Chapter Twenty-Four

Early call the next morning. Still in bed. Groggy, he squints at the number. Sighs, answers it.

“So, when the hell were you going to tell me about it, you prick? I had to read it from an AP article picked up from the Roanoke Times.”

“Good morning to you, too, Helen.” And he suddenly realizes he never called her about finding Armitage’s body.

“Fuck you, Jacobs. Didn’t even have the common courtesy to tell me the bastard was dead and rotting.”

A bit much, even for Helen. Especially before breakfast. So he lets off the big guns. Something he’s been wondering about for months.

“You know, I wouldn’t have had to track down his bastard son, lose a good friend to put an end to all this Reckoning nonsense if you’d done your job back when. You helped to take down Ames and Hanssen. How the hell did you miss Armitage?”

Feels bad the moment it’s said, but why should he be the only one to have a governor on his mouth? And it does the near impossible: leaves her speechless for a moment.

But just a moment.

“Well mea fucking culpa, cowboy. I did my best while you were teaching pimply farts about drowning witches.”

No winning with Helen, so he does the wise thing. He gives in. “Okay, sorry. I should have called you after I found the body. But I was also a little bit preoccupied convincing the cops I didn’t kill the prick.”

This seems to mollify her for the moment. “Apology accepted. Did the bastard actually leave a suicide note? Or were the papers getting all creative?”

“No, no. A real note. Didn’t say it directly, but read between the lines and he was talking about spying for the Sovs, giving them the names of their folks who were working for us. Said he was expecting revelations about his CIA career. That he betrayed his country. Typical Armitage-speak. Cops found a journal he kept of his workouts. Checking the handwriting on the suicide note against that.”

“Good for them. Journal could help.”

“I took a picture of the note,” he says. “I’ll send it on. Got one of the corpse, too, if you want.”

“The letter will do nicely, thank you very much. Turning into a ghoul in your old age, Jacobs? Snuff photos on the phone.”

“No, but I am turning into an author,” he says with what he thinks hauteur sounds like. “Had a talk with a New York editor yesterday. Wants a book about my adventures in the spy trade.”

“Do piss off, mate.”

“No, for real. Sent him some samples yesterday of what I’ve already been working on. Says he’s a fan. Followed the action in the Austrian papers.”

“Jake fucking Jacobs, the new Le Carre.”

“Except it’s nonfiction,” he says.

“Gonna be so famous you won’t talk to old friends?”

“I’ll have to give that some thought.”

“Up yours.”

“Ditto. I’ll be in touch.”

He works like a beast most of the day, turning months of research into a further chapter about Colonel Alexeyev. Has some emails from Helen about this. They discussed this one for a while; it was personal for Helen. She served in Denmark at the same time. Just after her Vienna posting. Felt a personal responsibility for the man, that she missed the danger signs of his call-back to Moscow. Another anomaly that made the putative existence of a fourth mole in American espionage more of an actuality. And again, a feeling of an incomplete picture. Should talk with Helen more about Alexeyev, he thinks.

About three in the afternoon, he gets a call from New York.

“I love it,” Maxwell says. “Just the right tone. Not too writerly or scholarly. Like you’ve been there, done that.”

“I have.”

“Just keep that voice, Jake. Contract will be coming your way. I think you’ll like the numbers after the dollar sign. Have a lawyer go over it with you, if you want. Or an agent. Make sure it works for you.”

“Thanks for that.” Then, “I trust you, though. I did a little name search yesterday. Want you to know that I’m happy to be working with you.”

“Mutual admiration society, then, Jake. But I can be a hard-ass editor. You may have written academic articles in the past, but this one has got to reach the common woman. You’ll need a thick skin so you don’t take my comments personally.”

“You can probably thank my dad for the thickness of my skin.”

“Good, then. Like I say, contract coming in a day or two. Keep on working. Faster we get this out, the more we can tie into the newsy of it. Might even go e-book first for speed. Or major and lengthy installments in magazine. New Yorker, Atlantic. We’ll see. And about organization. Good outline you included. I recommend a dramatic opening. Maybe something about how you discovered you were included in a hit list online.”

Thinks back to that night in class, the students gossiping among themselves, passing around an iPhone.

“Good idea. I’ll work on it.”

Anne decides to drive up for the weekend rather than fly. Takes a couple vacation days. She always loved a car trip, even as a little fart.

There’s a glow to her when she arrives. That unmistakable look. Not just happy to see her Dad, he thinks.

Long hug, then holding her out at arm’s-length, he says, “Who’s the lucky guy?”

Which earns him a slug on the shoulder, reminding him of Tania’s right hook.

“That’s not an answer,” he says. “I seem to remember you saying that to me recently.”

Her face red now. Never has been able to control that. The red goes down her neck. And looking at her now, he feels a swell of pride. A great kid. And turned into a handsome, accomplished woman. He vows to ban “punkin” forever from his vocabulary.

