The Shield of Darius (32 page)

His expression told her it wasn’t.

“You said
was
. What happened to them? I haven’t read about any of this in the news.”

The stocky man eased his arm from her grip and started again toward the river.

“You have and you just didn’t realize it. Remember the air attack on the buildings in Tehran a few weeks ago?”

She nodded and again closed her eyes, anticipating the explanation. When she looked again at Peter, his creased face had softened and he took her hand.

“Ben and the others were being held in Tehran in an old hotel. Several weeks ago, it was bombed to the ground. That’s what you read about in the papers. The bombing was impossible to trace, but it was an Israeli attack, engineered by American agents.”

Kate slumped forward and shook her head in disbelief, pulling her hand from his and turning away. “Why are you doing this, Pete? This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Even…even if it were true, how could you possibly know all this?”

Koka stepped behind her and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Our people have access to even the most sensitive security information,” he said. “We’re quite certain that the man who arranged to have the hotel destroyed knew American hostages were being held there and wanted to get rid of them before they could be used as shields against any action by our government.”

“You mean
our
government arranged to have the place blown up,
knowing our own people were in there?
”

“One or two people in our government,” Koka corrected. “I’ve had some associates run a little check on the agent and learned some interesting things. It appears – and this is all inference – that there is a small group of people working for the intelligence community who aren’t exactly ‘official.’ They do special projects. Take care of things that can’t be done officially. Aside from having names –false names, we assume – these people don’t even officially exist. No birth records, marriage records, military records…. No fingerprints or Social Security or Passport records. At least no real ones. Our contacts in Intelligence aren’t even sure who they are, but they seem to have access to the unlimited resources of our Central Intelligence Agency through an inside contact.”

“And this agent was one of these people? Do you know who it is?” Her racing thoughts were approaching a collision with Koka’s story.

Koka nodded slowly. “Now we come to the part that’s kept me from calling you until today.” The old man paused. “He goes by Christopher Falen.”

The collision happened. Though Kate had seen it coming, had sensed the possibility racing toward her, it still smashed squarely into her and she felt her knees begin to fold. Koka grabbed her arm and started her forward again.

“I’m aware he’s been seeing you. I haven’t been too sure on what basis. But it was that call to him at the house, and my learning about his meetings with you that allowed us to trace him. That’s why I haven’t contacted you.”

Kate stopped again, bending and clenching her teeth and fists, straining against the anger that spread through her like hot poison.

“
He knew all along!
He
knew
where Ben was and he used me. Played with me. Even when he was planning to kill him, he
played
with me.”

Koka returned the rough hand to her back. ” Can you tell me what your relationship is with this Mr. Falen?”

“He’d like it to be close, but I’ve kept it professional. I...I admit that I’ve sometimes used him as a person to talk to about things... just because no one else seemed to want to listen. But I’ve never given up on Ben and....” She felt tears streaming down her cheeks and turned away from Ben’s uncle.

“Ben doesn’t know anything about these meetings you’ve had with Falen and we don’t see any reason for that to change.”

Kate turned, her eyes widening, and sniffed away the tears. “What do you mean, ‘
doesn’t know’
...?”

“He’s alive, Kate. He escaped from the hotel before it was destroyed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with?” she asked incredulously.

“I needed to know what your relationship was with this Falen character. You’ve made that clear to me now.”

Kate straightened and turned directly to face Ben’s uncle. Her eyes flashed deep green – eyes that had once been described as those of a panther. “I thought Mr. Falen was a friend and though he wanted more, it didn’t move that far. I’ve never given up on Ben. What do we need to do?”

“If you’re willing to help, I have some thoughts.”

Kate listened as the member of the secret branch of the RPA outlined his plan.

“We’ve had some of our own contacts checking on him,” he concluded. “We haven’t been able to locate where he is and frankly, if something happens to him here, I’m afraid it might lead to more complications. If it happens abroad, the man has no identity and foreign officials won’t know who they have. We’re fortunate that he has no history.”

“I can do it,” Kate said almost to herself, then paused. “…but I’ll need to do something with the kids. They’ve had more of my mother than any of us can stand, and I’ve been leaving them so much lately….”

“Bring them here. They love the farm and it will be a vacation for them. I’ll bring them to meet you when this is taken care of.”

“The kids would love that. But won’t it interfere with what you need to get done?”

Koka laughed. “I don’t do. I just make contacts. All that’s taken care of.”

