Chapter Twenty-Two

Turns out it’s not an easy landing. Early morning in New York, and the Austrians must have put him on a list, because he’s stopped before he even gets in line to Passport Control. Couple of Port Authority Police approach; loaded for fucking bear with automatic rifles and scowls on their faces.

“Mr. Jacobs?” says the female officer. Her partner’s hand is choking the magazine on his weapon.

“That is I.” The kind of grammatical accuracy that confuses the general public. She just looks at him weird, but her partner’s scowl turns to aggro.

“No cute stuff,” he says. “Are you or aren’t you Jacobs?”

“Guilty as accused.” Comes out too quickly for him to tell himself to shut the fuck up. “I mean, right, Jake Jacobs.” He tries to put a hand in his jacket pocket for his passport, but Barney Fife misunderstands. Automatic pointing square at his head now. What were simply murmurs in the line of passengers turn to a couple of gasps and one gun-shy oldster hits the linoleum, hands covering his head.

Jake’s got his hands up now. “Hey, hey, just going to show you my passport.”

“Well, let’s see it then,” the female officer says.

Jake reads her name on the tag under her badge. “No problem, Officer Rodriguez.” With pinkie uplifted, thumb and forefinger dip in and retrieve his passport.

She checks it, looks up at him, and then again at the picture.

“I grew a beard since the photo,” he says.

“I noticed.” She manages to close the little document as if slamming a legal tome shut. Hands it back. “A few words. Over here, if you would.”

She leads the way to one side of the receiving hall, Barney in lockstep behind him. Turns once she gets to the wall, nods her head. “We were told to make sure you de-planed. Sounds like you pissed off some important people over there.”

“Unintentional, I assure you. I did, however, help to bring a killer to justice.” Hoping for a little love from a cop with this mention.

But no go. This does not impress. In fact it brings on a rather massive sigh from Officer Rodriquez. “In future, Mr. Jacobs, a bit of advice. It would be wise—especially for a man of your age—to leave policing to the police.”

Can’t even think of a smart-ass remark to that one, so just nods. Swallows his anger.

“So, yes, I got off the flight. I am back in the United States. I am sure all of Austria can now sleep better at night.”

“Fucking wise ass,” Barney mutters.

He ignores this. “May I join the line now?”

A solemn nod from Officer Rodriguez. “Just remember what I said. And don’t even think of doing a Jack Reacher on my turf. Understood?”

“Loud and clear.” Taps his passport against his head as if that is some sort of sign he knows the meaning of. Then feels flustered and gets his ass in line. Female cops generally have that effect on him. Lady ahead of him in line none too happy to have him as a neighbor.

Another half-hour and he’s through passport. No luggage to collect, just his carry-on backpack. So, out in the main hall of the terminal he finds a private space, pulls out his phone and calls Helen.

She picks up on about the fifth ring tone. “The conquering hero returneth.” Voice sounds thick. Not the usual bite. “And what the fuck you doing calling me at four in the morning?”

“Sorry. Damn. Forgot time zones. Just checking in, see if you’re staying safe.”

“Always. Why the concern, charmer?”

“Cornered animals are dangerous.”

“Armitage, you mean.”

“I’m headed his direction now. Just landed at JFK.”

“So, you’re sure he’s Carlo?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

A chuckle. “Then you’re the one who needs to stay safe. You have any backup?”

“No. I’ll take it slow.”

“You said he had a goon watching over him. He could still be there.”

Jake nods. “Yeah, well, if Armitage wants to keep up appearances, he’s gotten rid of the protection. Threat’s gone, right? Huber’s dead. Reckoning is kaput. I’m his hero, saved his sorry ass along with mine.”

“If he wants to keep up appearances,” she counters. “You should pick up a shooter on the way there.”

“Planning on it. Know a place in New Jersey. Great to be back in the home of the brave where you can buy armaments twenty-four-seven. Got Huber’s cell phone, by the way.”

A moment of silence. “And?”

“A treasure trove. Got the whole history of Armitage recruiting him, sending him out to kill.”

Another pause. “Maybe this is a job for the cops, then.”

“It’s personal, Helen. I’m the cop on this one.”

