The Last Spymaster (50 page)

In the motel’s dingy parking lot, Palmer scrutinized the street while keeping his Browning trained on Elaine. She stood stubbornly beside the Jag, holding up her mutilated finger, refusing to get inside. The handkerchief around her hand was red with blood.

“I have to take care of my finger so I can drive. The pain’s so bad I can’t even think.” She bit her lower lip. She was exaggerating but not by much.

She eyed her Walther in his waistband as Palmer watched three teenagers pimp-walk along the sidewalk side by side, rap music throbbing from a chromed boom box on one’s shoulder. In a line, they looked over and stiffened as they caught sight of Palmer’s pistol and Elaine’s bloody hand. They hurried onward, eyes averted.

Palmer studied their backs suspiciously. “Open the trunk. Hurry.”

She punched her key unlock, and the red lid rose. “Stand back!” He opened the med kit and checked inside, removing small sharp scissors. “All right, have at it.”

She grabbed a bottle of Vicodin and swallowed a pill. She squirted antibiotic cream on the open wound and fought off a wave of nausea. Even
the weight of the cream made the nerve ends shriek. She took out sterile gauze and used her teeth to open the packet. With one hand, she folded the gauze into a thick square. Biting her lip again, she moaned as she used the gauze to brush a flail of skin over the top. She took a deep breath and exhaled and laid the gauze over it.

Tears of pain spilled down her cheeks. “Help me!”

Annoyed, he tore off a length of hospital tape. “You’ve still got quite a bit of finger left. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

“You son of a bitch.” She snatched it from him and taped the gauze square around her finger tightly. She loosened the shoestring tourniquet and watched the gauze. As it filled with blood, she put more tape over the top.

Finished, she grabbed gauze packets and tape and the bottle of painkillers and put them in her jacket pockets. “Close the trunk and bring the med kit.” She marched to the driver’s side door. She would definitely fucking scrub him as soon as she found out where the shipment was. There had to be a way to wipe him, and she sure as hell was going to find it.

She climbed in and started the engine, propping her left hand at the top of the steering wheel to elevate the finger. As Palmer dropped in beside her, she noted he sat clumsily. Palmer was the type who gave no quarter, not even to leather upholstery and lush padding. She was beginning to have an idea. She threw the car into gear and gently backed out. She wanted him to feel safe in the car.

“Where to?” she asked innocently.

“Get on the Anacostia Freeway heading north.”

“That’s hardly an address. Where are we going?” She paused the Jag at the street.

The barrel of the gun pressed into her neck. The chilly steel sent a shock of warning to her brain.

“No need to concern yourself,” Palmer said smoothly. “Just do what I tell you. As you’ve no doubt discerned, I’ll shoot again. I’ll give you directions as we go along.”

She drove off, sliding into traffic. Buildings were dark. The dusky light of streetlamps shone down to the pavement. “You’re proud of being Moses, aren’t you? Why in God’s name did you betray us?”

He shrugged. “Nothing ruins a relationship like shared failure. My relationship with Langley and my colleagues had become a bore. The assignments were repetitive, the goal ludicrous. The best we could hope for was a stalemate with the Communists. There was no longer any point. We were outspending them, so naturally we’d win.”

She understood. “
You
were bored. And now you’re in big trouble. Your cover’s blown, and you’re cornered. Jay got you again.” She turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, heading toward the John Philip Sousa Bridge.

“Jay’s my creature,” he said easily. “I invented him. Without me, he’d be nothing.”

But when she glanced at him, she saw bitterness. “Every chance you got when we were at Ben Kuhnert’s, you stepped in to prove you were still the éminence grise. Jay kept handing you compliments, but never once did you say anything about his abilities or accomplishments. You must’ve been livid when he rose to be DDO, but you never did. Even in the official hierarchy, he outranked you. You’re so jealous it oozes from you.”

“Elaine, child, you’ve spent far too much time enjoying your talents and too little acknowledging the limitations of them.”

“I love the way you patronize me. ‘Child.’ ‘My dear.’ You’re consistent. I’ll give you that.”

