Espionage Games Page 20

  27

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Friday, August 29

  CIRCUMSTANCES HAD BACKED Liz into a tight corner with no exit. With any luck, she would find Jack before anyone else did. Except her luck ran out a long time ago.

  She wanted to cry. She wanted to bang her fists bloody. She wanted to change her name, dye her hair, get lost. But here she was, Elizabeth Marie Langdon, daughter of an overbearing father and an alcoholic mother, the middle child of two silly sisters, and more ambitious than a big-busted blonde at a sales convention. When she thought back over her years with government, she saw herself as doe-eyed and eager. Her brilliant career was always just a grasp away. Colleagues exalted her as a powerhouse. They said she had a brilliant future. They counselled her with advice, lifted her up with praise, sometimes took her down with constructive criticism. Women resented her for her beauty. Men resented her for being aloof.

  The advice was hollow, the praise ingratiating, and the criticism destructive. And hell, she had no control over her looks. It was a curse from the gods, who daily laughed at her from the other side of the looking glass. As for men, there was only one love of her life, and he wasn’t the marrying kind, damn him to hell.

  Better than anyone, she understood the truth about herself. She wasn’t the person they thought she was. She wasn’t as intelligent or confident or talented or morally centered as she appeared to be. She wasn’t as conniving or underhanded or manipulative as some believed her to be. Yet she was the one who had risen in the ranks and earned the respect of her superiors. Working long hours and sleeping very little compensated for any weaknesses. Her colleagues admired her for her composure, but like everything else, it was only a pretense. Inside, she was a quaking, churning mess.

  After taking over the job tragically vacated by John Sessions—her mentor and backstop—she set to work. Feeling at loose ends without her key supporter, she researched everything there was to know about Jack Coyote. Not Jack Coyote, the lover of her youthful days. Or Jack Coyote, the wanton killer. But Jack Coyote, the traitor. She poured over the money trail provided by MonCom. Looked up his friends and colleagues, and hammered them for rumors, suspicions, and associations. Hunted down former lovers and interrogated them for salacious accounts, innocent comments, frequented retreats, suspicious acquaintances, and questionable activities. Brushed up on the women killed in the Caymans, further proof of Jack’s depravities and corruption. Combed the internet and social media sites for any hint of his whereabouts. Signed up with hacking communities and followed forums for mentions, innuendos, and sightings. Read classified reports of operations and suspicious activities from around the world, as far afield as Tunisia, Azerbaijan, Timbuktu, and Somalia. Scoured international newspapers and obscure websites. Combed manifests of airlines, ships, and private air charters. Jack had simply vanished. Maybe he was dead. She could only hope.

  So concentrated was she on the task at hand, co-workers walked wide circles around her. They were growing fearful of her. It was to laugh at, if it weren’t so tragic.

  Yes, she had gone to the dark side alongside Camilla and Angie. Yes, living inside a pressure cooker was intense. Yes, she was betraying the man she loved. Yes, she was coming to believe every dirty piece of intel that cast him as an enemy of the people. Yes, she examined her conscience, that inner core that said she wasn’t this person at this moment, she was only playing a part to gain the trust of her overlords. Yes, she was pursing Jack with single-minded determination. Yes, the stress was getting to her. Yes, she was losing her soul if she hadn’t already lost it.

  Once, she couldn’t remember when, she felt like a normal person. She got over it. Or almost over it, she told herself countless times. And still she went on with a determination that scared even her.

  After days of bitter coffee and cheap wine and worthless sleeping pills and fits of temper, her preoccupation with John Jackson Coyote finally paid off. An online article under the banner of an Australian newspaper sketched the story of a mysterious hijacking at sea off the coast of a remote South Pacific island. The incident ended with the murder of a female passenger who headed a local bank. Though the yacht’s captain was initially reported as a second victim, he miraculously survived. The bank where the woman worked was leveled to the ground by arson. And the boyfriend of the dead woman—an American going by the name of John Fox—had been held for questioning but was released soon thereafter, disappearing to parts unknown.

