Stuart Woods: Iron Orchid

“I think either Bergin or Masters,” Irene replied. “They’re both good men; I suppose you should pick whomever you like best.”

“You can’t think of any women for the job?”

“There are a couple a level down who are comers,” she said, “but you need somebody with more field experience I think. As much as I’d like to see a woman in the job, I think you’re going to have to make do with Bergin or Masters for the time being.”

“Or both of them,” English said. “Okay, I’ll try and make a decision today, and you can start working with him.”

“Thanks, Hugh. It’s been fun, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” He had done fuck-all for her, she recalled. She was only in this job now because Kate Rule had wanted a woman high in Operations.

“I was glad to do it,” English said benevolently. “You deserve a happy retirement.”

Irene got up and walked to the door. “I’ll take care of this,” she said, holding up the memo. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey,” English said, “maybe Mary and I will join you in St. Barts.”

“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.”

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.

As he approached the building he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of a woman in the lobby, talking to the doorman and the super. He turned and walked back toward Lexington. The woman was the one with the baby carriage outside Saks earlier in the day. Had they traced him to the building, or were they just canvassing?

He went back to his workshop, donned his latex gloves, looked up the number for the doorman and dialed it. “Hello, William? It’s Mr. Foreman.”

“Good evening, Mr. Foreman.”

“Have I had a package delivered in the last hour or so, or anybody looking for me?”

“No, sir, but we had a lady from some government agency in here looking for somebody, she wasn’t sure who.”

“What was it about?”

“She wouldn’t say. She showed me a sketch of some guy that didn’t look like anybody I know. The super, neither. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Teddy thought quickly. Was there anything in the apartment he needed? Fingerprints-he needed to wipe the place down. “No, William. See you later.” He hung up and walked back to the building, holding his breath as he walked in, waiting for somebody to shout “That’s him!” He made it to the elevator and went upstairs.

He ordered dinner from downstairs, then put on his gloves and began wiping down the suite. He stopped for dinner, then went back to work. When he was satisfied, he began packing his clothes; he certainly wasn’t going to give them DNA from the sweat on a hatband or from his dirty underwear.

When he was nearly done, he called the doorman. “William, the building has a car service, doesn’t it?”

“Yessir. Can I get you a car?”

“Yes, going to Kennedy Airport.” He looked at his watch. “I have a flight for London at ten o’clock.”

“I’ll have a car for you in twenty minutes, sir,” William said. “I’ll buzz you when it’s here.”

Teddy changed into a business suit and packed the remainder of his clothes. He set his two suitcases and briefcase by the front door and sat down to wait for the car to arrive, increasingly nervous.

They must be canvassing every building in the neighborhood, he thought. It’s what he would have done, if he were Lance Cabot. From what the doorman had said, though, he and the super had given the agent nothing. The phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Your car is here, Mr. Foreman. Do you need any help with your luggage?”