Liar's Market. Taylor Smith

be sure to tell me when I am, though, won’t you?

      You’ll be the first to know. But in the meantime, I want to confirm for the record that your participation in this debriefing is entirely voluntary. Is that right?

      You mean, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing?

      No, I mean you’re here of your own accord and we both understand that you’re free of leave at any time.

      Yes, fine, we both understand that. I can think of plenty of places I’d rather be, mind you. Having a root canal, for example.

      No doubt. But getting back to the subject of your accomplishments, what about your son? You’re proud of him, aren’t you?

      Oh, God, yes, I am. He’s the best part of my life. All right, fair enough. I’ve messed up the rest of it, but I wouldn’t have Jonah if it weren’t for everything else. Let’s just hope I haven’t completely ruined his life, too.

      That has to be a concern, for sure. But depending on the extent of your involvement in your husband’s activities—

      There was no involvement! I don’t even know for sure that he was doing anything illegal. It’s you people who keep insisting he sold state secrets and caused the deaths of I don’t know how many people. Even if that’s true, I had no idea anything was wrong until he vanished two days ago.

      And you say he’s gone into hiding, but what if you’re wrong? What if he’s been kidnapped? Isn’t it possible he’s innocent? That he’s being held hostage—or worse—by terrorists? And you’re just sitting here, wasting time, asking me questions I don’t know the answers to?

      We think it’s highly unlikely he’s been kidnapped, the evidence being what it is.

      I’m still waiting to see all this supposed evidence.

      All in good time. And if, in fact, it turns out you weren’t involved, you’ll be free to go home and raise your son and try to get past all this. But first, we have some information blanks to fill in and we think you can help.

      So, let’s just get back to the task at hand, shall we? State your address and place of employment once again for the record, if you don’t mind.

      What if I do?

      Do what?

      Mind.

      Are you saying you won’t cooperate with this investigation?

      I’m just—never mind. It doesn’t matter. My address—1221 Elcott Road, McLean, Virginia. At the moment, anyway.

      You’re planning to move?

      I’m not sure. It’s a little awkward there right now, and I’ve been offered the chance to house-sit for some family friends so…Well, I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.

      Do you own the house in McLean?

      No. I think I mentioned yesterday that it belongs jointly to my husband and his mother. Actually, the house was left to Drum when his father died, but with the stipulation that my mother-in-law continue to live in it during her lifetime. Drum left her on the deed as co-owner because he was out of the country so much.

      But this information you’ve already verified, I’m sure.

      These are routine questions we have to ask. So, lastly, your employment.

      None, at the moment. My son just turned six. With him so young and with us living abroad during my husband’s last posting, I wasn’t really able to work. I’m thinking about looking for something part-time in the fall, though, once Jonah’s settled into first grade. Or, I was going to. But now that this has happened…

      Sure. Things are up in the air, I can see that. Anyway, Mrs. MacNeil, I want to go back now to a subject we touched on yesterday before we had to wrap up—the murder of Alexandra Kim Lee in Hong Kong last summer.

      I told you yesterday, I never met the woman.

      But you know who she is.

      Anyone who reads the papers or a newsmagazine would have heard of her. Her picture showed up there often enough, even before she died. I gather she was fairly well connected. Her murder was quite a little mystery back in the dog days of last summer. I seem to recall reading articles in Time—or Newsweek. Or both, I’m not sure. Weren’t her maid and butler killed, too?

      It wasn’t a butler. It was the doorman of her building. Obviously, the killer wanted to eliminate witnesses.

      Right. Anyway…I’m not sure why you keep asking me about her. It’s not like I have anything original to offer.

      You say most of what you know is from the papers. But not all, isn’t that right? You have heard of Ms. Lee outside the media coverage of her murder, haven’t you?

      (unintelligible)

      Pardon?

      I said, yes, but it’s still secondhand information. Until two days ago, when all hell broke loose, I only knew of her because of those newspaper stories. How would I have known her personally? She died in Hong Kong, right? At the time, we were living in London.

      She had a home in London, too. Did you know that?

      Not while we were there I didn’t. I only just found that out.

      At the same time you learned your husband knew her?

      (unintelligible)

      What was that, Mrs. MacNeil? You’ll have to speak up for the microphone.

      I said, you really like to rub it in, don’t you?

      What do you mean?

      The fact that Drum knew this woman—in the biblical sense, I suppose is what you’re implying.

      Is that true? Was he having an affair with her?

      I have no idea. You’re suggesting he was, apparently, but I have no proof of it.

      Do you think it’s possible?

      Anything is possible. I would have had no way of knowing. You know what my husband’s position was in London. He was CIA Chief of Station there. He had contact with all kinds of people, but I wasn’t allowed to ask questions about any of it. That’s how that game works, isn’t it? Need to know—isn’t that the operational term? Does your wife need to know about this conversation we’re having right now, Agent Andrews? Are you going to go home tonight and talk it over with her? I’m guessing not. You guys and your precious little spy games and secrets. You just love them.

      Mrs. MacNeil, if you and I were sleeping together, I guarantee you, my wife would know it in two minutes flat. She’d see the guilt in my face, for one thing, even before she found lipstick on my collar or whatever.

      Ah, well, there’s the problem—you just put your finger on it. You, Agent Andrews, would apparently feel guilty about sleeping with another woman and your wife would pick up on that. Bravo. She’s a lucky woman. Nice to be married to a man you can count on.

      Are you saying your husband was unreliable in a general sense? Or just that he didn’t love you? Mrs. MacNeil? Carrie? Would you like some water?

      No, I’m fine. I just—I thought—at the time…I knew there were other women. I did. Not because Drum showed any sign of guilt, mind you. Oh, there was a little pro forma remorse, maybe, on a couple of occasions when I tried to confront him about it, but I wouldn’t call it guilt. He didn’t even try all that hard to deny it. He said it was the nature of the job, that it didn’t mean anything.

      Not to him, maybe….

      Look, you have to understand, Drum’s twenty years older than me. His career and his habits were firmly established long before I came along. Not that I knew that when I married him, mind you. But from the time I found out what he really did for a living, I had to accept that he would be keeping odd hours and meeting people I’d know nothing about—his intelligence contacts, agents, sources—whatever you