Jericho's Fall (6 page)

“There isn’t any acid rain in Colorado,” said Pamela, sourly.

The next time the doorbell rang, she refused to answer, and so it was Audrey who actually admitted Dak.

He stepped into the great room with no more ceremony than a plumber, for Phil Agadakos remained, as Jericho had once called him, a man of no presence. His face was so plain as to defy description. Although not fat, he seemed somehow more wide than tall, and bald into the bargain, resembling at first glance the tired headwaiter at a
restaurant on a side street into which you stumble on a rainy night, finding it empty and with good reason. All he needed was the discolored smock and peeling plastic menus. Rebecca, rising from the sofa near the window where she had been reading her Danticat, was surprised at how little he had changed. He glanced sadly around, drooping a bit, then waved a shyly endearing hello, and she had to remind herself that he was a master spy with blood aplenty on his conscience.

If he had a conscience.

“Rebecca,” he said, taking her hands in his, when he was done greeting and commiserating with the sisters. Like Pamela, Dak never used her nickname. Audrey had already vanished into the kitchen, as if that was her proper place. “You’re here. I thought you might be. I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t dare hope.”

“Hope?” she answered, very surprised.

The old spy nodded. “He’s missed you, Rebecca. You have no idea how he’s missed you. He talks about you all the time.”

“He does not.”

“But he does. We’re the A & A boys, remember? He tells me everything, Rebecca, and, believe me, the year and a half with you was the happiest time of Jericho’s life. So to find you here now—well, your lovely presence is sure to ease his passing.”

She blushed, and went on blushing. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

Dak still had not released her hands. His long fingers were warm and strong and loose and confident, the fingers of a man on good terms with tools of all kinds. If half the stories were true, these fingers had committed astonishing violence.
Dak is coming to the house to make me tell him certain things. After that, he plans to kill me
.

“Do you really mean that?” he asked, pale eyes holding her.

Beck hesitated, sensing that more was at stake than a pleasantry. “I don’t want him to suffer,” she said carefully.

“Jericho hasn’t lived an ordinary life, Rebecca. He isn’t likely to have an ordinary death.” He paused, perhaps waiting for her to challenge this, but she was listening keenly now, for, in her secret self, ever since her uncertain childhood, listening had always been what she did
best. “He might ask you to do things that are…unusual.” Another pause. “Maybe he already has.”

A weak stab at lightening the mood: “Other than hop into bed with him, you mean?”

Dak was not a smiler. He did not smile now. “Be alert, Rebecca. Be alert to every nuance. He asked you here for a reason. Not to say goodbye. The Jericho Ainsleys of this world don’t bother with goodbyes. He’s a great man, Rebecca, and it is in the nature of great men to want their great works to continue once they are gone.” Another pause, as if waiting for her to write this down for posterity. “It may be that Jericho will seek to enlist you.”

She laughed uneasily. “In what? You make it sound like he’s at war.”

A tight nod. “Jericho Ainsley has always been at war, Rebecca. Jericho will be at war until the day he dies.”

“Which could be tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Serious as the grave. “And that’s why I think, whatever he wants to enlist you in, he’s likely to ask you soon.”

As they parted, Beck put a hand on his arm. “Mr. Agadakos—”

“Dak.”

“Yes. Dak. You should know—he’s been talking about you.”

“Has he?”

“He’s not himself. He thinks you’re going to kill him.”

The old man gazed up at the balustrade. “I suppose he does,” he said, entirely serious. “But I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” And, releasing his arm from her grasp, he headed for the stairs.

(ii)

“I don’t know,” said Pamela. “He’s been acting crazy the last few months. Ever since Dak started coming.”

They were eating an early supper in the kitchen, salad and mountain trout. All three were exhausted. As a blessing, the driveway monitors were silent for once.

“How often has Dak come?” Beck asked. The two men had been closeted together in the master suite for over an hour now. She longed to interrupt, if only to check on Jericho’s safety, but the daughters had seemed unperturbed when she shared their father’s fears.