“Well, am I right or wrong? Another techie?”

She laughs at this. “Furthest thing from. He’s a writer, actually. A damn good writer, too. Works for a local paper in the Valley, but his passion is novels. He’s already published a couple.”

His face feels about to break with a grin. “A writer. That’s wonderful.”

She takes a step backward, surprised. “Beg your pardon? I am talking with Jake Jacobs, spook superior, aren’t I? Mom said you’d be tres bent out of shape that my fiancé is a writer.”

Now his turn for surprise. “Fiancé! Congrats. Must be a hell of a guy to win you.”

Which deepens the red at her neck.

“And why bent out of shape?” he asks.

“Not the most sensible of professions. Not much security.”

Smiles. Shakes his head. “One time through. Try on every coat in the closet.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a bit of an epiphany, Dad.”

And so he tells her his own good news about the book.

“That is so cool! Can I read some of it?”

“Of course. Going to be between covers soon. Open to the paying public.” Which earns a further punch.

And then right on cue, as he is thinking of Tania, Anne says, “We talked on the phone, you know. Tania and me.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I’m old enough to know what went down all those years ago. And smart enough to read between the lines of a news article. That asshole Huber was holding her hostage, hoping to get to you. So obviously, you two got together again in Vienna. Doesn’t need a Harry Bosch to figure that one out.”

“Okay. But why did you contact her?”

“Oh, come on, Dad. Pretty clear something happened there between you two, otherwise, after what just went down in Vienna, you two would be inseparable. So, I called the bookshop. Still cleaning up the mess there, but we had a good chat. She remembered me from back then. How she would read to me in my bedroom on Josefstädterstrasse. Play with me on the toy stove. Sing me to sleep at night when Mom was away.”

Now he feels his own face go red. The deep guilt of the betrayal. “I’m sorry, hon.”

“For what? You and Mom were terrible together. Oil and water. Shit way to end things, but better in the long run for both of you, and for me. She’s happily re-married now, and hell, you’ve been in my life since leaving the Company. Been a good Dad. Course I’ve got nobody to compare you to.”

“Well thanks for that.” Finds himself smiling. “But still, I don’t get why you felt you had to call Vienna?”

“Because I think you’re making a mistake. Tania told me about how you two ended things. But did you ever give a thought to what she’d been through? I mean, shit, the woman figured she was going to die, but she still had enough presence of mind to be able to get out of her bonds, take her gag off and warn you that Huber was coming.”

“What do you mean?’

“What I just said. She risked her life to save you. He could have shot her when she called out.”

And then it comes back to him. All such a confusion and mess of sounds and shouts. But he hears her voice again now, before any of the craziness. Her warning. And she never talked about it. So that was how she got the bruise to her face, he realizes. Risked her life for mine. And I never even fucking asked her about it, too focused on my own injury and on the loss of Vosenko.

“She was traumatized, Dad. When she said she couldn’t go on, damn well right she couldn’t. Living in fear each moment of losing you. Of losing her own emotional grip. It’s PTSD, can’t you see that?”

A flood of emotion makes him groan, almost in pain. “Jesus.”

“She loves you enough to risk her own life, Dad. How much deeper love do you need?”

Shakes his head. “Shit. Never realized. Too busy mourning the dead.”

“So maybe it’s time to stop mourning. Call her, for fuck sake.”

Breathes deeply, knows she’s right. Looks at the clock. Does the nine-hour math.

She reads his hesitation. “Forget the time zones. Call her. Leave a message if you have to. But do it. Now.”

He reaches out to her, touches her cheek. “Such a wise woman. What’s his name?”

“Liam.”

“An Irishman?”

She nods. “From the Republic.”

He takes her in his arms and gives her a bear hug. “Thank you,” he whispers in her ear.

She gives him some space to call Tania’s number. Looks in his contacts, and there she is still. Thank God he didn’t delete it on the plane back to the U.S. Clicks on the mobile number, gets sent to voicemail, and feels a cushion of relief for this first talk.

“It’s me, Tania. I’ll call again later at a better hour for Vienna. But you need to know this now. I love you. I will always love you. And I am so sorry I didn’t understand how traumatic this was for you. The hurt it caused you. I should have focused on that, not just on my own wound or the death of a friend. We’ll make this work, I promise you. We belong together, a new journey. A new life. Not the white picket fence you worried about. I remember your words. ‘Call for me. I’m not going anywhere.’ So, I’m calling for you, lady. Ich liebe dich. Ich vermisse dich.”

A wave of emotion as he ends the call, moistness at his eyes.

But he feels better now. Lighter. Not realizing how much this has been weighing on him. Telling himself he can just cauterize it. Cut Tania out of his life and be done with it. Idiot.

Goes to the study where he has lodged Anne, and she’s at the desk looking at his research notes. Glances over her shoulder as he enters. “Heavy stuff, here. Not the usual spy crap.”

