Chapter 29
Friday
They returned to Boston on the same flight as Maggie, this time in business class, courtesy of Rodrigo’s expense account. “I can hardly send you home crammed into a coach seat,” he’d said to her. “It’s just a taste of what life would be like, if you joined me at Argus.”
If you joined me.
As Lloyd dozed beside her on the plane, Ingrid stared down at the clouds and couldn’t help imagining what it would be like, taking the job at Argus.
Walking away from her life in Purity and stepping back into that world of smoke and mirrors.
Eventually, old age and infirmity would permanently close that door to her, but right now, the door was still open, inviting her to accept the challenge.
To prove that she was not as old as the calendar said she was.
That young Ingrid had not vanished forever.
She looked at Lloyd, his head lolled to the side, his glasses halfway down his nose. She remembered the question that Rodrigo had asked her that day in France, among the lavender fields: Are you really going home to that—that desk jockey? And she had answered: That desk jockey loves me.
And I love him, she thought, reaching for Lloyd’s hand. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder what could have been had she made a different choice all those years ago. Even as their plane touched down in Boston, she was still haunted by the Ghost of Ingrid Past.
For the moment, though, it felt good to be going home.
Good to sleep in her own bed tonight. The drive home would take four and a half hours, which meant they’d pull into Purity just in time for dinner.
Perhaps they’d all go to a restaurant tonight, a corner table where the five of them could quietly conduct their debriefing away from the ears of others.
There was so much to catch up on, and so many explanations and apologies that she owed them. That, she did not look forward to.
As their plane pulled up to the gate, she heard Maggie’s phone ding with a text message.
“It’s Declan,” said Maggie. “He says they’re meeting us here at the airport. Ben’s waiting for us in the arrivals hall.”
“Why?” said Lloyd. “They know I left my car parked in the airport garage.”
Now Lloyd’s and Ingrid’s phones simultaneously dinged with text messages, sent to both of them from Ben:
Do not leave the terminal without me.
“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Lloyd.
Neither did Ingrid. Ben’s command was both direct and alarming, and she felt her pulse quicken as the three of them exited the Global Entry line and approached the Border Patrol officer.
Did he see the nervousness in their smiles, the tension in their faces?
Of course not; they were just three harmless retirees, like all the other gray-haired travelers who flew into Boston, perhaps returning from a European cruise or a senior citizens’ guided tour abroad.
He waved them through with a bored “welcome home,” and they continued past baggage claim, past the last security doors, and into the arrivals hall.
There, waiting front and center to greet them, was Ben Diamond. He wasn’t smiling.
With his shaved head and leather jacket, he seemed to radiate a menacing force field that kept other people at a distance. He strode toward Ingrid and snapped: “Turn off your phone. You too, Lloyd.”
Ingrid immediately powered hers off, but Lloyd asked: “Why?”
“I’ll explain later. Just do it. We’ve got burner phones for you in the car.” He took Ingrid by the arm. “Let’s go.”
There was no chance to argue; Ben was already leading her toward the exit, with Maggie and Lloyd right behind them.
They stepped outside, into a cloud of exhaust spewed by a passing bus.
When she’d left for Europe over a week ago, summer was still lingering in New England.
Since then, autumn had blown in, and the wind had a sharp bite that penetrated her thin jacket.
A blue Volvo roared up to the curb with Declan behind the wheel.
Ben yanked open the rear passenger door. “In,” he commanded.
“You know, my car’s right over there, in the parking garage,” Lloyd said. “I should—”
“Leave it.”
“But when am I going to get it?”
“Not now. They might be watching.”
“Lloyd,” snapped Ingrid as she slid into the back seat. “Get in.”
They didn’t even have time to buckle their seat belts before Declan hit the gas and they lurched into traffic.
“Maggie,” said Declan. “Keep an eye out for—”
“Already on it,” said Maggie, her attention on the cars behind them.
“All right,” Ingrid said, huffing out a breath. “What’s going on?”
