ourselves. Not one word of what has passed here is to leave this office. End of discussion.”
Five
Langley, 9:30 a.m.
When the three of them had left her, Dare sat still for a moment and stared at her hands. The fingers had once been beautiful; now they were crabbed with age and misuse. She touched her cabochon topaz and remembered the man who had given it to her. Then she put her head down on her desk and closed her eyes. She was fifty-three years old-young to command such power, too old to conceive of doing anything else. If the Agency's peril in the present situation was great, so was her own. Never mind that Eric Carmichael had walked on her predecessor's watch.If he was found and exposed, Dare would have to resign.
She was the first woman ever to command the comfortable suite apportioned to the Director of Central Intelligence. They were all behind her, the shadow men, their portraits ranked on the headquarters walls: pipe- smoking Alien Dulles, jaunty unto death; slick-haired Richard Helms, with all the self-possession of an undertaker; gentleman Bill Colby, the perfect dinner partner; and ruthless Bill Casey, whom she'd battled and served. A preponderance of Bills, now that she thought of it — and these men had other things in common. All were entrenched in the old-boy net, the cozy club of prep schools and Ivy League, of wartime service in the OSS, of an age when espionage was sanctified by David Niven in a blue blazer. All would have looked on Danen Joan Atwood as an outrage — a competent secretary, perhaps, but not to be trusted with a table in the executive dining room.
They had bequeathed her this office, a bed and full bath available for use in twenty-four-hour crisis, a conference area with a massive cherry table, an adjoining suite for her personal assistant, and a bevy of secretaries. She had a C-141 Starlifter at her disposal, and an Air Force colonel to fly it. A navy blue armored sedan chauffered by a bodyguard. Even a personal elevator — with a secret access code — that carried her directly from the seventh floor to her private garage.
But what Darien Atwood really commanded was an intricate hierarchy of power. The CIA was only the most obvious borough of her realm, the neighborhood she called home. As Director of Central Intelligence, she held the reins of the entire Intelligence community: the eavesdroppers and decoders at the National Security Agency, the overhead reconnaissance satellite teams, the military-minded missile counters plugging away at the Pentagon. They all reported to their chain of command, of course; but their agency chiefs were in thrall to Dare.
To be a woman in such a position was to invite flak. Dare survived her Senate confirmation hearings on the strength of her record — she had spent twenty-three years as an analyst at the CIA, rising steadily through the bureaucracy, and done two tours of duty on the staff of the National Security Council — but many of the doubts were voiced in private. Was she tough enough? Could she adequately assess the nature of security threats? Would she be snowed by hostile Intelligence forces (the Russians came to mind) posing as newfound friends? Did she, in short, have the balls to do a man's job?
And now, Dare thought, Eric Carmichael would answer that question for all of them. Carmichael's fate, and that of the woman he held captive, would make or destroy Dare's career. She smiled derisively. Either way, there'd be a Newsweek cover in it.
Eric she had already dismissed; there was no road back from the place he had gone. She was taking a terrible risk by suppressing his identity; some would call it criminal. There would be no defense if she failed — only a Congressional hearing and a plea bargain for immunity. But Eric alone might lead them to Payne, and in the Vice President's salvation, Dare read the future of the CIA. What had Abraham Lincoln said?
“I must bury the Constitution in order to save it”? Her present position was precisely like that. The telephone on her desk shrilled a summons. She allowed it to ring once, then picked up the receiver. Jack Bigelow wanted her in the Oval Office.
Six
On the Czech-German Border, 3 p.m.
Sophie Payne awoke to the sound of a woman's sobbing. The weeping went on and on, inconsolable, repetitious, maddening beyond belief. She wanted to scream for silence, but, too weak and too detached to part her lips, she submitted to the monotony. At some point she would be forced to open her eyes — forced to take up again the questions she knew were hovering — but for now, it was enough to float in velvet and ask nothing at all.
Until the moment she realized that the sobbing was her own.
They had stuck a needle in her arm. She was coming out of a drugged sleep.
She sat up sharply and slammed her head against a flat surface. I'm under a table, she thought. They left me under a table. But why is it so dark? I can't get the blanket off.
She tried to reach for her face. No good; her hands were tied behind her back.
She struggled to open her mouth, but her lips were sealed shut, probably with tape. The blanket muffling her head was some sort of hood. But she could still hear — the sobbing was proof of that. However blind and mute they had made her, they could not stop her ears. Sophie eased herself to the right, cautiously, and felt another slope of wall.
The same thing to the left. She was conhned in a box about three feet wide and five feet long.
A coffin. She was in a coffin, buried alive.
The horror of it made her panic. Her wrists strained against each other, the tape cutting cruelly into them; the tape held firm. Between the gag over her mouth and the hood over her head, she was suddenly suffocating. She gasped for air, stars exploding before her eyes. Then she sank back, whimpering with self-pity, and tried to breathe through her nose.
And in the silence, she felt it.
The box was moving.
It crept sideways, then ground to a halt. Something — an axle? A brake pad? — squealed faintly. The box slid sideways again. Shuddered to a halt. The squeal of the brake.
She was in the trunk of a vehicle that was barely moving. A car? Were they approaching an intersection? Or just caught in heavy traffic?
Either way, there might be people around.
She sat up and butted her head hard against the trunk lid. Did it again and again, braying through her bonds like a crazed animal, until pain forced her to stop.
No one delivered her.
The car eased forward, slid to a halt. Eased forward again. Perhaps it was a freeway, snarled by an accident, and in the general frustration the rocking trunk went unnoticed. Or maybe the car was filing through a tollbooth.
Then comprehension came like a piercing ray of sun, and in her mind's eye Sophie saw it clearly: a snaking ribbon of stalled traffic tiny as Matchbox cars, the German border crossing far below. She had glimpsed a similar scene the previous day from the privilege of an Air Force chopper, on her way into Berlin.
Or was it two days ago, now? A week?
Terror washed over her again. How long had she been in the trunk? How long had she been missing?
The car eased forward, braked. There was a pause, and then a man's voice said quite distinctly, “Thanks. Have a good day.” He had retrieved his passport from the border control and hailed them in Boston-accented English. She was being kidnapped by an American. What the hell was going on?
Sophie Payne slammed her head against the trunk roof and screamed.
The car gained speed and plunged into another country.
