CIA Fall Guy (8 page)

Charles checked the rearview mirror. No one was following. Good, because he was in a tricky spot, yes indeed. He had to think carefully before committing to any action.

Yet this meeting now couldn't be avoided. Matthew expected him. And expected the information he could provide — where Beth Parsons was at this exact moment.

**

An hour north of New York City David considered his options. He needed gas. If he did, didn't the woman? And a bathroom pit stop would be welcome. Could he risk pulling off now and catching up with her in 10 minutes?

The sensation in his groin decided him. He exited the highway, filled the car and emptied himself.

When he got back on, he calculated how long at a slightly increased speed he would need to go to catch up with Beth and her tail. He couldn't increase his speed too much or risk drawing the attention of the highway patrol.

The radio sputtered, the signal weaving in and out. He flipped to a new channel. It was a mistake. He flipped it off, but not before hearing a few bars of the oldie but goodie song “Soldier Boy.”

Jenny was driving her '63 Corvair up Highway 1. They were only a few miles south of San Francisco. “I can't talk about it anymore,” she'd said, then turned the radio on for distraction. “Soldier Boy” filled the car while Jenny said, her eyes on the road ahead, “I won't marry you now, but I promise” — and she sang along with the song — “I'll be true to you.”

Promises are made to be broken, isn't that what his mother had always warned him?

Jenny hadn't even waited until his R and R in Hawaii. Just written him a Dear John letter after he'd been in-country only four months that she'd met someone new. Hoped he was keeping his head down in Saigon.

His first reaction had been to volunteer for an assignment smack dab in the action, some small firebase upriver. His superior officer had convinced him to continue with his current assignment. The work in the Phoenix program was too important to hand off to someone else.

The Phoenix program. Assassination of targeted Vietcong officials.

But it had brought him to the attention of the CIA boys. And when his two years of ROTC active duty commitment were ending, they had approached him, convinced him to sign on for life. He had nothing to go home for.

But Jenny, oh Jenny. With her long brown hair and love beads. How he had loved her. And how, after her betrayal, he had never trusted another woman.

Of course, that didn't mean he'd been celibate. Far from it. But a CIA field operative moved around a lot, had a lot of masters to answer to, could not be expected to forge a long-term relationship.

David checked the speedometer. Only 10 miles over the speed limit. Not too bad. But where was that woman? He should have seen her by now.

Above him a helicopter buzzed the road, swooping so low that David could make out three people — a pilot and two passengers — wearing dark baseball caps. Was the pilot showing off his skill or were they looking for someone?

David increased his speed another five miles. He had to do something to find that woman.

There! Up ahead was the tail. She couldn't be far ahead.

David just hoped the tail hadn't pulled off the road too, then also lost Beth. David's palms itched, a sure indication he was nervous.

Not to worry. He'd find his target. He always did.

**

Beth pulled off the road. She needed gas and a restroom stop. And a late breakfast would be great. The gas station attendant recommended a restaurant a mile down the road — “best pancakes in five counties.” Beth doubted he knew that for a fact, but she was hungry enough to eat any pancakes.

She drove out of the station. The April showers had brought May flowers, and Beth wished she wasn't such an urban dweller that she didn't even know the names of the color-spangled blooms bordering the road.

Up ahead she could see the restaurant, the only building on this stretch of country road.

The whirring of the helicopter's blades slammed against her ears. What the hell?

She peered upwards through the windshield. She could see nothing. Yet the noise screamed directly above her.

She twisted her head an inch or two out the side window. It was above her — a little off to the right — and coming towards her!

Without conscious thought, reacting with her body the way she'd been taught in karate, she yanked the wheel towards the right, meeting the attack and sliding under the helicopter's skids off into the trees edging the road. Thank heavens she'd rented a Jeep. She switched to four-wheel drive and kept going.

Branches slapped against the car, the vehicle went up and down over debris. The tree trunks were far enough apart for her car to pass through yet the foliage was dense enough to from a canopy above her.

