There Are No Accidents Read online

  THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS

  A Linked Series

  Susan Bacoyanis

  © Susan Bacoyanis 2016

  Susan Bacoyanis has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Dedicated to all women who have suffered abuse

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE: PARANOIA

  Chapter 1

  WASHINGTON

  Chapter 2

  LOS ANGELES

  Chapter 3

  THE JOURNEY

  PART TWO: CAT NAP

  Chapter 4

  LOVE

  Chapter 5

  DEATH

  Chapter 6

  REVENGE

  PART THREE: THE JOURNAL

  Chapter 7

  THE SOURCE

  Chapter 8

  FUSION

  Chapter 9

  THE CHASE

  Chapter 10

  THE RECKONING

  Chapter 11

  CONSEQUENCES

  Chapter 12

  THE ILLUSION

  Chapter 13

  ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD

  Chapter 14

  LIBERATION

  Chapter 15

  CATCH 22 SITUATION

  Chapter 16

  SURVIVAL

  Chapter 17

  FLYING SOLO

  PART ONE: PARANOIA

  Chapter 1

  WASHINGTON

  I wake early and reach for him, but he turns away. It’s been three months since he touched me and I feel something is dreadfully wrong. I reach out again and place my hand on his back. I pace the rhythm of his breathing. He pats me with a sterile backhand action.

  “Gotta’ get up,” he says. “Busy day.” I look at the clock.

  “But it’s only 4:30?” I say. “You’ve got three hours.” He grunts irritably.

  “Have to find the place, deal with traffic… it’s an important conference. Go back to sleep.” His voice trails off as he leaves the room. I lie here, turning things over in my mind. “Come to Washington,” he’d said, we’ll take a mini vacation… spend a few days seeing the sights and I’ll tag the conference onto the end of the trip… you’ll enjoy it.” But it’s been awful. He’s been short tempered, unkind and so angry. Why is he so angry?

  It’s 5 a.m. I get up, walk into the other room of our hotel suite and make coffee. I sit and listen to the coffee forcing its essence into the glass pot. The sound resonates with the tone of my nervous system. I try to think, but my mind lacks clarity, so I switch on the TV in an effort to deflect my anxiety.

  At 5:30 a.m. He’s standing in the doorway. “What are you doing up?” he says.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “I thought I’d join you for an early breakfast.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “I don’t have time to eat. I need to go—" He pauses and changes his tone, “But you should go down for breakfast, the food’s good and they have bacon on the menu. Go and indulge yourself.” He sounded almost upbeat in his persuasion.

  “Ok,” I reply, warming to his concern and I push him for more affection. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?” But instead of reassurance, I register a look of panic flicker across his face. “What’s the matter?” I say.

  “Nothing,” he lies and avoids eye contact. “I’ll hand in my key… don’t forget to check out.” He starts for the door.

  “Call me?” I say, knowing that he’s not allowed to disclose any information. His work is top secret, classified. No contact numbers, nothing. He used to joke about it saying, “If I tell you what I’m doing… I’ll have to kill you.”

  “I’m leaving now,” he says. “See you later,” and he steps outside, closes the door behind him and he is gone.

  *

  There’s a woman I’ve not met, who works with him. She’s new. She transferred from the east coast to his department in California. He says she’s brilliant. She’s younger than me, blonde and recently single. She’s CIA. Everyone from his work was invited to attend a dinner. I bought a new dress, took time to look good. I wanted to meet her, weigh up my opposition. I asked him, “How do I look?” and he said, “You look fine.” He never tells me I look beautiful, even when I make an effort, he always says, “You look fine.” I made an effort that night and she didn’t turn up.

  My phone rings and startles me. I push aside my morose memories and answer the unknown number.

  “Hello,” he says. “Thought I’d give you a quick call before the conference begins. Do remember to check out and hand in your key… there won’t be time later.” He then adds something unusual, “If you’d like, I can give you this number?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I say, as I quickly write it down. “What a treat to have a contact number.”