“Every two or three days,” said Audrey. She ate very fast. She had forced them, unwillingly, to pray before the meal. Now she was energetically dabbing up olive oil with crusty bread, making a marvelous mess. Pamela and Rebecca avoided carbohydrates like the plague, but plump Audrey could hardly live without them. “That’s just in the three weeks I’ve been here. Before that, I don’t know.”

“Crazy how?”

Pamela had recently quit smoking. She had little interest in eating. She chewed furiously on nicotine gum, and, like a B-actress doing hauteur, addressed herself to a point a foot above Beck’s head. “Fixing things that aren’t broken. Changing crap around for no reason. The alarm people were here three times in two weeks, and then he fired them anyway and hired a new contractor to rewire the place. They just finished. He had the roof replaced, right down to the last shingle, even though he just had it done last winter. The driveway. The storm doors. The well-water people were out twice in a week. New softening system. New pump. He switched satellite providers. Junked his old pickup, bought a fresh one right off the showroom floor, no waiting, charged it to his American Express Black Card.”

“He was afraid of bugs,” said Audrey.

“He was always afraid of bugs,” said Beck, dubious. “He never tore up his house before.”

“He was never dying before.”

“And then there was the business of the garage,” said Rebecca. The sisters turned her way. “I saw the padlocks. The fabric over the windows. The cars all parked outside, even in the snow.” They were still waiting for her to finish. “He’s hiding something in there.”

Pamela snorted. “Something that takes up four garage bays? What do you thinks in there, an airplane? Or maybe a crate full of zombies?”

“The locks were already on when I got here,” said Audrey. “But
there were these rumors about a delivery. Big wooden crates.” Pamela glared, and her sister dropped her eyes. “I heard them in town.”

“What rumors?” said Beck.

“Nothing,” said the others, simultaneously.

“His mind is going,” said Pamela. “We have to accept that.” She got up from the table. “Nothing he does has to make any sense.”

But after half a day of tending to Jericho’s needs, Beck was already unsatisfied with the tempting simplicity of that answer. Maybe Jericho was mad, maybe he was sane. Either way, he remained the same schemer he had always been, seeing the world as a series of conspiracies, to be defeated by counterconspiracies. Pamela and Audrey might think they knew him, but Beck had known him better. She could tell when he was conspiring, and he was conspiring now. The question that troubled Beck was not precisely what Jericho might be up to: that was a very moot point. No, what she worried about was whether Phil Agadakos was right, that Jericho planned to make her a co-conspirator. And she remembered the tag line of a dreadfully biased but alarmingly penetrating documentary on Jericho’s career produced by a popular leftish filmmaker who had won about twelve awards for it:
Whenever Jericho Ainsley had an idea, people died
.

“I think we should try to find out,” she said.

“Find out what?” said Audrey.

“What’s in the garage.”

Pamela laughed. “You’re not the mistress of this house any more, Rebecca. You’re leaving on Thursday. We’re here for the long haul. Nobody’s breaking down any doors.”

Beck was about to say something sharp in response when the
beep-beep-buzz
told them that a car had entered the forecourt.

The screen showed a red Ford Explorer, exactly like the one that had passed her on the road just before the dog was shot.

(iii)

When the doorbell rang, Beck and Pamela were looking at the monitor. They saw a very tall man, skinny, almost scrawny, with a mop of fiery hair and a short beard to match. He was staring directly into the camera, features calm, letting them know that he was aware of their scrutiny. “Come on,” said Pamela. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“How what’s done?” said Beck, hurrying after her.

“How we get rid of these nuisances. Like the couple I Maced today. I’m so sick of these people. Even in Hollywood, people don’t pull this shit.” She hesitated, licked her lips. Audrey was in the kitchen, washing up. “Tell you what, Rebecca. You do this one. Just be mean, and he’ll go away. You remember how to do that, right? Be mean? That’s when you hurt other people for no good reason.”

Before Beck could answer, Pamela had the door open.

“May I help you?” Beck said, once she realized that everybody was waiting for her.

“Rebecca! What a pleasure to see you again. Remember me? Clark. Lewiston Clark.” The redheaded visitor unveiled a brilliant smile, and held out a slender hand for a shake before Beck quite needed it. Then held on. His grasp was confiding, like an invitation to intimacy. She had no memory of ever meeting him before, so she supposed he was the type who greeted everyone that way, just in case. “Don’t worry. I’m not crazy, and I’m not a reporter. Well, I am, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to pick up my notes.”

