Lauren stood there looking at Knox, unsure whether he was telling her the truth. “That was just a story for the media, so Scarponi would stop trying to kill him.” Though she did not intend to project her uncertainty, there was a waver in her voice.
Knox stepped closer to her. “And who told you that?”
“Nick, Nick Bradley, the man you just arrested.”
Knox’s mouth curled into a disparaging frown. “That man is a mole, Dr. Chambers, a spy. We’ve been after him for six years. He’s been using you to get to your husband. I wouldn’t trust anything he told you.”
Lauren’s eyes darted around the room, touching each of the men surrounding her in the periphery.
Was this possible? Could Nick be a spy?
Suddenly her mind was a flurry of thoughts...
all the inconsistencies in Nick’s stories...
the fact that Michael was not just her husband, but really an FBI agent and an assassin...
and now Nick—someone she’d come to know so well, someone she had come to trust—was actually a spy who’d been using her?
She looked up at the FBI director and forced certainty into her voice. “Nick Bradley is a small-time private investigator in Placerville, California.”
“That’s his cover. He was working with someone else here in Washington. That’s all I can tell you.”
“No, that can’t be right. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Look, Dr. Chambers. I know that learning your husband is dead is a terrible shock. You came here thinking you were going to see him. We had to allow the situation to play itself out so we could get Bradley here. That’s why we chose this location as a rendezvous point. There isn’t a place much more secure than an air force base. Once Bradley was in here, there’d be no way for him to escape. It was a perfect plan, if you ask me.”
“Enough lies! Michael’s not dead and Nick’s not a spy.”
Knox sighed, shook his head, then folded his arms across his chest. “I’m going against my better judgment in telling you this, but maybe it’ll put your mind at ease that I’ve given you full disclosure. It’s absolutely essential you don’t repeat anything I’m about to tell you. Not ever. Do I have your word?”
“Of course.” She would have agreed to just about anything at this point to get at the truth.
“Okay. Yes, we did release disinformation to the press describing Agent Payne’s death in the shootout at Fredericksburg. Truth is, he was only superficially wounded. But this evening, while we were transferring him to this facility, he was engaged in an operation designed to assist us in apprehending a dangerous fugitive, the man you mentioned before—Anthony Scarponi. Against my direct orders, he leaped from our helicopter and attempted to subdue Scarponi, who was in a sports utility vehicle below us. Scarponi’s car went out of control and your husband was severely injured. A medevac helicopter was summoned at twenty-one hundred hours and he died en route, presumably from internal injuries directly related to the impact. I’m sorry.”
Lauren felt the life drain from her body. Her shoulders slumped and she was light-headed.
“I can arrange for you to get some counseling, if you would like. At the moment, I have to brief the president. Agent Haviland,” Knox called to a man standing off to the side, “can you please take care of Dr. Chambers?” He turned back to Lauren. “Agent Haviland will see to your needs.”
Lauren composed herself as Knox headed toward the door. She couldn’t let him leave, not yet, not without having some form of confirmation that what he had told her was true. “Wait,” she said, starting after him. “If Michael’s dead, I want to see his body.”
Knox stopped and swung his body around dubiously, as if it were a bother to have to continue dealing with her. “Fine, I’ll see if it can be arranged. Maybe sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
Lauren lunged forward with the alacrity of a cat, grabbing Knox’s lapels with both hands. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit,” she yelled. “I want to see my husband
now!”
Her eyes were blazing with anger, her skin clammy with fear.
Four men were upon her a split second later, instantly unlatching her grip on the director using a pressure point on her thumbs. She struggled with the agents, but was unable to break their hold.
“Let her go,” Knox said calmly.
The men instantly released their grips but did not move from where they stood: at the ready, poised to immediately neutralize another outburst.
The click of a door opening behind Knox drew everyone’s attention. A stocky black man walked in and nodded to the director, whose face appeared to brighten.
