“Well, that would be me.”
“And you’re with what government agency?” the woman demanded.
“Well, uh, the Air Force.”
“The Air Force? Air Force? Not the Treasury?”
“Treasury?”
“I told you not to touch,” said the old woman, darting past Danny to Hera.
She was quick for an old bat, thought Danny. He followed her around the room to Hera, who was standing in front of a painting of a city.
“This is a very nice painting,” said Hera, who was holding the painting in her hands.
“Flattery ain’t gonna warm the skillet today, hon,” said the old woman. “You’re interested in buying, then you can put your paws on it. Otherwise, put it back.”
“How much?”
“For you?” The woman looked at Danny and then back at Hera. “Not for sale. I wouldn’t take money off a group of liars like yourselves. Pretending to be from the Air Force.”
“I’m not with the Air Force,” said Hera.
“Well, at least one of you values the truth.” She took the painting. “But I’m still not selling you the painting.”
“I was told that Ms. McEwen lived here,” said Danny. “I’d like to talk to her.”
“Well, you can’t. Who told you she lived here anyway?”
“Friend of hers named Jonathon Reid.”
The woman frowned, then put the painting back on its easel. She walked back to the front of the room, looking over the display of items.
“Did you hear me?” said Danny.
“Damn straight I heard you. Who the hell are you? Really?”
“I’m Danny Freah. I want to talk to Ms. McEwen.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. It’s kind of a personal thing. About a job.”
“A job?” The woman laughed.
“You’re her mother, right?” said Hera. “Or grandmother?”
“Whose mother, darlin’?” said the woman, laying her accent on thick.
“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you,” said Danny. He reached into his pocket and took out a business card. It had his name and rank, along with a generic Washington-area phone number that could not be traced. He took a pen out and wrote down his personal cell number. “If you could tell Ms. McEwen to give me a call, I’d appreciate it. Either number. My cell’s quicker. She could call or text me.”
“She don’t put much store in texting,” said the woman, taking the card. “And she don’t phone.”
“Whatever,” said Danny.
He reached for the door. The dog, which was somewhere downstairs, started barking again.
“I told you shut your trap, Brat,” yelled the woman.
She reached over and closed the door.
“I’m Sally McEwen, Colonel Freah.”
“No offense, but I’m afraid there must be a misunderstanding somewhere,” said Danny. “I, uh — I’m looking for somebody—”
“A lot younger,” said Hera.
“If Jonathon Reid sent you here, you’re looking for me,” she said. “He just neglected to give you all the details. Which is pretty much par for the course.”
Sally McEwen had worked in various jobs for the State Department and CIA for more than forty years before being eased out by the past administration.
Eased as in pushed, and none too gently. But she had not retired. She damn well was not going to retire, and in fact went to great lengths to keep her classified clearance in order. She was officially on leave.
The Agency allowed its officers to take leaves of absence for up to five years while they pursued interests in the private sector. The supervisors who had signed off on McEwen’s leave looked at it as a pleasant fiction for a field agent who was well past the freshness date but wanted to save face.
“I can have my bags packed in ten minutes,” she told Danny, who was still having trouble believing the woman was, in fact, the CIA op he’d come for. “We must be going to the Ukraine. It’s about the NATO thing, right?”
Hera whistled. “Good guess.”
“More than a guess, sweetie. Russia must be plotting to keep them out, right? Of course.”
“She’s sharp,” said Hera.
It didn’t sound quite like a compliment.
“I, um — I have to talk to Reid,” said Danny.
“I don’t have a phone,” said McEwen.
“That’s all right.” Danny took his sat phone out. “I’m going to just make the call outside.”
The dog started barking again.
“Don’t worry about him,” McEwen told Danny. “His bark is worse than his bite.”
Outside, Danny went over and leaned against the car before dialing.
“This is Reid.”
“Jonathon, this is Danny Freah. I found Ms. McEwen.”
“Is she willing to help?”
“She’s more than willing. But she’s — old.”
Reid didn’t answer for a moment. He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken himself. If anything, he was several years — maybe even a whole decade — older than McEwen.
“Let me ask you a question, Colonel. Why do you want Sally on the mission?”
“I don’t want her, not her per se,” answered Danny. “I need someone who knows Kiev, who can talk the language like a native, and who can help make arrangements.”
“And you think she’s too old for that?”
“Yeah. And she’s a moonshiner.”
Reid laughed. “I don’t think that disqualifiers her. Assuming, of course, it’s true.”
“Seriously—”
“Who you choose is up to you, Colonel. You know that. But I wouldn’t have recommended Sally if I didn’t think she could handle the job. You’re not asking her to jump out of planes, correct?”
“No.”
“She could probably do that.” Reid laughed. “I know she’ll pass whatever physical the Agency offers.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Your call.”
Reid hung up.
Danny put the sat phone back in his pocket. He thought of himself as pretty old. In fact, he’d questioned himself several times during the last mission, wondering if he was still up to the rigors of an operation.
But McEwen — she was at least seventy.
He walked back into the house, not quite decided what to do.
Hera and McEwen were back by the paintings. Laughing.
Hera, laughing? That was a first.
Danny found McEwen pointing to a building in one of the paintings. He hadn’t looked at it very carefully before; now he realized it was a street in Kiev.
“They had rented the flat out to a prostitute,” said McEwen, continuing her story for Hera. “The prostitute got evicted, and we got it. Of course, we didn’t know about the previous occupant. So here we are, trying to set up a safe house, and men knocking at all hours of the night, asking for Olga. Ulll-ga.”
“Olga,” repeated Hera, laughing hysterically.
She must be pretty good with people, thought Danny, to get Hera on her side so quickly. He’d had a lot of trouble winning her over.
“So what did Johnny say?” asked McEwen.
Danny had never heard Reid called Johnny by anyone. Reid didn’t seem like a Johnny. He seemed like a… Mr. Reid.
“He said that you know Kiev better than I know the back of my hand,” Danny told her. “And that you can help me make some arrangements there.”
“Damn straight. Let me get my bag.”
“What about your store?” asked Danny.
“Ah, I don’t get but two customers a year, except for the ones what want some old-fashioned.”
She disappeared down the hall.
“That’s the local White Lightning,” said Hera.
“No shit,” said Danny.
“She just sells it for her father’s cousin. He lives out in the woods.”