Masquerade (9 page)

Chapter 9

“Gordon, do I have family in Santa Barbara, real or imagined?” Liz said. “The Walkers? Aunt Jane, Uncle Hamilton, cousin Michael?”

They were alone at a long table in an empty classroom. He sat across from her, his spiral notebook closed at his elbow. She was hunched over her Beretta 92-F pistol, cleaning it.

Gordon said, “Walker was a cover name we made up for you.”

“Yes, Sarah Walker. You didn't create a Santa Barbara family for me, too?”

“Where are you getting such bizarre ideas?”

She oiled the Beretta. “Is there something I should know? Something about me and my cover?”

“Where'd you get all this crap about a fictitious Walker family?”

“My CIA file.”

“Not in the file I gave you.”

“In personnel's. Here at the Ranch. I used the computer.”

“When?”

She looked up. His face was red and growing thick.

She said, “Does it matter?”

Swift and sure as a jackal, he lunged, grabbed her wrist, and twisted back her arm. The violence stunned her.

“Listen to me, Liz Sansborough.” His words were clipped, his eyes slits. “I've shown you everything that's relevant for
you to know. What's in personnel's file is none of your damned business. It's
top secret
.”

Her belly churned, but her mind felt strangely calm.

His face was close to hers. “You're in the Company. You follow orders. Your orders are to stay out of government files you have no clearance to see. Do you understand?”

She could slam her fingertips into his eyes. Go for his balls under the table. Her Beretta wasn't loaded, but she could bash it against his head . . . but why did she think those things? That was the way she'd been taught to treat an enemy.

“Yes.” Her tone was brittle.

He released her and inhaled deeply. “I didn't want to hurt you, darling.” His voice was completely different again: Smooth, composed, the voice of the man she admired. “Being in the Company isn't a game. The rules are serious. Life and death. What made you even want to look in your file?” He stared as if trying to probe her brain. “I don't want you to get hurt in the field, or, God forbid, killed.”

“Of course not.”

A hot tide of anger rose in her throat. Who
were
Jane, Hamilton, Sarah, and Michael Walker? If they were real, did she know them? Were their identities lost in her past?

And why had the mere mention of them made Gordon lose control? What else didn't he want her to see . . . or know?

Dinner that night was spaghetti. The hot scents of oregano, thyme, and garlic filled the cafeteria. Liz sensed she'd had this meal many times with an elderly white-haired lady who spoke Italian and smelled of just-baked bread. The lady had a sideboard with ugly scrollwork in her living room, and when Liz was a little girl she'd loved to hide inside it.

Who was that white-haired woman?

A neighbor? A grandmother?

Later that night Liz studied Gordon's sleep patterns—the periods of restlessness, the periods of immobility. When he entered
another phase of deep sleep, she again prowled across the camp and broke into the personnel building. Again she used her access code to enter the computer. But this time the computer refused it:

CANNOT READ. EXIT OR TRY AGAIN.

Gordon had blocked her code.

The early morning sky was pristine blue and cloudless over the Rockies. Lying on her cot, Liz stared out at it and thought of the photo of Gordon and herself on the beach in Santa Barbara. There was something about it—

“You're awake. Good.” Gordon stood over her. As always, his smile was warm. “Put on your jogging clothes. We're going for a drive.”

“Why?”

“Your endurance test. A twenty-mile run.”

As she dressed, she eyed him suspiciously. He acted as if nothing had happened, as if he'd never exploded and twisted her arm, as if he'd not blocked her access to the computer. Instead, he chatted amiably about the day's classes, and when she was ready, he drove them in a green Ford Explorer out onto one of the dirt roads that wound through the Ranch.

At last he stopped, and they got out next to a mass of wild roses whose yellow heads dipped in the light mountain wind. The road stretched behind them, a dusty, narrow ribbon curving back through the timbered mountainside. The sun was pleasantly warm, but she knew that after half an hour of running its heat would blister as if she were in the Mojave.

“What's this endurance test for?” She stretched, preparing her muscles.

“Your physical conditioning. I'll be waiting for you.”

“Then what happens?”

“I'll buy you a beer at the officers' club.”

“Gordon, dammit. What's this all about?”

“When you pass, we'll talk.” He got into the car.

He'd said “when,” an important vote of confidence, because
she didn't know whether she could do twenty miles, especially at this altitude. Her longest single run so far had been eight.

She took off at a slow pace, and he drove past, waving, and disappeared around a curve.

She kept up a steady jog. But as the miles disappeared behind, energy drained from her limbs. Occasional pebbles jarred her to the teeth. She knew she was approaching “the wall.” She wanted to drop from exhaustion.

But her pride was involved. She had to do it.

Sweat plastered her running clothes to her skin. Her joints ached with every footfall.

Then, with an abrupt downshift in pain, she passed through the demoralizing wall. She could breathe again.

Vigor flowed to her muscles.

Triumphant, she ran on. At last she spotted Gordon, who was waiting in the car as he'd said. This must be the end of the twenty miles. Relief flooded her.

She slowed.

Her mind and body began to shut down, prepare to rest. But he leaned out the driver's window and pointed away, farther down the hot mountain road.

“Keep going!” he yelled. “One more mile to camp!”

She frowned. He must've stopped the car too soon. She ached everywhere. She was trembling. Did she have another mile in her?

She plowed ahead, swearing.

He drove past, not even looking back. She fought the urge to quit. She weaved, forced herself to concentrate on the dusty road when all she wanted was to collapse in the shade of the cool ponderosa pines.

