Masquerade (18 page)

Langley owned the building, and it was Langley's floor.

It always went the same. First she handed over the envelope with the Carnivore's latest revelation. Then they invited her to sit with them in the designer sling chairs around the starkly modern, glass-block coffee table. The envelope lay on the table while they offered her coffee or a drink, and, as always, she refused. God knew what they might put into any food or drink. She never set down her purse. They might slip into it a bug hidden in a pen, a lipstick, or even a credit card.

She believed the room was wired for sound, and somewhere hidden cameras must whir. No doubt their meetings were being recorded in living color and relayed by satellite to the Lords of Langley.

She had seen some of the rest of this warehouse-sized floor. Before she defected from Langley to go over to the Carnivore, she'd sometimes worked out of this place. She'd been in the lab with its stench of formaldehyde, in the communications center with its walls of monitors and constantly blinking lights, and in the computer center where three-dimensional wireframe drawings were transformed into fully fleshed humans, weapons, and secret sites. There was also a modest conference room ringed with wall screens and maps. There were bedrooms for personnel who had to sleep over.

Now she was in the formal reception area, where two
Company operatives made polite small talk, and she was polite in return. To them, she was a traitor. She'd betrayed her country and, far worse, Langley, by going over to the infamous assassin. She understood their view without animosity.

That irritated them. If she didn't feel guilty, she could at least pretend embarrassment.

She came to the point. “This is the last information you'll get from the Carnivore.” She nodded at the lone envelope on the glass-block coffee table. “He's proved his value. Either we come in at eight o'clock Sunday night, or we go elsewhere.”

“That's only three days.”

“It's not enough time.”

She shrugged. “This isn't negotiable.”

“We don't make the decision,” said the first agent. “Look how long it's taken Langley to bring in others. Arkady Shevchenko, for instance. Three years.”

“It's been only a few weeks for you,” the second agent reminded her.

Langley had a reputation for being careful, especially since international fugitives could turn out to be uncooperative, or to have overblown reputations, or to be full of disinformation. But Langley already knew the value of the Carnivore's information, and he'd made it obvious he was willing to hold nothing back.

Annoyed, she shrugged, and both men's gazes automatically went to her breasts. That annoyed her further.

She smiled coldly and lied: “Tell Hughes Bremner the game's over. Finished. We have an acceptable offer from a certain other country. We've notified them, and they're willing to bring us in on Sunday. This is your last chance. Sunday, or we go elsewhere.” Today was Thursday. That gave the Americans a few days to resolve whatever bureaucratic entanglements a speeded-up schedule created.

“We'll pass your request on to Langley.”

“I expect the answer by noon tomorrow.” She stood and walked toward the elevator. “If it isn't affirmative, you'll never hear from the Carnivore again.”

They jumped up and followed her.

One asked, “Where's the new drop?”

As the elevator door opened, she turned and named a bulletin pole in St-Germain-des-Prés, the message to be in a cipher disguised as a love note addressed to “Michelle.” At each meeting she named a new dead drop. She distrusted electronic messages; they could be monitored too easily.

The agents nodded.

She studied them, then stepped into the elevator.
“Au revoir, messieurs.”
The elevator took her down, and she looked forward eagerly to losing herself among the
boulangers, bouchers, fruitiers
, and flower peddlers of summertime Paris.

Behind the painting that was a window on the unrelentingly modern reception area, Hughes Bremner watched the woman depart and considered what to do.

Last month, after several long sessions, he'd convinced Arlene Debo, Director of Central Intelligence, that the United States must be the one to acquire the atlas of dirty secrets in the Carnivore's brain. Then he'd gone with the DCI to calm the President's dangerous squeamishness. Ultimately the President had given his official consent to go ahead.

Until only a few minutes ago, Bremner had been in control, the protocols going smoothly, M
ASQUERADE
going smoothly.

But now the Carnivore had turned the tables. The turncoat bitch had delivered his ultimatum.

But M
ASQUERADE
wasn't ready! Close, but—

Bremner had to get the Carnivore, first and last!

