The Last Spymaster (11 page)

“Hello, Mr. Ghranditti.”

“On time as usual, Mr. Angelides.”

Without breaking stride, Ghranditti stepped onto the elevator and turned. The vestibule’s lights were already dimming. His penthouse was “smart,” outfitted with the latest in electronic luxury. As the doors closed and his private elevator sank soundlessly, he considered Angelides, a man of moderate height and girth but who gave the appearance of a fierce Miura bull, from his clipped hair and broad shoulders to his substantial feet. As always, Angelides wore a sports jacket and trousers. He had never seen his employee in jeans or in formal attire, and he was certain he never would.

“Would you like me to fire that up for you, sir?” Angelides held out a Bic lighter.

“No. Have you checked into your hotel?”

“Yes, sir, I have. I like it. There’s a great view of the Jefferson Memorial, and the refrigerator’s jam-packed. I can get the History Channel and HBO, too. Thank you very much. And I just got off my cell, finding out the latest about the shipment. Just about everything’s on the road or in the air, right on schedule. Looks to me like all you’re gonna have to do is give the say-so.”

Ghranditti smiled. “Very good. What’s the status of the search for Tice?”

“Well, that’s not such good news. They lost him in North Carolina. He and Palmer Westwood escaped in a floatplane, so they couldn’t follow. They screwed up big-time. But they got a good description of the floatplane, and they’re looking hard for it. They’re right—it’s gotta land somewheres.”

“That damn Tice!” He stuck the unlit cigar into his mouth and clamped down.

“Yes, sir. I agree.”

“What about this new woman, the professional hunter, Elaine Cunningham?”

“She flew up to Allenwood today. She’s supposed to’ve been a real hotshot a couple years ago, the kind that could find anyone anywheres. Then she went wacky, and nobody would work with her.”

“What do you think?”

Angelides shrugged. “You can never tell. Maybe it’d take someone like her to nail Tice. It’s not like she’s stuck in the same groove as the rest of them Langley suits.”

The elevator door opened onto an expanse of polished brass, carved wood, and black enameled pillars. Ghranditti strode out, bearing down on the massive glass entry. There was a flurry of genteel activity as he closed in. The valet appeared with a gold cigarette lighter. Ghranditti waved him off. The doorman opened the door, and Ghranditti marched through, Angelides at his heels. His Cadillac limousine materialized at the curb, and the chauffeur was out and around, opening the rear door.

But Ghranditti stopped on the sidewalk and turned. Everyone backed off. He pulled his cigar from his teeth and stared at Angelides, who approached. He said quietly, “You said Cunningham flew. Find out what airport. Have her followed. She’s one lead we haven’t covered. Besides, we don’t want her mucking up our plans.”

“Right you are, Mr. Ghranditti. You can count on me.” Angelides smiled.

Ghranditti gave an abrupt nod and stepped into the limo. Within seconds, the long black luxury car was cruising off.

Aloft, flying south to Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

Elaine peeled off her jacket and tossed it across the aisle, worrying what Tice was doing, whom he would harm next. She fell back against her seat and gazed out the window at a slick of clouds slicing the sky. Suddenly she saw herself as a teenager sitting with her mother in the front row at the federal courthouse in Los Angeles.

Her father stood behind the defense table, a big-ticket attorney at each of his tailored shoulders. He was buffed and polished in his suit, striped shirt, and red power tie, wearing that commanding look he wore. But then, he knew he had a secret $100 million stash in Liechtenstein and a mistress waiting in Paris, and once the judge pounded his gavel, only four years to serve in Lompoc’s white-collar federal camp.

Why was she thinking about him? She felt good. She had longed to be back at work, to be useful again, to contribute. Langley was important to her. Helping the country was even more important, especially now. Plus she was dealing well with people, the way she used to. Then there was the hunt itself, against the most highly skilled quarry of her life. While Tice appalled her, she also found him fascinating—the ultimate challenge.

Excitement surged through her, instantly followed by a profound sense of responsibility. She must find Tice. She
would
find him. And now, after her work with his dossier and at Allenwood, she was starting to feel a resonance, a connection. Each assignment was like crawling inside someone else’s scales and living with them until they became skin—
her
skin.

