Volcano (12 page)

Sure, Mark had perpetuated the motions: the routine evening
kiss, the
love-making
, infrequent though it was. But
in those motions, the tenderness had somehow gotten swept away like dew drops
in a sweltering storm.

Swollen heat pressed from his eyes as Mark recalled the girl
he’d convinced to become his wife. The woman to whom he’d promised the moon and
for whom he could no longer guarantee tomorrow.

It would soon be Christmas morning, a time for gifts of life
and renewal.
A time to wake up
one’s beliefs.

Mark squeezed shut his filming eyes and wished for one
present and one present only- to wake up from this nightmare and, once again,
find Ana in his arms.

Mark righted himself with a catching breath and ran his
fingers through his stubbly hair, the one thing about him that hadn’t changed
in these past three years. The rest of him had grown weak, both in spirit and
in body. At forty-three, Mark was getting older... Older, and less efficient,
he thought, slamming himself for his inadequacy.

Mark collapsed into the chair behind him, wondering how he
could have missed it.
Every damn bit of it- including Maria?

Mark had to get back to the DIPAC. Had to find a way to make
the baby safe. Tomorrow would be impossible, with next to everybody on leave.
But Mark could still make some necessary
calls,
wrap
things up here at headquarters.
Brief Albert on what was
going on and leave the greater operation in his capable charge.
Then,
once he’d secured Isabel, Mark could get back to Washington, and focusing on
Ana. Like where in the world she was.

Mark swivelled his chair and looked out the window,
searching for an answer. All he had was the mysterious scrambled message from
yesterday, demanding his and Albert’s resignation, her coat bloodied, as it
turned out, by pig entrails, and a mysterious hank of Joe McFadden’s hair that
happened to match up perfectly with the DNA samples he’d left on record at the
CIA. But somehow, even before the results of the hair analysis had come in,
Mark had instinctively known to whom the reddish-brown lock belonged. And
somehow, Mark had the
gut-wrenching
feeling Ana was no
longer in danger, at least not from the terrorist threat.

Though Mark had once considered Joe a comrade, truth be
known, they’d never been the best of friends. It was hard to put too much stock
in a friendship when the other man had once slept with your wife.

Mark balled his hands into tight fists, wanting so badly to
pound something...
Anything.

But the only thing that came to mind was the sorry image of
Joe McFadden’s face.

***

Carolyn checked on the baby for the umpteenth time and
tucked her in under the covers of her porta-crib.

Merry Christmas, to you, sweet Isabel, she thought, giving
the sleeping cherub a sad smile.

Too young to know what was going
on.
Blissfully unaware of her mother’s danger.
That,
Carolyn supposed, was baby Isabel’s greatest gift for the season.

And soon, at least, Isa was to see her father. Not tomorrow
probably, Mark had said.
But most certainly the day after
that.
Neal was bound and determined to get down here to his daughter,
but faced a tally of duties at the DOS first. Duties, Carolyn was sure, weighed
very heavily in his trying to find
Ana
, or else he’d
already be down at the DIPAC now.

But Carolyn had assured him Isa was in good hands. Now with
the two-faced Maria under lock and key and all forces on alert, Carolyn was
confident she could stay the watch and keep it steady until her boss arrived on
the
twenty sixth
.

Carolyn blew Isabel an air kiss then sat heavily on the
berth beside the crib.

Well, Carolyn decided, pulling the crinkling paper bag from
beneath her bed. Now was as good a time as any.

Reaching into the bag, Carolyn settled her grasp around the
snugly white teddy bear’s neck and withdrew the fuzzy creature from its
packaging. Carefully arranging its bow with agile fingers, Carolyn fluffed the
bear’s tummy and settled it securely in the far corner of Isabel’s crib, just
shy of the baby’s feet.

At least someone would have Christmas tomorrow, Carolyn
thought, hunting through her purse for the handful of candy canes she’d
snatched from her Division’s Christmas party earlier in the day. Though, with
their Division Chief in Washington on such a precarious mission, a certain pall
had hung over the celebration, they had, by consensus, gone ahead with the
party anyway. Mainly, because it had been Mark Neal’s precise orders to keep
Division activities
as normal as possible.

