Back Channel (49 page)

The major’s voice went dry. “I do military communications, Margo. I transmit the orders. I know about the deadline.”

“Then you know I only have until two p.m. to get the message to the President.”

“Actually, you only have until noon. They moved it up.” Again he was examining his cigar. “Margo, look. I admire your dedication. But I can’t get you into the White House. I don’t have the contacts to do that. Those Signals Office rotations are very short. It’s not like you meet a lot of people.” He lifted a powerful finger to forestall her objection. “But I’ll tell you what I can do. I have a friend in military intelligence. Name of Tillmon. I trust him, Margo. He’ll have better contacts than I do, and he’ll figure something out.” He had pulled a small spiral notebook from his desk and was flipping pages. “He’s even stationed at Langley just now.”

“I don’t trust the CIA.”

“I’m not asking you to. Tillmon isn’t Agency. He’s military. He’s assigned to Langley for an eighteen-month rotation. He told me about some very odd goings-on over there: a tiny group of people inside the Agency trying to run their own foreign policy. He didn’t like the idea much. He didn’t give me any names—he wasn’t ready for that, he said—but he was planning to ask some questions.” He saw her expression. “He’s a good man, Margo. He might refuse to help, but once he knows who’s after you, he won’t turn you in. Anyway, there’s no harm in getting him over here and having a talk. I’ll call him.”

“What if his phone’s tapped?”

“Or mine. Right. It doesn’t matter. Our friendship is on the record. Relax. Read a book. Watch television. I’ll be back in a bit.”

The Major vanished on those silent feet, heading for another part of the house.

Margo let her head sag backward until it rested atop the cushion. She studied the plaster ceiling, following a faint crack along its jagged path outward from the light fixture until it vanished beneath the dentil molding. She was deathly tired, but another part of her feared she would never sleep again. Nothing could prepare you for being shot at. Nothing. Miles Madison’s self-assurance, his easy command of the situation, had calmed her, even made her believe that she might be able to deliver Khrushchev’s reply after all—although, twenty-four hours ago, she had felt the same way about Jericho Ainsley. Nevertheless, she had to succeed. Had to. The fact that people were trying so hard to stop her only increased her determination not to let them win. Any more than her father would have—

Margo’s eyes snapped open.

A footfall told her that the Major had returned. She looked up expectantly, then went very still.

“What is it? What’s wrong? Did you reach your friend?” But the ashen face told her all she needed to know. “Something happened.”

“I didn’t reach him. I couldn’t.” The lively voice was flat. “Tillmon was shot and killed in a holdup this afternoon. He’s dead.”

Margo felt her already slim range of options narrowing further. While she was still trying to decide what to say, Major Madison was planning.

“I’ve been ordered to talk to an investigative team from the Office of Naval Intelligence before my duty shift begins at eleven. It’s quarter of ten. To make the Pentagon by ten-thirty, I have to be on the road in fifteen minutes. If I’m late, they’ll want to know why. I won’t tell them you’ve been here, but if I’m late, they’ll guess.”

“You don’t have to do that for me—”

“So this is what we’re going to do.” He was standing near the desk, turning a snow globe over and over in his hands. Inside, white powder flurried across a Christmas scene. “Sooner or later, whoever is looking for you will get to this point in the list. So you have to get moving. I can drop you wherever you have to go. Then we can rejoin when I get off duty at seven and figure out how to get you into the White—”

“No. That’s not a good idea.”

“The deadline isn’t until noon. We’ll have plenty of time, I promise you.”

“I meant, no, I don’t think you should do any more for me.” She was already on her feet, reaching for her coat. “This changes everything.”

“It doesn’t change anything, Margo. The bastards killed my friend. All the more reason for me to help. What’s that look mean? You’re worried it’s dangerous? I’m a Marine, honey.”

“You have a family.”

“Vera understands what it means to be the wife of a Marine officer. If anything ever happens to me, she’ll know how to carry on.”

“It’s not you I was thinking of. It’s them. Mrs. Madison. Kimberly. Marilyn. They’re not volunteers, Major. They’re bystanders. And these people—I don’t think they’d hesitate.”

