Tom Grace: Spyder Web

Roe closed the file and softened her stern, authoritative stance with Gerty. ‘Thank you. This is an immense help to our investigation.’

Roe slipped the file into her briefcase.

‘Say, aren’t you supposed to leave a receipt for that?’

Whatever consideration Roe had shown Gerty a moment earlier was now replaced with a withering stare. ‘Only if I was officially here, which I am not. This conversation never took place, Mr Gerty.’

Gerty understood the implied threat in Roe’s tone and nodded in agreement.

‘You said it yourself, Mr Gerty: According to the terms of the Coles’ divorce settlement, all materials from your investigation were to be turned over to Michael Cole. Officially, this file doesn’t exist, so there’s nothing for me to sign for. Good day, Mr Gerty.’

Roe’s visit left the grizzled private investigator seated behind his desk, speechless.

December 6

Kilkenny checked his dive watch and punched a button on the global positioning satellite receiver mounted into the curved console of the swimmer delivery vehicle. He matched up the longitude/latitude figure from the GPS with the nautical map that he’d memorized over the last few weeks, then verified that they were on target, on schedule.

After launching from the submarine USS Columbia, Kilkenny led the SEALs on a six-mile submerged approach to Haiti’s southern coast. When they reached the ditch point, the squad shut down the swimmer delivery vehicles and set them on the seafloor half a mile from shore and under enough water that only a major storm could disturb them.

The squad NCO, Chief Max Gates, unhooked the roll of camouflage netting from his SDV and began unfolding it. The other SEALs each grabbed an edge and pulled the fabric over the two SDVs and staked the corners into the seafloor. After a quick check on equipment and air, Kilkenny led the squad on a half-mile swim to the beach.

Once ashore, the SEALs stripped off their scuba gear, wrapped the equipment in weatherproof bags, and buried it. Kilkenny recorded the location of the buried gear from the GPS.

Each man then checked his equipment and provisions for this leg of the mission. The satchel charges and food were stowed in backpacks, while the weapons and ammunition were placed on each man, close at hand.

Black and green camouflage paint was applied to their faces, making them virtually invisible in the dense jungle foliage. The devils with green faces had arrived in Haiti.

Kilkenny then took the headset from his communications specialist and flipped the switch on the satellite transmitter.’Trident is feet-dry,’ he announced, informing the mission planners in Washington that they had arrived.

‘Message received, Trident,’ a distant voice responded. ‘Good hunting.’

December 11

In light of Gerty’s report, Cole’s one-sided divorce settlement made complete sense. Roe had found his deepest secret and, after five days of trailing Cole in Chicago, she was now prepared to use it in exactly the way the government feared-as a means of manipulating an employee of the CIA. While Gerty’s report implied a certain level of promiscuity, Cole currently displayed no interest in any kind of social life. The divorce had left him emotionally, as well as financially, castrated. Cole lived a quiet, solitary existence that included few entertaining diversions.

The CIA rented an apartment for Cole a few blocks from Moy’s headquarters. While he was at work, Roe entered the unit and found it to be a great improvement over his Washington home. The apartment was bright, open, and equipped with tasteful rented furniture. On the kitchen counter were several travel brochures for the Caribbean islands. The brochures all described the warm climate, friendly natives, sunny beaches, and excellent scuba diving.

Cole’s been living like a monk since his divorce, Roe thought as she tried to get a sense of the man. Perhaps he’s planning a long vacation once his project is finished.

That evening, Roe followed Cole as he emerged from Moy Electronics onto the cold Chicago street. Since his apartment was within walking distance, Cole didn’t bother keeping a car. He didn’t cook much at home, either, as Roe discovered when she looked into a nearly empty refrigerator. The CIA probably had a meal per diem, which Cole would use in local restaurants. Tonight, he picked up a late edition of the Chicago Tribune and stopped in for a bite at McGregor’s Pub.

Roe waited about fifteen minutes before entering the bar. McGregor’s was a throwback to a different era-a dark old neighborhood public house, like those found in every little town in Ireland. Established in 1905, McGregor’s had weathered Prohibition, the Great Depression, and innumerable changes of time and fashion, yet it remained nearly untouched well into its third generation of ownership. The influx of young urban professionals had brought new economic vitality to the bar’s bottom line, but the owner obviously had no intention of upscaling his working-class bar by adding ferns or trendy beers.

She sat on a stool beside the massive oak and brass bar that ran the length of the room. Steam rose from a pass-through window between the bar and the kitchen beyond; the scent of the grilled food filled the air. Roe ordered a draft beer and the fish and chips special. After looking over the bar, she located Cole tucked in a corner booth near the back.

Her food arrived quickly, the fish still sizzling from the deep fryer. Roe gathered up her dinner and utensils in one hand and her beer in the other and walked over to the booth. Cole was halfway through a Reuben sandwich, his face buried in the paper’s ‘Commentary’ section.

Roe summoned her most disarming smile. ‘I thought I saw a familiar face in here. Mind if I join you?’

‘I guess not,’ Cole replied, motioning to the bench opposite him as he folded his evening paper. The puzzled, blank look on Cole’s face told Roe that he didn’t quite remember her. ‘You’re doing that story on Moy, right?’

‘Yes, I’m Alex Roe, and don’t worry about forgetting my name. You can’t expect to remember everyone you meet.’

Cole looked visibly relieved at being let off the hook. ‘I admit, I’m awful with names. It takes me weeks before I get them straight.’

‘Now, Michael, if I’m going to join you for dinner, I do have one ground rule: no shoptalk. I deal with computers and technology and business all day long, so I don’t want to hear about anything along those lines. Is that all right?’

‘Fine. I can’t talk about work anyway. So what do you want to talk about?’

‘I don’t know,’ Roe mused. ‘Have you seen the new exhibit at the art museum, the Muromachi paintings from Japan?’

‘No, I’m not really big on art,’ Cole replied, ‘just movies, books, and sports. I did finally go out to Oak Park to see the Frank Lloyd Wright houses. I never understood why so many people raved about him until I saw his houses next to all those Victorians.’

‘So what do you think of him now?’

‘I guess I have to buy into the tour guide’s party line: Wright was an architectural genius. All the houses in that neighborhood were built about the same time, but only his still look innovative.’

‘From what I know about Wright, that was true throughout most of his career. You mentioned books,’ Roe said, changing the subject. ‘What are you reading these days?’

‘Would you believe a book about medieval France?’

Roe kept the conversation moving as they ate, bringing up light, unchallenging topics. Cole warmed up and actually seemed to appreciate the company. The waitress cleared away the plates and brought another round of drinks for them both-Roe’s treat.