Catherine Coulter - Riptide

Everyone wanted to interview Becca Matlock, but no one knew where she was.

The New York cops wanted to talk to her, but this time, she didn’t have to put up with Letitia Gordon. The FBI had told them to stuff it after the murder of the four FBI agents in NYU Hospital. There was a lot of name-calling, a lot of rancor, but at least she wasn’t in the middle of it now. She’d been lost in the shuffle. She was safe.

As for Thomas Matlock, his identity had leaked quickly enough, but at least no one knew where he was, either. If there had been a leak, they knew media vans would be parked in the yard and microphones would be sticking through the windows of the house.

As it was, everything was quiet. The agents posted all around the house and the neighborhood checked in regularly, reporting nothing suspicious.

Ex-KGB agent Vasili Krimakov-who he was exactly, where he was at present, what his motives were, anything and everything that could possibly be tied to him-was discussed fully, exhaustively, on every news show, every talking-head show. Ex-CIA operatives, ex-FBI antiterrorist agents, and three former presidential aides spoke authoritatively about him with Sam Donaldson and Cokie Roberts, Tim Russert, and William Safire. The question was: Why did he want Thomas Matlock so badly? The question remained unanswered until there was some sort of anonymous release from Berlin about how Thomas Matlock had saved Kemper’s life and in the process accidentally killed the wife of the Soviet agent, Vasili Krimakov, who’d been sent to present-day Belarus to assassinate Kemper. The press went wild. Larry King interviewed a former aide to President Carter who remembered perfectly and in great detail the incident when CIA Operative Thomas Matlock had a face-off with Krimakov in the faraway land, killed his wife by accident, and the resulting brouhaha with the Russians. No one else could seem to recall any of it, including President Carter himself, and everyone knew that President Carter remembered everything, including the number of rubber bands in his Oval Office desk drawer.

An ex-United States Marine who had served with Thomas Matlock back in the seventies spoke authoritatively about how Thomas had refused to be intimidated by the enemy. Which enemy? Didn’t matter, Thomas would go to hell and back before he’d ever break. This wasn’t at all relevant, but nobody really cared. The bottom line was that all the folk interviewed were ex- or former somethings. The current FBI and CIA directors had put a seal on everything. The president and his staff weren’t saying a word, at least officially. Everything was working as it had always worked. Speculation was rife, theories were rampant, but nothing could be proved.

As for Rebecca Matlock, the governor of New York was quoted as saying, “She was an excellent speechwriter with a flair for humor and irony. We miss her.” And then he’d rubbed his neck where Krimakov had shot him.

NYPD continued with their “No comment” when there was any question from the press about her. There was no more talk about her being an accomplice to the shooting of Governor Bledsoe. Thank God, Becca thought, that no one had found out about Letitia Gordon. She’d bet Detective Gordon would be glad to trash-talk her.

Every murder Krimakov had committed was brought out and examined publicly and exhaustively. There was public outrage.

But no one knew where Rebecca Matlock was.

No one knew where or really who Thomas Matlock was, but the world was coming to believe that he was a dashing, quite romantic James Bond sort of guy who had kept the world safe from the Russians and was now being hunted by a former KGB agent who didn’t hesitate to murder people to draw him out.

Becca wondered aloud later to Adam about what the United States Marine had said about Thomas on TV. Adam, who was cleaning his Delta Elite at the kitchen table, said, “It means that this ass got paid maybe five hundred bucks to say something so the ratings would spike.”

“The guy said Thomas would never break. What does that mean?”

Adam shrugged. “Who cares? I just hope that Krimakov is watching. Talk about misdirection. Maybe he’ll come to believe that Thomas is invincible.” Adam snorted, then buffed the handle of his pistol. “We couldn’t do it better if we scripted it ourselves.”

“I wonder if Detective Gordon still thinks I’m somehow responsible for all of it.”

“I think once she makes up her mind, it’d take an avalanche to change it. Yeah, she still thinks you’re a big part of it. I spoke to Detective Morales. I could see him shaking his head over the phone. He’s depressed, but glad you’re safe now.”

“It was the murder of Linda Cartwright that got everybody going.”

“Yes. She was an innocent. A very nice middle-class woman. Everyone wants him to fry for what he did to her. Don’t forget that older woman in Ithaca. Another innocent. Krimakov has a lot to answer for.”

“Does anyone know yet how Dick McCallum was involved with him?”

“Yeah. Hatch found out that McCallum’s mother had an extra fifty thousand bucks in a checking account.”

“That doesn’t seem like so much money if you have to die to get it. Did she tell the police or Hatch if Dick told her anything?”

Adam shook his head, lifted his gun, looked at a face that needed a shave in the reflection of the barrel. “Nope. She was upset about it, but he wouldn’t tell her anything, except to keep the money quiet, which she did until Hatch tracked her down and got her to talk.”

“The FBI are coming soon.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, both Thomas and I will be there.”

She smiled at him. “That’s nice, Adam, but unnecessary. I’m not a child or helpless, you know. And I do know Mr. Cobb, and poor Mr. Hawley, who’s got hemorrhoids.”

He grinned up at her. “Nope, it’s Cobb with the hemorrhoids. Now, you were helpless, don’t try to rewrite the past, and I don’t care what you say, I’ll be there.”

“I should probably go dig out my Coonan and buff it.”

“I’d just as soon never see that pistol anywhere near you again.”

“Scared you but good, didn’t I?”

Thomas appeared in the kitchen doorway, frowning. “This is odd, but a man named Tyler McBride called Gaylan Woodhouse’s office with the message that you, Becca, were to call him immediately. Nothing more, just that instruction.”

“I don’t understand,” Becca said, “but of course I’ll call him. What’s going on?”

Adam was on his feet in an instant. “I don’t like this. Why would McBride call the director of the CIA?”

“I’ll find out, Adam. He’s probably really worried and wants to make sure I’m okay.”

Adam said, “I don’t want you to call Tyler McBride. I don’t want him anywhere near you. I’ll call him, find out what the hell he wants. If he wants reassurance, I’ll give it to him.”

“Look, Adam, you told me he was really scared for me. He just wants to hear my voice. I’m not going to tell him where I am. Now, I’m calling him. Let it go.”

“Why don’t you two stop bickering?” Thomas said. “Call the man, Becca. If something’s wrong, Adam, she’ll tell us.”

“I still don’t like it. Another thing: I’ve been thinking that maybe you would be safer at my house. At least you could stay there some of the time.”

Her left eyebrow went up. “Where do you live, Mr. Carruthers?”

“About three miles down the road.”

She stared at him. “Then why are you staying here? Why aren’t you going home at all?”

“I’m needed here,” he said, studiously rubbing the barrel of his Delta Elite to an even higher shine. “Besides, I do go home. Where do you think I get clean clothes?”

“Get over it, Adam,” she said, and went to get her small address book.