The temporary agent, p.23
The Temporary Agent, page 23
“Raveis,” Hammerton said.
Tom nodded. “Carrington gave Savelle my cell number so she could contact me. I’m willing to bet that’s how Raveis determined my location, either through Savelle or someone else. He has the connections—CIA, FBI, you name it—so she’s not his only asset. And Savelle first started calling me on Friday morning, which would have given Raveis enough time to send a team up here to plant the bug. I was at work and Stella was out all day. Plus we have no security system, so slipping in and out wouldn’t take much at all.”
“But if Raveis was behind the hit on Cahill—if he hired the Chechens to kill Cahill and his girlfriend—then why would he recruit you to track Cahill down only to send another hit team after you and Savelle a half hour later? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Everybody works for someone,” Tom said.
“Meaning Raveis needed someone to think he was seriously trying to find Cahill.”
“He’s desperate to hide his crimes. Maybe everything he said to me about Carrington was really about himself. Maybe he’s playing all of us against one another. I don’t know, but when that second hit team failed, thanks to you, he adapted, saw his chance to use me after all.”
Hammerton said nothing.
“You know the first law of combat,” Tom said. “No plan ever survives first contact.”
“But why would he want to kill Savelle, too? I mean, she’s his asset. And a valuable one.”
Tom shrugged. “Collateral damage. Don’t imagine he’d care much about that. Or maybe Savelle suspected he was up to something. He could have known that and panicked.”
“First of all, Tom, men like Raveis don’t panic. And they don’t hire blunt instruments like Chechen gangs to go after loose threads. Second, you said he was desperate to hide his crimes. What crimes?”
“Treason, for starters,” Tom said. “The weapons cache we found. The means to purchase a building and hide the paper trail through a series of dummy companies. Not to mention the connections necessary to get his hands on a top-secret listening device. And who better to outsmart Cahill—find his secret girlfriend, someone Cahill’s closest friend didn’t even know about, and use her to ambush him—than the man who trained him? It’s all Raveis. It has to be. Simpson, Kadyrov, both Chechen hit teams—they were all working for Raveis.”
Hammerton thought about all that, said finally, “This a big can of worms we’re thinking of opening. Raveis’s organization, it’s . . . monstrous. The guy isn’t even a person, technically. He’s a multimillion-dollar corporation with his own private army. You’ve seen his personal protection detail. That’s just a fraction of the men he employs. And he has created dozens of Cahills. Hundreds maybe. Which is why I don’t see him hiring a bunch of thugs he couldn’t count on or control. But with all his resources, all his money and manpower, we can forget about fighting him. I’m not even sure we could hide from him for long.”
“Maybe we won’t have to do, either.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Cahill needs to know he’s hunting the wrong man. I can’t reach him, but I’m betting Savelle can.”
“And he’ll just believe you?”
“He can’t ignore the facts.”
“You want to believe, Tom. He doesn’t. He won’t. I saw the look in his eyes. He’s out for blood, and right now he smells it. You’ll need proof. Something more than all this, anyway.”
“Then we’ll get proof.”
“How?”
“We need to talk to Carrington.”
“What good would that do?”
“You had your doubts about Simpson all along, right? And Savelle said it didn’t make sense for Carrington to hire someone like Simpson and move him into his private detail right away. Any idea why Carrington would do that?”
“All he ever said to me was that he was doing someone a favor.”
“I’d be interested to know who that someone was, wouldn’t you? Because I’m thinking it was Raveis. That’s the only way all this was going to work. Raveis needed Simpson close to Carrington, and who’s closer than a bodyguard? Simpson had to be there to put the device on my truck and, the next day, hand me a disabled pistol. He had to be there to get us up those stairs and off our guard. If we can prove this—prove to Cahill that it is Raveis and not Carrington who is behind all this, and if we can get Cahill on our side—then maybe we have a chance.”
“A chance at what? Killing Raveis?”
“Getting our lives back.”
“And if Cahill won’t listen to reason? If it comes down to you having to put yourself between him and Carrington? Could you do that? Could you make that choice?”
Tom was silent for a long time.
Finally, he said, “Does Carrington have another contact number? An emergency burner phone, something?”
“He does. But if he believes we’re dead, he’ll think it’s a trap and won’t respond.”
“I might have a way around that.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. Are you able to move?”
Hammerton nodded. “Yeah.”
Another lie, but neither man cared about that just then.
Forty-Seven
They left the apartment lights on and moved to the empty retail space below to use it as a staging area.
The dark storefront crowded with stacks of furniture would also provide them with cover, should the building be under active surveillance.
Or should someone suddenly storm it.
They’d come too far and sacrificed too much to act foolishly now.
In the small back room, out of sight, Hammerton keyed the number of Carrington’s emergency burner phone into one of Tom’s four “clean” phones.
