Thin Line (14 page)

"How's it look behind us?" I said.

"Haven't seen them yet," Bear said.

I pulled to the left, out of the line of merging vehicles and into the flow of traffic on the interstate. The guy behind us honked and extended both middle
fingers. I tapped my brake. His eyes widened and he clutched the steering wheel as if it were the lone branch on the sheer side of a mile-high cliff.

I continued weaving through traffic. As the right lane picked up speed, we joined it momentarily. Bear confirmed that the sedan was still not in sight. I
pulled onto the shoulder and sped up to ninety.

"Who do you think it is?" I asked.

"Might've been nobody," Bear said.

"They stayed too close. No way they were nobody."

"Probably right."

At the next exit, I remained in the shoulder lane until the last possible second. The drivers here didn't seem to mind. There were no honks or gestures
aimed in our direction. We rolled to a stop, ten cars deep at a red light. Bear remained turned toward me, his gaze focused through the rear window.

He said, "I think that's them."

"Where?"

"Hell of a long way back."

The light turned green. The line of cars began to roll forward. I turned right and drove past the jumbled mess of gas stations, motels, and fast food
restaurants. A few miles later we approached a residential neighborhood. I turned in at the entrance and, after a sequence of right and left turns, found a
quiet cul-de-sac.

The engine ticked and banged for a few minutes after shutting it off. I glanced at Bear. His forehead glistened with sweat.

"Want to step out for a few minutes?" I said.

He looked around the cul-de-sac. "These people see the two of us walking around, they'll call the cops."

"Since when did you become afraid of the cops?"

"We're in Maryland now, Jack. You know how I feel about this state."

Bear had once been detained in Baltimore. He'd never told me why, only that the experience had changed him.

I dialed Frank's number. He picked up after the second ring, skipping the pleasantries. "What the hell have you two done?"

"Not sure what you're talking about," I said.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Cops made you in New York, Jack. You know that?"

I said nothing. There was one obvious explanation, and it made no sense. McSweeney had tracked Clarissa down. In what could only be due to a fit of anger,
Clarissa had given me up. Problem was, she'd never do that.

"Where are you guys?"

"Close."

"There's a diner, about ten minutes outside of Langley."

"I remember the place."

"OK, let's meet there."

THE UNASSUMING DINER situated on 193 a few miles from Langley, Virginia, was popular with the local intelligence community. Walk in during the breakfast or
lunch rush and there'd be up to seven or eight agents seated throughout the place. The close proximity also meant that a team could be there within minutes
of Bear and me sitting down. That didn't worry us, though. We hadn't done anything on foreign soil that was unsanctioned since our days in the Marines.

And back then we were working
with
the CIA.

I pulled into the deserted parking lot and chose a spot close to the restaurant's door, near the lot's designated exit. To the sides of the building an
open field ran fifty yards in either direction. Thick woods stood behind it. Maybe thirty years ago, someone would have been waiting back there. If they
were watching us now, it'd be from the sky.

"Ever seen it this empty?" Bear said.

I glanced at the dash clock and cut the engine. "At ten in the morning? No."

On principle alone, Frank and the SIS did not get along with the Agency. Or any other group, for that matter. Toes were often stepped on when both sides
should have been working together. I shut down the conspiracy side of my brain before it ran rampant with ideas about how the two groups were working
together to take Bear and me down.

I opened my door and placed my left foot on the ground. Looking over my shoulder at Bear, I said, "Don't worry. It's not a setup."

"You sound really convinced." He stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. His long shadow cut across the walkway and up the knee-high brick
exterior, and through the glass into the diner.

I waited for Bear to enter, then exited the vehicle and threw a cautionary glance around the parking lot, the diner's perimeter, and across the street. The
air was still. The sun's rays powered through the chilled atmosphere. It felt twenty degrees warmer on the walkway next to the building.

Inside, three waitresses in their late twenties or early thirties sat around a table. None of them looked up at me as I entered. One was smoking a
cigarette. The habit had already begun to prematurely age her skin. The other women were working on puzzles in the newspaper. Their clothes and aprons
showed signs of a busy breakfast rush.