When she could no longer hear the whir of the blades she stopped the car.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! Had the CIA found her? Were they only trying to get her to stop, or were they trying to rub her out too? What the hell was going on?

She stumbled from the car, pulling her backpack with her. She crouched on the ground, pawing through the backpack, then extracted a silver-plated hand mirror. It had been a gift from Stephen. She kept it as polished as the day he had given it to her, saying “So you can see the face I love so much.” Now the mirror showed her sweat on her forehead and fear in her eyes.

Twigs crackled behind her. A spurt of adrenalin leaped inside her. The mirror fell from her hands as she jumped up and twirled towards the sounds.

A man strode towards her. She pushed her breath down into her diaphragm, thinking of direction, thinking of her focus. He was a foot away, the perfect distance. She swiveled her body to her right, stretched her left leg to his left leg and snapped at his ankle, breaking his balance and toppling him to the ground. She squatted next to him and jabbed her elbow in his back, the vulnerable part where his spleen was. “Yes!”

In the next instant she was yanked forward and rolled backward onto the ground, then pinned under the man's body. She struggled to get away, trying to remember self-defense moves she'd learned, but all she could think of was how heavy he was pressed against her chest.

“Give up?” the man said. “I'll let you up if you promise not to attack me again.”

“Who are you?” she said, her words muffled in his chest.

He rolled off her, but kept her pinned down. “Promise? And don't cross your fingers.”

“I promise,” she said. He rolled off her.

Instantly she was on her feet, swinging her leg up to smash his knee.

He caught her leg midair and yanked her towards him, breaking her fall by bearhugging her.

“You promised!”

“I lied. Besides, promises are made to be broken.”

He yanked her arm behind her. “Now stop it. I'm a friend.”

“Some friend.”

“If I let go this time, will you not attack?”

She nodded and the man released her arm. She stood inches from him; his body heat fanning towards her.

She stuck her tongue out. “I didn't say ‘cross my heart and hope to die.’”

“You may get that wish if you don't stop attacking me.”

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

“I'm with the Company.”

“The what?”

“Company. The CIA.”

Oh, right. “That's what they all say.”

“Would you like to see my ID?”

Beth nodded, then read the ID card he held out. “IDs can be faked. What do you want? And where's the helicopter you tried to kill me with?”

He picked up her backpack from the ground and thrust it at her hand. “We have to get out of here and you have to trust me.”

She stared at him. “Not bloody likely.”

“Shut up and listen. We'll take the Jeep over land, avoiding the highways. I've got a plane waiting.”

“A plane?”

"It's faster than a helicopter."

When she didn't move towards the Jeep he pulled at her arm, propelling her forward.

She tried to grab hold of a tree branch. “I have to get something I dropped.”

He didn't let go of her arm, so she pulled against him, dragging him with her to the spot where she'd let go of Stephen's mirror. She swooped up the mirror with the hand whose arm he held.

The man yanked her back towards the car, holding her far enough away from him that she couldn't try any grip-loosening karate moves.

“Hey, where's your car?” she said.

“It's hidden in the woods. Someone will retrieve it.” He shoved her into the Jeep's passenger side and slammed the passenger door shut.

Beth pushed open her door — he was so quick he was in the driver's seat and reaching over her to re-slam the door before she could get out.

"Buckle your safety belt," he said.

She glared at him. “Nothing better happen to this car — it's charged to my credit card.”

“That was your first mistake.”

Shit, shit, shit.

**

David turned the car into a cart track overhung with oak trees. They were only a couple of miles from the plane.

He glanced over at the woman slumped against the passenger window, asleep or pretending to be.

It had been a lucky hunch when, looking for her car, he had turned off at the faded road exit sign announcing “last gas for 30 miles.” He knew her tank had to be low; he suspected that warning would have rattled her. The tail had sailed right by the exit.

He'd chatted up the gas station attendant. David had asked if he had just missed his wife, who was driving their other car to their new home on Cape Cod. “Yeah,” the guy had said, “but I think she went down the road to get a bite to eat.”

David had followed the man's outstretched arm.

