Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [2]
Leaving the track apron, they stepped into a long corridor between the rear of the grandstand and Lac de Morat’s southern bank. While his nerves verged on exploding, she retained her character’s bounce. In fact, if he hadn’t been in the same room this morning when she was getting dressed, he might not recognize her now. She remained a stunning woman despite a drab wig and a prosthetic nose that called to mind a plastic surgeon’s “before” photo. Ordinarily she moved like a ballerina. Now the thick parka, along with the marble she’d placed in her right boot, spoiled her stride. And her sunglasses, relatives of the ski goggle family, concealed her best feature, bright green eyes that blazed with whimsy or, at times, inner demons.
No one else was in the corridor. But would anyone fall in behind them?
Charlie’s heart pounded so forcefully that he could barely hear the crunching of his boots through the snow.
Sensing his unease, Alice took his hand. Or maybe there was more to it than that. Twelve days ago, caring only that he and his father were innocent, she decided to help them flee the United States in direct defiance of her superiors at the National Security Agency. “Girlfriend” was just her cover then. Their first night in Europe, however, it became reality. Since then, their hands had gravitated into each other’s even without a threat of surveillance.
She steadied him now.
He recalled the fundamental guiding principle of countersurveillance, which she’d taught him: See your pursuers, but don’t let them know you see them.
The spooked-up sunglasses—part mirror, and, to the uninitiated, part kaleidoscope—made it difficult to find a specific person behind him, or for that matter a specific section of grandstand. He fought the urge to peer over his shoulder. As little as a backward glance would be enough for the man in the red hat to smell blood.
“See anything?” Charlie muttered.
“Not yet.” Alice laughed as if he’d just told a joke.
They came to a white cabana tent with a peaked top. Inside, a rosy and suitably effervescent middle-aged couple popped corks and filled plastic flutes with the same champagne whose logo adorned banners all around the racecourse. Falling into place at the end of the small line enabled Charlie and Alice to, quite naturally, turn and take in their environs: Thirty or forty white-turf fans wandered among the betting windows, Port-o-Lets, and a dozen other concessions tents.
No man in the red hat.
And the corridor behind the grandstand remained vacant.
Charlie felt only the smallest measure of relief. Their tail might have passed them to another watcher. Or put cameras on them. Or fired microscopic transponders into their coats. Or God knew what.
“Sorry about this,” Charlie said.
“About what?” Alice seemed carefree. Part of which was her act. The rest was a childhood so harrowing and a career full of so many horrors that she rarely experienced fear now. If ever.
“Talking you into coming here.”
“Knock it off. It’s breathtaking.”
“To a track, I mean. It was idiotic.”
“Hermits are conspicuous. We have to get out some of the time.”
“Just not to racetracks. Of course they’d be watching racetracks.”
“Switzerland has an awful lot of racetracks, not to mention all the little grocery stores that double as offtrack betting parlors. And there’s no reason to think that anyone even knows we’re in Europe. Also this isn’t exactly a racetrack. It’s a course on a frozen lake—who knew such a thing existed?”
“They know. They always do.”
“They” were the so-called Cavalry, the Central Intelligence Agency black ops unit pursuing Charlie and his father, Drummond Clark. Two weeks ago, after the various assassins all failed their assignments, the Cavalry framed the Clarks for the murder of U.S. national security adviser Burton Hattemer, enabling the group to request the assistance of Interpol and a multitude of other agencies. With no way to prove their innocence, the Clarks knew they wouldn’t stand a chance