painted battle scenes. Friezes repeated in half-moons over the doors and over a stone fireplace almost as big as his bedroom. A waiter wheeled an antique silver trolley, laden with tea and pastries, to “club members,” as Isadora referred to the casually dressed men and women, all in their gray years. The members occupied about ten of the fifty or so tapestry-upholstered sofas and chairs. The quantity of muffled reports from the other end of the clubhouse suggested that pistols and trap shooting were much more popular at the “club” than tea.
“Charles, I may have rushed to judge assisted-living facilities,” Drummond said. “Is this Holiday Ranch?”
“This is the Monroeville club, Drummond,” Isadora said. “You’ve visited several times before.” He looked at her as if she were a mile away. “It’s a residence for injured and retired intelligence officers, and it serves as a medical facility in a pinch, when an injury treated at Bethesda Naval or Hopkins might make unwanted headlines or, worse, enemy intelligence.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said.
But he appeared confused. He even walked with uncertainty, as if a misstep might trip a mine.
“Why don’t you sit, dear?” She pointed him to a sofa.
He let himself fall into it. At once, his head toppled to his shoulder and he began to snore lightly. She seemed relieved.
Charlie noticed that Drummond’s fly was halfway down. “Any chance there’s a room for him here?” he asked Isadora.
“I’m sure he’d say that this place isn’t big enough for the two of us. But hopefully he can be assigned to another club once we get to the bottom of our inquiry.” She waved Charlie into the adjacent chair and pulled up beside him. “Now, where was I?”
“About to die.”
“Right.” She laughed. “Officially, I was the second assistant secretary at the embassy. Really, I went to Moscow to run Nikolay Trepashkin, a Federal Assembly member notorious for chasing American skirts. The idea was he’d point me to a mole we suspected the KGB had in Washington, then I’d come home to you. But trouble arose with what should have been the simplest part. Usually when Trepashkin had a message for me, he wedged it behind the sink in the men’s room of a drab little bar off Pushkin Square.”
“You went into the men’s room to get it?”
“Actually, he signaled it was there by moving a flowerpot to one side of his windowsill. At that point a male cutout-that’s a messenger who knows as little as possible about the works-retrieved the document and loaded it into another dead drop, a slot behind a loose brick in a playground wall. Then another cutout took it to the desk of a busy hotel on the Donskaya and sent it to the embassy in the guise of junk mail.”
“It wouldn’t have been easier to send it straight to you?”
“The short answer is no; the other team was too resourceful. On my last day in Moscow, Trepashkin had a document important enough that he signaled for a face-to-face. I procured a bland Zhiguli and parked on a busy block-cars are good for meetings on short notice because the space is small, controllable, and two people in a car don’t arouse suspicion. But he didn’t conduct adequate countersurveillance, and the other team ordered a ‘discontinuation of his existence,’ as they liked to call it. Their gunmen drove by and obliterated my car while he was getting in. He died while saying, ‘Hi.’ When they doubled back to get his attache case, they took me for dead too. As you’ve probably surmised, they were wrong. The director decided to make it appear I had died, though. I was exfiltrated in a casket; the agency even dug a grave and put up a tombstone beside my parents’ in Billings. The reason is, in the time between the shooting and the gunmen’s return, I’d peeked into Trepashkin’s attache case and learned who the mole was. But the director wanted the Ivans to think we’d learned nothing, so that they would leave their man in place and we could play him. For years, we succeeded, with one enormous exception: I couldn’t see you. I did keep tabs on you, and I longed to see you. Probably that’s why, when the Social Security Administration exposed a facet of my cover that the agency had failed to take into account, I went against my better judgment and had the checks forwarded to you. My rationale was the money might come in handy, and perhaps, in some infinitesimal way, allow you to feel your mother’s love.”
Charlie wanted to feel it. But her story wasn’t quite adding up. “The mole must be collecting Social Security himself by now,” he said.
“He died four years ago. Natural causes, of all things.”
So why, Charlie wondered, had she remained out of touch?
As if having read his thoughts, she said, “Unfortunately my resurfacing still opens the national security equivalent of Pandora’s box. All that I’m allowed to say in that regard is, I’m working on it. When I was notified that you were here, I pleaded for the opportunity to tell you the little I’ve told you. I’m glad we had this time. Unfortunately it came at a cost.”
She peeled the woolen blanket from her lap, revealing a pistol. She took it up by its bulky grip, aiming in the general area of Charlie and Drummond.
Two or three of the other members looked over. They regarded the weapon no differently than if it were a teacup.
Charlie felt as if a veneer had just been stripped away, revealing the world as dark and cold and cruel beyond his most cynical appraisals. “With parents like the two of you, it’s amazing I didn’t end up really fucked up,” he said. “Oh, wait, I did.”
Isadora’s eyes showed nothing of her feelings now. Drummond remained contorted on the sofa. A bit of light bounced off her stainless steel barrel and hit his eyes. It had the effect of a splash of cold water. He sat up.
“I just remembered something,” he said.
“What?” asked both Charlie and Isadora, curiosity trumping all.
“Izzy, I was glad when you left.”
14
It was a storybook sunny morning in the Caribbean, or so Alice surmised when her bedroom door opened, allowing her a glimpse of the daylight-flooded hallway. Not only had Hector and Alberto locked her in last night, they’d bolted the window shutters closed to prevent her from jumping three stories to the sea.
Hector admitted a small man wearing a neatly pressed white lab coat. “This is Dr. Cranch,” the servant said, then returned to the hall, locking the door behind him.
Cranch lowered himself onto one of the two plastic benches fused to a molded plastic picnic table, the bedroom’s only furnishing other than the air mattress on which Alice had slept-or was meant to have slept. Hector and Alberto had taken everything she conceivably could use as a weapon, including her sandals and underwear, leaving her only the cocktail dress she still wore.
“I’m afraid we won’t be having much fun with you, Alice, given that you’ve already confessed,” Cranch said. He was an American, with a cherubic face and big, soft blue eyes that had surely drawn no end of coos when he was a baby but played as creepy on a wan fifty-year-old. Like his lab coat, his grooming and attire were meticulous-too meticulous. The laces on his shiny black wingtips were tied into loops so perfectly symmetrical, he might have used a ruler. “For this morning, I’d like to get through the formalities, like your real identity, your rank within MI6, the code name and details of your operation, and so forth-you know the drill.”
“No, as it happens, I don’t know any drill,” she said. She sat down across from him and looked him in the eyes. “You need to understand: I only ‘confessed’ so Nick wouldn’t have Jane butchered further by-”
“Mr. Fielding bet me a very expensive bottle of rum that you’d say as much,” Cranch cut in. “I’ve lost. I expected more from you than one-oh-one-level denial.”
He was a professional inquisitor if she’d ever known one; she’d known many in eight years in the business.
“So obviously you’re stalling,” he said. “Why? If your backup team doesn’t receive your happy signal by such and such an hour, they chopper in an extraction team? You’d be wise to let me know. All of it.”
Indeed, docked three miles away at Martinique’s Pointe du Bout was a yacht purported to belong to a pair of retirees from Sussex, and if Alice failed to signal them by seven tonight, via either phone or-the usual-Facebook post, her backup team would storm Fielding’s island in the guise of drug enforcement authority agents with a warrant for Alberto’s arrest. They would “happen on” her in the process.