“Watch your back, young man.” And the call goes dead.

A line out the door at Hertz, but he patiently waits his turn, stomach churning all the while. Finally gets what’s left on the lot, which is a Ford Focus that he has to pry his six-two frame into. Takes the 278 in the crush of the morning commute and finally sweats his way to I95, the New Jersey Turnpike, heads south. Makes a quick stop in Trenton, at Cigars and More, where the “more” makes smoke of a different order: under-the-radar “private” gun sales with no background checks, no Brady Act compliance. Picks up a Colt 10 mm automatic and ammo. Not his first choice, but beggars and choosers. Dusted and done in less than half an hour and on his way south again, through Philadelphia, Wilmington, Baltimore. Stops for a burger at a truck stop. Fills the tank. Always has been finicky about topping up a gas tank, even if it’s already half full. A bit of harmless OCD. Belt and suspenders.

Then back on the road and once past Washington, he takes his time, avoiding the interstate, and instead sticks to back roads. Through Charlottesville, Lynchburg, Bedford, and finally to Blue Ridge, pulling into town at a little after six in the afternoon. Still daylight and he remembers how to get to Armitage’s. Finds his way to Greenbriar Road and takes the first left after the fire station. Jake soon finds 3501 Orchard Drive on the roadside mailbox, still looking like a miniature castle. And still no roaming bison to necessitate the cattle guard.

Gate’s open and he pushes up the long driveway. Sees the house once he’s over the crest, big as before. McMansion. Seems as lonely as the first time. Parks the car in front. No welcoming party this time.

Like he figured, Armitage got rid of the muscle now that the “threat” is gone. Stay in character.

Tucks the Colt into the back of his waist before he gets out of the car and mounts the wide steps. Rings the bell and waits for Armitage’s mincing footfalls. And waits. And waits.

Rings again. Nothing. Then raps on the door, loud and insistent.

Shit. Is he back at his Arlington home? Stupid. Should’ve called there before driving all the way to Blue Ridge.

Pulls his cell out. He’s got that number among his other very limited contacts. Gets the same plummy message as before: “You called, you know who you want. So leave a message. It may be returned.”

Fuck you, Jake thinks. Helen gave him the number here too, so he tries that in case. But it just rings and rings. No pick up, no phone message. Tries it again. Same nothing.

Not like punctilious Armitage not to have a call go to voicemail of some sort. Goes down the front steps, around the side of the house, and finds an eye-level window between clumps of cloying rhododendrons, their nascent buds sticky from an aphid infestation. Picking his way between the knee-high young bushes, he cups his hands around his face and peers inside. The hallway. Nothing to be seen there. Goes further around the house to the back. A window there that looks into the study where they’d met earlier. Has a bad feeling now. If Armitage is not in residence, he’s going to at least close some curtains, no? But in the later afternoon daylight, the window still gives a clear view into the study.

And it doesn’t take a forensic medical examiner to see that the body sprawled in one of the matching burgundy leather club chairs is past saving, the right side of the head blown away.

He’s not so much shocked as conflicted. Decision time. Call 911 or first get inside to investigate? Once the cops are on the scene there’s fuck all he can do.

That’s one side the argument. The other is, what the hell is he going to do if he breaks in before calling the police? Hardly going to check the pulse. But he will have a chance to look, to search. For anything and everything.

Curiosity wins out. He tries the window. Locked, as it should be. Tries several other windows around the exterior. Ditto. Front door is too damn massive to try and knock down. So screw it.

Back to the window giving onto the study, pulls out the Colt and knocks the glass in. He’s meticulous in getting rid of sharp edges on the bottom of the frame, hoists himself up—grimacing as the stitches on his left side stretch, maybe even tear—and scrambles through the opening.

And about passes out at the stink. Wraps his left arm around his mouth and nose. In death, Armitage’s lean body clothed in flannel trousers and cashmere sweater, has suddenly doubled in size, puffed up by bacterial gases. Rotten eggs. Really rotten eggs. Skin’s turned light green and a pinkish foam is leaking from mouth and nose. Which means Armitage died three to five days ago.

