San Francisco, California, 1986
BRACED AGAINST THE cold brick wall of an old office building, Lee Painter stood on trembling legs. Her lungs burned, her heart pounded. Despite the cold dampness that permeated the San Francisco night, sweat dripped off her forehead and smeared her eye-makeup. Lee coughed and quickly covered her mouth with her right hand. She noticed the cut across the top of her hand had stopped bleeding. She had received the injury while climbing out of her broken dining room window.
The navy-blue Chrysler sedan had been parked across the street from her house for two days. Funny, now thinking back, it may have been parked by her work too. She remembered seeing a middle-aged man sitting there sipping a soft drink or coffee from a paper cup but today was when he obviously got tired of waiting. And today there had been two men in the car. The passenger in the front seat was a pleasant-looking fellow with short brown hair and blue eyes. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and wore a blue suit. The man in the blue suit had knocked on the door. Lee had opened the door a crack but kept the security chain on. He flashed credentials of some sort in her face, saying that he needed to talk to her about her father. But Lee didn't trust him. Besides, she had no idea where her father was. He often worked on secret government contracts being a weapons engineer and was incommunicado for months. She wasn't sure why, but she followed her instincts and shut the door in his face. Lee heard and turned at the sound of broken glass. She turned around and, looking down her hall that led straight back to the kitchen, caught a glimpse of a second man, the older man from the car, wearing a grey suit, barging through the back door. Not waiting to find out who these men really were, nor having a chance to get to the phone in the kitchen or the bedroom, Lee fled. She picked up a chair and hurled it through the dining room window and leaped out. Lee heard the men shouting to one another. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as fear took over and spurred her into further action. Lee dove through the hedges into Mrs. Henley's yard. The chase had begun.
And it hadn't stopped yet. Time had lost all meaning. It had been early evening when Lee had gotten home from work. She hadn’t even decided on what to make for supper when the men came. It was now dark. Fog was rolling in. The dampness made Lee wish she’d had time to grab her raincoat. Cautiously, she inched her way along the wall to the edge of the shadowed alleyway. Reaching the end of the building, she warily peeked out onto the deserted street. Lee still wondered who those men were. She didn't trust them and somehow felt that they meant her harm. She strained her ears for sounds of footsteps. Nothing. Lee pulled back into the shadows and smiled to herself. She'd lost them. But now she was faced with another new problem. Where to go? She had no purse, no money or credit cards. No change of clothes, and the designer jeans and white UCLA sweatshirt she wore were filthy. Lee had watched enough detective and spy movies to realize that her house would be under surveillance. She couldn't go home. And it was likely her work was under surveillance as well.
Lee bit her lower lip, thought and held back the tears that wanted to come. Why was this craziness happening to her? She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. No, there'd be no tears. Her father hadn't raised her to go into—what was the phrase he used? 'Typical female hysterics.' That was it. But she needed help. She racked her brains. Who could she call? And then a name popped into her head. Lee breathed a sigh of relief. She knew exactly who to find.
* * *
Washington, D.C.
MARVIN FOX SAT at his desk in his office at the Defense Counterintelligence and Security Agency (DCSA). His tie was loosened; his shirtsleeves rolled up, and his big feet were propped up on his desk. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair. The electric clock humming on the wall read ten o'clock. The phone rang. Fox dropped the report he'd been reading. He swung his feet off the desk and waded through the mass of papers that cluttered his desktop as he searched for the phone. Finding it, he snatched up the receiver. His left hand darted out to hit the button on the scrambler box attached to the telephone. “Yeah. Report,” he growled. Fox rubbed the bridge of his nose with his left hand as he listened to the caller. “Shit!” He swore and slammed down the receiver. Fox stared at the door. Reluctantly, he rose and grabbed his jacket. He struggled into it and straightened his tie. The director was a stickler for appearance.
Scant minutes later, Fox was standing before Lieutenant-Colonel Harold Perkins. Perkins raised his stern eyebrows and gazed up at Fox. He gestured for Fox to sit down. “Well?”
One look at Fox told Perkins that the news wasn't good, but he had to ask. So far, nothing had gone right, and if the big chief found out, all their asses would be fried.
“You asked me to report as soon as I'd heard from my team on the west coast, Sir,” said Fox.
Perkins sighed and fished for a cigarette from the pack on his desk. “Cut the protocol Marv and give it to me straight.”
Marvin Fox leaned back in the hard black vinyl chair and tried to look relaxed.
“They lost her.”
“What happened?” Perkins lit his cigarette and took a deep puff. He exhaled a grey cloud.
