Page 154 of The Oligarch's Daughter

The ambassador had probably done him harm, but at least he’d given him a name of someone who might be helpful.

*

Philip Horgan’s house was modest but set on a large lot, far apart from its neighbors. A squat brick structure with small windows, it looked like a miniature fortress. The blinds and curtains were all shut. The lawn badly needed mowing. The place looked abandoned. Or maybe the ex-CIA officer didn’t do yard work.

Paul pulled into the long asphalt driveway, which was cracked and pitted. He noticed security cameras mounted on every corner of the house he could see, and another mounted above the closed garage door. And when he reached the small porch, he glimpsed a motion-sensor dome camera mounted to its ceiling. In fact, there wasn’t a way to approach the house that wasn’t covered by security cameras.

As he climbed the three brick steps to the front door, he heard a voice crackling over an intercom installed next to the door.

“Get the hell off my property,” the voice said. In the background Paul heard what sounded like low canine growling.

“Mr. Horgan? My name is Paul Brightman. I need to talk with—”

The front door swung open and something large hurtled out in a blur, an immense black-and-brown dog with a blocky head, muscular body, vicious teeth, and a deep, ferocious bark. Paul saw its ears prick up, a big chain around the dog’s neck.

There was no time to run. He knew there were things you were supposed to do when attacked by a dog. You were supposed to stand still, never run. You were supposed to break eye contact. But all rational thought had deserted him in an instant. The dog was on him so close he could smell the animal’s foul breath.

Paul found himself pinned up against the garage door, the Dobermann growling and barking and lunging at him.

Its owner stood behind the dog, pointing a gun. “By the laws of the Commonwealth of Virginia,” the man said, “I have the right to use deadly force. Now, what the hell are you doing on my property?” The man was balding on top with long gray hair below that touched his shoulders.

“Jesus, call off your dog! I’m not here to harm you. I need your help.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Like I said, my name is Paul Brightman, and—”

“Brutus,off.” The dog immediately sat on its haunches but continued growling. “Prove you are who you say you are. Let me see your driver’s license.”

“I . . . don’t have one.” He had gotten rid of all his Paul Brightman documents. Left them all—his passport, his driver’s license, his Social Security card, his credit cards—in a safe-deposit box at a Citizens bank branch in Derryfield. Hoping never to have to use them again.

He should have introduced himself as Grant Anderson. At least he had a driver’s license in that name.

“You don’t drive?”

“I don’t have any of my documents with me. If I were some kind of spy or something, wouldn’t I have my fake documents at hand?”

Philip Horgan paused, tilted his head. “You might have a point.”

“I want to ask you about Phantom.”

Horgan’s eyes widened. “Who the hell are you?”

101

The interior of the ex-CIA man’s small house was even grimmer than the exterior. It smelled like stale cigarettes and old beer and mold. Magazines and newspapers were stacked haphazardly everywhere, empty Coke and beer cans littered the floor and the tops of the piles, and ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts. Horgan had cleared off a chair for Paul by excavating a pile of newspapers and tossing them onto the floor. He insisted that Paul put his phone in a black sleeve that he said was a Faraday bag. It blocked all signals emanating to and from the device, he explained.

While Paul answered Horgan’s questions, the Dobermann sat contentedly at Horgan’s feet making a low rumble, a quiet growl, almost a purring sound. Meanwhile, Horgan chain-smoked Camel Straights.

Horgan got up and found in a steel file cabinet a printout that he said was from the CIA’s internal employee newsletter,What’s News. It was a photograph of a senior CIA official, identified as Geraldine Dempsey, receiving an award from the CIA director. A middle-aged woman with a thin mouth, a short, perky blonde Princess Diana haircut, and a navy suit with big padded shoulders.

“This is the woman at CIA whom I worked for. Geraldine Dempsey,” Horgan said.

“West Texas?” Paul remembered Dempsey from the FBI office in New York.

“Exactly. Very good. She runs an off-the-books unit known informally by its cryp, Phantom.”

“Cryp?”

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