Masquerade (11 page)

“We won't die behind a desk,” Lucas Maynard said.

“I sure as hell hope not.” Bremner gazed past Maynard and out of his windows. Now was the time to set his trap. “We do go back a long way, Lucas. Tell me, do you miss the cold war?”

Maynard seemed to feel the question deep in his gut. “God, yes. We knew the good guys from the bad then. All this fuss now about intelligence not being reported accurately to the top makes me laugh. They think it's a new thing. Remember in '57 and '58 when we were running that covert operation to topple
Sukarno? We reported only what Langley wanted Washington to hear. We lied to the ambassadors who tried to stop us, and then we got them reassigned when they wouldn't butt out. We didn't think a thing of it. And that was just one incident. Do I miss the cold war? Hell, yes. It was so much simpler. So exciting. We could do something. We were united for freedom. Democracy.”

“The cold war gave the United States purpose.” Bremner lifted his patrician face and smiled. “We were everything the other side wasn't. Remember when Ike had to drum up support to build the interstate highway system? He said it was to evacuate cities in case of nuclear war. And when Kennedy decided we needed better science and physical education classes, he said it was to whip the Soviets. Now we accomplish so little.”

Lucas Maynard's gaze grew misty. Bremner saw he'd established the rapport he was seeking. Maynard had stepped into his trap.

Now Bremner would wait. This was the trick: Make the other fellow comfortable and beholden, find a common ground, and say nothing. Soon the silence would demand to be filled, and more often than not the guest spoke into it what was on his troubled . . . guilty . . . mind.

At last Maynard said, “Did you ever stop to think, Hughes, for fifty years Langley's been ordered to work with humanity's underbelly? The mafia. The drug lords from Miami to Hong Kong. The generals who raped their countries for money and power. We were expected to mingle with the scum, ally ourselves when we had to, but we weren't supposed to get into bed with them.”

“A different world, Lucas. Not a pretty one.”

Maynard's heavy face was tense. What was bothering him? Bremner was tempted to encourage him to be candid, but that wouldn't work. Maynard had seen too many interrogations, conducted too many himself. He'd be suspicious.

Bremner breathed evenly, slowly. Would Maynard go on?

Maynard set down his coffee cup as if he were setting down a burden. He looked straight into Bremner's eyes, and for a
moment Bremner sensed he was about to spill his most profound secrets.

Instead, Maynard glanced down at his watch.

“A meeting?” Bremner experienced a rare emotion: Surprise.

“Sorry, Hughes. You called late, and I couldn't cancel it.”

“It must be important.” He spoke mildly, but he wanted to squash Maynard's fat, diabetic face between his hands.

Maynard seemed to know an unimpeachable excuse was expected. He gave it without missing a beat. “My ex-Stasi snitch. You know how frightened he is. If I ditch him, we could lose one of our most reliable sources inside the German government.”

“Of course,” Bremner said coolly. “Very important.”

“Is there anything else you wanted to tell me, Hughes?” Maynard stood. “I'm not quite clear why you asked me here.”

Bremner stood, too. He smiled inwardly. The bastard had just tried to turn the tables on him. “I like to keep up with my friends. You know that, Lucas.”

“True. Well, this has been like old times. The good old times. Not that many of us remember them anymore.”

“Yes. Most unfortunate.”

Bremner lingered in the doorway as his longtime ally walked away toward the elevators, his shoulders square. Dignified. For the first time in many years, Hughes Bremner was nervous.

Chapter 11

Hughes Bremner waited thirty minutes, plenty of time for Maynard to reach his office, check in, and leave for his meeting.

If he had one. If he hadn't invented it at the last moment to save his lying ass, because he'd sensed a trap.

Bremner dialed Maynard's line. The secretary answered. He asked to speak to Maynard.

“I'm sorry, sir. He's gone for the day.”

“Ah, yes. What was it? I've forgotten—”

“A meeting with his German informer, sir.”

So Maynard had been telling the truth after all. Bremner was in no better position than before. Disgust welled up in his throat, sour as bile. He was about to make a polite, empty comment and hang up, when a final question occurred to him.

“He told you about the meeting before he came up to see me?” Bremner asked. “Or after?”

“Oh, before, sir. He asked me to call him if it looked like your meeting was going on too long for him to see the German.”

Damn. Bremner had been sure the whole story was cooked up to give Maynard a legitimate reason to leave. He tried one last question: “When did the German arrange the meeting?”

“I believe Mr. Maynard did. It must have been sudden.”

“Sudden?”

“Uh-huh. After he left I realized he was going to miss a
doctor's appointment. He never misses them. His diabetes, you know. So I suppose he must have talked to the German only a few minutes before his meeting with you, or—”

Bremner smiled. Maynard was still good, but this time not quite good enough. Maynard had arranged the appointment himself, suspecting he might need an excuse to exit Bremner's office.

The woman's voice faltered. “Sir . . . is anything wrong? I mean, all these questions about Mr. Maynard's schedule?”

Bremner knew enough. It all added up: Maynard's breakfast with the undersecretary, the demand for immunity, and the manilla envelope that had excited the undersecretary so much. There was only one logical conclusion: Lucas Maynard had kept records.

“Actually there
is
something wrong, Mildred,” Bremner said, his voice sincere, concerned. “I've been worried about Lucas's diabetes. Do you think he's working too hard?”

“Oh, Mr. Bremner, you're so right—”

He listened absently as she recited a litany of concerns about Maynard's health. His mind was busy making plans.

