34

WHEN CHRISTIAN ST. CLAIR REENTERED his Mercedes van in the Club’s basement, a man was waiting for him inside, by appointment. He was Erik Macher, a former FBI and intelligence agent who now operated as St. Clair’s head of security, though few people in general or among St. Clair’s many other employees had ever heard of Macher or even knew of his existence. He commanded St. Clair’s private security contingent and operated on a very generous budget.

“Good afternoon, Mr. St. Clair,” Macher said.

“Good afternoon, Erik. What do you have for me?”

“Since the disappearance of Edward Rawls we have undertaken a broad-based search for him, in this country and abroad, in countries where he served.”

“And have you found him?”

“We have not. We have, however, located what might be thought of as the most likely place he would shelter, even if he hasn’t arrived there yet.”

“And where would that be?”

“His ex-wife—”

“I told you, Erik, the woman died five months ago, and even if she were alive she would be the last person to offer him help.”

“I understand, sir, but we have uncovered an important fact about their divorce.”

“And what is that?”

“Although she sought and got the couple’s house in Virginia, quite near CIA headquarters, she was not given title, but a lifetime occupancy. That having expired with her, the house still belongs to Ed Rawls.”

“Have you checked it?”

“I placed two agents there last evening, posing as prospective buyers. The house has been on the market with a local agency since shortly after Myra Rawls’s death. They were shown through it and left the agent with the hope of an offer to come. While there they examined every room and found no signs of occupancy by Rawls or anyone else. They also checked the outbuildings, including a barn and a garage containing a 1985 Mercedes station wagon, also registered in Ed Rawls’s name, and connected to a trickle charger. There is a guest or staff flat upstairs. The place is an ideal hideout for Ed Rawls, he just hasn’t taken advantage of it—not yet anyway.”

“What are they asking for the house?”

“Two million dollars, firm.”

“Buy it.”

“Forgive me, sir, but unless you require a residence in that part of Virginia, that would be a totally unnecessary expense. It wouldn’t even prevent Rawls from using it as a hideout for quite some time, and it would put a large sum in his pocket, upon closing, which he could then use to establish himself elsewhere. He has already collected half a million dollars in insurance money for his house in Maine, so he is awash in cash already. It was wired to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.”

“Can we find out how much is in the account?”