London Bridges Page 18

  Chapter 95

  FOR THE NEXT three and a half hours, Cahill continued to slur his words badly and to act like a man who had half a dozen drinks or more in him, and was ready for more.

  “I know what you guys are doing,” Uncle Joe said, and shook a finger at the three of us in the room with him.

  “We know what you’re doing, too,” said the CIA guy, Ladove. “And what you’ve done.”

  “Haven’t done anything. Innocent until proven guilty. Besides, if you know so much, why are we talking?”

  “Joe, where is the Wolf?” I asked him. “What country? Give us something.”

  “Don’t know,” Cahill said, then laughed as if something he’d said was funny. “All these years, I don’t know. I don’t.”

  “But you’ve met him?” I said.

  “Never seen him. Not once, not even in the beginning. Very smart, clever. Paranoid, maybe. Doesn’t miss a trick, though. Interpol might have seen him during the transport. Tom Weir? The Brits, maybe. Had him for a while before we got him.” We’d already checked with London, but they had nothing substantial about the defection. And there was nothing about a mistake in Paris.

  “How long have you been working with him?” I asked Cahill.

  He looked for an answer on the ceiling. “Working for him, you mean?”

  “Yes. How long?”

  “Long time. Sold out early in the game. Jesus, long time ago.” Cahill started to laugh again. “Lot of us did—CIA, FBI, DEA. So he claims. I believe him.”

  I said, “He gave you orders to have Thomas Weir killed. You already told us that.” Which he hadn’t.

  “Okay,” he said. “If I did, I did. Whatever the hell you say.”

  “Why did he want Thomas Weir killed?” I continued. “Why Weir? What happened between them?”

  “Doesn’t work that way. You just get your job. You never see the whole plan. But there was something between him and Weir—bad blood.

  “Anyway, he sure as hell never contacted me. Always my partner. Always Hancock. He’s the one who got the Wolf out of Russia. Corky, the Germans, the Brits. I told you that, right?” Cahill said, then winked at us. “This stuff is good. Truth serum. Drink the grape juice, boys.” He looked over at O’Connell. “You, too, Dr. Mengele. Drink the fucking grape and the truth will set you free.”

  Chapter 96

  HAD WE GOTTEN the truth out of Joe Cahill? Was there anything to his drug-induced ramblings?

  Corky Hancock? The Germans, the Brits? Thomas Weir?

  Somebody had to know something about the Wolf. Where he was. Who he was. What he might be up to next.

  So I was on the road again, tracking down the Wolf. Joe Cahill’s partner had moved out to the central Idaho Rockies after he had taken early retirement. He lived on the outskirts of Hailey in the Wood River Valley, about a dozen miles south of Sun Valley. Not a bad life for a former spook.

  As we drove from the airport to Hailey we passed through what the Bureau driver described as “high desert.” Hancock, like Joe Cahill, was a hunter and fisherman, it seemed. Silver Creek Preserve, a world-famous catch-and-release fishing area, was nearby.

  “We’re not going to bust in on Hancock. We’ll keep him under surveillance. Try to see what he’s up to. He’s off in the mountains, hunting, right now. We’ll run by his place. Let you have a look,” said the local senior agent, a young Turk named Ned Rust. “Hancock is an expert shot with a rifle, by the way. Thought I’d mention that.”

  We drove up into the hills, where several of the larger houses seemed to be on five-to-ten-acre lots. Some homes had well-manicured lawns, which looked unnaturally green in contrast to the ashen hills, which, of course, were natural.

  “There have been avalanches in the area recently,” Rust said as we drove. He was just chock full of information. “Might see some wild horses. Or Bruce Willis. Demi and Ashton and the kids. Anyway, there’s Hancock’s house up ahead. Exterior’s river rock. Popular around here. Lot of house for a retired agent with no family.”

  “He’s probably got some money to spend on himself,” I said.

  The house was large all right, and handsome, with spectacular views in three directions. There was a detached barn that was bigger than my house, and a couple of horses grazing nearby. No Corky Hancock, though; he was off hunting.

  Well, so was I.