In the midst of the horror of the scene, Jake feels the bounce of pride that he remembers the four stages of human decomposition, one of those extra seminars at the Farm.

Moves slowly toward the body, not wanting to step in any of the brain matter speckling the Kashan carpet. Revolver on the floor by Armitage’s feet. Piece of paper on the small Biedermeier table between the matching leather club chairs. Doesn’t pick it up, but reads the tidy, neatly penned note, each line with a downward slant left to right. As it should be: an upward slant indicates optimism.

“To Whom It May Concern:”

I guess that’s me, Jake figures. Reads on.

“I have decided to end my life rather than face the disapprobation of former colleagues, friends, and the general public.”

That’s the Armitage I know and despise, Jake thinks. Humble to the very end.

“Shortly, revelations will appear regarding my years of service in the CIA. Revelations that hardly comport with my faithful service. I was compromised at one point and took the coward’s way out. Betraying my country to save my reputation. That is not only regrettable, it is also a crime. I write this knowing that my death will not serve as an amends to the lives of those who were put in jeopardy or were killed due to my actions.

I simply write this as a mea culpa.

May it end here.

Lawrence Armitage

Former DDO, Central Intelligence Agency”

Jakes gets his phone out and takes three shots of the letter when only one is needed. Same for the body, and then several of the surroundings in the room. Goes to the long cherry-wood side table close by with its forest of framed photographs. Searches for the picture of Reni with its inscription, “To Carlo mit Liebe.” Been moved to the center, but he manages to take a couple of photos.

So, learning that Huber had been killed in Vienna and that his cover-up failed, Armitage takes the easy way out. A suicide note basically telling the world that he was a mole. Compromised. But how? Compromised about what? By whom?

Looks at Armitage’s body and sudden anger grips him, a knot of hatred in his guts.

“Fucking coward,” he screams at the putrefying corpse. And no way is he going to let it end here.

The knot in his stomach tightens when he hears the wail of sirens, distant at first, but getting closer by the second. And closer. The screech of brakes just outside. Thwump of car doors thrown open and shut.

Head clear now. Must have tripped a burglar alarm breaking the window. Looks bad enough I broke in. Even worse if they find me armed. Checks around the room. Sees a tall chest by the cherry-wood side table, hurries to it even as he hears a beating at the front door, the crashing of wood as it splinters open. Bottom drawer unlocked. Quicky wipes the Colt of prints. Serial numbers already gone, courtesy of the seller. Sticks it underneath some files he wishes he had the time to peruse.

Closes the drawer just as feet come stomping down the hall.

“In here guys,” he calls out. Got his hands high in the air as the study door bursts open and four cops pile through.

“On the ground, asshole!” the largest of these and the reddest in face screams. Got a lethal looking sidearm twitching in his hand.

Doesn’t have to be told twice.

“Don’t shit me, boy,” the red-faced officer shouts at him. Sitting at the station now, all cozy at a badly chipped pine table in an interview room. No cameras. No tape going.

That does nothing to calm Jake’s nerves. No witnesses to a forced confession. Need to dance quick, he tells himself. Officer’s got a little desk sign in front of him and Jake zeroes in on it fast.

“I’m not shitting you, Chief Wagner. Came to visit. Armitage was expecting me, so when my knocking and phone calls went unanswered, I got worried. Went around the house to check things out.”

“And broke in and killed the man.”

“Have your ME check out the body. At least three days dead. I’ve been in Europe until this morning.”

“How you going to prove that?”

“I’ve got a ticket. In my pack. And my passport. Stamped upon entry this morning at JFK. I didn’t kill Mr. Armitage. Like I say, I’m a former colleague. We worked at a certain agency together.”

“Look, boy. We talked with the Meyers. Husband and wife who do for Mr. Armitage when he’s staying here. Light housework, gardening, cooking. That sort of deal. And they say Armitage told them he was goin’ back to Arlington four days ago. Why’s he gonna tell them that if he’s expecting company?”

Jake makes a quick calculation. “Maybe he wanted a private meeting with me. Nobody fussing around. Lot of ground to cover. Haven’t seen each other in some time.” Just hopes to hell the pimply gas station kid who gave him directions at his last visit doesn’t get a sudden memory surge. Or that Armitage’s hired goon doesn’t raise his hand.

