Without remorse - Tom Clancy [284]
'Detective,' Ryan asked, 'what was the condition of Doris's body?'
'What do you mean?'
It seemed an absurd question even as his mind formed it, but the man on the other end of the line would understand. 'What was her physical condition?'
'The autopsy is tomorrow, Lieutenant. She was neatly dressed, all cleaned up, hair was nice, she looked pretty decent.' Except for the two holes in the back of her head, the man didn't have to add.
Douglas read his lieutenant's mind and nodded. Somebody took the time to get her well. That was a starting place.
'I'd appreciate it if you could send me anything that might be useful. It'll work both ways,' Ryan assured him.
'Some guy went way out of his way to murder them. We don't see many like this. I don't like it very much.' the detective added. It was a puerile conclusion, but Ryan fully understood. How else did you say it, after all?
It was called a safe house, and it was indeed safe. Located on a hundred rolling acres in the Virginia hills, there was on the estate a stately house and a twelve-stall stable half-occupied with hunter-jumpers. The title for the house showed a name, but that person owned another place nearby and leased this one to the Central Intelligence Agency - actually to a shadow corporation that existed only as a piece of paper and a post-office box - because he'd served his time in OSS, and besides, the money was right. Nothing unusual from the outside, but a more careful inspection might show that the doors and doorframes were steel, the windows unusually thick and strong, and sealed. It was as secure from outside assault and from an internal attempt at escape as a maximum-security prison, just a lot more pleasant to behold.
Grishanov found clothing to wear, and shaving things that worked but with which he couldn't harm himself. The bathroom mirror was steel, and the cup in the holder was paper. The couple that managed the house spoke passable Russian and were just as pleasant as they could be, already briefed on the nature of their new guest - they were more accustomed to defectors, though all their visitors were 'protected' by a team of four security guards inside who came when they had 'company,' and two more who lived full-time in the caretaker's house close to the stables.
Not unusually, their guest was out of synch with local time, and his disorientation and unease made him talkative. They were surprised and their orders were to limit their conversations to the mundane. The lady of the house fixed breakfast, always the best meal for the jet-lagged, while her husband launched a discussion of Pushkin, delighted to find that, like many Russians, Grishanov was a serious devotee of poetry. The security guard leaned against the doorframe, just to keep an eye on things.
'The things I have to do, Sandy -'
'John, I understand,' she told him quietly. Both were surprised at how strong her voice was, how determined. 'I didn't before, but I do now.'
'When I was over there' - was it only three days before? -'I thought about you. I need to thank you,' he told her.
'What for?'
Kelly looked down at the kitchen table. 'Hard to explain. It's scary, the things I do. It helps when you have somebody to think about. Excuse me - I don't mean -' Kelly stopped. He did, actually, mean that. The mind wanders when alone, and his had wandered.
Sandy took his hand and smiled in a gentle way. 'I used to be afraid of you.'
'Why?' he asked with considerable surprise.
'Because of the things you do.'
'I'd never hurt you,' he said without looking up, yet more miserable now that she had felt the