She frowned. “Leaving? Why?”
“I’m not my own man. I go where they tell me.”
“And they’re telling you to leave?”
“They will.”
“How do you know?”
“I have a feel for these things.”
“Is it because of the men who tried to mug us?”
“That was just an isolated incident.”
“You’re lying to me.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Will you be back?”
“I go where they send me.”
“Where are they sending you now?”
“They haven’t told me yet. I just know I’ll be moving on.”
“Why are you so infuriating?”
“It’s the nature of the job.”
Their parting was civil but strained. Kristin went back to her office. Teddy made an excuse not to go back with her, not wishing to continue the conversation.
He also wanted to see if he was being followed.
He was, but it wasn’t one of the bad guys. It was Agent Workman from the CIA station. That was interesting. Workman had followed him before, found everything there was to find. So why was he tailing Teddy again now?
Despite what Kristin had said, Teddy thought the young agent had feelings for her; in which case, he had to resent the hell out of Teddy.
Teddy led Agent Workman in a neutral direction, neither toward the embassy nor toward his apartment, just to see if he’d tag along. He did. Teddy found that interesting.
Teddy went into the first hotel he came to, to give the young man a thrill, and to check in on the computer. He logged on with no real expectations, and discovered an encrypted e-mail from Kevin. It read in its entirety:
c).
The notation “c)” was assigned to Arnold Mycroft.
Someone had run an Internet search for Arnold Mycroft.
Arnold Mycroft was the name on the passport Workman had seen in the locker.
Teddy debated sending an e-mail to Millie, but decided he didn’t have time.
He left the hotel and spotted Workman down the block. There was still no sign of the assassin from the night before. Teddy set off down the street. If the little hitman was around, he’d have to show himself.
As Teddy walked, he could spot no one following but Workman. Perfect. Teddy reacted as if his cell phone had just rung. He jerked it out of his pocket and pretended to answer the call. He nodded, and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
Teddy looked around. He was near a small café.
A row of cars were parked down the side street. One of them—an older model—had its driver’s-side window down. Teddy walked up to it as if he owned it, opened the door, and got in.
The keys were not in the ignition, but Teddy had no trouble hot-wiring the car. He backed up and pulled out of the alley. As he turned the corner, he could see Agent Workman run out into the middle of the street hailing a cab.
Teddy drove out of town. Occasionally he could see Agent Workman’s taxi following in the distance. He wasn’t worried that he might lose him. Workman was a trained agent.
* * *
• • •
TEDDY CAME TO a small vineyard a few miles out of town. It looked like a family-run place. Teddy could envision mom and pop tending the vines, and their sixteen-year-old daughter, barefoot with her skirt hiked up, trampling the grapes. The bottles would have hand-lettered labels dating back at least a century, and passed on from generation to generation.
The stomping tub was in evidence, though no one was in it. They were probably all out in the field.
It didn’t matter. Teddy was reacting to a nonexistent cell phone message. He headed for the barn as if that was where he had been told to go.
The first room was full of wine bottles. They were empty, unused, and without labels. Most were in partitioned cardboard cases, but some had been unpacked onto rickety metal shelves.
Teddy pushed on farther into the barn. He found a couple of livestock stalls for either cows or horses. None were evident.
At the far end of the barn, where one would least expect it, was a business office, complete with phone, fax, and computer. That took Teddy aback. He couldn’t recall seeing electricity coming into the barn. Either he was slipping, or the wires were underground.
Teddy sat down at the computer and opened their e-mail. He pulled up a message at random and pretended to decode it. He grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and with quick strokes, glancing back and forth between the computer and his writing, he “translated” the message, which read: Enemy wise. Ditch cover.
Teddy could hear the creak of floorboards in the barn. Workman was being careful, but there was no way to walk on that wooden floor without giving himself away.
Teddy sat at the desk and kept up the facade of decoding. He could feel Workman’s eyes on him, but no weapon. A weapon trained on him always put him on high alert. If pressed, Teddy could not say how he knew, but he did.
There was a bathroom off the office, at least a half bath with toilet and sink. Teddy got up, switched on the light, went inside, and closed the door. He could visualize Workman creeping toward the desk.
Teddy gave him ten seconds and then came out with his gun drawn.
Workman was bent over the desk, reading what Teddy had written from the e-mail. At the sound of the door, he glanced up in alarm and saw the man with the gun.
“You shouldn’t have reported the name on the passport, Workman,” Teddy said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You followed me home. You searched my flat. You followed me to the train station. You searched my locker. You’re a professional. You didn’t take any of my money, but you did look at my passport.”
Workman gave up the pretense. “Who are you really? What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
Teddy gestured toward the door and, knowing he was beat, Workman began walking. Teddy followed behind, his gun still at the ready.
They were almost to the door when Workman suddenly spun around and chopped down on Teddy’s gun hand. It would have worked on most men. With Teddy, Workman was lucky to graze his arm.
Teddy was hoping for such a move. It would cut through pretense and shorten the discussion. Only Workman was no slouch. Even as he missed with his first move, he was drawing his own gun with his other hand.
Teddy wasn’t surprised. Risking exposure, the mole would have to kill him. There would be no middle ground, no wound and interrogate. Workman would go for the kill.