The Cain File by Max Tomlinson Page B

is good.”
    “He’s a field op. That’s what he’s paid to do. Unlike you. I was nuts to let you go on that.”
    “I badgered the hell out of you,” she said. “I wanted to play op.” Truth was, she needed to switch her career path in order to survive in the Agency. “Where is John Rae?”
    “We don’t know exactly where. Yet. But he’ll be fine. I’m not worried about John Rae. He’s not my department. You are.”
    “I’ve accessed some funds. A German passport. I can try to find someone, get it cobbled. With a U.S. visa. But it might take a day or two. I’ll use the name Melanie Kirsch. Can you get me papers and a flight to the States?”
    “No, it’s too hot there. Get out of Quito. Get out of Ecuador. Can you get to Lima?”
    “Peru?”
    “I have a person there in the embassy I trust implicitly.”
    “Less than a thousand miles,” she said. “OK. Next stop, Lima.”
    “He’ll get you to the U.S.,” Ed said, puffing on a cigarette. “Email contact info when you get there. Leave now. And I mean now. Stay off the main roads.”
    “OK,” she said. “Wish me luck.”
    “Good luck. Leave.” Ed hung up.
    Maggie steered Ulfric into the bathroom.
    She slung her MacBook over her shoulder in the smelly blue lliq blanket, gathered up Ulfric’s credit cards and pile of cash, the list of pin numbers and access codes, and nabbed the keys to Ulfric’s rental car on her way out the door. She left the passport. She wouldn’t need it. But she took his phone, since there was a call from Ed on it. She’d dump it in the trash somewhere. She headed out into the hall, pulled the door shut.
    Down the hall the elevator dinged. Two men in suits appeared and marched her way—Ulfric’s business associates no doubt, wondering where he had gotten to. He was supposed to give some talk. Well, it was going to be an incoherent one now. Maggie kept her head down as the men passed, one man’s eyes hard upon her. She pushed open a stairwell door, stealing a glance before she entered.
    The other man knocked on the door. “Ulfric? Are you there? We’re waiting for you downstairs. I hope you haven’t forgotten about your presentation.”
    Maggie entered the stairwell and took the stairs two at a time. In the parking garage, she located Ulfric’s white Ford Fiesta wedged up against a cement wall, blocked in by a grey sedan on the left. The only way out was a narrow L of space behind her to her left. A hunter-green Jag was nosed in to her rear, on the other side of the L. She’d have to reverse out, cut it tight. She eyed the clearance. Not much. But the Ford was a compact and she could make it. Maybe.
    Unlocking the car, she squeezed herself in, inadvertently dinging the gray sedan. She threw her laptop in its blanket onto the passenger seat and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, so she didn’t look like such a hussy. Fumbling the electronic key into the slot, she started up the Fiesta with a rattle and whine.
    She put the car into first, tapped the car’s bumper in front. Hand on the wheel, she turned in her seat, gauging the room between her and the Jag again. Like getting ten pounds of potatoes into a five-pound bag. Someone was going to get a bit of a repair bill.
    “Excuse me?” A voice echoed through the garage in heavily accented English. A rapid clip of heels followed and she saw the tall dark-skinned attendant who had parked Ulfric’s car when they arrived an hour ago, running up, his tie flapping. He stopped in the space behind her.
    “Let me do it, please!” But his smile disappeared when he saw that the driver was not the German guest he obviously expected, but the young woman the man had snuck into the hotel. “Yes?” His eyes narrowed as he scanned Maggie’s face. “This is not your car?”
    “I’m Herr Müller’s secretary,” she said in English, smiling wonderfully. “He needs overhead transparencies for his presentation.” She had a ten-dollar bill ready and held it up between her