Dead Silence Read online

  “Are you okay?”

  “Ford, I need to ask you something. I want an honest answer.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I was hoping for a yes.”

  “A maybe is better than starting with a lie.”

  “If that’s the way it has to be . . . The vacation video they were using to blackmail me . . . you said you discovered it accidentally?”

  “Not accidentally. But it wasn’t a priority. I knew there were videos of other people, some powerful.”

  “You said you took it because it was the right thing to do. A good deed for a stranger. You wouldn’t accept money and didn’t want anything in return from me.”

  I hesitated before putting a hand on her shoulder, thinking she might shrug it away. She didn’t.

  I said, “All true. But I was aware there are benefits to having a U.S. senator for a friend. Power radiates. I won’t pretend I didn’t know. You’ve done favors for me that you probably aren’t aware of.”

  That’s when she shrugged my hand away. I let it fall from her shoulder as she turned, looking up into my eyes. “I’m aware of more than you realize. Did you know that James Montbard is a British intelligence agent? Covert. He’s been with MI6 for years.”

  “I didn’t think the UK was our enemy.”

  “If you’re going to play word games, I’m leaving.”

  I took a step back. “I’m sorry.” I meant it. Then stupidly tried to add, “But I wasn’t sure that Hooker was—”

  The woman cut me off. “If you can’t tell the truth, I’d prefer you said nothing.”

  I cleared my throat, said nothing.

  Barbara faced the window, the reflection showing her eyes as she stared out, the night air cleaner now that it had stopped snowing. “What about Harrington?”

  “You see him more than I do. What are you asking?”

  I took a seat on the bed, with a bottle of water, as she said, “I’m curious about your relationship,” then explained that her subcommittee relied on Harrington for information. He was a respected analyst in the world of intelligence gathering—also true. She didn’t know, of course, it provided the perfect cover for Harrington’s covert work.

  Barbara said, “When I wanted you checked out, Hal was the person I asked. He gave you full marks. Do you know what strikes me as odd?”

  She wasn’t going to wait for an answer so I didn’t offer one.

  “I find it odd that you and Montbard, and Harrington, are all here, in New York, the same week I agreed to meet the boy. And only a few days after the court assigned control of the Castro Files to me. My subcommittee, I mean.”

  She cut me off when I tried to remind her that we’d made our date weeks before.

  “I also find it strange that you know each other. Some might even say that you and Montbard made an effort to ingratiate yourselves. Returning the video, for instance. A coincidence?”

  I was tempted to comment on the egocentric slip—my subcommittee—but said instead, “Or saving your life? If that’s currying favor, your friendship bar is pretty high.”

  “You know I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know you’re making too much of it. Tomlinson’s lecture was booked months ago. When Hooker found out, he decided to visit the Explorers Club while I was in town instead of coming in March. Seeing you was a nice perk, but—”

  “Tomlinson,” she said, “is someone else I find oddly suspicious.”

  I said, “Who doesn’t?,” unsettled that she’d made the connection, hoping she would smile. She didn’t.

  Instead, she got out of the chair, sighing as she stood over me, communicating something—disappointment? suspicion?—then went to the phone on the nightstand. She opened the drawer and took out a palm-sized tape recorder. Surprise! I overcame the urge to sit up straighter.

  “This is voice-activated, a common security measure for rooms I book and pay for. When Sir James said he needed a phone, I gave him the key. Have you ever felt like someone is spying on you?”

  “As of now.”

  “Good. I want you know what it’s like.” Barbara hit FAST REVERSE and waited for the garbled voices to stop. “I haven’t listened yet. Your call, Doc. Should I? You know things about me no one else knows. I find that scary.”

  She tossed the recorder onto the bed, stared at me. “Is there something in the Castro Files that scares you? I’ve had a look through those cartons, remember.”

  I cleared my throat again.

  She sighed, this time communicating I thought so, then sat on the bed close enough to put her hand on my arm but didn’t. I hadn’t earned her approval. “I’ve heard rumors about a covert cell that’s more like a secret society. Clandestino, in Spanish. Wouldn’t that be filed under Cn? If it’s true, how many countries do you think would demand extradition? There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  I was sitting straighter now, my brain alternately scanning a list of lawyers while reviewing an escape procedure put in place long ago.

