Never Look Back

  Never Look Back

  Ridley Pearson

  Copyright

  Never Look Back

  Copyright © 1985, 2014 by Ridley Pearson

  Cover art, special contents, and electronic edition © 2014 by RosettaBooks LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover jacket design by David Ter-Avanesyan/Ter33Design

  ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795340000

  CONTENTS

  Thursday, November 20

  Friday, November 21

  Saturday, November 22

  Sunday, November 23

  Monday, November 24

  Tuesday, November 25

  Wednesday, November 26

  Thanksgiving Day, November 27

  Tuesday, December 2

  Epilogue

  Thursday, November 20

  7:15 P.M.

  Montreal, Canada

  Leonid Borikowski—the man of a hundred faces—flinched as the jet touched him down onto the North American continent for the first time.

  A wig of short blond hair sat above brown eyes. Leonid Borikowski’s eyes were green; his hair, black. Ten years had been added to his forty: penciled crow’s feet flanked short-cut sideburns; discolored blue-black bags sagged beneath his eyes. A large orb of discolored skin stretched from below his left ear into the loose collar of a powder blue French shirt and was also cosmetic. The combined result painted a tragic story. He looked as if a car battery had exploded in his face.

  No one, except for the stewardesses, had spoken to him in the last eight hours. He had flown to Montreal alone, despite the hundreds of other passengers. Just as he wished.

  Behind him, and across the aisle, Karen Kwang leaned forward to afford herself a view of a man she had first noticed in Venice. The man in 5C. She was convinced he was United States Government.

  His name was Minor. He worked for the CIA office in Rome. His partner, John Thompson, was glancing up the aisle at the legs of a stewardess, wondering what to do about Kwang. Kwang was a reporter for Cable Watch News. She was a pain in the ass.

  Kwang had made the story public. Now Minor and Thompson were trying to locate two possible assassins who could very well be in Montreal to kill the Pope. It was all a bit sketchy. But Kwang had lit a fire under her cable audience, and something had to be done quickly before every subcommittee on the Hill came crashing down on the CIA. Again.

  Leonid Borikowski knew nothing of Kwang or Thompson or Minor. If anyone had told him that two American agents were aboard the flight, he might have laughed at the irony. He was an officer in Bulgaria’s DS—the Durzhauna Sigurnost—an intelligence agency closely affiliated with both the KGB and Russian military intelligence, the GRU. He had once been known as an up-and-coming young actor in his native capital, Sofia. Now he was not known at all. He appeared and he disappeared. And his itinerary preceded tomorrow’s headlines.

  As the wheels of the jetliner spurted small rooster tails of smoke onto the tarmac, the stewardesses continued their whispers about this nightmarish man in 17D who hadn’t uttered a word on the entire eight-hour flight. Their inquiries had been answered with nods and gesticulations. They believed him mute.

  Borikowski had fluent command of several languages, could skillfully duplicate numerous dialects of each of these languages, yet rarely spoke in public. Orders. He attributed his survival to it.

  He finished a cigarette, a non-filter, encouraged by the illuminated sign before him, picking bits of tobacco from the tip of his tongue and depositing them carefully in the ashtray, one by one.

  His was the art of patience: he felt no tremendous thrill here, except at the fine detail of his acting skills. A self-pride.

  His only fear was failure.

  He knew the details of Crown well, having studied the operation for weeks. Anxiety over the fact that Crown was unlike any of his previous assignments hovered in the back of his mind. He pushed it away—a technique all agents were taught—and flicked the last piece of wet, brown tobacco into the ashtray.

  A few minutes later the plane jerked to a stop. People jumped to their feet and Borikowski waited for them to work out their impatience as each struggled to be the first to leave.

  Eventually the line began to move forward. The French of a tired child, questioning when she might see her puppy again, faded as she was carried by her mother from the plane. Borikowski stood—ducking—and then stepped into line behind Thompson, who in turn followed Karen Kwang, neither aware of the other. Thompson stood close to Borikowski’s five-foot-ten and offered a good shield. Borikowski hated crowds.

  He gathered his heavy gray wool overcoat from the storage compartment, and was quickly pushed forward by the heaving throng, eventually passing the last stewardess, who offered him a courteous good-bye, hoping finally to hear him speak.

  Leonid Borikowski nodded.

  He entered the Jetway and funneled into Customs along with the others.

  If his forged papers held up under strict scrutiny, if no one recognized him, if the customs officials missed the secret section of his suitcase, then all would be well. He had been through it often enough that it did not frighten him. At times like this he realized how calloused he’d become—like a field worker’s hands.

  He entered Customs and quickly scanned the area, knowing there would be assigned “rovers” here: people who tried to match a face with a memorized photograph. For Leonid Borikowski this was a place to take all precaution. Here there existed little chance of escape, should anything go wrong.

  Passengers moved calmly toward the baggage claim area. A few travelers spotted friends and relatives beyond the cagelike Customs retainer and waved. Borikowski noted the balconied mirror-wall that provided additional Canadian agents the opportunity to screen arrivals. DS knew about this room, as well as other interrogation rooms on both floors. They even claimed to employ several moles in high-level positions here. Even so, Borikowski moved behind one of several textured pillars, awaiting the chaos that he expected to develop around the luggage carousel.