From a hidden speaker, he told the operatives to bring him the envelope. There were two doors in the reception room. One led to the elevator, the other to the corridor that ran the length of the floor. Using their keys and then their personal codes, the two men opened the bullet-proof corridor door, handed over the envelope, and returned to other work.

Bremner gave the Carnivore's latest revelation to decoding and hurried into electronic surveillance. From there the courier would be monitored. He had his best teams tailing her. This
time he was determined she'd lead them to the assassin. Once the Carnivore was dead, M
ASQUERADE
would be irrelevant, and his new operation, the greatest of his career—
GRANDEUR
—would be safe.

He'd been running the traditional three-person team on the courier, plus an occasional fourth, but she'd always shaken them. This time he'd positioned two men and a woman on foot, one man and two women in cars, and two more men in a van loaded with equipment. He'd had the van painted to look like a delivery truck for a
pâtisserie
, a cake shop.

It aggravated him she'd never eat or drink here. But Langley had trained her well. R&D had just released a tasteless metallic substance to be put in food or drink and then tracked, as long as the tracker stayed within a half mile of the subject.

If he could just get that into her, she'd lead them to the Carnivore, and the Carnivore to his death.

As the woman left the building and his surveilling agents smoothly picked her up, he moved toward the door.

“I'll be in my office,” he told the operators, whose gazes never left their monitors. “Call me instantly if you have the slightest suspicion our target has shown.”

When she left the Languedoc, the courier spotted her tails immediately. She was astounded at the overkill. She walked along the sidewalk as if she hadn't noticed them. She also gave no sign she'd spotted Quill. His distant presence was assurance against the unknown, because no matter how good, how careful one was, there were always elements beyond one's control.

Later tonight she'd leave him a message at their private drop, reporting on today's meeting. One way or another, one country or another, she was determined they'd have asylum by Sunday night.

She strolled away along the busy rue de Vaugirard, past the street vendors and the saxophone player on the corner, and into the Jardins du Luxembourg. The Palais du Luxembourg had
been built in the 1600s as a residence for Marie de Médicis. Today the grand palace housed the French Senate, while the lush gardens were a paradise for strollers. Inside the garden walls, she sauntered past elaborate fountains, paused at ornate flowerbeds, and stopped to buy a sausage and a Coca-Cola at the café.

She sat on a bench in the shade to enjoy her food.

After two more hours she was satisfied her tails were either lulled or frantic. In either case, they'd not be as sharp as before. She left the garden and retraced her steps as if she were returning to the Languedoc. Instead she ducked inside the Montparnasse railroad station. Now only those on foot could follow fast enough to have a hope of staying with her.

Even Quill couldn't keep up with her here.

She dashed between an immense pillar and a magazine vendor's stall where, five long steps later, she was sheltered on three sides by two other stalls and a wood-backed phone booth. To see her, someone would have to stare intently down the dark passage.

Still, she had no desire to test her luck.

Instantly she pulled off her high-heeled sandals, broke open the heels, and dusted her face, lower legs, feet, and hands with a filthy black powder. She shoved her feet back into the flattened shoes, pulled down black leggings from her crotch to her ankles, and broke away her skirt at the waist.

Twice she spotted Bremner's people passing by. They were frenzied, searching among the crowd.

Her rhythm never broke. She pulled out a ratty black-satin cape from beneath the magazine stand and put it on, along with a pair of hot-pink, heart-shaped sunglasses. She tied her black skirt around her head like a scarf. With a quick swipe, she applied fiery red lipstick and turned her purse inside out, revealing its faded lavender, grease-stained interior. Then, with her finger, she wiped brown stain onto her teeth.

With that, she assumed a cynical slouch and took out a long, brown cigarette. Lavender purse swinging, she rejoined the railway throngs.

The only agent who was nearby stared at her. She saw distaste in his eyes, but a certain curiosity, too. That made her tense. Professional curiosity was bad. She must convince him his distaste was the more accurate assessment.

