“No, it was fine.” He tried to brush her off brusquely, but the girl wasn’t noticing.
He glanced toward Annie. Fuck, the officer was opening the door for her. She was about to get in the car and drive off. Forever. And he felt as if he was watching the best thing that had ever happened to him get away.
The officer said something, and Annie looked up in his direction, which also happened to be Dean’s direction.
Her gaze flickered on the woman and then . . .
Oh fuck. To him.
He was too far away to read her expression, but her body’s reaction said it all. She seemed to gasp and visibly stiffen.
He felt as if he’d slapped her.
What would she do? Would she call out to him? Come running toward him? Would she cry, bang on his chest, and demand to know why he’d made love to her like that and walked out after?
Would she unintentionally blow his cover and give him away to the policeman?
She did none of those things. She turned away as if he weren’t there. Telling him what he already knew: it was over.
Thirty-two
He’d sent a babysitter.
Annie had known as soon as she saw the uniformed officer through the peephole that Dan was responsible. He might not be able to see her safely back to Lewis, but he had sent someone who would.
He thought of everything, all right, and covered all his bases. The quintessential operator, always watching his “six,” even when he was walking away.
That he’d stayed to make sure his babysitter found her only made it worse. Seeing him had sent a fresh whipcord of pain shooting through her all over again. But she didn’t delude herself that it meant anything. He was just finishing the mission like a good operator. She didn’t want his guilt.
Annie’s babysitter was a thirtyish sergeant from Police Scotland’s Oban office, which was part of the Argyll and West Dunbartonshire division. Sergeant Brooks had been conscripted into service early this morning by the assistant chief constable and told very little other than that she was an important witness to the double murder and now international terrorist plot whom he was to escort to Lewis, where he would be met by Ministry of Defense Police (MDP) and other local officers.
Reading between the lines, Annie figured Sergeant Brooks had the misfortune of being close, qualified (he was authorized to carry a firearm), and available.
If he’d recognized her face from the papers, he didn’t let on—nor did he treat her as a recent suspect. He was polite, professional, and apparently not much on small talk—which suited her fine in her present mood.
Over the long hours they sat waiting in the small regional airport for their flight to Lewis, they probably exchanged no more than a dozen words. It wasn’t until right before they landed when he mentioned his two young daughters that his dour, nondescript face brightened with a smile. He was positively beaming with pride at her genuine admiration as he showed her the phone pictures of the two redheaded and adorable twins. She hadn’t noticed until then that he had quite a bit of red in his brown hair. The girls were about six—five and a half, he later told her—and were about to start school in the fall. She took it that the girls’ mother was more excited about that than he was.
“Lots of trouble out there for young lassies,” he said somberly.
Annie could hardly argue with that.
Admiring someone’s children had a way of breaking the ice, and the sergeant was considerably more animated for the rest of their journey. He told her a little about the organization of the police force in Scotland and gave her an idea of what she could expect when they arrived.
Annie wanted to be angry with Dan for his guilt-motivated protective services, but she had to admit the presence of the sergeant wasn’t entirely unwelcome. She knew Jean Paul was dead, but the armed officer did provide some comfort after all she’d been through in the past week.
It was with genuine gratitude that she thanked the sergeant for his safe escort when they arrived at Lewis and were met by local police and MDP officers.
From Sergeant Brooks, she’d learned that the MDP was a separate civilian—not military—special police force tasked with, among other things, policing high-security sites from nuclear facilities to military facilities and oil and gas terminals around the UK. They were involved because of the oil drilling operations. Unlike most police officers in Scotland, the MDP were heavily armed and reported to the UK government rather than to the Scottish government—neither of which played well to the local population.
She was introduced to a few others (two men and one woman) when they reached the station. They weren’t identified by the local chief inspector, but Annie marked them as “spooks,” aka MI5. Or would it be MI6, which like the US CIA dealt with matters outside domestic boundaries?
She didn’t know, and it didn’t really matter. For the next three hours she answered all their questions about Jean Paul, Claude, and Julien as best she could. Unfortunately, as she’d been kept completely out of the loop—or cell, in this case—she didn’t know much. Julien had never told her about his family or background. Now she understood why.
The MI agents also asked quite a few questions about the man who’d helped her. There wasn’t much she could tell them other than he’d saved her life. What she’d guessed, she kept to herself. She wasn’t going to be the one to blow his cover. Whatever he was mixed up with, it was obviously serious and dangerous.
She hated that he’d left her, but she didn’t want to see him killed.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one acting protectively.
The men questioning her seemed to know more than they were letting on as well, but they didn’t press her too hard. Dan’s contact must have a very long and strong reach.
It probably didn’t hurt that they’d learned who her stepfather was as well. Well-known billionaires had a way of making people overly ingratiating, which was one of the reasons she rarely mentioned him.
