“And doing a damned fine job of it.”
Sanderson nodded. “He’s the best, there’s no doubt of it.”
“What now?”
“I’ll let the President tell you,” Sanderson said, glancing across the room. Oh, by the way,” he added, turning back. “Did you hear at Mel Quarmby died last night?”
“No,” Van Skike said. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”
“How about Bob?”
“He checked himself out of the hospital last night. He feels he has a personal stake in this business. He and McAllister have been friends for a lot of years.”
Sanderson gave him an odd look which Van Skike found strangely disturbing at that moment. It was as if the FBI director knew something he wasn’t telling.“Gentlemen, I want you to clear out of here now. Give us a few minutes,” the President said. He motioned for Van Skike and Sanderson to remain behind.
The others filed out of the room, the last one to go closing the door softly.
“The shit is about to hit the fan,” the President said, coming around from behind his desk when they were alone. “Has John filled you in with the latest developments?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Van Skike replied. “But I’m finding it hard to believe that Don Harman was working with the Russians.” The President smiled wryly. “You’re telling me,” he said. “In the meantime I’ve got the media swarming all over the place screaming bloody murder. They want answers, and I can’t blame them.” He shook his head. “Trouble is, I don’t know what I can tell them.”
“The truth,” Van Skike said. “Or at least a part of it for now.” Again the President smiled. “Which truth, Van? Without McAllister we’ve got nothing. On top of it all, John thinks Harman might not have been working alone. There might be someone working out of your pasture across the river. Nice thought, isn’t it?” Van Skike shot Sanderson a look, but the FBI director ignored it. “McAllister may be the only man who has the answers we need. I want him brought in, no screwing around this time. I’m personally guaranteeing his safety. I’ll give him a presidential pardon, whatever it takes to convince him that I mean business.”
“If you can get a message to him somehow, tell him to call the President,” Sanderson put in.
“I’ll speak to him,” the President said. “Just get to him.”
“That may not be so easy,” Van Skike said half to himself. He looked up out of his thoughts. “Bob Highnote knows him better than any man alive. I’ll put him on it. If anyone can find McAllister it will be him.”
John Sanderson met George Mueller, chief of the FBI’s CounterIntelligence Division, at the west exit. Together they went outside and got into Sanderson’s car.
“What do you think?” Mueller asked. He was a short, stockilybuilt man with thick dark hair and an intense air about him. He’d been a close personal friend of Alvan Reisberg.
“He’ll hand it over to Highnote,” Sanderson said. Their driver pulled away from the portico, and started down the long driveway.
“Did he take the bait?” Mueller asked.
Sanderson looked at him. “I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“In the meantime almost anything can happen….” Mueller growled. “Easy,” Sanderson warned.
Van Skike thought that Bob Highnote looked on the verge of collapse. The man held himself stiffly erect in the chair, and a light sheen of sweat had popped out on his bald head.
“Mac is supposed to be carrying around all the answers in his head, is that it?” Highnote said. “Sanderson seems to have built a pretty convincing case. Trouble is how do we get to him before anything else happens.” Highnote looked away for a moment. “Could it be another trap? Lure him out of hiding and gun him down when he shows up?”
“No,” Van Skike said flatly.
“I’ve been telling you that he was innocent from the beginning. No one would listen, and now a lot of good men are dead because of it. God only knows what else he’ll do if he’s pushed.”
“Can you find him for us, Bob?” Van Skike asked after a moment. Highnote turned back. “Yes, I can,” he said. “But certainly not n time to do the President any good with his news conference today.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Not exactly, but I have a fair idea.”
“Where?”
“He’s gone to ground, Van, as I knew he would. But I’ll find him or you, only I can’t guarantee how he’s going to react. He’s got to be gun-shy by now.” Van Skike had become more of an administrator and a politician over the past years, than a spy master. The question of whom to trust ad always been uppermost in his mind; his technique however had began to slip with age.“They don’t think Don Harman was working alone,” he said. “Of course not.”
“Besides his Russian contact, whoever it is, they think he might have had help right here in the Agency.”
Highnote’s eyes were wide. He sat forward. “Is that what Sanderson told you?”
Van Skike nodded. His stomach was burning. “Drop everything else. I want you to give this your undivided attention.”
“Who is it, Van?” Highnote asked softly. “Do they have a suspect? 1 Can we nail the bastard ourselves before Sanderson and his head hunters get any further?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. It may be nobody. They might just be guessing. I hope so.”
After a beat Highnote got to his feet with some difficulty. “I’ll get on it immediately. But I’m telling you one thing, Van.”
“Yes,” Van Skike asked looking up.
“I’m not turning him over to Sanderson. I just won’t. If and when I can get to him, I’ll try to bring him in myself. Once we can get the situation stabilized, we can let the Bureau question him.”
“And the woman,” Van Skike said as Highnote reached the door. “Her too.”
It was a few minutes after seven in the morning when the Air Canada flight touched down at Frankfurt Airport, McAllister and Stephanie traveling under their real names, were among the first to get off the plane. He felt naked traveling like this, so openly, but the passport officers barely gave them a second glance, even though they didn’t look like their passport photographs.
“The purpose of your visit to Germany, sir?”
“Tourism,” McAllister said.
“How long will you be staying in the country?”
“A week, perhaps a little longer.”
The passport officer, a young stern-faced man, smiled and handed McAllister’s passport back. “Have a pleasant holiday, mein Herr.”
“Thank you, we will,” McAllister said and he moved through the line, waiting on the other side for Stephanie to be cleared. When she was passed through they took one of the green lines for customs control of hand luggage, which was all they’d taken with them, and five minutes later were downstairs where McAllister changed some money into Deutsche marks, then booked a small Mercedes sedan from the Hertz counter for one week.
They were in Europe. Highnote had been right that their passports had not been flagged. No one had paid them more than a passing interest. But then, this was the easy part.
We have made great progress together, you and I. I am so very proud of you, Mac, so very pleased. He had made progress, but even now he didn’t know toward what, exactly. Stephanie had told him to rely on his instincts, and he had. They had managed to come this far without being taken, but the cost had been insanely high, and he was not proud of what he had done; the killing, spreading death and destruction wherever he went, to whomever he made contact with. There were times, even now, when Highnote’s suggestion that it might be better if he put a bullet into his own head, seemed to be a viable option. End the pain, the struggle, finish it once and for all. But he could not do that, any more than he could turn and walk away from it. Something was driving him. It’s the business, boyo, his father would say. It gets in the blood ruining man for a regular life. It’s hard to step down with all those secrets running around in your head. For the rest of your life you would be looking over your shoulder for one of the enemies you’ve made in our career to come up behind you with your nine ounces-A Russian uphemism for a 9mm bullet to the back of the skull. Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. God help him, but he was doing just that.