TWENTY-ONE
Ellie Hallowes walked down a corridor inside Langley that housed the Directorate of Intelligence, specifically its Russian and European Analysis division. On either side of her were large, open-plan rooms that housed researchers and analysts whose task was to support the work of the Agency’s National Clandestine Service as well as the dissemination of all source intelligence to key government and military customers in the United States. When not working in the field, it was common for members of the Clandestine Service to stalk the halls of this wholly separate directorate with the intention of trying to browbeat analysts into upgrading the importance of their sources’ intelligence. Though they were different shapes, ages, and sizes, you could differentiate officers of the Clandestine Service from the desk-bound ranks of the Directorate of Intelligence. They had an unusual way of looking at people, exuding confidence and an air of superiority. When one of them walked past, analysts would frequently stop what they were doing and stare at them in awe, jealousy, and resentment that they were responsible for a lot of the paperwork and crap the analysts had to put up with. But nobody took any notice of Ellie, because she averted her gaze from others and wanted to be invisible.
She entered a vast room containing at least two hundred desks and computer terminals, with people sitting or walking around, talking to each other or on the phone or working in silence. It was a cluttered and vibrant atmosphere, similar, Ellie assumed, to those found in newspaper headquarters, investment banks, and telemarketing companies.
She had to ask three people where to go before she found the desk of the female analyst.
Alongside the Director of the CIA, Sheridan, Parker, and Jellicoe, Ellie had ascertained from her computer’s file request database that four other officers were cleared to access Ferryman files. All were analysts. Three of them were no good to her because they were male. The fourth had potential, not just because she was a woman but because she was also cleared to read the Herald files.
“Ellie Hallowes.” She held out her hand to the woman, who was a few years older than Ellie, plumper, and wore thick-rimmed glasses. “Thought I’d introduce myself to you while I’m in town.”
The analyst didn’t get up from her seat. She looked quizzical and hesitant before shaking Ellie’s hand. “Helen Coombs.”
“I had direct involvement in the Herald case. Wanted to thank you in person for processing my intelligence reports, before he… well, you know.”
Helen’s mouth widened in surprise. “You were Herald’s case officer? I often wondered who you were, because your name was never mentioned in his files.”
Nor would it be. Unlike their peers in the Clandestine Service, deep-cover officers were never identified in official reports.
“Glad to hear that. I’m going to be pulling some of Herald’s files from archives. Director Parker’s given me written clearance to do so, but I thought you ought to know.” She smiled. “In case you thought they’d gone missing.”
“They’re your files, my dear. The rest of us can stand in line. You take as long as you like reading them. Know which archive department they’re in?”
“I’m told six corridors down.”
“Yep.” Helen looked concerned. “Were you with him when he was killed in Norway?”
“I…” It was time for the waterworks. Fake waterworks. Ellie held a handkerchief to her mouth and nose, and nodded.
“You poor thing.” Helen got up from her desk and put her arm around Ellie. “Nobody should have to go through that.”
Ellie cleared her throat and inhaled deeply, as if trying to compose herself. “Guess that’s why I wanted to meet you. I don’t know anyone else here. Certainly no one else who was in on Herald.”
“It must be so hard for you.” Helen patted her hand while looking around the bustling room. “Want to have a chat somewhere more private? We could grab a coffee.”
This was excellent. Ellie thought she’d have to make the first move, but Helen had suggested precisely what she was hoping for. “That sounds like a great idea. How about after work today?”
“Of course. I finish in two hours.”
“As long as it doesn’t annoy your husband.”
“I’m single. Live alone. I can do what I like.”
Ellie looked like she was about to get emotional again, though all she was thinking about was that she’d have to move quickly to get home first to sort through her array of disguises. “In that case, is it possible we can get something a bit stronger than a coffee? And go someplace away from here?”
Helen smiled. “I look forward to it. Tell you what — it’s work related, so let’s put it on expenses and make the Agency pay.”
Later that evening, Ellie drained the remainder of her wine and smiled. “Thanks for this evening, Helen. I needed it. Think I had to lay Herald to rest.”
“You calling it a night?” Helen’s words were a bit slurred, her face flushed. “Place’s just livening up.”
The bar was indeed getting lively with young office workers; the men had ties loosened and were speaking too loudly, trying to hold court; the women were cackling and gulping wine, all of them displaying the booze-fueled hubris of individuals who were relieved to be set free from work. Ellie wondered if Agency people came here, since the bar was close to Langley. She hoped not, because being seen out with one of the Agency’s analysts was the last thing she wanted. “Actually, it’s just a bit noisy in here. Feel like there’s too many people around.”
“I understand.”
“God, it feels good though to be off duty. Have you got anything decent to drink at your place? I could do with a few more glasses, but somewhere a bit less party-party. Still feeling very emotional, and the last thing I want to do is break down in front of these folks.”
Helen slapped a hand on the table, a broad smile on her face. “In that case, girl, let’s you and me make a night of it. I’ve got plenty to drink at home.”
“Great.” Ellie grabbed her overnight bag. “That’s more than can be said for my hotel room. Can you hail a cab while I make a visit to the ladies’ room?”
“My pleasure.” After Helen put on her overcoat and grabbed her handbag, she walked to the exit, her footing a little unsteady.
Ellie waited until she was outside before approaching one of the waiters. “Found this by our seats. Someone’s going to be pissed when they realize it’s gone missing.”
She handed over Helen Coombs’s wallet, while mentally rehearsing what she’d say to Helen as their cab approached her home.
The cab’s on me, providing the liquor and music’s on you.
The waiter took the wallet that Ellie had stolen from Helen’s handbag. “Sure. If we don’t hear from the owner by tomorrow, we’ll report it. Can you give me your name?”
“Maggie Evans.”
“Okay, Ms. Evans. Thanks for your honesty, and have a nice evening.”
Ellie exited the bar.
Helen was standing by a cab and had a glint in her eye. “You like Abba?” Before Ellie could answer, Helen started singing “Dancing Queen” as she opened the door.
Ellie wished that Helen’s CIA security ID had been in her handbag. Then again, maybe it was good that it wasn’t, because Ellie could give Helen the mother of all hangovers, to the extent that tomorrow she’d think it perfectly plausible that she’d not only left her wallet at the bar, but also her treasured Agency ID. Also, it was probable that Helen would be late for work or call in sick. But that meant that Ellie was going to have to endure Abba, more wine, and inane small talk for several hours until she could steal Helen’s ID, leave her home, get changed into a wig and glasses and padding, and briefly pretend to be someone resembling the ID photo of Helen.