The Temporary Agent (30 page)

The cabin of the 135, unlike the interior of the Huey that had transported them across the nighttime desert five years ago, was sealed tight and surprisingly quiet.

A luxury transport, designed for maximum comfort.

For men of means with no time to waste and high-stakes deals to make.

But Tom and Cahill simply sat in that silence and looked at each other.

Tom was of course grateful that for this ride—his second such journey with Cahill—neither man was stretched out on a gurney, broken and bleeding and fighting to stay alive.

And it was obvious to him that Cahill was thinking the same thing.

After heading south at first, along the edge of the Hudson, the copter banked sharply to the left and crossed eastward over Lower Manhattan, heading for Long Island.

Reaching down, Tom removed the phone from beneath the laces of his boot and tossed it to Cahill.

Fifty-Nine

Tom awoke with Stella beside him.

The bed was large and soft, the linens crisp.

But it was a strange bed, as was the room it occupied.

Whitewashed walls, bright pine floor, and a row of windows with a view of tranquil waters.

It took Tom a moment to orient himself.

The helicopter ride with Cahill had taken close to a half hour.

Though Tom didn’t know the exact cruising speed of an EC-135, he estimated that it had carried them anywhere between seventy-five to one hundred miles, most of it due east.

And though they had landed in the darkness in an open field, Tom had managed to determine that the field was part of the grounds of a large hilltop estate—manor house, stables, five-door garage—and that the estate was located on some island nestled within what appeared to be a bay.

Tom remembered little after that—men had helped him from the helicopter and into a house. Another man that Tom assumed was a doctor told him to brace himself as he prepared to set Tom’s broken bone; Raveis and an older man with deep-set eyes and buzz-cut hair watched from a corner; Cahill and a man with longish gray hair looking at each other for a moment before embracing, both men smiling.

After that, Tom had been brought to a large study with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a set of French doors overlooking a lawn that ran at a gentle slope toward tall reeds, beyond which was the same tranquil water.

He lost track of how long he’d been left to wait in that room, fighting his growing fatigue. Eventually, he heard doors opening and closing somewhere inside the house, followed by the sound of footsteps.

Two sets of footsteps, one heavy, the other not.

The study door opened and Tom saw Cahill.

Standing beside him was Stella.

Cahill closed the doors as Stella walked into Tom’s arms.

Next to her now in this strange bed, Tom looked at his left forearm, encased in a cast.

He realized that he was feeling no pain.

More than that, his entire body was alive with a buzzing numbness.

It was more than pleasant.

No doubt the man who had set his arm also shot him up with a dose of painkillers.

Tom might have preferred the pain over the slowing effect the drug was having on his thoughts and movements.

He sensed that he needed his wits about him, now more than ever.

A quick check of the nightstand for their belongings—phones, ID, cash, Stella’s .357, Tom’s 1911—came up short.

Then he realized he didn’t know the time, and there was no clock in the sparsely furnished room.

What Tom did know was that this was Monday morning, so no matter what time it was, he was missing his shift.

And so was Stella, who had already missed her Saturday and Sunday double shifts.

Living paycheck to paycheck meant they would be short at the end of the month.

And working for the kind of man Tom worked for meant there was a very good chance he was out of a job.

Later that morning an attractive woman in her fifties, dressed in jeans, a white fisherman’s sweater, and deck shoes brought Tom and Stella breakfast on a silver tray.

She also brought them clothing.

Slacks, tank top, cardigan, and sneakers for Stella.

Heavy work jeans, T-shirt, hooded sweatshirt, and hiking boots for Tom.

All brand new, store tags still attached.

The woman said her name was Eileen and asked if they needed anything else just then. She was smiling, gracious.

Her demeanor struck Tom as that of a hostess tending to welcome guests, not a jailer minding her charges.

Tom asked where Cahill was.

“He flew back out this morning,” Eileen said. “I’m surprised the two of you slept through the noise. The house always shakes whenever that thing takes off.”

She asked again if she could get them anything else.

Stella examined the tray and said they were good.

Eileen said to Tom, “They’ll talk to you when they’re ready. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re both safe here. Just rest up. I’m just downstairs if you need anything.”

She left then, closing the bedroom door behind her.

Tom listened, but heard no indications of a lock being turned.

Stella picked up a piece of buttered toast and tore it in half, handing one of the pieces to him.

He took it.

As they sat in the large bed and ate, neither spoke for a while.

Eventually, Stella said, “Isn’t Cahill’s mother named Eileen? I think I read that in his file.”

Eileen collected their tray after lunch.

“You’re welcome to walk the grounds if you feel up to it,” she said.

Though it was a blustery November day, the sky crowded with clouds the color of brushed steel, Tom and Stella headed down the sloping lawn to the water’s edge.

It was here that Tom began his recon.

He waited till there was a break in the clouds and used the angle of his own shadow to determine that this part of the property was facing east.

The nearest land was well off in the distance.

Turning right, he and Stella strolled to the southern side.

Here, the nearest land was only a few hundred yards away.

“How long will they keep you waiting?” Stella asked.

Tom said that he didn’t know.

Scanning the southern bank of the grounds, he spotted a boat launch and small wooden dock.

