Kingman was a big southerner with a barrel chest and a ruddy, outdoors complexion. He’d been trained as a psychologist, but had risen rapidly in Security to head the section. All of his people, Stephanie included, had a good deal of respect for him, though sometimes he tended to get a bit stuffy and overbearing. “You were lucky, Stephanie,” he said. She looked up at him.
“He could have killed you. It’s a wonder he didn’t.” Yes, she thought, as she drove. It’s a wonder he hadn’t killed her. He could have, perhaps even should have. Once they had reached the dark woods above Sikorski’s house he could have shot her and left her body somewhere off the road. They wouldn’t have found her until morning, and perhaps not for days.
It would have made his escape much easier. Nor had he killed the old man. Sikorski had admitted that McAllister had not returned his fire. Only the one shot, his own, had been fired. He had crawled into the kitchen and then had escaped down the hill into the woods.
“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” Kingman had told her just before she left. She was off duty. He was sending her home for a few hours’ sleep.
“He kept saying that someone was trying to kill him, and that he needed the answers.”
“I’d like a few answers myself,” the security chief said, shaking his head. “We found his pals in Arlington Heights.”
Stephanie looked at him. The place was crawling with Agency and Bureau people. They were alone for the moment, however, out of earshot from the others. “Russians?”
Kingman nodded. “A half a block from Highnote’s house. All three of them dead. Wasn’t a pretty sight from what I’m told. Two of them died of gunshot wounds, the other had his neck broken.”
“Then why…” Stephanie started to ask the obvious question, but Kingman held her off.“I don’t know. But if we can take him alive, we might find out.” He shook his head again. “It beats the hell out of me, Stephanie. It surely does.”
She had an apartment in Alexandria which she shared with a girl from State. But instead of taking the Capital Beltway south, she stayed on the highway back into Washington, crossing the river on the Key Bridge into Georgetown. It was late, nearly one in the morning, and she was dead tired, but not the least bit sleepy. Her mind was seething with a dozen conjectures. Something about McAllister, his manner, his actions, the words he had spoken, disturbed her. He hadn’t acted like the demented agent turned double she’d been led to believe he was. He’d acted more like… what? A terribly confused man who was desperately seeking something. A solution to some deadly riddle.
And what about the Russians in Arlington Heights? He’d told the truth about that much at least.
Looks as if he’s running to all his old pals, Kingman had said. He’s going to have to find a rat hole someplace to tend to his wounds.
Traffic was almost nonexistent on 31st, but when she’d turned down Avon Place she was stopped by a Washington PD roadblock and had to show her Agency identification. “Your people are inside,” the cop said, passing her through. She parked across the street from McAllister’s house and went inside. Two Bureau agents wearing baseball caps and dark-blue windbreakers, FBI stenciled in yellow on the back, were talking with Hollis Winchester, one of the Agency’s security officers.
“Any word yet?” he asked when she came in. “I just came from Reston. He’s still on the loose.” She glanced toward the head of the stairs. “She still upstairs?”
“Mr. Highnote came for her an hour ago.”
Stephanie looked at him. The news was bothersome to her, yet she couldn’t really say why. It just struck her as odd that the deputy director of operations should be taking a personal hand in caring for the wife of an agent gone bad. A killer. A traitor. But then she’d had a rough night. She wasn’t thinking straight. What was she doing here anyway?
“I’m going up for a minute,” she said.“Anything I should know about?” Winchester asked, his eyes narrowing. The Bureau agents were looking at her.
“No,” Stephanie said tersely, and she went upstairs. All the lights in the house were on, which also struck her as odd. Gloria McAllister had cooperated with them completely. They’d hastily gone through the house searching for anything that might help them track down her husband. A half a dozen technicians had come over from Technical Services and had taken the place apart this morning… yesterday morning, actually. But they’d found nothing and had left by early afternoon. Everyone was gone. Why the lights?
It was obvious at first glance that the place had been searched, though Gloria had made an attempt to straighten up. The living room was furnished pleasantly modern with a white couch and loveseat, glass and brass tables, some artwork on the textured walls, and a lot of books and bric-a-brac from all over the world. The McAllisters had done a lot of traveling; this place had been their home base. It was a refuge, the thought came unbidden to Stephanie. As was Gloria a refuge. It’s why McAllister had come here, even though he had to know that his house would be watched. What a shock it must have been for him when Gloria had turned on him.
She moved through the living room, passing the bookshelves, glancing at some of the titles, at the bits and pieces from the McAllisters’ lives: a handmade vase that looked Greek and very old, a brass sailboat on a polished granite base, an elaborate wax figure of a medieval wizard, a beer stein with a silver hinged lid, and several photographs in acrylic frames… smiling faces, happy times with friends… winter scenes, summer scenes on the water.
In the kitchen two coffee cups, a spoon, and a coffee pot sat upside down on the drain board. Gloria had rinsed them out before she’d gone off with Highnote. Stephanie stared at them. Everything was striking her as odd now. It was the lateness of the hour, and the ordeal she’d gone through. You’re lucky…. He could have killed you…. It’s a wonder he didn’t.
The woman had shot at her husband. She had wounded him. She had screamed at him. Called him a traitor. And then she had come back here and rinsed out her coffee things. Looks as if he’s running to all his old pals…
First Robert Highnote. Next his wife. Then Janos Sikorski. Where was he going next?
He’s going to have to find a rat hole someplace.. tend to his wounds.
Stephanie turned suddenly and hurried back to the bookshelves in the living room. To the photographs. To one in particular.
She took it down from the shelf and stared at it. The McAllisters were seated in the cockpit of what appeared to be a large sailboat. Gloria had a clumsy bandage on her knee. Highnote was just coming through the hatchway with three glasses of wine, a big grin on his face. They were tied up at a dock, and whoever was taking the picture was standing off to the side. On the opposite side of the slip was a big signboard attached to a piling. She could just read the words. DUMFRIES YACHT HAVEN. She knew the place.
A rat hole? A place to hole up, to tend to his wounds?
The boat rocked and settled very slightly to port. The motion was subtly different from the wave-induced movements. An anomaly. McAllister opened his eyes, for just a moment disoriented.
Someone had gotten aboard the boat. As the cobwebs cleared he could hear the very slight scuffling of shoe leather on the fiberglass deck. Whoever was above was taking great pains to move in silence.
McAllister sat up, the sudden movement causing a wave of dizziness and nausea to pass through him, sweat popping out on his forehead. They had found him. Somehow they had tracked him here.
Christ, was there no peace?
They’d spotted the truck, of course. And he had forgotten to turn off the light over the chart table. The conclusions were obvious. Check all the possibilities. His tradecraft is good. Expect the unexpected with him.