Belinda

3

3.

ALMOST TWO YEARS EARLIER, THE eleventh of December, 2015, Hudson, New York, Jay sat in a rocking chair on the porch at the Hatchers’ farmhouse, studying the line of spruce trees about two hundred yards away across a hayfield to the north, its grass a brown blanket glowing faintly red from the setting sun, the scene an omen of winter. The Hudson police had called him the day before, when he’d also been sitting on a porch in San Saba. A terrible accident, the police chief said, his voice shaky; Raymond and his wife Megan, dead from a stray hunter’s bullet. Jay had gone to New York and had now sat for hours on the Hatchers’ porch, paralyzed with grief, knowing that once he began to look for a reason, their deaths would become real. The early night air became colder as the sunlight faded. There would be a frost overnight. But he didn’t go inside, only zipped up his jacket.

Jay wasn’t looking forward to the next day. It was protocol, but it was going to make him angry. He would try to be cordial, but he knew himself well enough to expect that his patience would be lost. Someone from the Agency always showed up after the death of an agent to check for any restricted documents or other Agency materials in the house. Of course, the Agency had required Raymond’s retirement more than a decade before. So Raymond’s secrets were all old and cold, certainly. At least, as far as they knew. Maybe they wouldn’t bother.

They came the next day. “Mr. Jackson,” the man said, holding out his credentials. “I’ve been sent to liaise with you while you wind up Raymond Hatcher’s affairs.”

Jay stood in the doorway, his face hard as stone, and didn’t let the man in. “Not sure what you’re talking about, sir. I’m only a rancher. Don’t know squat about liaising.”

“I’m sure you remember that the Agency insists on reviewing the disposition of an agent’s assets.”

“It was a long time ago that Hatcher was an agent. And I don’t work for the Agency any longer. Ask Ben Lufkin.”

“I don’t know a Ben Lufkin.” Agency bureaucrats never acknowledged active members of the clandestine service.

“Of course you don’t. When you see him, tell him I refused to cooperate.”

“We know you’re the Hatchers’ executor. But you signed an agreement with the Agency to cooperate.”

“For my own affairs, I did. Not for my client’s. I am Mr. Hatcher’s executor. You’re right there. But I have no obligation to tell the Agency a thing about the Hatchers.”

“No need to be hostile, Mr. Jackson. Both you and Mr. Hatcher served your country admirably for many years. Our inquiry is only a routine formality.”

“Murder is never routine. Why don’t you tell me what really happened here.”

The man kept his face flat. “It was a hunting accident,” he said.

“Right. That’s bullshit,” Jay said.

“Do you have a copy of the police report?” The man began to open his briefcase.

“No need,” Jay said. “I have my own. It was a perfect coincidence, I was told. The Hatchers were standing at exactly the right place together at exactly the time when a single bullet, fired from a difficult angle, killed them both. Got it. What kind of bullet was it, by the way? That wasn’t in the report.”

“I have no idea. The police have handled everything.”

Jay looked at the man carefully for a moment. Was it possible he hadn’t been briefed, that the real investigation was being kept above him? “Mysteriously, they didn’t find a bullet. It went right through them both, which was rather extraordinary for a hunting rifle. I’m guessing you were here before and you have the bullets. Surely there was more than one.” His anger rose, the image of them gunned down on their porch.

“I’m very surprised at this, Mr. Jackson,” the man said, his composure now rattled. He looked behind and to the side quickly, as if worried someone else was listening. “What I was told is that the police handled it. Perhaps we could go inside and talk about all this in a civilized manner.”

“I don’t know why you’re here. Clearly, I don’t know anything,” Jay said, and gripped the door harder. He didn’t care, suddenly, what this man knew. “I don’t work for the Agency and I don’t care to be civilized.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. We must insist that you turn over any materials relating to Mr. Hatcher’s service with the Agency.”

Jay laughed. “So you didn’t find anything when you looked yourself. Before I got here. That’s why you’re bothering me.”

“What are you saying?” the man asked, surprised again.

“I’m saying that I have no obligation to give you a damn thing. My only obligation is to hold my client’s matters in confidence. You don’t like that, you can arrest me, or whatever you think you can do. Tell Lufkin that when you see him.”

Jay slammed the door in the man’s face. It wasn’t the man’s fault, but he didn’t care. Someone at the Agency had to know it wasn’t a hunting accident. That made all of them culpable. And then he started looking for what the Agency was worried about, items bearing witness to one of the “off the books” operations he and Raymond had done. The Agency hadn’t known where to look, but Jay did. What he found astonished him, much more than ticket stubs or handwritten notes. It was a journal begun in World War II, the last notation made the day before his death. Talked to Unuka. Who was Unuka? It was prohibited by the Agency to write things down. But that’s what Raymond had done. For sixty years.

The rest fell into place quickly. The cleanup guys had found the bullets in the two holes in the porch wall but hadn’t bothered to fill them in. The holes were deep, too deep for ammunition used to hunt deer. A shell casing was under a bush on the other side of the hayfield, sloppy of them not to look for that. The casing was from a sniper rifle. Their entire cleanup operation had been poorly done. That made Jay angry. The Agency he’d known was more professional than that.

