Hard Fall (29 page)

It made sense to Kort. Bernard had been Daggett's assignment—his
ticket
, as the FBI called it—for the better part of the last two years. Kort had used a Bernard detonator on AmAirXpress flight 64. Did the FBI already know that? Was that possible? They had caught Bernard here in Washington. Had they made a connection between the two? Exactly how much did they know about his plans? The idea of getting a look inside Daggett's briefcase suddenly seemed a matter of self-preservation.
Know thine enemy
. Monique was a possibility, though a long shot. He would rather do this himself. He didn't trust other people. “How much do you know about Daggett?”

“What do I look like, James Bond? I'm in corporate consulting, not that other stuff. You want to know about Donald Trump, I'll tell you his shorts size. His daily vitamins. An FBI agent? I don't know shit.”

Kort blew past him and was half way up the stairs when the Greek called out, “Hey! Is that all? I got baklava in the oven.”

Kort stopped. “We'll contact you about the drop. We need that information on this flight mechanic, this David Boote.” He started up the stairs again and stopped. “And something else … I'll need the cargo manifests for all Quik-Link flights out of National Airport for the next four weeks.”

“
That
I can do,” he said defensively. “No problem.”

“Do it.”

“But what about Daggett?” the Greek asked.

Kort didn't answer. The less the man knew, the better.

“Do you have a guest list?” Kort asked Monique as he reached the top of the stairs and the busy kitchen.

“For tonight?”

“Yes.”

“There would be one at the front door. I'm sure I could check it.”

“Do that.”

She clearly didn't like his tone. “Who am I looking for?”

“Daggett.”

This confused her. “But we already know he's here. What's the point?”

“Not him. His date. Everyone brings someone to these affairs. Even FBI agents. This is a
social
event. With whom did Daggett come? They would be listed together, wouldn't they? See if you can find a name for me.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Do it!” he snapped. “I'll be waiting by the bar.”

By the time she returned, Kort had located Daggett in the crowd and had followed him with his eyes until he ended up in discussion with a woman in a peach dress. There is something unique, he realized, in the way two lovers converse, for these two were clearly lovers. He prided himself on his powers of observation. Such powers were essential for his survival. He had no doubt of Daggett's relationship to this woman, nor that that relationship was, at the moment, under a great deal of strain.

“What's her name?” Kort asked Monique, knowing he was right, swelling with the conceit of his success.

“Caroline Stevenson. Is that her?”

“Don't look at her. Use your head!” he scolded.

She grew restless with the reprimand. “So you know her name. We should be leaving. We have been here too long. You said so yourself.”

“We're not going anywhere.”

“What? But I thought—”

“Fix yourself a drink. Relax. Mingle. We've barely just arrived.”

Her confusion arranged itself on her face as anger.

His timing couldn't have been better. Daggett walked away from the woman in the peach dress—Caroline—and she immediately reached into her purse and came out with a cigarette. That purse was likely to contain a set of keys. And one of those keys would admit him to Daggett's house. Kort took his pack of Camels from his pocket and stuffed them into Monique's hand, closing her fist around them. “Hold on to these,” he said. “I feel like a cigarette.”

She looked down at her hand. “You're not making any sense.”

“No, I'm not, am I?” He patted her on the cheek, and cut through the dancers.

“I wonder if you would have an extra one of those?” he asked the woman. She looked up. They met eyes. Hers were fogged with either emotion or booze, or both. She forced a polite smile, searched her purse and came out with one. She struggled with the lighter, finally ignited it, and did her best to steady the flame. Kort interceded, taking her hand gently in his, and directed the flame. He kept her hand a moment longer than necessary before releasing it. She blushed, and he felt the thrill of success.

“I must confess,” he lied, “that I have been watching you for some time this evening, wanting to come over and introduce myself.”

She looked away uncomfortably. Did he dare push further? His eyes wandered to the purse. If he could only make her drop it, get her to spill it.

