Authors: James Twining
The Double Eagle (14 page)
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, D.C.
25 July—9:30
P.M.
A
s the plane taxied out to the runway, Jennifer settled back into her seat and closed her eyes. She had a long flight ahead and knew she ought to try and get some sleep, but her mind was racing. The moment that Corbett had suggested to Young that she be the person sent to strike a deal with Kirk kept coming back into her head.
“We should send Agent Browne, Mr. Secretary.”
There had been a moment’s silence before Piper had punctured it with a hollow laugh. Jennifer had been tempted to join in but the look on Corbett’s face had told her he was deadly serious.
“Browne. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Corbett fired back.
“You want me to spell it out?”
“If you’ve got something to say, then I think we should all hear it.”
Piper swallowed and his eyes had flicked to Jennifer’s and then down to the table before he answered.
“We all know what happened three years ago.” He tapped his finger on one of the three files spread out in front of him. Straining to read their covers upside down, Jennifer could just about make out her name on one of them. Clearly Piper had done his homework. “We need someone we can rely on. Someone who won’t crack under pressure. We can’t take the risk of another…accident. There’s too much riding on this.”
“Mr. Secretary,” Corbett snorted. “We also all know that the inquiry into the shooting that Browne was involved in absolved her of any blame. Her performance since then, and in this investigation in particular, has been faultless.”
“It’s too much of a risk,” Piper insisted. “She’s too inexperienced.”
Jennifer willed herself not to blurt out something she might regret, although it was against every instinct she had to let Corbett fight her corner for her.
“Besides,” Piper continued, “this is Agency business, nothing to do with the FBI.”
“My view, Mr. Secretary,” said Corbett, again ignoring Piper and speaking directly to Young, “is that tactically it would be better to adopt a low-key approach. We want to win Kirk over, not scare him. Using the FBI shows that our focus is on the Fort Knox robbery, not his past misdemeanors. Using Agency personnel might suggest a broader agenda and link back to Centaur. I maintain that Browne would do an excellent job.”
“Jack?” Young nodded toward Green.
“If Bob’s happy, that’s good enough for me,” Green said, shrugging.
Young suddenly turned to Jennifer, his question startling her.
“What do you think, Agent Browne?”
“I…I think that Mr. Piper’s right,” Jennifer said slowly, measuring her words carefully. “I made a mistake and somebody died and that’s something I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life. But I’m a good agent, sir. I get results.” She threw Piper a defiant look. “You put me out there and you won’t be disappointed because I’m not a quitter. I’m a fighter.”
“Ah do believe you are.” Young turned toward Jennifer, stretched out his hand, and smiled for the first time since she had been in the room. “Make us proud, Agent Browne.”
With a final lurch the plane leapt into the air, breaking into her thoughts, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, gripping the armrests with both hands as the customary wave of panic washed over her. It was funny; this was the sort of chance she’d been dreaming about, fighting for these last few years, and now that she had it, she felt almost as apprehensive as she was excited. It was a big chance and she couldn’t afford to screw it up.
Kirk’s file was on her lap and was primarily made up of pooled intelligence reports from Interpol and various national police forces. Overall, it was pretty sketchy. Rumors of jobs he’d done, details of people he had allegedly worked for or with, but nothing certain. From one perspective it all added up to nothing, a flimsy web of innuendo, half-truths, and gossip that collapsed as soon as it was subjected to any form of detailed scrutiny.
And yet from another perspective, when viewed as a whole, it all knitted together to form the damning and compelling biography of a master criminal, a true professional, who used a choking glut of misinformation to shroud his movements and cloud the judgment of his adversaries. But how to separate the fact from the fiction, the myth from the man, when a constant haze of rumor and suspicion dogged his every step?
Corbett, though, was trying to set up a meeting with somebody he thought might help cut through the fog. Someone who’d cooperated with him before on a previous case. Her mind reached for his name. Harry something. Harry Renquist? No, Harry Renwick, that was it. According to Corbett, not only was he a coin expert who could help with the case, but as Piper had confirmed, he also happened to know Kirk well through having worked with his father. If Corbett could try and engineer a meeting between them all, it would be a chance to confront Kirk on home turf and hopefully catch him off his guard. He certainly wouldn’t see that one coming. She smiled at the thought.
As the plane leveled out and the
fasten seat belts
signs pinged off, she glanced around the cabin, taking in the usual assortment of diplomats, journalists, and lobbyists that formed the bulk of the daily D.C.-to-London business-class traffic.
She closed her eyes again and her mind circled back to the one thing that had been troubling her and that no one, to her surprise, had thought to ask. If this robbery had been so meticulously planned and executed, if Kirk really was so good, how had one coin ended up in a corpse on the other side of the Atlantic two weeks later?
Clearly something had gone very wrong.
ST. JAMES, LONDON
26 July—11:28
A.M.
N
ormally Jermyn Street, perched between the hustle of Pall Mall and the bustle of Piccadilly, peddled its own unique sepia-colored version of a long-vanished England. It spoke of country house picnics, of interminable games of cricket played out on village greens by players dressed in whites, of blazers and bowlers and tweeds, of a dry sense of humor and wet summers, of warm beer supped around a blazing pub fire. Of a green and pleasant land.