  She knew then with certainty that he was following the money. If she followed the money, too, she could set a trap. With the thought, she sat back, a smile sweeping across her mouth.

  28

  Sydney, Australia

  Friday, August 29

  TWO SHORT HOURS after Jack left the funeral home, Jules Gibbons appeared at the doorway of his hotel room, outraged and ready for battle. She elbowed her way inside and began to pace, puffing a cigarette.

  “The Nauru official who notified us about Maddie’s death? Abuna? Sam Abuna? Told us a cock-and-bull story of how it happened. A stranded fisherman. A stray bullet. An unfortunate sequence of events. Bullshit! What’s your story, mate? Make sure it’s a good one. One that sounds believable.”

  At the funeral home, she seemed so caring, so friendly, so sympathetic. But here she was, barging into his room, mad as all get out, and raring for a fight. She threw herself onto one of the natty armchairs, crossing her bulldog legs and beating her free foot with expectancy. She gripped the padded arms and tapped ash from the tip of her cigarette onto the carpeting. She could have eaten the upholstery with her snarling teeth and still had sharp enough fangs to go for his jugular. She wasn’t anything like her sister. “I’m waiting, mate.”

  With quiet calculation, he closed the door and sat on the unmade bed, his forearms balanced on his thighs, his head bowed. He couldn’t bring himself to look her straight in the face, a face that resembled Maddie’s in so many ways. He told her what happened but softened the edges. Weaved the events into a pleasing tale of wine and sea, food and sun, snorkeling and laughter. Described the arrival of a smiley man who came onboard with a concocted story.

  “Maddie seemed to know him. Or maybe not.” He shrugged, wanting to sound convincing enough, wanting to stop her from asking more questions, wanting to keep the worst from her. She was unimpressed. He went on. “It happened fast. He had a gun.” While he couldn’t tell her the whole of it, he could skim over the most sordid details. There was a lot of yelling, he said. It got out of hand, he told her. Gunshots went off, he explained. There was a fight, he said. The stranger got away. They did what they could for Maddie, the captain and him, he lied to her, knowing there was nothing either of them could have done. “If it’s worth anything to you, anything at all, I think she went without understanding what happened to her. It was that quick.”

  She shot up and paced, her feet jarring the floor with her weight but mostly with her boiling anger. When she stopped pacing, she reeled on him, both fists clenched, heaving ragged breaths, raring for a fight. Except there was no enemy. There was only Jack. Contrite. Beaten. The shadow of a man.

  He cranked his head up, bleary eyed and beyond exhaustion. Through sleep-deprived eyelids, he viewed Jules Gibbons in all her glory. A furious, thick-boned, and knock-kneed woman. A pit bull with bleach-blonde hair and fierce brown eyes. A typhoon drumming the heels of her shoes back and forth, back and forth, the room closing in with each step.

  She spun around. Thrust hands on hips. And stared down at him for a good long while, her blackened eyes boring into him. He could feel her scouring gazes as she took in the fading bruises, the livid wounds, the twisted posture, and the defeated slump.

  At last she spoke, anger yet searing on her tongue but saying the words in a near whisper. “You made up that story, didn’t you, mate? Turned it into a fairy tale. My poor, poor sister. Just an innocent victim in a tropical paradise. A celebration. Too much sun and drink. A misalignment of the planets. An attempted hijacking, or some such
thing. A stranger popping up out of nowhere and disappearing like a phantom. It’s all crap. Isn’t it?” Throughout her statements, she strutted, threw out her arms, waved her hands, tossed up her head, and thrust out her hips, her contained anger rife with righteous indignation and disbelief, yet a mighty powerhouse, gorgeous to behold, a woman who could put fear into the hearts of the stoutest of men and make them feel wee and utterly humiliated. “You’re a bad liar and a worse storyteller. I want to know what really happened. And I want to know now. Every detail. No-holds-barred. All the gory details.”