  Karen Kwang spotted the waiting video crew from Cable Watch and smiled at a familiar face. Barely five feet tall, Karen possessed a slight frame, high cheekbones, and captivating cinnamon eyes. She wore silk exclusively, and her lips were a shiny red. Always. The crowd thickened and she could not see anyone. Only shoulders, necks, and breasts.

  A beautifully dressed blond woman with scarlet cheekbones stood away from the carousel. Borikowski noticed her and immediately dubbed her a rover because she was reading only people’s faces. He wondered how many of his faces she might have memorized.

  Then, as if she’d heard him, she glanced in his direction. Skillfully, he bent over to rub supposedly sore feet, keeping his head low. He watched her carefully until a fat man with plaid pants stepped into her line of sight. Then he stood back up.

  Luggage began to slide down the chute of the carousel and with it came added confusion. Polite shoves and outright pushes replaced common courtesy. In the roar, faint apologies mixed with quiet cursing as people struggled for their luggage. Movement would be easier now.

  Borikowski again singled out the blond woman, and convinced himself he had not been identified. How could they recognize me under this disguise? he asked himself. It’s certainly one of the best I’ve ever had.

  No alarm showed in her face, no undue concern. Her pastel blue eyes continued to scan the crowd.

  Borikowski’s suitcase bounced off the black rubber bumper and came to rest, its handle facing out. He turned to in
tercept it.

  Several yards behind him, the same young French-speaking girl he had seen being carried off the plane nervously clutched her mother’s tweed dress. The father was busy collecting their luggage. She and her mother were awaiting Dancer—their pet Doberman—at the Oversized Baggage counter. Somewhat frightened by all the people and tired from the long flight, her only comfort came from the handful of tweed. Her mother assured her their pet would arrive any moment.

  Seemingly divined by maternal magic, a door opened and a soft gray fiberglass cage entered the room, followed by the man carrying it, his arms extended in an awkward embrace.

  He set the cage down, looked up with an exhausted face, and spilled out an endless list of reasons for his fatigue. Not allowing her a moment to interrupt, he rambled on. The mother was too polite to cut in.

  The distraction allowed the daughter a moment of curiosity. Their young Doberman paced nervously inside the cage, the sedative long worn off, anxiously awaiting attention. The girl’s tiny fingers deciphered the puzzle of the latch. She swung open the door to hug her friend but her strength proved no match. Dancer rushed from the cage, knocked the child to the floor, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Having split his attention between his approaching suitcase and the blonde, Borikowski had no opportunity to see the Doberman as it came dashing across the polished stone floor at a breakneck speed. In a frantic motion, Dancer changed direction too quickly and lost all paws to the waxed stone, careening and tumbling into a flashy brunette resplendent in leather pants and spike heels. The brunette jumped, but fell backwards, driving a spike deeply into Borikowski’s foot. Delivered so quickly and with such surprise, the pain triggered the first large mistake Leonid Borikowski had made in years: he cursed in Bulgarian.

  His passport listed his citizenship as Norwegian.

  The blond woman heard him and looked over. Their eyes met.

  At the carousel, Karen Kwang reached out and collared Dancer in an amazing show of fortitude and timing. The Doberman whimpered and sat, cowering under the choke of the collar. A spattering of relieved travelers applauded.

  Borikowski waited for his adversary’s move. And she made it.

  Her strides were sharp and deliberate, but her delicate face reflected utter calm as she angled toward a locked wall-phone box not forty paces away, refusing to look back. Never look back. Her job required she report any incidents, and to her, this qualified.

  I will not fail, thought Leonid Borikowski. I must prevent them—her—from detaining me, and I must act quickly. He dropped his bag by a pillar and looked toward the large mirrored pane that overlooked the room.

  With his thick jacket folded over his arm, he calculated a route that would intersect her path and set off, his right hand searching blindly for the small bead of plastic embedded in the wool, his movements silent and without effort. Blood pulsed past his ears, muting all other sounds. As he closed the distance, his fingers located the small plastic bead. With the deftness of a magician, he withdrew and cupped the four-inch hatpin. It would have to be now. One more step.

  She unlocked and opened the box quickly. Her hand lifted the white wall phone from its cradle.

  In synchronized motion he both caught her and ended her life, quickly driving the pin in behind her ear and spinning it. Her hand hung up the phone. Her body slackened and he helped her down into a formed plastic seat. Her stilled face looked surprised, even in death.

  With little time for thought he stroked her soft hair, ad-libbing a colloquial French, comforting her and promising to be home soon. Borikowski leaned over and kissed the dead woman on the cheek. Then he smiled thinly. Most of the crowd had formed lines at the Customs counters, the carousel nearly empty of luggage.

  Borikowski stood, angry at her now. As he crossed the room, he repeatedly went over the details of the past few minutes—like a bridge player reviewing the last few tricks. Without stopping, he bent over and took hold of his suitcase by the handle. He tried to convince himself that there had been no time. No other way. Realizing the news would devastate his superiors in Sofia, he reluctantly accepted a new blemish on an otherwise exemplary record. Such news might even reach Moscow.