“Rodman,” Knox said to the man, “are we ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
Knox looked over at one of the agents off to his left. “Agent Haviland, escort Dr. Chambers to Hangar One-Nineteen so she can see Agent Payne’s body. I’ll meet up with her as soon as I’m finished with my call to the president.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said.
Knox turned and walked out of the room.
Lauren was transported by Agent Haviland to Hangar 119 in a small motorized vehicle. After being admitted through the Entry Control Point by a young, efficient guard, they drove along the flight line as fast as the small cart could carry them. Twelve-foot-high fences topped off with barbed wire were visible in the diffused lighting, while elsewhere red ropes hung at waist height clearly delineating restricted areas. A vaporous after-rain haze hung lazily around the security lights that sat like centurions atop tall metal posts, giving the base a desolate, lonely feel.
As they rode, Lauren tried hard to contain her swirling storm of thoughts. Finally, realizing this might be her last chance to extract a morsel of information that could provide some insight into the events surrounding Michael’s demise, she decided she had nothing to lose.
Unfortunately, Haviland stubbornly professed ignorance. “I can’t tell you any more than Director Knox has, ma’am. Off the record, though, I enjoyed working with Harper. Your husband was very good at what he did. You have my condolences.”
Lauren acknowledged his comments but told him she was in no mood for eulogies. “Just take me to see my husband, Agent Haviland. That’s all I want.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And it’s
doctor.
Enough of this
ma’am
crap.” Lauren was still angry, but she was proud of herself, too. None of the fears or overwhelming urges that had crippled her for so many years had stopped her. She had defeated them. She had turned the corner.
Lauren looked up and saw that Haviland had driven them into what appeared to be a maintenance hangar of some sort, judging by all the tools and dissected engine parts lining the west wall. Above the assorted machined fittings and painted pieces was fire-fighting equipment: extinguishers, hoses, axes, alarm bells. Across the way, an eye washbasin sat beside an unmanned Maintenance Control Booth. In fact, no one was around, something that struck her as odd.
Haviland turned along the painted lines and stopped in a yellow zone, behind a parked military ambulance. He nodded at the back of the vehicle. “Someone will take you to your husband’s body. Good luck, Dr. Chambers.”
Lauren climbed out of the small electric cart and walked over to the rear of the ambulance. Haviland made a U-turn and drove off into the distance, heading for the exit. Lauren turned back to the vehicle, took a deep breath, and pulled the door open.
Hangar 314 was cold and quiet. Knox completed his briefing call to the president and provided all the details at his disposal: Scarponi’s fugitive standing, the plans under way to locate him, and of course, Harper Payne’s status. It was a tough call to make, but the charade had gone on long enough. He knew that at this time of night the president would not want to keep him on the line debating his tactics, lamenting what had gone wrong, or admonishing him for failing to disclose Scarponi’s escape months ago, when it had first occurred. Plus, Knox had the perfect excuse for not having delivered the news in person.
The director had made the call in a small, glass-enclosed office. Getting up from the wooden chair afterward was a chore. He was mentally and physically tired, he was filthy from the mixture of sweat and dirt, and his throat was raw from the soot and other small particulates that had blown off the exploding Navigator and resulting forest fire. But most of all, he was just plain tired. Tired of all the stealth, all the details and secrets he had to keep straight, and all the political maneuverings he had to manage.
He trudged toward the military transport vehicle that was waiting for him against the east wall of the hangar. After he slammed the door, the driver started the engine and drove off.
Lauren climbed into the back of the ambulance and the door clicked shut behind her, leaving her in complete darkness. “Hello?”
Suddenly, the vehicle began to move, throwing her backward. She fell and landed on the floor against the padded bench that ran the length of the interior. She pulled herself up and sat down. “Is anyone here?”
Again, no one answered. She made her way in the dark toward the front of the ambulance and felt around for a window of some sort that would give her access to the driver. There was nothing. She banged on the wall. “Where are you taking me?”
The lack of a response did not surprise her. In fact, it fit quite well with her already bizarre week. The ambulance continued on for another few minutes, at which point it seemed to leave the paved roads of the base for something that felt more like a secondary artery of some sort.
