Masquerade (16 page)

Liz Sansborough was bent under the hood of a green Ford Explorer, hot-wiring the ignition. She saw him, slammed down the hood, and jumped into the driver's seat.

He stopped the garbage truck behind the Explorer, blocking her exit. He spoke softly. “Hey, Sansborough? Want a lift?”

She gripped the Ford's wheel so hard her fingers were white.

He said, “You'll never get out of here without me.”

Her hot eyes fixed on him. Boy, was she mad.

“I'm sorry about this morning,” he said. “I was following orders. Now Langley's blackballed me, too.”

She slid out of the Ford, day pack in hand, and, from a crouch, surveyed the parking lot. No one was around. She ran to the passenger side of the truck and climbed in. He turned to grin at her, but his grin froze on his face.

He was looking straight into a 9mm Beretta.

“How did you find me?” she demanded.

“I saw you. But I don't think anyone else did. You've got a real talent for being sneaky.”

“How'd you find me this morning, in the woods?”

He furrowed his brow, puzzled. Then he got it. “Your belt. Yeah. See, the buckle looks ordinary, but it's got a tracking device inside. Those special buckles are issued to all the trainees. Security doesn't trigger the device unless it needs to, like if someone gets lost.”

“Lost. Yeah, sure,” she said acidly as she unhooked her buckle with her free hand and heaved the belt out the window. It skidded under the rear bumper of the green Explorer.

“Nice shot,” he observed.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Get down on the floor where no one can see you.”

“No.” She held the pistol steady. “Tell me.” Her gaze scanned the sloped parking area and the line of trees that surrounded it. If anything moved she'd see it. She managed this while never letting him out of her sight.

“I want in on whatever's going down.” My God, he was sitting next to the Carnivore's ex-girl friend. Or was she?

“What do you mean?”

“Like I said, I'm in the doghouse, and I want out.”

“If you want to make yourself look good, just turn me in.”

“I guess I could.” But all at once Asher didn't want to. He liked this woman; she had guts. She was running from Gordon Taite, and Gordon Taite was terra firma's grossest turd. “But I
don't like Taite, and there's something funny going on. I want to know more before I do anything.”

She continued to watch him, the gun unwavering. “Then get me out of here.”

He put the truck into gear, and they rumbled away.

She studied him with something more than hate or anger. Some curiosity. “Maybe we do have something in common. But if you give me away or turn me in, I'll shoot. Got that?”

He nodded. She slid to the floor, the Beretta pointed at his heart. She folded her long legs under her. It was amazing how small she could make herself. He liked that she could amaze him.

“I always thought Gordon was a jackass,” he said.

“I didn't. I believed he'd saved my life. But I'm not going to take his damn drugs. Where are we now?”

“We're out of the central camp, heading toward the gate.”

“What makes you think we can get past the gate? Security's got all kinds of cameras there.”

“True. But they can't see through steel doors, and the angles aren't targeted to view down through the windows to the floor of a garbage truck. The floor of a car or Jeep, yeah. This truck's too high. Besides, you got a break. Today's the regular day to drive out the trash.”

“You seem to have a weird thing for this truck. Have you driven it into town before?”

“Yup. Bernie taught me. Security won't blink when they see me at the wheel.”

“Tell me when we get there.”

The big truck lumbered past stands of ponderosa pine that grew so thick their trunks were toothpicks. Their frilly green tops swayed against the azure sky. At last they stopped.

“This is it.” His lips made no movement, because the cameras would see. He was tense, waiting to hear the camp alarm sound. That would mean they'd discovered Sansborough was missing. He also worried word of his reassignment had reached security. If they knew that, they'd never let him drive into town.

He jumped out, and as he punched in his code a long mechanical screech suddenly shattered the tranquil mountain
air. It was the alarm, and its horrible noise seemed to come from the forests all around.

God, he hoped the gate would still move!

He reached to punch in his code again. Then he saw the gate inch open. He took a deep breath and leaped back into the cab.

The gate gained momentum. The alarm wailed on.

“They know.” Sansborough's voice was a parched whisper.

