

It was a less-than-comforting thought.

“I’m thinking you should call Stella and tell her to focus on the boxing coach,” Carrington said. “Keep looking, keep digging. I’ll be honest with you, Tom. Her finding this lead the way she did could be just what it looks like. The right piece of information in front of the right person. I mean, that’s how they found bin Laden, right? A handful of people saw what the agencies were missing. But we’re both smart enough to know that while it could be that, it could also be something else. Someone could have wanted you to find that information. You and you alone.”

“Why?”

“That’s what we need to know. Think about it. Savelle asked me to contact you on Raveis’s behalf. For a noble reason, too. So you could help her save the man who had saved your life. Raveis is someone you don’t say no to, not if you don’t want to be crushed, but there was no way I was going to just give you to them. So I told her how to contact you, skipping a few important protocols, thinking that would keep you away. I didn’t even correct her when she mispronounced your name, thinking that alone might keep you from answering. My point is, I was the friendly face that brought you out into the open. You could easily be the friendly face that brings Cahill out in the open. For whatever reason.”

Tom paused a moment before saying, “So what now?”