29
TRISTAN
I rolled into her. Spooning her from behind, I pushed my naked body against her backside. Still exhausted from last night, I brushed her hair aside to press my cheek against hers and inhaled her scent. I’d formulated a plan. If it worked, we would be off the hook. If it didn’t, we would be dead.
Kissing her shoulder, I slipped out of bed and walked naked into the room where I usually slept down the hall. On the back of the bathroom door hung a pair of holey sweatpants. I slid them on and pulled my hair back and into a ponytail. Then, quietly working my way down the stairs, I headed to the kitchen for coffee—lots of coffee.
Checking my charging phones on the counter, there were two calls and one message from Nick Daniels on one phone. On the other was another text message from Pete that simply said, DID YOU SET UP A MEETING WITH U FOR TOMORROW?
The clock on the kitchen wall read seven-thirty. It was early, but I knew Nick Daniels would be in. Swiping my finger over the call, I didn’t bother to listen to the voicemail.
“Where the fuck are you?”
“It’s nice to hear your voice too Nick.”
“I’m serious, Tristan. Do you know what’s going on around here?”
I was calm in my response. After speaking with Kat Miller I knew no matter what Nick wanted to throw at me, I still had thirty-six hours to figure my shit out. “Yes. I do.”
“Are you stateside?”
“I am indeed.”
“Tristan,” he said, dropping his voice. “I think you should come in. I think you should hop the next plane to D.C. Come to my office. We can talk about this.”
I was silent.
“Tristan? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
I shook my head before I said it. “No.”
“Why the hell not? I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your butt’s so high in a sling right now you might never come down.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I am.”
“Did you hear what I said? Come in.”
It was time to put my plan into motion. “I can’t do that, Nick.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’m not coming in.”
“This is insubordination, Tristan. This is the kind of shit that will get you fired or worse—prosecuted.”
I took a deep breath. “I’ve got some things to figure out here Nick. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to talk.”
“That’s not the way this works. Tristan, if you don’t come in, I’m going to have to assume you’re the mole.”
“I thought you were assuming that already, Nick.”
Suddenly, Agent Nick Daniels didn’t have anything else to say.
“Are you still there…Nick?”
“You’re playing with fire, Tristan.”
“No, Nick. I’m fighting for my life. I’ll be in when I’m ready, and not one moment before.”
I’d said my piece and ended the call, laying the phone on the counter face down. If he called back, I didn’t want to know.
Looking across the kitchen, I could see my coffee had brewed, the mug steaming. Taking it from under the machine, I found cream in the fridge and sweetened it, stirring with a silver spoon from the drawer. Tapping it twice on the edge of the cup, I picked up my secure phone and dialed. It went straight to Wood’s voicemail. This is Woodhurst Tinsley. I’m sorry I missed your call. Leave your name and number. Thanks.
“Wood, it’s Tristan. I need your help. I know you run surveillance tape at all the Sanctuary locations and I know you had the cameras rolling in Paris. Call me. Call me at this number. This line is secure.”
Next to the phones was the small piece of paper. I pocketed the secure phone in my sweatpants and walked through the house, sipping my coffee. “Who are you, Helen Stone? And why does my father want us to meet?”
Opening Simone’s old laptop, I googled the woman’s name. Nothing. Then I googled her address. She lived near the French quarter at the corner of Napoleon Avenue and Camp Street by Lawrence Square. There was no phone number attached to her name that was public. I would need to pay her a visit.
“How long have you been up?”
I closed the laptop and stared at her leaning into the doorway. The sun had just begun to rise and the light from the large window behind her illuminated her like an angel. Wearing only a dress shirt I was certain she’d found in a closet upstairs, she twisted her long hair around her finger and waited for me to respond.
Standing, I walked to her. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I kissed her neck tenderly, eliciting a shudder. I smiled. “Not long. Would you like some coffee?”
“Oui.”
“After, we’ll find you some clothes. We’ve got some recon to do today. I think perhaps the old man has tipped us off on something.”
“What is it?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I dunno, but I’m praying it’s something that can help us, because I’ve ruined any shot we might’ve had with the FBI to come to our defense.”
She hitched a shoulder. “Does this worry you?”
I kissed her lightly on the lips. “Not really. Drink your coffee. Get dressed. We’re going to call on an old friend.”
“Your old friend?” Henry shouted after me.
“I dunno,” I called back to her. “I hope to hell she’s someone’s old friend.”
We sped away from Simone’s house on my Harley, Henry hanging onto my waist with a grip so tight I had to beg her to release me at the first stop light. I’d found her a pair of Simone’s gardening jeans and a pink oxford which she tied around her midriff. Even in clothes that belonged to a seventy year old woman, Henry still managed to be sexy as hell. We drove through town and I showed Henry all my favorite spots. When we were finished, we would stop at a local boutique so Henry could pick out some more comfortable clothes. She was a woman who required little when it came to fashion, like me. In fact, because she was comfortable today, she didn’t complain one bit. I on the other hand, loved that she was wearing one of my wife beaters under her shirt in lieu of a bra.
When we pulled up to the apartment complex, I found an empty spot on the end. I’d tucked my gun in the back of my pants just to be safe. I didn’t like traveling anywhere with Henry by my side without a weapon.
