Mac stared at Baker. Was this for real? The CIA did not admit it was wrong. “Tell me you’re kidding, Don, and we can both laugh about it later.”
Baker gazed at him earnestly. “No joke, buddy.”
“I want it in writing,” said Mac.
“Why spoil a good thing?” said Baker. “Some secrets best remain buried.”
“I’m not dead, Don.”
“I’m not talking about you,” said Baker. “No one needs to know that the Agency had a Russian mole on its payroll for twenty years.”
“He got my son killed.”
“And he paid for it with his life,” said Baker. “I’m sorry. I truly am. We all are.” He leaned closer. Time to make his case. “Look, Mac, we’ve got a bunch of crazies in Congress looking for a reason to defund the intelligence community. Why poke the hornet’s nest? I’ve been sent to say ‘thank you’ and—”
“Keep your mouth shut,” said Mac.
“—and to inform you that your salary for the past nine years has been deposited into an account at the Valais Cantonal Bank. Tax free. You received a promotion too. Senior Executive Service.”
Senior Executive Service pay was the holy grail of government workers and only offered to the longest-serving and highest-ranking officials. It was nothing like Wall Street, but no one went to work for the government to get rich.
“You’re serious?” said Mac.
“As a heart attack, buddy. This is your lucky day.” Baker slid an envelope across the table. Mac opened it and removed a deposit slip from the Cantonal Bank of Valais in the amount of $1.55 million. He glanced up at Baker, then back at the receipt. His first reaction was suspicion. It was too much money. There had to be a catch. Then he saw it. The account belonged to Robert Steinhardt, the identity he’d assumed all those years ago.
“Tell me the rest of it,” said Mac.
“Are you kidding me?” said Baker. “We hand you a million and a half bucks, tell you you’re a free man, target officially off your back, and you’re not happy. Go on. Get out of here. Live as you please. Travel. Do some climbing. Milk some cows. Enjoy life.”
“I’m waiting,” said Mac.
Baker rose and poured himself another drink. “Rules are simple enough. Keep your head down. Don’t talk about this—not a word. In fact, we’d prefer you didn’t reach out to anyone from the old days.”
“Want to clarify that?”
“No contact whatsoever,” said Baker. “Mackenzie David Dekker is dead. Stay that way.”
“And that’s an order,” said Mac.
“Want to give me back the check?”
Mac took a second look at the deposit slip, allowing himself a moment to absorb what that kind of money meant and weigh it against Baker’s demands. The decision was easy enough. Mac had no plans to go spouting off his mouth. Discretion had always been part of the job. “Understood,” he said.
“You need anything,” said Baker, “... and I’m talking emergencies only ... call me. I’ll give you my direct number.”
“And Jane?” Mac’s daughter, Jane McCall, had followed him into the business. Currently, she was acting CIA station chief in Berlin.
“She’s family,” said Baker. “I imagine she’s happy to have her father back in her life. We don’t see any reason to keep you from reestablishing your relationship. But quietly, Mac. Church mice. And don’t ask her to fix any parking tickets.”
“Why would I?” said Mac.
“Who knows?” said Baker. “Things happen.”
“Church mice,” said Mac.
“Exactly.” Baker stepped closer. “Just so you know,” he continued, the cheeriness suddenly gone, “not everyone is on board with how your matter was resolved, not least the money. A few of the guys aren’t so forgiving. They think you made them ...made us, the Agency... look bad. ‘Once convicted, always convicted,’ the thinking goes. Be careful, buddy. You might not get a second reprieve.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Don?”
