Bodyguard of Lies (4 page)

Neeley had nodded. “Thin Air.”

"There's something up there that you will need."

“And the third?”

Gant had pulled out a letter. “It’s for my brother.”

“How do I find him?” Neeley had asked.

“You’ll meet some day. Trust me on that.”

“How will I know him?”

Gant had given a wistful smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

And that had been it. He'd offered no explanation or hint of what she would find in either location or how she would find his brother. When she'd pushed him for more, he shook his head. "I can't tell you what will happen to you once I'm gone; all I can give you is what I had to keep the dead time going." He’d paused and reached into his pocket, pulling out a slip of paper. A phone number was written on it with a 212 area code— New York City. He’d given it to her. “That’s Uncle Joe’s number. If you really are in trouble and need help, call him. He knows your name. He’s very—“Gant seemed to search for the word, and then he smiled wistfully—“resourceful.”

Then he'd tossed his empty beer into the grave and turned for the cabin. The gaping hole and his words had filled her thoughts those last few months. The hole became a symbol for the cancer that was killing Gant and she hated it. But she had always hated the dark small places that Gant insisted were really refuge. He would spend endless hours staring at the hole through the wide front window, wrapped in the big comforter as Neeley fought to keep the fire blazing. Gant had lost so much weight that she could easily carry him, but his voice remained strong as ever. He could no longer participate in her physical training but she still learned through his voice. He had tried to teach her everything he knew and had almost succeeded.

Last week she had finally filled the hole. He had died in her arms, his last words full of sorrow that he was leaving her alone and in some unnamed danger that she would have to work her own way out of. She had sat by the grave a day and a night; her voice a keening cry that echoed through the snow covered mountains and stopped only by vocal cords too swollen to move. Then she had gone to the South Bronx and set up surveillance on the alley to do the first of her tasks.

Looking at the suitcase helped her forget the cold somewhat. Everything had gone as expected, which surprised Neeley. She could hear Gant's voice: No matter how well you prepared and planned, there was always "Murphy" waiting to screw things up. Expect the unexpected and a whole slew of other sayings that Gant had harped on. The rules that he had given her one by one over the years; like other men gave the women they loved jewelry.

She checked the small pile of wood next to the fireplace. Enough to get it going. Then she'd have to break some out of the frozen stack outside and let it thaw in the fire. She looked around for paper to start the fire with.

After a moment, she quietly laughed. For all the preparation, she hadn't laid in any paper to start a fire when she got back.

She tramped outside the cabin to the pick-up, opened the door and grabbed the newspapers she'd bought in town on the way through. She also retrieved the overcoat with the rifle attached inside.

On the way back to the cabin, she paused to appreciate the view. Gant may have hated the cold but he had loved the scenery. The cabin stood on the west slope of Mount Ellen. The glow of the rising sun glanced through the trees one hundred meters above, at the crest of the mountain. Laid out below, like a toy town, down over a thousand meters of altitude and about four kilometers to the northwest, she could discern a few twinkling lights in the tiny village of South Lincoln.

The town was where the paved road ended. To get here from there, Neeley had to put the truck into four-wheel drive and negotiate an old, overgrown logging trail that switched back and forth up the mountain. Gant had enjoyed the isolation.

The cabin didn't have much in the way of conveniences. Water came from a mountain stream, not more than ten feet outside the door; the quick flowing water didn't freeze, even in the coldest winter. Heat came from the fireplace.

Neeley stomped inside and laid the papers on the table. The light from the kerosene lamp highlighted her chilled breath as she quickly scanned the news. She had the late edition New York Times and the Burlington Free Press. The Times had a brief mention about the incident in the Bronx that must have made it in just before press time.

Neeley scanned the article and was satisfied that the official police statement was the usual double-speak, which basically meant the cops didn't have the slightest idea who had done it. Which they shouldn't, Neeley reminded herself.

Curiously, the article didn't mention the destroyed drugs. Neeley had thought the police might have said something about that, but, on reflection, she realized that tidbit might be something they'd keep to themselves for a couple of reasons. It was their little secret to play against any suspects they might come up with; another might be because it would generate some sympathy for whoever had walked away with money. Cops were always afraid of self-styled vigilante killers: bad publicity and a bad example.