Once the last digit had been input, Hammerton looked at Tom and said, “So what do I text?”
Tom recited four numbers.
Hammerton entered them, asking what those numbers were as he did.
“The year Benjamin Tallmadge died,” Tom said.
Hammerton pressed “Send,” then looked at Tom. “And who the fuck is Benjamin Tallmadge?”
Tom smiled but said nothing.
“How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” Stella said.
Before Tom could do more than shrug, the phone in Hammerton’s hand rang.
He handed it to Tom.
“I’m guessing this is for you,” he said.
Tom quickly pressed the “Speaker” button.
From the other end, a familiar voice came through. “You’re alive.”
Tom said, “It’s good to hear your voice, sir.”
Carrington being Carrington, there were safeguards to address first.
“Where were you when I first saw you?” he said.
“Naval Construction Battalion Center, Gulfport, Mississippi.”
“Be more specific.”
“On the shooting range during expeditionary combat skills training.”
“What weapon were you qualifying on?”
“The M16A3.”
There was a pause.
“Five years ago in New York, when you turned down my job offer, what hotel were you staying at?”
“The Chandler.”
Another pause.
“It’s good to hear your voice, too, son,” Carrington said.
“We need to meet.”
“We?”
“Hammerton’s with me. We need to talk.”
Yet another pause, longer than the others.
“Destroy this phone the moment this call ends,” Carrington said finally. “Understand?”
“I do, yes.”
“I’ll be destroying this phone, too, which means this will be our only chance to meet.”
“Just tell me where. We’ll be there.”
“Let’s take a play out of Tallmadge’s book,” Carrington said. “Seven eleven, White Plains,” he said. “Got it?”
But before Tom could even think to say that he didn’t understand, the line went dead.
Stella was obviously confused. “He wants to meet at a 7-Eleven in White Plains?”
“Not the most secure place,” Hammerton added.
Tom stepped away, removing the battery from the phone.
He dropped the device to the tile floor and crushed it beneath the heel of his work boot, then tossed the battery onto a nearby desk.
“Tallmadge was Washington’s spymaster during the Revolution,” Tom explained. “He had a codebook with all the designations to be used in all secret correspondence. Washington’s designation was seven eleven.”
“So a code,” Stella said. “But what does it mean?”
Tom asked her for another smartphone.
She handed it to him, and he opened an Internet browser and began to key in words.
“What are you looking for?” she said.
Tom finished his phrase—George Washington White Plains—and hit “Search.”
“Revolutionary War landmarks,” Tom answered.
He held the phone so all of them could see the display.
The first hit that came up was a photograph of a stone monument, complete with an engraved brass plaque and topped with a small cast-iron cannon.
The caption below that photo read: THE MONUMENT OF THE BATTLE OF WHITE PLAINS.
Tom scrolled down and saw a second photo, this one of a modest-size red cottage, its shutters closed.
The caption below that identified the building as the Jacob Purdy House, a private residence used as Washington’s headquarters during the Battle of White Plains in October 1776.
“So which place?” Stella said.
From one of the other burner phones, Hammerton navigated to a satellite map of the Purdy House.
Tom and Stella studied it with him.
The house, on what appeared to be a residential block just east of the Bronx River Parkway, was set within a cluster of trees.
Hammerton then searched for the monument site, which turned out to be just six blocks to the south and three blocks to the west, located on the other side of the parkway.
Tom noted that the White Plains train station was a short walk from the monument site.
“The house would offer Carrington more cover,” Hammerton said. “Residential street, the cluster of trees. The monument is in a park, which would put him out in the open.”
“But it would put us in the open, too, right?” Stella observed.
From his reading, Tom knew that Washington had retreated to White Plains after a series of defeats that led to the loss of Manhattan.
Unable to maintain the high ground in White Plains, Washington lost there as well and was driven even farther north.
Another defeat in that long list of defeats, but which ended up perfectly positioning Washington for his resounding victory at Trenton.
Tom remembered what Carrington had said about Washington as they stood at Tallmadge’s tomb.
The man lost more battles than he won.
This was enough to lead Tom to his decision.
And also cause him to begin seeing his former CO in a new light.
Was Carrington really thinking moves ahead?
And that many moves ahead?
Casually planting clues in Tom’s mind, should Carrington, like Washington, need to retreat from defeat?
Had Carrington seen this coming—whatever this was?
“It’s the monument,” Tom announced.
“What makes you so sure?” Hammerton said.
“Of the two places, the park is more secluded. He’d want that. And Stella’s right, we’d be out in the open as we approach the monument. All of us would be—Carrington, too—and that levels the playing field.”
“So we’re going there now?” Stella said. “To New York?”
“Yes.”
