Guilt by Silence Read online

  “What about the local officials in New Mexico? Are you sure they won’t create any difficulties?”

  “They won’t. We had federal people move in soon after it happened and remove all the evidence. By now, the locals know better than to mess with the feds.”

  “Family?”

  “Kingman was divorced years ago—no kids. His ex is still in Los Alamos. She’s an M.D. and she’s got a life of her own now. Bowker, the other American, was single. Parents dead. Had a brother in Idaho, but they weren’t close. Looks like he bought the accidental-death story, no problem. Funeral’s set for Saturday.”

  McCord’s eyebrows shot up. “Not much to bury, I wouldn’t think.”

  “Not much. They said it was one hell of a fire. They’re shipping an urn of ashes to the brother, I gather.”

  “I’m glad his parents weren’t alive. I can’t imagine how I’d handle it if I got word that something like that had happened to one of my kids.” McCord handed over the fax and leaned back in the chair, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

  The security chief watched him. It never ceased to amaze him that a man could have a taste for this kind of operation—which McCord obviously did—and still be so sentimental. To his credit, though, McCord had never let sentimentality get in the way of the tough decisions. He’d always said you couldn’t fight a war without casualties.

  Her arms sliced the water like a propeller through parachute silk as Mariah hurtled down the length of the pool. As she sailed over the black T mark near the end, her body instinctively pulled into a tuck, rolled, and pushed off again, returning along the roped-off lane in the direction from which she’d come. She churned on, counting out the laps, trying unsuccessfully to get ahead of her racing thoughts.

  When the computer had refused to yield to her demands for access to the CHAUCER file, she had tried another approach—logging on to the Company’s biographical data files. This tactic had proven to be only marginally more productive, but there was enough there for her to realize that she had seriously misjudged somewhere along the line.

  The file on Tatyana Baranova had given her nothing she didn’t already know, since most of the information was intelligence Mariah herself had fed into the system. Baranova had been thirty-one when they first met. Born in Moscow, parents both members of the Soviet elite—her mother an engineer, her father, like Tanya herself, a physicist.

  Baranova was married to a medical researcher living in Moscow, although Tanya had confided to Mariah that they were estranged—unbeknownst to the KGB, which would never have agreed to her IAEA assignment had they known. Leaving a spouse behind was supposed to give Moscow leverage over citizens working abroad. When Tanya was first assigned to Vienna, however, the entire Soviet state apparatus was in the early stages of unraveling, and the system, fortunately, had not worked the way it was supposed to. No living children—she had miscarried a couple of times and had lost one infant after birth. Her attraction to Lindsay, Mariah had soon discovered, owed much to Tanya’s quiet mourning for her own dead baby daughter.

  But when Mariah had tried to delve further into the files to find out what might have happened to Tanya—she who’d risked so much by approaching an American—she had run into a brick wall. “CROSS-REFERENCE: OPERATION CHAUCER,” the computer had told her. Yeah, right, she’d thought bitterly, and I know exactly what you’ll tell me when I try.

  Drumming her fingers on the side of the keyboard, she had debated which way to go next. And then, without really thinking, she had found her fingers entering “CHANEY, PAUL” on the keys. After all, he was the one who had reopened this wound when he had appeared at the nursing home. A short while later, a new file came up on the screen. In the corner was a photo of Chaney—it looked like a publicity still some archivist must have clipped from the media. Underneath, the basic biographic info:

  CHANEY, Paul Jackson. DOB: 4/2/49, New York, N.Y. Citizenship: U.S. Current address: Lannerstrasse 28, Vienna, Austria. Occupation: Senior Foreign Correspondent, CBN Television Network, 700 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. Marital Status: Divorced (Phyllis Chaney Fordham, née Martin; New Haven, Connecticut). Children: Jackson John Chaney Fordham (male), born 6/17/83.

  Mariah nodded grimly as she read the reference to Chaney’s son—he was just a couple of years younger than Lindsay. David had mentioned once that Paul had a child he rarely saw. It had done little to endear Chaney to her; it reminded her too much of her own father. By his surname, Mariah guessed that the boy had been adopted by his mother’s second husband. Maybe Chaney’s son had been luckier than she’d been, Mariah thought. At least he had some kind of father.