“Yup.” He drove them through. They knew about her, but maybe not about him. Not yet.

Out on the potholed road he increased the truck's speed and considered the situation. One thing was certain: There was no turning back. He'd made his decision when he came to Sansborough's aid. Now he needed to win her confidence.

As the alarm's scream faded with distance, he told her what had happened because he'd read her file and questioned Taite about her.

“You expect me to believe they'd reassign you to an Arctic island just because you were nosey about me? I may have lost my memory, but I'm no fool.”

“You lost your memory?” That wasn't in her file. “When?”

“Two months or so ago.”

“You don't remember anything before that?”

“Don't look so surprised. It happens.”

“Without a past how can you catch the Carnivore?”

“There really is an assassin named the Carnivore?”

He frowned. “Yeah, of course! Why?”

She was silent, then nodded. “Okay. Well, at least Gordon told the truth about that. Apparently the Carnivore's tried to kill me twice. Now I'm supposed to help Langley capture him.”

Inwardly Asher smiled. The Carnivore
was
the point of Gordon's big, top-secret, need-to-know operation. But if the Carnivore
wanted
to come in, why create an operation to snatch him? And why did the Carnivore want to kill her?

“Let me get this straight. Your lover, the Carnivore—”

“Wait a minute!” She stared, shocked. “My
lover
?” The Beretta inched closer to his heart, her finger white on the trigger. “What are you talking about?”

He admired a woman with a wide range of emotions and a
steady gun hand, but not when the gun was aimed at him. “You don't remember?”

“God, I hope there's nothing to remember!”

He said, “How about I tell you what Langley's most secret computer files say?”

The gun never lowered a hair. “I'm listening.”

He took a breath. “The most recent three years of your file in Ranch personnel are blank.”

“I've seen them. That's when I was in Santa Barbara, with a new identity. My cover was as a journalist, Sarah Walker.”

“Langley's file isn't blank. It explains your relationship to the Carnivore.”

“Does it tell you I was sent to Lisbon to pull a message, but was too late? That the Carnivore killed the messenger and left me for dead? An attempt to kill me doesn't sound like a love relationship. He thinks I've seen his face, and he knows I'm alive. If the attack in Santa Barbara was real, he's looking for me.” She described the assault on her condo.

Asher mulled the information. “That's nuts. He's cut a deal with Langley to come in. Quit the game. Why would he care if you'd seen him?”

She stared at him. “Come in? But Gordon told me—”

“Ah, gadfly Gordon. Asshole of the Universe.” A lightning bolt flashed through Asher's mind—Jesus Christ, was Gordon Taite out to screw up the whole coming-in? A fast one on Langley, even a sell-out? Hughes Bremner would kiss Asher for exposing it.

He said, “Get one thing straight: Gordon's got no humanitarian streak. If he saved your life, it was for his own reasons. Remember Clair George? He used to be Deputy Director of Operations, before he retired under fire about Iran-contra. To outsiders, he looked like the consummate spy—witty, brave, impatient, and hugely successful. But one of our ambassadors had him figured. He said George had the remarkable combination Langley sought—he exuded friendliness and trust while being duplicitous as hell.” He paused. “Sound familiar?”

She nodded. “Gordon.”

“You can read your dossier yourself once things settle down,
but according to Langley you fell in love with the Carnivore three years ago and crossed over to him.”

“Okay, I absolutely agree about Gordon. He's a liar, a jerk, and God knows what else. Which makes me pay attention to what you claim my dossier says about the Carnivore and me. But I—” She grimaced. “Three years as the soul mate to one of the globe's worst killers? God!”

“There's more. According to the dossier, you're his courier to Langley. This very minute you're somewhere in or around Paris. You've been ferrying his revelations to our command center there. That's how he's buying you both a future.”

“A nice piece of magic, considering I seem to be sitting right here. Someone else has to be in Paris with my name.”

“Could be. And now let's discuss that crooked little finger on your left hand. When did you break it?”

“When I was a kid. A skating accident. It's in my file.”

“Gordon told me you broke it a couple of months ago.”