“Chris is a pretty shrewd man…,” she said, mostly to herself.

“If you don’t think this is manageable, we’ll find another way. But it appears he’s pretty taken with you. That should affect his judgment.”

“I can do it,” she said, her face flushing again with anger and embarrassment. “You don’t need to tell me this – and I suspect you won’t. But in order to find out about  Chris and his group, you must have been able to get to some pretty important people.”

“Just one,” Koka smiled. “And if it’s the right one, that’s all it takes.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Christopher Falen was not on the passenger manifest and Kate suspected he had become suspicious. She waited anyway, remembering Koka’s warning that these chameleons often traveled under different names. Plus, she didn’t have anything else to do, and a warm summer sun was flooding the small terminal at Leeds-Bradford Airport with lazy warmth. She wore a light sleeveless summer dress that left most of her back bare and was cut square across the top of her breasts, accentuating the braided gold necklace that hung around her neck. She wore it because she had finally decided exactly how she felt about Christopher Falen.

He did not disembark with the other passengers and she turned from the windowed wall of the building, wondering if she should call Peter Koka.

“You look beautiful,” Falen said, standing a few steps behind her. “And thanks for wearing the necklace.” A small brown leather overnight case sat at his feet.

“Where did you come from?” she asked, fearing that the surprise in her voice betrayed her suspicion.

“I got to London and it was so nice I decided to drive. I got a rental, but told them I might turn it in here. You said you’d have a car….”

His failure to appear on the passenger manifest had forced Kate to rethink her plan, and she struggled now to recover.

“It’s an English Ford and may not be as nice as yours, but this is my treat,” she said cheerfully. “If you don’t mind, we’ll keep mine.”

“Fine with me,” he said brightly, reaching up to touch the necklace. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever wear this.”

She smiled. “It was very thoughtful of you to get it for me. Plus, I like it.”

“Still on just a friendly basis, then…?”

She feigned annoyance, wanting to be playful, and touched his arm lightly. “Just friends for now, please,” she said, giving the arm a slight squeeze.

His hand touched her back and she wanted to pull away, but let him press her shoulder.

“Is this much of a drive? he asked, picking up the case. “I’ve done about as much driving as I care to for one day.”

“Thirty or forty minutes, and I’ll be glad to drive. The scenery’s beautiful, so just sit back and enjoy.”

Falen returned his car and they left the airport, driving east into the heather-covered moors of Wharfdale. At each bend in the winding road, sleepy stone villages popped up like pages in a children’s foldout book. Beyond Ilkley Moor, the road turned north along the River Wharf and the fields turned from coarse brown heather to the velvety green of stone walled pastures. Sheep dotted the hillsides as if painted into place and the river ran clear and quiet through a tunnel of shading oaks.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever been anywhere so peaceful,” Falen said, reaching across to touch her arm. “I must have been to England two dozen times, but this is absolutely incredible.”

“There’s an old abbey up here on the left,” Kate said, letting his hand rest against her. “Not much left of it now, but it dates way back.”

As they rounded a gentle turn in the road, the broken red stone walls of Bolton Abbey rose above the trees. “We can come walk through here tomorrow,” she said. “Not many people come here and it will be a good place to talk.” He squeezed her arm and she leaned toward him a little, wondering why he had decided to drive from London, and why he was traveling so light.

The road crossed a bridge into Grassington and climbed a cobbled street into the center of the village. A mile beyond, a narrow lane dove back down the hill between piled stone pasture walls, re-emerging at the river bank beside a low, rose covered cottage. It’s lace-curtained windows looked out over the stream, and the black, cross-braced door opened out into a small front garden, separated from the lane by a thick, neatly groomed hedge. Kate pulled the car out of sight between the hedge and steeply sloping pasture behind the cottage and turned off the engine.

“Here we are,” she announced. Two hundred yards upstream, a fisherman in a tweed jacket and flat county cap glanced at the couple as they climbed from the car, then returned to his rhythmic casting.

Falen stretched and turned slowly, looking up and down the river bank, then across the pastures toward the village.

“This is amazing! I didn’t think there really were places like this.”

“It’s really not too comfortable inside,” Kate laughed, watching the fisherman who seemed to have lost interest in them. “The ceilings are low, and it only has a fireplace for heat. Last night I froze.”

Falen started to comment but stopped himself, grinning his disarming grin. He stooped after her into the cottage’s rustic kitchen, then into a small living room where two deep corduroy chairs and a low table surrounded a coal fireplace. A bottle of unopened wine sat in the middle of the table.