Carolyn frowned, wondering just how
normal
things
could ever hope to be again if Mark’s quest for Ana didn’t come to a happy end.
And what about the analyst scare and the new havoc that seemed to be tearing
loose daily, in spite- or maybe because of, Carolyn thought bitterly- the
Christian holiday that was upon them?

Carolyn
laid
back on her pillow and
propped her aching feet up on the mattress, wondering just what her baby sister
was up to back at Carolyn’s apartment, but reasoning that it was undoubtedly
“up to no good.”
 
Not that Carolyn
believed Becky could get into much trouble, really. Not with her
level-headed
law school boyfriend Randy looking after her.
Thank God for small favors, Carolyn thought, studying the coiled, gray springs
above her head. At least Becky would have Christmas. Thoughtful Randy would
make sure of it, likely even take her home to share the day and Christmas dinner
with his family west of town.

Family, Carolyn thought, sighing heavily at the notion and
casting a sleepy eye at Isabel.
Pleasant dreams,
sweetheart.
May Santa bring you- and the rest of us- only good
things.

Tom Mooney cursed out loud and sat back in his chair.
Fricking
commies.
If it weren’t for the fricking commies none of this would have
happened. Joe wouldn’t be in danger. Goddamn Castro had them all in trouble.
But Tom Mooney knew how to fix that. Yessireebob.

He and the boys had devised a plan. And Tom had set it into
motion. No more waiting on Kane to call the shots. This baby was entirely in
Mooney’s hands.
Enforced retirement.
For crying out loud, Tom hadn’t
even known such a term existed. But it did and the government was taking him to
task.
Him, but not the one year older Albert Kane.

No, no. Kane was untouchable. Was and always had been the
master rule breaker. And yet, rather than reprimands Kane had received
praise
for his insubordination.

Well, who would get the praise this time?
Praise and,
forgetting retirement, maybe even a promotion... Perhaps a post over at DOS, a
post most recently vacated by an Assistant Director who couldn’t seem to get a
handle on an analyst scare.

Old Tom Mooney was killing several jackass birds with one
stone. First, he’d flush the US system of all those commies wafting through the
ranks like odorous turds. Then, he’d show his old buddy Albert Kane who was
really top dog between them.

Albert Kane had always gotten the breaks and these past
three years had magnified his good fortune. Of course, he’d lost Isa, but other
than that biting thorn, all was coming up roses for the AD of DOS. He’d
reconciled with his daughters and was a grandfather, for crying out loud.

Tom didn’t even have a fricking son.

“Myra,” Tom barked into his intercom, “get President Kennedy
on the line.”

“Sir, I...”

Goddamn woman was as insipid as a
shoe
shine
rag.

“Myra, I asked you before to try the number I gave you!”

“Yes sir,” the unsteady voice replied.

Jesus H. Christ, Mooney thought, bounding from his chair and
storming for the doorway. Goddamn female couldn’t even make a cup of coffee
if...

Mooney stopped and paused in the threshold, staring at his
secretary.

Myra removed the receiver from her ear and put it back in
its cradle. “Sir...?”

Mooney looked down at her empty Styrofoam cup thinking he
remembered. Certain he remembered.

“Bring me a cup of coffee,” Mooney barked, scanning the
outer office. “And, next time, don’t make me buzz you twice!”

***

Albert Kane strode to the edge of the river and sadly shook
his head. Yesterday had been Albert’s loneliest Christmas. Ana missing, his
beloved Isa gone and now baby Isabel in danger with the impending
need
to be sequestered. The phone call from INR had come on
the heels of all that.

Albert squinted his eyes against the misting morning and
cleared the clouded frames of his glasses with a handkerchief. It couldn’t be
right, and yet he’d never known his source at INR to be wrong. It was more than
pure scuttlebutt; INR Chief Tom Mooney was losing his mind.