We climbed off, taking our helmets with us. I looked to the piece of paper in my hand and Henry leaned in for a glance over my shoulder. “Is that what he slipped in your pocket?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“When you were saying goodbye to René, he hugged you, told you he loved you, and as I was wiping away my tears, I watched him slip a small white note into your pocket.
I held it up. “Yes. I found it last night.”
“What does it say?”
“Just Helen Stone and this address. Apartment number six.”
We looked at each other and then to the bank of doors. Number six was on the second floor and all the doors faced the street. “Let’s do this.”
“Wait,” Henry said, pulling my hand back. “What if it’s a trap?”
I raised my brows. “Do you think my dad would set me up? Because right now, I think he’s the only person who isn’t trying to set me up.”
She nodded. “You’re correct.”
“Thanks.”
I tugged on her hand and she followed. Up the steps we climbed, the rusted railing giving way in places. When we made it to apartment six, the woman in apartment five walked out wearing short shorts and a tank top with no bra. Boobs hanging to her knees, she shouted at the top of her lungs at whomever was still inside. “I don’t need a fucking thing from your sorry ass Roy. Get the fuck out!”
Henry and I stood quiet.
“What the fuck y’all lookin’ at? Leave me the fuck alone.”
I held my hands up in surrender. “I’ve got no problem with you kicking Roy’s ass.”
“Fuck off,” she said before walking down the ailing staircase, her floppy boobs half a beat behind the rest of her body.
I looked to Henry and knocked. “I hope to hell Helen’s not having an affair with Roy.”
Henry rolled her eyes. “Very funny.”
From inside the room, I could hear someone calling out, “I’m coming.”
When the door opened, I was astonished. Tiny in stature, the little old lady looked as if she might be a hundred. With white hair and deep-set wrinkles all over her face, she reminded me of something I’d seen once on the streets of New Orleans—a man who carved faces out of apples. When they dried, they all looked like old people.
“Helen Stone?”
“Yes?”
Helen Stone looked just like an apple face doll that had been drying for fifty years.
“I’m Tristan Lebleu. This is Henriette Tribolet. My father is Re—”
“I know who your father is,” she said stepping out of the doorway to look around. “Were you followed?”
“Followed?” I asked. “By whom?”
She motioned for us to both come in.
Inside, her small apartment was clean and filled to the hilt with knick-knacks. There wasn’t a bare space on the wall or a corner without a piece of furniture and some sort of fake flowers or figurine on top. The entire place smelled of pickled cabbage, coupled with fresh baked bread. It was hard not to hold my nose and breathe through my mouth, but every now and again, a whiff of yeast would come my way and I’d be tricked into inhaling all over again.
She motioned to the sofa for us to sit. “Who sent you?” she asked as she worked her way down into a lazyboy chair complete with doilies on the armrests.
“No one sent us.”
“Someone did. Or you wouldn’t be here. Who are you? FBI? CIA? NSA?”
I was flabbergasted. “Why in the world would you think we were with any of those people?”
“Why don’t you tell me who you are,” she said. “Then I can take it from there.”
She was old and tiny, but the woman had balls—big ones.
“Like I said, I’m Tristan Lebleu.”
She cringed, tapping her head with her fingers. “Yes, yes. You said that. I’m sorry. It’s hard trying to think so much at ninety-six.”
I looked to Henry and then back to her. “Maybe the question is who are you? Helen Stone?”
She dropped her chin to stare at me over her glasses. “Didn’t René tell you?”
I shook my head.
“Just like him to try and protect you to the very end.”
“Protect me from what?”
She took a deep breath. “From me. I’m your grandmother, Tristan. My name is Veronika Alexeer. I worked for the KGB for fifty years.”
I showed no emotion. Henry flinched sitting next to me, but said nothing. “Do you work for Russian Intelligence now?”
She looked from my eyes to Henry’s and back to me again. “No.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth, dear grandmother?”
She smiled. “You’re so much like Simone.”
I watched Henry balk. “He’s like his father.”
“Is this your girl?”
I nodded. “Why did my father want me to meet you?”
The old woman took a deep breath and exhaled. “All I can think is that your ass is in big trouble. If you need to get off—sell out—I’m the ticket. You can give me up to the Feds. Even though I don’t work for the KGB anymore, I did. It would make for a great news story—a ninety-six year old woman who’s lived in the United States for nearly seventy years? Working to sell American secrets to the Russians all this time without being caught?”
I sat back and exhaled. Helen Stone was an insurance policy.
“How long did he pay you off?” I asked.
She looked around the apartment. It was only then I noticed that the place was small, but underneath the tchotchkes and fake flowers, it was filled with expensive items. She laughed a little. “There’s probably a cashier’s check from him on the table next to you from yesterday’s mail.”
“You won’t be getting any more money from him,” Henry said with conviction.
“Look, honey. I know he’s dying. You don’t think I know he’s dying? I’m dying too. We’re all dying, so do what you’re gonna do. Call your bosses, take me in. Whatever sins you’ve committed, I’ll pay the price for it. I’m fine with that.”
I took a deep breath, the wheels turning in my head. There was so much I wanted to ask her, so much I wanted to say. “I don’t want to turn you in. But I do want something from you.”
She twisted her face into a scowl. “What?”
I looked to Henry then back to the oldest living KGB agent. “I want a name.”