The Last Spymaster Read Free Page B

help you out—if you think I can do the job, tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you whether I can or want to take it on.”
    He looked around. “Not here. The assignment is with one of our special units. And it’s M-classified.” “M” indicated an extraordinarily sensitive covert operation. Among the highest the United States bestowed, single-letter security clearances meant the information was so secret it could be referred to only by initials.
    Her blue eyes snapped with excitement. It had been a long time since she’d had such an opportunity. “Give me back my resignation letter. As long as I don’t have to mommy fools, I’ll deliver.”
    He handed it to her along with his envelope. “Here’s the address and the name of your contact, plus my phone number. It’s the usual protocol—you hunt, our regular people capture. Read, memorize, then shred everything, including my number. Good luck.”
     
    The Catoctin Mountains, Maryland
     
    Dense forests flowed dark and primeval down the ridged sides of the Maryland mountains to where a roadside stop had been built on a green basin of land off busy Highway 15. A cool breeze typical of the early hour at this time of year blew around the two-pump gas station and parking lot and café.
    Jay Tice stood utterly still in shadows. His bloody clothes announced he should be considered dangerous, but there was something else about him that was perhaps even more sinister: It was in his aging face, where intelligence and violence warred just beneath the skin. His hair was short, the color of iron shavings. Two crevices curved down from either side of his nose to his mouth. His chin was as firm as ever, marked by the dramatic cleft.
    He moved off through the trees. At the rear of the café, he dropped to his haunches. There were four windows on the back wall—one was opaque glass, two displayed customers eating, and the fourth, next to the doorway, showed a desk and file cabinets. That was the office, just where he remembered. The back door was open. From it drifted the greasy odors of fried sausage and bacon. Tice looked around then sprinted to the doorway. He peered cautiously inside.
    “Two eggs, easy!” A voice yelled from the end of the cluttered hall. “Half stack!”
    Within seconds he slipped unnoticed into the office. He locked the door and activated the computer and, while it booted up, opened the window. From somewhere inside the café, a newscast described a terrorist bombing by a group thought to be connected to al-Qaeda. He sat down at the computer and created a new Yahoo! e-mail account from which he opened a blank e-mail, addressed it, and typed into the message window:
     
Dog’s run away. Call home.
     
    As soon as he hit SEND, he addressed another e-mail with a different message:
     
Unexpected storm forced evacuation. In touch soon.
     
    Deleting all copies saved to the computer, he turned it off. He slid out the window, stifling a groan as his hip grazed the lip, furious that he was not as agile as he once was. He closed the window and seconds later was in the forest again, moving swiftly away.

2
     
    Washington, D.C.
     
    Controlling her excitement, Elaine Cunningham drove her Jaguar S-Type Sport 3.0—red, sleek, and sumptuous—across the Potomac River and into the District. As the beat of Headshear’s “Walking Tapestry” pounded from her speakers, she reveled in the Jag’s power and balance, the seventeen-inch Herakles alloy wheels, the bird’s-eye maple dashboard, and the softer-than-skin leather upholstery. She knew her love affair with this lump of luxury was shallow, and she did not care. It whispered when it cruised, and it growled when poked awake. Who could resist that?
    Dupont Circle was just a mile northwest of the White House. As she drove around it, she maintained her usual second-stage alert, studying buildings, the mass of cars, the mobs of pedestrians. A towering water fountain sparkled in the center of the parklike circle,