Bear had seated himself at a table in the opposite corner of the dining room, near the back and close to the kitchen. I took a seat across the table from
him. Once Frank arrived, I'd switch sides. For now, I was content to let Bear watch over my shoulder for signs that things were about to get out of
control.

My gaze continually drifted toward the door separating us from the kitchen. It sat off kilter, tilted an inch inward. There didn't appear to be a draft
holding it in that position. Perhaps the back door stood open to allow the cooks respite from the heat of the fryers and griddles and grills.

Or maybe there was something behind the door, a listening device, that required it to be open to eavesdrop on our conversation.

I pointed it out to Bear. He smiled, said, "Come on, man. You really think the CIA is gonna go old school with some antenna-driven listening device when
they can just bug the entire joint?"

It was a good point. Paranoia had slipped in through the cracks, and I had allowed it to envelop my psyche, like dirt and dust settling into a worn and
cracked leather bag. I doubted I'd ever be able to scrub the feeling away for good.

Footsteps echoed through the empty dining room. I threw a look over my shoulder and saw that the smoking waitress had left her cigarette smoldering in a
tin ashtray. Now she made her way toward us. The smell of burnt tar arrived before she did.

"What can I get for you fellas?" Apparently, the habit had prematurely aged her vocabulary as well.

"Coffee," I said.

"Coffee," Bear said.

"Gonna eat something?" She kept her eyes fixed on her notepad.

"Pancakes." Bear couldn't pass the opportunity up.

"Eggs. Scrambled."

She jotted notes onto her pad, then walked away without ever making eye contact.

Bear shook his head and said, "We couldn't have gotten one of the other servers?"

I looked back at the table near the door. The two women still sat there, heads down, pencils in hand, scribbling on the paper.

"Which one you want?" I said. "I'll go talk to her for you."

"You know my philosophy on relationships."

"Who says you need a relationship? A night with one of them might do you some good, Bear. Loosen you up."

He laughed and said nothing. Several seconds later his face slackened, and he jutted his chin slightly toward the opposite corner of the room. I followed
his gaze and saw Frank Skinner approach the fingerprint-covered glass door. I rose, switched sides. Frank entered, nodded at us, gestured to the waitresses
that he didn't need their assistance. They hadn't bothered to look up to see if he did. Frank crossed the room with the confidence of man who had stared
down the wrong end of a gun and gone on to slay his assailant.

"Don't bother getting up," he said. He unzipped his jacket, sat down and slid to the mid-point in the booth. "You two make a cute couple. You know that?"

Bear chuckled. I said nothing.

"One of you needs to shave, though. A beard works better on Bear than you, Jack."

"Cut the crap, Frank," I said. "Let's get to the point."

It took a few seconds for Frank's smile to fade. He glanced toward the waitresses at the door, then looked at me. "You owe me, Jack."

"I owe you?"

"Yeah."

"For what?"

"Don't ask me how, but I got a friend at the Bureau to cover for you with the NYPD."

"What'd he tell McSweeney?"

"He backed up your claim that you were a government agent, and that he couldn't divulge your reasons for being there, but those reasons were why you were
using an alias. He instructed her to drop any investigation into you, and those you know."

"Clarissa."

Frank nodded. "They had her under surveillance, thinking she'd lead back to you."

I shrugged.

"Will she?" he asked.

"Doubtful," I said.

Bear said, "Really?"

I nodded. "Can we move on?"

"We're not here to talk about your personal life." Frank reached inside his coat. For a moment I tensed. My sidearm was not easily accessible. Frank pulled
out a five-by-eight notebook and set it on the table. The cover was solid black. The corners of the pages looked worn. Some were dog-eared, adding to the
thickness of the book.

"What's this?" Bear asked.

"This belonged to Brett Taylor. For whatever reason, he kept a record of every person he met. Every meeting he held. Every job he was offered."