“Even so—”

“I couldn’t carry that on my conscience,” she said softly. “I don’t think you could, either.”

Margo could almost hear his teeth grinding. His hand squeezed the snow globe so hard she feared it might shatter. For a full minute he stood there, mouth working wordlessly. Then the powerful shoulders slumped. “I see your point. Okay. Look. There are still a couple of things I can do for you. Number one, I won’t tell the folks from ONI you’ve been here. Number two, at least let me get you safely to wherever you’re going next.”

Margo was touched; and, in her neediness, tempted; but she knew she had to be firm.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “It’s very kind of you, but I think it’s best if you have no knowledge of where I’m heading.” A flash of her former wit, before he could contradict her: “I think I’d be grateful, though, if you’d drive me halfway.”

In the car, he had one last question for her: “I don’t mean to offend you, but are you armed?”

“Of course not,” Margo answered, even as her fingers touched the steel of Ainsley’s gun in her purse.

“Any luck?” asked Bundy. He stood in the door to his office, a stack of files under his arm, on his way up to see the President.

Janet shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bundy. There’s no answer at Dr. Harrington’s home. Signals says Perry Parke isn’t picking up the car radio, either.” She hesitated. “They say he could just be in an area with bad reception, sir.”

“I’m sure that’s it.”

Bundy took the elevator this time. Two other staffers were aboard, so he kept his face placid. But inside he was aching. Parke wasn’t an agent. He was just about the junior-most of Bundy’s own national security
staff, and happened to be spare when somebody was needed to bring Harrington in. It had never occurred to McGeorge Bundy that the task might present the smallest danger.

She had Major Madison drop her on the campus of George Washington University, near Foggy Bottom, and she walked slowly south until his taillights vanished in the mist. Then she spun around and hurried up to Pennsylvania Avenue. Fortunately, the D.C. Transit bus was just trundling along. She flagged it down, paid her dime, and rode into Georgetown, where she disembarked next to the stately columns of the Riggs National Bank. She remembered Harrington telling her about the ten thousand dollars, payment for Varna, on deposit at the Riggs branch a block from the White House, to be hers upon her twenty-first birthday. She wondered whether she would ever have the chance to spend it.

Remembering the dream, Margo lifted her eyes involuntarily to the sky. There was only a gauzy moon, sallow and distant.

Harrington. She was down to Dr. Harrington. Somehow she had always known that it would come to this. Approaching the house was bound to be tricky, because the White House, as well as Ziegler’s people and whoever the man in the gold-rimmed glasses might have been, would all be expecting her to turn up there.

On the other hand, she had very little time.

From Miles Madison, Margo had borrowed a hooded raincoat and a cane. The house was on the north side of P Street. She passed on the south side, leaning hard on the cane, never slowing, her head tucked so far down into the coat that in this fog nobody could notice at a glance whether she was even black or white. Lights were on in the first-floor windows. No way to tell whether she was home. Margo catalogued the blue sedan across the street, and the driver with his head cleverly down on the dashboard, as if asleep. Farther down the block, she passed a battered van that she supposed could have been stuffed full of fancy surveillance equipment. But there was nobody in the cab, and she wondered.

On her second pass, she studied the van again, how empty and silent it sat. When she drew abreast of the blue car, she noticed that the driver hadn’t stirred.

The wind freshened and a tree groaned loudly, and still he made no move. Margo shivered, but not from the cold.

Caution aside.

She leaned close to the blue car, peered inside, saw the impossible angle of his neck, and had to fight not to throw up.

A second later, no longer caring if anyone saw her, she was pelting across the street, pounding on the door—

And finding it ajar.

Inside were signs of the struggle. Broken glass. A vase that must have been thrown. Blood in the foyer and in the living room.

And Harrington in the kitchen.

Hands bound.

Beside her, a small sharp knife with a wooden handle. There was a lot of blood.

This time, Margo did throw up, loud and hard, not quite making it to the sink.

When, after an eternity, she managed to straighten up, she cried out. She was not alone in the kitchen. Through her tears, she caught the unbothered stare of Agatha Milner, her minder from Bulgaria, the girl who had intimidated all the boys at training camp and scared to death all the operatives they met in Europe.

