Kill and Tell

Chapter 17

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"Your people are incompetent fools," Senator Lake said coldly, hiding the fear that twisted his stomach.

"The woman has disappeared, and you still haven't found the book. She could use that information at any time, thanks to your bungling!"

Hayes lowered his eyelids. He didn't protest or make excuses. The hard truth was that he hadn't performed his task; though the people he used were normally reliable, things had gone wrong. Clancy had gone into an occupied apartment, and the Whitlaw woman had somehow managed both to call the cops and to escape, and now Clancy was dead. Yamatani had missed completely in his attempt to run her down. Not only had he failed, but the Whitlaw woman would have to be a fool not to have figured out something was going on, whether or not she knew where the book was. She had gone into hiding, and he hadn't been able to find a trace of her yet. He could, but not without setting off alarms at the sources he would have to use, and Hayes wasn't willing to stick his neck out that far for the senator. The last thing he needed in this operation was to draw the attention of certain people.

"What do you plan to do now? I would like to remind you that the more people brought into this, the more likelihood there is of a leak."

"They're professionals. They don't talk."

"But they haven't proven themselves completely reliable, have they? I'd like their names, please. I seem to be in an undesirable position, with these people knowing about me while I know nothing about them."

"They don't know about you," Hayes reassured him, his tone weary. "Senator, I've kept you completely out of this. So far as anyone knows, the trail ends with me."

"So you say, but then you haven't been completely reliable, either, Mr. Hayes. Even your information about Rick Medina was in error."

Hayes kept his eyes hooded, but his interest sharpened. "In what way?"

"About his son. Medina didn't have any children."

"Who said so?"

"Franklin Vinay, the DDO. I'm sure he would know."

Hayes felt a chill run from his head all the way to his toes. Even his blood felt cold. "You asked Vinay about Medina?"

"It was a way of finding out what they knew. In my position, it's perfectly normal for me to hear about such things and ask about them."

Except that it wasn't perfectly normal for him to ask about Medina's son , whose existence and activities

were so closely guarded that his name wouldn't turn up on any data file of employees. For the senator to ask about him would elicit any number of reactions from Vinay. First and foremost, he would deny that Medina had any children. Then, assuredly, he would try to uncover the senator's source. He would look first in his own office, but when that failed, he would begin looking at the other end of the equation and asking himself how the senator could have gotten any information about Rick Medina in the first place. A cop would say that knowledge indicated involvement; the senator had laid a trail right to his own door. Discovery was just a matter of time. Not only had the senator involved Franklin Vinay, he had brought the son's attention down on them, and Hayes had heard enough about that shadowy figure to know the game was up. The best thing he could do now was cover his ass, his tracks, and disappear.

"I'll take care of the notebook personally," he said, feeling no compunction about lying. A man who would do something as stupid as arousing the suspicions of the deputy director of operations at the CIA wasn't a man for whom it was safe to work.

"Do that," Senator Lake said.

After Hayes left the office, the senator sat where he was for some time, thinking. He drummed his fingers on the desk. He didn't like these personal meetings with Hayes, but at the same time, he didn't trust the telephones. He could have his office swept for bugs, but who was to say Hayes didn't have one of those tiny tape recorders in his pocket, recording everything they said?

Something about Hayes had been… different, there at the end. He knew Hayes underestimated him; a lot of people had made that mistake. In fact, he sometimes deliberately encouraged such errors in judgment, giving himself an advantage.

He didn't consider himself an evil man, though it was true that in his lifetime he had been forced to make some difficult decisions. He didn't like the idea of harming the Whitlaw woman, but the book contained information he could not allow to be made public. The good of the few must not outweigh the good of the many. If she stood in the way, she would simply have to be removed.

And as for Hayes… the senator narrowed his eyes as he thought. Dexter Whitlaw had taught him an important lesson about tying up loose ends, a lesson Raymond had reiterated. Hayes would have to be dealt with. Perhaps, if he could make it look as if Hayes were in the employ of a nation hostile to the United States, and arrange things so it seemed as if Rick Medina had been involved… or maybe it would play better if Medina had been trying to stop Hayes. After all, Frank Vinay said Medina had been a patriot. Yes, that sounded better, more in character.

