Masquerade (17 page)

Asher looked himself up and down. He wrinkled his nose. He'd done them a favor, and now he was asking one in return.

“No problem,” the first marine decided. “I'll clear it when we get back. Hell, they can always fly you out tonight.”

Every once in a while you got lucky. The marines climbed back into the Huey. Asher stood at the trash truck's fender and savored his success. He waved enthusiastically as the two helicopters flew off over the treetops.

Flores smelled disgusting, but Liz knew he'd saved her for the moment. The question was, why? She lowered her Beretta but didn't put it away. She thanked him. He acknowledged her words of gratitude with a dip of his curly black head.

He drove the truck off down the forest road. “Tell me what you think you've been doing the last three years.”

As she talked, she felt almost as if she were relating a story that had happened to someone else, and in a sense it had, because she'd only read about it, not recalled the living of it. She clenched her Beretta until her hand hurt, angry and frustrated not to be sure of the truth of her life.

“And then the Carnivore heard I was alive,” she finished. “That meant he had to kill me before I could identify him.”

“Maybe you never saw him. Maybe it isn't Langley. Maybe Gordon made it all up. Remember, he did say you were a lunatic. Maybe you imagined everything. Maybe it's a good thing he put you on drugs.”

She swung the Beretta up instantly, her finger tight again on
the trigger. Her voice was arctic and hard. “Why didn't you turn me in if you think that? Stop this truck. Now!”

Flores slowed the mammoth vehicle, its brakes grinding and huffing air as it stopped at the side of the narrow, pocked road.

In the silence of the majestic pines and high blue sky, they watched each other.

Flores spoke in a steady voice. “Get out, if you want. I won't stop you. But you won't have much chance on foot, especially if you're not a trained woodsman. Since you asked, the reason I didn't turn you in is what I told you. I think Gordon's up to something. Maybe against you. Maybe against Langley. Maybe against the country. I want to know what it is . . . for you, for the country, and for myself.” He smiled.

She was silent. At the very least, he could be useful in stopping Gordon. As for her memory, that she'd have to work on alone. Nothing would keep her from it now.

She said, “You think you can get us away from here?”

“I can try.”

“Okay, let's go.”

Flores put the truck into gear. It picked up speed on the winding road.

After a while, he asked quietly, “So what are the drugs?”

She didn't answer at once, still not sure of him or his questions. “The last pill was an antidepressant. One a day. Then, when we got to the Ranch, I was feeling so well I stopped taking it. But Gordon acted as if it were the end of the world whenever I suggested quitting my medication, so I never told him, and I felt terrific. I haven't taken a pill since.”

Flores said, “If it was an antidepressant, you should've got depressed when you went off it.”

“I know, but I didn't. The stuff the doctor shot me up with this morning was different, really strong. I vaguely remember having the same woozy feeling back when I was on lots of pills. The pills stopped my headaches, which were god-awful.”

“Why did you have to take so many pills?”

“Gordon said the first were for the brain fever, and then the
doctor changed my medication when he realized I had amnesia. The doctor was supposedly trying to help me get back my memory.”

The truck rolled out of the pocked mountain road and made a right turn onto a wider state road.

He said, “It's probably safe for you to come up on the seat now, if you like.”

Stiffly and warily she raised herself and looked around. She sat next to Flores. He stank like a mule barn that hadn't been mucked in a year. She stopped. A mule barn? How did she know about mule barns? She tested her memory, but nothing more came. She sighed, stretched, and rubbed her arms and legs.

He glanced at her. “So how'd you get amnesia?”

“Gordon said I hit my head, and then I got one of those mysterious brain fevers, the kind doctors aren't exactly sure about. The doctor said I was fortunate to have no brain damage. Memory loss was better. Sometimes memory comes back on its own.”

“Spontaneously?”

“That's it. I figured I was lucky all around. Look what usually causes amnesia—hardening of the arteries, seizures, strokes, tumors, or metabolic or toxic problems like reactions to medicine. I had a little brain fever caused by an inflammation after an accident. That's apparently a lot easier to deal with.”