As she mulled that, she remembered a section in Tice’s file that analyzed his success as a spymaster. She opened the file folder and settled back. Tice had used human manipulation like a subversive weapon, calling his approach the BAR Code—Befriend, Assess, Recruit. She flipped through the pages until she found it:

. . . Tice was unusually persuasive, with a huge talent for displaying warmth and compassion. When a recruiter reported a potential mole or asset or agent was resistant, Tice would have a personal meeting arranged.
By the time the potential arrived, Tice had steeped himself in every detail of his or her life. Tice asked questions, listened intently, and showed deep interest in the person’s concerns and worries for the future. Soon the potential began to believe he cared.

Tice met with them as many times as needed until they agreed to do the job. After they completed it, they were compromised—and he owned their souls.

His signature touch was deceptively simple: When they entered the door for the first meeting, he would already be walking toward them, his hand outstretched, smiling. He would introduce himself, disarming them and setting the stage for what was to follow: “Let’s dispense with formalities. My friends call me Jay.” . . .

The description was chilling. Great spymasters like Tice learned to pretend loyalty while actually being disloyal. Some authorities believed all were self-absorbed and egocentric, even narcissistic. Tice was so skillful that he must have known exactly what he was doing—manipulating people like puppets. This pattern of divided loyalties would have paved the way for his plunge down the slippery slope to treason.

As the plane bounced on a pocket of air, she took out her cell and dialed. “I’m in the plane, flying back, Hannah. Were the satellites useful?”

“They were overhead, but no help at all—yet. The FBI got a schedule of guard patrols and personnel assignments at Allenwood, and the NRO checked it against the satellites’ digitized reports. The satellites didn’t spot either Theosopholis or Tice, and everyone out in the open from one to five
A.M.
was accounted for. There were some deliveries, but all were expected and have been checked.” She sounded frustrated. “I’ve ordered blowups of the sat photos. I want to look at them myself. Maybe all of that cutting-edge technology missed something.”

“Good idea. Are there any new developments?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. You were right about Palmer Westwood. Once we really focused on him, we discovered he had a secret hideaway in the Great Dismal Swamp. The problem was, by the time my people got there, Tice and Westwood were long gone.”

“They’re together now?” She felt her heart rate accelerate. “What happened!”

“Witnesses reported that Westwood was flying Tice away in his pontoon plane when some strangers came out of the swamp and fired volleys at them. It sounded bad. The plane took a lot of hits, and maybe Westwood and Tice did, too. No way to be sure. We’re searching everywhere for the plane. I’ve notified the Coast Guard on down. There was no sign of the shooters by the time we got there.”

“Who are the witnesses?”

“Neighbors along the river. Our people interviewed them, and their stories matched well enough that we have to believe it’s true. Some of them know Westwood, and the descriptions of the other man match Tice. Plus, we identified Tice’s prints in the house’s cellar and on a motorcycle left in the driveway.”

“So, someone else is looking for him, and it sure doesn’t sound as if they’re going for a live capture.” She paused, mulling rapidly. “How could they have found out he escaped?”

Hannah sounded angry. “I wish I knew. No matter how well we buttoned down on this, there’s the prison grapevine, and word could’ve leaked out. We’re staying on top of it, believe me.” She paused. “That was a hell of a good idea to check into Westwood. You have anything else to suggest?”

“I need to think about what I’ve learned first.”

“Okay. Will you drive straight here from Andrews?”

“One stop.” She described the missing section of the
Herald Tribune
. “I thought about checking the newspaper’s Web site, but the same stories and articles don’t necessarily appear in both the online and print versions. Besides, the smart thing is to look at what Tice himself saw.”

“Where will you find the paper?”

“A bookstore-café on Fourteenth Street—the Reading Room. It holds on to old newspapers and magazines as a service to regulars.”

“Be careful, Elaine. The killers chasing Tice have added a complication we don’t need. If you close in on him, they could be there, too. And if they think you’re in their way, you could find yourself at a lethal ground zero.”