  Nothing much happened in Hailey for the next few days. I was briefed by the senior agent in charge, a man named William Koch. The CIA had also sent a heavy from Washington, Bridget Rooney. Hancock returned from his hunting outing, and we watched his every move. Static surveillance was set up by an operations group that had been flown in from Quantico. There was a mobile team whenever Hancock left the house. We were taking him very seriously. After all, the Wolf was out there somewhere, with close to two billion dollars. In winnings.

  But maybe we finally had a way to track him: the CIA agent who brought him out of Russia. And maybe it was all connected to whatever had happened between the Wolf and Thomas Weir.

  The mistake in Paris.

  Chapter 97

  IT JUST WASN’T going to happen overnight. Or the next night. Or the one after that.

  On Friday I got permission to take a trip out to Seattle to visit my boy. I called Christine, who said that it would be fine and that Alex would be happy to see me—and so would she. I’d noticed the edge was gone from Christine’s voice when we talked these days; sometimes I could even remember how it had been between us. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing, though.

  I arrived at her house in the late morning and was struck again by what a warm and charming place it was. The house and the yard were very Christine: cozy and light, with the familiar white picket fence and matching handrails hugging the stone steps leading to the front door; rosemary, thyme, and mint filled the herb garden. Everything just so.

  Christine answered the bell herself, with Alex in her arms. As much as I tried not to, I couldn’t help thinking about the way things might have been if I hadn’t been a homicide cop and my life as a detective hadn’t violently derailed the two of us.

  I was surprised that she was home, and she must have recognized the look in my eyes.

  “I won’t bite you, Alex, I promise. I brought Alex back from preschool to be with you,” she said. Then she handed over the Boy, and he was all I wanted to think about right then.

  “Hello, Dada,” he said, and laughed shyly, which is his way at first. I smiled back. A woman I know in the D.C. area calls me “a saint,” and she doesn’t mean it as a compliment. I’m not, not even close, but I have learned to make the best of things. My guess is that she hasn’t.

  “You’re such a big boy,” I said, expressing my surprise, and I suppose, my pride and delight in my son. “How old are you now? Six? Eight? Twelve years old?” I asked.

  “I’m two, almost three,” he said, and laughed at my joke. He always gets me, at least he seems to.

  “He’s been talking about seeing you all morning, Alex. He kept saying, ‘Today’s Daddy day,’” Christine said. “You two have fun together.” Then she did something that surprised me: she leaned in and kissed my cheek. That kind of threw me. I may be cautious, even a little paranoid, but I’m not immune. First Kayla Coles—and now Christine. Maybe I looked as though I needed a little TLC. That was probably it.

  Well, Alex and I did have some good times together. I acted as if Seattle were our hometown, and I went with it. First we rode over to the Fremont area, where I had visited a retired detective friend a few years back. Fremont was full of older buildings, lots of vintage clothing and furniture shops, character, if such a worthy trait can actually be traced to architecture and style. A lot of people seem to think it can, but I’m not so sure.

  When we got there, Little Alex and I shared a scone with butter and blackberry jam from the Touchstone Bakery. We continued on our walking tour, and closely examined the fifty-five-foot-tall Fremont Rocket attached to one of the local stores. Then I bought Alex a t
ie-dyed kite, and we took it for a test flight at Gas Works Park, which had a view of Lake Union and downtown Seattle. Seattle has parks galore. It’s one of the things I like so much about the city. I wondered if I could ever live out here and imagined that I could, and then I wondered why I was entertaining that line of thought at all. Because Christine had given me a quick little peck on the cheek? Was I that starved for affection? Pitiful.

  We did some more exploring, and checked out the sculpture garden and the Fremont Troll, a large sculpture that reminded me of the singer Joe Cocker clutching a Volkswagen Bug in one hand. Finally we had a late lunch—organic, of course—a roasted vegetable salad, plus peanut butter and jelly on Ezekiel bread. When in Rome, and all that.

  “Life is pretty good out here, huh, buddy?” I said as we munched our food together. “This is the best, little guy.”

  Alex Junior nodded that it was good, but then he stared up at me all wide-eyed and innocent, and asked, “When are you coming home, Daddy?”