Of course, it wouldn't do for Hayes to be picked up and questioned. No, unfortunately, Mr. Hayes would have to die. All the loose ends had to be tidied. Of course, he would allow Mr. Hayes to take care of Miss Whitlaw first, and find the notebook; then he could take action. He had depended on Hayes to arrange such matters, but now he would have to use other means. Thank God he had Raymond. This time, he would make certain there weren't any loose ends. There was nothing about Frank Vinay's house that would call attention to itself. It was neither more ostentatious nor plainer than most of the other houses in the upper-middle-class neighborhood. He didn't drive a fancy car, preferring a slightly used domestic model. His neighbors assumed he was one of the thousands of faceless bureaucrats who battled D.C. traffic every morning for forty-five thousand dollars a year and a nice pension.

The house, however, did have certain modifications that made it different from the others. There was a very good security system, for one thing, backed up by a black and tan German Shepherd named Kaiser and a .9mm named H&K. Every morning and every night, the phones were checked for taps and the house swept for bugs. A parabolic mike aimed at the house would pick up only an annoying buzz instead of any sensitive conversations, because of the sophisticated electronic system designed to thwart such eavesdropping.

Jess McPherson felt safe in Frank Vinay's house, more because of Kaiser and the .9mm than the electronic stuff. Satellites and computers were great shit, but he was at heart an old-fashioned guy. When he retired, he planned to get him a dog. When he walked into Frank's den, he glanced at Kaiser, lying contentedly on the rug at Frank's feet. Kaiser returned the regard and gave a wag of his tail, as if saying,

"Relax, everything's okay."

"I haven't been able to find a leak in the office yet," Vinay was telling John. "Damn, this has me worried. Have a seat, Jess, and add your brain to ours."

McPherson chose a comfortable armchair, folding into it and stretching out his long legs. "I can add something better than that. I got a call from that New Orleans detective. I returned it and didn't get to talk to him, but I did talk to the younger guy, Shannon, who put in the first request for info on Rick. Seems the detective got a call from Dex Whitlaw's daughter, in Ohio. She knows him because she flew down to ID Dex's body. Anyway, two attempts have been made on her life since she got back to Ohio, and, not being an idiot, she figures this has to tie in with her father's murder and wants to know if the detective has found out anything."

"Hmm. That means Whitlaw was the main target, then, not Rick." Vinay frowned. "What information do we have on Whitlaw since he got out of the Marines?"

"Not much," Jess said. "He bummed around the country, did some short time in Maryland for some penny-ante stuff about ten years ago, nothing since."

"Any indication he contacted Rick during that time, or vice versa? Were they ever in the same part of the country at the same time after Vietnam?"

"We'll have to do some deep digging to find out."

"While you're at it," John said from the corner, "see what acquaintances they had in common." Vinay looked thoughtful. Exploring common acquaintances that far back would require major searches that went far beyond tracing the movements of both men. On the other hand, John's instincts were uncanny. "I'll put someone on it immediately."

"I don't believe," John continued, "that Whitlaw's daughter has any idea what's going on, or she wouldn't be calling the detective to ask him about it. On the other hand, someone else definitely thinks she does know. It might be interesting to put a tail on her, see who turns up."

"And step in if anyone tries to dispose of her?" McPherson asked.

"Yes, of course." John said it casually but without hesitation. He was like his father, McPherson thought. John spent his life in the shadows, constantly putting his life on the line in a world where people were assets and nothing was ever what it really seemed. Everything was fluid, shaded with gray. And yet John,

like Rick, had kept a few absolutes. He was, first and foremost, a patriot. He loved his country. Beyond that, he would back his people to the death. And underlying all that was his belief that for an employee of his country as he was, the ordinary citizen was his real benefactor. His job, boiled down to its essence, was to protect them.

"We'll shift our focus," Vinay said, "to Whitlaw's daughter. With Whitlaw dead, she's now the center of whatever's going on. John, how long are you stateside?"

"I cleared myself a week, max. I may have to leave at any time."

"But you're officially on leave. Jess, as of right now, you're officially on leave, too. This isn't a Company operation, and I don't want to fuzz the legal lines."