Tired of her, his shoulders turned and he looked away. She studied the broad boulevard, feeling a frisson of excitement. At last there was a long clear stretch. She had been driving slowly, allowing cars to pass. A pack of headlights was approaching from the rear. She had a minute before they overtook her. She dismissed a torrent of doubts. If she was going to make a move, it had to be now.

“On the other hand, you’re probably right about my limitations,” she continued. “But more likely you said that to divert the argument from yourself. Oh, no, Palmer. Look! My finger’s bleeding badly again!”

As she had expected, he peered over, disgusted. His shoulders were still angled toward his window, while his head was turned to look at her. His butt had never been anchored properly in the seat, and his twisted body created far more space than was necessary inside the seat belt.

Before he could speak, she rammed the gas pump to the floor. The Jag
shot forward, tires squealing. Swearing, Palmer arched against the seat then the seat belt, fighting both in a losing battle to straighten his spine and find equilibrium against the powerful G-forces of acceleration.

She slammed the brakes. The Jag’s high-performance tires gripped to a shatteringly fast stop, forcing him helplessly forward. As his head lashed the dash, she snatched his Browning and her Walther. His skull smacked his window. He groaned.

She released a long stream of air. Left hand on the wheel, she aimed the Browning at Palmer and pressed the accelerator, climbing toward a modest thirty-five miles an hour. Horns blasted as the herd of cars hurtled past.

Palmer stared silently at the muzzle of his gun. His tan seemed to pale, then his eyelids slitted and his gaze darted as he searched for a way out. He was wily—and dangerous—still.

She wheeled the car off onto Potomac Avenue. “I want to empty your own gun into you, Palmer you asshole traitor.” She bit off each word. “But I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.
Where’s that shipment!
”

As Raina sped the car south through the glare of Washington traffic toward the motel where Elaine was to have met Jay’s ops, he called their cells. No one answered. He left a message on Elaine’s and dialed Bobbye Johnson. No answer again. He left another message.

They were silent, worried. Traffic was congested. The din of engines and tires was constant, irritating. When Jay’s cell phone finally rang, Raina shot him a hopeful look.

It was Elaine. “Where are you?” Jay demanded. “
How
are you!”

“Frayed but alive. I need you. I’ve got a gun on Palmer. I guarantee you he’s Moses.” She did not wait for a response. “I can’t get him to tell me where the shipment is—and he
knows!
I’m parked at the entrance to the Congressional Cemetery.”

“Be careful,” Jay warned. “He has more tricks than a coyote. We’ll be there in ten minutes.” He gave driving instructions to Raina then told Elaine, “I’m putting you on the speakerphone so Raina can hear. Tell us everything that happened. Then we’ll fill you in. Stay on the line until we’re together.” He lowered the cell from his ear.

Elaine cleared her throat and hesitated. Then she talked in a torrent, her voice full of anger and grief. As they listened to the horror, Raina slid her hand over Jay’s, holding on tightly as she drove with the other. Palmer muttered occasional disagreement in the background. The report was graphic, from Elaine’s discovery that Palmer had wiped Elijah, to the brutal interrogation of Frank and her, and finally to Frank’s execution.

“Palmer called Litchfield,” she said. “That’s how he found out where the shipment is.”

Jay controlled his rage and asked calmly, “How’s your finger?”

“It’s handled. I took a Vicodin. I’m seriously considering more.”

“Take them. We just left Martin Ghranditti’s place.” He described the
surveillance tapes and the conversations he had sent to his contact to be lip-read. As Raina turned the car north on Seventeenth Street, he said, “We’re almost there, Elaine. Just two more minutes.”

He related their escape from the penthouse, and Raina accelerated the car along the Congressional Cemetery’s old brick wall and then northeast on Potomac Avenue, where the wall stopped and an old-fashioned wrought-iron fence began. The burial grounds spread in a vast sea of black punctuated by toothy nineteenth- and twentieth-century tombstones, ragged gray teeth in the wash of moonlight.

“I see the Jag,” Raina said, relieved. “They’re inside.”

“We see you,” he told Elaine.

Raina pulled into the entryway beside the car. Wrought-iron gates set into brick pillars blocked the road into the graveyard. Before she could park, Jay swung open his door and shoved his Browning into his shoulder holster. His strides were long and angry. He yanked open the Jag’s passenger door.

