Black Ghosts (5 page)

Finally the trench-coat straightened up and headed toward the general store. His friend, who still hadn't managed to find change, joined him.

Because an experienced operative can determine a lot about who he's dealing with by observing them perform their job, Edward wanted to get a closer look. It was clear from the start that these were Americans: No foreign agency would be bold enough to behave so casually in the U.S. They would be more discreet, as would Americans working abroad. It was a fault of law enforcement and intelligence agencies the world over to execute their job far less graciously when on their own turf.

Edward went downstairs to the kitchen, looking out across the counter at the dining area and the front windows. Within minutes the taller man, who had finally managed to purchase a paper, emerged from the store. He stood outside the bistro, his hands deep in his pockets, coat collar raised, the paper folded neatly and tucked under his arm.

His partner walked in, standing momentarily in the doorway, then stepping out of the way to one side, slowly scanning the seating area. He seemed thorough, like a fox picking the fattest chicken in a coop. He examined the noisy crowd one table at a time. Occasionally he sneaked a brief look down at something in his palm.

Edward would wager anything the man was looking at a photo of Larry. There was no doubt the man was a professional. It was obvious they had to bring in reinforcements, people who had never seen Larry in person, which meant they were searching not only this town, but a much larger area. That also meant they had no idea where he was but were hoping to get lucky.

With a nonchalant expression on his square face, the trench-coat crossed the room and stopped by the door leading to the washrooms. Edward knew his kind only too well: young, arrogant know-it-alls. Over the years, Edward had run into these types in Indochina, South America, and the Middle East. Every time, they spelled nothing but trouble. It was during the fighting near Bong Son in ‘Nam, when Edward was a sergeant with the 173rd Airborne Brigade and about to complete his second tour of duty, that he had run into them for the first time. They all looked alike, clones of the same B-movie stand-in: neatly suited jerks, popping out of nowhere in the middle of the bush, accompanied by translators to “interrogate” the Viet Cong prisoners, eager to recruit dim-witted, innocent, patriotic fools for just one special mission. He had no idea what he was getting himself into when they signed him up. By the time he came out the other end, he had worked enough to last a lifetime, and all he had to show for it were the kills etched on the butt of his gun and a deep well of loneliness where his heart used to be.

Edward headed for the brass-and-chrome espresso machine, staying out of the kitchen staff's way as plates loaded with lentils and ham—a lunch specialty—zipped across the Formica counter on their way to the hungry crowd. He busied himself loading up the machine with fine-ground coffee. As expected, the trench-coated spook disappeared into the washroom. Seconds later he emerged, walking briskly to the front door and out on the street. After a short verbal exchange with his partner, he pointed up the street and the two walked away. No one in the bistro seemed to have noticed their brief encounter with America's “most secret.” It had always seemed to Edward that intelligence activity, no matter how bold, was taking place in a different dimension from the rest of the world around it.

From the way the search had been conducted, Edward concluded they were unaware of how seriously Larry was injured. Natalie's hope, that they'd assume Larry had made it out of the area, was not so far-fetched as he might have thought earlier. They didn't ask any questions, which could only mean they were keeping a low profile, hoping to get a handle on things without letting whatever it was Larry had uncovered spill out. Nor were they involving the local authorities, which meant that once they were gone, Larry and Natalie were in the clear.

Edward poured an espresso for himself and a cappuccino for Natalie. She might be awake now, he thought.

She was, holding the blanket up to her chin. “Is everything okay?” There was a quiver in her voice.

Edward nodded. “I brought you a cappuccino.”

She began to get up, still holding on to the blanket. Then, as if suddenly aware, she glanced toward the bedroom, a worried look in her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Two thirty.” Edward handed her the large coffee bowl. “I'll check on Larry. Here, this should warm you up.”

“Ooh, cappuccino.” She sat, letting the blanket drop.

Pleased at having pegged her as a cappuccino person, Edward went into the bedroom. Larry was still unconscious but his breathing was now steady and silent. The wheezing was all but gone. Edward knew that was a temporary state and that things would soon take a turn for the worse if he was not treated.

“He's fine for now,” Edward said as Natalie sipped the steaming brew, holding the bowl in both hands. He watched her, trying to figure her out. After a while, she licked away the foam mustache left by the cappuccino and put the empty bowl on the end table. She pulled her legs to her chest, leaning her chin on her knees.

“Natalie,” he said, sitting next to her on the sofa, “you have to tell me more. I need to know what's going on.”

“Larry didn't tell me much.”

“I want to hear what he did tell you. Come on, Natalie, I know the guy, he wouldn't keep you totally in the dark.” Edward got up again and went over to the window, peeking out. “They were just here, a few minutes ago,” he said as casually as he could.

Her eyes widened in fear. “Who?” She nervously ran her fingers through her hair.

“A couple of bloodhounds. They're gone for now, but they'll be back. I need to know.”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes focused on the empty space in front of her. She looked like a diver about to plunge into a dark river, wondering how deep it was.

“I'll tell you as much as . . . as much as I can. For the rest, you'll have to wait until Larry comes around.”

“Fair enough.”

She began slowly, her voice hesitant. “I told you, Larry was on loan to the NSC—working for some guy in Washington. He was investigating some kind of infiltration of American intelligence by some secret organization based in London. He had a source in London who told him that the organization was stealing components of a classified communications system.” She sniffled. “That's all I can tell you, I'm sorry.” She seemed close to tears, like a little girl who had dropped her ice cream.

“Where were you staying?” He wanted to keep her mind working, to control the emotions that were building up inside her. For years he had managed to survive in the shadow of death due to his attention to detail. Now he had to verify that Natalie and Larry hadn't left any loose ends that would come back to haunt them.