“Thank you, I guess. Let me get my things cleared for you. Then we go out for dinner. There’s a nice little Italian place nearby.”

“Sounds good.” She’s got her overnight bag with her, starts hanging a few items in the closet.

He notices the pack he traveled with in Austria is at her feet. “Here,” he says, grabbing the pack. “Let me get this out of the way.”

And then realizes he hasn’t cleaned out the pack yet. Passport’s in there and what all. Starts digging around and gets his passport in hand. A roll of cash still in the false bottom, along with some folded papers he doesn’t recognize at first. Then remembers that he took these from Vosenko’s pack along with the man’s gun, protein bars, and a wad of money. Vosenko, dead. Sends a shiver through him still. Hard to reckon with that.

Police took the gun, of course, but left the cash and the papers. He opens them now and an electric buzz goes through him when he reads the looping handwriting at the top of the first page: Will of Yuri Vosenko.

Guy’s going to carry his will around with him like that? Knew his time was limited. By the look of the hurried writing, he might have penned this close to when he died. No way to know. But he reads on.

I, Yuri Vosenko, have not much to leave behind. But I want my friend in arms, Jake Jacobs, to have my cottage on the Fingle Moor, near Ballymore, County Donegal, Ireland. May he find the peace there that eluded me.

This is followed by Vosenko’s signature. The other papers are blank.

“Jesus,” Jake says aloud.

Anne turns from the closet. “What, Dad?”

“Vosenko. The ex-KGB guy I was with in Austria.”

“The guy who died?”

“Right. Had a brain tumor. Shit, he took the time to write out a will. Must have been when we were up in the mountains. Left me his cottage in Ireland.”

“Ahh, that was good of him.”

“Can’t be legal,” Jake says.

“If it’s signed, it’s legal,” she says. “That’s what the lawyer shows tell you, anyway.”

Shakes his head. “Damn guy snored loud enough to raise the roof. Fuck me.”

Dinner turns into a mini-celebration for both now: Anne’s engagement and Jake’s book contract and sudden home ownership.

“You going to live there, Dad? What a coincidence, really. Me and my Irishman and you with an Irish cottage.”

“Not the quaint little cottage you might be imagining.” He takes a sip of his Montepulciano, lets it sit in the mouth for a moment before swallowing. The ruins of dinner on the plates in front of them: the scant remains of Anne’s ossobuco alla Milanese and his bistecca alla Fiorentina. She’s on to a cappuccino now.

Thinks of the cottage. The time he spent there was far from comforting, punctuated by a home invasion, but the place has possibilities, he thinks. “I might spend time there. Got to get this will cleared first, though. And the place would need some major fixing up.”

“You’ve always been such a great hand at that, Dad.” And laughs.

Some guys have a black thumb for gardening; Jake’s got a swollen thumb from home improvements.

“Maybe I can learn,” he says.

“Go, Dad!” she says. “A transformed man.”

“Piss off.”

The condo feels empty when Anne leaves early Monday morning. Misses the feel of a loved one sharing the home. And then his mind goes to Tania again. Cautions himself to slow down. Not to scare her off. Had a good chat on Saturday. She’s busy trying to get the bookshop back in shape after the bomb went off in the office. He wishes he could be there to help out.

She’s jubilant at the news of the book deal. Is conversant about Cawthorn Books.

“Top of the line,” she tells him. “Been around since the Ark. And the editor, Bob Maxwell. He’s shepherded three writers to Pulitzers. A word of advice?”

“Yes, please. I’m new to this game, you’re the pro.”

“Great editor or not, get an agent. Or somebody to read the contract. Editor’s there to make the book as good as it can be. He’s not looking after your financial interests.”

Told her he’d think about it, then made good-byes with noisy phone kisses. Mind goes instantly back to Tania. Feels like a first timer in the romance market. But again, take it slow, he cautions himself. Don’t rush her. He desperately wants this to work.

So, today, after Anne leaves and after thinking about it, he is trying to figure out the agent thing. But no clue where to begin. Going online to look for an agent is like fishing for marlin with a trout spinner. Plenty of names out there with their wish lists, but what the hell? Who’s who in the zoo?

Gives up after a wasted hour and checks the local listings for a good lawyer instead. And no, that’s not an oxymoron. Had some great friends at university go on to law school. Capable and honest. Which gives him the idea to dredge up those names, especially as now the PDF of his contract has come through. As promised, a six-figure advance. Is that good or bad in the book industry? No idea. It looks good on paper, though.

But fuck all. It’s too much for him right now. Would rather get back to work on the book itself. Figures he can work his own way through a contract. He’d pretty much focused on being a friend and a dad while Anne was visiting, so now it’s time to get to the work at hand. He left off writing last with the Alexeyev file. Picks his way through some old journal articles.

And that’s when everything changes.