Back Channel (50 page)

But Ainsley’s focus was on the decrepit brownstone across the way.

After Margo’s disappearance, he had followed the man in the gold-rimmed glasses, who had spoken to another man, who had led him here. Jerry didn’t know all the players in the game, but he did know that whoever was represented by the man who’d tried to get Margo into the taxi was very well organized indeed. Though he had been at the brownstone only a few minutes, he had already counted three different men and one woman departing in two separate cars, presumably to monitor sites where
GREENHILL
might show up.

There couldn’t be many left in the house: possibly just two or three. In any event, he needed a closer reconnaissance.

Ainsley wasn’t in the hard end of the business. He’d had the courses in hand-to-hand combat and small arms, of course, but his scores had been only adequate. Still, although he might not be an Agatha Milner or a Jack Ziegler, he knew how to take care of himself.

He began the climb down.

Bundy stood with the attorney general on the portico outside the Oval Office. The Rose Garden greenery was dewy in the night mist.

“Nothing,” Bobby said, arms folded as he stifled his anger. “We even brought in Hoover, and he’s got nothing for us. No idea.”

“She’ll surface,” said Bundy. He stifled a yawn. The President was taking a much-needed catnap, but Bundy had no time for rest. “She’ll make contact.”

“We don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“I’m serious, Mac. Whoever is out there trying to stop her, they’re some very serious people. Are they out of their minds?”

Bundy hid a frown. Emotion was not conducive to rational thinking. Besides, if either one of them was to be upset, it should be Bundy himself, for it was he who had persuaded the head of the presidential detail to send
GREENHILL
’s embarrassed driver to report whether she had successfully made the rendezvous with Fomin. The idea was simply to observe; nobody had imagined that the man might be walking into a trap. But Bundy managed to put that guilt aside; now he needed Bobby Kennedy to put his own fury aside.

“Presumably, they’re the same people who waylaid her last night,” said Bundy. “They failed to do whatever they were trying to get her to do—to persuade her to stop, one imagines—and so they’re trying again. The violence this time is a mark of their desperation. It teaches us that they think they’re losing.”

The attorney general was unimpressed. “That’s awfully clinical of you, Mac.”

“Is it? Perhaps. What I’m trying to say is, they’re desperate. Desperate men make mistakes. With Hoover in the hunt now, they’ll be more desperate. They’re on the run, Bobby. Don’t worry. Whoever they are, they’re done.”

“And
GREENHILL
?”

“She’s resourceful,” said Bundy. “She’ll get us Fomin’s message.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

An aide came along the walkway and whispered to the attorney general. When Bobby turned around, his chalky expression made Bundy’s blood run cold.

“Is it
GREENHILL
?”

“It’s Dr. Harrington. She’s dead, Mac. So is the aide you sent to bring her to the White House. Now do you see what I mean?”

The brownstone abutted another building on one side. On the other was an alley, and it was the alley Jerry Ainsley selected. He stumbled noisily, walking slowly and circuitously, wanting to be taken for drunk. But nobody seemed to be on guard duty.

From the alley he had his choice of three basement windows and four on the main floor. The basement was dark. The main-floor windows were curtained, but along the edges were cracks of light.

Caution to the winds.

He got up on his toes and peered through the first window. Two men were smoking and drinking and playing cards. A shotgun leaned against the wall. The next window gave on a small room with maps on the walls. A man sat wearing earphones, tuning a wireless. Last of all was the empty kitchen—

“Hey! What are you doing?”

He swung around. A heavy-fisted man was rushing toward him. Ainsley saw at once that he could never best him in a fair fight. So he allowed himself to fall to his knees, muttering nonsense syllables, and when the guard grabbed his collar to yank him to his feet, Ainsley hit him hard in the groin and, as he doubled over, harder in the chin.

The guard folded up, but his twitching fingers tried to get to his gun. Ainsley stamped hard on his hand. He grabbed the gun, then slid the guard’s wallet from his pocket and raced away, leaving him for his friends to find. Let them guess whether he’d tangled with a fellow professional or just been mugged and robbed.

Several blocks away, he stopped and opened the wallet. The man was a State Department diplomatic security officer, but somehow Ainsley suspected that he wasn’t guarding a consulate.

