The Last Spymaster (7 page)

At the sign that announced Glimmerwoods, he cornered the Yamaha onto an asphalt drive and shot the motorcycle into the swamp’s twilight. Above him, the treetops knitted together like thorns. “Glimmer” was the birth name of Palmer Westwood’s mother, whose inheritance had enabled him to buy fifty prime acres in this pricey resort area where the residents prized an outdoors lifestyle and minding one’s business, just as had the loggers, thieves, runaway slaves, and moonshiners who had claimed the swamp as their own for some three hundred years.

As soon as the antebellum manse came into view, Tice turned off his motor and coasted to a stop inside the swamp. He removed his helmet. Bathed in the Carolina sunshine, the white house with its porticoes and Grecian columns stood on a green knoll, the picture of Old South charm. The garage was open, showing a big Mercedes, always the old spy’s favorite car. Fishing poles leaned against a wall—freshwater poles for the streams that fed the North River, and sturdier casting poles for Currituck Sound and the ocean. The buildings faced the river, where a canoe was tethered
upside down on a dock. The swamp forest encircled all of it like the muscled antennae of a Medusa.

Something was wrong. It was not instinct that told Tice this, but a lifetime of watchfulness. He peered into the swamp, at last spotting a bicycle propped against a maple on a raised hub of land. A veil of vines was draped over it, rendering it almost invisible. But he could see one black fender. No dust—the bike had been left very recently. He lifted his head, listening. Birds called. A frog sang a banjo twang. But there was also a faint sloshing sound. Someone was moving through the water.

He slid out his Browning and sprinted onto Westwood’s lawn, hugging the swamp. Ahead was a tall stake topped by a fluttering white flag. He pulled it up. The wood was barely damp—inserted within the hour. It marked the spot where someone had entered. He shoved it in again and hurried down into the wet bog. Calf-high water filled his shoes and plastered his pants to his skin, instantly chilling him. He moved forward. Wherever he looked, the vegetation repeated itself, endlessly varied while predictably the same. Without a compass or a clear view of the sun, the unskilled who ventured too far into the Great Dismal often never returned.

He held his gun in both hands at chest level, pointing up, and slogged onward, memorizing landmarks—deformed trees and massive boulders and clutches of weedy saplings. Sunlight filtered down in strawlike rays. The minutes stretched. Just as he had a sense he had gone too far, he saw ripples flowing from his left. He moved into them, searching for their source, deeper into the swamp until he neared a juniper. His lungs tightened. He turned in a circle, searching for a landmark. But everything looked alike—green striving hungering dizzying growth. He had no damn idea where he was.

He wiped a sleeve over his sweaty face and pushed into the ripples again, easing between the juniper and a boulder. When he emerged, a bush blocked him. As he reached for it, a gun barrel pressed into the back of his neck.

He froze then started to turn, but the gun dug deeper. He grew detached. Whoever had caused the ripples had ambushed him.

“Turn slowly.” The voice was a commanding whisper from behind.

He rotated. A muzzle pointed at his forehead. On the other end was Palmer Westwood, eyes narrowed through a parted curtain of Spanish moss from where he sat on a low branch of the juniper. Westwood pressed a finger to his lips and pulled back the M-16 and disappeared.

Tice sighed. He kept watch as the old man slid down the trunk and his hip boots knifed into the water. Seventy-two years old, Westwood rose erect, lean, and bone-hard, his shoulders square. A “swamper” since childhood, he wore a long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to his chin and cotton pants tucked into the boots. Thick snow-white hair crowned his sharp, wrinkled features, tanned to a deep acorn brown. He had always been tirelessly active, yet he gave off a faint odor of cigarettes. He still smoked.

“What are you doing here, Jay?” he whispered again. “Was it all a mistake? Did they let you out?”

“Not exactly. Don’t worry, I just want to ask a couple of questions.”

Fury flashed across Westwood’s face, but he kept his voice low. “You escaped! And now you want me to help you. You can forget about that!”

“Looks to me like you’re the one who needs help. I saw a bike. You chasing an intruder?”