  She skimmed through the summary of Chaney’s travels as a foreign correspondent. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he had a death wish. Over the years, he had covered the Soviet Union, Afghanistan, the Middle East, Northern Ireland and South Africa, winning several journalism awards along the way, including one for his coverage of the Gulf War. She’d seen his work, of course, and as much as she hated to, Mariah had to admit he was good. She scanned the rest of the file, but there was little there of interest—mostly references to interviews he had conducted with various political leaders.

  But suddenly, the name Elsa von Schleimann leaped off the screen. Someone else in the Vienna station—not Mariah, that much was certain—had alerted Langley to Chaney’s links to the self-proclaimed “Princess.” Every other Austrian, it seemed, claimed to be a descendant of the deposed Hapsburgs, but that alone wouldn’t make Elsa worthy of mention in Chaney’s CIA file. Nor were any other of his numerous lady friends mentioned. So why did someone think it important to note his association with her?

  She made a new request: “VON SCHLEIMANN, ELSA.”

  “CROSS-REFERENCE: MÜLLER, KATARINA,” the computer replied.

  Mariah did as she was told, then waited until the new file flashed up, with Elsa’s picture in the corner of the screen.

  MÜLLER, Katarina (N.M.I.). A.K.A. Von Schleimann, Elsa; Golmer, Lisa; Brandt, Anna Katarina. DOB: 11/ 9/55, Leipzig, German Democratic Republic. Citizenship: German (East). Current Address: Unknown. Occupation: Unknown. Former officer (Lieutenant rank), East German Ministry of State Security. Marital Status: Unknown. Children: Unknown.

  There were half a dozen cross-references to other classified files—operations where Müller had figured among the adversaries. One of these, Mariah knew even before she read it at the bottom of the screen, was CHAUCER.

  She sat back in her chair, clapped a hand across her mouth and closed her eyes, fighting down the nausea rising in her gut. Elsa—or Katarina Müller or whatever the hell her name was—was a former East German spy. But the East German regime had fallen and the Germanys had been reunited while David and Mariah were in Vienna. And when that happened, Mariah knew, Katarina Müller—like dozens of former intelligence operatives from the old Soviet bloc—would have become a dangerous loose cannon, free-lancing for whoever would pay the price for her deadly skills.

  And suddenly, with absolute clarity, Mariah recalled the special attention that Elsa had always paid to David whenever Chaney had brought her into their company. At the time, Mariah had dismissed it as flirtation, obnoxious but unthreatening, even though she had noted that other men didn’t seem to merit the same advances. But everything people like Katarina Müller did had a clear objective. David had been targeted. Mariah didn’t know why, but she knew it as surely as she had known in Vienna that something had suddenly gone horribly wrong with the CHAUCER operation.

  Foam churned behind her as she made her way up and down the pool, lap after lap. Tuck and roll at the wall, balls of the feet finding the hard, smooth tile and pushing away strongly, launching her, missilelike, back down the lane. Forty, fifty, sixty laps—in her ears only the sound of rushing water and her own breathing, until at last the exertion brought blessed forgetfulness of everything but straining muscles, heaving lungs and pounding heart.

  Finally, she touched the wall and stopped, taking
a few deep breaths and then letting herself sink to the bottom of the pool. Looking up, she saw the ceiling lamps dance through the shimmering filter of the water. An old man swimming laps in the next lane paddled by, his flesh rippling loosely on his gaunt frame. Across the pool, a few headless bodies were fluttering and she watched the slow-motion dance of their legs in the silence.

  Exhaling a long, bubbling sigh, Mariah pushed herself reluctantly to the surface. She paused momentarily to stretch out trembling calf and arm muscles, then lifted herself from the pool with one smooth motion. In the locker room, she pulled out her gym bag and headed for the shower. She had chosen her condo largely because of its recreation facilities. The center had, in addition to the pool, a free-weight room, rowing machines, some Nautilus equipment and a couple of Universal sets. Mariah had decided that Lindsay’s physical therapy would move ahead faster with access to a center like this, and it would make her own life easier, too—life was complicated enough these days without having to join some distant health club that she’d never find time to get to.

