Time to Kill (13 page)

What was of primary importance was that the electronic exchange between Washington DC and California had given him Beverley Littlejohn's all-essential email address, into which had to be implanted a ‘ghost server', a quantum leap improvement upon a Trojan Horse, for what he had to achieve. The Trojan Horses Mason had installed in the websites of White Deer Penitentiary, Glynis Needham and Patrick Bell gave him the undetected facility to roam – and utilize – whatever and wherever he chose within their respective sites. The effect of installing separate and unsuspected ghost servers between the two parole officers, activated by obvious but exclusive trigger words of ‘mason' or ‘white deer', was to suspend between them an electronic seine net in which any exchange from Washington or California would be enmeshed and stopped, without Glynis Needham or Beverley Littlejohn knowing it. And allowing him, still without either person being aware, to adjust, rewrite or respond in what would appear to both to be expected acknowledgements but with what he wanted to convey, not what they had written, one to the other.

The time difference between the east and west coasts of America, which had not been part of Mason's evasion plan, worked in his favour. From his Trojan Horse within the DC parole system Mason knew that Beverley Littlejohn had not replied to Glynis's initial message and he had his ghost server filter in place by the time she did, just after 2 p.m. East Coast time. It was a simple acknowledgement of Glynis Needham's advisory message, accompanied by assurances to do whatever she could to help Mason's resettlement and employment, the expectation of encountering a real life spy for the first time (‘I think he looks closest to Sean Connery's James Bond from the photographs') and interspersed with a lot of how-are-you-I'm-fine-it-would-be-great-to-meet-up-sometime sentiments. Mason passed it on without any alteration. Once he'd read it he didn't do anything to alter Glynis Needham's return promise to alert the other woman to his California arrival details either.

It was late afternoon Washington time before Mason was satisfied that he had his other intercepting ghost servers satisfactorily in place, tempering the satisfaction with the reminder that there was no way he could insure against any of them switching from email to telephone contact.

By chance it was the same reservation clerk as before at the Hertz office just off M Street, which spared him the delaying discussion of renting in cash rather than credit card. Prompted, though, by her recognition when the essential priority was always for him to remain unrecognized, Mason told her he'd probably return the car – another Yaris – to the airport facility, as he'd done earlier, reminding himself as he did so to list from the telephone book back at Guest Quarters all the Hertz outlets in the city, as well as those of Avis and Budget. It was impossible to calculate how long he'd need to complete his necessary total surveillance of Daniel and Ann Slater, 2832 Hill Avenue SE and whatever else emerged from it. But if he were to remain invisible it was essential he never drove more than once around Frederick in the same car model, make or colour. It was the most basic rule of undetected observation always to avoid identifiable vehicles, doubly, even trebly, important when the target was another equally highly qualified intelligence officer. Mason hesitated at the reflection, wondering if it had been a precaution practised by the CIA after Slater had exposed him. Hardly necessary, he reminded himself. They'd had all the proof they'd needed of his spying, without having to gain more with prolonged stake-outs. He would, of course, have spotted it if it had been imposed, maybe even had a chance to run.

There was no possibility of his oversleeping the next morning, but Mason decided against going out for dinner that night. He limited himself to two highballs while copying out the addresses of car rental companies, watched the early evening news, and grilled some of the steak he'd bought from the basement supermarket at the Watergate, not bothering with any wine. He didn't watch television afterwards but sat, thinking about what was going to begin the following day.

It was very definitely time.

Mason was on the road by 5.30 a.m., surprised at the volume of traffic already on the roads. It got even heavier on the Beltway, the impression heightened by the constant stream of vehicles passing him contentedly enclosed in the slow lane. Even driving unhurriedly Mason reached the outskirts of Frederick just after seven, stopping at the first McDonald's for coffee and a blueberry muffin. He considered, but quickly abandoned, the idea of asking directions to Hill Avenue. As he was approaching Frederick from the west it was unlikely any of the staff would know an address on the other side of the town and he'd attract attention if the question was passed around among them in their effort to help.

