Deception (27 page)

He couldn't know, but he could hope. If she was satisfied with her situation, after all, her future with them would be that much easier.

The woman's choices had been made the moment she had delivered herself to the American embassy in Paris. At the time, she may not have realized this. By handing in the book, and herself, she may have thought that she had discharged her responsibility to her country. she'd thrown herself on their mercy, and had claimed not to expect anything in return for the secrets she'd delivered. But in truth, he thought, she had expected to be pardoned for her crimes. Perhaps she'd even expected a reward.

She had probably held on to this notion all through the flight back to America, and all through the long drive up into Maine, to this cabin. She had probably held on to it right up until the moment that Ford had disabused her of it—the moment when he had explained that, rather than providing a service to her country, she had done just the opposite. She had ruined the operation that he had put together with such care, and now it was up to her to set things right again.

He hadn't told her all of it; there was no reason for her to know the details. He'd simply explained that the situation into which she'd stumbled was not as simple as it might have seemed at first blush. He had revealed that Dietz and Leonard had been working for Ford before they'd been working for Keyes, and during. He had mentioned that he'd never intended to let the book fall into enemy hands. The question that had concerned him was what hands
were
enemy hands—who would be interested in gaining possession of a secret like the one in the book.

He'd given her only the slightest inkling of the reasons he had chosen to play the game the way he had. Verisimilitude, in his business, was the top priority. Had Ford manufactured a secret himself, to be put up for bids through the remnants of Dietz's COURTSHIP network, then his enemies might have sensed a fake. So Keyes had provided the perfect opportunity, although the man hadn't realized it at the time.

The secret had been real, and Dietz had proceeded as if he truly intended to sell it to the highest bidder. In fact, Dietz may even have planned on going farther with the masquerade than his plan with Ford had dictated. He had not kept Ford informed, as promised; he had taken matters into his own hands. Perhaps, had things gone through to the end, Dietz would have sold his prize and then vanished forever. Ford would have been left frustrated.

Or perhaps that had not been the man's intention. With Dietz gone, Ford had no way of knowing for certain.

And now it hardly mattered. By turning herself in at the embassy, the woman had brought Ford back into the loop. And the Saudi had taken the bait. Yet the prince was not the final link in the chain. There was someone above him, and that was the someone whom Ford wanted now.

At the sound of his approach, she lifted her head. She gave a quiet smile as he moved to sit in the rocking chair beside her.

A few moments passed. They looked out across the lake, at the dancing trees.

“I'm here to take you back,” Ford said then.

“‘Back,'” she echoed.

“To Langley. We're going to move ahead—soon, now.”

She considered. “When do we go?”

“As soon as you can get your things together.”

“I was just going to make myself a sandwich. Do we have time?”

He shrugged, then followed her inside.

The cabin was nearly as fragrant as the forest: piquant wood-smell and vanishing summer. The woman had kept it neat and simple. As they crossed through the living room, Ford saw a small pile of books and a writing desk with which he assumed she had been filling her time. They entered the kitchen, and she waved him to a chair by a low wooden table.

“Join me?” she said, as she opened the refrigerator.

“No, thank you.”

“Something to drink?”

He shook his head.

“I'm making a pot of tea,” she announced.

She spread the ingredients of a sandwich on the counter, put a kettle on the stove, and began to fix herself lunch.

Ford, watching, felt a bit of dark amusement. She was a tough one, he thought. Surely she wondered why they were taking her away from this place now. Yet she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking. Instead she would play along, waiting, leaving the ball in his court.

He rearranged himself in the chair, and cleared his throat.

“He's coming into the country this week. He'll be here for most of the month—visiting friends, doing business. You'll be ready and waiting, whenever we get the chance to make contact.”

Hannah closed her sandwich, picked up a knife, and cut it in half without answering.

“Unless,” Ford added, “you've had second thoughts.”

She turned and looked at him.

“Do I have a choice?” she asked.

He didn't answer.

After a moment, she moved into the next room. Ford stayed at the table, listening. She was sifting through things. When she came back into the kitchen she held two envelopes. She set them on the table before him. He looked at the addresses without picking up the envelopes. One was addressed to her father in Baltimore; the other, to Victoria Ludlow in Chicago. “Can you mail these for me?”

He grunted. The kettle whistled; she went to take it off the burner. She poured the tea with her back facing him. Then she moved to the table, set down the mugs, picked up her sandwich, and came to join him. Ford was looking at the envelopes, wondering what she had written. Before mailing them, of course, he would find out.

“Assuming this works,” Hannah said, “and I make contact, and the deal goes ahead …”

Ford reached for a cup of tea, and sipped.

“… what happens to me then?”

“That depends on a lot of things, I'd expect.”

“Such as?”

“Such as what you want, for starters. Also, such as what we consider to be in the best interests of security—considering what you know.”

She pursed her lips.

“But don't worry about that,” he said quickly. “We trust you.”

It was nearly true.

She had turned herself in, after all, when there had been nothing compelling her to do so. But perhaps she had expected leniency, and had grown disenchanted by their treatment of her. For that reason, Ford had placed her under surveillance—the cabins on either side of Hannah's were occupied by agents on his payroll.

Yet even if she escaped from this place, she had nowhere to go. Her finances were frozen. She was with them, whether she liked it or not; for all her other roads led to dead ends.

She took a bite of her sandwich, and he drank more of his tea.

“Nice watch,” she remarked.

“Hm? Thank you.”

“Rolex?”

“Yes. My wife gave it to me.”

“I used to have a Rolex.”

He leaned forward.

“And you may again,” Ford said. “If this works out, we may be able to find a permanent place for you. If, as I said, you're interested.”

She said nothing.

“In the meantime …”

He reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope, which he set alongside the other two on the table.

