Chapter Twenty-Seven

Drives slowly south, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror.

Finally, reaching Longview, he decides Helen’s not setting him up. No tail.

She’s right. She needs the insurance, too. Gone off the reservation with Reckoning. Not to be trusted by her Housekeeping friends.

So, she really does need me as much as I need her, he figures. And I also need to buy time to set things in motion. My own insurance policy.

Reaches Portland at sunset and he’s got the beginnings of a plan in place. Stops at a Best Buy and buys a prepaid SIM card. Gives Anne a call from his condo, using his land line, assuming it’s been tapped.

“Hey, Dad,” she says after a few rings. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Just got back from a research trip.”

“For the book.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s that going?”

“Well, not so good. Had a talk with a source. It looks like I’ve been barking up the wrong tree. In fact, I think the whole project is down the drain, now.”

“Oh, Dad. Sorry. That sucks. But there’s still all that stuff in Austria. And that guy in Virginia.”

“Right. But, you know, papers have already covered that. I thought it was going in a different direction. Turns out it was Armitage the whole time. Go figure.”

“So write it. If they’re willing to shell out big bucks for a regurgitated news story, so be it.”

“Well, that’s part of the problem. Further we get away from the news, the less New York is interested. I’ll survive. Not to worry.”

“Back to the college?”

“Maybe. If they’ll have me. I’ve been pretty much AWOL. Spun a medical-necessity story for them and got the rest of the semester off. But I’ll give them a call in the morning. Maybe get a gig for summer term. Easy because nobody likes teaching in the summer.”

They chat a few more minutes about Liam, wedding plans, her work. Keep it normal, not like you think someone’s listening in, he tells himself. Feels a little guilty, but it’s in her best interest, too. Cover. She’s now out of the loop for whoever might be monitoring the call. And I’ve just established the reason I’m not publishing. For the same person listening in.

Too late to call New York, and his stomach—finally repaired from the Po Boy—is telling him it’s feeding time. Cranks out a quick fix—pasta with shrimp and basil. A chilled glass of chardonnay to go with it. Mind still churning, looking for flaws in the plan.

But it’s already underway, he tells himself.

Next morning, he calls Maxwell, again on the landline. Tells him he can’t sign the contract. Turns out he was all wrong about things. Needs to bow out.

“You’re joking, right?” the editor says.

“No. Wish I was. But I thank you for your interest.”

“Well who the hell do you think you are?”

Hangs up before Maxwell goes completely ballistic, then switches to his cell, but first swaps out SIM cards just in case, and calls on the new number. Rings several times. Pick it up, he urges. Unknown number. Maxwell’s going to do a pass. But it’s his private number. Who’s going to know it?

“Who is this?”

“Good, thanks for picking up.”

“What the hell’s going on, Jake?”

“Sorry. Couldn’t let you in on it with the first call. I needed an honest reaction from you. I have some shit to tell you. It could be dangerous for you. Should I continue?”

“Well, you’ve got my interest.”

So he tells him blow by blow about yesterday, about Housekeeping, about the agreement with Helen for a mutual insurance policy. Maxwell takes it all in, listens quietly from his end as Jake finishes.

“I assume this is a burner phone.”

“SIM card. Same thing.”

“So what’s your move?”

“You believe me?”

“If it’s not the truth, you should be writing fiction.”

“I can’t just let her walk, Bob. It’s not right. I could give a shit about the others involved, the agency. But I can’t let her walk, and I can’t let her take the fall for all those other assholes, either.”

“You bought some time, though. That’s good. Light of day?”

“Go to the newspapers? But we’d never have all the names. Always somebody in the shadows. Always somebody for me to think about, keep an eye out for.”

“Yeah. See what you mean.” A long sigh. “You know anybody? Anybody in the Agency you trust?”

“I thought I could trust Moody. So, the answer is no.”

“Maybe somebody connected to the Agency, someone retired. Someone with pull.”

Hits him like a snowball in July. “Jesus, Bob. You’re a genius.”

“Yes, I know. But remember to come prepared. Get some more insurance for yourself.”

Turns out to be an easy enough Google search. Baxter Streat just celebrated his ninetieth birthday. The Post covered it: an ‘intimate’ gathering of a hundred or so guests in his Palo Alto spread.

