on the second story windows that in summer were alive with flowers, but were now barren. A chill, damp wind was blowing up from the Potomac with odors of river mud, diesel fumes and city. Familiar smells. Home smells. But very strange now for him, coming here like this.
The cab and the Mercedes that had been here earlier were gone now, but the Toyota van with reflective film over its windows was still parked just down the street. A dim light shone from the second floor living room windows of his house. As he hung back by the corner, he thought he saw a shadow moving up there, but then it was gone. Would they expect him to come here like this now? Had they pulled away everyone except the Toyota van in an attempt to lure him in? It’s safe now. We’ve pulled our people out. But who was upstairs in his house? Gloria, or someone else? Someone with the orders from Moscow: A maniac is on the loose, kill him on sight. Hunching up his coat collar McAllister walked silently on the balls of his feet toward the van, never taking his eyes off the windscreen. The interior of the vehicle was in darkness, but as he got closer he could see that no one was sitting in the front. If anyone was inside, they were in the back, in the darkness.
He stopped twenty feet away and glanced up toward the living room windows of his house. Nothing had changed, the light still illuminated the curtains, but there was no movement.
Taking out the gun, he held it in his right hand, out of sight at his side, and cautiously approached the van. A half a block away traffic passed normally along 31st Street. But here nothing moved. It was one of the reasons they had bought this place. The neighborhood was quiet and safe.
This close he could see all the way inside the van, over the backs of the front seats. No one was inside. The van was empty. Nor did it seem now like the vehicle was used for surveillance. He could see no communications radio. Unless they used walkie-talkies they’d be out of touch here.
He tried the passenger door. It was locked. Even if it was a surveillance van, they’d never leave it locked like that. Seconds spent fumbling with keys, unlocking doors could be crucial seconds wasted in a developing situation. A message may have gone out from Highnote. McAllister is here in Arlington Heights. The search would have been shifted to the other side of the river. Plausible? Or was he chasing again after will-o’the-wisps?
Stepping around behind the van, he hesitated a moment longer, then walked across the street, mounting the steps to his front door. He listened at the frosted-glass pane, but could hear nothing inside. He tried the doorknob and it gave easily in his hand, the door opening a crack. Whoever was upstairs had not locked up. He and Gloria used to have bitter arguments about it. She always forgot to lock the door at night, and he would get angry with her over it.
This now was another of her lapses, or was it a trap? His internal warning system was in high gear. This was all wrong. Everything was wrong. No outward signs of a surveillance team. The Toyota van as what? A dummy, a decoy? The light in the upstairs window inviting him: everything is all right here, Mac. No trouble here. Only your good and patient wife waiting for you; your good and patient and forgetful wife waiting for you with the front door unlocked.
Standing there at the partially opened door he thumbed the Walther’s safety off, and then back on. Had he come to the point that he would fire on an Agency security officer, or a Bureau agent? Christ, had he been reduced to that?
He pushed the door the rest of the way open with his right foot, waited a moment longer, and then stepped into the dark stairhall.
He could hear music playing upstairs, softly. It sounded classical. Gloria had hated Moscow, but she’d always loved Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Prokofiev. She was upstairs waiting for him? Or was the message too clear?
The house was typical of most in the area; three stories, long and narrow. On the ground floor were storage rooms, a nursery for the child they’d never had, and a servants’ apartment for the servants they’d never hired. The second floor contained the living room, dining room, kitchen, and a bathroom. And the top floor contained two bedrooms and another bathroom. In back was a courtyard garden area and a garage in which his Peugeot was parked.
McAllister closed the door and moved silently to the foot of the stairs. The upper stairhall was in darkness, but now he could more clearly hear the music coming from above. It was definitely Tchaikovsky; the violin concerto, Gloria’s favorite.
He started up, his right foot on the first tread when a woman’s voice came to him from the darkness to his right. In the storeroom.
“Please stop right there, Mr. McAllister. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”
McAllister froze where he was. She sounded young and frightened. Frightened people made mistakes. But was she alone? “Who are you?”
“Albright. Office of Security. We’ve been waiting for you.” He carefully turned his head left and looked toward the sound of her voice. She had to be just within the storeroom which was in pitch blackness. He couldn’t see her. “The others must be in Arlington Heights.”
“We just got the word,” she said. “But no one thought you’d be coming back here.“McAllister stepped back and turned toward her. He didn’t think she’d seen the gun at his side. A lot of what had been happening suddenly became clear to him because of her presence here. The Company’s Office of Security usually handled background checks on prospective employees. Only rarely was it called in on this kind of a surveillance operation. They wanted to keep this contained. The FBI was most likely involved too, but it would not have been told the entire story. Agency security officers rarely carried weapons. They didn’t have the training for it.
“Raise your hands please,” the woman said. “look, before this gets out of control, why don’t you call Bob Highnote. He’ll explain everything to you.”
“Put your hands up…
“No,” McAllister said, keeping his tone reasonable. “I think you’d better call someone, or shoot me, but don’t let’s just stand here.” She was an amateur. He was waiting for the mistake.
She stepped out of the storeroom into the dim light filtering through the frosted-glass window in the front door. She was young, perhaps thirty, about five-feet-six, very slightly built, with a thin face, a round but slightly crooked nose, and medium-length brown hair. She held a small.32 automatic in her right hand and a walkie-talkie in her left. She seemed extremely nervous.
“I came here to talk to my wife,” McAllister said. “Have your people get in touch with Highnote. Tell him that I’m here and won’t give anybody any trouble. Can you do that much for me?”
The young woman glanced up the stairs. “My wife is up there, isn’t she? Waiting for me?”
“Yes,” the young woman said.
“Good,” McAllister replied. “Call your team leader. I’ll just go upstairs now.” He turned again and made as if he were going to start up the stairs. “Wait,” she said, moving toward him. It was the mistake he’d been waiting for.
McAllister started to raise his hands, the sudden motion confusing her, then he stepped directly into her, swiveling on his left foot so that his body was inside her extended gun hand. She tried to step back, to get away from him, but it was too late. He grabbed her gunhand with his left, twisted it sharply outward, and he had the little automatic.
She let out a cry and started to bring the walkie-talkie to her lips. McAllister raised his pistol so that the barrel was inches from her face.
“Key that thing and I’ll kill you.” He spoke softly, but with urgency. “My God…”
“I don’t want to hurt you, and I won’t if you do exactly as I say. I have to talk to my wife, and then I’ll be getting out of here. Once I’m clear I’ll release you. But for the moment you’re going to have to stay with me.”
“Don’t do this…
“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” McAllister said. He pocketed her gun, then took the walkie-talkie from her and stepped back away from the stairs. He motioned for her to go up first.
She was terrified, but she did as she was told, stepping past him and starting up the stairs. He quickly unscrewed the walkie-talkie’s antenna, pocketed it, and then laid the unit on the hall table. Above, the music got louder. The woman stopped. The upper landing was suddenly bathed in light.
McAllister was just below the woman when his wife appeared at the head of the stairs. She was dressed in slacks and a light sweater. Her feet were bare.
“Who is that?” she called down. “Stephanie?” Her voice was husky.
It sounded as if she’d been crying. McAllister moved aside so that he was in the light spilling down from
