At six that evening, Taylor drove north of Eureka and cruised past the address where she had been held hostage the previous year. The house had once been owned by Senator Radcliff, a former associate of Lopez’s who had been shot during the operation to capture Lopez in El Paso. Radcliff hadn’t just been a business associate of Lopez’s—he had been Lopez’s link to the cabal.
She cruised to the end of the cul-de-sac, made a turn and drove back toward Radcliff’s house. Braking just outside the electronically controlled wrought-iron gates, she stared at the grounds, which were all that were visible from the road. A car appeared in her rear-vision mirror. Reluctantly, she took her foot off the brake and drove on.
A helicopter skimmed overhead, a tour operator heading out to sea to catch the sunset. The chopping sound of the blades echoing off the hills triggered an unexpected fragment of memory—a balaclava pulled off an agent’s head as he turned away, dark olive skin, a scar across his nose.
Pulling over to the side of the road, she reexamined what she remembered. Being jerked from the drug-induced stupor. Darkness, strobing lights and a helicopter, the sound deafening. She had been carried, handed into a chopper and strapped into a seat. Someone had spoken to her, although she had no idea what was said, but she did remember opening her eyes and seeing the balaclava removed. At the time she had thought it was J.T., Rina’s partner and former agent, but J.T. didn’t have a scar across his nose. Abruptly, she was certain it had been Steve Fischer.
She stared at the wild hills that tumbled to the Pacific Ocean below. She was certain Fischer was CIA, which would mean he would have working relationships with the FBI and other agencies. In light of the fact that a mole had already spoiled two major operations, he would have wanted to keep contact with FBI personnel to a minimum.
A car drove past, followed by a further two; commuters making their way home. Pulling off the verge, she headed back to Eureka. Instead of turning into a motel, she drove directly to a drive-through and paid for a burger and fries. Lately, she’d been surviving on takeout food, but she was too tired to shop and cook tonight.
As she nosed out of the drive-through exit, a man walking from the restaurant caught her eye. She braked and a car horn behind her blared. Releasing the brake, she checked traffic, turned out onto the highway, then glanced back at the restaurant parking lot. The man she had seen was medium height and stockily built. She hadn’t seen his face, just a glimpse of a profile then the back of his head, but for a crazy moment she had been certain it was Edward Dennison.
Signaling, she changed lanes and pulled into a liquor store, taking a parking space near the exit so she could watch the vehicles turning out of the restaurant. A truck pulled out with two men in it, both wearing ball caps. The man she’d seen had been dressed in a suit, which had been the other thing that had reminded her of Dennison. In all his photos, she had seldom seen him in anything but a suit. Another vehicle pulled out, this one a sedan with tinted windows. Craning, she tried to see through the darkened glass. A window rolled down, revealing a woman behind the wheel and a car filled with kids.
Feeling rattled, she pushed the car door open and got out. Standing up, she would have a better view of the parking lot. The restaurant was busy, cars arriving and leaving in a steady stream. A flicker of movement to her right jerked her head around. Traffic was stopped at a set of lights. Two people were using the pedestrian crossing, and one of them was the man she’d seen leaving the restaurant. She studied him, still unsure. As he stepped onto the curb, he looked in her direction and she froze.
Pulse pounding, she lowered herself back into the driver’s seat and closed the door. She didn’t know if Dennison would recognize her, but if he was as thorough as his file had indicated, he probably would. She was still wearing the wig, so it was possible that if he had noticed her he would have simply registered her hair color.
Slipping on dark glasses, she watched as Dennison crossed the liquor store parking lot and walked into the store. When he came out he was carrying a bottle of Scotch. If there had been any doubt, it was gone. Twenty-two years had passed since his last Bureau photo had gone on record. He had gained a paunch and lost some hair, but it was Dennison.
The chances of her stumbling over Dennison were a million to one. Last she’d heard, courtesy of the FBI report, he was either dead or lying low. Dennison was obviously not dead and his continued survival was significant. If the FBI mole had at any point passed on to Lopez the fact that Dennison had informed on him, Dennison was a dead man. To her best knowledge that hadn’t happened, which meant the FBI mole didn’t work for Lopez. He or she worked for the cabal.
Dealing with Lopez was bad enough, but at least he was a known quantity. The cabal, quite frankly, sent a cold chill down her spine.
When it became obvious that Dennison was on foot, she grabbed her handbag, locked the car and followed him, keeping a discreet distance. It was a gamble. If he had a vehicle parked farther down the road, she would lose him, but she was betting that he was staying at a motel nearby since both the restaurant and the liquor store had had ample parking.
Two blocks down, Dennison turned into a motel. Keeping to a stroll, Taylor walked into the motel entrance just in time to see him disappear into a ground-floor unit. Keeping her pace leisurely, she checked out the room number and the model and plate of the car parked outside.
Keeping her sunglasses in place despite the fact that it was getting dark, she stepped into the motel office and requested a pamphlet. She didn’t make any inquiries about Dennison; he wouldn’t be using his own name and she didn’t want to risk the receptionist tipping him off that someone was snooping around after him.
As she stepped out of the office, she glanced in the direction of Dennison’s unit, then scanned the parking lot. In the few minutes she had been inside, the clear twilight had faded and the streetlights had turned on, throwing pooling yellow light over the clumps of shrubs and waving palms that decorated the entrance.
Walking quickly through the gloom, she turned out of the motel entrance and headed for her car. Unexpectedly, a lead had fallen into her lap. Just days ago, she would have handed the lead to Colenso, no questions asked. But that was before she found that she had been falsely tagged as the mole.
Colenso wasn’t safe. She wasn’t sure Bayard was, either.