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“Happy thought,” she said, quivering with disgust. She headed for her office, the memo clutched tightly in one hand, her coat in the other.
She hung up her coat and got behind her desk. She inserted her computer card into the machine, and it came on automatically, having read her codes. “Dear God,” she said, looking at the memo while the computer booted. “Don’t let this be Teddy.”
IT WAS TEDDY. Fifteen minutes later she had read the complete file of Charles Lockwood, and while it was credible, Teddy hadn’t bothered to do his usual thorough job on background. Lockwood was Princeton ‘88 and before that, Groton, but the Groton transcript was missing, and there wasn’t much on his parents. She’d have to call Teddy as soon as she got out of the office. She picked up a phone and called payroll.
“Payroll, Miriam Walker speaking.”
“Miriam, it’s Irene Foster in Operations.”
“Hi, Irene.”
“I’m calling for Hugh English about Charles Lockwood’s time sheets for the past three weeks.”
“Can you get them to me today, Irene? I’d really like to pay the guy.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why?”
“Lockwood is on special assignment, and he’s unreachable for administrative matters.”
“For how long?”
“Another month, six weeks. It’s impossible to put a date on it.”
“All right, I’ll mark his record as such, but I’m going to rely on you to get him up-to-date when he returns.” She’d be gone by then.
“I’ll ride herd on him. Where are you sending his paychecks?”
“Let me check,” she said, shuffling some papers. “An account in the Caymans,” she replied, finally.
“That sounds like our Charlie,” Irene said. “Thanks, Miriam. Bye-bye.” She hung up. It was unlike Teddy to be greedy, but she supposed that if he had created Lockwood-and after all, it had been her suggestion-the man would have to be paid in order to be credible.
She was relieved that she had announced her retirement to Hugh English, because she had just painted herself into a very tight corner. She had used her authority to authenticate Lockwood and thus, to protect Teddy, and Miriam Walker was certainly going to remember every detail of their conversation. She would remember that Irene had sounded as if she had known Charles Lockwood well. Maybe that “Our Charlie” had been a mistake.
She fed the memo from payroll into her shredder, which immediately reduced it to ash, then she logged on to the Agency mainframe and began looking at any assets they might have in St Barts. To her relief, there weren’t any: no station, no resident, no stringers. How many places were there left in the world where the Agency didn’t have, at the very least, a stringer? She wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into somebody she knew while she and Teddy were walking on the beach. Except in the unlikely event that Hugh English followed through on his retirement threat. She shuddered again.
AS IRENE WAS LEAVING the office that evening, Hugh English shouted at her as she passed his office.
“Yes, Hugh?”
“It’s going to be Bergin; you can start on him tomorrow morning.”
“Right”
“Did you get that payroll thing sorted out?”
“Yes. Turns out he’s an analyst in Intelligence. Somebody in payroll had entered the wrong division code on his pay record. You won’t hear from them again.”
“Thanks, Irene. Good luck on the house hunt.”
“Good night, Hugh.”
FIFTY-THREE
TEDDY WAS BACK in his shop with a spray bottle of Windex and a cloth, wiping everything down. He was going to have to move, soon; he was seeing way too many people on the streets who were looking for him. He had been very lucky to get out of the Rockefeller Center imbroglio without getting collared.
He went carefully over every doorjamb, every work surface, every piece of equipment, erasing any trace of himself. It took him more than two hours, and when he had finished he got into latex gloves. He would wear them whenever he was in the shop from now on. His apartment was next. He left the shop and walked back toward his building on Park, looking forward to a good dinner from Restaurant Daniel, served in his suite, and maybe a movie on TV.