It was close to eight when the authorities finally finished questioning her. They were happy to hear that she didn’t intend to leave right away and said they might have some questions for her over the next few days as the investigation progressed.
Her pink bag was returned—along with her things from the guest house, which had been seized when she was a murder suspect—and a young constable offered to take her to a hotel.
She was glad he didn’t suggest the Harbour Bar & Guest House, which had too many memories. He took her to the Stornoway Hotel, where a room was waiting for her.
Her mother had been busy.
Annie had had very little to eat over the past twenty-four hours and didn’t object when the very effusive manager told her a late dinner was being prepared for her.
After forcing a few bites of the vegetarian pasta dish down, she collapsed on the bed and fell asleep moments after her head hit the pillow.
It had been a long and difficult day. Tomorrow would be better.
But God, how long would it take for her to stop looking over her shoulder, wondering if he would ever show up again?
And when would she stop missing him?
• • •
Dean didn’t know what was wrong with him. After getting rid of the receptionist in Oban, he’d caught the train to Glasgow, found a cheap hotel to sleep in, and made contact with the guy who was going to take care of getting him new docs. His passport would be ready in a couple of hours.
Everything was proceeding smoothly. He’d gotten away with minimal damage—and if that picture turned out not to have gone beyond Jean Paul’s phone, no damage. So why the hell couldn’t he relax? Why was he going over every detail of the past few days, feeling as if he’d missed something?
He couldn’t let go of the feeling that he’d made a mistake.
What had happened to his hard truths? He didn’t waste time by dwelling on things he couldn’t c
hange. He’d always been able to accept and move on. It was one of his greatest strengths, enabling him to mentally adjust quickly to changing circumstances. On an op, those changing circumstances almost always meant when things went to shit.
But this with Annie . . . ? His mind wasn’t adjusting, and it definitely wasn’t moving on twenty-four hours later. It was dwelling, big-time.
Frustrated, he decided to walk the forty minutes to the East End, where he was meeting his contact, rather than take a local train or cab. It was raining, or rather that drizzly mistlike rain that Scotland was famous for, but wet and uncomfortable were something he barely noticed anymore. He’d had it beaten out of him in BUD/S thirteen years ago.
They were meeting at a pub near Celtic Park Stadium, the legendary home of the Celtic Football (aka soccer) Club. Though it wasn’t game day, Dean had been cautioned against wearing Ranger blue and red. The fierce rivalry between the two Glaswegian clubs was serious business with a sectarian component that he hadn’t been aware of. He thought Protestant and Catholic crap like that only existed in Northern Ireland, but apparently Glasgow had its share.
The East End wasn’t the best part of Glasgow, but despite recent proof to the contrary, Dean did know how to keep his head down, and he was a bigger target than most “Neds” (a derogatory term for Scottish hooligans who had a penchant for track suits) wanted to fuck with.
The sites along London Road covered the gamut of residential, business, and industrial, but like with many parts of Glasgow, the main theme was red brick. Lots of it.
Like Liverpool in the south, Glasgow had made its mark as one of the great industrial cities, and it still retained some of its grit. Most people preferred the “nicer” Edinburgh, but Dean liked the working-class vibe of Glasgow. It was a long way from east Texas, but he could relate to the values, toughness, and underdog fighting spirit.
Dean arrived at the appointed time, found a booth, and ordered a pint of ale while he waited. The reason for choosing this place was clear. It was packed with men—women were a rarity at these kinds of working-class pubs—who didn’t give a shit and were too drunk to remember even if they did.
His contact was a few minutes late, but the transaction was completed before his glass was empty. The kid—these guys seemed to be getting younger every time—made his living by not asking questions, and once Dean had assured himself of the quality, there was no reason to stick around.
Now that he had what he needed, there was no reason for him to stick around. He could set up his new bank account online. He recalled Annie’s mention of the e-mail from her bank. He’d been too pissed about the tattoo and her accessing her e-mail to think about it. It didn’t seem significant, but he texted the LC to have Kate check it out anyway. He wasn’t going to leave any stone unturned.
He was almost back at his hotel when his phone vibrated with a return text. He pulled it out and looked at the one-word response: Belfast.
Shit. Dean had his marching orders. He knew what he had to do. Even if every instinct in his body fought against it.
He went inside and loaded up.
• • •
Annie had become a minor celebrity among the Stornoway activist community, as she found out when she arrived at camp and was immediately surrounded.
It wasn’t the kind of attention she wanted, but her fellow protesters were so genuinely horrified by everything she’d gone through and supportive that she patiently answered their questions and retold the story a couple of times.
The biggest welcome—and biggest surprise—was the hug from Marie. As part of the graduate student group that had traveled with Julien from America, she and Sergio had been questioned by the police extensively. But like Annie, the two Italian grad students had both been completely in the dark about what Julien, Jean Paul, and Claude really intended. Marie’s connection to the group had been a short-lived romance with Claude that had fizzled into friendship and a shared interest in the environment. She and her cousin Sergio—a fellow grad student—had been completely shocked by Julien’s and Claude’s connection to OPF.