  Her voice softened but not her tone. “But that’s ancient history. The important thing, Doc, is that we work together. I don’t care what you’ve done or who you’ve worked for, I need your help now.”

  I said, “What?,” not trusting the surge of relief I felt. She’d used the same finesse to manipulate the policewoman.

  “You think I’m being tricky.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “My motive is right up front. It’s an offer. Find Will Chaser. Find him alive and bring him back. I don’t give a goddamn what it takes. I’m halfway through my first term. Three years in a row, my staff expenses were way under budget. I can afford you.” She let that settle a few beats, then added, “Or would you rather barter?”

  “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

  “I’m hiring you as a special consultant. At least twice a day, every day, you will report by phone. I’ll give you every piece of information my contacts provide.”

  “But the FBI, the New York police—”

  “They’ll do a brilliant job . . . but within the constraints of the law. The boy, if he’s still alive, doesn’t have time for legalities. You’re working for me now, understood?”

  I was thinking, Jesus Christ, what about Harrington?

  The woman swung her legs onto the bed and leaned in close enough that I could smell her shampoo. “When the FBI agent left the room to take that phone call, it was Ruth Guttersen, Will’s foster mother. Fifty-eight years old, a Minnesota native. Her husband may be a fake cowboy but she’s pure Middle America. When the agent gave her the bad news, know what she said? She said, ‘God help them.’ Can you imagine? Worried about Will, but also the kidnappers, asking God to forgive them.” Barbara’s expression was a mix of admiration and remorse.

  “In D.C., it’s easy to forget there are decent people out there. People who follow the rules, who keep their word, people who care even about the jerks of the earth. It’s the America I’d like to believe in, but I don’t. Did you read Will’s essay?”

  Yes, the first two pages, but I shook my head no. The writing was feminine, flowery, tough to stomach because of its smug naïveté.

  “Mrs. Guttersen is only a foster parent, but the boy has the same values. He’s decent. A good kid.”

  I was thinking of another way to interpret God help them. That Will Chaser was dangerous—which was ridiculous, unless Ruth Guttersen had somehow anticipated the wrath of Barbara Hayes-Sorrento.

  Barbara was back on the subject of the men who’d attacked her, saying, “I don’t give a damn what you do to them. It’s your business as long as my name’s not involved. Bring the boy home, that’s all I care about.” She turned to the window, as if to say, Kill them—whatever—I don’t want to know.

  I nodded slowly. Drained the last of my water, thinking about it. “No one can find out.”

  The woman looked at me a moment, then smiled—a savvy, knowing smile. “We’ve got a deal.”

  “Did you hear what I
said? It never leaves this room.”

  “There’s not much I don’t understand.” Her smile became recreational, signaling that she was done with business. “This could be the beginning of an interesting friendship. Maybe even beautiful. But I doubt if I’ll ever be able to call you Frenchy.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Don’t worry, Doc.” She stood and fished something from her pocket. A lighter and a cigarette. No . . . a joint, long and thin. “People like me—people who know what they want—we spend our lives hiding who we really are. You’re among the few who’ve seen the real me.”

  “I never watched the video.” How many times had I told her?

  “You had it in your hands, though. Holding is more intimate than seeing. You held me, the way I am when no one is watching. That’s close enough.”

  “Give me some credit.”

  Barbara said, “I’m trying to,” then flicked the lighter and leaned back, inhaling deeply, her face softening as she inhaled again.

  Through a veil of smoke, she told me, “I rarely get the opportunity, but this is how I relax. I become recreationally indecent. When I come out of the bathroom, I don’t expect you to be decent either.”

  With her free hand, she was unbuttoning her blouse.