Jerry threw the gun down a sewer but kept the wallet. He was searching for a phone booth. As he had told Margo, he believed in making friends everywhere. It was time to call one in particular.

“Tell me what happened,” said Margo. They were passing the White House, and she wondered what would happen if she hopped out and went to the front gate and asked to see the President.

“Does that mean you’ve decided to believe me?”

“I guess so. But I believed Jerry Ainsley, too, and he tried to kill me. What’s so funny?”

“The idea that Jerry Ainsley would try to kill you.”

“Why? Because he’s such a nice guy?”

“Because he knows as much about killing as I know about differential calculus. Nobody who wanted you dead would go to a guy like him. He’s more a thinker than a doer. That’s not a bad thing,” she added hastily. “It’s just that he doesn’t have the right set of skills.”

Margo looked at her. “And you do? Is that why they sent you after me?”

“I was told that it’s because I spent all that time with you. I’d know your habits, guess where you’d show up.”

“Told by whom?”

“Chain of command.”

That seemed wrong. Bundy had said the operation was limited to a handful of people. The chain of command sounded dangerously official.

“Who exactly—”

But Agatha was on to the next topic. “Did you see the knife?”

“I—yes.” Shudder.

“It’s an unusual knife. It’s Finnish. Known as a puukko. It’s the basic model for the fancier Soviet combat knife, the NR-40. You don’t see many puukkos these days, especially not on this side of the ocean.” A hard swallow. “That knife is the trademark of a Soviet assassin who uses the cover name Viktor Vaganian. We don’t know his real name. The point is, nobody else in the trade uses a puukko. The Soviets killed Dr. Harrington.”

Margo remembered Fomin’s warning about the war party on his side. But, even granting their existence …

“Why?” she asked. “What would they want with Dr. Harrington?”

“I’m not sure. Bulgaria was her operation. Maybe they wanted to know who else was in on it.” She made a hard turn, rocking Margo against the door. “Maybe they thought she knew who was working with Smyslov. She didn’t, but that wouldn’t stop them asking. And asking.”

A thick unhealthy silence fell in the car.

“Dr. Harrington knew the risks of the business,” Agatha finally said, but it wasn’t clear which of them she was trying to persuade.

Margo’s analytical half was troubled. “Does this sort of thing happen often? Soviet agents killing our people right here at home?”

“Not often.” Agatha’s forehead creased in thought, and for just an instant she was the librarian again. “Not ever, that I can remember, as a matter of fact. They must be desperate.”

“Or you’re wrong.”

“I know a puukko when I see one,” said the minder, her voice warm with warning.

But Margo wasn’t ready to give up. “It still doesn’t make any sense. If Dr. Harrington was in it from the start, then why would she—”

“Get down,” said Agatha, casually, and turned the wheel sharply to the right. The car skidded, the rear end flailing wildly, and then they were headed in the other direction, the onetime minder driving hard.

“What—”

“I said stay down!”

But Margo put her head up all the same. The car jolted to a stop. She looked around. They were on the Mall, near the red towers of the Arts and Industries Building. There was a car ahead of them and another behind. Escape was blocked. Men were fanning out from the vehicles, guns trained.

“What is it?” asked Margo. “What is this?”

“I don’t know,” Agatha admitted. “But I think we should get out.”

Margo stood beside the car, still wearing the gown beneath her coat. Agatha was a few feet in front, as if she meant to place her body between her charge and the danger. There were three men, and they stood well clear of each other, so as to leave clear lines of fire. Two of the newcomers were inching forward. A tall blond man with a crooked nose seemed to be in charge.

“Stop, please,” he said. His voice was a low-pitched whisper.

“We’re not moving,” said Agatha.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” To the others: “I said stop. Be careful.”

One of the men had a thick black beard. “It’s just a couple of girls, Kevin.”

The blond man’s voice was soft. “Maybe so, but one of them is Agatha Milner.”

The other two men turned toward her in astonishment, and the one who was closer took a hasty step back.

“
The
Agatha Milner?” said the bearded man. “Seriously?”

“I thought she’d be taller,” said his companion.

