No Way Back (3 page)

Next day I call a few people, make a quick good-bye. Longer one with Annie, at her house that evening.

“You’re really heading where you claim you are, Luther?” she says, giving me the grin she must have a patent on, because I’ve never seen one on any other woman that made me want her so much. “Swear you’re not going off elsewhere, into something truly stupid?”

“Absolutely. All I want is some peace and quiet. Maybe I’ll have some fun. If I can get past missing you.”

She laughs. “You’re so full of it sometimes.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. We’ve been seeing each other every day for years and it never got in the way of all the fun you managed with a half-dozen pretty young things, most of whose names I can’t remember.”

“Substitutes, Annie.”

“I think maybe you’ve convinced yourself at some level you want something you wouldn’t really like that much if you got it. Self-delusion, Luther. We’re good as we are.”

“You go right on thinking I’m deluded, if you like. Just let me go on being sure I’m not.”

“Haven’t I always done that? Or, more accurately, haven’t I always failed in my efforts to disabuse you of your whacked notions?” Annie laughs. “But we’ll keep dealing with that when you get back. Right now, I just want some more reassurance that you really are just going beach-bumming and will be back.”

“No problem. Hey, I won’t even be carrying. Don’t want to wind up in some south-of-the-border jail I won’t be able to bribe my way out of, on a stupid weapons charge.”

“Go carefully.” Annie kisses me on both cheeks. “You’ll have your cell?”

“Won’t work in the Yucatán. I’ll be calling you, though.”

The grin vanishes. Her eyes narrow.

“You’re lying, Luther.” She stares at me for a long minute, then says, “If I thought there was even a slight hope it’d make a difference, I’d ask you not to go.”

When I’m out on the porch, she searches my eyes for a moment, then turns and quietly closes her door.

I don’t sleep that night. Next morning I drive the TT to an address in Washington. I go in, disappear into another world. One of Westley’s young men goes out, takes my car, and makes it vanish, too.

WESTLEY AND HIS SPOOK HOUSE. FOUR STORIES, DARK
stone, absolutely identical to every other house lining the block just off Dupont Circle, like a platoon of Marines in dress-blue parade formation. Even has six buzzers beside the front door, names and apartment numbers beside each, since all the other rowhouses have long ago been chopped into apartments, home to young GS mid-grades, lobbyists, Hill assistants, law-firm associates doing their years-long boot camp of eighty-hour weeks, dreaming of making partner. Clever touch, the buzzers. They’ll account for all the people coming and going.

I’ve just put my duffel down on the foyer floor when Westley appears. First thing he says is “Lose the hair.” I haven’t cut it in maybe two years, it’s well past my shoulders. He scans my baggy cargoes, the long-sleeve waffle knit with a Billabong T worn over it. Second thing he says isn’t to me. “Get him some decent clothes, too,” he tells a young woman I haven’t even noticed, who’s leaning against a sideboard on the other end of the foyer. Third’s a question: “Your Russian up to speed?” When I admit it’s
rusty as hell, he says he’ll have a tutor from Langley come over to work me out for a couple of hours every afternoon. Then he goes back into the room from which he emerged.

“Well? You ready?” the girl asks me, smiling. She’s about my height, slim, with a clean-featured face, straight dark brows above amber eyes, but hair a golden brown. Like toast. Very tidy, at ease in her standard-issue officewear.

“What? I don’t quite fit in, fashion-wise?”

“Something like that,” she says. “You look like every other plainclothes drug cop I’ve ever seen. Never seen one on this block, though. You guys get your clothes from some specialized catalog or something?”

“Oh yeah. It’s called Narcstyle, very limited mailing list. Cool street looks, plus professional discounts and stuff.”

“Thought so. My name’s Allison, by the way, and I’ll be your style guide and personal buyer today.”

“Cool, Allison. I’m really ready for a total makeover. Been feeling so five-minutes-ago lately.”

Her laugh is perfectly natural. The Company teaches them things like that. No detail too small. “You must have been a star in acting class at the Farm, Allison,” I say.

She doesn’t even blink. “So let’s do it, Luther,” she says, swinging open the front door and leading me down the steps and a few houses east, where she keys a British green Mini-Cooper with a white top, the vehicle that’s elbowing the Volkswagen Bug as car of choice for her demographic cohort. The engine has an appealing alto hum as she pulls out, shifts into second, swings surely onto the Circle and off three-quarters of the way around.

So Westley’s given her my real name. Means Allison here’s a senior and trusted member of his team, despite her youth. Probably also means she’s a field agent, her name isn’t Allison, and she’s got the full set of spook
skills. So I’m watching her, not where we’re going, and she catches it.

“Do you always think so loudly? Or are you feeling we’ve only just met and there’s an instant chemistry so you don’t need to be quiet? Maybe even wondering how much time I’ll be spending at the house while you’re there?” She tosses me a quick smile, then refocuses on threading through the traffic web. “The answer is we’ll be together a lot. It’s not a crowded house. But you have a lot of work to do. A killer workload. Let’s do hair first.”