“First, here are your burner phones.” Ben passed the phones back to Ingrid and Lloyd.
“Who’s tracking us?” Ingrid asked.
“We don’t know. We just have to assume you are being tracked.”
“Why?”
Ben turned to look at her. “Six hours ago, while you were already on the flight home, a new name was added to that kill list on the dark web. I printed off a hard copy.” He passed her two sheets of paper.
Ingrid frowned at the name on the first page: Lilia Kuraskaya, five foot six, red-blond hair, born sixty-five years ago in East Berlin. The photo was of a young Lilia, an attractive woman with a steady gaze and a determined jaw.
“Who is this person?” Ingrid asked.
“She was a Russian illegal,” said Ben. “Slipped into Toronto at age twenty-two and took on the identity of a dead Canadian infant. Twenty years ago, she abruptly dropped out of the sight of her Russian handler.”
“She defected?”
“Apparently so. Which is why she’s now on their kill list.”
“What does this have to do with us?”
“Look at the next page.”
Ingrid flipped to the second sheet of paper and stared in disbelief at a photo of her own face. It was recent, obviously a candid and taken without her knowledge. She scanned the background and recognized the familiar landmarks, a sign with Dutch words.
“This was taken a few days ago, when I was in Amsterdam.” She looked up. “They think I’m this woman?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Why would they think—”
“She would be about your age. And superficially, you could be mistaken for her. About the same height, similar facial structure.”
“But if she’s now on their hit list . . .” Ingrid looked up. “Then so am I.”
Ben nodded. “And now they know your address in Purity, your husband’s name. Your height, your weight—”
“That’s getting too damn personal.”
“Ingrid,” said Ben, “this is not a laughing matter.”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?”
“Now you know why we snatched you at the airport,” said Declan as he drove north, toward New Hampshire.
“If they knew Lloyd’s car was in the airport garage, they could already be watching it.
Or they could have wired it to explode. As long as you don’t go near your vehicles, and you keep your phones turned off, you can’t be tracked. ”
“What about our phones?” said Maggie.
“The only person listed as Ingrid’s associate is Lloyd.”
“So far.”
“So far,” admitted Ben. “Right now, it seems her immediate circle of friends isn’t known yet. They’ll be watching the Slocums’ house, but they won’t be watching us.”
“You mean—we can’t go home?” said Lloyd.
“I’m sorry,” said Declan. “You can’t go anywhere near your house.”
“For how long?”
There was a long silence. Ingrid reached out and grasped her husband’s hand.
This was her fault. Because she’d let Rodrigo lure her back into the game, Lloyd was now suffering for it, exiled from the home he loved, and forced into hiding.
He had every right to blame her, but he said nothing, just held on to her hand as if to anchor her beside him.
“While we figure this out,” said Ben, “you need a safe place to stay. I was going to offer my house.”
“Bad idea,” said Maggie. “You live in the village, and you have neighbors on either side of you. They’ll notice that you have guests. Same problem with Declan’s house.” Maggie looked at Ingrid. “You’re staying with me.”
“It’s a lot to ask,” said Ingrid.
“No, it isn’t. I have two spare rooms and no nearby neighbors except for Luther Yount. Trust me, Luther will keep his mouth shut and his shotgun loaded.”
“She’s right,” said Declan. “Blackberry Farm is the logical retreat.”
Retreat. To Ingrid, that word had always been synonymous with surrender.
She had never been one to cede command of her life, but now hers was hurtling completely out of her control and down a dark and dangerous path.
She suddenly thought of Sophie, the doomed young woman who’d willingly walked the same path, only to bleed to death in a stone house in Provence.
When you are prey, you are always listening for the hunter’s footfall, always waiting for the punch of the bullet.
“I think it’s the best option,” Lloyd said quietly. “Staying with Maggie.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never meant for you to—”
“It’s all right. We can deal with this. We’ll fix this.” He squeezed her hand and looked at her. “But we’re going to need our friends.”