The local Vermont paper held nothing on the story. Killings in New York City were common and not especially newsworthy up here in God's country. Neeley crumpled the local, sheet by sheet and lined the bottom of the fireplace. She threw in some kindling and then laid a pair of logs on top. She squirted lighter fluid over the whole mess. Maybe not what Daniel Boone would have done, but she was too cold to worry about style. She threw in a kitchen match. Neeley quickly retreated as the fireplace exploded in flame. While she waited, she pulled the locker key, which hung on a chain around her neck, out. She stared at it, knowing that she would have to be back on the road soon. There was much to do in the next several days.

The cabin was warmer and she finally took off her gloves and sat at her laptop computer. She hooked the modem to her cellular phone. They were the only modern conveniences on the hilltop. When they needed recharging, she plugged a special adapter into the truck's lighter outlet.

Gant had been impressed with the technology but shown no inclination to spend time hooked into the machine. As much as Neeley had been willing to learn everything and anything from Gant, he had not been so inclined with her. Besides, as he'd put it, he trusted her to do those things that she knew how to do. Neeley had done work like this before, moving money and managing deals for Jean-Philippe in the gray world beyond national boundaries.

Neeley shook away those memories and settled to the work. For the next several hours Neeley immersed herself in the world of electronic banking and legalese.

When she was done, Gant's half of the money was ready to be dispersed to the various accounts that she held for him under different names once she deposited it. The people who depended on Gant would continue to get their monthly stipends: his mother, his ex-wife and the son that Neeley had seen but never met.

Gant had so removed himself that beyond the checks, there was little connection between Gant and the people he left in his past. Neeley knew it had been his only fear at the end other than leaving her alone. That he was shirking a responsibility. As though his death were his fault.

Late one night, half-asleep since the pain injections she was giving him were getting larger and larger, Gant had talked about his son with her, more than he had ever talked about it in all the years she'd known him. She had listened, then told him she would continue his financial responsibilities for the boy—now a young man-- and that she would covertly look in on him every once in a while as she and Gant had done over the years. He had said nothing further, but before she fell asleep with his thin, tortured body pulled close to her, she felt a single tear slide onto her breast.

The fire had died down and Neeley knew it was time to go. She packed her few things, and then went through the cabin one last time. Gant's personal effects she had burned in the fireplace right after he died. It was what he had wanted.

His professional equipment was a different matter. That was his legacy to her. The rifle she had used, night vision goggles and the other gear that had been so useful in the Bronx were just part of it. A dozen weapon's cases were lined up near the wall and Neeley carried them out, carefully tying them down in the bed of the pickup. A footlocker and two duffel bags full of more gear she also hauled out and lashed down. She covered the whole thing with a tarp, and then locked the door to the camper shell.

Neeley closed the door of the cabin that had been her home for so many years and knew she'd never return. She surveyed the familiar landscape and felt the sharp catch in her throat as her sight lingered on the patch of raw earth. She had sanitized the cabin, thereby obliterating all traces of her life with Gant.

Whoever came looking, and she knew from what Gant had told her that someone would come, would find nothing. Neeley piled her bags in the passenger seat and climbed in. She slowly made her way down the cutbacks on the hill, her thoughts on what she knew, and, more importantly, wondering what she didn’t know.

Shivering from more than the cold, Neeley turned to the southeast, toward Boston where she would deposit Gant's half of the money. And from there-- the small weight of the locker key pressed against her chest.

************

Hannah Masterson opened the door and walked to the mailbox, a routine she had done for years. She returned clutching a wad of envelopes and newspapers. A quick check turned up no new postcards or letters from John. There were several bills, objects she would have carried to John’s desk but now felt heavy in her hands.

She paused on the stoop to the large Tudor house and looked around, as if seeing the neighborhood for the first time. There wasn't a home in the Cedar Creek subdivision that was under half-a-million dollars and the lawns were all taken care of by professional services. She knew the people who inhabited each house on her street but she wouldn't consider any of them friends.

She had done the Cedar Creek social routine simply because it was what she was supposed to do as John's wife. She had made no special effort to cultivate friends after moving onto the street over three years ago. Now there was no one she could turn to, no shoulder to rest her head on and cry.

Hannah swung the front door open and walked inside. She headed directly for the kitchen, throwing the mail on the counter and pulling the bottle out of the dry bar. She poured herself an ample amount of alcohol then slumped down in her favorite chair, facing the large front windows.

She was surrounded by books. Thousands of them. John had always joked that if a nuclear blast went off anywhere, they were more than adequately protected from the nuclear fallout by the interior wall of books in the house. They had been Hannah’s refuge over the years from a different kind of fallout from the world outside. John had supported her in building the walls of paper, constantly bringing home new books for her to read. They brought scant comfort now, though, as trouble had penetrated into the household.