"Do I pass anything along to Detective Chastain?"

"Is there any need?" Vinay asked. That was what it always boiled down to: need to know. "If we agree Ms. Whitlaw is the center of it, and she's in Ohio, then any benefit a New Orleans detective would be to us is negligible."

"But she called him," John said. "She evidently trusts him. If she's hiding, he might be our only link to her."

"I've been up front with him so far," McPherson put in.

"Have you run a check on him?"

"A-one citizen," Vinay answered. "Excellent military record, did time in the Marines. He's from an old New Orleans family, the kind with a mile-long pedigree but no money. He got his college degree on the GI Bill, majored in criminology, started work on the NOPD as a patrol officer, worked his way up to detective. He'll make lieutenant easy, if politics don't get in his way. Or he might switch over to the state police."

"My take on him is he's tough but honest, the kind of cop a cop should be." McPherson spread his hands. "So is it quid pro quo or not?"

"I vote yes," John said.

Vinay considered the situation. "Okay, keep him briefed on what we know and what we're doing, so long as what you tell him doesn't touch Company business. If this veers into some old operation Rick was running in Vietnam, then that information stays in-house."

"At first, that's what I thought it would be." Hands in his pockets, John strolled over to the bookshelves and studied Vinay's reading material. "But now we know the focus was on Whitlaw from the beginning, so that theory doesn't hold. Our best bet is to find Ms. Whitlaw, and for that we may need Detective Chastain."

Marc watched Karen sleep, curled up in his bed, her shiny dark hair tousled around her head and her face delicately flushed with contentment. When she had stepped off the plane that morning, her face was white with tension. He knew he was part of that tension, but he hadn't been able to control his reaction at

seeing her frightened and bruised. Pure, savage rage had seized him; in that moment, if he could have gotten his hands on whoever did that to her, he would have killed him without hesitation or remorse. His woman was in danger. Every protective, primitive instinct in him was working overtime, fueled by fear and anger. If he hadn't had to deal with the sheer tragedy of little James Gable's murder, he likely would have flown to Columbus to settle things between them once and for all, and he would have been there to protect her. He wished he had been there when that son of a bitch broke into her apartment and tried to kill her. If she hadn't kept her head, he would have succeeded. She had defeated the would-be killer, using nothing more than a can of hairspray. The thought made him cold all over, thinking of her facing a gun with such a puny weapon. When she had told him about it, she seemed almost apologetic for not having something more serious at hand for self-defense. Her sheer guts awed him, and the too-detailed knowledge of a cop told him how close he had come to losing her. On a remote level, Marc was amused at himself. He had lightly loved before; he had argued with women, been angry at them. What he had never before done was lose control, but he had lost it with Karen. There was nothing light about the way he felt. It was dark and powerful and startlingly primitive. He, who had never before treated a woman with anything but the utmost courtesy, had been torn between the simultaneous and uncivilized urges either to spank her bare ass for leaving him, and therefore putting herself in danger, or to throw her on the bed and make love to her until she knew deep down in her bones she belonged to him and would never leave again.

He couldn't do the first because he couldn't lift a hand to her, and he knew it. His primary instinct had always been to protect, not abuse. The only way he would ever be able to strike any woman would be to protect Karen herself, or a child, from attack. His second urge had been abated by Karen's physical condition; she wasn't in any shape to be thrown on the bed. But having to restrain the force of his lovemaking had made it, in a way, even sweeter.

Until she went into his arms, he had been afraid. Afraid he hadn't read her correctly, afraid she didn't feel the way he did. He didn't know how she would take the suggestion, the question, the demand, but one way or another, he was going to marry this woman.

He hadn't worn a condom. Sweat beaded on his forehead as a wave of pure lust seized him. He had been in relationships where the lady was on birth control pills and it hadn't been necessary for him to wear a condom, and the sex was good; but today was the first time he had ever made love knowing there were no barriers, chemical, latex, or hormonal, against pregnancy. It had been incredibly arousing. He wanted to make her pregnant, wanted to come inside her, time and again, until his child began growing within her.