She paused before saying, “Our carry permits aren’t valid there, Tom. If we’re caught, the penalties are pretty harsh. Fines, mandatory jail.”
“I have a New York State permit,” Hammerton said. “If we get pulled over, just pass your firearms to me.”
Tom appreciated the offer but knew it wouldn’t be enough.
It wasn’t just the idea of a potential traffic stop that concerned him.
He knew there was no way he could convince Stella to stay behind.
He remembered then the slip of paper Kevin Montrose had given him.
Removing it from his shirt pocket, he handed it to Stella and said, “Keep this.”
“What is it?”
“Help, if we need it.”
“What kind of help?”
“Any kind. Every kind.”
She looked at the paper before pocketing it.
Tom told them that they would be leaving as soon as they were ready.
He had to take care of something first.
And Stella would have to do something for Hammerton.
Forty-Eight
Hammerton sat on the edge of an old desk as Stella wound silver duct tape around his bare torso to ease the pain caused by even the slightest movement.
Despite Hammerton’s refusal to admit the reality of his condition, Tom knew that for even the toughest and most determined person, the body had its limits.
The potential for Hammerton’s condition to turn from bad to worse was enough for Tom to start thinking moves ahead as well.
He recognized that this was another reason for Stella to come along.
Should he need to leave Hammerton behind at any point, Hammerton would have her to rely on.
And Stella would have Hammerton.
In the darkest corner of the retail space, Tom put on a pair of work gloves and field-stripped the 1911 to confirm that it was in working order.
Every piece was close to pristine, every mechanism operating as it should, including the firing pin.
Wiping the individual parts down, he reassembled the pistol, then inserted the original magazine and repeatedly racked the slide, ejecting the live rounds into a small cardboard box till the magazine was empty and the slide locked back in the open position.
The springs in old Colt mags could be finicky, he knew, and better that they failed to feed now than in a firefight.
But the mag had performed perfectly, so Tom inserted one of the McCormick mags into the 1911 and depressed the catch lever, sending the slide forward with a sharp snap and chambering a round.
Ejecting that mag, he topped it out with a round from the cardboard box, reinserted the fully loaded mag into the grip, and set the thumb safety before laying the pistol down on the table, the muzzle pointed in a safe direction.
Reloading the original Colt mag with the ejected rounds, he placed it in his left hip pocket along with the second McCormick mag.
Seven rounds in the Colt mag, eight in each of the McCormicks, and one in the chamber.
Twenty-four total.
Stella had six in her .357, Hammerton just ten in his SIG.
Hardly a well-equipped force.
But it would have to do.
Tom was aware that New York State law not only banned the possession of magazines with a capacity greater than ten, it also required that ten-round magazines only be loaded with seven rounds.
His eight-round McCormicks and Hammerton’s ten-rounder put them both in violation of state law.
But like those who were likely to oppose them tonight, Tom didn’t care about that.
He couldn’t care about that.
He had no intention whatsoever of losing those he cared about.
And he had every intention of getting them—and himself—out of New York alive.
For the first time in Tom’s life, he was about to intentionally step outside the law.
His only consolation was Carrington’s favorite John Locke quote.
The first law of nature is self-defense.
It would be his mantra for the night.
The retail shop below Stella’s apartment had a rear door, and they exited through that.
Tom’s pickup had been out of his sight since morning, so he got out his flashlight and made another bumper-to-bumper sweep of the vehicle to make sure no tracking device had been planted.
After that, he steered out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, Hammerton by the passenger door and Stella between them.
There was comfort in having her so near.
But there was also concern.
This was his razor’s edge to walk.
It would be a two-hour-plus ride to White Plains, south at first on a two-lane country road that wound through farmlands and historic villages and small towns, then on a state highway past failed industrial cities, and from there an interstate freeway west, which would carry them across the state line and into New York.
And, for two of them, into lawlessness.
It was during the final leg of their journey, south on I-684, that Tom realized the true nature of their situation.
The problem with being outside the law was that you could no longer count on it for protection.
The list of those against them had just multiplied exponentially.
In every way imaginable, they were on their own now.
Forty-Nine
White Plains was a quiet city.
There was barely any street traffic as they crossed through the business district, and no vehicles parked at the curb for blocks at a time.
In fact, the only businesses open were a handful of restaurants that appeared all but unoccupied.
Tom understood the reasoning behind choosing such a sleepy place as a fallback position, if that was in fact what Carrington had done.
Tom had recognized similar advantages when he first arrived in Canaan.
The monument was located off Battle Avenue, between the Bronx River and Chatterton Parkways.
A small, tree-lined park on a slight incline with a narrow paved path led to the less-than-impressive memorial.
And if the city of White Plains was quiet, the park was desolate.
Tom parked in a deserted municipal lot.
Together, he and Stella and Hammerton exited the truck and approached.
