tattoo, but the scars from shrapnel and a bullet wound. They looked about six months old, judging by the state of healing.
The man stared Felix right in the eyes, and suddenly the stranger’s eyes were hard, cold, killer’s eyes. “Our mutual friend will be at the meeting. I got these standing next to him. Other good men died.” The man rolled down his sleeve. For a moment his gaze was a thousand miles away.
Felix was able to place the man’s accent now. He was a Turk, definitely, yet his speech bore hints of a German upbringing too. I don’t like where this is going.
The Turk whispered in Felix’s ear again, and used a hand to mask his mouth. “We all three go on big trip soon. You’ll enjoy.” The man gave Felix a puckish grin, and his eyes were softer now. Then he flashed that harder look, as if flaunting the fact that he could turn it on and off at will.
Ilse Reebeck was pissed off. She sat in a small, windowless meeting room, at Headquarters, Commander, U.S. Atlantic Fleet, where she served now on Admiral Hodgkiss’s staff as a combat oceanographer. She wore her workaday blue uniform as a lieutenant in the Free South African Navy, including the ribbon for her Legion of Merit, awarded by her country’s grateful government-in-exile.
Across the little table from Ilse, near enough to be in her face, sat a pair of male FBI agents. They called themselves special agents. The only things special Ilse saw about these two was their pushy arrogance, and their eagerness to invade her privacy. Ilse had gotten her Ph.D. from Scripps, outside San Diego; she knew a lot about American culture and conversational idiom.
One of the men leaned forward, even closer. “When did you first start having sex with Jeffrey Fuller?”
Ilse was outraged. “That’s none of your damned business.”
The FBI agent didn’t blink. His partner sat there, silent. In their dark gray business suits, clean shaven, tall and fit and earnest, the pair of them might as well have come from a cookie cutter. Close my eyes, Ilse thought, and switch the two, and I don’t think I’d notice a difference. Except, the silent one keeps fiddling with his suit jacket, and he’s too careful about how he sits. He’s probably the one wearing the recording device.
“Commander Fuller was your commanding officer at the time.”
“Only nominally,” Ilse shot back. “He was acting captain, and I was a civilian then.”
“So you do admit to having sex.”
The agents had asked for this interview, claiming it involved routine inquiries on something in which Ilse was only tangentially involved. She’d told them she’d be glad to help. They’d said they’d explain more in person. Obviously, they’d lied.
“This is absurd. I’m not answering any more personal questions.”
The agent who’d been doing the talking was undeterred. He reached into his briefcase and triumphantly pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“We have it all logged.”
“You have what logged?”
“Phone messages left for you at your quarters from numbers that can’t be traced. ‘Don’t overfeed your cat. He’s getting pudgy.’ We know you don’t have a cat. . . . Here’s another. ‘The full moon looks beautiful tonight,’ on a night when the moon was just a thin crescent.”
“I thought they were wrong numbers or something. Everybody gets strange things on their voice mail now and then.”
“Who’s your control? When did they turn you?”
“I have no idea who left those messages! I ignored them!”
“Ignored them? Shouldn’t you have reported them?”
“I work twenty-hour days, sometimes seven days a week. When I get back to my quarters, I’m zonked. Voice mails that don’t make sense I delete. Come on.”
“How did they first recruit you? Was it with money?”
“Look. All phone usage is monitored by base security anyway. Artificial intelligence, expert-systems programs, I don’t know. Why should I report what’s being screened and archived
The man stared Felix right in the eyes, and suddenly the stranger’s eyes were hard, cold, killer’s eyes. “Our mutual friend will be at the meeting. I got these standing next to him. Other good men died.” The man rolled down his sleeve. For a moment his gaze was a thousand miles away.
Felix was able to place the man’s accent now. He was a Turk, definitely, yet his speech bore hints of a German upbringing too. I don’t like where this is going.
The Turk whispered in Felix’s ear again, and used a hand to mask his mouth. “We all three go on big trip soon. You’ll enjoy.” The man gave Felix a puckish grin, and his eyes were softer now. Then he flashed that harder look, as if flaunting the fact that he could turn it on and off at will.
Ilse Reebeck was pissed off. She sat in a small, windowless meeting room, at Headquarters, Commander, U.S. Atlantic Fleet, where she served now on Admiral Hodgkiss’s staff as a combat oceanographer. She wore her workaday blue uniform as a lieutenant in the Free South African Navy, including the ribbon for her Legion of Merit, awarded by her country’s grateful government-in-exile.
Across the little table from Ilse, near enough to be in her face, sat a pair of male FBI agents. They called themselves special agents. The only things special Ilse saw about these two was their pushy arrogance, and their eagerness to invade her privacy. Ilse had gotten her Ph.D. from Scripps, outside San Diego; she knew a lot about American culture and conversational idiom.
One of the men leaned forward, even closer. “When did you first start having sex with Jeffrey Fuller?”
Ilse was outraged. “That’s none of your damned business.”
The FBI agent didn’t blink. His partner sat there, silent. In their dark gray business suits, clean shaven, tall and fit and earnest, the pair of them might as well have come from a cookie cutter. Close my eyes, Ilse thought, and switch the two, and I don’t think I’d notice a difference. Except, the silent one keeps fiddling with his suit jacket, and he’s too careful about how he sits. He’s probably the one wearing the recording device.
“Commander Fuller was your commanding officer at the time.”
“Only nominally,” Ilse shot back. “He was acting captain, and I was a civilian then.”
“So you do admit to having sex.”
The agents had asked for this interview, claiming it involved routine inquiries on something in which Ilse was only tangentially involved. She’d told them she’d be glad to help. They’d said they’d explain more in person. Obviously, they’d lied.
“This is absurd. I’m not answering any more personal questions.”
The agent who’d been doing the talking was undeterred. He reached into his briefcase and triumphantly pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“We have it all logged.”
“You have what logged?”
“Phone messages left for you at your quarters from numbers that can’t be traced. ‘Don’t overfeed your cat. He’s getting pudgy.’ We know you don’t have a cat. . . . Here’s another. ‘The full moon looks beautiful tonight,’ on a night when the moon was just a thin crescent.”
“I thought they were wrong numbers or something. Everybody gets strange things on their voice mail now and then.”
“Who’s your control? When did they turn you?”
“I have no idea who left those messages! I ignored them!”
“Ignored them? Shouldn’t you have reported them?”
“I work twenty-hour days, sometimes seven days a week. When I get back to my quarters, I’m zonked. Voice mails that don’t make sense I delete. Come on.”
“How did they first recruit you? Was it with money?”
“Look. All phone usage is monitored by base security anyway. Artificial intelligence, expert-systems programs, I don’t know. Why should I report what’s being screened and archived
Similar Books