  He told her. All of it. His real name. That he was a wanted man. That there was a bounty for information leading to his arrest. That extremely dangerous people were also after him. That it didn’t really matter since he was already a condemned man. That he brought death straight to Madelyn’s door. That she would still be alive if it weren’t for him.

  Throughout his monologue, Jules Gibbons stood rooted to the floor, hands lowered to her sides and legs thrust apart, the spirit knocked out of her, but temper still flaring and accusatory eyes cast down on him, blaming him and cursing him. Then the room hushed. The only sounds were the hum of the window air conditioner, the drip of the sink faucet, and the stillness of grief. She kneeled before him. Reaching up, she cupped her hands around his face and stared into his eyes. Something like a breath of fresh air circulated around the stale room. She nodded once, then nodded a second time as if to confirm her deepest notions about this man she had only just met. This man who had been with her sister when she died. This man who was dry-eyed and detached and bone tired. This man whose memories were eating him up alive.

  She ended up sitting beside him and taking him into her arms, consoling him with tears and caresses and kisses and more tears. Weak as he was, as needy as he was, he let her swallow him whole and spit him out, reducing him to a sobbing, quaking child. What a fool of a woman. With a wrench of his arms, he foisted her away. Her eyes turned into moons. Her face went slack-jawed. Her breath halted. The wisps of her blonde hair fluttered with rising emotions.

  “Listen to me, you damned forgiving woman! How do you know I didn’t lie to you? Why should you believe a single word I say? Why should you trust me? Maybe I’m the one who pulled the trigger, ever think about that?”

  She was a million miles away and as close as a whisper. Quietly she said, “You don’t have to yell. I have ears. Eyes, too. And I can tell you’re a good man. You did a brave thing coming here.”

  “I’m a coward. The worst kind of coward. I shouldn’t have come. I can see that now. It was a mistake.”

  “You’re wrong, mate. Wrong as you can be. It’s better for us to know than not to know and wonder for the rest of our lives. You said Maddie knew him. Maybe met him before.”

  “It seemed like it. The look on her face. The way he looked at her.” He let his weight sink into the mattress and his arms dangle between his knees. He stared at the threadbare carpet, at the smoke-stained walls, at the peeling wallpaper, anywhere but into her spellbinding eyes.

  “She brought it down on herself then. They probably had business dealings. Like you had with her.”

  “He was after me. Maddie just got in the way. If only I hadn’t gone to Nauru. If only I hadn’t met your sister. If only we hadn’t ....” He weakly shook his head.

  She kneeled at his feet once again and forced him to look down on her kindhearted face and earnest expression. “Maybe it’s true what you say. But you can’t take on the sins of my sister, too. She wasn’t just an innocent bystander who happened to be in the line of fire. She was a big girl. She knew what she was getting into. Knew it from the start. Didn’t look ahead. Didn’t understand the consequences. Once, when we were on holiday, when we were kids, she jumped into a creek just to see where it would take her. She almost drowned.” She chuckled at the memory, bittersweet now.

  “Go and take your forgivenesses with you. I don’t need them. Forget you ever saw me.”

  She took hold of his hands, gripped them in her fists, and refused to let go. “You were with Maddie when she died. You tried to defend her. You did your best.”

  “My best is worth shit, lady!”

  “You’ll come to the funeral. You’ll grieve with us.”

  “You’re not listening. Don’t you see? It’s my fault. If she hadn’t been with me, your sister would be alive today.”

  “You don’t know that. You had business dealings with her. And then it became more than business. I understand that part, too. Maddie is a loving woman. She takes in strays. She told me stories about the bank. I knew what she was into. I warned her. She refused to listen. You think you brought trouble to her? Maybe it was the other way around. You probably didn’t hear, but the owner of agency? The man who wanted to marry her? He’s dead. A car crash.”

  Jack explored her eyes, searching for the lie. “When?”

  “Three days ago. So you see. It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have stopped what happened to her any more than you could have stopped a moonbeam.”