Westwood glared at Tice a moment and slowly nodded agreement. With hand signals and whispers, he delivered a plan to capture the man. As soon as Tice nodded in response, Westwood headed off, sliding his feet to lessen the wash.

Tice followed, scanning alertly. Bending low, Westwood hugged his M-16 close and scrambled under a fallen trunk. When Tice caught up, Westwood signaled the direction he was to take and climbed up onto a mound beside a cypress.

Tice slogged to the right, where a low table of land covered by switch cane became visible some thirty feet ahead. He spotted the beaver dam Westwood had described, wide and deep. He crawled up the slope, parting the cane with his free hand. At the top, he stood erect, noting the dam’s channel extended deep into the swamp. That was a hell of a lot of water. Browning tucked against his pectoral muscle, he peered through the twilight. Standing like a sentinel beside the cypress, Westwood gave a brisk go-ahead nod and blended back, cloaking himself in moss again.

Tice fired into the dam. Mud and twigs exploded. High above, a battalion of birds burst from leafy hiding places.

Tice bellowed, “Where are you, you asshole?”

His voice seemed to float a few seconds then evaporate. When there was no response, he tucked the gun into his waistband, knelt over the dam, and used both hands to pull out debris. Cakes of mud flew. A tide of water rolled over the top.

He stood again and roared, “Over here, you coward!” He waved his arms.

The interloper was probably not a real swamper, or he would have tried to take Westwood right away. On the other hand, if Tice were a real swamper, Westwood would have wanted a more direct course of action.

Tice peered down. The dark flow was increasing. “Come on!” he taunted, waving his arms again. “Are you lost?
Come on!
”

A bullet exploded into the soil near Tice’s shoes, followed by a second, blasting past his thigh. Tice crouched and shot at what appeared to be a figure hunched near a bush. The plan was working: The man was now between Westwood and him.

Staying low, Tice shoved a heel hard into a log lodged at the dam’s crest. The log gave not a millimeter. Grunting, he pushed again. A fusillade of bullets shattered the cane, hurling stinging pieces into the air. Tice dropped lower.

Westwood should react. He was supposed to threaten the interloper to give himself up. They wanted the man alive.

Scowling, Tice rose cautiously. The armed man was moving toward him. With each stride, dark waves splashed up and surged off into the shadows. Tice ducked again as another volley slashed past, shattering more cane. Needlelike pieces soared.

He shouted at Westwood, “At least cover me, dammit!”

The water spilling over the dam had slowed to a useless trickle. No time to lose. As the man’s gunfire burned overhead, Tice rammed his heel into the log again and again. With a mighty heave, he slammed both feet, straining. The log only sighed, while the wet noises of the man’s approach grew louder.

Tice jerked around. They were only fifteen feet apart. The intruder was young, his skull long and narrow, his expression determined.

The man also got a good look at Tice. Eyes widening with recognition, he aimed. Tice aimed. At this distance, neither would miss.

Brilliant light suddenly exploded. There was the sound of a small detonation. Instantly, night was day. Trees and bushes radiated neon green. Deeper in the swamp, gray shadows had become inky black, impenetrable. The killer’s head whipped around. Tice stared, too. Near the big cypress where Westwood hid, a flaming torch glowed upward some eighteen feet. Impossibly, it seemed to rise directly from the boggy lake. The sight was spellbinding.

Tice threw every bit of muscle into kicking the log free. From the corners of his eyes, he saw the man turn back, gun raised. Tice gave one last violent heave with both heels. Finally, the log groaned and popped out then vanished, chased by a blast of spitting water. The roar was thunderous. The dam disintegrated. Icy spray stung Tice’s face. Columns of brown water spouted like geysers. The torrent was like mighty hands—breaking shoving forcing physical respect upon everything in its path.

The stranger had no chance against such power. His scream punctured the air, and the mad deluge swept him away. He had dared trespass onto Palmer Westwood’s land but probably had little idea whom he was challenging. With Westwood, few did.

In the eerie light, Tice gulped air. His pants clung, cold and clammy. There were only two good things in this mess—the chill was an anesthetic to his sore muscles, and his jacket was waterproof, so his weapons and IDs and tradecraft items were safe. At last he stood up.