The next morning, just after dawn, Jay stood at the window, looking out over the porch and the scene beyond. His phone vibrated and the name Ben Lufkin appeared on the screen. A sheet of frost hung over the field. That meant it was still dark in Denver. Jay’s anger had been sandpapered with a wedge of despondency, and he set aside the blame for the present. It was inevitable that Lufkin would call him.

“It’s a mess, Ben. A stray hunter’s bullet is a joke. The cleanup was poorly done. The man who came yesterday hadn’t been briefed.”

“I was afraid of that. It all happened fast, and it wasn’t an experienced team Langley sent out there. The police chief wanted an investigation, and an appeal had to be made to his patriotism.” The tenor of Lufkin’s voice was puzzling. Was it chagrin or lament? Jay couldn’t tell.

“I don’t care much about cover-up and damage control. Raymond was my friend,” Jay said, his voice cracking slightly at the last two words. A cardinal stopped on a feeder hanging near the corner of the porch and then flashed away with seed in its bill. He remembered Jay telling him that cardinals didn’t migrate south in the winter. Soon the feeder would be empty.

“Langley only briefed me,” Lufkin said. “And reluctantly at that, only because they’re worried what you might do. I told them you wouldn’t be one to call the newspapers.”

“The judgment I care about isn’t a public one. The Agency is probably worried there’s something here that needs to be destroyed. It looks like their team only did a half-assed search.”

“And?”

“There’s nothing here,” Jay said without hesitation. Raymond hadn’t trusted Lufkin, and for the time being, Jay wasn’t going to, either.

“Okay. Nothing to suggest who the assassins were?”

“I don’t need a suggestion, Ben.”

“I expected that you would suspect it was Piquart.”

“You discounted Piquart in Bilbao, Ben. And you were wrong. If it weren’t for Raymond, the entire dock would’ve exploded, along with several Branoble businesspeople, I might add.”

“You and Raymond did a good job there, I have to admit that. But it was an unsanctioned operation. So, it never happened, good outcome or not. I assume you’ve found nothing there about that?”

“So you never told Langley?”

“Only at a very high level, Jay. And we left it at that. But I took a lot of grief about it. s**t, you guys were retired.”

“My friend was there. And his daughter. On Branoble’s behalf, in case you forgot. So it makes no f*****g difference to me that I was retired.”

“Okay. I admit it was my mistake not to heed Raymond’s warning about Piquart. And I see how you might suspect he sent the assassin to murder Raymond.”

“We should have gone to France and killed him after Bilbao.”

“You know I couldn’t sanction that. And, in case you’re wondering, the Agency won’t sanction that now.”

“I don’t need anyone’s approval, Ben. I’m retired, in case you forgot.”

The men were quiet for a few moments. There were two smaller birds on the feeder. A chickadee and a titmouse. In the distance, Jay could hear the cardinal calling his mate, and a peter-peter-peter from another bird. Raymond had taught him the calls.

“It sounds like you may be heading to France.”

“I’m not saying anything, Ben. You can deny that I told you anything.”

“You haven’t told me anything. But I have a young agent who needs a vacation and she wants to go to see her grandmother in Europe.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“Who said anything about help, Jay. I just thought you could have dinner with her in France and give her some travel tips. You are certainly a veteran traveler. And she is fluent in French.”

Jay laughed. He was fluent also. Not just in French, but in Spanish, German, and Russian. He didn’t need Lufkin’s novice agent watching over his shoulder. But it was better to know who Lufkin would send. Jay had no doubt that Lufkin was going to do that, regardless of whether he refused the help. “Okay. But dinner only. What’s her name?”

“Anna Stegineo. She’s a Branoble analyst on the energy side.”

“Give her my number.”

Lufkin laughed. “Do you think your Texas cell phone will work in France? I guess you don’t have the old phone we issued you. I had to call your ranch for the new number.”

“I threw that phone away. My new plan has international roaming.”

“I’ll have her bring you another Branoble phone that works in Europe. You can send it back to me when you return. And call me when you get back.”

“Sure.”

“Safe travels,” Lufkin said, and hung up.

The frost was gone now, and the day was clear and bright with morning sun from just above the tree line. The farmhouse was on a hundred acres, with beautiful views of the valley and the Hudson River. The Hatchers had moved to Hudson when Raymond retired and Megan had bought an old storefront in town and opened a bakery. Her father had been a baker in Catalina, California, where she and Raymond had met when he trained there at a secret facility in 1944. Megan had named her bakery OSS Bakery. Inside, a sign said Oh So Sweet Bakery, but Jay knew the OSS really stood for Office of Strategic Services, where Raymond first became a spy in World War II.

It took several days to get the farmhouse secure for the winter. Jay didn’t know when he would be back. He also met with the Hatchers’ local lawyer to file the will for probate and request a delay in additional filings on account of the deaths being unexpected. But Jay couldn’t bring himself to read the will carefully, or the other papers. That would only add to his grief. He shoved the papers into a pocket inside his suitcase, along with Raymond’s journal. He would go somewhere remote after France, a place where no one would find him, and then he would deal with his grief and the papers.

His last act was to lease the bakery to the woman who’d worked for Megan for years, the only conditions being that she not change the name and that she go out to the farmhouse once a week and put more seed in the birdfeeder.