“Seriously,” said the man called Kevin. “And I believe that, even with that arm, she could take both of you in about ten seconds. Keep the gun on her, but don’t go near her.”

“What exactly is this?” said Agatha.

Kevin had a cruel smile. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I remember you.”

“Then you remember you’re the reason I was kicked out of the Agency.”

“You were never in the Agency, Kevin. I’m the reason you were kicked out of training camp.”

One of the other men snickered. Kevin’s hand twitched, but his smile never faltered. “Well, that’s water under the bridge. My understanding is that we’re on the same team now.” He nodded toward Margo. “We’re taking
GREENHILL
off your hands. She’s not your problem any more.”

“My instructions are to deliver her—”

“To the townhouse. We know. New orders. We’ll take care of all that.”

“Why the change?”

“Maybe you haven’t kept up with the news, Agatha. All of a sudden there are a lot of dead bodies lying around.”

Margo sensed the tension but didn’t understand it. She saw Kevin’s companions exchange an uneasy glance.

“Would you mind taking your hand out of your pocket?” said Agatha.

“Of course.” He turned up his palm to show that the hand was empty, but she plainly had noticed something she didn’t like.

The minder flexed her fingers. “I’ll take her to the rendezvous. You can follow us in your car.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The guns were gripped firmly now, one trained on Agatha, the other on Margo. The pretense was over. “She isn’t your responsibility any more.”

The minder, her gaze riveted on the man with the broken nose, moved closer to her charge.

“Go ahead, Agatha. Try. My orders are to leave you alone as long as you cooperate, but I wouldn’t particularly mind having another go-round.”

Margo felt Agatha’s bad hand on her shoulder. The fingers tapped gently. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but it had to mean something.

“She’s my responsibility until my superiors tell me otherwise.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Just let us have
GREENHILL
and you can be on your way. Mr. Ziegler will be in touch with you tomorrow.”

Again the minder tapped Margo’s shoulder, and this time she got it. Three taps of the fingers. Whatever Agatha was planning, it would happen on the count of three.

The blond man called Kevin took Margo by the arm. “Relax. We’re taking you somewhere safe.”

Agatha stepped away. “It’ll be fine,” she murmured.

“I know,” said Margo, hoping desperately that she had understood correctly.

“You’ll do fine. Just remember everything we’ve talked about, okay? Easy as one, two, three.”

On three, everything happened very fast.

Agatha kicked out at the man beside her, striking him squarely in the groin, then pulled Ainsley’s Beretta from somewhere and launched herself forward, broken arm and all, into the man by the car. At the same time, Margo grabbed Kevin’s hand and, unable to come up with a better idea, bit down as hard as she could. The blond man didn’t scream or let her loose, as she had hoped. He held on tight and struck the side of her head with the gun. The blow was harder than anything she had felt in her life. She was on the pavement, and he had a knee in her back and the muzzle at her neck.

“That’s enough, Agatha,” Kevin said. “You can put the gun down.”

Agatha froze, then let the Beretta tumble to the grass. She raised her hands.

The man who was behind her had recovered his feet. The one by the car she had evidently pummeled unconscious.

“Search her,” said the blond man. “Don’t hurt her. She’s on our side. We’ll work this out when we get back. And now, Miss Jensen, if you please—”

He stopped, having heard something the others had missed. He spun around, leveling the gun, but was too late. Margo heard two booms, saw the red blossom over his chest, another, and he was in the dirt beside her, a look of pained astonishment on his face as he groaned and tried to speak.

Agatha, taking advantage of the distraction, had the second man on the ground again. The third had yet to wake.

“You can stop now,” said Major Miles Madison, looming from behind another car. “I’d say you got him.”

There were things that needed to be done now, and Margo stood aside to allow the professionals to discuss them. Two men were unconscious, the third dead or dying, right in the middle of the Mall, but Agatha and the major debated options and responsibilities like cautious bureaucrats. Overhearing bits and pieces, Margo sensed that she herself was the unfortunate complication they were trading back and forth. There was a lot of head shaking and pointing:
It’s better if you do it. No, it’s better if you do it.
It was almost two in the morning, and the deadline was in ten hours.