“Are you British?” she asked when he didn't go away. “You sound vaguely British to me.”

“How perceptive of you,” he said. “Schooled in England in my formative years. Living in Belgium now. I'm Carl,” he said.

“Caroline,” she returned, now looking at him again.

His heart pounded with success—Caroline, the name he had hoped to hear.

“Do you live here in Washington, or are you just visiting?” she asked.

“I'm over here trying to steal as much information as I can from you Americans on how to run an airline catering company. Food service industry.”

“Oh, a
spy
are you?” she said, accompanied by a lilting laugh.

“Yes,” he said, joining her laughter, enjoying the irony. “A spy.”

She took a drag on the cigarette, closed her eyes, and stumbled backward. It was his first real indication of just how inebriated she was. He glanced at the purse again. In her condition it would be like taking candy from a baby. She had failed to latch it closed. One good bump and he could spill its contents.

He found the same physical chemistry he had experienced with Monique at work here. She's dangerous, he cautioned himself. Get her off to one side, get her to spill her purse, and get it over with. How long would Daggett stay away? He checked the crowd. He didn't see Daggett anywhere.

But there was Monique, looking right back at him. He cautioned her with his eyes and she looked away.

“A friend of yours?” Carrie asked somewhat bitterly.

“A business associate.” He leaned in close to her, the purse within reach. “She's an incredible bore.”

Carrie erupted in drunken laughter, spilling ashes onto her dress and quickly swatting them away. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I know
exactly
what you mean.”

Daggett dug through an ashtray looking for any more Sobranie butts. “What the hell are you doing, Michigan?” It was Mumford, the head of WMFO.

An explanation seemed too complicated. “You made it,” Daggett said.

Thankfully, Lynn Greene approached at a fast pace. She caught Mumford's eye well before she said, “Could I speak to you a minute, Cam?” Daggett introduced her to Mumford, at which point Lynn explained to both of them in a low voice that the FAA intended to listen to the long-awaited cockpit voice recorder this evening. She had just been paged, and was headed downtown.

Mumford cautioned, “I don't want this to get out. Not here. Not tonight. There's press all over the place. Let's see what we've got first.” To Daggett he said, “Why don't the two of you disappear quietly. I'll make any necessary excuses. Let Paul know if and when you have anything.”

“Will you humor me?” Daggett asked the man.

“Meaning?”

“If you would lend your authority to something, I could rest a little easier leaving here.” He glanced around. The party seemed to be thinning. He knew for a fact that most of the VIPs had made only a brief appearance and had left by the time Daggett had arrived. “Have the security people sweep the grounds and vehicles one more time. I'd rest a little easier.”

“Have we got a
problem
?” Mumford demanded.

“A coincidence is all. No hard evidence. Probably nothing. But an ounce of prevention …”

Mumford nodded. “I'll pass that along.”

A minute later, Daggett found Carrie in the company of a fellow smoker. They were laughing. At the sound of her laugh, he felt a twinge of jealousy.

Daggett acknowledged the stranger with a nod and said to Carrie in a lover's apologetic voice, “Believe it or not, I have to go. There's a meeting …” He searched her eyes for a glint of understanding. He saw pain.

“Sure,” she said with all her strength. “These things happen, don't they?” She managed to keep the hurt out of her voice, though her eyes divulged the truth, and he thought that if he failed to make this up to her, he might lose her. She stood poised and controlled, an image of dignity and restraint, and he thought himself very lucky to have such a person.

“What about Duncan?” she asked. “Would you like me to sit Duncan?”

He hadn't thought about those arrangements. The meeting could run for hours; he wasn't sure how long it might take. “You could call Mrs. Kiyak. That would be a big help. I can do it if—”

“No, I'll do it. It's fine.” It wasn't fine. He knew this, but she concealed the truth, an image of strength and endurance. He taxed her. It bordered on psychological abuse, he thought, the way he danced from one failed promise to the next. But this was his expertise, this dancing. It had driven his wife, the mother of his son, into drunken escape. Had driven her away for good. Now he watched as he picked up where he had left off. He watched himself, unable to change—a ship heading straight for the rocks, the currents refusing a different course. “Do you have a ride?” she asked, searching her purse. “You can use my car.”