  “Well now you have it. Oh… and don’t forget to have breakfast. Remember, they stop serving at 9:30 a.m.” He says, almost as an afterthought… but it wasn’t. I start to answer, but he’s gone and I’m talking to the dial tone. He didn’t even say goodbye.

  What a surprise, I have a phone number and he was nice. I wish I’d said something nice too. I wish I’d said, “I love you.” I know… I’ll call back. It’s 7:15 a.m. I should just catch him and I call the number scribbled on the pad. A man answers, but it’s not him.

  “Hello,” I say. “I was just speaking with my husband, please put him on the phone, his name is—”

  “Excuse me ma’am, but there’s no one here.”

  “Is this the lobby of the conference center?”

  “Yes ma’am, but there’s no one here yet, only me. I’m the janitor and the conference doesn’t begin until 9:30 a.m.” I hang up and slump into the chair, stunned. He said it began at 7:30 a.m. He lied to me. Where is he? My thoughts switch to her. I bet he's with her now. Kelly’s her name. I rush into the bedroom and urgently go through his pockets. I’m searching for something, anything. A scrap of paper, a phone number, but there is nothing. Of course there wouldn’t be, he’s good at this stuff. He’s a professional. “Don’t write numbers on a notepad,” he’d instruct me. “Anyone can retrieve the number if they need to.” He was always watching, aware of his surroundings. I won’t find anything, he’s too smart. He knows how to play the game in that secret world in which he works. He plans everything, down to the finest detail.

  I sit to rest my heart which is racing ahead of its normal beat. I too can plan, can think like him if I just try to get inside his head. I could call Kelly? Get her number from the main switchboard. Ask her if she’s seen my husband. I look at the time, damn, we’re three hours ahead of the main office in California. I bet he’s with her in a hotel, in her room, in her bed. I feel a rush of adrenaline as my anger rises. I wish I knew where she’s staying. It might be here, in this hotel, maybe on the next floor. No… he wouldn’t risk being seen, he knows I’ll go down for breakfast. Maybe that’s what he wants? What if he’s watching me? Perhaps they have plans and I’m in the way. I always thought divorce was an option, but he’s a catholic. Maybe divorce is too complicated… this doesn’t make sense. Why the insistence that I go to breakfast? Why the special call to remind me? What if he wants me to leave the room at that time? What if he has someone else watching me? She’s CIA. She could arrange it, no questions asked. She would know people in field operations. People who make people disappear by setting up a seemingly innocuous situation. They’re trained; they know how to cover their tracks.

  I walk through to the bedroom, the drapes are closed. I slowly peel back one edge and look out of the window. There’s a parking lot below and my eyes begin scanning row upon row of cars. I think I see a
glint of light, the flash of binoculars obscuring the eyes of a nondescript man, sitting, watching, waiting for me to leave. I quickly close the drapes. My heart is thumping now. I’ll leave them closed and they won’t know I’m still here.

  I must think with a clear head, so I make myself sit down and collect my thoughts. I take a deep breath to calm myself and begin to think logically. We were issued two keys to this room, mine and his. This morning he handed his key into the front desk. But, what if he didn’t? What if he still has it? Or maybe someone else has it now? I go to the front door and lock it. I’m safe… I’m safe while I’m still here. No one can get in. I pour some coffee, don’t need breakfast. If I’m hungry I’ll eat the leftover chips. Chips will be fine… chips and coffee. I have a couple of chocolates too, always eat chocolate when I’m upset. Stop now! I mustn’t waffle. I must remain in control.

  I hear a noise. I go and stand by the front door and listen. There’s someone outside. I look through the peephole… can’t see anyone. Probably someone walking along the corridor. I check again and grab a chair to prop up against the door. My heart’s pounding. I need to do something positive… I’ll get dressed. It would be sensible to have clothes on, just in case anything happens. I go into the bathroom and see his shaving kit spread over the vanity unit. He usually packs it himself. He must have been short on time. I collect the strewn, intimate possessions and pack them into the leather washbag I bought him last Christmas. I stand a moment, frozen in a memory and wonder what happened to the man I married. Where and when did he leave?