“I knew you’d come,” said Agatha. She still wore the schoolmarmish bun, but without the thick glasses. She was dressed in jeans and a dark sweater and tennis shoes. Despite the cast on her right wrist, she looked every inch exactly what Jerry Ainsley had said she was.

She kills with her bare hands, Margo. She’s very good at it.

Just now, thinking of the men outside and trying not to look down at the body of Doris Harrington, Margo harbored no doubts at all.

They were face-to-face again at last. Margo had been begging for information about Agatha’s fate since the night they were separated in Varna. Now they stood on opposite sides of the butcher-block counter, circling like wary pugilists, although Margo knew perfectly well that Agatha could kill her in half a second. That’s why, even as they backed and shuffled, the counter always between them, a part of her concentration was on the gun in her purse, and the rest was on knives, frying pans, anything that could be wielded or thrown.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Agatha. “I’m here to bring you in.”

But Margo said nothing. She was staring, fascinated, at Agatha’s strong hands, the way she held those fingers half curled. She forced herself not to stare at what lay on the floor.

“This wasn’t me,” the older woman continued. “I got here a few minutes before you did. I found her like this.” A stifled sound. Her face was very red. “I loved her more than you did, Margo.”

Still Margo stayed silent. There was the door to the foyer, and there was the door to the yard, and she wondered whether she would have time to make either.

“I’m sure Jerry Ainsley told you lots of things about me,” Agatha said. “And maybe some of them are even true. But believe this, Margo. I’m not your enemy. They sent me to look for you. They figured I’d know your habits best.”

“How did you find me?”

“I staked out a couple of places you were likely go to. This was one of them. A lot of it was luck, Margo.”

“Bring me in where?”

“My orders are to deliver you to a townhouse on East Capitol Street. I’m told you know where it is.”

Margo had chosen where to make her stand. She slowed to a halt. Behind her was the arch leading to the foyer. She could make a break, pulling the Beretta on the way, and run through the front door, which was conveniently open. The cast would surely slow Agatha down.

“Suppose I don’t believe you.”

“I bring you in anyway.” Agatha’s eyes flicked to the purse, then back to Margo, as if to say she knew the plan. Agatha herself was displaying no weapon of any kind, but that meant nothing. “We don’t have a lot of time. They’ll be here soon.”

“Who will?”

“A lot of people. The dead man in the blue car and the dead men in the back of the van played for different teams. Both teams will send people to find out why their watchers aren’t reporting in.”

“How do you know they’re not together?”

“Because,” Agatha began—

And Margo was gone, flying down the hall, gun in hand, heading for the foyer and the relative safety of the foggy street beyond.

But only in her mind.

Because no sooner did she start her turn than Agatha somehow was around the counter and sitting atop her, holding both her wrists easily with her one good hand. The gun had disappeared.

“Will you please just listen now? I said I’m here to help you, and I am.” She leaned close. “Whatever you might believe about me, you know I’d never hurt Dr. Harrington.”

“You would if you were ordered to!”

“Possibly. I don’t know. But not like that. Not like what they did to her.”

“Does it matter what I say?” Margo gasped, because the pressure of the smaller woman’s knees was getting to be a problem.

“Not really. You’re coming with me, one way or the other. Conscious is easier, but we can do it the hard way if you insist.”

In the car, Margo had a question. “Would you really have knocked me unconscious?”

Agatha took her time answering. “Understand something. This isn’t about you. And it isn’t about the missiles. Not for me.”

“Then what’s it about?”

The onetime minder said nothing. She continued to steer smoothly along dark, empty avenues with her good hand. But Margo saw the pain in the bland schoolmarm face, and knew.

Jericho Ainsley was crouching in the shadows on the second-floor fire escape of a flophouse on V Street not far from Florida Avenue. The city had worse neighborhoods, but this wasn’t one of the better ones. And, unlike many of the whiter parts of town, this one seemed not to have received the crisis memo, for although it was almost midnight, there was a considerable boister on the sidewalks below.