Chimera by David Wellington Page A

that. I only knew
about it because once a year a guy from the CIA would come to our house for
dinner. After we ate, they would send me to my room and tell me to play my music
loud so he could debrief them.”
    That was standard practice for the CIA, Chapel
knew. Defectors from foreign countries and anyone who worked on projects
involving national security were debriefed on a yearly basis to make sure no
foreign spies had contacted them and they hadn’t accidentally revealed sensitive
information.
    â€œDid you ever overhear anything you weren’t
supposed to?” Chapel asked.
    â€œNo, never. I was still trying to be a good kid
back then. I thought it would make them like me more. Mom and Dad were both cold
fish, and I was always trying to find some way to get their approval. I used to
look forward to the CIA guy’s visits. It made me feel like my life was a little
more exciting than other kids’. He was always nice to me, too. Nicer than my
parents.”
    â€œAngel,” Chapel said, under his breath.
    â€œAlready working on it, sugar,” the voice in his
ear said. “Give me a sec.”
    Julia stared at him. More specifically, she stared
at his ear. “Oh, God,” she said. “You’ve got a Bluetooth. What a
nonsurprise.”
    He reached toward the hands-free set nestled in his
ear, but he didn’t touch it. “I need to stay connected,” he told her.
    â€œThe only people in New York who wear those things
are bankers and finance types,” she said. “People who are rich enough that
nobody dares tell them they look like douche bags. We all got pretty tired after
a while of them walking around talking to invisible people all the time. It used
to be you could tell if somebody was a crazy bum because he did that. Suddenly
you had to take that kind of behavior seriously.”
    Chapel could only shrug. “Excuse me for one
second,” he told her.
    â€œWhatever,” she said, and turned to look out her
window.
    Angel eventually came back on the line. “This one
took some digging. There are a lot of sealed records here . . . Helen
Taggart née Bryant, William Taggart—they were both on somebody’s payroll,
definitely, up until the mid-nineties. Tax records only show they worked for an
unspecified government agency. That’s unusual—the IRS doesn’t mess around. The
CIA should have been generating pay stubs and W-2 forms like anybody else.”
    â€œSounds like they were being paid out of a black
budget.”
    â€œWhich is pretty much a brick wall when you’re
trying to follow a money trail,” Angel agreed. “I did find one thing, though,
that’s going to make you so proud of me. William Taggart is still working as a
research scientist, and that means he depends on grant money that has to be
accounted for scrupulously. In 2003, he got a grant from an anonymous donor, but
the check was paid by a bank in Langley, Virginia.”
    Which was where the CIA had its headquarters.
    â€œThat was some inspired detective work,
absolutely,” Chapel said. Not for the first time he uttered silent thanks that
Angel was on his side. What she’d uncovered wasn’t cast-iron proof that William
Taggart had worked for the CIA, but it was pretty damning—and it was enough to
confirm what his daughter had said.
    â€œOne other thing,” Angel said, “I can definitely
confirm that a William Taggart, a Helen Taggart, and a Julia Taggart all lived
in Phoenicia, New York, until 1995. The elder Taggarts paid mortgage payments
and property taxes there, and the woman you’re sitting next to was a student at
the local elementary school.”
    â€œNow you’re just showing off,” Chapel said, with a
chuckle. “I don’t suppose there are any military bases in that area? Maybe a
detention facility?”
    â€œNo likely suspects yet,” Angel said, “but I’m
still looking