Baxter Streat, his old faculty advisor. The guy who helped recruit him. There’s a fellow with some pull, gravitas. The old guard. Get the Agency to clean up its act from inside. Or at least get some solid advice about what to do next.

From the Post article to a street address another ten minutes of searching.

But Jake didn’t need all that googling. Sees now it’s the same address Streat had when he was Jake’s advisor at Stanford. Books a flight to SFO for that afternoon.

He’s bought time with Helen. Wants to use it wisely. Doesn’t bother taking luggage with him, just a battered old briefcase with some of his research files. Leaves the thumb drive from Helen. Got a bolt hole for such things. Old habits die hard. A piece of the baseboard that comes loose, hollowed out bit in the dry wall. First thing he secured when buying the condo.

Catches a nonstop Alaska flight that gets him to San Francisco at 4:40 pm, finds a rental car and heads out in the frenzy of commute time. Trip that should take a half hour goes over an hour. Hopes to hell Streat is not an early eater. Most folks of an age are, and he hasn’t called ahead. Wants to make it all face to face.

It’s still a quiet street like it was back in the day, but now modest homes are in the multi-million-dollar range and little on-street parking. His rental Ford stands out like a wart with the few cars on the street: two Mercedes, a Beamer, a Jag, three Teslas. Bay Area modest.

Streat’s house is a low-slung ranch job with gardens—a modest little number that would surely go for a cool four mill. Location, location, location.

Remembers dinners with the man and his wife, Gloria. Would she still be alive? She was younger than her husband, but Jake seems to remember her developing Parkinson’s not long before he left Stanford. Approaching the front door, he wonders how they ever fit a hundred well-wishers in here for a birthday party. Had to be outdoors.

Rings the bell; melody from Marriage of Figaro chimes inside. Takes a while, but soon a young Filipina decked out in blue scrubs answers the door.

Gives her a smile. “I would like to see Mr. Streat if it’s convenient.”

“He’s having his dinner.”

“Could you tell him a former student is here to see him. Jake Jacobs.”

She looks him up and down, eyeballs the old briefcase as if appraising his worth. A shrug tells him he’s low on her Dow Jones.

She leaves him on the steps, closes the door in back of her. Not sure what the hell that means, if he’s just had the door slammed in his face or not. Then hears a bit of uproar from inside and she’s back at the door.

Streat’s voice is booming in back of her: “…leave him standing there like a goddamn fuller brush salesman!”

“Mr. Streat will see you,” she says, not batting even one of her majestic fake eyelashes. Steps aside and lets him in.

“Jacobs, you son of a fishmonger. Get on in here.”

“I know my way,” he tells her. “Thanks.”

Streat is seated in a wheelchair, a blanket covering his legs. He’s alone at the oak dining table. So his wife is gone.

“Sorry for not standing to welcome you, dear boy. Jesus, you look like a wraith.”

“Good to see you, too,” Jake says, grinning.

Streat calls out to his caregiver: “Corazon! Bring another plate.” Then to Jake, “Sit, sit. You’re a bit late for the birthday party if that’s what brings you here.”

“No. Other business.” He motions to his briefcase.

“Is that the same one you had as a student?”

Jake nods.

“Well, waste not and all that,” Streat says. “Good to see you, lad.”

Corazon comes to the table with a plate full of spinach salad, sets it in front of Jake along with napkin and silverware.

“Thanks,” Jake says, but she makes no response. Goes back to the kitchen.

“Woman of few words,” Streat says. “But I’m buggered if I would know how to get on without her.” Calls out again to her. “You can take off now, Corazon. See you in the morning.” Looking at Jake now. “Sorry about the rabbit food. It’s about the only thing the stomach can take these days.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I could do with some roughage myself.” Takes a quick taste, almost spits it out. Very sweet vinaigrette sauce. “Umm. Great.”

“I got a sweet tooth. Need to satisfy it somehow.”

Corazon appears again, a coat on and carrying a purse. “Not too late, now,” she tells Streat. “And no drinking. Remember doctor’s orders.”

Streat makes an X over his heart. “Cross my heart. Teetotal. See you in the morning.”

She again gives Jake the undertaker’s look and leaves.

“Well now we can get down to it,” Streat says. Wags a finger at a sideboard against the wall. “Got a bottle of Jameson stowed away in the bottom drawer over there. Glasses are above in the cabinet.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Jake says.

“A wee one for old time’s sake.”

Jake gets the bottle and glasses, pours a half-inch for each.