  Oh man, oh man. When am I coming home?

  Chapter 98

  CHRISTINE HAD ASKED that I have Alex home before six, and I did as I’d promised. I am so responsible, so Alex, it drives me a little crazy sometimes. She was waiting for us on the porch, in a bright blue dress and heels, and handled everything as well as I could have expected her to. She smiled warmly when she saw us, and hugged Alex against her long legs when he ran up to her squealing, “Mommy!”

  “You two look like you had some fun,” she said as she stroked the top of the Big Boy’s head. “That’s nice. I knew you would. Alex, Daddy has to go to his house now. Back to Washington, D.C. You and I have to go to Theo’s for dinner.”

  Tears filled his eyes. “I don’t want Daddy to go,” he protested.

  “I know, but he has to, sweetheart. Daddy has to go to work. Give him a hug. He’ll come visit again.”

  “I will. Of course I will,” I said, wondering who Theo was. “I’ll always come see you.”

  Alex ran into my arms, and I loved having him close and didn’t want to let him go. I loved the smell of him, his touch, the feeling of his little heart beating. But I also didn’t want him to feel the separation that was already making my heart ache.

  “I’ll be back real soon,” I said. “Soon as I can. Don’t get too big when I’m not looking.”

  And Alex whispered, “Please don’t go away, Daddy. Please don’t go.”

  He kept repeating it over and over until I was inside my rental car and driving away, waving back to my son, who kept getting smaller and smaller, until he disappeared as I turned the corner of his street. I could still feel Alex’s little body pressing against mine. I can still feel it now.

  Chapter 99

  A LITTLE BEFORE eight that night I sat alone at the dimly lit bar inside the Kingfish Café on Nineteenth and Mercer in Seattle. I was lost in thoughts about my youngest son—all of my children, really—when Jamilla rolled into the restaurant.

  She had on a long black leather car coat, with a dark blouse and black skirt, and she smiled brilliantly when she saw me sitting there at the bar, maybe looking as good to her as she did to me. Maybe. The thing about Jamilla is that she’s pretty but doesn’t seem to know it, at least to believe it. I had mentioned I was coming to Seattle, and Jam said she’d fly up to have dinner with me.

  At first I hadn’t been sure it was a good idea, but that was wrong, all wrong. I was incredibly happy to see her, especially after leaving Alex.

  “You look good, Sugar,” she whispered against my cheek. “But you do seem a little beat-up, darling. You’re working too hard. Burning the candle down.”

  “I feel a lot better right now,” I told her. “You look good enough for both of us.”

  “I do? Well, thank you for saying that. Believe me, I needed to hear it.”

  The Kingfish, as it turned out, was a totally democratic restaurant: no reservations, but we were seated quickly at a nice table along the wall. We ordered drinks and food, but mostly we were there to hold hands and talk about everything that was going on in our lives.

  “This thing with Little Alex,” I told Jamilla about midway through dinner, “it’s the worst torture for me. Goes against who I am, everything I learned from Nana. I can’t stand to leave him here.”

  Jamilla frowned and seemed angry. “Doesn’t she treat him well?”

  “Oh no, no, Christine is a good mother. It’s the separation that kills me. I love that little boy, and I miss him so much every day I’m away from him. I miss the way he talks, walks, thinks, tells bad jokes, listens to mine. We’re pals, Jam.”

  “And so,” Jamilla said, holding my eyes with hers, “you escape into your work.”

  “And so”—I nodded—“I do. But that’s a whole ’nother story. Hey, let’s get out of here.”

  “What do you have in mind, Agent Cross?”

  “Nothing illegal, Inspector Hughes.”

  “Hmmm. Really? Well, that’s a shame.”

  Chapter 100

  YOU’VE HEARD THE SAYING get a room? Well, I already had one at the Fairmont Olympic on University across from Ranier Square, and I couldn’t wait to get there. Neither of us could. Jamilla whistled under her breath as we walked into the impressive lobby. She stared up at the engraved ceiling, which must have been forty feet high. There was an actual hush inside the large, overdecorated room at a little past ten when we arrived.