It was oddly comforting to know that Annie hadn’t been the only one duped, and the two women bonded as they joined the group making signs for the big event that was taking place that weekend. According to Marie, she’d heard they hoped to have nearly five hundred people in town by then. The camp had already doubled in size since she left last Saturday.
God, had it only been five days?
So much had changed.
Martin, the director of a big marine conservation group here in the UK who was kind of serving as head honcho of the camp, asked her if she would be willing to give a few TV interviews to help get publicity for the event.
The aging English hippie bore an uncanny resemblance to the ice-cream guru Ben—or was it Jerry?—with his beard and curly brown hair that receded in a wide path to the back of his head.
He must have read her hesitation. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but I think it could really help raise awareness. The media are trying to portray us as a bunch of crazy terrorists, but when people see you . . .” He shrugged. “I think it will put a positive spin on the story. We don’t want to do anything illegal—we just want to get our message across. I know a little about your research. Maybe you could try to slip that in as well.”
He was right. Talking about it was the last thing she wanted to do—especially on TV. Nothing like telling the whole world you were an idiot.
“Could I think about it?” she asked.
“Sure. Take all the time you need as long as it’s by tomorrow—and I’m going to keep trying to convince you in the interim.”
She smiled. “Deal.”
He started to walk away, but then turned back. “Hey, do you dive?”
She nodded.
“A few of us are headed to the Stassa wreck on Harris later this afternoon. We have room for one more if you are interested. Marie is going.”
“I’m a novice,” Marie said. “Julien told me you were some kind of expert.”
Her thoughts immediately went to her Texan SEAL. “I’m not a professional—more of an enthusiast.”
Again she hesitated. She wasn’t exactly in a social mood. But the lure of a wreck dive was tempting—especially the Stassa. It was one of the “must do” dives she’d hoped to find time to do while she was here.
“Come on,” Marie said. “It will be fun.”
Annie hadn’t had a lot of that. The stay on Tiree had been painfully brief. Besides, she could use the distraction.
She nodded, and both Marie and Martin looked pleased.
Thirty-three
The hairs at the back of Dean’s neck were buzzing as he made his way through the terminal. There’s nothing to worry about, he told himself. He’d done everything he could. Jean Paul was dead. Annie wasn’t in danger.
Move on. Focus. He had a job to do—which included watching his own skin. He needed to calm down and stop looking like a meth addict crawling the walls for a fix or he was going to draw attention to himself.
An airport in the twenty-first century was not the place to act suspicious. Normally Dean avoided them because of the heightened security, preferring softer border checkpoints—or no border checkpoints. But as he didn’t have access to a boat anymore, and it wasn’t an international flight (Northern Ireland being part of the UK), he decided to take his chances rather than traveling three hours to the south of Scotland to catch a ferry that would take another few hours.
He got himself under control, and his new British passport passed the ID check without comment.
Everything was fine until he got in line to board the budget airline for the 1345 to Belfast and the buzzing intensified. His spidey senses weren’t just flaring; they were going crazy, telling him to turn back. That something wasn’t right.
He’d stayed alive for almost fo
urteen years by knowing when to listen to his instincts, and he wasn’t going to start ignoring them now.
He stepped out of line and found an empty gate where he could make the call.
“That was fast,” the LC said after they’d exchanged the code.
Dean paused. “I’m still in Glasgow.”
There was a return pause, where Dean was pretty sure Taylor was fighting to stay calm. “What’s the holdup?”
In other words, he’d sent him the text a few hours ago, and he should be on his way to Belfast by now. They might operate on a four-hour string in Honolulu, but the LC had expected him to be wheels up in more like one.
“I can’t go.”
That apparently exhausted the limits of the LC’s stay-calm reserves. “What the hell do you mean, you can’t go? Blake’s damned not-so-estranged sister just published another story, and I need someone to shut her up.”
“Donovan will have to take care of it.” Dynomite and Blake had been BUD/S buddies. If anyone could take care of Blake’s sister, it should be him.
“He’s occupied.”
“So am I.” He bit back some of his anger and tried to explain. “I can’t stand down on this, Ace. Something’s wrong—or it feels like something is wrong—and I can’t go until I’m sure Annie is okay. Hasn’t anyone ever . . . ?” Gotten under your skin? Made you lose your head? “Fuck, I don’t expect you to understand, but I can’t let this go.”
He couldn’t let her go.
There was a long enough silence where Dean wondered whether maybe the LC did understand. Was it Kate? Or maybe this other woman who’d warned them?
Eventually Taylor responded, “You can’t stand down on a lot of things.”
His tone was more wry than sarcastic, but Dean immediately stiffened. “Go ahead and say it.”
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