Time to Kill (15 page)

‘What do you think?' asked David, eagerly.

‘I think we've got an awful lot to talk about and consider,' said Ann. ‘You haven't even got through high school yet.'

David's face crumpled. ‘You mean I can't!'

‘I don't mean that at all. I mean Dad and I have got to talk about it, with you. Then we've got to talk to the principal and Jeb Stout …' Ann offered David the university letter. ‘And after all that we've got to decide what would be the best for you. That's the only thing that really interests your dad and me – what's best, the very best, for you.'

‘But you're not saying no?'

‘You heard what I'm saying. I'm very proud of you and I know Dad is going to be, when we tell him later. And I guess Mr Spalding and a lot of people at school are proud of you, too.'

‘I want to be a major league basketball player,' declared the boy.

Slater didn't call until after ten, Eastern time and Ann let their son take the phone in another eruption of disconnected words that took as much time as before to link together. Throughout the to and fro Ann sat studying the child she'd never thought capable of conceiving, after the gynaecologist's prognosis following the miscarriage caused by Mason's beating, feeling the pride and love and satisfaction and other emotions she couldn't identify move through her.

When she finally regained the phone Slater said, ‘What about this then?'

Conscious of David's attention Ann said, ‘Isn't it exciting!'

‘Unbelievable! You OK?'

‘Fine. Why'd you ask?'

‘I phoned the gallery from the plane, just before I landed. Jean said you'd taken the afternoon off.'

So little had they travelled by air that Ann had forgotten about in-flight telephone facilities. ‘It was quiet and I wanted to concentrate upon the exhibition,' said Ann, easily recovering. ‘I've decided to extend the advertising until the opening. The
News-Post
are going to cover it. Maybe do something in their weekend edition as well.'

Ann sounded all right, Slater thought. ‘So that was all it was?'

‘What else could it have been!' She'd checked the house CCTV playback but not that at the gallery because she'd left early, she suddenly remembered. She'd have to do it first thing tomorrow.

His had been a careless question, conceded Slater. ‘Just wanted to make sure everything was all right.'

‘Fixed your meetings?'

‘Starting with breakfast at eight tomorrow.'

‘So you might …' started Ann but stopped. That wasn't important any longer: she had everything sorted out, everything in proportion.

‘Might what?'

‘Get a good idea of what the contracts could be worth?' Ann finished.

‘A ballpark figure,' agreed Slater, deciding it would be a mistake to press any further. ‘What do you think about David's news?'

‘There's a lot for us to talk about, think about.'

‘It could be a hell of an opportunity for him.'

‘I know. We'll go through it all when you get back.'

‘It sounds good about your exhibition, too.'

‘I hope so,' said Ann.

‘Everything's on the up, like I told you it was going to be.'

‘Right!' agreed Ann, believing it. ‘Everything's on the up.'

Which was what Jack Mason was thinking, although not in those precise words. He'd achieved far more than he'd imagined possible in such a short time, most of it through his own clever, well-trained determination. Some of this was due to luck, that he felt he deserved, and this luck had held, ensuring everything he'd planned hadn't been destroyed by an accident he couldn't possibly have anticipated or prevented. In fact everything was on the plus side, nothing on the loss.

After only two days he knew every route into and away from 2832 Hill Avenue SE. He knew every outside precaution and protection Slater had installed, from which he could devise an entry if he decided upon one, which so far he hadn't. But that if he did, the approach couldn't be from the rear because the hedge separating Slater's house from its rear neighbour was too high and too thick. He knew that Slater and Ann had just one child, much taller for his age than any other kid in his class, who Mason estimated from seeing him get off the school bus to be either in the eighth or ninth grade. The kid obviously liked sport, basketball particularly, which was scarcely surprising considering his height. From that day's extended surveillance Mason knew the location of the school and all its approaches and the exact time the kid got on and off the school bus. And from his telephone check of the licence plate on the light green Ford, purporting to be an aggrieved driver with whom it had been involved in a minor, unreported car park knock, he knew it to be registered to Ann Slater, which told him he still had Slater's vehicle to identify. And he knew, from studying the tourist office brochures and reading that day's edition of the
Frederick News-Post
when he'd got back to Guest Quarters, how incredibly lucky he'd been not to have come face to face with his former wife.

He'd flicked through the brochures first, his initial celebratory highball at hand, not immediately registering the art exhibition flyer beyond the purple, yellow and orange daubs of the chosen illustration which was reproduced in the newspaper advertisement. It was only when he idly went back to the better reproduction of the glossier flyer that Ann's name, as the gallery proprietor, glared out at him, as well as the Main Street address. And from its number he realized that he'd walked by it twice, on his way to and from the cafe in which he'd had the unsettling coffee refill episode. All it would have needed for everything to go wrong would have been for Ann to have been looking out of the gallery window on either occasion.

And then he remembered – or thought he remembered – a CCTV pod.

Twelve

I
t hadn't been a mistaken recollection: what it was, could far too easily become, was a disaster of his own unthinking stupidity. He'd been too concerned about an unimportant upset, again of his own stupid creation, over an inconsequential encounter with a college kid waitress, which meant he hadn't bothered – hadn't thought! – to check the security precautions in the town, which he should have, at all times and in each and every circumstance, considered to be enemy territory. It didn't matter – wasn't an escape or an excuse – that he hadn't known at the time that his former wife was now the proprietor of an art gallery. Hadn't he thought of Frederick – in which he
knew
Slater and Ann were living – to be a small town in which everyone knew everyone else? Shouldn't he therefore have taken every conceivable, professional precaution to avoid being technically, forensically, identified?

