Catherine Coulter - Riptide

Adam said to Becca, “It’s a photo of Krimakov from over twenty years ago. We’ll age it and both can go to the media to plaster everywhere.”

“Sir,” Becca said, “are you really a CIA director?”

“That’s not my title. I just used it because it would be familiar to the New York detectives. Actually, I run an adjunct agency that’s connected to the CIA. We do many of the same things we did during the Cold War. I’m based here now, though, and don’t travel much abroad anymore to the hot spots.”

“This photo of Krimakov,” Becca said after nodding to her father, “I want to see it, study it. Maybe I’ll see something that could help. Did he speak English, sir?”

If Thomas noticed that she hadn’t called him Father or Dad, he didn’t let on. He had, after all, been a dead memory that had suddenly come alive and was now in her face. He’d also brought terror into her life. He also hadn’t been around when her mother was dying, when her mother died. She’d been alone to handle all of it. The pain was sharp and so bitter he thought he’d choke on it. Soon he would tell her how he and her mother had e-mailed each other every day for years. Instead, he managed to say, “Yes, he did. He was quite fluent, educated in England. He even attended Oxford. Quite the bon vivant in his younger days.” He paused a moment, then added, “How he despised us, the self-indulgent children of the West. That’s what he called us. I always enjoyed locking horns with him, outwitting him, at least until that last time when he brought his wife with him to Belarus. The fool was using her as cover-picnics, hikes, pretending it was a vacation, when all the time he planned to kill the West German industrialist Reinhold Kemper.”

“Krimakov,” she said, as if saying his name aloud would help her remember more clearly, picture him standing in the shadows, “he had a very light sort of English accent, more so on some words than on others. He was fluent in English. I don’t think he sounded particularly old, but I just can’t be certain. Krimakov is your age?”

“A bit older, perhaps five years.”

“I wish I could say for certain that he was that old but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

Thomas sighed. “I’ve always thought it unfair that nothing’s easy in this life. He’s had years to plan this, years to think through every move, every countermove. He knows me, probably now he knows me better than I knew him back then. When he finally found you-my child-then he was in business.”

“I wonder where he is,” Becca said. “Do you truly believe he’s still in New York?”

“Oh yes,” Adam said, no doubt at all in his voice. “He’s in New York, planning how he’s going to get to you in the hospital. He’s licking his chops, absolutely certain that you’ll be there with her, Thomas. He’s got to believe that he’s trapped you now. He’s flushed you out and now he’s got his best chance to kill both of you.”

“It was an excellent idea, Adam,” Thomas said, “to let everyone in the media believe that Becca is still at NYU Hospital, recovering from internal injuries and under close guard. I pray he disguises himself and tries to get in.”

“I have no doubt he’ll want to. I just hope he doesn’t smell a trap. He’s smart, Thomas, you know that. He might have figured we’d do exactly what we have, in fact, done.”

“I’m worried about the people at the hospital who are playing us,” Becca said. “He’s-” She paused a moment, trying to find the right words. “He’s not normal. There’s something very scary about him.”

“Don’t be worried about the agents,” Adam said. “They’re professionals to their toes. They’re trained, and their collective experience probably exceeds the age of the world. They know what they’re doing. They’ll be ready for him to make a move. Another smart thing done-the FBI has installed security cameras to record everyone who goes in and out of that room. They’ve scheduled doctors and nurses to go in there at given hours. Our guys will stay alert. Our undercover agent who’s playing you, Becca, Ms. Marlane, won’t take any chances if he does show up. She’s got a 9mm Sig Sauer under her pillow.”

Thomas said, “Then there’ll be that black government car pulling up and a guy who looks remarkably like me getting out and going into the hospital.”

Adam said, “Yep. Twice a day. I hope Krimakov does try to get in. Wouldn’t that be something if it all ended there, in the hospital, in New York? That would be a hell of a thing.”

Becca said, “He managed to down Chuck with no one the wiser. So far he hasn’t failed at anything he’s tried.”

“She’s right, Adam,” Thomas said. “Like I said, Vasili is smart; he improvises well. If there aren’t any leaks, it’s possible he’ll sniff out the trap. But even if he’s fooled into thinking she’s there, perhaps believing that I’m there with her, under guard, for just twenty-four hours, it’ll give us time to try to come up with some sort of strategy.”

Adam nodded and said, “If he doesn’t go down in New York, then he’ll go down here.” He sighed. “Strategy is all well and good, Thomas, but I can’t think of anything at the moment that isn’t already being done.”

Thomas said, “I keep wondering if the agents playing our parts should be told that it’s a former KGB agent who might come there. Maybe it would make them sharper.”

“No, knowing that a killer is coming is all they need,” Adam said. “Besides, they’ll know who they’re dealing with quick enough. I believe that Krimakov will make a move real soon now. Maybe he’ll even make a mistake.” Adam looked at Becca, whose hands were fisted in her lap. She was too pale and he didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do about it.

She said, more to herself than to either of them, “If they don’t get him, then how do you come up with a strategy to catch a shadow?”

Thirty minutes later, their driver pulled up in front of a white two-story colonial house, set back from the street on a gently sloping grass-covered yard, right in the middle of Bricker Road in the heart of Chevy Chase. It looked like many of its neighbors in this upper-middle-class neighborhood, lots of surrounding land, lots of oak and elm trees, and beautifully landscaped lawns.

“Your house, sir. No one followed us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Simms. You took excellent evasive action.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thomas turned to Becca, who was staring out the car window. He took her hand. “I’ve lived here for many years. Adam probably told you no one knows about this house. It’s a closely guarded secret to protect me. Given Krimakov’s actions, he hasn’t discovered this house. Don’t worry. We’ll be safe here.” Thomas looked over at the oak tree just to the side of the house. He and Allison had planted it sixteen years before. It was now twenty feet taller than the house, its branches full and laden with green leaves.

“It’s lovely,” Becca said. “I hope it does all end in New York. I don’t ever want him to find out where you live. I don’t want him to hurt this house.”

“No, I would prefer that he didn’t, either,” Thomas said. He gently took her hand to help her out of the car.

“Mom and I always lived in an apartment or condo,” she said, walking beside her father up the redbrick steps to the wide front porch. “She never wanted a house. I know there was enough money, but she’d always just shake her head.”

“When your mother and I were able to meet, she usually came here. This was her house, Becca. You’ll see her touch everywhere, and I’m sure you’ll recognize it as hers.”

His voice was low, so filled with pain, with regret, that Adam turned away to focus on the rosebushes that were blooming wildly beside the brick stairs up to the front porch. He saw two agents in a car half a block down the street. He wondered if Thomas would tell his daughter that this house might look like just a home-sweet-home, but the security in and around the place was state-of-the-art.