Masquerade (4 page)

She pedaled away again, this time heading up the avenue to a spot she knew the circus would pass. She established herself on a corner and called her wares like any good French countrywoman.

“Ciboules grand! Carottes! Radises! Ail!”
She held up a garlic rope in her right hand, and a bunch of plump red radishes in the other.
“Ail grand! Radises grands!”

As the parade appeared down the avenue, a housewife bought garlic and onions. An office clerk looked over. He bought red radishes, dusted one off, and took a bite just as the first circus ponies pranced past.

Then came the clowns, tumbling, playing tag, and stopping for exaggerated handshakes among the crowd. Clowns were always the best advertisement for a circus, and the watching throng seemed to swell with excitement as they rollicked past.

The countrywoman was excited, too, and she rolled her bicycle closer so she was right on the curb. One of the clowns spotted her. Roly-poly and dressed like a Napoleonic sailor, the clown paused to juggle colored balls before her.

The countrywoman laughed and clapped her hands. But as she did, her bicycle dropped off the curb and crashed forward into the grease-painted clown.

The crowd gasped.

The clown snatched the juggling balls from the air and fell.

The woman grabbed her bicycle and dropped beside the clown.

“My apologies!” she cried loudly in French. “What have I done! Are you all right?” And then she whispered in rapid English, “How is everything?”

“Going as planned. And you?”

She smiled. “We're off to a good start then.”

There was time for no more. The clown rocked back and bounced quickly forward onto huge buffoon feet.

The crowd clapped.

With a deep bow, the clown presented the blue juggling ball to the leather-faced countrywoman. She took it with a loud
merci
, and the clown raced back to join the jaunty procession.

Although she was impatient to be on her way, the young woman stayed on the curb, remaining in character. At last, after the entire circus had paraded past, she pedaled off.

In a different petrol station, she cleaned her face and changed back into her bicycling clothes. She cut open the rubber ball and removed a single rolled sheet of paper. She rolled the paper tighter and slipped it inside a ballpoint pen. Then she cut up the ball and dropped the pieces down the toilet.

She emerged, studied her surroundings carefully, and rode away in the French sunshine, south toward Marseille, where she'd change identities again and fly to Paris. She was a very pretty woman, and she was smiling.

In the smoky bar in working-class Paris, Quill bought beer for the French maintenance man until at last he staggered outside. Quill let another patron leave, and then
he
followed.

The maintenance man climbed behind the wheel of his van and fumbled for his keys. Quill glanced up and down the street, now quiet in the aftermath of the demonstration. He took a small black case from his pocket, opened it, and slipped out the loaded hypodermic. He opened the driver's side door.

The maintenance man turned, his bleary eyes suddenly alert. He saw the hypodermic, gathered himself in an instant, and swung a powerful fist at Quill's head.

Quill ducked, closed in, and injected the man's hip. The man lunged again, but his power was abruptly gone. Quill shoved him across the seat, and the Frenchman slumped back, eyes closed. When he awoke in the morning, he'd have a painful hangover and no memory of how he and his van had spent the rest of the day.

Quill got behind the wheel and started the engine. He kept four safe houses throughout Paris. No one knew about any of
them, and he intended to keep it that way. He'd stayed in one last night. Now, with the maintenance man unconscious, he visited the three others, disguised with his new face and the maintenance company's jumpsuit and cap. He checked utilities, security systems, and exit routes. He carried in food, medical supplies, and disguises.

Quill could have hired people to do this, but he'd learned long ago even the most reliable “friend” could be persuaded to turn, if the price were right. He preferred to work alone.

At four o'clock he returned to the Left Bank and parked down the boulevard from a massive steel-and-glass skyscraper, a multimillion-dollar piece of Paris real estate called Le Tour Languedoc.

He turned off the van's motor, crossed his arms over his muscled chest, and nodded forward, as if dozing. This was the only time he felt nervous, but it was a peculiar nervousness, muted by the weight of years. It manifested itself simply as a heavy sense of expectation.