Palmer looked up, offering his most engaging smile. “Good to see you, Jay. I must say I doubted I’d ever have the pleasure again.”

Jay yanked the old spymaster out by his lapels and hurled him to the ground beneath a tree. “You piece of human trash. Stand on your feet!” He pulled out his Browning and aimed.

Propped up on his elbows, Palmer seemed to be reclining casually. His snowy hair was in shadow. His leathery face was dark, almost skeletal. He gave no sign of contrition. “Be reasonable. Forgive and forget. Remember, we did win the Cold War. I simply made a few extra shekels along the way.”

“Right. Let’s talk about your first wet job—Trent. Our colleague and friend. And let’s talk about your most recent—Frank. A good man who respected you, who served his country well. And all the others in between.”

“Unfortunate events like those were infrequent, I’m happy to say. Alas, they were necessary.”

“Necessary? You soulless bastard!”

“On the contrary.” Palmer climbed to his feet and dusted off his trousers. Except for his crepe-paper skin and gnarled fingers, there was little
sign of his advanced age—his movements were resilient, his features animated.

Without a glance at Elaine or Raina, who stood guard with their pistols, he solemnly considered Jay. “As Moses, I have the ethics of a priest. I minister to my flock, collect appropriate tithes, and protect all of you from one another. And I never reveal anything about my sources. Don’t forget how many times Langley found me more than useful. In fact, I always gave Langley preferential treatment. I’m going to have a last cigarette, Jay.” He spread his empty hands. “See, no tricks. My cigarettes are in my pocket, along with my lighter. Do you mind?”

Jay made a curt nod. “Go ahead. Do it slowly.”

Palmer removed the pack then the lighter. With a sigh, he took out a Pall Mall and let the pack fall to the ground. His lighter snapped, and he inhaled.

“Drop the lighter,” Jay ordered.

It fell from Palmer’s fingers.

They stood facing each other, both nearly six feet tall—Jay robust, short prison haircut, pointing his gun; Palmer thin and gangly, his thick white mane disheveled, arms crossed nonchalantly as he lifted his hand to smoke.

“You’re no goddamn priest, Palmer.” He stared, not quite recognizing the man. “How could I have let you fool me for so many years.”

“Love is blind.” Palmer smiled widely, displaying his large white teeth. “And I’ve known exactly what I was doing from the beginning. I’m sure you remember the first Moses was the founder of Israel. It’s no coincidence he was a spymaster, too. ‘And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, “Send thou men, that they may search the land of Canaan.” ’ So Moses picked twelve, one from each of the tribes, and ordered them into the Promised Land on an undercover mission to collect intel about whether the Canaanites could be conquered. That’s the earliest recorded espionage assignment. Appropriate, isn’t it?”

Disgusted, Jay said, “Ten of the spies reported the Canaanites were too strong, while the other two argued that their land of milk and honey had made them fat and lazy. Moses didn’t check into which of his spies was
self-serving, and he didn’t send another round into Canaan for a more thorough investigation. He took the shortsighted majority opinion and made it policy, and the Israelites didn’t invade. That’s why they spent the next forty years living in the desert—God’s punishment. The truth is, Moses was a rotten spymaster.” He aimed his Browning at Palmer’s forehead. “But I’ll give you a chance at redemption. Tell me where the shipment is. You owe us at least that.”

“That’s what I intend to do. Elaine has her points as a diversion, but I wanted to see you.”

Jay frowned. “You can’t be serious.”

“But, my boy, I am.” For an instant, Palmer seemed to glow with genuine sincerity. “And to prove it, here’s everything I know. Ghranditti owns an international transportation company called Cross-Global, although I doubt you’ll be able to document that. It has docks around the world, including at the port of Baltimore, which is where you need to go. Look for the
Mango Blossom
—a delicate name for what must be a weighty lass. She’s a container ship, very big, very modern. Larry told me she’s almost loaded. The deal transfers ownership at ten o’clock, and then the tugs tow her out to the Chesapeake. You’ll have to hurry. You don’t want to be late for the festivities.”