Once a Spy (11 page)

“Hey, man, can you call me a little later at the office?” Mickey asked Charlie.

“I might not be able to, actually, because I might be dead.”

Mickey didn’t take this lightly. Charlie had been calm in comparison when detailing Grudzev’s cup-of-sand threat. “Okay, okay,” he said, mouse-clicking his way to the board of elections Web site. Its information-rich database was available only to qualified election officials. Mickey could access it thanks to a guerrilla Web site that generated functioning election official pass codes.

“I thought we were through with this shit, Moby Mick,” Sylvia yelled from the other side of the hollow plywood door. She maintained it was thoughtless to speak inside the nursery while the baby slept.

“Charlie, hang on one more sec?” Mickey said.

He balanced the handset atop the hard drive and stepped out of the room, head lowered. The appearance of supplication usually helped.

“It’s not the horses this time,” he said.

Her eyes were hot coals. “I don’t care if it’s the weather. You said you don’t want your son knowing you associate with the likes of that dead-beat.”

Mickey winced. Charlie probably had heard her. This was gracious, though, compared to things she’d said before to his face. Mickey’s concern was Alfonso.

Indeed, the baby began to cry again.

“Nice work,” Sylvia said, as if it were Mickey’s fault.

Mickey rushed back into the nursery, simultaneously picking up poor Alfonso and the handset. He saw that, in his absence, the board of elections site had linked to and automatically opened a PDF of the elaborate paperwork required, in light of all the Social Security benefits fraud, for a change of address. It requested that Isadora VanDeuersen Clark’s checks be forwarded to Charles Clark at 305 East 10 Street in New York City. The original address was General Delivery, Monroeville, Virginia. No news there. But the form stated, in oversized bold caps, that if the original address were a post office box or general delivery, the applicant needed to supply a physical address below. So to learn Isadora VanDeuersen Clark’s actual whereabouts, in theory, all Mickey had to do was scroll down.

“What’s going on?” asked Charlie and Sylvia, almost in unison.

“Just a sec,” Mickey told them both.

Sylvia stomped into the room. Mickey’s back was to her. Still, her look made him wither. “One more second, please,” he begged, scrolling furiously toward the address.

“Okay …” She eyed the ceiling for about one second, then seized the computer’s power cable, shifting her weight toward the outlet, to pull the plug with maximum dramatic effect.

“Stop, please!”

She did. But only to twist the knife. And what could he do? The crib stood between them—not that he could overpower her if he wanted to. He knew of no way to persuade her. Out of spite, she usually denied even his simplest requests, like “Pass the salt?”

“Tell her you’re trying to help me find a place in Virginia,” Charlie said.

Sylvia heard. “Really?” she said with enthusiasm. She relaxed her grip on the power cord.

Mickey’s own look of mystification gave up the game. Sylvia reared back and jerked the power cord as if starting a lawn mower. The plug whipped past him, a prong grazing his cheek. The hard drive fizzled. As the screen faded to gray, however, he was able to make out Isadora V. Clark’s street address.

7

With the
address firmly in his memory and corresponding bounce in his step, Charlie hurried from the parking lot pay phone and down the still-dark breezeway. Night Manager A. Brody sprung out of the vending machine room, directly into his path.

“Top of the morning to you, Mr. Ramirez!”

Although the vending machine room was just a few steps from the office, Brody was bundled into a coat, scarf, and hat. And he hadn’t purchased anything.

He’d been waiting.

Swallowing against an upsurge of dread, Charlie said, “Top of the morning back at you.”

“You have rather fair hair for a Ramirez, don’t you?”

“My mother’s Swedish.”

Brody laughed derisively. “Listen, I’ve had so many weird middle-of-the-night check-ins that a man giving a fake name counts as fairly normal, especially if a second person’s waiting in the car. I can’t see the parking spaces around the corner from my office, but while you were checking in last night, I could distinguish the rumble of your car from that of the highway. Most people, fearing car thieves, don’t leave their vehicles running. Unless there’s
someone else
in the vehicle.”

“Is there a charge for a second person?” Charlie asked, hoping the objective of this third degree was merely the collection of a few bucks.