“Wee, I said,” Streat booms. “Not a blessed midget.”

Jake tops it up to an inch and hands a glass to Streat. “To old times,” he says, hoisting the glass.”

“Old times,” Streat says and downs it in one gulp. “Oh, bless you, Jake, for arriving in the nick of time. I was parched. So tell me now about this other business of yours.”

“It’s to do with the Agency.”

“I imagined so. I’ve followed your exploits. Armitage a Sov mole, for Christ sake. Who would have thought?”

“Yeah, well maybe it’s not that simple.”

“Do tell.”

“You remember a CI agent, Helen McReady?”

Streat looks toward the ceiling, pinches his lips. “Big woman, was she?”

Jake nods. “Helped bring down Ames before she retired.”

“Right. Think I know who you’re talking about. Ancient history for me. Right up your alley, though. The historian. My God, but that thesis of yours on the Thuringians.”

“Habsburgs in the Low Countries, actually.”

“Right you are.”

Jake gets the feeling Streat is trying to change the subject. Mind wandering because of age, or he just doesn’t want to hear what’s coming? “So,” he says. “I’m not sure Armitage really was our fourth mole.”

“Man left a suicide note, according to the papers.” Eyes down, looking at his empty glass, but not asking for more.

Jake notices the tell. Streat is past it now, unable to cover such physical giveaways. But he presses on. “There’s a bit of old rot in the Agency that needs excising. McReady was the fourth mole, and she wasn’t working alone. An off-the-books op called Housekeeping. Purging the Soviet assets, redirecting Agency focus from the Sovs to the threat of Islamic terrorism. And she was the one killed Armitage, set up the whole Reckoning scheme just to cover her ass. I’m a target now that I’ve figured this out. I’ve come to you hoping you can help with trusted folks inside the Agency. Deal with all those involved in Housekeeping.”

“My, my, Jake. Quite a tale. You been doing drugs?”

And now he understands. “How long have you known?”

Streat suddenly sits up very erect in his wheelchair, shoulders back. It’s like a veil has dropped from his face. Looks younger, vital. “Oh, Jake, you never did know when to leave well enough alone. Always digging out that last footnote even if not needed.”

“When?” His voice raised now, anger building.

Streat smiles. “The get-go, lad. The get-go. I was their sponsor, so to speak. On the sidelines at the Company by that time, but eager to lend a hand where it was needed.” His right hand comes out of the blanket covering his legs. A Beretta aimed at Jake’s heart.

“I was hoping you would not come. Hoping you would play by the rules you and McReady set. Those calls to your daughter and to your editor made it seem like you might.” He shakes his head. “But no. Always too inquisitive.” Nods at the briefcase. “It looks like you did us a favor, though. Let me guess. You brought your corroborating evidence, right? To convince me of Housekeeping.”

“Not all of it. Saved the best somewhere safe.” Tries to slow his pounding heart. Get control of the swirl of emotions. Betrayal from Streat. But it makes sense. Top of the pyramid. He knows the names. He is the magister ludi. Bring him down and the whole op crumbles.

“I can hear your mind whirring, Jake. Overheating. I will have to come up with some sort of tale for the police, of course. But I am sure Corazon will back me up. She did not like the looks of you, dear boy. Not one whit.”

Jake’s hands are on the table, as if giving up. Makes a sudden sweep with his right hand, throttling the salad plate into Streat as he ducks and dives to his left. Pistol goes off, feels the heat of the bullet over his head. On the floor now and he tips the wheelchair over. The second shot lodges in the ceiling. On Streat now, struggling with the gun. Old man has more strength than he would think. Bites Jake’s hand, but he finally gets the pistol way from him, breathing hard.

“You fucker,” Jake says. “Rotten bastard. How many times do you have to mess up my life.” Hand is bleeding.

Helpless turtle on his back, but Streat does not back down. “You’re dead, Jacobs. A dead man. Elder bloody abuse.” He laughs. “What are you going to do with me, hmmm? Call the police? What are you going to tell them?”

Jake looks down at the old man who was once his trusted mentor, now his deadly enemy. Puts the Beretta in his left hand and unbuttons his shirt halfway.

“Oh, you devious boy,” Streat says, looking at the wire Jake’s wearing.

Jake shakes his head. “And I was feeling guilty about wearing one with you. My trusted friend. I hope you and your fucking pals rot.”