With the vehicle bouncing and swaying as it navigated the uneven terrain, Lauren held the bench with both hands, staring into the darkness. At this point, all she cared about was getting answers. Answers about Michael, about Bradley, about the rest of her life. She needed closure.
The ambulance listed left before coming to a lurching stop. The rear door opened and the stocky man she had seen a short time ago in the assembly room climbed in. He reached above his head and flipped a switch, bathing the interior in light. “Agent Troy Rodman. I was with Director Knox—”
“Where’s my husband?”
Rodman looked at her a long moment, as if he were sizing her up. He then reached over to the front wall and banged on it twice with a fist. The ambulance began moving again.
“There are some things we need to discuss first, Dr. Chambers.”
Lauren looked away. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“But I have some things to say to you. And I think you’ll want to hear them.” Rodman sat down beside her. “Approximately eight years ago, Harper Payne was an FBI agent who went deep undercover to infiltrate the organization of a prolific international hit man, Anthony Scarponi. He worked with Scarponi for two years before the Bureau pulled him out and terminated his assignment. He testified against Scarponi and a list of Scarponi’s ‘customers’ and put them all behind bars. That was six years ago.
“After the trial, Agent Payne was placed in the Federal WITSEC Program. Witness protection. He remained in it for a year or so, then dropped out of sight. A few months ago, Scarponi’s attorneys came up with a new witness they said would contradict all of Payne’s testimony. The judge bought their story and the Bureau knew it would have to somehow find Payne so he could testify again. But finding him wasn’t easy.
“After searching for weeks, the Bureau received a tip that proved promising. Agents were dispatched to Placerville, and they began observing your husband.”
“How could I not have known that Michael was once an FBI agent?”
“Things are not always what they appear to be, Dr. Chambers.” Rodman inched forward on the bench and angled his body to face hers. “Think for a moment. What did you know of Michael’s life before you met him five years ago? And of what you
did
know, how much of it did he himself tell you, and how do you know what he told you is true?”
Rodman paused for a moment, and when Lauren started to answer, he held up a hand. “That was a rhetorical question, Dr. Chambers. Point is, we don’t always know the person we think we know so well. This is how the CIA operates. Its operatives are everyday people. The person at the phone company, the attorney in Pocatello, Idaho. Perhaps your gynecologist. The Agency uses these people
because
they’re everyday people. They can go on business trips and carry out intelligence missions and no one will ever suspect them. For security reasons—theirs as well as the Agency’s—even their spouses don’t know they do covert work.”
Lauren folded her arms across her chest. “You’re saying I didn’t know my husband well enough?”
“I’m saying that things are not what they appear to be.”
Just then, the ambulance turned sharply and pulled to an abrupt stop.
“Why are we stopping?”
“We’re picking up a passenger,” Rodman said.
The back door swung open and Nick Bradley climbed into the rear compartment. Lauren sat there, her head tilted in confusion. “I don’t understand,” she finally managed just before Bradley sat down opposite her. “Knox arrested you, he said you were a spy.”
“That was all a show, for my protection. It had to look convincing, in case there are other moles.” Bradley turned to Rodman. “I take it you haven’t told her yet.”
“Not yet.”
“Told me what?” Lauren looked back and forth between the two men. “Look, I’ve had enough! One of you better start giving me some answers. No more top secret CIA garbage. I want the truth, Nick, and I want it now.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Bradley said. “I owe you an explanation.” He looked away and said, “I owe you more than an explanation, but for the moment it’ll have to do.” He unzipped his leather jacket and leaned back. “When Carla Mae called me and told me about the Neighborhood Watch meeting she’d arranged for you, it didn’t seem any different from all the other meetings she’d gotten together over the past two years. She told me your husband was missing and asked if I could come by early in the afternoon and help put up the fliers. When I showed up and saw Michael’s photo, I suddenly realized that you had something that could help
me.”
“What do you mean? What did I have that could possibly help you?”