At last she saw him again, waiting in the car at the edge of the flag circle. She ached everywhere. Her head was reeling. Then the gentle mountain air suddenly split with the noise of a baseball game.

Gordon leaned out the window again.

The loud baseball game was blasting from the camp's garbage truck, which was lumbering around the circle with a boom box blaring from the cab. It was a Dodgers-Braves game,
and the driver was the new personnel director who'd nearly caught her the first night she'd sneaked into personnel.

When she reached Gordon, she refused to let herself fall. She staggered in circles, willing her muscles to cool.

“That guy's finally gone nuts.” He nodded at the garbage truck.

“What happened?” she panted at last. “Did you misjudge the mileage?”

“No. I wanted you to do the full twenty-one miles.”

“You bastard. You should've told me.”

“So you could plan for the extra distance? Pace yourself? No, that's the point. In our business, it's a mistake to ever believe you've achieved your goal, because that signals you psychologically and physically to quit.”

She was awed by the simple logic. “Just like I wanted to quit a mile back.”

“You understand the real test?” He studied her.

She nodded. “Handling the physical demands was important, but the critical test was whether I could make myself go on.”

“Exactly. Determination, tenacity, courage. Whatever you want to call it. There are times when all of us in the business have to achieve beyond our initial goals. But when our bodies and minds resist, we increase the odds we can't.”

“Or that we'll make a mistake.”

He smiled, and she saw his intense pride in her. “Well, darling, you had the guts and stamina to go that extra mile, and you have the brains to figure out what it meant. I could do a pop quiz on history, culture, and current events, but that seems silly. The way you devour information, you ought to be able to carry on a conversation with anyone.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “What are you saying, Gordon? Am I finished here? Are we—?”

“I'll talk to Hughes Bremner, tell him as far as I'm concerned he can set a date. He'll be pleased.” Gordon had told her Bremner was a very important Langley official who'd taken a special interest in her. It was to Bremner that Gordon faxed his notes each day. “The final phase will be training for the actual operation. Congratulations, darling. You've passed.”

While Gordon went into administration to call Hughes Bremner, Liz returned to their cabin. She felt guilty.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she'd misjudged Gordon.

She stripped off her clothes and showered, thinking about it all, trying to find a fresh perspective. Then, as she put on her camos, the memory of her awaking came back to her. She recalled the odd feeling and gnawing doubt. There was something about the photo of her and Gordon—

She found it in her dresser drawer with the gold band she didn't feel right wearing. She examined their smiling, radiant faces. She could see neither of her hands, but Gordon's left hand was visible. And on the ring finger there was . . . no gold ring. None.

Her breath caught in her throat. That was what had bothered her. She stared at the hand for some time. At last she turned over the photo. The writing she remembered was there: Hendry's beach and a date.

The date was less than a year ago. But he'd told her he hadn't taken off the ring in
two years
. It could be a simple mistake, but she doubted it. He'd made too big a point of what the ring meant to him. He must have lied. But why?

He'd lost control, flown into a violent rage when she'd looked into her official personnel file. He'd blocked her access to the computer. Now she believed he'd be equally furious if he knew she'd stopped taking her pills.

She could no longer dismiss her doubts. Despite his lecture today about the seriousness of their purpose, and his congratulations for her going the extra mile, something was very wrong.

What other lies had Gordon told her? And why?

And what did they have to do with the Carnivore?

That evening before dinner, Liz accompanied Gordon as he stopped at the busy administration office to fax the day's notes back to Hughes Bremner at Langley. As usual, he hunched over the small fax form, covering it with one hand as he wrote
with his favorite silver Cross ballpoint pen. There was no way she could see his personal code. He finished, tore off the top form, paper-clipped it to his report, and handed the sheets to the secretary. She said she'd fax them immediately. As Gordon turned and headed for the door, Liz glanced around. Everyone was occupied. She palmed the pad and followed Gordon out.

That night in their bathroom she rubbed soft lead over the top fax form. To the eye, the sheet looked blank. But Gordon wrote with an intensity that matched his commitment to Langley, and she hoped that meant he'd left impressions in the paper.

Slowly, patiently she worked, until a few letters, then words, and at last numbers became visible. She gave a silent cheer. She had it. Gordon's personal code!

Much later Liz again analyzed Gordon's sleeping. At 3:00
A.M.
he fell into a deep sleep, and she broke into personnel. She sat at a computer and punched in his code. Would it work?

When the menu appeared, she exhaled, relieved.

She typed in a request for the file of her cover, Sarah Walker. In a few seconds the screen showed a face identified as Sarah Walker.

The face wasn't hers!

Instead she saw a pleasant woman with a small chin, slightly crooked nose, and no mole above the mouth. She studied the computer image as if she could make it talk.

Was it familiar? Maybe—

She read the file. Sarah Jane Walker, magazine writer and celebrity profiler, born the same year as Liz. Their height was a quarter inch different; their weight within three pounds. An entry said Sarah's mother had a brother living in England—Harold (“Hal”) Sansborough. He'd married Melanie Childs, and they'd had a daughter, Liz. Hal and Melanie Sansborough had been killed in New York City.

How does one know, she wondered, the difference between memory and what one's been told is memory?

If Liz Sansborough and Sarah Walker were the same person, why were there variations in their physical descriptions?
Was that operator error? But at her height—five foot nine, give or take—a quarter inch could be explained by posture or the measurer's instruments, and the three pounds could be normal weight fluctuation. When she thought about it, either physical description could be hers.