Chief Wagner doesn’t appear impressed. “So why’d you break in? Gonna give him CPR?”

Which brings a laugh from the deputy standing by the door. Chief brightens at this.

“I needed to make sure he was dead. Had no idea he was already stage two decomposition.”

“And you know all this because?”

“You’ve got my passport. My ID. Check my service record. You’ll see I was with CIA for more than a decade.”

“So a spy,” Wagner says. “How do I know you didn’t commission the hit and then come along later with your pretty little alibi in order to rob the place, find some documents? Whatever.”

“Number one, because I didn’t. Number two, with my training I sure as shit wouldn’t have rung your bell with a B&E if all this was a plan. I clearly wasn’t acting like a spy, now was I? A bit of panic seeing Armitage dead like that. Not thinking clearly. If I had a contract on him, I would have been prepared. Had a plan. So maybe we could start looking for the real killer of my friend.”

Chief Wagner leans back in his chair, pushes on his chest and burps. “Yeah, well I guess you’re just gonna be a guest of the county tonight till we check out your bonafides.”

Jake feels a jab of pain on his left side. Slides his hand under his jacket and over his old wound, brings it out red and sticky. “Meantime, I might need to see a doc.”

Cops were good enough to give him the Hardy novel from his pack.

But the pills the doc gave him made reading pretty much impossible. He was out like the proverbial light and didn’t wake up until there was a raking of keys on his cell door. Getting to be a familiar sound.

“Been on the phone with some folks in New York. You have been a busy fucker, haven’t you, Jacobs?”

Chief Wagner seems in a good mood this morning, as they hand over his belongings. “Seems your little European vacation had a higher body count than your visit here. Something you’re maybe not telling me?”

“You read the suicide note, I imagine.”

Chief Wagner nods, scratches his drooping cheek.

“Well then, you know he was facing disgrace maybe even jail time.”

“For what?”

“Looks like Mr. Armitage may have been working as a double agent.”

“Fuck me. Straight out of Len Deighton. Loved that guy’s books. Working for the Ruskies?”

“Looks that way. Walls were closing in.”

“And where do you come in on this?”

No reason to avoid the truth. “I was one of those walls.”

Chief Wagner gives him a you’re-shitting-me look. “I can see why he might want to send the Meyers away, then.”

“Right.”

“But really, who the fuck cares? All so long ago. Got different enemies now.”

Jake would beg to differ. Putin’s Russia is still enemy numero uno on his list. Cyber warfare now instead of the Bomb. But goes for the legal argument instead. Something the Chief would understand.

“No statute of limitations on murder, right?”

Chief Wagner nods.

“And that’s what Armitage did. Got dozens of good men killed, sent to their deaths in Moscow. Men who were helping us. We call it the Cold War, but it doesn’t mean nobody died.”

Before he leaves, Chief’s got a little exercise for him. He may be a small-town cop but not a rube. Knows his business.

He hands Jake a Moleskine notebook, grey cover and inside filled with quad-ruled paper filled with neat handwriting.

Jake shrugs. “What is it?”

“We found it on the premises. In the top drawer of a writing desk. Looks like a workout journal.”

Jake flips through it, sees dates and times, exercises completed, record of blood pressure before and after workouts. Goes back a few months. No name on it, of course. But who the hell’s going to scrawl their signature on their own journal?

“You recognize the writing?”

“I’m not a graphologist, but it does look familiar. So, you’re assuming it’s Armitage’s and maybe have some expert do a comparison analysis with the suicide note.”

“About the size of it. Anybody could write a suicide note, fake the guy’s signature.”

Jake understands. Armitage’s signature was from another world, a crazy swirl of giant letters, but his regular writing was precise, tidy, and very regular, by the looks of this journal. Jake can’t recall ever reading Armitage’s handwriting before, only seeing the ostentatious signature at the bottom of typed documents.

“Good thinking, Chief. Make it airtight.”

“You take care, now. Maybe leave the policing to the police in the future?”

“I’ll give it a try.”