  9

  On my flight back to Florida, Barbara Hayes-Sorrento confirmed, via computer, what I had suspected but didn’t want to believe:

  Re: Documents >Castro Files> (search incomplete.) No entries as T-I-N-M-A-N. However, several references to T-E-N (space) M-A-N. Identified as U.S. citizen, male, no criminal record, address: (indecipherable). Birthplace: East Hampton, Long Island.

  First name unknown. Surname: T-O-M-L-I-N-S-O-N.

  In my hotel room, Barbara had said, “He’s another one I find oddly suspicious.”

  Now I understood.

  If I had been on a commercial flight, I would’ve ordered a couple of vodkas for the Virgin Marys I usually drink. But this plane wasn’t carrying liquor. There might have been weapons in the hold—machine pistols, Stinger rocket launchers, no telling what—but no booze, no beer.

  The airline wasn’t in the business of recreation and it wasn’t carrying paying passengers . . . not in a conventional sense.

  Harrington had gotten me on a SAT-FG (Security Air Transport, Federal Government) flight. The charter group was used by the State Department and all thirteen federal intelligence agencies. In certain code-oriented circles, SAT was known as Spook Airway Tours.

  Depending on the classification, if your name was on the SAT roster, as mine now was, the charter company would get you to your destination, day or night, holidays included. It was an elite shuttle service for most. But if you were ASP—Authorized Security Principal—as I now was, you could check bags that would not be inspected and bring aboard unnamed associates, although prior notice was required.

  Snow had changed to sleet when I climbed the boarding ladder at Fort Dix at six a.m. on a black New Jersey morning. Military personnel wore aircraft-carrier earmuffs and mittens, staring into cups of steaming coffee, as the copilot levered the hatch closed.

  This civilian Learjet was reason enough to avert the eyes. The ground crew was Air Force personnel. They knew it was a Special Operations Flight, Destinations Classified. Presumably, so did my fellow passengers: a naval officer in dress whites sitting aft and a woman sitting amidships. There were no greetings as I seated myself at the forward bulkhead, no attempts to make conversation, no polite inquiries about personal interests or destinations while the plane deiced.

  I spent the flight using my laptop, taking advantage of the plane’s communications perks. I traded instant messages with Barbara, who was exhausted, then contacted a relentless Harrington, using cloaking software that encoded and decoded our correspondence.

  No news about the missing teen. Harrington believed that if a second photo wasn’t provided within twenty-four hours of the abduction, the boy was dead. “Unless subject has escaped,” Harrington added, “but improbable for a child that age.”

  I wondered.

  God help them, Ruth Guttersen had said to the FBI agent. A goat ever kicked your ass? the kid had snapped at me. The teen had fire. Some people are born old, others skip childhood to survive. Foster homes might have made Will Chaser tougher, shrewder. Could have added some protective armor.

  Because I hoped it was true, I wanted to speak with the Guttersens myself. Maybe a former teacher or two. Barbara had provided me with phone numbers. She’d also provided a satellite cellular phone, a contact list and temporary credentials, all with an efficiency unexpected of a woman who was wine-tempered and very stoned. This performance, I decided, was not her début.

  Somewhere over the Carolinas, I received the senator’s e-mail about Tomlinson. A surprise not just because of the content but because I thought she was finally asleep.

  I didn’t trouble her with a reply. Instead, I checked the time—7:10 a.m.—and decided to e-mail the psychic philosopher myself. Normally, e-mail is not the quickest way to contact Tomlinson. He has purged his sailboat of all electronics he considers worldly and intrusive, keeping only necessities: a VHF radio, a turntable and a complicated stereo system.

  Every morning, though, he dinghied to the marina around seven, if he wasn’t too hungover. He checked messages, bought a paper, then pedaled to Baileys General Store for a scone.

  The timing was about right.

  Tomlinson and I have a convoluted history that goes way, way back. Years ago, before either of us had chosen Sanibel Island as home, a group of so-called political revolutionaries sent a letter bomb to a U.S. naval base. One of the men killed was a friend.

  Tomlinson was a member of the group but had nothing to do with the bombing, although it was years before I was convinced. A government agency believed otherwise and declared that all members of his group were a clear and present danger to national security. Agents were sent to track them.