"How'd we get it?" I asked.

"This is one of five notebooks that an undercover found in Taylor's apartment."

"How long've we had it?" Bear asked. "And undercover for who?"

Frank said nothing.

"Wouldn't he have noticed it was missing?" I asked.

Frank thumbed through the notebook, never letting a page linger in view for more than a second. "I don't know all the details, but he kept these in a
secret location that the agent stumbled upon. I think-"

"You think? That's as bad as acting upon assumption."

"I don't need your hyperbole, Jack. Yes, it's an assumption, but we believe he filed these away and only checked on them when he needed them."

"You trust the undercover?"

"Not my call."

"Whose call is it?"

Frank leaned back against the cushioned patent leather booth and crossed his arms over his chest. One hand went to his chin. He rubbed the coarse stubble
and gazed at a spot over our heads. He had no intention of answering that question.

The kitchen door burst open. I thought about the crack, and the draft, and wondered again what or who was back there.

The waitress appeared. She set Bear's food in front of me, and mine in front of him. She didn't acknowledge Frank. Bear slid a plate of toast across the
table.

"Not hungry," Frank said. "You two finish up and meet me outside. I've got something else for you out there."

I STACKED MY plate on top of Bear's and slid out of the booth. The kitchen door still sat ajar. I stopped in front of it and pushed it inward with two
fingers. The room was lined with stainless steel. Pots. Pans. Shelves. Racks. Did they cook in there, or perform surgery? Maybe both. Smoke rose from the
grill and was sucked out through a large ventilation hood. The fryers popped. The griddle sizzled.

And the kitchen was empty.

"Help you?"

I let the door fall shut and turned to face the smoking waitress. Her breath was cherry or berry flavored. Reminded me of the gum we stuffed in our faces
as kids in Little League dugouts. She held our plates in one hand, and stuck the other on her hip.

"Just curious," I said.

"Well, get out of my way. Got a smoke break to get to out back."

I figured that's where the cooks were. I went outside alone and met Frank at his car. His nose and cheeks were red. The wind had picked up. Gray clouds had
moved in and blocked the sunlight. It felt twenty degrees cooler than when we arrived.

"Get in the car," he said.

I looked for Bear inside the diner. Couldn't locate him.

"Give me the keys," I said.

"Jesus, Jack."

"Not getting in without them."

Frank reached into his pocket and retrieved the keys. There had to be a dozen of them, because they made a racket that was audible over an eighteen-wheeler
passing by on 193. Frank tossed the entire set over the roof. I snatched them mid-air and stuffed them in my front pocket, then pulled my pistol. Once
seated, I set the gun on the dash.

"Is that necessary?" Frank said.

I shrugged. "Is it?"

He shook his head, then leaned toward me, angling his body so he could reach the backseat. He returned with a black leather briefcase. The chrome snaps
clicked as he flipped them back. I placed my hand on the pistol. He lifted the lid, shaking his head. Inside the briefcase were several folders of various
colors. He pulled out a green one and handed it to me.

I peeled back the cover and leafed through a dozen photos of Taylor.

"Where's this?"

"De Gaulle."

"He's in Paris?"

"Yup."

"Since when?"

"Few hours ago."

"What's he doing there?"

"Fleeing, I suppose."

"He's not safe in Paris, or anywhere in France. And I figure a guy like him knows that."

Frank held out another folder. I took it, opened it, and looked through pictures of men of Middle Eastern descent. Twenty in all. Ages ranging from
mid-twenties to late-forties. I'd seen plenty of pictures like these during my days in the Marines, on loan to the CIA, and again with the SIS when we ran
counter-terrorism ops.

"Who're these guys?" I asked.

Frank cleared his throat. "Members of a terrorist organization that has yet to claim ownership of anything. We're not sure of their broader affiliation at
this time, although you can take a guess at who. We only recently became aware of them. Their leaders come from a few groups you don't need me to name for
you."

"Where are they located?"

"Half the guys in that folder are in France."

"The rest?"