“No, up to four can stay at no additional fee. I wanted to share with you the message in a fax I just received from the FBI. They’re seeking
two fugitives, an older man and one about your age. And height and weight and hair and eye color.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Charlie said. By it he meant, “What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you what, a thousand in cash, and if someone asks me, a man matching your description may or may not have checked in here in the middle of the night—it was dark, you were all bundled up, who could tell?”

A thousand dollars was a small price to avoid capture. Charlie wished he had it. He fished the wallet from his pants and flipped it open to display bills totaling $157. He saw no need to mention the twenty he always kept in a different pocket. “This is what I have, and going to an ATM won’t do either of us any good, even if I had that much in my account.”

“What about Daddy?”

“Obviously you’re a highly observant individual. Notice how, like last night, I’m wearing just a sweatshirt even though it’s, like, two out?”

“The point?”

“I had to leave home last night in a rush—you can imagine how that happens, when you’re a fugitive. My father was in the same rush. He left home in pajamas, or, to the point, without his wallet. I only have as much cash as I do because yesterday I was thinking about buying a bus ticket to South Dakota.”

Brody deliberated, his breath rising from the dimly lit breezeway and into the predawn darkness. Finally, he cast a porcine hand and pinched the bills from the wallet.

Eight minutes later, Arnold Brody was swiveling anxiously in his desk chair when a dark blue Chevy Caprice sailed into the lot. Out darted two men. A strong gust of wind blew their overcoats open, revealing gray suits. The driver, in his twenties, was pale, with a stern countenance, like a wolf’s. He was what Brody had expected of a federal agent. The passenger, in his early forties, had a jock’s thick torso, gone soft in the middle. His big face was pleasant and suntanned, showcasing a sparkling grin. He looked more like an insurance salesman or a golf club pro.

“Mr. Brody, I presume,” the driver said.

“Good to meet you.” Brody stepped out of the office and extended a hand.

The driver did too, but only to flash an FBI badge identifying him as Special Agent Mortimer. His partner’s ID showed him to be Special Agent Cadaret.

“Sir, where’s their car?” Mortimer asked.

“They were clever about that,” Brody said. He pointed to the back end of the building. The nose of the gray Buick peeked from behind it, twinkling silver in the nascent sunlight. “They parked all the way down there, even though their room isn’t anywhere close, so the car would be hidden from the road.”

“We appreciate the detective work, sir,” Mortimer said. “Which room are they in?”

“Do you mind a quick question first?” Brody asked.

“Please,” said Mortimer.

Brody looked to his shoes to convey his reluctance to broach the topic to such men of altruism. “The fax mentioned a reward?”

“That’s right.” Mortimer turned to Cadaret. “It’s what, ten thousand?”

“For each of them.”

“Room one oh five,” Brody said, fighting an urge to sing it.

8

Mortimer wandered
down the parking lot, stealing glances at room 105. The curtains were closed and the lights were off. He looked for telltale shadows or flickers. He saw none. The gap between the door and the threshold was clear. Likely the rabbits were in bed.

He positioned himself behind a brick column directly across the breezeway from their room. The column would hide him from their view. Another motel guest might think he was examining the structure, that he was an engineer or an aficionado of architectural kitsch, perhaps. Fortunately there were no guests around. But any second, one might appear. And because of the strong wind—the gusts turned the breezeway into a block-long flute—Mortimer wouldn’t have the luxury of being alerted by the sound of the unbolting of a door. Accordingly, he drew the Walther from his coat with no more fanfare than if it were a cell phone, and he held it close enough to his chest that his lapels hid it. The gun was loaded with subsonic ammo and sound-suppressed, and its report would be no louder than a quarter falling into one of the vending machines’ coin-return slots.

Cadaret pulled up in the breezeway two feet before the room, flattening himself against the wall—though not too flat. A passerby might guess he was waiting for his wife, using the bricks to scratch his back maybe. He reached sideways and banged on the door three times.

There was no response.

Mortimer took a quick look around. Still no one about. He signaled this to Cadaret.

Cadaret knocked twice more and said into the door, “Charles and Drummond Clark, Special Agents Mortimer and Cadaret, FBI.”