Kate turned and took Falen’s hand. “Just friends,” she smiled. “But I really do appreciate what you have done for me, Chris. Can you be patient with me?”

His arms were around her back and one hand dropped to her hips and pulled her tighter. “You’re asking a lot of me,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear and hair. “We could have been just friends in a hotel in Leeds without the cottage and wine.”

“I know,” she whispered back, easing him away. “But I think walking in this countryside will be good for both of us, so let’s see how the next few days go….”

She gestured toward the wine and again became playful. “That’s supposed to be a very good Burgundy, and you won’t believe how much trouble it was to find it around here. This isn’t exactly wine country. I finally had to go over to a shop in Skipton. Why don’t you pour us both a glass and see if it lives up to their billing while I clean up a bit. I want to change before I show you around the village.”

She stepped through another low door into one of the small bedrooms, leaving the door slightly ajar so that the vanity mirror reflected her bare back as she stripped away the dress. She heard the cork pop in the living room, the sound of Falen filling the glasses, and felt his eyes caressing her reflection. She pulled a pair of jeans and a light cotton shirt from her case and wriggled into them, ran a brush through her hair and dabbed a light perfume onto her wrists. When she turned, she could not see him through the narrow opening in the door.

Kate eased the door fully open. He wasn’t in either of the chairs and Kate drew back into the bedroom, listening for movement in the rest of the house.

“I’m in here,” he called from the kitchen.

Kate glanced at the table. Her glass stood half full beside the bottle. His was gone. There was no sound from the kitchen and she moved back across the small bedroom, watching the door as she groped for the window that opened onto the cottage’s back garden. When she felt the sill, she turned and twisted the latch on the lower sash, easing the window open a few inches.

“The wine’s very good,” he said from the doorway and she spun involuntarily, backing against the open pane.

As he looked at her his pleasant smile slowly faded to expressionless concentration. He took a quick step back into the living room, glanced toward the front door, then came back again to bar the door to the bedroom.

“What’s going on?” he said, looking at the unlatched window.

“It was just getting stuffy. I needed a little fresh air.”

“Why are we here,” he said quietly, lifting and turning his head slightly like a stag testing the breeze.

Kate forced a smile and relaxed away from the window. “You startled me….”

“Who did you expect...?”

“I didn’t expect anyone. You knew I was changing and I heard you say you were in the kitchen....”

“Hmmm,” he nodded, still alert to the rest of the cottage. “You were changing to give me a hard on.” He studied the round circles of her breasts accentuated by the tightness of her shirt and sniffed, shaking his head in disgust. “Come over here. We’re leaving and we’re going out the door with you in front of me.”

Kate tried a confused smile. “I don’t understand what’s happening here – why you’re so upset with me all of a sudden. Have I done something?” 

Falen took a step back into the living room. “Just come. There’s something going on here that….” He paused and reached unsteadily for the door frame, looking down into the empty glass in his hand. When he looked up, the expressionless mask had broken and his eyes reflected a knowing resignation. Suddenly his knees buckled, and he sat heavily in the doorway, the glass shattering in front of him. He looked up at her, trying to focus.

“Why?” he asked, the word stumbling out in a drunken slur.

“Because you’re a lying, murdering bastard,” she sobbed, and Christopher Falen pitched forward into unconsciousness.

He was lying on his stomach with his mouth gaping in long, rumbling breaths when she stepped over him with her case and checked the living room quickly for any sign of her presence. She could not see the fisherman when she left the cottage, and drove quickly through Grassington and across the River Wharf, turning south toward Skipton.

It was Monday, wash day, and the banks and shops closed at noon. The English called it “half closing day” and the mornings were always especially hectic. She drove past the small stone castle on the north end of the village of Skipton and found the market square with its bustling train and bus stations teaming with people, all hurrying to finish their business before noon. Kate hunched forward over the wheel of the Ford, certain that each was watching her, knew where she had come from and what she had done. She wondered if she should have waited until afternoon, until the shops closed and the village slowed to the pace of a Sunday afternoon. Then she realized that Peter Koka, by a stroke of luck or extraordinary planning, had placed her on the village square at the one time no one would notice the white Ford or its attractive driver in the harried mix.

She turned onto highway 65 toward the Ribblesdale district without anyone paying particular attention, wondering what she would do now that Ben might not want her back, and she was an accessory to murder.