“They'd had her under surveillance. The call was made to make contact. They made a straightforward standard approach, and she bolted.”
“Why?” snapped Perkins.
“They said she was scared,” said Fox. “Maybe she thought they were someone else.”
“Did they present ID?”
“I was told they did,” said Fox. “Everything by the book.”
Perkins gave Fox a look of disgust. “Well, obviously they did something wrong, or there’s other players. Or maybe she spotted your men. Suspicion leads to fear.” He tapped some ash into a circular brass ashtray next to his phone. “Your men are supposed to be pros. Pros don't get spotted. You're not telling me something.”
“I related what was reported Sir,” replied Fox. There was a hard edge to his voice. “As far as I know, there were no other players, just us.”
“You were monitoring her calls? Checking her mail?”
“Yes, we had a bug in her phone and checked her mail after it was delivered.”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious she had contact with someone. What about her work?”
“We couldn’t get authorization to do that,” said Fox. “The judge turned it down.”
Perkins sighed. “Really? How long have you been working here? We don’t always go by the book. For Chrissakes!” He took a long drag on his cigarette. He could feel Fox squirm. Good, the stupid asshole. He looked hard at Fox. “Then your men didn't tell you something. I want the unedited version, and so should you. Look, I meet with the Joint Chiefs next week. They expect some positive news. If I don't have it, things are going to get more than unpleasant.”
“Don't threaten me! " growled Fox. “It isn't my fault that the new missile defence system design fell into KGB hands. Shit, with all those pissass security departments tripping over each other, it's a wonder any security exists at all. Air Force Intelligence was supposed to have everything wrapped up, along with the Fucking Bureau of Idiots. It's their fault and their responsibility.”
“It probably is their fault,” agreed Perkins, “but it's our responsibility. Maybe you'd be happier back with the Company.”
“Maybe I would,” spat Fox.
Perkins took a deep breath. He had only two years left until retirement with a full pension. He intended to be there to enjoy it. This firefight with Fox wasn't solving anything. Hell, you're supposed to be the director, he reminded himself. “Okay. Tell me, Marvin, who'd you assign?”
“Warren and Phil,” replied Fox.
“Christ! Those two couldn't find their assholes with a flashlight!” Perkins' eyes grew hard. “You know their track record.”
“They're all I had. With all the cutbacks, we’re a bit short-staffed these days. Besides, it was routine,” countered Fox.
“Well, it's not anymore. Pull them and send in someone good. Now that Lee Painter's gone to ground, we'll need a good tracker to sniff her out. We need to find Painter. We need to get him inside.”
“Like who? There's nobody good left since the budget cuts.”
“Hire a freelance. Someone we can trust implicitly. There are dozens of them available. Use your old contacts,” suggested Perkins. He stood up and stretched his tall, lean frame.
“When I find this person, what do I pay them with?” asked Fox. “You know what our budget's like.”
Perkins ran a hand over his balding head. “I'll authorize the expenditure. Just find Lee Painter, and more importantly, her father Calvin. He's the only hope we have. With things heating up in the Mideast, we're gonna need that new defence system.”
“Right,” said Fox.
As Fox walked back to his office, he wondered why he'd ever left the CIA. And then he remembered. All the bad press during the early and mid-seventies, the calls for restraint, and the axe of budget cuts brought on in the wake of the Iran Hostage rescue fiasco. Through a friendship with a cute clerk in administration, Fox had learned about the impending axe. Using contacts in other departments, Fox had found out about the opening in the DCSA. With his experience and references, he'd had no trouble in securing the job. And now he wished he hadn't.
The department was riddled with rivalry. Computers took over the thinking, and the place was littered with smartass Yuppie executives who didn't know plastic explosives from modelling clay. Fox had to find Calvin Painter, the self-made genius of missile and satellite defence systems; and he had to convince Painter to come back and work for the Pentagon. His country needed him. There was no room for screw-ups. Perkins had been correct in that. Every minute wasted gained more time for the Russians, and if they ever found out – well, the consequences were too painful to think about.
The problem was that no one knew where Painter was. He had a private consulting company in San Francisco. But Painter wasn't in his office. In fact, he'd closed up shop by the looks of things. The only lead to him was his daughter, Lee, who, now, thanks to bungling by Phil and Warren, had gone into hiding. Fox needed a human bloodhound, a professional and relentless tracker. But who? Fox realized that he was going to need help, Company help, and suddenly he knew just the man to talk to—unfortunately.
* * *