On this hot and dusty afternoon, however, it had been transformed into a sweaty bazaar of tourists and lunchtime shoppers that shouted and haggled and cursed and spat as convincingly as in any Middle Eastern souk. Shop windows beckoned the passing crowds like pushy merchants, proclaiming their wares with mosaics of outrageously colored and patterned shirts. Carefully arranged fountains of ties shot up into the air only to fall into still pools of silk handkerchiefs.
On the right, a beggar, slumped in the doorway to a personal shopping agency, sung and swore, his upturned hat outstretched. Most chose not to see him. On the left, the chauffeur of a large black Jaguar waiting patiently outside Wilton’s was bartering with an unsmiling traffic warden, the ticket already half written.
Walking through this evocative pageant, his jacket slung over his shoulder, Tom turned, almost without thinking, into the Piccadilly arcade, a marbled oasis of delicately curved windows crammed with shoes, vests and ties, until he found himself outside his favorite shop, on the right, about halfway up.
Tom loved watches. They had always been a passion of his. Most often, like today, he wore the 1957 Jaeger Le Coultre Memovox that his mother had left him. It was not the most valuable watch he owned, but to Tom it was certainly the most precious. That was where his fascination had started, he now knew.
He leaned forward, looking through first the left-hand, then the right-hand window, his eyes running jealously over their carefully arranged contents, laid out on green velvet like precious jewels. No prices, of course. He stood, oblivious to the people swarming past behind him, until the sudden musky smell of a woman’s perfume shook him out of his reverie.
“Beautiful, isn’t it.” Her voice was soft, the American accent unmistakable, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her motioning with her head toward the Rolex “Paul Newman” Daytona that he was looking at.
“But if you want a Rolex, you’re much better going with one of the Princes. Smoother movement and far less…obvious.” She again made a small movement with her head, pointing out the sleek lines of the Prince’s 1930s oblong stainless-steel case.
Tom stood up straight and turned to face the woman. She was beautiful. Slender with a delicate brown face and full lips, lustrous hazel eyes framed by a close-cut mass of black curly hair. The woman smiled back. He wondered for a second whether she was a pro trying to pick him up. But her shoes seemed too new, her skirt too formal. No. She was something else altogether.
“Are you a collector?” he asked warily.
“No.” She smiled. “I worked on a case once where I had to learn a bit about them.”
“A case? You’re a lawyer, then?”
“Not exactly. I work for the government. The U.S. government.”
“Right.” In a way, Tom had been preparing himself for this very moment for the last ten years—for when they finally found him. Occasionally during that time he had almost managed to convince himself that they might just never come. He realized now that he should have known better. “I take it then, that this isn’t a chance meeting, Miss…?”
“Browne. Jennifer Browne. And no, it isn’t.” She held out her hand to shake his but Tom ignored it. “Perhaps we could go somewhere and talk? I need to ask you some questions.”
“What about?”
“Not here.”
The initial shock past, Tom’s mind was racing as he considered what to do. Run perhaps, although the two bulky figures pretending to window-shop at either end of the arcade and blocking his escape route would complicate that option. Or maybe, if he really was going to move on, try and settle this once and for all. He couldn’t keep running forever.
“I know a place,” he muttered eventually. “It’s not far.”
11:42
A.M.
T
om and Jennifer walked down Piccadilly in silence, allowing themselves to be carried along by the smooth muscle of the masses, red buses trundling cheerfully past. Here and there, black umbrellas, incongruous in the summer sun, were held above the crowds by tour reps, makeshift buoys for their youthful charges to navigate to their next “must-see” destination.
Tom had a much more willowy and delicate build up close than the photos Jennifer had seen had suggested. He walked with careful steps, his movements precise and controlled like those of a cat negotiating a narrow ledge, expending the exact amount of energy and control to get where he wanted. He was also, she had to admit, a handsome man, his high cheekbones and square jaw giving his face a slightly sculpted look, his eyes alert and an incredibly deep blue.
Reaching the Criterion restaurant at Piccadilly Circus, hamburger wrappers and Spanish schoolkids swirling around their feet, they cut themselves adrift from the crowds and plunged inside. Here, the noise of the traffic gave way to an animated babble that bounced gaily off the restaurant’s gaudy mosaic walls and ceilings in five different languages. A harassed-looking Italian waiter showed them to a table and took their order—a vodka tonic for Tom, a mineral water for Jennifer.
There was a silence until Tom spoke.
“So, Agent Browne? It is
Agent
Browne, isn’t it?” The waiter reappeared with their drinks.
“
Special
Agent Browne, actually. FBI.” Tom tilted his head as if he hadn’t quite heard right.
“FBI?”
“Uh-huh.”
He sipped his drink, looking pensive. The ice settled, caressed by the soft fizz of the bubbles.
“Aren’t you a bit out of your jurisdiction here, Special Agent Browne?”
“Oh, when it comes to the big fish we stretch the net pretty wide these days.”
“Is that right?”
“You see, I’m here to help you,” she said firmly.
