a bit, remembering that hard, fast kiss. Her mother, she thought,
would love Adam.
Suddenly, she heard a whispery sound. She jerked up in bed, her
heart pounding, and looked toward the window. Again, that whispery
brushing sound. Her heart pumping fast and faster now, she
walked over and forced herself to look outside. There was an oak
tree there, the end of one leaf-laden branch lightly brushing its
leaves over the windowpane.
But he was close, she knew that. On her way back to bed, she
kept looking over her shoulder out the bedroom window. She
didn’t want to speak to any more agents. Oh God, just how close
was he?
How close?
Now everyone in the world knew about Krimakov. Adam
watched the old photograph of him flash on CNN and all the major
networks. Then it was set beside the photograph the CIA artist
had aged, showing what Krimakov would probably look like today.
It was a fine job. With luck, it matched enough so he could be recognized.
Becca hadn’t remembered anything more, however, when
she’d looked at the photos.
Everyone wanted to interview Becca Matlock, but no one knew
where she was.
The New York cops wanted to talk to her, but this time, she
didn’t have to put up with Letitia Gordon. The FBI had told them
to stuff it after the murder of the four FBI agents in NYU Hospital.
There was a lot of name-calling, a lot of rancor, but at least she
wasn’t in the middle of it now. She’d been lost in the shuffle. She
was safe.
As for Thomas Matlock, his identity had leaked quickly enough,
but at least no one knew where he was, either. If there had been a
leak, they knew media vans would be parked in the yard and microphones
would be sticking through the windows of the house.
As it was, everything was quiet. The agents posted all around the
house and the neighborhood checked in regularly, reporting nothing
suspicious.
Ex-KGB agent Vasili Krimakov–who he was exactly, where he
was at present, what his motives were, anything and everything that
could possibly be tied to him–was discussed fully, exhaustively, on
every news show, every talking-head show. Ex–CIA operatives,
ex–FBI antiterrorist agents, and three former presidential aides spoke
authoritatively about him with Sam Donaldson and Cokie Roberts,
Tim Russert, and William Safire. The question was: Why did he
want Thomas Matlock so badly? The question remained unanswered
until there was some sort of anonymous release from Berlin about
how Thomas Matlock had saved Kemper’s life and in the process accidentally
killed the wife of the Soviet agent,Vasili Krimakov, who’d
been sent to present-day Belarus to assassinate Kemper. The press
went wild. Larry King interviewed a former aide to President Carter
who remembered perfectly and in great detail the incident when
CIA Operative Thomas Matlock had a face-off with Krimakov in
the faraway land, killed his wife by accident, and the resulting
brouhaha with the Russians. No one else could seem to recall any of
it, including President Carter himself, and everyone knew that President
Carter remembered everything, including the number of rubber
bands in his Oval Office desk drawer.
An ex–United States Marine who had served with Thomas Matlock
back in the seventies spoke authoritatively about how Thomas
had refused to be intimidated by the enemy. Which enemy? Didn’t
matter, Thomas would go to hell and back before he’d ever break.
This wasn’t at all relevant, but nobody really cared. The bottom line
was that all the folk interviewed were ex-or
former somethings.
The current FBI and CIA directors had put a seal on everything. The
president and his staff weren’t saying a word, at least officially.
Everything was working as it had always worked. Speculation was
rife, theories were rampant, but nothing could be proved.
As for Rebecca Matlock, the governor of New York was quoted
as saying, “She was an excellent speech writer with a flair for humor
and irony. We miss her.” And then he’d rubbed his neck where
Krimakov had shot him.
NYPD continued with their “No comment” when there was
any question from the press about her. There was no more talk