  As Harrington told me at the time, “We’re not the CIA. We can operate inside the reservation.”

  I have never admitted that I was sent after Tomlinson, although he suspects. The man has an uncanny knack for perceptual reasoning that he insists is clairvoyance. I credit his gift for observing nuances and minutiae that most people miss, myself included.

  In that way, he is different. It’s impossible to say whether the ability is due to enlightenment, as he claims, or because his neural pathways have been oversensitized by years of chemical abuse.

  Ninety minutes later, the jet banked southeast along the sun-bright beaches of Clearwater and Saint Pete, then landed at what I recognized as MacDill Air Force Base, Tampa. The Navy lieutenant got off, carrying a briefcase. I noticed there was no rating emblem on his uniform—meaningful to someone who has worked with naval intelligence. We were soon airborne again.

  The Learjet made a short arc over Siesta Key and Englewood before it reduced speed, maneuvering to land. Below, I saw toy cars, coconut palms, seaside estates and the domino concretion that is Cape Coral.

  Sanibel Island drifted into view, a green raft on a blue horizon. The island’s shape was impressionistic, like a totem on the Nazca desert of Peru, a giant shrimp petroglyph, tail curved. The totem’s belly was hollow, formed by Din-kin’s Bay, a brackish lake ringed by mangroves. Home.

  After landing, I asked the pilot about the plane’s return schedule. “We have another stop or two after we refuel,” he told me vaguely, and handed me his card, his cell number on the back.

  When I trotted down the steps onto the tarmac of the civic airport in Fort Myers, it was a little after nine, temperature already seventy-four degrees.

  Page Field had been a gunnery school during the Second War. Now it was the namesake of an adjacent mall where six lanes of traffic filed as methodically as leaf-cutter ants, the driver of each anonymous car resigned.

  I got a cab and joined the procession. Told the driver, “Dinkin’s Bay, Sanibel,” which was an hour away because of tourist season. After nearl
y freezing in a Central Park pond, I understood Florida’s allure better than ever.

  My note to Tomlinson had read, “What is significance of term Tenth Man? Need all interpretations, derivatives, variations. MDF.”

  He would assume I was still in New York. Surprise the man. That’s what I wanted to do. How, I hadn’t decided. I didn’t believe Tomlinson was involved with the abduction. The guy was not capable of hurting anyone. But he was also wildly complicated and prone to talking jags when intoxicated, which was often.

  Because Tomlinson knew my schedule, he also knew Senator Hayes-Sorrento’s schedule. He would’ve had ample opportunity to talk. He had lectured in Manhattan after spending three days on nearby Long Island, where there was a Zen master he visited regularly. A little village near the Hamptons that statistically was the wealthiest enclave in America. Billionaire estates. Old money, Internet tycoons. International rock stars and actors.

  Sag Harbor, I remembered, was the little village near the Hamptons.

  It was possible Tomlinson had been used once again by one or more of his dilettante associates, the trust-fund revolutionaries who flirted with violence like children pulling wings off flies.

  Ruthless, arrogant: the very definition of crimes I associated with the name Tinman.

  Tomlinson was no dilettante. He didn’t use his spiritual convictions to manipulate or fly his counterculture lifestyle as a flag of contempt. That’s not true of the typical cast of New Age mystics, born-againers, crystal worshipers, alien advocates, astrology goofs, conspiracy saps or thought-Nazi elitists, along with their politically correct mimics.

  Tomlinson has a stray-dog purity, without ego or malice. I have never met anyone, anywhere, who didn’t like and trust the guy.

  Yet the man was also easily manipulated.

  A Tomlinson quote: “I’m prone to exaggerate when I’m sober.”

  Accurate. It was also unsettling if he had information that should not be shared.

  My home on Dinkin’s Bay is a pair of weathered gray cottages on stilts fifty yards from shore. Tomlinson secures his sailboat, No Mas, on nearby moorings. When his mood is monastic or he’s dodging a jealous husband, Tomlinson anchors far from the marina. Usually, though, No Mas sits just beyond the channel within hailing distance of my porch.