Ahead down the road he could see no Jeep in front of the restaurant. What there had been were swerving tire tracks a half block before the restaurant, tracks that led right off the road and didn't reappear.

He'd followed in his rental car, which didn't take kindly to the terrain, but the Company would pay the damage charges.

After a short distance the car refused to budge another inch. He'd abandoned it and walked along the Jeep's trail. Luckily she hadn't driven much further before stopping.

“Wake up, we're here,” he said now, turning the engine off.

The woman jerked awake. “There's not even a terminal.”

“This is what's called a stripped-down runway. Just enough length to take off in a hurry.”

David tossed her backpack at her. She followed him out of the Jeep.

“What do we do with this car?” she said.

“Someone will get it and return it to the rental agency.”

“Remember to have the tank filled.”

David motioned her towards the waiting plane. “You're unbelievable. Now move quickly. We're vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to what?”

David didn't bother to answer, simply leading the way to the plane's door. Beth was behind him, but suddenly she switched directions and ran back towards her car. Shit! She still hadn't learned she couldn't get away from him.

He turned to go back for her. Shots whistled past his ears.

“Get down, get down!” He raced towards the car, dragging her down with him, using the car as a shield. He yanked his gun from a waist holster and returned fire.

The shots were coming from the periphery, he thought, probably only one shooter. The shooter was far away but with rather good aim, keeping them down but not shooting to kill.

David chanced jumping up for an instant and waved the plane towards them, then ducked down again.

The plane taxied towards them with the cargo bay door open. David, crouched over Beth, leaned down and said in her ear, “On the count of three, jump into the plane.”

“Are you crazy?”

“You want to stay here and get killed?”

“This is all your fault. I was doing fine before you ...”

David stood, yanked her up, and said, “1, 2, 3 — jump!”

They jumped together into the plane. The woman collapsed on the floor while David slammed the door and holstered his gun.

He yanked her off the floor and pushed her down into a jump seat. “Buckle your seat belt.”

“Are you nuts? We were just almost killed and you're worried about wearing our seat belts on takeoff.”

David leaned over and snapped her belt closed. “Listen, you idiot, we wouldn't have almost gotten killed if you hadn't tried to play hide-and-seek. What the hell is the matter with you?”

“I don't trust you. Why should I? You turned up in the middle of nowhere and attacked me.”

“I didn't attack you. You attacked me. And trust is not an issue here. Survival is.”

Her face flushed, accentuating her brown eyes. “Yeah, sure. Which of your good ‘friends’ was shooting at us? I can understand that they find you maddening enough to want to kill you.”

David checked out the window. The plane had cleared the tree tops, they were circling out to sea. Good, very good.

“I have no idea,” he said. “I thought you might know.”

“Me? Let's hear what you've got to say.”

“Ladies first.”

Beth twisted away from him. “I'm not talking. Anything I say can — and probably will — be used against me. You're probably wearing a wire right now.”

That comment didn't merit a response. He smiled. “I hope you didn't take the collision waiver for your car. It's going to be a little worse for wear.”

The woman glared at him. He stared out the window.

The intercom overhead cackled: “David, we're coming up on the Maine coast. Do we continue as planned?”

“Yes,” he said, raising his voice to be heard through the cloth partition separating them from the cockpit. “All the way to Munich.”

“Munich?” Beth said.

Her face had changed — something about her eyes. “You lived there, didn't you?” he said.

He saw her hands tremble. She clasped them together. “I was there from September '70 to May '72. I missed the Olympic massacre.”

“And the bomb at the Frankfurt Officers Club.”

Tears caught in the creases of her eyelids. “I did. My husband Stephen didn't.”

**

Lunch eaten at a hot dog stand on Capitol Mall. Charles splashed mustard on his all-beef hot dog and seated himself on a bench facing the oldest building of the Smithsonian. He munched to the oom-pah-pah of the miniature merry-go-round nearby, only one facet of the carnival atmosphere on the Mall from April to October, when Washington D.C. was overrun by tourists.