“What notes?” said Beck, having finally wrested her hand free.

Lewiston Clark had a smooth voice, mellifluous, made for television. His sentences were short, to accommodate commercial breaks. “I should apologize. For being away so long. The research took longer than we planned.” He noticed Beck’s confusion. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. We’ve been working together. The Ambassador and I. I assume he’s mentioned me?” Evidently he had not, because Pamela was
squaring to start throwing things. “On his biography. That’s what we’re working on. I’m his authorized biographer.” He seemed to be waiting for applause. “I have a contract. I have a letter—”

“I just bet he does,” whispered Pamela, from behind.

“And, anyway, he was going to put together some notes for me. Scribblings, really. On those yellow pads he likes. I just came to pick them up.”

Beck realized that the moment had arrived to do her job. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clark,” she began. “This really isn’t a good time.”

“Of course. Of course. I do understand. But I think he’d be rather upset if you turned me away—”

“I’m afraid we’ll just have to take that chance,” said Pamela, edging Rebecca out of the way. “You’ll have to come back.”

The smile broadened. “Pamela. You’re Pamela.”

“That’s right. And it’s not good to see me again, because I’ve never met you in my life.”

Lewiston Clark toyed with his beard. “He would have left something for me. Notes for the biography. Or he might have written ‘autobiography’ on it, but he means me.”

“Another time, Mr. Clark,” said Pamela, starting to swing the door. “I’ll be sure to tell him you came by.”

“I was his student,” the writer persisted. “This was years ago. I was his student, and then we worked together. I know the Ambassador’s memory is slipping, but I can’t believe he hasn’t told you about me.” Actually Jericho had never been a real ambassador. As Director of Central Intelligence, he had held the rank as a courtesy when traveling abroad, but nobody used the title except for people who wanted to pretend to be in the know. “I should say, by the way, that it’s an honor to work with him, and—”

As Pamela went through her chilly explanations again, the visitor’s eyes lifted, and widened, and Beck turned to see what had caught his attention. Up on the landing, Phil Agadakos had emerged from the sickroom. Jericho used to say that Dak had the best poker face he had ever seen; even so, a shock of recognition passed over his tired features
before he suppressed it; and when Rebecca turned back to look at Lewiston Clark, she spotted the smiling wariness with which she herself had learned to soldier through unexpected encounters with creditors, or ex-lovers, or old adversaries.

They knew each other.

CHAPTER 6
The Interrogation

(i)

She left Pamela to deal with the pushy visitor, and crossed the creaky foyer to greet Dak as he descended the stairs. “How’s he doing?” she asked.

Phil Agadakos was not looking at her. He continued to stare at the bearded man being refused entrance by an adamant Pamela.

“Mr. Agadakos?”

“Yes?” Eyes still on the door, now successfully shut.

“Does he want me?”

“Hmmm?”

“What did he say? Is he awake?”

“He’s fine,” the old spy said, and Beck knew he was hardly listening. The blue eyes had lost their grandfatherly quality, regaining a shadow of the chill that she remembered from another age. “Fine,” he said again.

Pamela joined them. She had at last managed to get Lewiston Clark off the doorstep. “Are you staying for dinner, Dak?” she asked sweetly. “We have a freezer full of trout.”

He conjured a small pucker that was almost a smile. “Alas, duty calls.”

“Duty?”

“Work.”

“I thought you were retired,” teased Pamela, who could be warm and welcoming as spring, or chilly and forbidding as mountain snow.

“Retired from a particular job, yes. Retired from my line of work— well, one never really retires, does one?”

Pamela laughed, although nothing seemed funny, and headed off to the kitchen to join Audrey, who, in the continued absence of Jimmy Lobb, had taken on the household chores.

Dak waited until the kitchen door was firmly shut. His smile vanished. He turned back to Beck.

“Who was that man at the door? The redhead?”

“A writer. Clark, Lewiston Clark. He’s working on Jericho’s biography. Used to be his student.”

Mr. Agadakos tugged at his vague clouds of hair. “Are you sure?” he finally said.