The bedroom was warm and darkened, the blinds closed. She had pulled the sheet over her before going to sleep, but she was beginning to perspire. Gently, Marc folded the sheet down. This was better anyway, he thought. This way, he could see all of her. He supposed he knew, rationally, that she wasn't the prettiest woman in the world, but if his eyes saw any imperfections, his heart didn't care. The things that made her different made her Karen. He loved the way she looked. She turned him on—God, did she turn him on. She was neatly formed, trim, toned. Her breasts were high and round, and he had satisfied his curiosity about how firm they were. They were very firm, with scarcely any jiggle even when she wasn't wearing a bra. Her flat stomach flowed into curvy hips, curvy hips into smooth, nicely muscled legs. Nothing about her was flashy, but Lord have mercy, she was sexy. He'd never known a woman more responsive, and her pleasure increased his.

She was lying on her side, one breast plumped by her arm. Gently, Marc rubbed a knuckle over the

velvety, slightly swollen texture of her nipple and watched, fascinated, as it immediately tightened and elongated, the pinkish beige color darkening almost to red.

Her heavy eyelids fluttered open, and a sleepy smile curved her lips. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to wake you."

She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his swollen penis. "Oh, I think you did." Her voice was drowsy, sensual. Lazily, she stroked him up and down, bringing him to full erection. He laughed and moved her hand away from him before she aroused him to the point where all he cared about was orgasm. She shifted closer until they were lying pressed together and lifted her mouth to his.

"How long before you expect to hear from that McPherson man?"

"I'll give him until tomorrow afternoon."

She looked wide-eyed and solemn. "Are we going to spend the entire time in bed?"

"Probably."

"Don't you have to work?" She traced his lips with one fingertip, then trailed it down his chest to circle his flat nipples.

"I took some personal time off. A case I was working cleared yesterday, and I didn't have anything else urgent." He didn't let himself think about how the case had cleared.

"So we can stay right here?" She hadn't lost the solemn look. Marc inhaled deeply as that slender finger worked its way down his torso, bypassing his erection to reach beyond and stroke his testicles.

"Right here." He did a little of his own stroking, down her spine to the crease of her buttocks, back up, down again. Each time his fingers stroked farther down. She gasped and arched against him, her buttocks tightening. Her nipples were pebble hard.

"What do we do if he doesn't call?"

"Proceed on our own." He squeezed her bottom, then eased one finger into her. She felt like warm, wet satin inside, tight on his finger, shivering delicately with arousal. He thought it was Henry Miller who had said entering life by way of the vagina was as good a way as any, and he heartily agreed. He could happily spend the rest of his life with some part of his body inserted into Karen, feeling her excitement, watching her little squirms.

She didn't have much patience. Her brown eyes were almost black as she suddenly put both hands on his chest and shoved him onto his back. He laughed as she straddled him, using both hands to position his penis and sliding down onto him so completely that his laugh changed to a groan. Oh, yes, he was definitely'going to marry this woman.

His beeper sounded.

"You said you're off duty," she accused, frowning.

"I am. That would be Antonio." He stretched to reach his beeper and checked the number. "Bingo."

"He can wait five minutes," Karen said firmly.

"And you can't?" He was teasing. He didn't think he could, either.

"No," she said, and proved it.

"You sound as if you've been running," Shannon observed when Marc called him, ten minutes later.

"I was downstairs," Marc replied. It wasn't a lie. He had been downstairs—about two hours ago.

"McPherson just called back. They're looking into any acquaintances Whitlaw and Medina had in common, but right now they don't have anything. Ah, he did say they were going to put a tail on Karen, to see if they can spot anyone else following her and also to step in if she's in danger. I didn't tell him she's here."

"Good. Hold off on telling him for a while. I might change my mind later, but for now I don't want anyone but the two of us to know."

Marc wanted to think more about the situation before he gave away Karen's location. Involvement by the CIA, even peripherally, made him uneasy. He didn't assume, as a lot of people did, that they were either bad guys or assholes, but by nature of the Agency they dealt with a lot of bad guys. On the other hand, it could be handy to have McPherson's shadow following them when he and Karen went to Columbus, to that storage unit. Tomorrow should be interesting.