Hannah thought about John. She had been nineteen when she met him in college. A sophomore, she had felt worldly and wise, especially since they met in an Elizabethan Literature class, her turf, not his. John had been a major in graduate engineering; she an undergrad comparative literature major. He had immediately attracted her when he spoke of how important a classical education was for everyone. He was older than most of the other students, in his mid-twenties and he never really spoke about how he'd spent the years before school, only telling her he'd been in the military. The mystery had deepened her attraction.

In John she had sensed a man who not only knew the concrete facts of how to live his life, but also was aware of the abstract ideas that would make life worth living. She had fallen for him quickly, especially since he projected such strong emotion toward her and wanted her so badly. She had never felt so needed.

Hannah laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the empty house. Needed. What a word. Her shock from the meeting with Howard was fading and anger was seeping through the cracks. She drained the glass and hurled it against the wall of the house that was no longer hers. "You son-of-a-bitch!" she screamed.

Neeley was parked outside the Greyhound Station in Hartford, Connecticut. She looked at the thin manila envelope she had retrieved from the locker. She peeled away the tape and slid the contents onto her lap, wedging them up against the steering wheel. On top, there were two photos, a man and a woman. The man was a typical businessman in his gray suit. A little soft looking with a red blush to his cheeks. A drinker, Neeley thought. The woman was more interesting, sharp looking with blond hair and dark eyes. Neeley stared at the photos for a few moments, committing the details to memory.

There was a third item in the envelope. A piece of notebook paper with Gant's handwriting scribbled across it.

DEAREST

THERE ARE THREE THINGS YOU MUST KNOW IN ORDER TO MAINTAIN THE DEAD TIME:
WHO
,
WHAT
AND
WHY
OF SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED YEARS AGO, JUST BEFORE I MET YOU.

THE MAN IN THE PHOTO, JOHN MASTERSON, KNOWS THE WHAT. FIND HIM. HE IS IN ST. LOUIS WORKING FOR TYRO TECHNOLOGIES. THE OTHER PERSON IS HIS WIFE, HANNAH.

WHO AND WHY WILL COME OUT IF YOU FOLLOW THE RIGHT PATH.

BE CAREFUL. I’VE DONE MY BEST. I’M SORRY.

GANT

Neeley read the note once more. For all the years they’d been together, there was still so much she didn’t know. There were no tears staring at Gant’s writing. She’d spent them on the mountain. She put the note and the photo on the passenger seat and then weighed them down with the pistol Gant had given her on her birthday two years ago.

The Glock Model 20 had been Gant’s weapon of choice and although initially Neeley had preferred the Model 17, the smaller 9mm version, Gant had finally convinced her to go for the larger caliber. His point was that 9mm was a magic number in pistols and many variations of body armor were designed for the magic number and that the 10mm slug would penetrate and kill where the 9mm would just piss someone off.

The Model 20 held 15 rounds of 10mm ammunition. It had an integrated laser sight built into gun, replacing the recoil spring guide assembly, just below the barrel. Touching the trigger activated the laser. With no external hammer, the gun could smoothly be drawn without catching, and the safety was built into the trigger allowing rapid fire. The finish was flat black, designed not to absorb light.

Gant had also taught her that the gun was only fifty percent of the equation. The bullets were the other half. The rounds in the gun had been handcrafted by Gant for high muzzle velocity and penetrating power. She had several spare magazines loaded with the same. She also had his loading equipment in the bed of the truck and had spent many hours at his side practicing the art until her efforts matched his.

Neeley threw the truck into gear and headed for the Interstate. She had a long drive ahead of her. As her tires rumbled, she kept her eyes on the road but her mind drifted to more memories of Berlin.

After defusing the bomb and leaving Templehoff, Gant took Neeley to a part of Berlin she had not seen during the time she had been there with Jean-Philippe. The sticker on the car windshield brought them a wave through at the base security checkpoint and suddenly they were no longer in Berlin or even in Germany. The American sector could have been any American army post back in the States.

