“This is Mel Riggins in DS amp;T,” he told the Agency operator. “I need a couple of updated phone numbers, if you would?”
“Certainly, Mr. Riggins. Could you give me the employee names, please?”
“First is Susanne Copeland. Second, Ann Woods. That’s Ann with no ‘e.’”
“A moment, sir.”
There were a few clicks, then the woman came back on the line. “Are you ready for those numbers, sir?”
“Go ahead,” he said. He took down the numbers, then said, “Wait a minute. Isn’t Susanne Copeland in D.I., Middle East?”
“Mmmm…yes, Directorate of Intelligence, but actually with Eastern Europe.”
“I see. Maybe they transferred her. And Ann Woods, where is she now?”
“Let me see… I have her in the Office of Security, special investigations… No, wait a minute. There’s a notation that she transferred some months ago… Okay, yes, she’s now working out of the office of the NCS deputy director.”
Suddenly, he could no longer speak.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Riggins?”
“No,” he managed to say. “Thanks much.”
He broke the connection. Set the phone down and gripped the edge of the desk.
“Garrett,” he said through clenched teeth.
It had been bad enough dealing with the police.
*
He sat at his desk with a notepad and pen, drawing those lines and circles they call “mind maps.” He liked the technique; it helped him visualize connections between all sorts of random data and ideas. It took another hour before he thought he had sorted it out.
First, there was the CIA and Grant Garrett, plus Annie Woods-an OS investigator now working for Garrett. That looked as if it could be about Matt Malone.
Second, though, there was Annie Woods and Cronin. That was completely separate. It was all about the vigilante killings.
He looked at the linked bubbles of names. The one and only connection between both investigations was Annie Woods. And-as insane and ironic as it was-it looked as if her presence in both of them was all his fault.
After all, she hadn’t known he was going to show up at that funeral. In fact, she had no idea who he was, then. Or even later, when he also turned up at the prison. Or at the victims meeting. Since then, he had been pursuing her- not the other way around.
He remembered strolling outside with her on the street after that meeting. How she’d tried to brush him off; how he’d insisted.
It had been an incredible breach of mission security. He recalled, with bitter irony, that Sinatra song about the warning voice in the night. Don’t you know, you fool? No, he didn’t know. How could he have known? But he’d been a fool, all right. He had not simply walked into a trap; he had set the damned trap for himself. Set it by falling in love, by ignoring the fact that any woman with half a brain would want to know his background.
How could he have been that big of an idiot? So it served him right that, of all the women on the planet, he had picked the one woman who would be most dangerous to him.
And now she knew all about his ties to the vigilante killings. What would happen if she also found out about his connection to Matt Malone? Or did she already know?
Did Garrett?
He took the sheets of note paper he had been scribbling on and fed them, one by one, into his shredder. The loud whirring and grinding sent Luna scurrying from her hiding place under his desk and out of the room.
Intel. He needed more information. Most immediately, he needed to know more about her. Who she really was, what she was really up to.
He dialed in Wonk’s number. After the social preliminaries, he explained what he wanted.
“Let me read this back to you, Dylan. This lady friend of yours lives at a home in Alexandria, and she works for an agency which, on this open line, shall remain nameless. She was married in July 2002 in Georgetown to a man, first name Frank, and was divorced from that gentleman in January of this year. Do you have anything else?”
“I wish.”
The researcher chuckled. “I am certain it will be enough. Call me at noon.”
*
A couple of hours later, he dialed back. Wonk answered at the first ring. “Dylan?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Well? What did you find out?”
“Dylan…are you sitting down?”
“What’s wrong?”
“You simply are not going to believe this.”
“Believe what?”
“In fact, you will not like it one bit.”
“Wonk! For God’s sake, will you get to the point?”
“Ann Woods is her married name. Her ex-husband’s name is Frank Woods. She kept his surname, most probably for career reasons.”
“All right, so what’s her maiden name, then?”
He hesitated again, just for a few seconds. “Ann MacLean.”
It felt as if something were crawling up his back. “Did you say ‘MacLean’?”
“Dylan…she is his daughter. Kenneth MacLean’s daughter.”
Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia
Monday, December 22, 12:05 p.m.
Dr. Carl Frankfurt led his client through the final security checkpoint, and then to the front doors. Parked near the sidewalk was an old white Chrysler with its four-way flashers on.
“That must be your sister. Why didn’t she just come into the lobby?”
“She’s afraid of prisons, Doctor. And who could blame her?”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. She didn’t even visit you since you’ve been here.”
“Well, she’s a good soul. She’s never denied me help when I’ve asked.”
“You’re fortunate. I wish that every other resident here had support like that.” Frankfurt faced the man and stuck out his hand. “This is a big step for you. Enjoy the next few days.”
His client took the hand and clasped it in both of his. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Merry Christmas, Adrian.”
“Oh, it will be that.”
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Monday, December 22, 4:32 p.m.
She emerged from the Old Headquarters Building and pulled her coat tight around her, trying to shield herself against the frigid, buffeting wind. Snow was in the forecast. The thin bare limbs of the trees around the CIA campus clawed at the darkening sky like black, skeletal fingers. The clouds reminded her of dirty padding spilling from a torn mattress.
Head bent forward against the wind, she walked rapidly toward the lot where her car awaited her.
And her decision.
Of all the days of the past weeks, this one had been the most difficult. She had not been able to eat breakfast or lunch. She drank coffee only to relieve the headache from caffeine deprivation-and the stress. She avoided Garrett, hunkering down in her office, going through the motions of working, but accomplishing nothing.
All because she had been dreading this moment. This decision.
As she reached her car, she pressed the key fob button. The vehicle’s lights flashed twice in response. She entered, tossing her purse onto the passenger-side floor. Because there was a manila envelope on the seat itself.
She sat motionless for a moment, gloved hands on her lap. She listened to the wind rising and falling, felt it rock the car, almost imperceptibly.
She took off her thin gloves deliberately, one finger at a time. Placed them carefully on the seat beside her, next to the envelope. Looked at it for a moment, then picked it up and held it a few seconds.
She had to face this now. Once and for all.
She straightened the metal clasp on the envelope. Opened it. Withdrew the sealed plastic sandwich bag and held it before her, staring at its contents.
Eight small, dark, half-moon shapes.
Her gaze moved automatically to her fingertips. To the nails that she had clipped short on Sunday morning. At his place. Before she showered.