“I don’t mean to be. Could you come to my hotel room tomorrow night at eight?”
He might have declined, but something about the way she lowered her voice made him hesitate. That and the sense of urgency she gave off. He was good at picking up vibrations from people–favorable and unfavorable. That was one of the reasons he’d been so good at climbing the success ladder. He usually knew when to trust someone and when to run as fast as he could in the other direction.
This time, he wasn’t quite sure.
“You’re not going to give me a clue?” he asked, calling on the charm that was part of his persona. When in doubt, sweeten them up with a little honey.
“I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it here. But it’s somethingyou’ll want to know.” She said the last part with conviction, then gave him the name of her hotel and her room number, before exiting as quickly as she had come, making him wonder what was really going on.
He waited a beat, then walked through the restaurant to the front door, staying in the shadows under the wrought iron balcony above. She was about ten yards away, walking at a leisurely pace, stopping to look in the window of an art gallery. She turned her head one way and then the other, as though she were examining the paintings in the window, but he had the feeling she was really looking in the window’s reflection, making sure she wasn’t being followed.
He wasn’t certain how he surmised that, but he was pretty sure it was true.
What was she up to? Some kind of scam? After watching her continue down the street and turn the corner, he went back to his office and sat down at the computer. When he put in the name Evelyn Morgan, there were several hits, but none of them seemed to match up with the woman who had come to him with her mysterious request.
Probably she’d taken the name recently.
He paused, wondering why he’d come to that conclusion on very little evidence. But he thought it was true.
He could skip the meeting, but the whole situation intrigued him, and somehow he knew he was going to keep the appointment.
In Portland, Oregon, a tall, white-haired man who now called himself Bill Wellington clicked on an e-mail that had just arrived in his in-box.
Once his office had been within sight of the Capitol building in Washington, DC. He’d headed up a clandestine agency called the Howell Institute that had taken on some interestingjobs for the federal government and other entities that wanted discreet, reliable services performed.
Now he was nominally retired, living across the country, enjoying long lunches at the club and golf lessons–activities he hadn’t had time for when he’d been playing the power game. He’d worked hard for thirty years, and he was taking advantage of the perks he’d earned. Like the name he was currently using. He’d only been Bill Wellington for a few years. When he’d been at the Howell Institute, he’d been someone else, a name which he preferred to keep buried.
His occupation had put him in danger. In fact, he still had a few loose ends to tie up. And this e-mail had to do with one of them.
The text said:
“The woman you’re looking for is going under the name Evelyn Morgan. She is currently in New Orleans, registered at the Bourbon Street Arms.”
Because he’d learned not to get excited until he had all the facts, he went on to read the rest of the message, taking in details of her movements since she’d arrived in the Crescent City and studying the attached video clip that had been taken from across the street as she stepped into a restaurant called Le Beau.
The picture certainly looked like his former executive assistant, with a few years on her, although she’d dyed her hair brown and had some facial surgery to change her nose and her lips. But even with physical therapy, she hadn’t been able to completely eliminate her limp. She’d been a daredevil in her time, and she’d shattered her right leg leaping off a bridge just before it had gone down in an explosion.
She’d been careful to stay out of circulation for the past five years, but Wellington had his sources, and he’d been confident that he’d eventually catch up with her. One of the men he kept on retainer had finally located her. She’d had atop secret security clearance, and he’d trusted her with all sorts of confidential information–unfortunately.
The bitch had left with files that a more cautious man would have destroyed years ago. But Wellington was too much of a pack rat, and he wasn’t willing to just forget about projects that might come back to haunt him in the present D.C. atmosphere where politicians set up a circular firing squad at the drop of a scandalous whisper.
He sat back in his chair, trying to put himself in Morgan’s place. She was up to something, but did it involve putting the screws to her old boss?
For what?
Money.
He had no intention of paying. And no intention of leaving her roaming around on the loose where she could make trouble for him or drag the good name of the Howell Institute through the mud.
He could have used the operative who’d sent the report on Morgan for the next part of the assignment, but he’d always found it better to compartmentalize. He went back to his computer and opened another file–this one a list of men he’d used for supersensitive assignments in the past. All of them were efficient and reliable.
Carter Frederick was in the New Orleans area, which meant he could get on the job quickly.
He’d never met the man in person. In fact, he dealt with him only through an alias–the Badger.
After dialing the number beside the name, he waited until an AI generated voice answered.
“If you know your party’s extension, you may dial the number at any time.”