As the water level lowered, Westwood wove toward him. He cradled the M-16 like a favored child.

“You’re a goddamned showboat, Palmer,” Tice growled.

“Liked my fox fire, did you?”

“So that’s what you call it.”

“There’s a rotting stump that crests above the surface. Nearly impossible to see. Methane gas builds up and leaks. When I come in here sometimes, it’s burning because of natural combustion. This time, I helped it.”

“Let me guess. You turned on your cigarette lighter and tossed it.”

“I did. Fox fire’s an interesting phenomenon. Generally, it can mean any mystifying light or fire in the swamp. Sometimes it turns out to be luminous fungus or smoldering peat. Other times it’s just a swarm of fireflies.”

Standing motionless on the rise, Tice was silent, looking down at the old spy.

Westwood stopped ten feet away. Dry in his hip boots, he rolled easily with the lake’s surges. “Of course, some people think fox fire is caused by demons or ghosts. They’re the type who blame other people for everything. But you’re not like that, are you, Jay? You believe in responsibility. Honor. Decency.”

Now Tice understood. “You should’ve created a cross fire for me as soon as he started shooting. He might well be dead. And I could be, too.”

Westwood nodded. “But that wouldn’t be such a tragic loss, now, would it?” He snapped up his M-16 and aimed it at Tice. “You goddamned traitor!”

Allenwood Federal Correctional Complex
Allenwood, Pennsylvania

The rural Pennsylvania air was heavy and motionless around the quiet U.S. federal penitentiary. Incarceration, administration, and support buildings stood with military precision on the manicured grounds. At the exercise yard, uniformed guards watched prisoners raking gravel. Most inmates were in their cells or at their prison jobs—everything from food preparation to laundry and an upholstery factory.

Elaine studied the layout as she walked toward Lieutenant David Oxley, Bureau of Prisons. Slight but tall, he had a large nose and weary black eyes that brushed over her. There was a look about him of fine furniture that had grown worn, comfortable, and tired with the years. She guessed he was close to sixty.

He extended his hand. “The CIA has arrived.”

“And the BOP is waiting.” Elaine smiled and shook the hand. “Good to meet you.” As they walked off together, she asked, “Has the FBI figured out yet how Tice and Theosopholis escaped?”

“Not yet. I take it the CIA hasn’t found them.”

“Not yet. But we will.”

“See those pole lights?” There were some two dozen, so tall they towered over the buildings. “You might guess they give off a lot of light since this is a prison and security’s an issue, and you’d be right. They’re so powerful that locals complain. In fact, one of my guards says he can spot his black spaniel at more than five hundred feet in the dead of night. Still, no one seems to have seen the prisoners escape.”

“You think they got out on their own?”

“It’s always the first question. The FBI’s finished interviewing the six security officers who were working that part of the building, and they’re as baffled as the FBI. I kept them here for you. They’re pretty whipped, though. They’ve been up all night.”

“I’ll meet them first. If Tice and Theosopholis had outside help, maybe it was someone who wasn’t scheduled to work the shift. He—or they—could’ve come back to make the breakout happen.”

“Doubt it. The president’s new budget hit the BOP hard again, and that means some things don’t get done. But you can count on our keeping a perfect record of who checks in and out. Only one employee came back last night—to pick up his books for a class he’s taking, and he was gone by midnight.”

“Maybe a private car or truck’s been stolen from one of the parking lots. Are any missing?”

Lieutenant Oxley peered at her glumly and shook his head. “I wish.”

She nodded to herself. She was getting nowhere, and figuring out how the men escaped was not her job. But who they were, their relationship, and especially their contacts with the outside world were.

“What about e-mail, snail mail, and phone calls?” she asked.

“Inmates don’t have e-mail access,” he told her, “and by law we can’t touch anything between them and their lawyers. Theosopholis has family in Atlanta that he exchanges letters with. Some have visited him, but not often. But then, Atlanta’s a long bus ride away. We gave that information to your people for follow-up.”