  She stepped out of the shower and dried off, slipping into a sweat suit and pulling David’s old hockey jacket on top of that. Lindsay was in the condo doing her homework. Mariah had sat with her daughter while she ate, but had put her own dinner in the oven until after her swim. Now she was starving.

  The old man from the next lane in the pool was coming out of the men’s locker room when Mariah passed through the lobby of the building toward the front door. They exchanged nods as he held the door open for her. “Thanks,” she said, smiling at his bright eyes under meticulously combed white hair. She could almost feel the pores in her skin closing tightly as she stepped into the cold night air, the old man following her. “Did you have a good swim?” she asked him.

  “Sure did, thanks. I try never to miss my daily swim. Been doing it for years now—twenty laps, rain or shine.”

  “Good for you! I only manage three or four times a week, but I’m with you—best all-round sport there is. Easy on the joints and great for the heart and lungs.”

  They walked together along the path. “You look to me like a real competitive swimmer,” the old man said. “I’ve seen you in there before. You ever swim in the Olympics?”

  “I wish. I used to race in high school and college. I had my share of wins but I never made the Olympic trials. Too small to make the really competitive times. I finally had to concede that I’m built for endurance, not speed.”

  “Well, now, don’t you underestimate endurance. Look at me—eighty-two years old and still tickin’!” The old man pounded his pigeon chest for emphasis.

  “Eighty-two! You’re kidding.”

  His eyes sparkled under the lampposts. “Nope. So you just keep on keepin’ on there, young lady.”

  “I sure will—you’re my inspiration. And my name’s Mariah, by the way,” she added, holding out her hand. “Mariah Bolt.”

  He took it in his and shook, his grip wince-inducing despite—or perhaps because of—his boniness. “Laughlin, John Laughlin. You call me John.”

  “Nice to meet you, John. This is my turnoff. See you again at the pool?”

  “You bet,” the old man said, beaming broadly. “You head right home now, Mariah. I’ll watch you. You never know what kind of nasty characters are lurking about.” He stood guard at the junction in the path.

  She smiled and waved at him, feeling like a six-year-old again. “Thanks, John. ’Night.” She turned and headed toward her own house. Somewhere nearby, a car engine revved noisily and she started. Mariah glanced back, her hand raised for one last wave to the old man, but he was already gone. She frowned, then shrugged and headed for home—unaware that the old man had rolled quietly down a hill. As his body settled in the bushes at the bottom of the ravine, John Laughlin’s thin limbs twitched a few times and then were still.

  Mariah moved briskly along the path, lost in thought, her breath smoky in the cold night air. Suddenly, a twig cracked in the bushes behind her. And then she heard something else—another snap of some kind, but with a metallic quality this time.

  She glanced around, then launched into a jog. As she ran, her hand slipped into the pocket of David’s jacket to find her keys. Winding her hand around the key ring, she lifted it out, poking one key through each pair of fingers. Her senses on full alert, she held her hand ready. The clenched fist had become a barbed weapon that she was fully capable of using to good effect if the need arose. She strained her ears over the padded footfalls of her sneakers but heard only the hum of nighttime traffic beyond the trees and a siren wailing somewhere off in the distance.

  She had almost reached her town house when she heard the rapid steps behind her, making no attempt now to conceal themselves. She raced around the last corner, taking the short walkway to her house in three quick strides. Bounding up the steps, she fumbled to extract the key—it was a choice between standing there minimally armed or getting the hell inside. She chose the wiser path of retreat.

  The footsteps were closing in fast now, clearly audible on the other side of the trees. Cursing her shaking fingers, she struggled to get the uncooperative key into the lock. Finally, it entered the hole and flicked over. She pushed her way through the door, slamming it behind her and jamming the dead bolt home.

  Only then did she take the time to look through the peephole. A figure in a baseball cap and dark windbreaker appeared at the bottom of her short walkway, his face obscured in the shadows, his form distorted by the curvature of the tiny glass viewport. Did he hesitate, she wondered, or was it her imagination? He continued toward the road, disappearing again into the trees.