  It’s already 8 a.m. I shower, first locking the bathroom door as memories of Psycho pulse my brain. They’ll be expecting me to go to breakfast now, but I won’t go. That woman, Kelly . . . I can barely say her name. She’ll have arranged for someone to watch the door and once I leave, they’ll enter, perhaps using his key and then they’ll wait. Perhaps they’ll hide in the bathroom out of my sight so that when I return from breakfast, I’ll step inside the room, closing the front door behind me unaware that I’m not alone. After a few minutes they’ll discreetly leave and no one will know except them and it will be over.

  I shiver with the thought of what might be planned for me. It’s 8:30 a.m. I pull his clothes from the closet and fold them into his case. I’m a good packer, always folding the clothes so he looks good. Why am I bothering now? I’ve groomed him for Kelly; what a fool I’ve been. Perhaps I should leave a note tucked into the pocket of his gray suit. It would read Divorce would have been an option. I momentarily convince myself that I’m being ridiculous. My imagination has leapt into the realms of fantasy. He wouldn’t go this far… the penalty is too severe to warrant the risk.

  I pack my own case and dress in something suitable for my day alone and the flight home to California. I wonder about breakfast? I could easily slip downstairs and indulge in a substantial meal to sustain me through the day. I walk to the window to open the drapes, but something stops me. It’s just a feeling, an instinctive gut feeling that kicks in when I’m in danger. Logic doesn’t work now I’m — engaged in a fight-or-flight mode and every muscle in my body is set for flight. I resist the temptation to look, thinking that if the drapes move now, they’ll know for sure that I’m still here.

  I calm myself, regain control and listen to the language of my body. I sit. Take the time to think and collect my thoughts. I have an advantage, I know how he thinks, his methods, his pace, his vulnerability. He’ll be assessing the timeline, saying, “She has less than an hour to leave the room and get breakfast.” He’ll be a human stopwatch, counting me down to the end.

  I drag the suitcases into the other room and stack them by the front door. It’s 9 a.m. I bet they’re worried now. Only half an hour before they stop serving breakfast. I position myself in a chair opposite the front door and wait. The clock strikes 9:30 a.m. Now they know I’m not going to breakfast. What will they do? Maybe they’ll send someone to my room and when they knock on the door, I’ll ask, “Who’s there?” They’ll answer, “Housekeeping,” and I’ll say, “No thank you,” and I won’t let them in. This is when they’ll try his key, but they won’t get in as I’ve bolted the door.

  I put on my coat and I’m ready to leave. I must leave now, I can’t risk a delay. I pick up the phone to call the bell captain and I’m struck by a thought! How will I know it’s really him? They could switch him on the way to my room. I stand here bundled up in my coat thinking how to get out… alive. My mind races, searching for a solution, expending precious seconds of my life. A neuron fires signaling an instruction and I respond instantly. I’ll prop the door open with one suitcase and get them all outside. I’ll be safer there. I have one last look around to check all is packed, then I call the front desk. “Could you send a bell captain, room 512,” I request. They say they’ll come immediately. I must act fast. I put my ear to the front door and listen. Then I check the peephole. All seems clear. But just as I place my hand on the first of my three cases, someone knocks on the door. I’m paralyzed with fear! They knock again and I know it’s too soon for the bell captain, so I call, “Who’s there?” A woman’s voice replies.

  “Housekeeping,” as she fumbles with her key, trying to enter, but the door is still locked. She repeats her request.

  “Not now, thank you,” I answer, leaning up against the inside of the front door, listening for the sound of a housekeeping cart to validate her identity. I hear her knock at the next room and with relief slide down to find myself sitting on the floor. My heart is pounding so loudly now that I can barely hear anything other than my own biology.