“It must be crappy to lose your past. Personally, I'd just as soon lie down in a gutter and let Hortense roll over me. This is Hortense.” He patted the dashboard. “Hortense, meet Sansborough. Sansborough, meet Hortense. So tell me, Sansborough, what are you without a past?”

“I wish I knew.”

For a moment she allowed herself to feel the aching void next to her heart. Nothing but true memories could ever fill it. She found herself beginning to warm to Flores. In any case, she was stuck with him, and he with her. And now they had the same immediate problem—escaping Gordon.

“What will they do to you if they find out you helped me?”

He shrugged. “The worst would be to bring me up on charges
and fire me. I suppose they could throw me into the joint, too.”

She studied him again. “You love this work, don't you?”

“You could say that.”

“Maybe you're the one who's crazy.”

He laughed, reached down into the pocket on his door, and handed her a fat folder. “Check this out.”

Inside were printouts of dossiers: Two for Liz Sansborough, one from the Ranch and the other from Langley. The others were for her cover, Sarah Walker; her first lover, Huseyn Shaheed Noon; her husband, Garrick Richmond; and the Carnivore himself.

“Thanks. Maybe there's something in here that will explain what's going on.” And who—and what—she really was. She'd like to think of herself as a decent person, kind, even honorable, but now she had to wonder.

The truck bounced and yawed. The cab was warm from the mountain sunshine, the road stretched ahead in hypnotic curves, and Dr. Levine's drugs were still in her system. She tried to read but dozed instead and awoke with a violent jerk, afraid she'd been medicated again. Often she had indistinct images of what might be her past. Faces, houses, events. The impressions jumbled through her mind like a television gone haywire. Flores looked at her but said nothing. She was glad. What could he say? Fear was something you had to work out yourself.

At the Ranch high in the Rockies, Gordon Taite paced the security hut, hands locked in a death grip behind him. He wore fresh woodland camos and hiking boots polished to a high sheen. He stopped to glare at the woman's belt, curled like a viper on the desk. Marines watched the bank of monitors.

“Her belt was under your Explorer, sir,” one marine explained. “It looked like she was trying to hot-wire it.”

Gordon's jaw jutted out. “Bitch. She didn't just vanish into thin air. Where in hell is she?”

“We've got the Ranch on high-security alert, sir.” The
marine in charge stepped forward smartly. “We'll find her!”

“You'll find her if she's here, yeah,” Gordon said, “but what if she's not?”

“Don't see how she could've got out without us knowing it.”

“Yeah, asshole. But you don't know where she is either. Get your people out on the roads. Cars and helicopters. We've got to find her,
now
.”

Chapter 19

In August as thermostats climbed, Paris emptied for the traditional vacation month. Aristocrats, industrialists, and couturiers left for the cool seashore at elegant Cannes and yacht-loving Saint-Tropez while bakers, stationers, florists, and shop girls and boys pinned their hopes on relatives who might take them in at industrial Marseille or Toulon, home of a major French naval base. Anywhere in the countryside—away from the narrow, winding back streets of the two-thousand-year-old city.

The oppressive heat seemed only to feed the discontent sweeping France. Demonstrations were increasing, spreading from Paris bus drivers to all transportation workers. Factory laborers were threatening to strike in solidarity. Everyone agreed the hideous
économie
was to blame. Tempers were short.
Les citoyens
were angry, depressed, agitated.

And so, when a traveling circus put up its billowing big top on a razed block in Seine-St-Denis, it did a brisk business selling distraction from the heat and
les troubles
. Who could resist the gaily costumed performers, the exotic animals, or the merry calliope music? Laughter and applause sang out from the tent, and even the most dubious lined up for tickets.

Among these was a work-worn, middle-aged Frenchwoman. She was gray haired, walked with a stoop, and had wrapped herself in a bulky sweater as if she were perpetually cold. She carried a shabby Samaritaine shopping bag. She bought a ticket and entered the big top, but instead of climbing the wood
bleachers for a good view of the rings, she faded into the side shadows.

And waited.