Albert walked to an isolated bench and sat near the
Potomac’s pulling waters. Not much happening out at Haines Point this time of
morning.
Scarcely a soul in sight.
Only a couple of
cars, expensive makes, the sign of drug deals going down. Drug deals Kane
didn’t have the time
nor
inclination to worry about on
a day when everything else in the world seemed to be going straight down the
tubes.

First, there was Ana’s abduction, her second in four years.
And when Albert looked inside himself to that gloomy place he seldom went, he
knew Ana’s being in danger again was largely his fault. He’d been the one who’d
given her the okay for becoming involved, provided the green light to her
“little project.”
 
By God, by
eighty-four, a seasoned pro like Albert Kane should damn well know there was no
such thing as a
little project
within the echelons of the DOS.

Albert gathered in his overcoat and braced himself against
the howling winds blasting off the icy water. The threat to baby Isabel was the
worst of it.
A baby
had no business being subjected to this
muck,
this murky half-assed stew concocted another lifetime
ago by Kane and his cronies. Kane’s original plan had never involved babies.
Women or civilians either.
It had been Tom, he remembered,
who’d wanted to diversify the threat.
Threaten,
he’d assured the others,
only that
. But Albert and Au Yang had never liked the taste of it. Not
only was it un-American, it was also un-Buddhist-like, Au Yang had assured
them. The Oriental had wanted no part of it. Albert, being the team’s director,
had made the final call against civilian attacks period.

But whoever had gotten hold of this dangerous plan had taken
it to its most sinister proportions and now civilians
were
dying.
Children and women being threatened alike.
It was no wonder
the work force was jumping ship like a million drowning rats. Though, at this
point, abandoning ship was no option for Albert Kane. He had a counter-
operation to lead, a menace to do away with, and a mission to bring not only his
daughter and granddaughter home safely, but a charge to rescue a multitude of
other analysts’ families from harm, as well.

At least Albert could take some comfort in his knowledge
that Mark would soon secure Isabel. In that, and in Albert’s own shared hunch
with Mark that Ana had somehow, with Joe McFadden’s help, averted danger. What
else could the coat evidence have meant?
Ana’s jacket
bloodied by the guts of a swine and Joe McFadden’s hair?
Sure as hell
didn’t point to a
pig-pickin
’. But it just might mean
that Joe and Ana- in cahoots- were plotting to skewer something or someone
together.

Or perhaps, they already had.

The most compelling piece to the puzzle thus far, lay in the
Orange County morgue. A young Oriental man had wound up in intensive care after
a supposed domestic dispute in an Orange County motel. Albert had an uneasy
feeling that had been no “domestic dispute,” that the unnamed, unidentifiable
Oriental had been landed in the ICU by none other than his daughter. His
daughter, perhaps with the assistance of one particular operative gone AWOL
from a mission in the Middle East: CIA man Joe McFadden.

Albert heard a car engine fire and rested his hand on his
chest, feeling for his pistol.

The black Jaguar prowled down the narrow two-lane road that
stretched out into the water then circled slowly at its bend, snaking its nose
back in Albert’s direction.

Albert lifted his right hand off the frigid bench and pulled
his weapon just as the driver floored the petal and roared in his direction.

Albert hit the ice-encrusted ground and whirled his frame
behind the bench as the dark auto approached, tinted windows whizzing into open
machine gun racks.

Automatic rifle fire corn-popped in Albert’s direction as he
ducked beneath the ineffectual barrier of the bench. A white-hot flame licked
the side of his right shoulder. God dammit, he’d been hit.

Albert gritted his teeth and let three shots go, just to
show he was still kicking.

The car slowed to a near-stall and another round of bullets
riddled the trees at Albert’s back.

Albert reached out an arm, sensing a clear shot at a rear
tire,
then
withdrew his piece.
Too damn old to have
these guys after me on foot.

A siren peeled at the foot of the bridge and Albert craned
his neck to see a police cruiser ripping onto Haines Point.

Thank God, Albert thought, falling back against the bench,
as tinted windows clamped shut and the Jag took off with a roar.