Page 90 of The Shadow Friends

Ingrid and Lloyd glanced at each other in surprise. “How?” Ingrid finally asked.

“She died of natural causes two months ago. It was a stroke. Twenty years ago, after she defected, she was relocated to Santa Cruz, California, where she lived under the name Helen Hoffman. The Russians never found her, never learned of her new identity. My sources felt it was safe to give me these details since the woman’s now dead and beyond the reach of the GRU.”

“How did her identity get pinned on me?” said Ingrid.

“I don’t know. But you have to admit, it gives us an interesting opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” said Lloyd. “What are you talking about?”

Ingrid didn’t need to have it explained; she understood what Rodrigo meant. It was the same thought that had already occurred to her, the same plan that she had in mind. The trap has been set, and I’m the bait.

Through the window, she saw headlights flicker on the road. She watched as the vehicle approached, its shape finally materializing out of the predawn gloom. It was Ben’s van.

“The gang’s all here,” she said. “I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.”

Chapter 34

Jo

A Russian assassin is coming to my town.

Those words kept running through Jo’s head as she drove her usual patrol route, past the feed store, past Lake Cameron and Maiden Pond, and then northeast, to circle back to the coast. This was her day off, and she should be home, eating a leisurely breakfast, then gathering her gear for a hike. But this morning, she felt compelled to patrol her town, to reassure herself that Purity was still her Purity. This was where she’d grown up, a place that now seemed to be changing too fast. The sun had just lifted over the horizon, splashing gold across the water of Penobscot Bay. It was her favorite time of day, these quiet moments at dawn before the village woke up, before the 911 calls started coming in, but this morning, she was too preoccupied to watch the gulls skimming the sea, or to marvel at the pink cotton candy clouds.

A Russian assassin is coming to my town.

She didn’t doubt that what the Martini Club had told her was true, yet she could not quite believe it would really happen. She drove down Main Street, past shops that were not yet open, past the library and the historical society, familiar places that looked the same as they always did. In the Marigold Café, the coffee would already be brewing, the griddle heating up to sizzle eggs and pancakes for the breakfast crowd. She drove down to the harbor, where windjammers bobbed at their moorings and lobster boats were puttering out to the bay for their daily haul of traps. This was the town where Jo’s parents and grandparents were born, where she’d learned to drive a boat and tie a bowline and wrangle tourists when they got drunk. Now malevolent forces were rolling in, like black clouds from some alien land beyond the horizon. As angry as she was with the Martini Club for their questionable actions early this morning, she understood why they’d chosen an unconventional, if not outright illegal, approach to dealing with the situation. Jo didn’t know if there was a legal way to handle this, before a crime was actually committed. She couldn’t arrest someone just because he looked like a hit man; she might accidentally snag a tourist instead. No, the Martini Club’s strategy had a certain logic to it. Wait for the killer to make his move, and then spring the trap.

It’s what they planned to do afterward that worried Jo. She was on board when it came to an arrest and interrogation, but she drew the line at waterboarding. Not that she really believed they’d do that.

Then again.

She parked in her assigned stall at the public services building and walked into the police station. Mike was at his desk, and the scent of freshly brewed Colombian drew her to the coffee maker.

“Hey, Mike,” she said.

“Hey.” He turned and frowned at her. “Isn’t this your day off? I thought you were going up to Katahdin.”

“I was.”

“So what’re you doing here?”

“I thought I’d just check in, see how things are going.”

“Bruce said it was a quiet night, no calls.”

Lucky Bruce. He didn’t get pulled out of bed at four a.m.

She filled a mug with coffee and sank into her chair. Thought about how much she should tell Mike about the situation, as the Martini Club called it. She had to tell him something, for his own safety at least, but she couldn’t spook him to the point he shot some innocent tourist.

“I think we should all wear Kevlar today.”

“What?” He looked up. “Why?”

“The town bought us those vests. And the town manager’s annoyed we never use them.”

“He’s always annoyed anyway.”

“Just for this week, okay? Let’s make him happy. And if you get any, um, unusual calls, or you come across any visitor who seems out of place, give me a heads-up. I’d like to—” She paused as Agent Minnihan walked in the door. Now there was someone who seemed out of place. Or at least, out of sorts. He had changed into his usual suit and tie, which made him painfully conspicuous in a town filled with tourists in blue jeans.