  “Italian Renaissance decor, big ol’ antique chandeliers, five stars, five diamonds. I’m wonderfully impressed,” Jam said, grinning. As always, her enthusiasm was exhilarating.

  “Every once in a while you just have to build in a treat, you know.”

  “This is definitely a treat, Alex,” Jamilla said, and gave me a quick kiss in the lobby. “I’m really happy you’re here. And that I’m here, too. I like us a lot.”

  It kept getting better from there. Our room was on the tenth floor and it was everything it needed to be—bright, airy, plush, with a king-size bed. We even had a view of Elliott Bay with Bainbridge Island in the distance, and a ferry just leaving the waterfront in the foreground. The sights and scenes couldn’t have been any better if I’d planned them out in elaborate detail, which maybe, just maybe, I had.

  About that king-size bed at the Fairmont Olympic. It was covered with a gold-and-green-striped comforter—a duvet?—I’m always slightly confused about what distinguishes the two. We didn’t bother to remove the comforter/duvet. We just fell onto it, laughing and talking, happy to be there together, realizing how much we’d missed each other.

  “Let me make you a little more comfortable, Alex,” Jam whispered as she pulled my shirt out of my pants. “How’s that? Better?”

  “And I’ll do the same for you. Only fair,” I said to her. “Tit for tat.”

  “Well, yes, I do like that tat of yours.”

  I began to unbutton Jamilla’s blouse and she continued unbuttoning my shirt. Neither of us was in a hurry. We knew better than to rush any of this. The whole idea was to make it last, to pay attention to each detail, each button, the feel of the fabric, the tiny bumps of anticipation on Jamilla’s skin, and on mine, the difficulty catching our breath, the tingle in our bodies, the electricity, sparks, whatever goodness came our way that night.

  “You’ve been practicing,” she whispered, and she was already a little short of breath. I liked that.

  I laughed. “Uh-uh. Actually, I’ve been practicing the art of anticipation.”

  “Like this next button?” she asked.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “And the one after that?”

  “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Jamilla. I’m not kidding.”

  “We’ll have to see. We’ll just have to see. I’m not kidding, either.”

  When Jamilla’s blouse and my shirt were undone, we slowly pulled them off. Meanwhile, we kept kissing, tickling, scratching, nuzzling, ever so slowly. She was wearing perfume and I recognized it as Calèche Eau Delicate. She knew
I liked the scent. Jamilla loved a light scratch all over her body so that’s what I did next. First the shoulders and back, then her arms, her beautiful face, the long legs, her feet, then back up her legs again.

  “You’re getting warm . . . warmer,” she sighed, and laughed very deep in her throat.

  Then we slid back off the bed and stood together, swaying and touching. Finally I took off her bra and held her breasts in my hands. “Like I said, I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  I didn’t, either. I was hard, so hard that it hurt. I slid down and knelt on the Oriental rug. I kissed Jamilla down there. She was strong and confident, and maybe that’s why I liked kneeling before her like this. In awe? Out of respect? Something like that.

  Finally I pushed myself up again. “Okay?” I whispered.

  “Okay. Whatever you say. I’m your slave. Your master? A little of each?”

  I went inside Jamilla while we were still standing, dancing in place, but then we tilted down and dropped onto the bed. I was lost in the moment, lost in Jamilla Hughes, and that was exactly where I needed to be. She was making these tiny sighs and gasps that I loved.

  “I missed being with you,” I whispered. “I missed your smile, the sound of your voice, everything.”

  “Ditto,” she said, and laughed. “But especially that tat of yours.”

  Moments later, five, maybe ten minutes, the phone on the nightstand began to ring.

  For once, I did the right thing—I knocked the damn thing onto the floor, then covered it with a pillow. If it was the Wolf, he could call back in the morning.

  Chapter 101

  THE NEXT MORNING I headed back to the Idaho Rockies. Jamilla and I shared a cab out to the airport, then took separate planes going in different directions. “Big mistake. Dumb move,” she told me before we parted. “You should just fly to San Francisco with me. You need some extended R and R.” I already knew that.