Scarecrow Returns

A SHORT BUFFET of cakes and coffee followed in the Roosevelt Room, as usually happened after a presidential audience.

Zack and Emma were showing the President Bertie’s many features while Champion chatted with Brooke Ulacco.

Mother’s husband, Ralph, was also there in his best suit and a truly awful tie, yet Mother looped her arm firmly through his as they chatted amiably with Baba and Schofield.

“So, Scarecrow,” Mother said. “Did they ever find that CIA asshole, Calderon, the ‘Lord of Anarchy’?”

Schofield shook his head. “No, but I’m guessing that one day I’ll be called into a high-level meeting and at that meeting will be a very senior CIA asshole who will tell me that Marius Calderon has been found, dead.”

“Only he won’t be dead . . .” Mother said.

“No. Calderon is one of the CIA’s best and brightest. He formulated that plan for Dragon Island nearly thirty years ago and it worked perfectly—everything went as he foresaw it, except for one variable: us. If we hadn’t been up there, all of China and most of the northern hemisphere would be in ashes right now. No, I wouldn’t be surprised if Marius Calderon is already back in the States, back at Langley with a new face and a new name, but probably the same office.”

A few minutes later, the President quietly tapped Schofield on the shoulder. “Captain, a word, please.” He guided him out of the room.

They went downstairs to the Situation Room, where some intelligence people waited, including the directors of the DIA and CIA.

“Captain,” the President said, “I want you to hear this right from the source. Director.”

The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency stepped forward, looking suitably grim. Despite himself, he looked Schofield up and down before he spoke, as if assessing the man who had ruined a long-laid CIA plan.

“Mr. President. Captain Schofield. We finally found Marius Calderon. He’s dead. Two weeks ago, his submersible was found by a Norwegian fishing trawler, drifting in the Arctic Ocean. The submersible’s oxygen supply had malfunctioned sometime after Calderon went under. He suffocated.”

Schofield looked the CIA director square in the eye.

“Thank you, Director. I never expected to hear that.”

Schofield returned to the soirée in the Roosevelt Room.

He was met at the door by Mother and Brooke Ulacco.

“Hey, Scarecrow. We were just talking with Sexy French Chick.” Mother jerked her chin over at Champion. “Guess what? Do you know what renard means in English?”

“No.”

“Renard,” Mother said slowly, “is French for fox.”

Schofield took this in. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. I think there might be something in that,” Mother said. “You know what else? She asked if you might be open to joining her for a drink after this.”

Schofield glanced over at Champion—and caught her looking at him before she turned quickly away.

He turned to Ulacco. “Thoughts?”

Brooke Ulacco shrugged. “It was always going to take a formidable woman to light a spark in you again. And that woman is pretty damn formidable. I say, go for it. A date would be good for you. Mother?”

“I approve,” Mother said softly as she gave Schofield a peck on the cheek. “And I think the old Fox would, too.”

Schofield gazed at Veronique Champion—Renard, Fox—for a long moment, thinking about it.

And then he walked over to join her.

Later that night, Schofield and Champion could be seen in an all-night coffee shop a few blocks from the White House, talking, smiling and, occasionally, laughing.

They talked long into the night.

It was late, after two A.M., when Schofield returned to his temporary barracks apartment at the Marine Corps complex in Arlington.

There was something on his bed.

On the pillow.

A pair of battered wraparound reflective glasses, with an A-in-a-circle etched into them.

His glasses, last seen in the possession of Marius Calderon.

There was nothing else with them. No note. Nothing.

Scarecrow glanced uneasily around the apartment. Then he picked up the glasses and gazed at them long and hard.