“I'd like you to take a look at that, over the next few days. It provides some background that you'll want to have memorized before you meet the prince again. We've built upon the story you came up with. Your husband worked for NASA on the scramjet; when you discovered his infidelity, you raided his computer. You met Dietz at a function in Washington nearly a year ago, and he set you on this current track.”

She looked at the envelope, chewing.

“When it comes time to make the rendezvous, we won't have much warning. You'll need to be ready.”

“All right,” she said neutrally.

Ford reached for the mug again and drained it. The tea made him feel very relaxed. Some kind of herbal something, he thought; some kind of natural, gentle tranquilizer.

For a few moments, they sat in silence. The woman finished her sandwich. The wind outside picked up, soughing through the trees.

“Well,” he said then. He was starting to feel all too at ease. Because he didn't get out of the city often enough, he thought. Nature was casting its spell. But he wasn't on vacation, and he needed to remember that. “We should get going.”

She nodded, and brought her empty plate to the sink.

2.

As they left the cabin, he saw one of the agents next door, stacking wood. The man glanced in their direction, saw that Hannah was with Ford, and bent himself again to his task.

They walked around the lake. Ford almost felt himself floating, now, with relaxation. The lake whispered secretly. There was a cool nip in the air, which only made the glow inside him feel hotter. He would need to make an active effort to get out of the city on a regular basis, he thought. Look how wonderful he felt: he was having a physical reaction to the environment.

Or perhaps his reaction was due to satisfaction. Despite the fumbled operation, things had turned out well enough. They'd made some headway, in identifying the prince, and now they would continue to press the investigation, with the woman's help.

In a way, the whole snarled situation had been a blessing in disguise. For if things had not ended up this way, then Keyes's mismanagement of ADS might never have come to light. Keyes, his judgment skewed by grief, had been taking all too many chances with the Project. He had ordered the death of Chen. His own wife had died under mysterious circumstances. Without the recent snafu just passed, the man might have continued to run ADS without attracting attention. And if he'd been able to press far enough ahead, the results could have been disastrous.

Now, of course, Ford had stepped in. Dick Bierman had been placed in charge of ADS. He would slow things down, and proceed with due caution. Ed Greenwich had been censured, and the censure would likely lead to something worse. So things had turned out well enough, if not exactly the way Ford had initially planned.

Something flashed just beneath the surface of the water. Pickerel, or trout. He could almost feel the fishing rod in his hands, the warm sun beating down on the back of his neck.

“Good fishing here, I bet,” he said.

His voice was a softer murmur than he had expected. The woman, strolling beside him, didn't answer.

They kept walking. The sun overhead was a glowing nimbus, fuzzy at the edges. Suddenly Ford didn't feel like walking anymore. The woman's bag seemed heavier than it had a moment before, as if by some strange alchemy its contents had turned to lead. He wanted to sit down, here at the edge of the lake, and let the afternoon warmly pass him by.

When he came to a stop, the woman took his elbow. “What is it?”

He shook his head. “Let's … sit down for a second.”

“No, I see your car. We're almost there.”

She took the bag from his hand, and urged him forward.

Now he could see the car himself, glittering under the afternoon sun. But the effort required to reach it was beyond him. His legs had turned to jelly. Over the next few steps, he leaned more and more weight against the woman, until she was supporting him.

“I … let's stop,” he said.

“No. We're almost there.”

They kept moving.

When she had gone into the other room, he thought, to get the letters. Then when she had poured the tea, her back facing him …

They reached the car.

Hannah leaned him against it, and reached into his pocket. His keys were there. She took them out, and then gently lowered him to the asphalt on the edge of the lot. Except for the cars belonging to the agents, the lot was empty; they were alone.

Ford tried to protest, but he felt all too sleepy. His eyes were closing.

“Relax,” she said. “You'll be okay. Sleep it off.”

He shook his head. He struggled to keep his eyes open.
What are you doing
? he tried to ask.

But he knew what she was doing. She was taking his wallet. Then she was taking his watch.

“Nothing personal,” she murmured into his ear.

His skull was pounding. His eyelids fluttered, pressed together.

He lay his head down on the asphalt. He heard the door of the car open and close; then the engine starting.

Stop
, he thought.

But his lips weren't working.

The engine was revving, then moving away. The sun beat down. His eyes stayed closed.

He lay on his back, and the afternoon warmly passed him by.

EPILOGUE

1.

The Greyhound carried Hannah west.

She stared blankly through her reflection at the sights of the highway: interchangeable motels, strip malls, fast-food joints, and gas stations. Not far past Buffalo, the sky turned a toneless gray. Soon after, snow began to fall. Arcs of dirty slush spun past the window. She stared through these, too.

The man beside her was snoring. With each passing minute, his head moved closer to her shoulder. She drew into herself, leaning toward the window, trying to avoid contact.

She was starving.

Presently she reached into her bag. Her hand brushed past the pawn shop ticket—she had considered leaving it in Ford's car, by the bus station in Portland, and had then decided not to do him the favor—and found a package of pretzels. She opened it and put one into her mouth, chewing without tasting.

Beneath the pawnshop ticket was her wallet, which contained the six hundred dollars she'd gotten for the watch, plus the three hundred and twenty dollars she'd taken from Ford. Beneath that was precious little else: a pen and a notebook, a tube of lipstick and a compact, two more bags of pretzels, and the envelope Ford had given her. In the bag in the overhead compartment was her modest wardrobe. Together, the two bags contained all her worldly possessions.

After a moment, she took out the envelope, opened it, and read the contents. As promised, the paper contained the details she was to have told the prince—the story she had started herself, on a train halfway around the world from here, which had been finished by some CIA analyst in some basement office in Washington.