Fucking Westley. I’d love to get a look at the psych profile he has on me. I just know I’m going to be doing most of my prep work with a bunch of Allisons.

She finds a parking spot only a Mini could squeeze into. We walk half a block to Wisconsin Avenue. I haven’t spent much time in D.C., but I know we’re in Georgetown. She leads me into a hair place called Cutz. Allison tells the cutter what to do. “Short, but not too. A little tousled, sort of a Brad Pitt thing. But brushable down to corporate?”

“No problem,” says the girl with the scissors, fingering my ponytail. I feel kind of like a show dog about to be groomed for exhibition. “Great hair. Thick. Good body. The split ends’ll all wind up on the floor. A no-gel cut, though, right?”

“Exactly,” Allison says.

I’m looking in the mirror, seeing a familiar face, the one I’ve lived behind all my life. “You’re, like, really unusual, man,” says the cutter, who has a black Maori tattoo on her neck, an opal stud in one nostril, and two blood-red streaks in her blond hair. “Cool bones.”

“I’m Patagonian,” I say. I hear Allison stifle a chuckle when the cutter says, “Wow! Never seen one of those before. Where is Patagonia? South Seas, like Tahiti or something?”

“About as south as it gets,” I say. Why should I tell her I’m what came out of a union between an Afro-American Marine and a Viet girl with a touch of French blood? I don’t look much like either my father or my mother, anyway. My skin’s light copper, I’ve got a large Gallic-type nose, and my hair is as straight as if it’s been ironed. High, sharp cheekbones, moderately full lips. My eyes have a slight Asian cant, but they’re gray-green, not black. When I was in Special Forces, the grunts called me their Comanche; what would they know about Native Americans? So I went with that, passed myself off as a full-blood. They dug it.

“Do all Patagonians look like you?” the cutter asks between snips. “I mean, the cool bones and great skin and eyes and all?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “I’m average, totally.”

Half an hour later we walk out, Allison saying, “Great look. Suits you, Luther, though no Brad Pitt. He’s about your age now, imagine that. God, the crush I had on him when I was in high school and
Legends of the Fall
came out. He was so beautiful.”

I’m thinking I look a lot more like a not-so-young assistant to a Democratic House member from Massachusetts than any actor this kid had the adolescent hots for. But not real uncomfortable about it.

Can’t say the same about the suits. We drive a long way out Wisconsin to a very upscale mall in a very upscale, very close-in Montgomery County suburb. Saks Fifth Avenue has a branch there, and Allison takes me to the aspiring-to-be-CEO menswear section so directly I’m thinking she must shop here a couple times a month. I stand there like a tailor’s dummy while she and the salesman pull half a dozen Oxxfords or Hickey-Freemans or whatever youngish executives in conservative corporations wear off the racks. The salesman only
slips the jackets on me. They all seem a size too large. She settles on four: deepest navy, two grays so charcoal they’re almost black, one dark blue with the faintest pinstripe. “Oh, never mind that. We have a little man who does it just right,” Allison tells the salesman when he wants to call out the tailor for alterations. “Just put them in garment bags, please.”

Then it’s shirts: a dozen white oxford button-downs; ties: three muted paisleys, three rep striped regimentals, all silk; socks: a dozen black merino over-the-calves; shoes: one pair of wing tips, one pair of cap-toes, one pair of dress loafers, all black and all Church’s.

It’s a one-stop for everything else: the store’s Polo boutique. That’s where I finally say “You’ve got to be kidding,” and Allison says, “Negative. You know what it’s about.” A pair of khakis, a pair of jeans, a couple of polos, two cashmere V-necks. “Boxers or jockeys?” is the only question Allison asks, and scoops up a dozen when I answer jockeys. She carries a couple of the shopping bags but I’m listing under my load when we leave the store. It takes maybe ten minutes to find a way to stow everything in the Mini’s tiny trunk and rear seat area.

“Hey, that was fun, wasn’t it? Come on, admit it, Luther,” she says brightly as we’re cruising back to the spook house.

“Terrific. Loved every minute.” I’m bored, tired, already fed up.

“You were billed as a professional. Misinformation, or are you just really, really rusty? Too much time on the shelf?” Her voice isn’t bright now. I know she’s going to report every detail of our little expedition to Westley, with a concentration on my behavior and attitude. And Westley, this early, could easily cancel my contract without the mess of canceling my ticket, too. It’s all role-play, and time for me to switch mine if I want to stay on this job.

“Hey, Allison, you might want to consider lightening up. I’m just giving you a little of what you expected. Small-time narc, not too clever, attitude problem, way below Agency officer standard. Only asset he’s got is close-combat skills. And why the hell do we have to use low-life contractors like this Luther guy, anyway? That’s what you’ve been thinking. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

She glances at me once, then once again. “Everything’s a test.”

“I know. They really drum that one into you at the Farm. Takes years to get over it.”

She keeps her focus on the traffic ahead, but I see a hint of a smile playing about her mouth.

Then I know this: Allison’s going to be my main handler during mission prep.

Could be worse.