They drove past large housing complexes and schools, small shops and administrative offices. Gant slowly pulled into a large parking lot and took an empty slot close to the building marked commissary. He left her the keys and promised to return quickly. She watched him disappear into the cavernous building and began to shiver. Jean-Philippe had urged her into the cut-offs and t-shirt that morning and she was beginning to understand why. He had hoped any suspicion would be allayed by the promising scenery of her bare skin. Now her skin was mottled by goose bumps and she felt more alone than ever before. She had no idea who the stranger was, only that she trusted him so far.

She watched the shoppers leaving the grocery store and felt her isolation grow. Who were all these women in khaki slacks and ponytails, their toddlers clutching tightly to hands or pants legs, any surface that offered protection? The people Jean-Philippe had associated with had all flashed large amounts of money. They wouldn’t have been caught dead in the outfits these people wore.

When Gant walked back through the electronic doors, Neeley studied her benefactor as he strode toward the car. He appeared to be in his early thirties and was large and powerfully built. He toted the bags as though they were empty, all the while scanning the area to his front and side. She supposed he was handsome in a masculine, rugged fashion but to Neeley that was no comparison to Jean-Philippe's delicate features and long curling hair. The thought of her lover's face rising above her brought tears to her eyes and she was using her fingers to wipe them away as the car door opened.

If Gant noticed her crying, he said nothing but he did nod toward the food as if it would banish her sorrow. "I wasn't expecting any company so the house is kind of bare."

Neeley grew nervous at the mention of his house.

As if sensing this, he offered her a large hand. "My name is Anthony Gant, but everyone just calls me Gant."

She took his hand with trepidation and mumbled, "Neeley."

"Well, Neeley, it seems we've been tossed together for a while. If it makes you feel any better, what happened this morning will be our secret. I've had stranger mornings."

Neeley looked at him. "If that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't. It's definitely been the strangest morning of my life and strange isn't even coming close. I could have been responsible for hundreds of deaths today. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"

Gant stared at her hard. "Actually, I do."

The conversation ended with that and they avoided even glancing at each other during the short trip to Gant's house.

Gant's home turned out to be part of a large multi-family dwelling made from the same yellow stone as the commissary. There were children everywhere. As Neeley and Gant walked the chalk-streaked sidewalk to his door, they dodged bikes, skates and curious glances.

"This is the last place I'd expect a man like you to live," Neeley said. "Isn't your wife going to be surprised?"

Gant paused as he unlocked the door. "My wife's not here."

He pushed her through the door into the living room of the small apartment. "She left a few weeks ago and went back to the States with my son." He continued to talk as he carried the bags into the kitchen and unpacked them. "I can't really blame her. I've been gone eleven out of the last twelve months. Her note said if she was going to live alone, then she wanted to live alone. I was going to fly over and plead my case when I saw you at the airport."

He shook his head at her look of surprise. "Don't worry. You haven't altered my family's life plan or anything. She wouldn't have come back and I was just going for myself. You know, to say I did, that I tried. My son barely knows who I am and the only way that would change is if I became someone I'm not. Sometimes it pays to know one’s limitations as much as one’s capabilities."

Neeley sank down on the Swedish modern couch and closed her eyes. There was something disturbing about what he said and yet he had saved her life and many more. She leaned her head back and was sound asleep when he returned with eggs and toast. He gently woke her. After eating, he took her to a small bedroom and she immediately crawled into the bed he offered and fell asleep once more.

She slept a long time, waking only once to note her surroundings. She was in a child's room, in the bottom bunk. She could distinguish the outlines of toys and spaceships and when she lifted her head to adjust the pillow, the faint moonlight fell on the happy faces of the most recent Star Wars characters. She fell back asleep as easily as throwing a switch.

When she awoke again it was light outside and there was a persistent tapping at the door.

Gant's voice was muffled but audible. "Neeley, are you awake?"

She threw back the comforter and tried to sit up but banged her head on the top bunk in the process. In the daylight she could see the entire room was homage to Star Wars. Neeley felt sadness for the little boy who had left everything he loved. She knew exactly what that boy was feeling.

She walked out of the room. Gant was seated in a chair facing the front window, his fingers steepled, a cup of steaming coffee next to him, and one for her on a small card table.

"Do you know why you were given that bomb?" Gant asked.

Neeley suddenly felt tired despite her night's rest. She told Gant about Jean-Philippe, the strange people he associated with, and the last couple of years of her life. If he was surprised at any of it, he didn't show it.

"I don't know why Jean-Philippe wanted me dead," she concluded, which brought a ghost of a smile to Gant's lips.

"I doubt you were the objective of the bomb," he said. “You say he worked as an oil broker?”

