“Damn,” Smith said, throwing the forty-five-year-old Naval Academy yearbook in the backseat with all the others.
“Nothing?”
Randi was piloting the car along the winding, tree-lined road at an unusually careful pace, her eyes flicking to the empty rearview mirror every few seconds.
“Nada,” he said, snapping off the reading light next to the visor. “But then I’ve only been through the navy books. And he’s a lot older now. Maybe I wouldn’t recognize him.”
“Or maybe he didn’t go to Annapolis.”
It was certainly a possibility. The guy who was responsible for the condition of his Triumph reeked of military academy, but now Smith had to consider that his normally unfailing instinct for fellow soldiers might have abandoned him. Hopefully, Star was having better luck.
“Home sweet home,” Randi said, pointing to a modern wood-sided house barely visible through the trees. She pulled into the gravel driveway and Smith stepped out, grabbing his duffel and pausing for a moment to admire the property. The setting sun was giving the tasteful landscaping a pleasant glow and glinting off spotless windows. It was hard to believe that, until recently, the house had been nothing but a pile of charred wood and ashes — an unfortunate consequence of an attempt on Randi’s life by a young Afghan assassin.
“Quite a change from the old cabin.”
“Fred gave me a blank check to rebuild. I think he feels guilty about putting me out for bait. I still feel that impact when I lift stuff.”
She walked to the front door and opened a hidden panel, punching a lengthy code into the keypad beneath. It was a strangely elaborate security system given the setting. Not exactly a high crime area and there wasn’t another house in sight.
The interior was even more impressive and Smith wandered through, admiring the workmanship and finally stopping to examine the custom kitchen cabinets. “Those would look good in my new place. What kind of wood is it?”
“Dunno. I flew some guys in from Norway to do them.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell yes. That body armor wasn’t as miraculous as Fred made it out to be. Did I mention that my goddamn back still hurts when I lift things? Now go put your stuff in the back bedroom. The one on the left.”
He did as instructed, nearly throwing his well-traveled duffel on the bed before realizing that the linens probably cost more than he made in a week. Best not to give Randi the company credit card after getting her shot between the shoulder blades.
Klein’s loss was their gain, though. After the Triumph episode and what had happened in Germany, this out-of-the-way cabin had seemed like a better idea than going to his place. It was the vacation home of one of Randi’s college roommates who let her crash there on the rare occasion she was in the States. Not that it would be impossible for someone to find, but at least they’d have to work harder than opening a phone book and looking under “S.”
“I thought you said the woman who owns this place is pissed at you,” he said coming back out into the living room and selecting the more comfortable looking of the two sofas. “That she blames you for starting the fire that burned the place down?”
“She is and she does. Apparently, there was a bunch of old photos and some toys her kids played with when they were babies here. People can be so sentimental. I mean this place is ten times nicer than the old one and she didn’t have to pay a dime for it. But do I get a thank-you? No. All I hear is how she’s all broken up because she lost a few headless Barbies.”
He glanced down at the massive fossil of a prehistoric fish in the center of the stone coffee table. “Couldn’t get a T. rex?”
“Back-ordered,” she said, handing him a glass of whiskey before dropping into the opposite sofa.
He took a sip and leaned his head back into the cushion, registering something that his exhausted mind had missed when they’d entered. The place looked and smelled completely unlived in.
“We don’t have permission to be here, do we?”
She didn’t answer.
“Randi?”
“Define permission.”
“Christ,” he mumbled as he propped his feet on the arm of the sofa — being careful not to let his dirty loafers touch the leather. It felt good to lie down. Even in a stolen house.
The cell phone in his pocket buzzed and the tone told him it was an encrypted text from Covert-One. He pulled it out and punched in his password. It was amazing how clunky and outdated the device felt compared with the Merge he’d left at home.
“It’s from Star,” he said.
There were no words, just a black-and-white picture of a young Naval Academy cadet with a familiar scar rising from the collar of his dress uniform. A second image had him digitally aged to around seventy.
Even without Photoshop, there would have been no doubt. It was him.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, shaking his head in admiration.
“What?”
“She found him,” he said as he dialed.
Star picked up on the first ring. The smugness in her voice was thick and obviously intentional. “Why, hello there, Jon.”
“Okay. How did you do it?”
“Child’s play. A forty-three-year-old Naval Academy yearbook.”
“Uh-uh. No way. I looked through that one. The picture you sent wasn’t there.”
“And where did you get your copy of the book?” she said, clearly enjoying herself.
“You can just order them online. I had it FedExed.”
“What did they teach you in all those years of higher education, Jon? The devil is always in the details. I used original books from people who’d graduated in those years.”
He let that process for a moment. “Are you telling me this guy’s picture has been removed from the current version?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Books are living things, Jon. They don’t just—”
The line went silent.
“What? Say that again, Star. You’re breaking up.”
He lost the connection and started to try to call her back but when he looked down at his phone, it indicated no signal. A moment later the power went out and left them sitting in the dim glow bleeding through the west windows.
The darkness lasted only a moment before a backup generator came on but the comfort provided by the return of electric light faded with the sound of shattering glass and a grenade bouncing across the wood floor.
43
The eight-by-ten photograph was centered on the desk when Fred Klein walked into his office. He didn’t bother to sit, instead examining the digitally aged face looking up at him. The scar on his neck pegged him as the man who had threatened Smith, but there was something else. Something in the eyes, the severe turn of the mouth. He was certain he’d seen the face before.
Klein flipped the picture but there was no further information on the back. Only a note from Star scrawled in the corner: “Found him!!!!!!!” followed by a number of smiley faces and a few hearts shaded with a red Magic Marker.
He grimaced and took a sip from the steaming cup in his hand. For a long time he’d thought she did these things just to irritate him but now he knew it wasn’t true. And even if it was, it wouldn’t have mattered. When you managed to find someone with her level of talent, you learned that the tattoos, the bizarre piercings, and even the glittery hearts punctuating her reports were things you just had to let go.
“Star!” he shouted, knowing his voice would carry the short distance to her office. When she didn’t come running, he leaned his head around the door. Before he could call her again, though, Maggie tapped one of her many computer screens. “Quit yelling, Fred. She’s dialing out to Jon.”