She stuck the unlighted brown cigarette between her lips, swayed up to him, and spoke boldly, her dirty face so close she could smell the coffee on his breath, which meant he could smell the garlic on hers:
“S'il vous plaît, monsieur?”

He hesitated, stared.

She exposed her stained teeth in a hideous grin and, with her free hand, firmly grabbed his balls.

He jumped back.

She followed.
“Oooh-la-la, monsieur!
So handsome! One light for a lady will pay you many dividends.” She reached for his crotch again. “For a price, of course!”

He turned, disgusted, and strode away. He had no interest in venereal disease, armpit hair, a brain fried from drugs, and God knew what else. He resumed his search.

In his Languedoc office, Hughes Bremner's telephone rang at last. He reached for it.

“Sir, she . . . we can't find her.”

“What!”

“We followed her into the Gare du Montparnasse. You know, sir, the transportation crisis is making people take their trips while they can, and the station was jammed. We lost her there—”

He listened to the excuses with cold fury. The Carnivore's courier had disappeared, and with her Bremner's last best chance to eliminate the assassin's threat before the coming-in.

“Keep your people posted around the station for the next twelve hours,” Bremner ordered. “She may be inside, waiting until you're gone.”

As he finished his instructions, his other line rang. He thought of Gordon. Now more than ever M
ASQUERADE
was vital. He'd been trying to reach Gordon for hours.

“Gordon! Where in hell have you been!”

In the distance, Gordon hesitated.

“Goddammit, what's happened?”

“Sir, I have bad news.” Another pause. “The woman's gone. Escaped. Asher Flores, too—”

Chapter 20

At the small mountain town where the dump was located, Asher Flores gave Liz a credit card and dropped her off at a gas station that also sold used cars. She picked out an old Chevrolet Caprice for $3,000 and handed over the card. She hoped Langley hadn't yet thought to put a hold on it.

The owner carried it back smiling. She signed
Mrs. Asher Flores
and thought with disgust how gullible she'd been about Gordon and his two gold “wedding” rings.

She considered driving away without Flores, but she still had neither money nor any credit cards but this one. It might get her close to Santa Barbara, which she figured would be the best place to resume her search for her memory, but Gordon would eventually attempt to track her through Flores's cards.

There was another problem: Where would she even begin to try to unravel the mess with Gordon, Langley, and the Carnivore?

And what about Sarah Walker? If there was a real Sarah Walker, she might need help urgently.

One of Flores's advantages was that he had the experience to untangle this mess. But what if Flores were somehow connected to Gordon? What if he turned on her, or if he were simply out for himself? If she decided to cast her lot with Asher Flores and she was wrong, she could lose more than her past.

She frowned and started the car. So far Flores had made no move against her. In fact, he'd helped her escape. He'd brought her the dossiers from Langley's ultra-secret database. He'd
saved her from the marines in the helicopter. She herself had heard them talk about how he'd been ordered to Spitsbergen, and that made his story even more believable.

He'd never tried to take her Beretta.

She drove toward the highway, fingers drumming the steering wheel. He was a risk she'd have to take . . . for the time being. She'd keep her Beretta near her hand, and she'd stay on the alert.

He was waiting at the dump in clean jeans and shirt.

“Where'd you get the shower and clothes?” she asked suspiciously. Had he somehow arranged all this?

He lifted his bushy eyebrows at her, patted Hortense goodbye, threw his gym bag into the Chevy's trunk, and climbed in beside her. “The guy who runs the dump let me use his shower. And I'd packed a few things. I had a little more time and flexibility than you. You got a change of clothes?”

She drove off. “All I've got is what I'm wearing.”

In the next town, they stopped at a dry goods store. He bought her jeans, T-shirts, and cowboy boots. No more skirts and blouses. No more camos for a while, although they were better than skirts and blouses. She turned in front of the mirror and admired the way the jeans fit—as if they'd been sprayed on. Her kind of clothes. Flores watched, his angular face amused. She had no idea what he was thinking, and she didn't care.