Antaeus was sure that Hallowes was the only person who didn’t want Cochrane captured or killed. The nature of her deep-cover work made her dislocated from the unconditional loyalty prevalent in mainstream Agency operatives. That meant that even though Cochrane broke rules to protect her, she wouldn’t blindly agree with the rules that had put Cochrane on the run.
Instead, she’d help him if she could. And the best way she could do that was to read the Ferryman files and relay what she had read to Cochrane. Yes, that’s what had been troubling him. Hallowes was the threat to his otherwise watertight strategy. But how would she relay what she’d discovered to Cochrane? Not by standard forms of communication, because she’d know that she didn’t have the Agency’s full trust and it could be monitoring her. That left old-school tradecraft. A dead-letter box. In a location agreed upon by Cochrane and Hallowes. One she could easily access without garnering suspicion from the Agency by being absent for too long. Washington, D.C.
Antaeus smiled and picked up his telephone.
The rolling, frost-covered vista of Middleburg, Virginia, was magnificent and all the better for being seen on horseback. Catherine Parker and Lindsay Sheridan were both proficient riders, and it had been Catherine’s idea to get out of D.C. for an afternoon so that the two women could get some bracing air, exercise, and time out from the craziness that came with being married to the Central Intelligence Agency.
Wearing jodhpurs, riding boots, helmets, and warm jackets and gloves, the women rode side by side at a fast trot along a valley that contained pine, ash, and oak trees. The horses were stabled at the Salamander Resort & Spa, and were their regular mounts when they could get out for a visit. But their last ride together had been over four months ago, so today’s venture was long overdue.
They reached a large pond that was glistening under the winter sunshine and looked like a perfect place to let the horses rest and for the women to catch their breath. Catherine called out, “Time for an aperitif?”
Lindsay smiled. “Now you’re talking.”
They stopped, dismounted, and tethered their horses to trees. Catherine withdrew a hip flask and unscrewed its cap. “I stole some of Ed’s best Scotch.” She took a swig and handed it to Lindsay. “It can be our little secret.”
Lindsay swallowed the fiery liquor and nodded her head in appreciation. “Tastes even better, knowing it’s illicit.” She removed her helmet and scratched her scalp where the hat had rubbed it. As she looked at the water, she exclaimed, “God, it feels good to get away.”
Catherine knew she was referring to her husband, but kept quiet.
“Sometimes it’s hard to breathe when I’m around Charles.”
“He’s not here now.”
Lindsay looked at Catherine with a smile that suggested she thought her friend’s comment was naive. “Trouble is, I can feel his presence all the time.”
So many times, Catherine had wanted to ask Lindsay the question she was contemplating right now, but she’d always feared what reaction she’d get. She hesitated, and asked, “Why don’t you just leave him? Start a new life?”
Lindsay bowed her head and said quietly, “Guess you’ve been waiting to ask me that for a long time.”
“I didn’t want to meddle, I—”
“It’s okay, Cathy.” She returned her gaze to the water. “I think about it all the time. Wonder what it would be like to be in a relationship with a nice man. Thing is though — when you’re young, it’s easy; you just hitch up your skirt, flash a bit of leg, and you’ve got a crop of men to pick from. Not so easy at our age though, is it?”
Catherine was about to tell her she was wrong, but stopped and placed her hand on Lindsay’s back. “Maybe you just have to find out.”
Lindsay turned to Catherine, her eyes watering. “I think… I think I’m not strong enough to walk out on him. You know, I fantasize that the decision is made for me. It’s awful”—tears were now running down her face—“awful, but I keep thinking it would be best if he was dead. Killed. Died. Dead.”
“You’re not planning anything bad, are you?”
Lindsay shook her head. “No, no. Nothing stupid. Don’t worry. This is just us talking and me spouting shit. I can’t touch him. I can’t do anything bad to him. That’s half the problem.” She wiped her tears away. “But it doesn’t stop me wishing every day that some drunk driver or whoever would wipe him out on his way home. At least then I’d be forced to do something.”
The black London cab stopped in King’s Road, in Chelsea. Though it was evening and raining, the popular thoroughfare of designer shops and restaurants was buzzing with well-groomed beautiful people, none of whom looked over the age of forty. As Dickie Mountjoy surveyed his surroundings, the retired major decided that everyone who came here was a scrounger who’d never done a decent day’s work and lived off swollen bank balances courtesy of their fathers.
Phoebe paid the cabbie, helped Dickie get out of the vehicle, and exclaimed, “Ooh, I do love King’s Road.”
Dickie huffed. “Thought you might.” He steadied himself with his walking stick, swung it under one arm, and followed Phoebe. He was properly dressed for the cold outing — leather gloves, scarf immaculately folded so it looked like a cravat around his throat, and a knee-length blue moleskin coat over his trousers and jacket. Aside from a chic cropped faux-mink-fur jacket, Phoebe, on the other hand, was wearing next to nothing and a pair of platforms. It was a miracle she didn’t get hypothermia during her regular evenings out.
She led him to an antique shop that was closed, though its inside lights were still on. She pressed the doorbell. An elderly man unlocked the entrance; he had half-moon spectacles hanging on a chain over his chest, was wearing a red smoking jacket that looked as though it had been made a hundred years ago, and had yellow and silver hair that had been styled to make him look Bohemian and eccentric. An arty type. For the love of Jesus, let’s get this over with quickly, thought Dickie.
Phoebe introduced herself as the woman who’d called the shop proprietor earlier in the day and had asked for an after-hours appointment. The man beckoned them in. Dickie was about to follow Phoebe in, but stopped as a newsstand billboard farther up the street caught his eye. He frowned as he tried to decide what it meant, and entered the shop.
On display were antiques that Dickie reckoned were targeted at more-money-than-sense people who wanted to furnish their West London homes with Victorian and Edwardian junk and old stuff from India and China that nobody there wanted anymore. The proprietor led them to a glass counter, on top of which was a musical instrument case. He stood behind the counter and placed his manicured fingers over the case. “I have an interested buyer for this in Vienna.”
Major Mountjoy stood ramrod straight, even though it hurt his back and legs to do so. “How much does he want to pay for it?”
“She.” The proprietor smiled. “And I rarely discuss money at the outset. In my business, it’s a tad gauche to do so.”
“In my world, ‘gauche’ is a word used by poofs, pricks, and the loiterers Phoebe hangs out with in her poncey art gallery.”
Phoebe hooked her arm under his, rubbed her hip against his body, and said in a mock stern tone, “Don’t be a naughty Dickie.”
The major wished she’d let go. “I’m just sayin’ I’m entitled to know how much it costs.”
The proprietor smiled with a look of insincerity. “Let me show it to you first.” He opened the case; inside was a handcrafted German baroque swan-neck lute. “It’s eighteenth century, and I have a certificate of authenticity from the man I purchased it from in Berlin.”
Though Dickie knew nothing about music, or art, or indeed anything that seemed to him to be a pointless load of nonsense, he had to admit the instrument looked beautiful. “In good nick?”