My room’s on the third floor of the spook house. It’s nice enough: comfortable double bed, easy chair, a desk with a neat NEC laptop, and a full bathroom with tub, shower, hotel towels. Someone’s unpacked my duffel, hung up my clothes in the armoire, placed my weapons—still in their holsters—on the night table beside the bed. But all the mags for the SIG and the Walther have been emptied, my cell’s nowhere, there’s no phone. And there’s no lock on the door.

For a moment my heart rate goes up a few beats. It’s involuntary, a reaction to a feeling of vulnerability. I chill. I don’t need pistols here, I wouldn’t want to call anyone even if I could, and what’s it matter if Allison or anyone else can barge in on me anytime they want? Worst case is somebody catches me jerking off, which would embarrass them more than it would me. Fuck it. I
take a long shower, towel off, dress in the clothes I started the day in, and lie down on the bed.

I must drift off, because I’m seeing Annie, hearing her say I’m hemorrhaging and she’s going to clamp the artery, hearing her say, “Luther? Luther?” and suddenly I’m bolt upright and there’s Allison framed in the doorway calling my name.

“Pretty good reflexes for an old guy,” she says. She’s done something to her hair, ditched the officewear for hip-slung jeans and a ribbed top. “How about some dinner? I was in the mood for expensive French, since Uncle’s picking up the tab. But considering your wardrobe? You like ethnic?”

“Thai, Mex, Chinese, Viet, whatever. I’m easy. Just one question. All you mid-twenties chicks shop from the same catalog or what? Those jeans, that top…”

“‘Chicks’?” She laughs. “That’s just so quarter-century-ago, Ewing.”

“I know. But it’s a lot more polite than right-this-minute cop and military nomenclature.”

“Which is all you know, because those guys, and scummy drug dealers, are who you’ve been hanging out with for years, while the world’s been spinning right out from under you. You never noticed?”

“Oh, I noticed all right. Just never found a way to get back on board and still be able to do the job. It’s an alternate universe from yours.”

“So we’ll go to one at least a little more like yours for dinner, okay? You know Adams Morgan?”

“No, can’t make him.”

“It’s a neighborhood, not a guy, for Christ’s sake.” Allison laughs. “Three-quarters yuppified, which accounts for all the good little restaurants. The other quarter? Not a gangbanger world like Anacostia and South East, but
some urban grit. You’ll feel right at home, I think. How about we do Mexican? Because pretty soon you’ll be eating Far East an awful lot. Las Lobos Cantina has super-hot tomatillo sauce.”

I get up and move to the door. “Oh, by the way, you can leave your wallet here,” she says. “Actually, you have to.”

Right. No ID. Seems like an unnecessary precaution at this stage, but house rules are house rules.

Which seem to have various extensions outside the house. We’ve got a chaperone, who introduces himself as Rob when we meet in the foyer. Then we’re in the Mini, moving along unfamiliar streets to Adams Morgan. I see at once Allison’s description was in the X-ring; at the edges of the stream of yuppies I spot at least two dealers on the short walk to this Las Lobos place. They’ve toned down the gangsta look—it’s all about fitting in, for sure—but I’d bet my life they’re holding, waiting for customers.

“Two players, small-time. One by that phone booth, the other near the Laundromat, by the alley,” I say. “The laundry guy’s packing. Probably a new niner, stainless steel. Not used to the weight. He keeps brushing it with his elbow.”

“You mean the kid in the black pants? He’s a fixture around here,” Rob says.

“Sure, must be his office,” I say. “You and I go over and hassle him, he might show us his fresh tool.”

“Let’s skip that,” Rob says.

I’m pretty sure Allison and Rob aren’t carrying, but he’s probably field-trained. Same cohort as Allison. They could be five years out of college, together in their first serious affair after four or five false starts with other partners. They’re tuned into each other. But, I’m almost certain, strictly professionally. Westley probably teams
them because they look like a pair of lovers, they give off that aura. Except to a trained watcher.

Inside the cantina, I make sure I get a seat with my back to the wall, and note all exits.

“You always on full alert?” Rob asks.

“Auto-reflex.” I pause. “Same as you, though you’re subtle about it. You scanned the tables, assessed the clientele when we came in. Pretty smooth.”

“Chicken enchiladas, with that tomatillo sauce, for me,” Allison says, shutting down this little exchange. “Dos Equis all around?”

The beers come, then the food. Poor acoustics, loud mariachi blaring. We can barely hear each other, so forget being overheard. But naturally there’s no talk about the job. Allison wants to draw me out, and I let her. Why not? It’s all in the dossier Westley has to’ve given her. She just wants to see how I’ll present it.

I do it straight, as she and Rob eat enchiladas with that hot green sauce she recommended and I tuck into beef fajitas. Where did I grow up? All over, military gypsy, never anywhere longer than two years, if you don’t put together a couple of separate stays outside Camp Lejeune. Born there, in fact, some time after my father, Gunnery Sergeant Thomas “One Way” Ewing, returned from his last tour in Nam with his Viet bride in tow. Left there when he did some embassy postings, spent two years in Yokohama and two years in Guam later on when he was assigned fleet duty.