  But one cannot dwell on one’s reputation. There is still the here and now—the assignment—and the need to leave this airport. Now.

  He selected a particular Customs counter and joined its line behind a Norwegian tour group that moved quickly through.

  Borikowski stepped forward.

  To appear the true tourist, he declared a bottle of bourbon, knowing this was not required. The move seemed to help speed things up. He passed through without incident.

  Only seconds later, as Borikowski approached the exit, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the building. He calmly continued through the electronic doors and out into a brisk November air. He assumed that someone had discovered his victim’s slack body, or perhaps had seen the thin column of blood below her ear. And that someone had screamed—because that’s what everyone did.

  Leonid Borikowski knew without looking.

  Never look back.

  8:00 P.M.

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  In his right hand he held a knight beneath the lip of the table, where his opponent could not see it.

  The house dated back to the American Revolution and was furnished like a summer cottage. Nothing was fancy. The assortment of furniture included wicker and willow as well as old gray wood benches and rough-log footstools that appeared to have been around since George Washington burned late-night oil, studying maps and smoking a ceramic pipe. The ceilings were low, the passageways narrow, and where Andy Clayton sat, his six-foot-four frame looked strangely misplaced, like a hand inside a dollhouse. But he wasn’t misplaced. This was where Andy Clayton had lived for the past few years.

  The house belonged to the United States Government.

  On the mantel was a portrait of a handsome young man in his mid-thirties. The background of the photograph was blurred, but even so, the orange hue lent the feeling of a fall day in southern France, when the trees and grasses catch an auburn light and shimmer in the afternoon winds. The photo had been there since the day Andy had been moved to this house. The man smiled down from the mantel. An engaging smile. But he stood up there alone, in his silver frame, next to a used candlestick, a puddle of hard wax at its base connecting it firmly to the mantel. And for some reason, instead of auburn light, tragedy surrounded the man.

  Andy looked up at the photo, as he often did between moves. Parker Lyell was not a particularly fast chess player. Parker Lyell was not particularly fast at anything, except talking. Lyell did not have Andy’s large frame or rugged features; he looked more like an Irishman, with his red hair and large, flat teeth. Andy, on the other hand, looked like an ex-football player who had done billboard cigarette ads for a while. He had gray-green eyes—hazel—and brown curly hair that needed a trim.

  Parker Lyell turned and faced the fire and saw Duncan’s photo on the mantel and then spun back around. “I wonder?”

  “Yes?”

  “You ought to dust off the frame. You make him look more like your grandfather than your brother.”

  “He might as well be.”

  “Now Andy, I didn’t mean—”

  “They’re both…” He paused. “…in a similar condition. That’s all I meant.”

  Lyell moved a pawn from d4 to c4 and sat back in his chair.

  Andy instantly used a knight to take it.

  Lyell said, “What piece are you holding?”

  Andy reluctantly opened his right hand. A knight.

  The piece was marble, and the eye of the horse caught the orange of the fire and winked at Lyell, who moaned, “Jesus Christ! Am I that predictable?” No answer. “Another fucking pawn.”

  “You may wish your pawns were fucking in a few minutes. You’re running low.”

  “Very cute. You don’t mind if I withhold my laughter for that comment, do you? No, I didn’t think so.�
� He studied the board. He moved a bishop, quickly. Too quickly for Parker Lyell. “Check.”

  It was a desperate check—a wasted move, and one that would cost him the game within the hour. Andy knew this before debating his response, and felt an odd delight at knowing his opponent was already finished—providing Andy did not make a similar mistake. And that had been done before.

  Lyell said, “Who are you dating these days?”

  Andy shrugged.

  “Oh Christ, Andy, do you mean to say you haven’t gotten over that other one yet? That must have been five years ago!”

  “Seventeen months… but who’s counting?”

  “You see what I mean? Seventeen months. What are you waiting for? Shy, big guy?”

  Andy flashed his friend an annoyed look.

  “Okay. Sorry about that. Just trying to get a rise out of you.”

  Andy offered the same look again. “No pun intended?”

  Lyell smiled, showing off his big teeth. “None.”

  Andy moved a bishop to block the check. If Lyell wanted to start trading pieces, now was as good a time as any. The move confused Lyell, who again leaned back to examine the board. He told Andy, “Marge and I are having Annie Numark over to dinner on Saturday night.”

  “Haven’t heard that name in a long time.” Annie used to be what they called a fox. Andy had no idea what they called them now, in this day and age. Black leather and Clockwork Orange hairdos; Barbie Dolls with razor blade necklaces. They probably referred to them affectionately as Juicy Beavers, or something equally eloquent.

  “Why don’t you join us? Round off the number. You ever tried having dinner with two women that went to high school together?”

  “‘Who’ went to high school together.”

  “Marge and Annie.”

  “No, I mean it’s not ‘that’ went to high school, it’s ‘who’ went to high school.”

  “Oh, well, pardon me, Shakespeare.” Lyell pursed his lips and lowered his eyebrows. “You avoided an appropriate response,” he said like a schoolmarm.