There was nothing worse than a traitor, and Lucas Maynard was a traitor. At another time, Bremner might have had the luxury of continuing to watch Maynard, of trying to find the reason for his betrayal. There was always a reason, and it could be used to turn the enemy. But not now. Now there could be no unnecessary risks, no mistakes, no chances taken with M
ASQUERADE
or his private French operation, G
RANDEUR
.

As soon as he got rid of Maynard's secretary, Hughes Bremner called Sid Williams on his secure line.

“Maynard has stolen critical top-secret government documents,” Bremner told his subordinate. “It's a grave breach of national security and M
ASQUERADE
. We've got to have the documents, and he's got to be silenced. Do whatever you have to do. And that includes taking care of the undersecretary. Immediately.”

At four o'clock the usual limo picked up Undersecretary Clare Edward at State for the drive to his classic Georgetown home. He carried Lucas Maynard's manilla envelope safely locked in his briefcase. He'd debated whether to leave it in his safe at State, but too many people had access to the safe.

In fact, too damn many people had access to his office. Just this evening there'd been a new security man standing in the doorway, chatting up his secretary, while he had been packing his briefcase for home. He'd ordered the man away. The fellow had been genuinely apologetic, but still—

No way would he leave Maynard's explosive documents in the office. He wanted this bombshell all for himself.

He'd sleep with the papers under his pillow.

As his limo pulled up in front of his brownstone, he decided to ring up the new file clerk and invite her over for the evening. She was a delectable little morsel, hardly out of high school. Very young. Very tiny. He liked tiny women. They were so safe.

As the limo rolled away, he started across the sidewalk. He had a spring to his step just thinking about the little girl.

Then he heard a sound and turned.

A blond youth on Rollerblades skated recklessly toward him. The undersecretary caught a brief glimpse of a silvery knife blade. Fear crunched his chest. He opened a hand, ineffectual and too late. The knife slashed up across his palm and lodged itself under his rib cage. The skater toppled onto him.

Pain and shock rocked the undersecretary. He couldn't move.

The mugger rifled his pockets and took his wallet, Rolex watch, and two diamond rings. Then he jammed the knife in farther, pulled it out, and pushed himself back up onto his Rollerblades.

The undersecretary raised a feeble hand. He wanted to call out, tell the thug to stop. But he couldn't. The pain receded to a dull nausea. Hot blood covered him. He was dying. With a surge of clarity he decided it was all right. Life had become meaningless. Imagine, he'd actually been looking forward to
an evening with a barely literate teenager. He closed his eyes as the thief raced away. His last image was of his brown leather briefcase tight against the youth's chest.

At the same time that afternoon, Lucas Maynard stalked the floor of Leslee Pousho's apartment in Arlington. He'd been a fool. He'd underestimated Hughes Bremner. He'd sensed it in Bremner's office, and it was confirmed when he'd arrived home.

Sid Williams and Matt Lister had been waiting. They had used the new laser lock picker to break in. If it hadn't been for his years of automatic caution and his Walther, he'd never have escaped.

As he'd walked from the garage toward his front door, he'd spotted the faint movement of the drapes at the window. The old outdoor cat, who never sat at the front door unless someone was in the house, was parked there. He'd turned instantly and raced back to his car. They'd come running out as he backed away. He'd knocked Lister down with a leg shot and forced Williams to dive for cover. Then he was gone.

He smiled gloomily. None of the Sterling-O'Keefe or M
ASQUERADE
papers was in the house. Everything was here, in the safe under Leslee's bed. Now he had to call Clare Edward. The undersecretary would have to arrange protection and a State safe house for him and Leslee. Thank God for Clare Edward. Without the undersecretary, how would he and Leslee get out of this mess?

Lucas Maynard picked up the phone and dialed.

At 4:45
P.M.
at a busy Georgetown intersection, Hughes Bremner watched the side-view mirror from the back seat of his black government limo. The powerful engine idled. The limo had full, high-security accessories—armor plating, antimine flooring, and bulletproof windows blackened against the world.

At precisely 4:50
P.M.
, a young blond man on Rollerblades sped up the street with traffic, coming up on the limo's rear.

Bremner lowered his window. As the racer flew by, he flung inside an expensive, brown-leather briefcase.

A good shot, it landed almost on Bremner's lap.

“Dulles, Tommy.” Bremner pulled out Lucas Maynard's manilla envelope and opened it.

The skater disappeared around a corner, and the limo entered traffic, heading for the airport. Bremner had a reservation on an overnight flight to Paris.

He flipped quickly through Maynard's documents and saw instantly what had made the undersecretary salivate and Maynard expect immunity. Maynard had provided a paper trail of laundered greenbacks detailed enough to convict all of them, destroy everything they'd built, and scuttle the entire French operation as well. And Maynard had promised a hell of a lot more documents where these came from.

But there was no hint of G
RANDEUR
. Bremner smiled, relieved. That at least was still secure.

He relaxed as the limo fought its way through heavy five o'clock traffic, and his mind moved on to his most crucial quest. In a few hours his best surveillance teams would try again to follow the Carnivore's intermediary to the assassin's lair.

Chapter 12

It was lunchtime in the Ranch cafeteria. Liz Sansborough pretended she had nothing on her mind but her meal. Then she gave a startled jerk, sat upright, and looked at Gordon.

“I forgot the notes for my next class.” She stood. “They're in my locker. I'll be right back.”

He arose to go with her, but she raised her voice slightly to remind him operating independently was one of the skills she'd learned. Sitting nearby were three trainees and an instructor. They looked up. Gordon noticed they'd noticed. He smiled at her, nodded, and sat back down. She could feel his questioning gaze hot on her back as she strode from the cafeteria.

She checked her watch—12:06. She ran. She had to make the most of every minute. But when she rounded the corner of the officers' club, she collided with the personnel director.