He was waiting at the door when the tourist office opened, and to fulfil his role as a vacationing visitor Mason collected some unwanted sightseeing brochures and guides as well as the town map, choosing a Main Street cafe for more coffee and its central location to orientate himself. He located Hill Avenue SE on the map and memorized a route he didn't expect to take longer than ten minutes to complete. It was very much small-town USA. There were neat buildings and stores and a rounded civic centre with its inevitable, high-poled flag set amidst methodically arranged flower beds – tulips and polyanthus and daffodils and a lot more he couldn't name, all regimented by their colours – and pattern-sculpted grass. Mason was discomfited – unsettled – by it. It was close to being
too
small-town, a place where almost everyone knew – at least by sight – everyone else: a place in which a loitering stranger would be obvious. Noticed. Objectively, from another viewpoint, Mason conceded it to be right – the obvious protection – for someone with a new name, a new everything including a new wife, in which to hide himself. Prepare himself for the Russian retribution that would be inevitable, expected, if the KGB or its successor chose to hunt him down. Would Slater or Sobell have expected that? Feared that? Of course he would have done. Retribution was always exacted upon defectors by Russian intelligence, if the traitor could be found.

What about him? Would Sobell – or Slater as he had become – fear retribution from him? Unlikely, Mason decided; unlikely to the point of years ago having become dismissible. Deciding when – how – Slater and Ann were going to learn he was out for revenge was going to be one of the most difficult things. Mason wanted them to know, to be terrified for as long as possible, to suffer horribly, realizing they were trapped and that there was nothing they could do to prevent his revenge. But if he mistimed it by as much as a second they'd run, seek protection from the CIA or whoever it was who were now responsible for maintaining their security. Couldn't have that; risk that. If he lost them this time he wouldn't get another chance. If he got the timing wrong he could even be rearrested. Returned to the piss-stinking, ass-fucking nether world of a prison. Could never do that. Would rather kill himself than go back to that.
Would
kill himself. Not hesitate for a moment. Wouldn't happen, though. Couldn't happen. He had them at his mercy. Except there wouldn't be any mercy. Any escape. They wouldn't know it was him, not until it was too late, when they couldn't do anything about it. That's when he'd string it out, let them know it was him. Keep them prisoners maybe, to gloat over their helplessness. Ensure they couldn't escape, though. Break their legs, so they couldn't run. Their arms, as well, so they couldn't fight back, couldn't do anything.

‘You want a refill?'

Mason physically, obviously, jumped at the presence beside him of the waitress, a young, blonde, milk-fed kid most likely working her way through college. ‘I was thinking. Miles away. You startled me.'

‘You all right?' She appeared genuinely concerned.

‘Sure. Just thinking of things, like I said. A refill would be good.'

‘Looking at the history?' She smiled, nodding down at the brochures on the table beside him. ‘Gettysburg's worth visiting. It's quite close.'

‘I might well do that.' Mason smiled back. What the fuck was he doing? He'd attracted attention to himself, losing control – forgetting where he was – and jerking up like a frightened cat at not being aware she was beside him. She'd remember it, make a story of it to other kids that night. Mason was hot with embarrassed fury, hoping he wasn't too obviously red faced.

‘You sure you're OK?'

‘Absolutely fine.' He had to get out, to minimize it so there was as little as possible for her to remember; certainly not enough from which to describe and identify him.

‘You staying locally?' the girl persisted.

Fuck off, go bother someone else with your coffee refills! ‘Don't plan to. Just passing through and thought I'd take a look-see.'

There's some hotels, a couple of motels, if you change your mind.'

‘I'll remember that.'

‘Enjoy,' she said, finally moving on.

Mason forced himself to remain at the table, hunched over the unread tourist guides to obscure his face as much as possible, knowing she'd be curious if he left the coffee he'd accepted. He gestured for his check the moment he'd finished and carefully counted out a fifteen percent tip, neither too little nor too much to give her something else to remember him by.