“A hotel in Salt Lake City.”

“Under what names?”

“We registered separately. It's a big hotel. No one made a connection between us, I'm sure of that.”

“How about people from the Agency? Or Larry's new place? Were you in contact with them at all?”

“No, just Larry.”

“Did he ever take you to Langley, or to one of the other CIA offices?”

“No. I told you, it was only me and him.”

“What about a photo? Did you give him a photo of yourself?”

“No. He said that since I would use my real identity, he didn't need to get any documents prepared. So he didn't need a photo.”

“What about the background check? Didn't he do a background check on you when he hired you?”

“Yes, but he only used my social security number for that.”

“Good. With any luck, they don't have your photo on file.”

The phone rang. Edward grabbed the receiver.

“Yeah?”

“Edward?” The man on the phone sounded young.

“Yes.”

“Joe said you needed help.”

“I do. How fast can you get here?”

“Where's here?”

Edward gave him directions. The young man was a medic at a ski resort thirty minutes away. He had access to the required medications, and as a veteran of the Delta Force, he had ample experience in dealing with bullet wounds.

“On my way,” the man said and hung up. Edward went downstairs and told Kelly he was expecting a friend and asked that she send him up when he arrived.

Back in the apartment, he told Natalie that help for Larry was on its way. He asked that she stay out of sight when the medic arrived. “You can never be too careful.”

Then he went into the bedroom. Larry was sweating, he mumbled something, and then he gave another choking cough.

“Hang on, buddy. Help is on the way. Just hang in there, man.” Larry's body relaxed again, his eyes closed.

Edward returned to the living room, where Natalie was sitting, wrapped in the blanket.

“Do you know to whom Larry reported?”

“Didn't tell me,” she replied. “He only said it was someone high up.”

“Since when have you been working with him?”

She stared at the ceiling, thinking. “About eight months, maybe nine.”

“Doing what?”

“I'm a freelance reporter.”

“You're a reporter?” Edward asked in amusement. “How does a reporter get involved in this business? Don't tell me—you're working on a story.” His voice had a hint of irony.

“Well,” she paused, looking down and tilting her head to one side, “I am, and I'm not. After I graduated from journalism school, there weren't that many jobs. I had this idea that I could go somewhere where things were happening, be a freelancer. I speak Russian, you see, so it was Moscow.”

“And that's where you met Larry?”

“No, no, no. I had a roommate who worked for him, and she put me in touch with him. You see, I wasn't doing as well as I had expected, so I asked Sarah—that's my roommate—to see if she could get me some work.” She raised her eyes and looked at Edward, a sad smile on her face. “I thought they were also working for some wire service or something. Sarah introduced me to Larry over the phone. Several days later Sarah had an accident.” Natalie stared at the floor. “She was killed.”

“What happened?”

“She was in this old elevator that was over its capacity. The cable broke and the elevator fell nine floors. Larry asked if I could take over for her. I worked for him for a couple of months, just sending him bits and pieces, looking up odd facts in the library, that kind of thing. Somehow Larry believed there was a Russian connection to this thing he was working on.”

“Right.”

“Then one day Larry wanted me out of there. He didn't explain much, but I understood it would be better if I left. I got back to the States and worked with him here. When I got to Washington, Larry made it clear that I would work only with him, no one else. I ran all kinds of errands for him. Then he told me we had to come down here.” She looked over Edward's shoulder, her eyes glazed, her thoughts seeming to drift away.

“So, when did you find out what he was really doing?”

“When I got back to the States, although I had my suspicions a little before. But when I got back he told me as much as he could and he said that he'd got me out because I was no longer safe in Russia.” She paused for a moment. Straightening up, she ran her fingers through her hair again. “How about you? What's your connection with Larry?”

“We go back a long way,” said Edward. “We met in hell, I guess . . .” He was interrupted by a shout from Kelly below.

“Your friend's here!”

“Okay,” he called back. “Ask him to wait in the office.” Edward suggested Natalie get a coffee or a bite to eat in the restaurant. She agreed. He took her downstairs and introduced her to Kelly, who looked her over with a practical eye. Seeming to like what she saw, she took Natalie by the arm and led her into the restaurant. Edward opened the door to the office where the medic was waiting.

Wearing a dark blue rescue team uniform under a bright orange ski jacket, the man looked more like a Boy Scout than a Delta Force veteran. But Edward knew looks can be deceiving. The young man was all business. After a short inspection of Larry's wound, he washed his hands, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and returned to Larry's side. He cleaned the entry hole which had swollen and turned purple with a reddish ring, oozing pus at the slightest touch. As though it were a daily occurrence for him, the medic used a hypodermic to administer a sedative into Larry's vein. After waiting a few more minutes for the sedative to take hold, he went to work, his poker face remaining sealed.

Using a scalpel and a pair of long tweezers, he extracted the bullet and cut away the dead tissue. Before the hour was up, Larry was stitched, bandaged, and loaded with antibiotics. The medic placed an infusion into Larry's vein and hung the plastic container from a nail in the wall.

“Well?” Edward asked as the young man packed up his things.

“I don't know.” The young man tossed his bloodied rubber gloves into a plastic bag that was full of used bandages and the like. “I did what I could. Your friend has lost a lot of blood. He has an infection. I drained the wound and the antibiotics should take care of it now. Just make sure that he's warm, and keep a hot compress on the wound area. That should help.” His tone was that of a bored guide in some remote museum, giving the last tour of the day. He took a small cardboard box out of his backpack and placed it on the dresser. “Make sure he keeps getting liquids. Do you know how to change one of these?” He pointed to the intravenous needle in Larry's arm.