Page 5 of The Shadow Friends

The next slide appeared. It was a satellite image showing rows of low-slung buildings in a stark, wintry landscape.

“Those of you who work in the intelligence field may recognize what’s on this slide, even if you’re not allowed to talk about it.” He shot a sly smile at the crowd, and Ingrid heard chuckles and the creaking of chairs as people shifted uneasily in their seats. She herself couldn’t help smiling because she knew four of those intelligence veterans were now sitting in the third row. Ingrid’s husband Lloyd was leaning forward in his seat, staring intently at the slide. As a retired CIA analyst, Lloyd no doubt recognized the location of that satellite photo. Next to Lloyd sat three of their friends, whom Ingrid had met nearly four decades ago at Camp Peary, where the four of them had trained as covert Agency operatives. Ben Diamond was now seventy-four, but with his perennial scowl and his shaved head, he still emanated threat. By comparison, the couple seated beside Ben seemed like utterly harmless retirees. In her flannel shirt and trim blue jeans, sixty-one-year-old Maggie Bird could pass as a no-nonsense grandmother. Declan Rose was eight years older than Maggie, and his silver-streaked black hair and tweed jacket made him look like a genteel academic, which had once been his cover identity during the days he’d served in Eastern Europe. The days before they had all retired from their CIA careers and moved to this small town in Maine. Now they spent their time reading and puttering in gardens or, in Maggie’s case, raising chickens, but they had never lost their interest in global affairs.

Which was why they were here tonight, listening to the opening address of the annual Stone Coast Conference.

Stamoran aimed his laser pointer at the satellite image. “This is the Koltsovo bioweapons facility in Novosibirsk oblast, Russia. Our intelligence sources report that a supply of live smallpox virus is stored in one of these buildings. How secure is this facility? In whose hands might the smallpox virus end up? With our rapidly changing political landscape, we can’t predict Moscow’s next moves. It’s been half a century since anyone in the US has been immunized against variola, and the release of this virus by a hostile actor or government would be like a blowtorch to our population. It would kill doctors and nurses, engineers and farmers. There would be mass starvation and looting. Our power plants would shut down and our cities would go black. Our country would enter a new dark age.” He regarded his audience with a grim face. “The theme for this weekend conference is global catastrophes. With the exception of nuclear war, I cannot imagine a more devastating catastrophe than a global pandemic with a mortality rate of thirty, forty, or fifty percent. Tomorrow, you’ll hear more about the dangers of biological warfare from Dr. Mikhail Maslov, who once worked in that very facility in Novosibirsk before he defected to the West. He’ll tell us what to expect if those weapons are unleashed. Are we prepared for this disaster? Of course not. But if and when it happens, we should not be surprised.” He gave a somber nod. “Thank you. See you all tomorrow.”

As the audience applauded, Ingrid stood up and crossed the stage to the lectern, her high heels clicking smartly across the floor. Only three hours earlier, she had been pressed into service as replacement emcee, after the original host was rushed to the hospital with crushing chest pain. Ingrid had faced far more threatening situations than a room of almost four hundred people, but her pulse was racing as she adjusted the microphone to her height and took command of the stage. Being prepared was second nature to Ingrid, and she needed no notes for her final comments.

“Thank you, Dr. Stamoran, for a sobering look at the challenges that might lie ahead,” she said. “Tomorrow’s morning panel will dive deeper into the subject of bioweapons. Dr. Stamoran will be joined onstage here by H5N1 expert Dr. Sonia Liu, and by Dr. Maslov, who’s just returned from Uganda, where he’s been working with a UN medical team dealing with the recent Ebola outbreak. Now I hope you’ll all join us for a cocktail reception in the Birchwood Ballroom, right next door. I’ll see you back here tomorrow, at nine.”

First night’s mission accomplished, Ingrid thought as the audience began to empty out. Then she glanced down at her phone and sighed when she saw the new text messages. As travel coordinator for the conference, she had booked the flights and hotels for guest speakers from five different countries, had attended to their various requests and complaints. Her previous career in the CIA, planning complex missions and managing teams of covert operatives, should have made her well prepared to deal with the minor crises that inevitably arose when organizing a conference. But back then, she’d been working with people who were independent thinkers, people who could quickly adapt when circumstances went south. They didn’t need an Ingrid to find them alternate flights when theirs were canceled, didn’t call her in panic after leaving their briefcase behind in a taxi—all of which Ingrid had dealt with in the last seventy-two hours.

Now things were still going awry.

She was desperate for a martini, but she bypassed the reception’s no-host bar and retreated to a corner of the reception ballroom to scroll through the messages on her phone. Dr. Borgerson needed access to a printer at once because he’d left his notes at home in Frankfurt. Dr. Patek had broken his prescription glasses and needed an immediate appointment with an optometrist. Dr. Maslov was not feeling well after three exhausting flights from Uganda and would not join the speakers group for dinner.

“Well done, you!” said her husband. “You definitely deserve one of these.”

She looked up from her phone to see Lloyd standing with their friends Maggie, Ben, and Declan. Lloyd was holding two martinis, both so chilled that the glasses were deliciously frosty.

“It’s a very well-stocked bar. They even have Boodles gin on hand,” her husband said.

“Because I asked them to stock it.”

“Ah, of course. You always think of everything.” He handed her one of the martinis. For one dangerous moment she stared at it, wanting so badly to take a sip that she could almost feel that icy liquid slide down her throat. Instead she set it down on a nearby cocktail table. “Can’t. Too many messages to deal with.”

“The conference seems to be going well,” said Maggie. “That’s how it looks to us, anyway.”

“Because you can’t see the wizard here, frantically pulling levers behind the curtain.”

“You volunteered for this?” said Ben.

“I had no idea there’d be so much mission creep. Reserve a few flights, a few hotel rooms. That’s all I was supposed to do. Then it ballooned into this.” She waved her cell phone. “I’m the travel nanny.”

“And now the new emcee. But you make it look effortless,” said Declan, and he lifted his martini glass in a toast. “All hail Ingrid!”

“All hail Ingrid!” the others chimed in.

“You know the old saying,” said Maggie. “‘The reward for hard work is more work.’ They’ll probably ask you to do it next year.”

“Oh please, no,” groaned Lloyd. “Don’t make me a widower again.”

“No, once is quite enough,” said Ingrid. “I’ll be so happy when it’s Sunday night and this all comes to a—”

“Hello, Ingrid,” a voice said behind her. It was a hauntingly familiar voice, one that she had not heard in years and had never expected to hear again. Cheeks flushing, she turned to face the man. His once-black hair was interwoven with silver, and he now had a neatly trimmed beard, but the eyes had not changed. They were still as dark and gleaming as obsidian.

“Rodrigo,” she said quietly.

He smiled, and a flattering web of laugh lines creased his face. “How long has it been?”

“Twenty-eight years,” she said. A number so specific it betrayed just how significant their parting had been to her. So significant that she would never forget when and where they’d last seen each other. “I had no idea you were in Purity.”

“I’ve been hearing about the Stone Coast Conference for years. Thought I’d finally see what the fuss was all about. And I wanted to see this quaint little town you’ve settled into.”

“Excuse me,” said Lloyd, inserting himself into the conversation. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Lloyd Slocum.”

Flanked by her husband on one side and her former lover on the other, Ingrid was, for one of the few times in her life, at a loss for words. She could feel her friends watching her. Maggie in particular. Leave it to another woman to pick up the cues, to recognize there was more going on here than a reunion between casual friends. Did Lloyd see it too? She had been married to him for so long that surely he could sense the turmoil now threatening to swamp her. And Rodrigo, damn him, why did he have to be his charming best?