  After a few seconds I compose myself and prepare for the bell captain. I must act quickly, so I swing open the door and place one case against it and push the other case out into the corridor. The room opens to a balcony, the setting is circular and I can see down to the ground floor. This area is spacious and open. I pull out the third suitcase into the corridor, letting the door close behind me. No one could force me back into the room now. I think I’m safe. I wait for the bell captain, my eyes fixed on the ascent of the glass elevator on the opposite side of the hotel. He arrives with his brass trolley and begins his walk around the circular terrace, stopping to respond to an elderly couple. He’s slow, slower than my uncontrollable heart rate. I look to my left and catch in my peripheral vision the movement of a woman in a black suit. She’s watching me. I look away. I wonder if she’s Kelly? No, Kelly would not be seen here, she’d send another agent, probably a woman, someone subordinate. There are people around, I’m not alone, so there’s nothing she can do.

  “Good morning.” The bell captain’s voice startles me. He looks genuine, he’s very young, far too young to be enlisted in the CIA. He loads my bags onto his trolley and I walk beside him to the glass elevator. I watch the woman in the black suit as we descend until she’s out of sight. At the front desk I check out as arranged and request that they keep the bags until 3 p.m. I’m directed to the shuttle bus which is waiting outside the entrance. I don’t look back as I climb aboard and with relief, the doors close quickly behind me. I choose a seat adjacent to the driver and randomly scour the other passengers — none look suspicious. I’ve made it this far, but what next?

  “Where to?” the driver asks. I read the destination board and answer.

  “The mall please.”

  “You here on vacation?” he continues.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to limit this conversation. The driver looks me up and down, noting my ring finger and asks if I’m here with my husband. I answer yes and think to myself that he’s here not with me, but with her. The journey takes forever and my legs turn to jelly as I walk into the mall. Panic wells up inside me and I wonder if I will ever get through this ordeal. I find somewhere to sit and order a fruit juice. I must try to dilute the flow of adrenalin which is flooding my body. Even now, as I look around me, I feel as though I’m being watched. I know that these agencies swap agents when they tail someone, so as not to raise suspicion. He used to spot agents in
the crowd just for fun and when we’d fly, he’d identify the air marshals. It was all a game for him, but one I now needed to learn.

  I wonder if he’ll call me? He’ll know their plan has failed. If he calls, I wonder what he’ll say? I walk aimlessly around the mall for hours. I spend time in a book store and find myself in the “Self-Help” section. Titles such as How To Save Your Marriage and Do It Yourself Divorce are staring back at me from the shelves. I walk on. The Psychology of Love and Paranoia. Maybe this is the book I should buy. Perhaps I’m paranoid? If I told someone how I was feeling right now, they’d say I was crazy! No, this is real and I’m very afraid.

  Time passes slowly and I know I’m still in danger until he’s with me again. Strange as it sounds, I understand enough about this business to know that they… to use one of his vulgar expressions, don’t shit in their own backyard. Once we’re together and on our way back home, I’m safe… until the next time!

  I try to eat, and choose something I really like, but it tastes like cardboard. I’m tempted to have a glass of wine, but the tranquilizing effect would make me less aware and I need to have my wits about me… my life could depend on it. I oscillate between frantic and calm states of mind, thinking, “Who could I tell? What could I possibly say that would make anyone believe me? I feel so desperately alone.”

  At 2 p.m. I call the hotel to request the shuttle bus, and see two missed calls, both unknown numbers. Ah, it's him. I listen to my voicemail…

  “Conference going well,” he says. “On a short break, so thought I’d call, see how you’re doing.” I note a pause in his message and he’s asking about breakfast again. “Hope you enjoyed your breakfast, see you later, bye.” The call was logged at 11:30 a.m. He obviously called from a conference center phone.

  Next message at 1:30 p.m. It’s him again. “Hi, just going to lunch and thought I’d call… see if you’re having a good day. All’s going well here,” and again he pauses before… “Love you, bye.” I think carefully about his words. His last message was unusually affectionate. He never says “I love you” anymore not even the downgraded version…“love you”. Suddenly, I have clarity as a wave of neurotransmitters fire in unison and I realize what’s happening. He doesn’t know that I didn’t go to breakfast. He’s unaware that their plan has failed, because he’s been in a secure meeting where outside calls are prohibited. The follow-up call was his cover. A caring call from my husband, telling me he loved me. Who would ever suspect that he thought it was after the event!