“I couldn't.”

“Nonsense. Of course you can. The Crenshaws are still here. I can hitch a ride with them.” She handed him the keys. “It's no problem.”

He accepted the keys. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Daggett felt Lynn waiting, and he glanced over his shoulder to see her at the door. When he looked back at Carrie, he realized the two women were in a staring contest. Without taking her eyes off Lynn, Carrie asked, “Is this meeting with her?” in a subdued voice that had to be boiling somewhere inside her.

“She'll be there.” He didn't want to sound guilty, but he heard it in his voice.

She looked at him then, with a sadness so heavy, so burdened by their struggle, that he thought she might cry. He heard the words of a dozen arguments, and wished they never had been. He envisioned their days of happiness and wondered where they had gone. He saw in her face the agony of surrender; she was numb and distant. She had resolved herself to Lynn's presence, he thought, and with it, had closed him out. Possibly forever.

He clutched the keys tightly in his fist, leaned forward, and kissed a warm but unfriendly cheek. “Thank you,” he said to her softly. He felt the skin of her face twitch behind an ironic smile.

She still stood there, still held that stoic expression, as he looked back from the door.

Kort, who had steeled his bowels on Daggett's approach, felt impotent and helpless as Daggett took the keys. The man was a menace. In a perfect world, he would have been able to spill her purse, steal her keys, copy them, and then surreptitiously return them to this building so they might be found and eventually returned to her. Now he would have to arrange something else. But Daggett's intrusion reinforced in him the need to get inside the man's briefcase. What poetic justice to have his nemesis deliver to him the final piece of information that would ensure the success of his operation! Yes, it had to be Daggett.

And it had to be soon.

“Your husband?” he asked Caroline, knowing full well they weren't married.

“No … No …” she said in the anguished voice of a lover struggling for sanity. “Just a friend.”

“You look worried,” Lynn said as she tapped on the glass door, summoning the security guard to admit them. The uniformed man came out of his chair and approached them slowly. Despite his big, bulging belly and wide shoulders, he appeared insignificant and tiny in the vast open space of the lobby of the FAA building.

Daggett saw their dull reflection in the glass. They looked good together. A handsome couple. He said, “Nervous, is more like it. If sixty-four is ruled an accident, then I lose the linkage to the other investigations: Bernard and Ward. If sixty-four was sabotage—and I think it was—then I need to know how it was done, now, before Kort has another chance. At this point, this voice recorder
is
my investigation.”

The guard reached them. They both held up their identification badges through the glass. She said to him, “I'll do what I can, Cam.”

“I know that.”

She reached down, found his little finger and gave it a squeeze as the door opened. For a moment their fingers hooked.

When they were well away from the guard, walking across the expansive stone foyer toward the elevators, her heels tapping out a rhythm, she said, “There's something you can't tell me, isn't there?”

He slapped the call button. “There always is, isn't there?” he asked. “Terrific job I've got.”

Separating his two worlds—his professional life and his private life—was a barrier of classified information. He had grown to resent it. Initially, the classified information had filled him with a sense of importance, bringing a heady immediacy to his job. But over the years he had come to see it for the hindrance it actually was. He could never fully expose himself to anyone; at home he couldn't share the secrets, at work he couldn't share the fears and concerns. His briefcase, laden with his secrets, weighed him down like an anchor. He felt shackled to it, this material, a prisoner of his own acquired importance. Because of it he had changed from a perfectly normal human being into an enigma. No one fully knew him. Not Carrie. Not Duncan. He wasn't sure he knew himself any longer. His emotions had become classified.