Tom sat back and pushed his glass away from him.
“I didn’t realize I needed helping.”
“Most people don’t until it’s too late. You’re in a lot of trouble, Mr. Kirk.”
“That’s news to me.”
“There are some old friends of yours back at Langley who are just dying to catch up with you.”
Tom shrugged.
“Langley? Sorry, that’s not ringing any bells.”
“And I’m sure the NYPD would love to discuss how one of your hairs ended up on the floor of that apartment you dropped in on ten days ago.”
Jennifer studied his face for a reaction, some glimmer of realization, of guilt, however slight. But she saw nothing.
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Don’t screw around.” Jennifer raised her voice ever so slightly. “I know what you do, who you are…Felix or Duval or whatever you call yourself these days.”
There was a pause as Tom looked at her, his face inscrutable, his right hand moving his glass around in tight wet circles where the condensation had run down onto the table.
“Why are you really here, Agent Browne?”
“I’ve come to offer you a deal.”
Tom gave a wry smile.
“That’s easy, then. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”
“You sure? If they’ve sent me all the way over here, it’s because they’re serious. Maybe you should hear me out.”
“What for? More lies? You’ve got nothing I could ever want. Have a good flight home.”
“I’m talking about a fresh start, Mr. Kirk. I’m talking about wiping your file clean.” Tom had stood up to leave but Jennifer’s urgent tone seemed to stop him in his tracks. “The CIA forgets about you. We forget about you. The last fifteen years just never happened. Think about it.”
Tom studied her for a few moments and then sat back down.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. We just want the coins back.”
He frowned.
“The coins?”
“And the name of whoever paid you to steal them. You do that and you’ll never hear from us again.”
Tom nodded thoughtfully and resumed the circling with his glass, slowly extending the edges of the wet patch on the table.
“There’s only one problem with your deal,” he said eventually.
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play games.” Jennifer spoke with an icy edge to her voice now. “You want me spell it out for you? Fine. We know you took the coins and we know how you did it. We want them back and the name of whoever sent you. Stand in our way and now that we’ve found you again, we’ll make life very difficult for you. That’s a promise.”
“No, let
me
spell it out for
you
.” The people at the neighboring table looked over disapprovingly from under their baseball caps as Tom’s voice rose until he was almost shouting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And let me give you an update. I’m out of the game now. Permanently. That’s the way it is, whether you believe me or not. Now, you think you got something on me, you go ahead and play that card. But I’m not taking the fall for something I know nothing about. Screwing me over will not help you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Jennifer considered him for a moment. She had always been able to sense when people were lying. She looked for small things; involuntary twitches, hand movements, the eyes mostly. To Jennifer’s surprise, all the signs that she could read pointed to Tom telling the truth. How could that be right? Even so, she continued along the lines Corbett and she had agreed upon.
“So you’re refusing our deal?”
“What deal? I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing
to
deal.” There was a pause as he stared at Jennifer angrily. “Are we done here?”
Jennifer nodded. She’d rattled him. That was all they could reasonably expect at this stage. As to whether he would come round as the consequences of what she’d just outlined and the attractiveness of the deal sank in, only time would tell.
“For now. But I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“You know what, Agent Browne? Don’t bother.”
Tom got up, drained his glass, and marched toward the exit. As he approached the revolving door the same two men who’d been loitering in the arcade earlier stood up from where they had been sitting and squared up to meet him. Tom looked from one to the other and then swiveled round to face Jennifer. They stared at each other for a few moments over the heads of the crowded restaurant, before she signaled with a wave of her hand that they should let him pass. The two men parted like a set of iron gates.
As Tom disappeared out onto the street, Jennifer reached for her phone. Corbett answered on the second ring, in his usual terse manner.
“How did it go?”
“As we thought. Deny, deny, deny. He’s certainly convincing.”
Corbett snorted.
“Oh, yeah? Well, I figure it’s time to light a fuse under Kirk’s lying ass.”
Jennifer frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve got a date tonight.”
Her eyes widened in understanding.
“You’ve managed to set something up with your contact?”
“I didn’t even have to ask. When Renwick heard that one of my people was in town, he mentioned that he was having someone over for dinner tonight and then asked whether you’d like to join them. Guess who the other guest is.”
“Kirk?” Her voice betrayed her excitement. This was even better than they’d hoped.
“That’s right. Turns out he invited him over last week. Let’s see how convincing Kirk is when you show up right in his backyard.”
“Does Renwick know why we’re here?”
“No. I told him that we were investigating something and needed his help again. I want you to take the coin along with you tonight. If anyone can help us narrow down the list of people who are behind the Fort Knox job, it’s him. Tell him what you need to, but try and keep the specifics to a minimum.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and we’ve set something up with Van Simson tomorrow at his place in Paris. Two-thirty. It’s the only slot he could do. Can you make it?”
“Sure. I’ll get the embassy people here to sort some transport out. It won’t be a problem.”
“Great. Call me in the morning and let me know how tonight goes.”
She returned her phone to her purse, smiling. Times like this reminded her why, despite all the John Pipers in the world, she still loved her job.