‘Maybe see you again if you decide to stay?' She smiled, as he rose to leave.

‘Maybe,' Mason said. He didn't pause directly outside the cafe, striding away to get out of sight and hopefully out of her mind. Wrong to overestimate the incident, he tried to reassure himself. From strictly professional standards – the standards he had to maintain at all times and never for a moment forget – it shouldn't have happened. But it had only been a friendly kid trying to do her job, nothing more. If it had a relevance it was as a warning against his hanging around too long in one place or getting lost in reverie again.

Out of sight of the cafe Mason curbed the impulse to continue hurrying, although he didn't linger, either. When he got into the Yaris he realized, angry again, that he'd forgotten the route to Hill Avenue and needed to consult the map again.

Like Frederick itself, the location of the house was bad for Mason's purpose but well chosen for Slater's. It was a two storey, white painted clapboard, with an attached, single-storey garage at the end of a wide drive, now empty. At that time of the morning so was the avenue itself, stretching totally straight for at least five hundred yards – maybe more – on either side of number 2832, with no intervening cross section or street offering the slightest safe place for surveillance. Slater's house stood alone on its two or three acre plot, as did every house in the street deserted even of animals. Some of the properties, although not Slater's, had trees or expansive shrubs in their gardens and there were some trees at the road edge, too. There were no dropped leaves around any of them. There were a few lawn sprinklers operating, but Mason couldn't detect a single abandoned child's bicycle, buggy or toy. Every front lawn was manicured and sharply shovel-edged. As he got closer to Slater's house Mason isolated the CCTV mountings and the separate lenses at the porch and the garage entrance he guessed to be for visitor-identifying TV cameras. Mason's spirits – and his expectation – lifted at the sight of the basketball hoop on the side of the garage. So they had a kid, maybe more than one. Certainly a boy, because he didn't think girls played basketball. If the boy or boys played basketball they were of school age. He could hurt Slater and Ann far more than he'd first hoped, because he'd always planned that if there were kids they'd be the first to go. He didn't have to turn his head as he passed the house to count the three separate front door locks, one big enough to be a deadlock, guessing there'd be additional inner chains or maybe even bars.

Mason drove along and around four of the streets at the end of Hill Avenue without locating a school bus drop, then retraced his route down the road that ran parallel behind Slater's house, separated from its rear neighbour by a high, unbroken hedge. He located the school pick-up on the street that formed a T-junction at the bottom. Fifty yards further along that street was a small neighbourhood shopping precinct with a shaded car park behind. He checked it out to decide upon the most concealed spot for later, and bought a
Newsweek
magazine at the convenient 7-Eleven.

Mason spent a further hour thoroughly reconnoitring the entire area around Slater's house until he was satisfied he knew every approach and exit street before driving back towards the town and stopping at a tavern he'd isolated on his way out. With the coffee shop mistake still in the forefront of his mind Mason chose what he considered the most unobtrusive booth. He took his time with a beer studying the menu and drank another with his scrod. Fish had been a rarity in the penitentiary and a preference since he'd been released.

Mason wasn't sure what time schools let out so he was back in his already chosen and fortunately near empty parking spot behind the shopping precinct by three p.m. He remained hidden beneath a tree clump and behind his magazine, alert for each and every movement on the outside street, reacting immediately when the easily identified yellow school bus finally passed. Mason was already on the cross street before the children were disgorged, in no hurry to close the gap between himself and the kids when he saw there were a few waiting mothers.

Mason pulled himself into the cover of one of the street-edged trees that never seemed to lose their leaves, straining intently to recognize Ann, trying to adjust his recollection of his former wife who had cheated and then abandoned him so many years ago, striving to imagine how she would have changed, how she might have physically altered, under cosmetic surgery even, hairstyle and colouring almost inevitably different. Mason scrutinized every waiting mother before determining that Ann was not among them.