Francine Mathews - The Cutout

“We know nothing whatsoever of Eries mind.” Dare's voice hardened.

“Much less his heart.” She did not bother to argue with Caroline about her motives or methods; they had both been schooled in the ways of Intelligence. To attempt to deceive each other was childish. “Even if he did give a shit about me, Dare, he'd never place me in danger by contacting me now. He'll head in the opposite direction.”

“That may be true, but we have to try.” She stood up abruptly, signaling that the interview was at an end.

“You'll report back through station channels wherever you are. Use my private slug for routing, and throw in a special channel classification. What would be appropriate? Nothing that might be confused with the Task Force.”

“Who will have access?”

“No one but me.” Caroline took a scrap of paper from Dare's desk and scrawled a word on it swiftly.

“Cutout,” Dare said.

“How appropriate.”

It was the Intelligence term for a go-between. Or a pawn. Somebody used by both sides, for reasons she was never intended to know. Dare folded the slip of paper in precise fourths, then tossed it in her burn bag. It would be incinerated that evening, along with every other compromising detail of that turbulent day.

“You can still walk away, Carrie. You could refuse to go.”

“Not if I want a future.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “I have no option but to attempt to find Eric and, through him, Mrs. Payne. But don't expect much, Dare. Eric was trained by the best.”

“And Eric trained you.” Dare reached for Caroline's hand; it was shockingly cold.

The younger woman smiled faintly.

“I'm not angry, Dare. I'm not confused. I know what I have to do. But I go with few illusions.”

“Then may I say go with God, Caroline.”

“God blew up at thirty thousand feet, Dare, somewhere over the Aegean.”

Caroline had found it difficult to fly lately. The chartered Boeing 777 was scheduled to depart for Frankfurt at midnight. The plane normally held around two hundred and fifty people. Tonight it would carry thirty-eight, most of them employed by the FBI-forensic technicians, bomb experts, people who understood the stress patterns of explosives on metal and concrete. In counterterrorism work, it was common to find Intelligence operatives alongside Special Agents, the one adept at working the networks, the other at clamping on cuffs. Caroline was comfortable with the Bureau people she knew and with joint CIA-FBI operations. But she had never actually flown to the site of a bombing before.

The men and women sharing her airspace tonight were experts of a sort unfamiliar to her.

On the ground in Berlin, they would search for the axle of an obliterated car and hope that it bore a serial number; they would probe the crater at the Brandenburg's foot, shifting stones made ancient by blood and grief. They would sample the soil for chemical residues and put a name to the force that had shattered the Hotel Adion's fine plate-glass windows. And in a barren hall set aside for the purpose — a school cafeteria or a deserted beer garden — they would pick at the sleeves of the victims' coats with exacting and callous tweezers.

In about eight hours' time they would swing into action, Caroline thought, without pausing for sleep or acknowledging jet lag. They would jostle for position with the local police, yell louder in English when they misplaced their translators, and somehow, in the middle of the devastated square, produce a forensic miracle. Forgetting, if they had ever known, that the Brandenburg Gate had once been beautiful.

She nursed her gin and tonic in the V.I.P lounge, one of the offhand perks of crisis travel, her eyes fixed on a rerun of Friends. She had already presented her handgun — a Walther TPH-to airport security, along with the multiple forms required for international clearance. Her photograph, along with her seat assignment, was now posted in the cockpit of the plane, and every member of the flight crew was aware that Caroline Carmichael carried a gun. She imagined she was not alone in this; among the various Bureau personnel represented on the Berlin flight, a handful must be armed. But it was unusual for an Agency analyst. Most employees of the CIA never carried a gun. Dare had generously offered a duplicate set of weapons clearance forms made out in the name of Jane Hathaway — her back stopped alias — but Caroline had refused. Jane was supposed to be a banker living in London. She would never pack a Walther in her Kate Spade purse.

She took another sip of gin. The butterflies were starting to hum and sing in the pit of her stomach. Takeoff was the worst. Takeoff was a shove from a forty-foot platform, the harness in free fall around your waist; takeoff was acceleration without a brake mechanism at hand.

A metaphor for the process of explosion.

She should have told the psychiatrist about her fear of flying. He might have found her ramblings illustrative. But she had been in no mood to illustrate much for Dr. Agnelli this afternoon.

“Let's talk about the period before the crash, Mrs. Carmichael. How much did you know about your husband's past?”

“His past? You mean, like … his childhood?”

“If you will. Parents, friends, early influences. That sort of thing.”

“The man's dead, Doctor. The question of influence is rather moot, wouldn't you agree?”

Had Dare ordered this session in a comfortable chair, the lighting as dim as a bordello's? She must have . An assessment of Caroline's sanity, once her ignorance had been proved by the box with wires. And how much, exactly, did Agnelli know about Eric? The psychiatrist seemed like a gentle man, persuasive, his face scarred indelibly by acne. He held a pen suspended between the tips of his index fingers and stared at her in a fashion that was not unkind. She mistrusted him implicitly.

“My husband rarely talked about his childhood. Doctor. It was not a happy time.”

“Really. Did he ever say why?” A buff-colored file lay closed on his right knee. Hers? Or Eric's? In either case, Agnelli possessed more information than he intended to admit. She had worked with psychiatrists before. She recognized the method. He would not influence her testimony; he would prefer that she indict Eric herself. But to what end? How much had he been told?

She shifted in the chair, tweed upholstery sticking testily to her stockings.

“I'm sure you've seen his personnel file.”

“Mmmm.” Noncommittal.

“He was a foster child,” she elaborated.

“You must know that.”

“I see. And his foster parents were .. . less than ideal?”

“Much less.” She attempted neutrality, as though she were conducting a high-level briefing. Nothing in her voice of the violence that had shaped him.

“The father was eventually imprisoned on a charge of manslaughter, I understand.”

“Yes” Agnelli waited, eyes steady. Caroline stared back. If he knew about the prison time, he knew what it was for.

“And did that .. . episode .. . affect your husband, Mrs. Carmichael?”

“It must have. In some way.” She folded her arms over her chest. “What exactly are you looking for, Doctor? My husband's been gone for years.”

Gone . The word she would use henceforth, conveniently inexact. On the television screen, Monica and her brother were arguing about breast size.

Commercials interceded. Caroline finished her gin and tonic. And then, suddenly, Jack Bigelow's face filled the screen.

“We have confirmed beyond a doubt that terrorists abducted Vice President Sophie Payne from the site of the Berlin bombing this morning.” Bigelow's suit jacket was on, the bags under his eyes accentuated by the press room's glare of lights.