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Authors: James Lilliefors
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tell.”
Mallory looked out at the dark, featureless horizon and felt old yearnings. “You know what it is, Clement? It’s like that storm you were just talking about. Sometimes I feel there’s something out there I should be aware of. I don’t know what it is yet, exactly, but I can feel it. You know?”
“Sure.”
Minutes later, Mallory was finished with his beer and standing.
“You just be careful now,” Clem said, pointing the neck of his beer at him.
Mallory winked, but his mind was elsewhere. “She’s not going to be bothering me at home, is she?”
“Never know.” This time, Clement winked.
“I’ll be careful. Take care, Clem.”
I T WAS A hilly road to the house that Charles Mallory rented on the point, a rocky arrow of land that jutted into an inlet on the Atlantic Ocean. He parked in the drive beside the house and sat for several minutes breathing the night air, listening to the waves on the rocks. Across the inlet, fog drifted past slowly, dimming the glows of the motel and the lobster restaurant along Main Street. Maybe he
was
chomping. But not to go back to Washington. Or Langley. There were too many unresolved memories there, still. Maybe it was something else.
A couple of weeks ago, Charles Mallory had received two emails from his old employer, the United States government, asking him to contact them. Mallory had no intention of responding, but the messages had triggered something; ever since, he’d had idle moments of curiosity, as if a familiar voice from his past were trying to say something to him.
Sometimes, now, he went days and even weeks without checking messages, in part to avoid those voices. He had found himself, literally, in a safe harbor here, separate from all that had gone before. The past didn’t exist in this place and that was how he liked it. But the past still existed in his head, and there were parts of it he couldn’t excise. Mallory’s father had been killed four years earlier, hunted surreptitiously because of what he knew about an undercover government operation. Mallory had helped bring the truth to light. But only some of it; the rest would probably remain in the shadows forever. Most of the time, he was at peace with that; there was no percentage in wrestling with it. But tonight, he felt the past seeping in again. Maybe it was the way Clement had talked about the storm. Or what he had seen in the news on television over lunch.
Inside, he fired up his computer for the first time in days. He typed in two seven-letter encryption codes, then called up emails that had been routed to him through his old secure and encrypted account, forwarded to an address he had set up anonymously.
He saw that there were five new messages he had missed.
Three were from his brother.
Going back six days.
The first two emails carried the same subject line: PCNTT .
There was no text in the message windows. It was a simple code they had established years earlier:
Please Call. Need To Talk
.
The third message, which had landed in his inbox thirty-one hours and twenty-seven minutes ago, contained an additional letter. U, meaning “urgent.”
Then he saw that there were two encoded messages from Joseph Chaplin, who ran his old intelligence business from an unmarked office in Northwest Washington, D.C. Each with the same subject line: PC .
He felt an anxious shiver, thinking of his brother’s dark, vulnerable eyes. In his closet, Mallory had stashed a half dozen untraceable, disposable cell phones. Some habits were hard to break.
Chaplin had given him a number that he could call in cases of emergency, but he had never used it. Until now. The wind whipped across the water as he punched the number into a new phone.
After four rings, he heard a click on the other end. “Greetings.” Chaplin’s lilting African accent.
“You’ve been trying to reach me.”
“Well, yes. Someone has,” he said. Chaplin, one of the most trustworthy men Mallory had ever known, still looked
Mallory looked out at the dark, featureless horizon and felt old yearnings. “You know what it is, Clement? It’s like that storm you were just talking about. Sometimes I feel there’s something out there I should be aware of. I don’t know what it is yet, exactly, but I can feel it. You know?”
“Sure.”
Minutes later, Mallory was finished with his beer and standing.
“You just be careful now,” Clem said, pointing the neck of his beer at him.
Mallory winked, but his mind was elsewhere. “She’s not going to be bothering me at home, is she?”
“Never know.” This time, Clement winked.
“I’ll be careful. Take care, Clem.”
I T WAS A hilly road to the house that Charles Mallory rented on the point, a rocky arrow of land that jutted into an inlet on the Atlantic Ocean. He parked in the drive beside the house and sat for several minutes breathing the night air, listening to the waves on the rocks. Across the inlet, fog drifted past slowly, dimming the glows of the motel and the lobster restaurant along Main Street. Maybe he
was
chomping. But not to go back to Washington. Or Langley. There were too many unresolved memories there, still. Maybe it was something else.
A couple of weeks ago, Charles Mallory had received two emails from his old employer, the United States government, asking him to contact them. Mallory had no intention of responding, but the messages had triggered something; ever since, he’d had idle moments of curiosity, as if a familiar voice from his past were trying to say something to him.
Sometimes, now, he went days and even weeks without checking messages, in part to avoid those voices. He had found himself, literally, in a safe harbor here, separate from all that had gone before. The past didn’t exist in this place and that was how he liked it. But the past still existed in his head, and there were parts of it he couldn’t excise. Mallory’s father had been killed four years earlier, hunted surreptitiously because of what he knew about an undercover government operation. Mallory had helped bring the truth to light. But only some of it; the rest would probably remain in the shadows forever. Most of the time, he was at peace with that; there was no percentage in wrestling with it. But tonight, he felt the past seeping in again. Maybe it was the way Clement had talked about the storm. Or what he had seen in the news on television over lunch.
Inside, he fired up his computer for the first time in days. He typed in two seven-letter encryption codes, then called up emails that had been routed to him through his old secure and encrypted account, forwarded to an address he had set up anonymously.
He saw that there were five new messages he had missed.
Three were from his brother.
Going back six days.
The first two emails carried the same subject line: PCNTT .
There was no text in the message windows. It was a simple code they had established years earlier:
Please Call. Need To Talk
.
The third message, which had landed in his inbox thirty-one hours and twenty-seven minutes ago, contained an additional letter. U, meaning “urgent.”
Then he saw that there were two encoded messages from Joseph Chaplin, who ran his old intelligence business from an unmarked office in Northwest Washington, D.C. Each with the same subject line: PC .
He felt an anxious shiver, thinking of his brother’s dark, vulnerable eyes. In his closet, Mallory had stashed a half dozen untraceable, disposable cell phones. Some habits were hard to break.
Chaplin had given him a number that he could call in cases of emergency, but he had never used it. Until now. The wind whipped across the water as he punched the number into a new phone.
After four rings, he heard a click on the other end. “Greetings.” Chaplin’s lilting African accent.
“You’ve been trying to reach me.”
“Well, yes. Someone has,” he said. Chaplin, one of the most trustworthy men Mallory had ever known, still looked
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