“Maybe. But seems to me this Russian spy’s very important to you, because you wanted him kept alive. Supposing Herald had wanted to meet me because he knew something about the spy, something that could have threatened the spy’s interests, perhaps something that could have threatened your interests.”
“Doesn’t matter now, because your asset’s dead.”
Ellie nodded. “That’s fine, as long as he’s taken his secret to his grave.”
“Herald didn’t say anything to you before you were attacked?”
Something like, All the Agency’s biggest secrets are being leaked to Russia by a high-ranking mole.
Ellie lied. “Nothing important. We were just catching up, pleasantries, small talk, warming up to the reason he wanted to meet me. I always let him do that; he hated being rushed into business. Then the Russian operatives kicked down the door.”
Jellicoe and Parker were silent as they momentarily glanced at each other.
Ellie asked Parker, “Whatever interests you have in the senior Russian spy, is it important stuff? Stuff that I’d buy into?”
“Ellie, I can’t—”
“And you don’t have to. I just need to know if it’s something good.”
Parker looked at Jellicoe, who hesitated before giving the slightest of nods. “It’s very important. The president takes a personal interest.”
“Then that’s all I need to know. What plans do you have for me?”
Parker seemed relieved with the question. “I was thinking a few more weeks’ leave, followed by putting you back in deep cover. Another name, change of dress and hair, lose or gain a bit of weight, different continent, usual drill.”
Back to a life that wasn’t her life.
Ellie nodded. “I’m not very good at twiddling my thumbs, doing nothing. Why don’t you make use of me during the next few weeks? Keep me in Langley before I go back out into the field.”
“Doing what?”
“I know my asset inside out. I can read through his files. See if there’s anything there that could suggest he might have put a fail-safe in place that could mean his secret information about the Russian spy wasn’t taken to the grave. Maybe something similar he’s done in the past. If I find something, I just present it to you and leave you to decide what to do. Job done.”
Ellie expected to find absolutely zero of interest in her asset’s files, but that wasn’t relevant. Having a pass to camp in Langley was.
Jellicoe asked Parker, “She security cleared to read those files?”
Parker snapped, “She was his case officer, for God’s sake.” He composed himself. “Sorry, Mr. Jellicoe. Yes, of course she is.”
Jellicoe eyed Ellie. “You find something, you bring it to us and shut the door on your way out. But I warn you: start looking in places you shouldn’t and it’ll trigger an automatic red flag. Our security boys will be all over you. It won’t be pleasant.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
Parker went to his desk and made an internal call. “Get Miss Hallowes a room on the third floor and extend her pass to three weeks. I’ll give you a list of her security clearances”—he looked at Ellie—“together with a list of what she’s not allowed to read. She’s ready to go.”
A few minutes later, Ellie was escorted out of the room by the man who’d met her in the lobby.
After the door had shut behind her, Jellicoe stuffed his handkerchief into his expensive suit and asked, “You trust her?”
“No reason to think otherwise.”
Jellicoe shook his head and said with contempt, “You’d never have made director if it weren’t for Ferryman. You’re too damn naive.”
EIGHTEEN
As soon as Will spotted the road, he removed and secreted his goggles and balaclava, grimaced as icy rain struck his face like needles, shoved his hands into his jacket, and adopted the posture of a man who was severely pissed that his car had broken down north of here and had to walk to the nearest civilization to get help.
He stepped onto the road and headed south, his only hope being that a passerby would stop, take pity on him, and drive him to someplace warm. No one would fail to spot him — the road was deserted and quite flat, either side of it was open snow-covered countryside. Plus, though the route was remote, there was no doubt that vehicles had recently driven along it, since the road had recently been plowed. Didn’t mean anyone would stop, though; they might just err on the side of caution and keep driving in case he was a serial killer.
Did Nova Scotia have serial killers who’d be stupid enough to chance their luck in these conditions and with very few victims around? Will had no idea; nor did he have much experience of attempting to hitch a ride. He decided that if he heard a vehicle, he wouldn’t stick out his thumb. Instead, he’d just keep walking while looking as pathetic as possible. Hopefully that would make him look less likely to be a killer who was desperate to get inside someone’s vehicle. Perhaps the passerby would think through options as he continued onward, decide that the walker wasn’t a threat, then stop and back up.
Not that Will wasn’t a threat. As well as the Russian pistol he was carrying, the cache had given him another handgun and spare ammunition, army food rations that would feed him for a few days, two thousand Canadian dollars, a lockpick set, and a military knife, all hidden in his jacket. There had been other stuff in the cache that would have been extremely useful for a man going to war, but too conspicuous for someone who just wanted to blend in. So he’d left the assault rifles and most of the other military supplies behind. Even though there was every possibility that he was a man going to war.
Most likely a futile war.
One that would see him being mowed down the moment he stuck his head out of the trenches.
His stomach was cramping, partly because he was tired and hungry, and partly because he was tense. Not knowing what lay ahead was making things worse, and it was an unusual sensation because secret agents are trained to be in control of everything around them, even when things go wrong. But this was different because he was no longer an agent, and had no support and safety net.
All of this was new to him. Not even the Spartan training program could have prepared him for what it was like to be a homeless criminal on the run in a world full of people who wanted him dead.
Part of his brain was telling him to move into the countryside, remove his outer clothing, sit down, and wait for the elements to take away the pain by killing him. But he kept going, each step taking him closer to his destination.
It would have been reasonable for anyone watching the four people walking briskly across the concourse of the Arrivals section of Washington Dulles Airport to assume that they were businessmen in their early thirties who broke up their high-pressure days with intensive cardiovascular workouts. Further, the observer might have noticed their casual, confident smiles, which, together with the expensive-looking overcoats, suits, and suitcases, suggested they were wealthy playboys who exuded the joie de vivre that is often prevalent in the successful and rich. No doubt they’d inherited good genes — high cheekbones, lean and athletic builds, above-average height, straight hair — but money had made them look even better. Only expensive dental work could have gotten their teeth that white and straight; professional stylists had spent a lot of time getting their short hair into cuts that made them dashing, charming, and full of sex appeal; and their lightly tanned Caucasian faces were marble smooth. These, the observer might have concluded, were Forbes 400 men who would look right at home on the front cover of Esquire or GQ.