  He looked glumly into her empathetic eyes and her open, forbearing face. “You’re twisting everything around, woman.”

  “Maddie doesn’t ... didn’t ... give her affections lightly. You must have been worth it. If you were good enough for her, you’re good enough for me.” She stood. Pulled him to his feet. Wrapped her arms around him. Gave him a full kiss on the mouth. When it ended, she said, “Well? What are you going to do about it?”

  He said nothing. What was there to say? Go away, lady. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody. There was nothing left to say, except for one thing. Their lips were still close, nearer than a breath. He turned away from her. “Something you should have. The murderer tossed Maddie’s purse overboard but left this behind.” He rummaged in his things and brought out the beach bag. “Her cell phone is in there. Some clothes. A paperback book. Little consolation, I know. But she left something else. She left this.” He brought out the netbook.

  She warily looked at it. “What’s in it?”

  “Everything.”

  “It’s what that wanker killed her for, isn’t it?”

  He gave her a sad nod.

  “Will it clear you?”

  He shrugged. He really didn’t know. This he did know. It would lead him to the money. And maybe more.

  She walked up to him. Delivered another kiss. Stood back. Kicked off her shoes. Shrugged off her jacket. Unbuttoned her blouse. Stepped out of her skirt. And positioned his reluctant arms about the fleshiness of her body. Her breath was hot on his face. Her natural perfume enveloped him. She was enticing, giving, and quite earnest.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You’re hurting, aren’t you? You need comfort, don’t you? I do, too. There’s no better comfort for a hurting man and a hurting woman than to hold each other and make the hurt go away.”

  “I didn’t mean to be pitiful. I didn’t intend for you to―”

  She placed a silencing finger across his lips. “Men like you ... proud men, sensitive men, sad men ... you all want to cry in the dark, smash things, get drunk. Trust me when I say, it won’t solve anything.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Sure I do. It’s the same for proud women. She’s gone, Jack. My dear beautiful sister is gone, and she’s never coming back. You can’t blame yourself. I’m here to make sure you don’t.”

  Jules Gibbons was nothing like her sister. She was a plump and blossomy girl with a big heart and the most forgiving nature of any woman Jack had ever known. She recognized truth from crap and separated fault from guilt. God knows why, but she believed in Jack, more than he believed in himself. She was a very practical woman.

  After night had fallen and they had cried together and eaten together and comforted each other, she suggested they get away after the funeral. The laying to rest of an intelligent and beautiful woman cut down in her prime was almost too unbearable to face alone. They needed time to gri
eve, and would comfort each other.

  “Beach, broad, and booze, a winning combination.” She gave him a gay smile. “No man worth his shit can turn down an invitation the likes of that.”

  29

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Friday, August 29

  VIKKI KIDD WAS a difficult woman to track down.

  Cordelia had been avidly reading her articles in the Washington Gazette. The third in her ongoing series of the Spinnaker Papers came out in this morning’s edition. It detailed the kidnapping of Harrison Tobias, division head of HID’s Special Collections Unit, the section allegedly in charge of special ops. The incident happened on the very same night Jack Coyote supposedly killed his co-worker in a drug-induced fugue and stole fifty million dollars from several brokerage accounts. Ironically Tobias got ensnared in an operation much like the ones he perpetrated on others. According to credible reports, he was run off a rural road in Virginia, spirited away in a private Beechcraft bound from College Park to Otis Air National Guard Base, transferred to a Douglas C-124 carrying a crew of two and a passenger list of three, and flown to an Army base in Stuttgart, Germany. There his injuries were attended to before he was briskly whisked away to one of any number of black ops sites ranging from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. The odds-on bets had been narrowed down Turkey or Syria, that is if he made it to either location alive.

  In addition to having reliable sources within the halls of government, it was also clear Kidd had a direct line to Jack Coyote. Cordelia wanted to pick her brain about the man, not necessarily for where he was but for the kind of man he was.