“Yes,” Neeley said. “There’s a large black market for oil that can’t go through normal channels, for example that coming out of Iraq despite the embargo. Jean-Philippe would put together the deals. He worked with a loose-knit group of men who did this.”

Gant had nodded. “The shadow world. There’s one for every niche and they all touch each other at some point.”

Gant left her alone that day as he searched Berlin for her old associates. The business house was empty and wiped clean. The small group had completely disappeared, leaving no tracks of itself behind. Gant did as much as he could without arousing suspicion but he said little to Neeley about how his days were spent. She had enough awareness to realize that his place here was a cover; that he was beyond the Army, even beyond the classified Special Forces unit he was apparently assigned to in Berlin. A cover within a cover. There had been whispers among Jean-Philippe’s friends of a special American unit hidden in Berlin, but nothing specific.

After a few days, Neeley questioned Gant about his work. They were watching the news and there was more coverage of the crisis in Mogadishu, the failed raid and the attempts to get back the pilot.

"I had instructions to get the hell away for a while," he told her.

Neeley looked over from the television and President Clinton’s haggard face as he discussed what had gone wrong in Africa. "What does that mean?"

Gant pointed to the television. "That. That cluster-fuck. They just want me to disappear for a while. I think I might make it longer than just a while. I’ve got a strong suspicion they may not want me back at all."

As if sensing her surprise, Gant continued, "Look, Neeley, we've been thrown together and it's going to take us some time to figure out what we're doing. I've been thinking about some things and I want to talk to you about them. In the meantime, just understand that I did some work for the US government that those who gave the orders want to hide. I left what you would call the normal military a long time ago and I've been in the dark for so long it's hard to get used to talking at all. Another reason this house is empty.

"I've got only one real talent and it's the one my bosses needed the most. It's patience. I can sit in the same spot and wait. For days, weeks, even months if I have to. Then I can do what I'm told to do in an efficient manner. You're going to have to develop some patience. We have to sit quietly and come up with a plan. A good plan because we both have enemies out there in the world and we need to keep them off our backs. I’m not sure what exactly is going on and I don’t know if I ever will figure it all out, but my priority right now is our safety so I’m going to see what kind of deal I can get for us."

That night, she slipped out of the little bunk bed and tiptoed to the other bedroom. She put her hand on the knob and slowly turned. The door silently opened onto more darkness. She felt in the dark for the furniture and, finding the bed, moved around to climb under the covers. Gant was a still form lying on his back. She started to slide her hand down his stomach but he stopped her with a firm grasp of her wrist. Holding her hand in his, he pulled her until his warm body was spooned behind her. "Why are you here?" he whispered in her ear.

"Because you've been so good to me. Taken care of me."

"I don't take barter, Neeley."

She started to answer and he hushed her. "We'll call this rule number two. Never use your body when you can use your brain. And Neeley, next time you sneak up on someone in the dark, remember it's more than likely they have a gun pointed at your face. I'll let it slide tonight because that's how you learn. Now, get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

Neeley heard the soft click of the pistol hammer being lowered, then Gant's other hand was wrapped around her, holding her tight.

The day after she had snuck into Gant's room, her life changed forever. Gant told her that both hers and his old lives were over. To try and go back would mean death.

A new identity would just be a way for her enemies to find her one day. Gant offered her a different life. A life in the shadows with him with no identity. She wouldn't need all the names and numbers that held the normal people to their place on the planet.

They disappeared together and started as teacher and pupil. They each had so much the other needed. Neeley remembered those years as physically exhausting yet intensely fulfilling. She traveled the world with Gant, learning the backdoors of most of the world's cities.

Gant's business he kept to himself and she didn't pry but she knew he received money each month. He told her he was retired, but she wondered at that. She knew the less he told her, the more he was protecting her in the perverse way of the covert world where black was white and white was black and things only made sense to those who could think very differently from the average person in the street. He didn’t tell her much about the Cellar, the organization he had worked for, just enough to let her know it existed.

The only constant was that Neeley learned and worked and sweated and every time she thought she couldn't possibly run another mile, do another pull up or strip down another weapon, Gant would be there, whispering encouragement sometimes, but always reminding her that she had to do it, she had no other choice. She had to be ready. It was strange, but Neeley had never pinned him down on what it was exactly she was supposed to be ready for. It just seemed a natural part of their strange life together to do all these things. It made the here and now important and deflected reflection on the past or concern about the future.