At last he saw her, striding down the street through the sunshine. He stared up through his eyelashes, still apparently dozing, and watched. He adored her lanky stride, tall height, glossy auburn hair, the way she looked in the skin-tight, black-sheath dress. He allowed himself only a minute to savor her.

His gaze expertly swept the boulevard, spotting the obvious tail: a woman one hundred meters back, in a boutique business suit, an artist's portfolio under one arm, the other hand free to pull a pistol from the thick portfolio, for he had no doubt she carried one in there.

Then he spotted the two other tails. They were ahead, waiting on the far side of the Languedoc. One was in a car, the other watering plants. He scrutinized them. And again moved his gaze. There was a fourth tail! Which signaled the high regard in which the Languedoc held this operation.

At last his long-striding beauty reached Le Tour Languedoc.

Quill checked the four who were surveilling her. She swung through the double glass doors and headed to the most distant elevator. Only the “artist” followed, and she stopped at the first elevator.

Quill nodded. Good. It was all going as planned.

He'd continue his own preparations only after she reemerged, after he'd followed her to make certain she lost her tails safely, and after he was certain she'd vanished safely. A lump ached in his throat. She was his weakness.

Chapter 4

A crescent moon rose silver and glowing above the CIA safe house in the secluded Santa Barbara canyon. Liz Sansborough was standing at the kitchen window when two heavily armed men emerged from the chaparral. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

“Gordon?” she said softly.

He came to stand behind her. “Sentries.”

They wore camouflage and carried rifles. Grenades swung from their belts. They melted like shadows through the moonlight, their heads turning as they watched for the Carnivore's hired killers. For the Carnivore himself.

Abruptly she was chilled. “How did the Carnivore find me?”

“We're not certain. We knew he'd try. That's why Langley kept agents stationed outside your condo.” Gordon filled two mugs with coffee and carried them to the kitchen table.

Her eyes narrowed. This was all too tidy, too neat. “It's time to tell me what's going on, Gordon. I don't want any more surprises.”

He sat at the table, glanced at his coffee mug, but made no move to pick it up. He smiled reassuringly. “Langley's positioning itself to take the Carnivore. Alive. They want to get out of him everything he knows. All the political secrets. Where the skeletons are buried.”

“That's great. Then I won't have to worry about him anymore.” She paused, eyes suddenly aware. “Somehow taking the Carnivore involves me. A healthy me. How?”

“Langley needs you for the operation.”

“You've got to be joking.”

“No joke. Langley believes you can be an enormous help. Besides, they figure you've got a vested interest.”

She paced across the room. “I don't remember how to do the work! All I've got is a list of dates and places, summaries of operations I was on. Only what you gave me to
read
. I could get killed. I could get someone else killed!”

His calm voice grew earnest. “Langley believes with proper preparation the risk would be minimal. It makes sense, Liz. You're already involved with the Carnivore, and Langley needs you because of that. They want to send you to our elite training camp in Colorado. You'll get back your endurance and strength, and a decent working knowledge of the world . . . current events, celebrities, politics, that sort of thing. They want you to be able to hold conversations and not draw attention to yourself. And, of course, you'll also need to get back your old intelligence skills.”

She sat heavily at the table. She glanced at her coffee, but had no taste for it. From what she'd read, Langley's secret training camps were thorough and turned out highly successful agents. Still—

“I'll be with you, coaching you all the way.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

“You said Langley needed me because of my connection to the Carnivore.” She stared into his brown eyes, trying to see the truth in them. “Is Langley planning to take the Carnivore by using me . . . as
bait
?”

