over right away. He’s sorry that he couldn’t immediately put his
finger on it.”
Thomas turned from studying his daughter’s profile to look at
Adam. “I’m glad they finally located it. I was afraid I would have to
use an artist and re-create him.”
Adam said to Becca,”It’s a photo of Krimakov from over twenty
years ago. We’ll age it and both can go to the media to plaster
everywhere.”
“Sir,”Becca said, “are you really a CIA director?”
“That’s not my title. I just used it because it would be familiar to
the New York detectives. Actually, I run an adjunct agency that’s
connected to the CIA. We do many of the same things we did during
the Cold War. I’m based here now, though, and don’t travel
much abroad anymore to the hot spots.”
“This photo of Krimakov,” Becca said after nodding to her father,”!
want to see it, study it. Maybe I’ll see something that could
help. Did he speak English, sir?”
If Thomas noticed that she hadn’t called him Father or Dad,
he didn’t let on. He had, after all, been a dead memory that had
suddenly come alive and was now in her face. He’d also brought
terror into her life. He also hadn’t been around when her mother
was dying, when her mother died. She’d been alone to handle all
of it. The pain was sharp and so bitter he thought he’d choke on it.
Soon he would tell her how he and her mother had e-mailed each
other every day for years. Instead, he managed to say, “Yes, he did.
He was quite fluent, educated in England. He even attended Oxford.
Quite the ban vivant in his younger days.” He paused a moment,
then added, “How he despised us, the self-indulgent children
of the West. That’s what he called us. I always enjoyed locking
horns with him, outwitting him, at least until that last time when
he brought his wife with him to Belarus. The fool was using her
as cover–picnics, hikes, pretending it was a vacation, when all the
time he planned to kill the West German industrialist Reinhold
Kemper.”
“Krimakov,” she said, as if saying his name aloud would help her
remember more clearly, picture him standing in the shadows, “he
had a very light sort of English accent, more so on some words than
on others. He was fluent in English. I don’t think he sounded particularly
old, but I just can’t be certain. Krimakov is your age?”
“A bit older, perhaps five years.”
“I wish I could say for certain that he was that old but I just
can’t. I’m sorry.”
Thomas sighed. “I’ve always thought it unfair that nothing’s easy
in this life. He’s had years to plan this, years to think through every
move, every countermove. He knows me, probably now he knows
me better than I knew him back then. When he finally found
you–my child–then he was in business.”
“I wonder where he is,” Becca said. “Do you truly believe he’s
still in New York?”
“Oh yes,” Adam said, no doubt at all in his voice. “He’s in New
York, planning how he’s going to get to you in the hospital. He’s
licking his chops, absolutely certain that you’ll be there with her,
Thomas. He’s got to believe that he’s trapped you now. He’s flushed
you out and now he’s got his best chance to kill both of you.”
“It was an excellent idea, Adam,” Thomas said, “to let everyone
in the media believe that Becca is still at NYU Hospital, recovering
from internal injuries and under close guard. I pray he disguises
himself and tries to get in.”
“I have no doubt he’ll want to. I just hope he doesn’t smell a
trap. He’s smart, Thomas, you know that. He might have figured
we’d do exactly what we have, in fact, done.”
“I’m worried about the people at the hospital who are playing
us,” Becca said. “He’s–” She paused a moment, trying to find the
right words. “He’s not normal. There’s something very scary about
him.”
“Don’t be worried about the agents,” Adam said. “They’re professionals
to their toes. They’re trained, and their collective experience
probably exceeds the age of the world. They know what they’re doing.