There were two easily visible CCTV monitors expertly positioned to scan not just everyone passing in either direction in front of Ann's gallery but also angled to picture passing vehicles and pedestrians going in both directions on the other side of Main Street. Mason, now – too late – well out of range, felt a sink of despair. What would be the loop length of the constantly revolving recording tape? One day? Mason wasn't sure but he didn't think current technology went longer than twenty-four hours before being wiped, by re-recording. It was an immaterial question. His image, front and back, would have been registered from a proximity too close to be anything but pin sharp. What about the possibility of being obstructed by the people around him? He couldn't remember, not sufficiently to believe there could be any doubt. It had been comparatively early mid-morning when he got to the town, not a lot of people on the sidewalk. More later, when he'd hurried out, anxious to get away. Less visibly obvious then. Perhaps. Perhaps not. He was clutching at straws – less than straws, threads – to hope that either Ann or Slater, the two people who probably knew him better than any other living person, wouldn't instantly identify him.

Caught by the thought, Mason looked hurriedly around for stake-out cars or obvious groups maintaining protective surveillance, but saw nothing that alarmed him, just as quickly accepting another stupidity. Why would there have been protective surveillance? He wasn't committing any offence, being in the same town as his ex-wife and her new husband, a former KGB officer. No one knew – could even suspect – that he had any way of knowing where they had been relocated, although his being in the same town stretched coincidence almost beyond breaking point. Which didn't matter. There was no proof that he was aware of it being their hometown.

However, he was suddenly aware of a serious contradiction to this thinking: he'd saved on his laptop back at Guest Quarters the illegal codes and passwords that gave him access to the websites of White Deer, the two parole officers and their ghost servers, and the lawyer, Patrick Bell. And even if he wiped them an expert computer technician would be easily able to recover it all from his hard drive. The pendulum swung again. But there was no legal justification for seizing that laptop and testing it, although from his years within the CIA Mason knew that legal justification wouldn't be a barrier if Langley chose to search his equipment. But why should they? He continued to try to reassure himself. This prompted another question: assuming – as he logically had to assume – that he would undoubtedly have been recognized by Slater and Ann, what would they do? Run to someone in authority, obviously. But who? Mason knew he'd done very well – very well indeed – discovering as much as he had through his computer infiltration, but it hadn't provided any indication of Slater still having a case officer at the CIA. Yes it had, came another quick contradiction. The approach to White Deer from someone named J. Peebles, with a Justice Department cover, had to be some sort of CIA link. Could he risk trying to hack in to Peebles' website? It would very definitely be a risk. Even when he'd been a serving agent the CIA had taken every precaution against being electronically penetrated, not just erecting supposedly impassable firewalls but setting up tracer traps through which they could track and identify anyone trying to get into their systems, even trying to piggyback the entry through an unsuspecting ‘cut-out' system into which he could initially hack. Too great a risk at this stage, Mason decided. But there could be another way. Glynis Needham would more than likely be brought in if Slater scuttled to his new masters for help. He'd confirmed what he'd needed to confirm here in Frederick, at least for the time being. Now he had more important things to do – certainly things hopefully to discover or from which to get guidance – back in Washington DC.

Despite his anxiety Mason still detoured to drive along Hill Avenue, which was still as immaculately sterile as on all his previous journeys up and down. There were no cars in the driveway of the Slaters' house. Before he actually passed in front Mason lowered both sun visors of the car – today a black Ford – and at the moment of doing so averted his face as far away from the CCTV cameras as he considered it safe to do. He checked the two adjacent streets as well, satisfying himself that there was no guarding surveillance.

He chose the Beltway, which was a mistake because it was clogged with a mid-morning build-up that twice brought him to an irritating standstill, and it was well past noon by the time he reached Guest Quarters.

As he walked into the lobby the receptionist said, ‘You just missed a call,' and handed over the message slip that she had been writing.

Glynis Needham's number was written on it. There was a tick in the ‘call back' box.

It was impossible for Mason to set all the intrusion traps he would have liked because there was a daily maid and linen change service to the apartment, but from the moment of his arrival he'd imposed as many as were feasible, arranging the cooking utensils and crockery in such a way that he would have instantly known if they'd been disturbed and since acquiring the laptop he'd left it suspended by its carrying-case strap in a specific, half-secured manner in the clothes closet with the additional precaution of a cotton wisp trapped in its zipper and another on a specific page in the unnecessary instruction manual.

Nothing had been moved or disturbed.

On the drive back from Frederick, Mason had mentally planned the precautions he had to take, which the parole officer's attempted approach didn't in any way affect; rather it increased the need for him checking his schedule before returning her call. He accessed his Trojan Horse within Glynis Needham's computer system and double-checked every communication that had passed through it since his release. There was nothing he had not already read. Neither was there in his other cyberspace stables at the penitentiary; John Peebles' personal record request was still the only item from anyone who could have any conceivable link with Langley; and nothing from Patrick Bell. Nor was there anything new or alarming ensnared in either of the ghost server filters between the two parole sites in DC or California.

During this check, Mason split his concentration, intent as he worked to assess his own physical and mental reactions; he was encouraged by what he gauged from both. He was understandably – properly – worried, but by no means panicked by the uncertainties crowding in upon him. It was time to try to remove at least one of those uncertainties.

The parole officer picked up her receiver on his second ring with a curt ‘Needham' identification. He hadn't intended any suggestion of mockery in responding ‘Mason' but realized too late it could have been construed as such.

‘Thought you might have called,' she said.

‘We're not due to meet until Friday.' It was scheduled for the morning, early enough for him to make the New York shuttle for the afternoon collection of the Adam Peterson chequebook, bank and Visa cards.

‘What about the compensation claim?'

Was that all her call was about, the fucking empty threat against Frank Howitt! ‘That's between me and my lawyer.'