In the center ring glamorous poodles in tutus and tall pink bows were finishing their act. They took deep bows and pranced out on long hind legs to thunderous applause.

A heartbeat later the next act began: A dozen clowns rolled and tumbled from the side exits toward the rings. By chance one bumped into the shabby Frenchwoman. The clown slipped her a small envelope, and they exchanged a few words in English.

“Why is this taking so long?” the clown demanded in a husky whisper.

“We haven't been able to find out. Quill says to force their hand, give Langley a take-it-or-leave-it deadline.”

“We'll need time to make our own arrangements.”

“Three days.” The Frenchwoman watched the crowds. “Sunday night. Eight o'clock?”

“Good. Contact the Germans, and tell them to stand by. Their offer was almost as good.” The clown glanced quickly around, did a back flip onto huge buffoon feet, and said loudly in French:
“Pardon, madame!
Enjoy the show!”

As the clown dashed off to the big ring, the gray-haired Frenchwoman wearily climbed the bleachers. She watched and clapped at the appropriate times. At intermission she walked off through St-Denis, watching to make sure no one followed. At last she boarded the
métro
and sat alone in a seat far at the back. As the
métro
raced along, she bent over her shopping bag.

With moist tissues, she wiped off her wrinkles and sallow complexion. It took many tissues, but at last her face was clean. For one brief stop, the entire back of the car emptied of other passengers. That's when she pulled off her gray wig and shook free her auburn hair. As the car filled again, she put on dark glasses and let her hair fall over her face. She stared out the window, willing everyone to ignore her.

She was unafraid. She loved her work.

At last she stood up to disembark. With one quick motion she peeled off her sweater and dropped it into the bag on top of
the wig. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, she took out two Victor Hugo novels and tucked them under her arm, titles out.

With her cheap cotton dress in a muted floral pattern, she looked like any poor university student.

She entered the bustling, frenetic Gare du Nord on rue de Dunquerque. There she joined a huge crowd of tourists, uneasy about transportation in a country where at any moment trains, taxis, buses and the
métro
could be shut down by strikes. The tourists would offer the perfect diversion if a tail had picked her up. She stayed with them until they swept past the women's room.

She slipped inside and locked herself into a stall.

She took a deep breath, her heart pounding. These last two months had been very hard on her, but well worth it. Then, too, there was the
frissonnement
, the thrill, to keep her going.

She kicked off her heavy work clogs and pulled her dark, sticky nylons down off her tan legs. She took off the cheap floral dress and put on a black linen sheath with a T back. Its simple designer lines emphasized her slim figure and large breasts. She slipped into high-heeled black sandals.

She applied makeup, brushed her glossy auburn hair until it flew around her head, and dropped her discarded clothes into the shopping bag. She put on oversized black sunglasses and pulled one last item from her bag—a black cloth purse lined in faded lavender. Inside she put makeup, money, fake identification, a Walther pistol, and the envelope from the clown. This was the outfit she always wore for meetings at Le Tour Languedoc.

It was a very versatile outfit.

She dropped five francs onto the saucer for the attendant.

Last she locked the shopping bag into a public locker. Ridding herself of it was the final act of her transformation.

A half hour later the young, beautiful Frenchwoman wearing oversized black sunglasses arrived at a cluster of stylish high-rises near the Montparnasse railroad station on the Left Bank. Big air conditioners hummed like mosquitoes in the August
heat. Tall and lanky, she strode through the long afternoon shadows. She ignored the admiring stares of passing businessmen.

At last she entered the massive Tour Languedoc, an elite steel-and-glass skyscraper that housed architects, doctors, lawyers, and accountants. She passed a bank of burnished-steel elevators and stopped at the last one. It had no call button.

She used a key to open a hand-sized door next to it, and she tapped in her code. She waited while hidden cameras examined her to make sure she was whom her code claimed.

At last the elevator opened. It took her up to the top floor, higher than any listed on the building's register, higher than the blueprints filed with the city. Sheets of reflective glass on the outside hid the number of stories at the Languedoc. Few people knew this floor existed, but that was to be expected.