He broke eye contact. “Sorry, Liz. I honestly don't know. In fact, I don't even know my own assignment. Probably neither of us will until it's absolutely necessary. Security's paramount. This operation is higher than top secret. It's blue-code, need-to-know. It's not just that Langley's worried about the Carnivore. They're concerned some other country will try to grab him first. Obviously we want him—and what he knows—all to ourselves.” At last he looked up at her, his square face steady, grave. “If you're the lure, you'll be trained and prepared for it, and you can believe Langley will cover all angles to protect you. They know exactly what to do.”

He drank coffee. “You're under no obligation, darling. You can forget everything I've just said. Langley can't use you if you're not committed. If you don't want to do this, you can take a new cover somewhere else. Hide in a different city.”

His words said one thing, his expression another. He—and Langley—wanted her.

She said, “Tell me what Langley has in mind.”

He recited details. When he'd finished, she leaned forward, head in hands, thinking: She'd been terribly ill, but now her mind seemed perfectly sharp. Her body grew stronger every day. She considered her past. According to the records, she'd been a top agent. Langley believed in her so much they were willing to go to a lot of trouble and expense to back their bet she could help end their three-decade search for a major international killer.

The Carnivore would never stop searching for her, and she hated the thought of spending the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.

Then, too, going through the training might help her get back her memory.

She took a deep breath, picked up her mug of cold coffee. “I'll do it.”

The next day Liz and Gordon flew across the dun-colored deserts of California and Utah and up into the green mountains of northern Colorado, where Camp William Donovan spread across twenty thousand remote, timbered acres. Named for OSS leader “Wild Bill” Donovan, the camp was so secret not even Langley's telephone directory was allowed to list it. To hide its purpose, signs on the high-security entrance and along the perimeter wall announced:

NO TRESPASSING

FOUR-ROCK RANCH—PROPERTY

U.S. FOREST SERVICE

For this reason, insiders called Camp Donovan the Ranch.

The heart of the Ranch was a flag circle three miles in from
the entrance. Around the circle stood Quonset huts housing labs, offices, classrooms, and equipment. A sense of authority and precision showed in the exact angling of buildings, the fresh paint, the gleaming metals. All week, hour after hour, men and women strode around the flag circle going to and from classes and labs. Some double-timed. The air was electric, intense. The Ranch packed students' schedules because there was much to master and being able to perform expertly under stress was part of the curriculum.

Most of the trainees and some of the staff used cover names. Like Liz, most trainees were on their way to assignments. One of the Ranch's rules was no friendships, not even casual ones. This was because reacting like a friend outside the safety of the Ranch could, at best, blow a cover. At worst, it could get someone killed.

There were perhaps two other trainees who had their own personal handlers, but none was more attentive than Gordon. He brought her magazines, the
New York Times
, and health shakes from the PX. He accompanied her to the library and classes on small arms, surveillance, judo, and bugging and debugging. He sat patiently by during her long nights of study. Often he made notes in a spiral notebook with his favorite silver Cross pen. Gordon wanted her to succeed. She saw it in his watchful brown eyes, his anticipation of her needs, his positive, upbeat, encouraging words.

Could anyone be more devoted?

She wished she could remember the love they'd shared. He'd told her, “I've put us on hold. At first the most important thing was getting you healthy again. Now, of course, there's the Carnivore operation. I'll wait until you remember, or until you fall in love with me again. You're worth waiting for, darling.”

She felt guilty and confused. He was parent, brother, friend, mentor, and lifeline. She'd had dreams of sex, and realized sex was part of the task memory she'd never lost. She literally remembered how sex worked, but not anyone with whom she'd been in love or had sex. Most importantly, she had no memory of Gordon.

Sometimes when he wasn't looking, she watched him, a muscular man with lionlike grace. She engraved in her brain the sound of his voice, the polish of his movements. Realized with a shock she could lose him. He could go away. He could die.

Was this love?

She asked him about himself.

“I was recruited into the Company when I was in college,” he told her. “University of Michigan, early '70s. A history professor invited me into his office one day, and a recruiter was waiting. It sounded good, so I didn't bother to graduate.”