Again, nothing.

Mortimer listened for a creak of weight shifting on carpet. He heard none.

“We know you’re not responsible for the taxi driver,” Cadaret said. “We’re here to get your assistance in finding out who is.”

Mortimer aimed his Walther at the zero in the plastic room number mounted at eye level on the door. His overcoat still concealed the weapon from all points of view except that of whichever rabbit would open the door. By the time Drummond or Charlie Clark glimpsed the gun, a hollow-point round would have entered his head, driving him back into the room. Cadaret would follow and, with his own .22, take out the other Clark.

As Cadaret crept closer to the door, Mortimer scanned the area. He shook his head, informing Cadaret the coast was clear.

Cadaret whirled and kicked the door inward. The wind masked much of the smash. Leading with his gun, Cadaret dove to the carpet and rolled, coming to a halt on one knee, planning to shoot both men.

He fired no shots. Instead he turned and beckoned Mortimer. Warily, Mortimer stepped in. Cadaret appeared to be alone in the room.

Brody must have gotten the number wrong, Mortimer thought, until Cadaret directed his attention to the rumpled comforters and blankets. Not only had someone clearly lain in each bed, particles of cinder—no doubt from the house on Prospect Place—and similarly shaded smudges remained on the sheets and pillowcases.

Cadaret rose slowly, his gun aimed at the closed bathroom door. There was no need to discuss the plan—Mortimer got it from Cadaret’s eye movements.

Nodding his acknowledgment, Mortimer tapped the room door shut behind him and stole toward the bathroom. Adrenaline slowed down time, sharpened his senses, and left him swollen with an exhilarating sense that he could shape circumstances to his will.

He knelt by the bathroom door and prepared to fire his Walther
twice—and only twice. He was confident no additional rounds would be required.

He counted to three with his fingers. On three, Cadaret lowered a shoulder and flew at the door. It flew inward, ripping the shower curtain from the rod above the bathtub, rings and all. Everything clattered into the tub, which, like the rest of the bathroom, was empty.

“Did you find them?” Brody asked, and just as soon wished he hadn’t. The agents’ demeanor said enough.

“We suspect they took someone else’s car,” Mortimer said.

Impossible, thought Brody. “There are just three other rooms rented. All of them are on this side of the inn. And look—” Stepping out of the office, he pointed down the breezeway. Three cars were parked outside their respective rooms.

He considered, though, that while he had been sitting in his office pricing widescreen TVs online, the fugitives might have sneaked around the back of the building to his own car. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Are you okay?” Mortimer asked.

“I don’t know,” Brody said, bolting for the other side of the building.

Rounding the corner, he could see that the Reserved: Management spot was empty. He stopped and placed his hands on his knees to prevent himself from collapsing under the weight of his own stupidity. How had he gotten it into his head that shaking down fugitives would provide them with a sense of security?

Mortimer and Cadaret rounded the corner behind him. “Mr. Brody, can you give me the make, model, color, and tag number?” Mortimer asked.

Brody sighed, thinking not of the car, which was late in life, but the value of its occupants. “It’s a red, ninety-three Toyota Cressida, Jersey plate T-E-N dash P-I-N.”

“We ought to be able to get a statewide be-on-the-lookout alert on the system in a matter of minutes,” Mortimer said, hurrying to his car, presumably to effect the BOLO from a computer. “We’ll get it back for
you.” His cool failed to buoy Brody. The fugitives would have to be idiots to keep the car long.

Brody returned to the office with Cadaret. “You may have information, whether you realize it or not, that can help us,” Cadaret said as they sat down.

Brody couldn’t think of a thing that would be of use to them. Desperate to increase his reward prospects, however, he added insights and innuendo as he recounted his chat with Charlie, including Charlie’s admission that he was on the lam and thinking of going by bus to South Dakota. Wherever possible, Brody sprinkled in what little else he knew, like that the old man was wearing pajamas.

Cadaret asked, “Have you told any of this to anyone else?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good,” Cadaret said. His words were punctuated by a muffled blast.

Brody’s eyes fell on the gun Cadaret was aiming at him.