She had already thought of that. Still, she was suddenly uneasy. “Thanks. I appreciate the warning.”

As the turbojet’s engines thrummed, they said good-bye, and she turned on her computer. There was an e-mail from Mark Silliphant:

I’ve finished. ForeTell has found, sorted, cross-checked, and analyzed. But the results are in too big a file to send in one attachment. I can e-mail it in small batches, or you can have it all in one piece on a CD when you get back to Whippet.

 

She replied:

 

Thanks. I still have a lot of other work to do. Put it on a CD. I found a photo of Tice from the mid ’80s in which he’s wearing a gold triangle-shaped pendant hanging from a neck chain. I’m interested in the pendant. Send a new query through all of your data. Maybe you can locate it.

As she waited for his response, she wrote a reminder to herself to visit Tice’s storage locker. Then she loaded the JAY TICE CD and discovered it contained video clips of speeches at Langley beginning in 1994. She muted the audio so she could concentrate on his physical traits first. She inspected the oval face and refined features of a decade ago, the creases, the cheekbones, the chin—and watched him age. But even in the most recent talks, he rolled off the pads of his feet like an athlete. She turned on the sound and returned to the beginning. Two pieces of his advice struck her:

“Always have a good backup strategy and an even better way out.”

“Do the unexpected. As Goethe wrote, ‘Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.’ Being bold can be safer and yield greater results.”

Tice was a compelling subject. When he spoke to staff, he was down-to-earth and approachable while projecting wisdom and leadership. When politicians or high officials were listening, the skin on his face tightened to the bones, chiseling his features. His voice deepened, and he grew striking, aristocratic, while communicating a sense of unassailable authority. From
covert op to spymaster and intelligence chief, he was a chameleon, tailoring himself to his audience.

Still, she recalled hearing him tell a group of recruits, “To be memorable at the wrong time could be your death sentence.” She moved her gaze away and tried to describe him but found herself unsure. He was a man of flesh, bone, and quicksilver.

She set the computer on the seat beside her where she could glance at the screen and continue to absorb Jay Tice. As she picked up his dossier, an e-mail arrived from Silliphant:

Will do. If I find anything about the triangle pendant, it’ll be on the CD.

She opened Tice’s file and paused at a recap of his CIA service. During the Cold War, he had worked throughout Europe, a month here, six months there—Paris, Vienna, Rome, West Berlin, Madrid, other places both large and small. The list was chronological and two pages long. Most overseas spies operated out of embassies, pretending to be diplomats, but Tice had been a nonofficial cover operative—a NOC. It was Langley’s most hazardous line of work, not only because the assignments could be dicey, but because NOCs had no diplomatic immunity. If caught for spying, they usually ended up in prison, and some countries executed them. Tice was never caught.

Finally, in October 1985, Tice came in from the cold to head the West Berlin station. As she noted the date, she realized his first act of betrayal—Dr. Abendroth’s assassination—occurred a few weeks later. Was there something about his being station chief that had instigated a sellout to the Soviets?

She found the file photo of Tice and his family, then flipped through his biography, noting his marriage to Marie Dillon in 1975 and the birth of their two children in 1976 and 1978. Then:

December 15, 1985

 

Jay Tice was late leaving that morning to go to the embassy. His BMW was parked at the end of the drive, blocking Marie Tice’s car,
which she needed to take Mariette and Aaron to school. While the children waited, Marie got into the BMW to move it. She turned on the ignition, which triggered a bomb planted beneath, killing her instantly. The children never regained consciousness and died in the hospital several hours later from injuries.

Tice was believed to have been the actual target. He was offered compassionate leave but refused. A week later he asked for personal time, which was granted. He was gone four days. The bombers were never found, but there were rumors at the time—although there was no evidence—that Tice knew who they were and terminated them. He had a reputation for going after anyone who attacked him.

Note: Three weeks earlier, on November 23, Mrs. Tice reported a dependency on prescription drugs to government doctors and filed an application for custodial medical care. The application had just been approved at the time of her death.