Moored to the dock was a rowboat.

Rocking quietly with the gentle tide.

As the sun was close to setting, Eileen knocked on their door.

“They’re ready for you.”

She led Tom back to the study where he had waited for Stella.

Three men were there.

Raveis, of course, as well as the man with longish gray hair who had embraced Cahill, and the older man Raveis had been talking with as Tom’s arm was set.

Tom estimated that the man with the longish hair was in his fifties, the other man in his sixties.

And by the way Raveis and the gray-haired man stood facing the older one, it was clear to Tom who was in charge.

Everyone had a boss, even men like Raveis.

The older man looked at Tom as he walked into the room.

Raveis and the gray-haired man turned and stepped quickly toward Tom, leaving the older man to stand back and observe.

Approaching Tom, Raveis said, “It’s good to see you, Tom.”

Tom said nothing.

He locked eyes with the older man, studying him as he studied Tom.

Barrel-chested, bull-shouldered, six feet, salt-and-pepper hair buzzed close to his scalp, like Tom’s was now.

Powerful and commanding, despite his age.

Tom knew former military when he saw it.

He also knew power—real power—when he saw it.

“These men are associates of mine,” Raveis said.

Tom didn’t care who they were. There was one thing he wanted to know first.

“Where are we?” he said.

“It’s called Shelter Island. It’s between the two forks of Long Island—”

“This place belongs to Cahill’s family,” Tom said. “Right?”

Raveis smiled in a way that indicated Tom had caught him off guard. “What makes you think that, Tom?”

“The woman taking care of us is Cahill’s mother.” Tom nodded toward the gray-haired man. “And he and Cahill looked a lot like a father and son who hadn’t seen each other in a long time.”

The gray-haired man stepped forward, extending his hand.

“I’m Robert Cahill,” he said. “It’s very good to meet you, Tom. I’ve been wanting to for a long time.”

Tom shook his hand. “I appreciate you taking Stella and me in.”

“Of course.”

Tom looked at Raveis. “I have questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where’s Hammerton?”

“In the hospital.”

“Which one?”

“New York-Presbyterian, in the city.”

“Savelle put an implant in him.”

Raveis nodded. “It has been removed. His fever is already down. He’s fine, Tom. A single phone call was made, and within hours, two of his SAS brothers arrived, one to guard his door, the other to sit at his bedside. They won’t leave till he does. He’ll be well taken care of, I can assure you of that.”

“And Carrington?”

“He’s fine, too.” Raveis smiled. “A little hungover, but fine.”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“Not yet, Tom.”

“Why not?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.”

Tom thought about that, looked at each man, then said, “How did Cahill know the meeting in your garage was a trap?”

“Carrington tipped us off.”

“He contacted Cahill?”

“No, he surrendered to me. Came in with his hands up. A ballsy move, considering we’d put a kill order out on him.”

Tom took note of the use of the plural pronoun.

He glanced at the older man.

Still standing back, still observing.

Tom said to Raveis, “Carrington was innocent, but because of you he was forced to kill three of your men in self-defense.”

“This is a dangerous business. Dangerous, but vital to national security. Those men knew the risks yet still showed up for work every day.” Raveis paused. “But we’ve gained more than we lost. A lot more. And that’s what matters.”

“And what was it exactly that you gained?”

“I know what you think of me, Tom. And believe me, you aren’t that far from wrong. I’m a capitalist to the core, but like you, I’m also a patriot. Like you, I fought for my country and nearly died for it. I still fight for it every day. Which is why I consider what you achieved here to be a significant gain.”

Tom said nothing.

Raveis took a step closer. “Three more weapons caches have already been found. Each one of them purchased through land trusts listing Jenna Walewski as trustee. Each one of them just outside New York City. One was triple the size of the cache you and Hammerton found. Joint ATF and FBI task forces have already set up twenty-four-hour surveillance on all of them. No one enters those buildings—no one leaves them with so much as a box of ammo—without us knowing about it.”

Tom looked at Robert Cahill, then at the older man.

“You saved a lot of lives, Tom,” Raveis said. “And not just the would-be victims of an attack on New York City. We’re talking about the tens of thousands of lives that would have been lost in another full-scale war in the Middle East. How could our leaders not avenge such an attack? The danger of fighting an enemy you demonize is that you will always underestimate them. Our current enemies are convinced that America would cower after such an attack. That our government would retreat from their part of the world—every other part of the world—never to come back again. It’s a mistake they make over and over. A mistake every single one of our enemies has made throughout history. Al Qaeda, the Nazis and Japanese, the British in 1812, you name it. And it’s a mistake the entire world always ends up paying for, one way or the other.”

The older man spoke. “That’s enough, Sam,” he said softly.

The three men turned to look at him.

“We brought Tomas here so he could hear good news. We’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

Raveis nodded and faced Tom. “Half an hour ago, the mortgage on Stella’s property in Canaan was paid off. That’s one of the reasons why it took us so long to meet with you today. We wanted the matter to be settled before we told you. In his debriefing, Carrington pointed out that things would have no doubt ended differently if it weren’t for Stella. Relieving her of the last of her debts is the least her government could do.”