  Mariah took a deep breath, then rested her forehead against the door, debating whether or not to call the police. But what would she say? That someone was walking down the same path as she at seven-thirty in the evening and maybe chased her—or maybe didn’t—and seemed to slow at her walk—or maybe didn’t? Really.

  “Mom?” Mariah jumped at the sound of Lindsay’s voice just behind her. “What are you doing?”

  Mariah pulled herself together and turned to face Lindsay’s puzzled expression. “Nothing. It’s okay. I was just jogging and I’m out of breath, that’s all.”

  “Jogging?” Lindsay said, incredulous. “You hate jogging!”

  Mariah started to say something, but then froze at the sight over Lindsay’s head of a man stepping into the hall from the living room.

  “Hello, Mariah,” Paul Chaney said.

  7

  Mariah looked from Paul Chaney to her daughter and then back to Chaney. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mom!” Lindsay was obviously appalled by her mother’s manners. “He came about a half hour ago. I told him you’d be back soon and said he could wait.”

  Mariah shifted her irate glance to her daughter. “Lindsay, what have I told you about answering the door when I’m not home?”

  “I looked through the peephole first,” she protested. “You said never to open the door to a stranger. I didn’t.”

  “Mariah, I’m sorry,” Chaney said, stepping forward. “It wasn’t her fault. I should have called first—but my last message didn’t seem to get through.”

  “I got the message,” Mariah said, putting down her gym bag and slipping David’s jacket over a hook inside the front closet. “I’ve been busy.” She turned to confront him, seriously tempted to throw him out the door, ignoring the fact that he had at least ten inches on her.

  “Mom, I’ve been interviewing Mr. Chaney for the school newspaper,” Lindsay said, her faced flushed.

  Chaney smiled. “Call me Paul, Lindsay.”

  “Call him Mr. Chaney, Lindsay.”

  “He said he’d take me down to the TV station and show me around the newsroom,” Lindsay went on, her enthusiasm rendering her oblivious to the tension crackling between the two adults.

  “Well, that’s nice of him to offer, but Mr. Chaney’s a very busy man and I’m sure you’ve got enough for your article already.�
�� Lindsay began to protest but Mariah cut her off with a warning finger. “Have you finished your homework?”

  “No, but—”

  “No buts. Upstairs, my girl. And say goodbye to Mr. Chaney before you go.”

  “Mom!” Lindsay cried, her voice shifting up an octave and her expression mightily aggrieved.

  “Sorry, Lindsay,” Chaney said, offering his hand. “Your mom’s the boss. Maybe another time, okay?”

  Lindsay shook his hand, all the while glaring at her mother. She hesitated a moment and then limped off toward the stairs, hobbling up one step at a time. Mariah watched her go and then shut her eyes, sighing deeply.

  “Mariah—”

  She turned to Chaney and gave him a withering look. He shuffled uncomfortably while she debated her options. Finally, she came to a decision. “Come into the kitchen,” she said. He trailed in after her and took the chair she indicated. “I’m starving and I’m in a really bad mood, I warn you.”

  “No kidding.”

  Mariah went to the refrigerator. “I need a beer. Do you want one?” At his nod, she took out two bottles, then leaned against the counter, twisting the caps angrily. “Some jerk just followed me down the path and scared the bejeezus out of me.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Mariah waved off the incident with a disgusted grimace and passed over one of the bottles. Declining the glass she offered, Chaney took a long swig and then examined the label, giving her time to catch her breath.

  Mariah drank from her own bottle and then studied him, savoring the tart bubbles on her tongue. His face was made for his chosen medium, the nose and mouth regular and inoffensive, the teeth right out of an orthodontic textbook. The gray hair at his temples, encroaching on the blond, lent an air of maturity to a smooth face that might otherwise have seemed boyish—especially given the stubborn cowlick that tumbled over his forehead, tonight as always. He was dressed in the L. L. Bean staples that he wore by preference—clothing that was sturdy and ready to chase down a story anywhere on the globe at a moment’s notice. The leather aviator jacket would doubtless be hanging in the hall. His blue oxford cloth shirt, its collar open above a navy pullover, was a perfect match for his eyes. Chocolate-colored pleated pants draped his long, sprawling legs beautifully.