Read Online The Leviathan Effect by James Lilliefors - Free Book Online
Authors: James Lilliefors
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turned away from her since she had asked her question.
As Blaine stood, Gabriel Herring touched her arm. “One more meeting,” he said. “After that, you can go home.”
“Good.” She turned toward the doorway without looking back.
“This one,” Herring said, “will be on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
SEVEN
C HARLES M ALLORY DROVE THE twisting, two-lane road as golden sunlight gleamed through the pines and spruces, back-lighting the darkening pods of cumulous clouds. A quarter mile past the second of the MOOSE CROSSING signs, he hooked a left onto an unmarked gravel drive and followed it to its dead end at Thunder Hill Quarry.
He had lived in this remote harbor town for close to two years now, but he had yet to see a moose, let alone encounter one crossing the road. The signs, he suspected, were mostly for the summer tourists.
He parked his truck on the neck above the quarry and breathed the cool air, the shifting, subtle scents of water, tree bark, and pine sap. Then he stripped off his jacket and T-shirt, his shoes and trousers. He walked to the edge of the rocky outcrop, took a breath and dove in, swooshing in a long arc down through the frigid, sixty-three-degree water and coming up to the surface.
He caught his breath in the chill air and backstroked across the quarry, watching the fading light through the webs of pine branches.
By the time Mallory had climbed up to the rock ledge and was sitting at the top, his body temperature had dropped from ninety-seven to ninety-five degrees and he was shivering.
The late sunlight felt good on his skin, until the clouds moved across it. He sat there for several minutes, listening to the birds and the occasional creak of branches in the breeze. The birds were congregated on the wires along the road, he had noticed. A pressure system was moving through. Something was coming, probably a big offshore storm.
Clement would know
.
Several times a week, Mallory came here to swim before sunset.The icy rush of the water was about the most invigorating feeling he knew these days. Sometimes he thought he did this as a substitute for something else; for what he had given up, perhaps, in deciding to move to this distant outpost.
He lived the life of someone else here, a man whose name and personal history he had invented. A life he’d created out of necessity. Thirty-one months earlier, Mallory had turned over D.M.A. Associates, his private intelligence contracting firm, to Joseph Chaplin, the chief of operations, with the idea that he would be free to disappear into a more normal life. At first, he had traveled, backpacking in South America and Europe, riding one-way buses and trains, living in unfamiliar rooms. But eventually he began to crave a routine again. Two years ago, he and a woman named Anna Vostrak had driven into this harbor town and decided to invent a life here. Mallory leased a store, Anna opened an art gallery. They rented an old fisherman’s cottage on the point and moved in.
For most of their time here, it had been a good life, if a duplicitous one. Two weeks earlier, Anna had left to visit her family in Switzerland. Living a life of invention had begun to wear on her and he suspected that she wouldn’t return, at least not for a while. He didn’t blame her, although he missed her more than he had imagined he would.
Mallory dressed and walked to the pickup, still shivering, and began to drive the winding road back toward the harbor.
Several miles on, he saw an older model pickup parked in a clearing. He pumped his brakes, scanning the eyes and hands of the two men seated in the bed. Then, recognizing them, he waved and accelerated. He still did that—fell back into the observational habits from his years as an intelligence agent. It was no longer necessary when choosing a table in a restaurant to make certain that he could see who was coming in the door, but he did. Or to scan parked cars to make sure no one was sitting in them, but he did. Spy work was
As Blaine stood, Gabriel Herring touched her arm. “One more meeting,” he said. “After that, you can go home.”
“Good.” She turned toward the doorway without looking back.
“This one,” Herring said, “will be on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
SEVEN
C HARLES M ALLORY DROVE THE twisting, two-lane road as golden sunlight gleamed through the pines and spruces, back-lighting the darkening pods of cumulous clouds. A quarter mile past the second of the MOOSE CROSSING signs, he hooked a left onto an unmarked gravel drive and followed it to its dead end at Thunder Hill Quarry.
He had lived in this remote harbor town for close to two years now, but he had yet to see a moose, let alone encounter one crossing the road. The signs, he suspected, were mostly for the summer tourists.
He parked his truck on the neck above the quarry and breathed the cool air, the shifting, subtle scents of water, tree bark, and pine sap. Then he stripped off his jacket and T-shirt, his shoes and trousers. He walked to the edge of the rocky outcrop, took a breath and dove in, swooshing in a long arc down through the frigid, sixty-three-degree water and coming up to the surface.
He caught his breath in the chill air and backstroked across the quarry, watching the fading light through the webs of pine branches.
By the time Mallory had climbed up to the rock ledge and was sitting at the top, his body temperature had dropped from ninety-seven to ninety-five degrees and he was shivering.
The late sunlight felt good on his skin, until the clouds moved across it. He sat there for several minutes, listening to the birds and the occasional creak of branches in the breeze. The birds were congregated on the wires along the road, he had noticed. A pressure system was moving through. Something was coming, probably a big offshore storm.
Clement would know
.
Several times a week, Mallory came here to swim before sunset.The icy rush of the water was about the most invigorating feeling he knew these days. Sometimes he thought he did this as a substitute for something else; for what he had given up, perhaps, in deciding to move to this distant outpost.
He lived the life of someone else here, a man whose name and personal history he had invented. A life he’d created out of necessity. Thirty-one months earlier, Mallory had turned over D.M.A. Associates, his private intelligence contracting firm, to Joseph Chaplin, the chief of operations, with the idea that he would be free to disappear into a more normal life. At first, he had traveled, backpacking in South America and Europe, riding one-way buses and trains, living in unfamiliar rooms. But eventually he began to crave a routine again. Two years ago, he and a woman named Anna Vostrak had driven into this harbor town and decided to invent a life here. Mallory leased a store, Anna opened an art gallery. They rented an old fisherman’s cottage on the point and moved in.
For most of their time here, it had been a good life, if a duplicitous one. Two weeks earlier, Anna had left to visit her family in Switzerland. Living a life of invention had begun to wear on her and he suspected that she wouldn’t return, at least not for a while. He didn’t blame her, although he missed her more than he had imagined he would.
Mallory dressed and walked to the pickup, still shivering, and began to drive the winding road back toward the harbor.
Several miles on, he saw an older model pickup parked in a clearing. He pumped his brakes, scanning the eyes and hands of the two men seated in the bed. Then, recognizing them, he waved and accelerated. He still did that—fell back into the observational habits from his years as an intelligence agent. It was no longer necessary when choosing a table in a restaurant to make certain that he could see who was coming in the door, but he did. Or to scan parked cars to make sure no one was sitting in them, but he did. Spy work was
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