After that evening in Hanoi, Chrissie had been posted somewhere else, I’d been whisked off to do more covert operations, and our paths had never crossed again until this moment.
She was dressed like she was when I last saw her, and physically identical; I was getting the same feeling in my gut.
“Can I come in?” I felt like a sheepish boyfriend who was trying to get his girl back after an argument.
Chrissie didn’t answer; instead she went into the living room, sat on a sofa, and examined me. “Since we last met, you’ve lost seven pounds, have nine more visible scars, and look like you’ve recently killed someone.”
“How can you tell?”
“Which bit?”
“The killing bit.”
She pointed at my face. “When I met you before you killed the target in Hanoi, your eyes were clear; after, they were dead. You’ve got the latter look right now.”
“Actually, I think I’m just tired.”
She clicked her tongue but didn’t articulate that she knew I was lying.
“Why are you here?”
Chrissie rested an ankle on her leg and cracked her knuckles. “I was at a loose end in Langley — not due back in the field for another month — and Patrick thought I was the ideal candidate to keep an eye on you.”
“I don’t need watching.”
“Patrick disagrees. Thinks that you wouldn’t last one day with one of the normal safe house keepers; that you’d walk out the back door when she wasn’t looking and just keep walking.”
I feigned annoyance. “He’s probably right.” A thought occurred to me. “Maybe Patrick’s decided it’s time for me to settle down and get myself a good wife. He’s thrown us together to see how things work out.”
Chrissie raised her eyebrows while pointing at the ceiling. “My room’s upstairs. It’s got a lock on the door.” She nodded toward the hallway. “You’re on the first floor.”
I sighed. “So what happens now?”
Chrissie jumped to her feet. “We need food, booze, and some good rental movies, so let’s go shopping.”
Two minutes later I was about to enter Chrissie’s car, when my cell rang. The number was withheld, but I knew it was Langley because no one else had my number. I smiled as I answered because I was really pleased to be going shopping with a woman, which hadn’t happened to me for a long time, and especially so because the woman was Chrissie. I answered the call. “Yeah?”
I could hear breathing at the end of the line, before a man who was definitely not Patrick said, “Mr. Cochrane, this is Trapper.” His English was flawless, no hint of an accent. I’d never heard his voice before. “I’m calling out of courtesy to let you know that I’ve arrived in the United States of America. It’s imperative that we meet soon, because I need to kill you.”
Chapter 4
I got out of bed, having barely slept during the night. The evening before, Chrissie had been great company. We’d cooked together, eschewed her movie choice of a costume drama and mine of a real-life Navy SEAL mission in favor of Scrabble, which she’d emphatically won, drunk wine, and, at one point, engaged in the briefest of eye contact, which I’d interpreted as meaningful but probably hadn’t been — at least, not on her part.
Chrissie had been making an effort to distract me. Patrick had told her about Trapper and what he’d said in Afghanistan, and I’d told her about yesterday’s call from Trapper because she deserved to know she was cohabiting with a man who was being hunted. For a few hours, Chrissie had done a good job, but after I’d taken myself to bed, thoughts had raced through my mind throughout the night. The most dominant of them all was that I hated being taunted by a killer while I was in hiding. But it seemed that Patrick had bigger plans for me, so I was temporarily on the shelf with my hands tied behind my back.
But at least there was comfort that Chrissie was here.
I wasn’t concerned about her being near me, because CIA safe houses are given that name for a reason. They’re anonymous, secret, and sold every six months so that new houses can be purchased. No one outside of Langley knows their locations, and even within the Agency, that knowledge is limited to a handful of people. But I was concerned that the more time I spent with Chrissie, the greater the likelihood that I would make a pass at her and she would rebut me.
At one point during my restless night, I’d attempted to think about other things by recalling my evening with Chrissie in Vietnam and how we’d amicably bickered yesterday evening about whether our Szechuan chicken dish should contain one or two fresh chilies. At approximately 2:00 a.m., while fruitlessly trying to sleep, I’d decided I’d like to marry Chrissie.
Now, in the cold light of day, it seemed the silly thought of an inactive man prone to boredom.
No, I thought as I showered and dressed, this was not one of my capricious moments. It felt more real. Impetuous and gushing, yes. But real.
I walked out of the room, heard sizzling noises, and smelled bacon and sausages. Chrissie was in the kitchen, wearing a sharp suit, nudging food in a frying pan. It seemed she was cooking for the both of us. I was surprised, because I had her down as a wheatgrass-smoothie-on-the-go-breakfast girl. Many things about Chrissie were surprising me. It all made me wonder if I should buy her a diamond ring today.
I needed a coffee and probably a slap in the face to snap out of it.
Instead those imperatives were curtailed by a call to my secret phone.
Trapper said, “I think you’re in Washington, D.C.,” and hung up.
I rang the number back but knew he wouldn’t answer because it was a landline, almost certainly a public pay phone. I muttered, “Shit,” and saw that Chrissie was looking at me.
“Him?”
I nodded. “Him.”
She flipped bacon. “How’s he got your number?”
“No idea.”
“You going to tell Patrick?”
“That would be the sensible course of action.”
“And yet, why’s Trapper taunting you?”
“Precisely.”
She tossed me her spatula, winked, and said, “Your turn to play housewife.”
I complied, placed Chrissie’s food on a plate, and ensured my bacon was singed to the point of being black, because I like meat but not if it resembles meat — the result, I guess, of seeing the remains of human flesh too many times. “You know what I’m thinking?”
Chrissie leaned against a bench, her arms folded. I thought she might be checking me out, but I wasn’t sure. “Yes.”
“And you’re going to tell me I’m an idiot?”
“I should.”
“But you’re not going to?”
Chrissie stood next to me, looked in the pan, and said, “You’re burning your bacon.” She placed her hand on mine; it was the nicest thing that had happened to me in a long time. “If you tell Patrick that Trapper’s in the States and is in contact with you, he’ll task an Agency team to go after Trapper. Trapper will go to ground, and he’ll keep doing so until he gets you on your own.”
Chrissie was right, which was why I knew I’d no choice but to leave the safe house and go after Trapper. “You’ll cover for me?”