She blinked, thinking, and he studied her face. He decided he particularly liked the mole above the right corner of her mouth. Very sexy. He had a sudden desire to touch it.

She said, “Right after you caught me this morning, Doctor Levine injected me. I heard someone—you—ask Gordon about my finger. Yes. Gordon said . . . ” She remembered.

“Yeah, you remember right. So someone's lying. Either the Langley master file or our dear pal Gordon.”

Doubt battled doubt in her mind. Then she heard a distant buzz. She peered up above the pines. “A helicopter!”

“Two of them. Probably from the Ranch, looking for you.”

She didn't ask what to do. She checked her Beretta, and she squeezed farther down against the truck's floor.

Asher watched the pale blue sky as the two big birds closed in.

Chapter 18

One of the helicopters was an AH-64 Apache, and it looked as if it were loaded with enough rockets and missiles to blast the trash truck into Arizona. The Apache's loudspeaker blared out: “In the truck, stop! Asher Flores, your orders are to stop!”

Asher looked down at Sansborough. She lifted her chin. She had a very fine chin. “No way a garbage truck's going to outrun a couple of helicopters,” he explained. He'd have to figure out another way. He obeyed the command and halted the truck.

The Apache hovered back over the trees where it could keep the truck in range. The second chopper, a spruced-up Huey—one of the UH-1B workhorses from the Vietnam War era—landed on the road ahead of them. Two marines sporting M-16s jumped out.

Asher got out of the truck and ambled over.

“Asher, what in hell are you doing?” shouted the first marine over his helicopter's roar.

“Well, to be truthful, I thought I was taking a load to the dump! Is there something I should know about?”

“We've got orders to search you!” yelled the second marine.

“For what? Something radioactive get out of the labs?”

They moved back to the garbage truck where it was quieter and they didn't have to shout. The first marine lighted a cigarette. Asher didn't smoke, but he asked for one anyway. It was a minor distraction, a gesture of friendliness. Psychology was important.

The first marine held a Bic under Asher's Marlboro. “Some trainee went berserk. Elizabeth Sansborough. Know her?”

“Seen her around.” Asher inhaled. God, his mouth burned right down to his gullet.

“We've got to find her so the doc can put her back on her meds. That means we've got to search you.”

“I understand. I can tell you for sure no one's in the cab. But I don't know about the bin. Come on, let's take a look.”

The two marines raised their eyebrows, and Asher led them around to the back of the truck. He pulled the lever, and the maw growled open. The stench hit them like a flying curtain of ripe manure.

“Jeez,” said the second marine.

“Good thing we're up so high,” Asher said cheerfully. “Not many flies at this altitude.”

“Yeah. Well, guess we'd better check it out.”

“Would you like me to do it for you, boys?”

Gratitude was a powerful friend, maybe powerful enough for them to trust Asher and not look in the truck's cab. If the stench didn't make them run away so fast they forgot the cab.

The first marine smiled. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I do.” Asher crushed his cigarette, flicked it into the bin, and crawled in after it. He walked over black plastic sacks and sank to his hips in the mire. He pawed through beer bottles, kitchen scraps, wadded papers, smelly old tennis shoes, sticky microwave dishes, torn underwear, used tissues, and other flotsam and jetsam of the human condition.

“See anything?” asked the second marine.

Asher pawed more. “Nothing alive. Want me to go deeper?”

“Nah. That's enough, don't you think?”

The marines consulted. They agreed it was, and Asher crawled out. He stank as bad as the garbage. The marines took a step backward. They thanked him.

“You've got to go back to camp now, Asher.” The first marine looked regretful. Everyone knew how much Asher loved the ungainly truck.

“How come?”

“Orders. I guess you know you've been transferred. They want to fly you out right away.”

Asher nodded. Here it was. He stepped forward so they'd get a reminder of how bad he reeked. “It'll only take me an hour to dump my load. Don't you think that'd be better than making poor Bernie have to drive down here all over again? An hour's not so bad. Besides, the longer the truck's full, the worse it's going to stink. Nobody'll want it back in camp until it's empty again. I can just hear the bitching.”