by Tee O'Fallon
While he’d been ogling her assets, she’d walked up to his desk, trailing her fingers lovingly over his equipment, wearing an adorable look of wonder on her face, as if she’d just discovered the holy grail. Starting with his open laptop, she inspected his other two computers, the printers, scanners, and bank of monitors, touching every piece of hardware as if she were fondling a lover.
“Oh my.” She smiled. “They’re…beautiful. Why do you have all this?”
He laughed. So that’s what it took to get her to smile at him? A bunch of inanimate hardware? Only a top-notch CIA analyst accustomed to operating the highest-end computers in the world would have such a complete appreciation of his operating system.
“Partly because my grandfather developed a fondness for technology late in life, and partly because of the plans I have for this place.”
“Plans?” She leaned on the edge of his desk, swirling the ice cubes in her glass, making the charms on her bracelet jingle.
“Another time.” Explaining would only make him start thinking about Jerry again, and there were more important things they had to discuss. He logged off the internet and pulled up a blank Word document. “Have a seat.” He stood and indicated she should sit at his desk. After she did, he pushed in the rolling chair, noting her feet dangled a good three inches off the floor. “In as much detail as possible, type out what was said in that chat room, and who said it.”
Swiveling the chair, she looked up at him. “You know I can’t do that. It’s beyond classified. It’s ten levels above top secret.”
“I don’t give a shit.” He grabbed the police report Jake had given him earlier and smacked it on the desk with enough force that she flinched. “Someone injected epoxy into your door locks and dead bolts, then glued all your windows shut so they wouldn’t open. That same someone doused the inside of your house with kerosene. If by some miracle you escaped, I guarantee you he was out there waiting to finish the job he botched the other night. If Jake and I hadn’t been there, he would have. That oughta shitcan any doubts you may have about the danger you’re in. You were supposed to die in that fire. Do you know what happens to the human body when it burns?”
Without waiting for a response, he leaned in. “If you’re lucky, you’ll die of smoke inhalation before the flames get to you. If not, first your hair will burn off. Then the outer layers of your skin will start to fry and peel away. The pain will be excruciating, at least until your nerve endings are fried and you can’t feel a damned thing.”
He’d kept the inflection in his voice flat, devoid of emotion, but when he began envisioning what he’d just described happening to Trista, he lost it, and he couldn’t stop his tone from hardening more. “Then your skin will shrink and split open. You might burn for as long as seven hours, but don’t worry…” Leaning even closer, he planted his hands on the chair’s armrests, caging her in, growling through gritted teeth. “You’ll be dead long before then.”
With his face so close to hers, barely a few inches away, he had an up close and personal view of the tears gathering in her eyes just before they tumbled down her cheeks. When her lips trembled, he felt like the biggest shithead on the planet, but he had a point to make.
Shit. He straightened, dragging a hand down his face, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “I called Langley while I was out, and those dickheads you work for still won’t tell me anything. But they sure wanted to know where I’d stashed you. It pissed the fuckers off when I wouldn’t tell them.”
Matt laughed bitterly. “Eventually, they’ll figure out I no longer live at the address listed in my personnel file. That won’t stump them forever. Soon, they’ll do a property search and find this place. For now, though, I’m keeping them in the dark.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “If I don’t know everything there is to know about what’s going on, I can’t protect you. The time for secrecy is over. Understand?”
She sucked in a deep breath, her entire body trembling. The urge to take her in his arms and kiss away her fears blasted him from out of nowhere. Fighting that instinct, he straightened and stepped back. If he didn’t put some space between them, he might very well lose the battle going on in his head and do something stupid. Like kiss her again.
“You okay?” he asked, gentling his tone.
Nodding, she swiped at the tears on her face and began typing. Matt stood over her shoulder, watching her fingers fly across the keyboard. Less than a minute passed, then she pushed the chair back so he could read what she’d typed.
Karakurt: He is not who he says he is.
White: If this comes out, it will ruin everything. Who made the discovery?
Banks: A reporter. Thomas George.
White: Does anyone else know?
Karakurt: Aside from our own people, none.
White: He must be stopped before this information is released to the public.
Banks: Understood. Although, other matters are moving forward. I leave for Iqaluit in an hour.
Karakurt: I’ll take care of it.
White: Good. Report in when—”
“That’s it?” He raised his brows.
She nodded. “Word for word. Photographic memory, remember?”
Then she looked up at him and gave him a smile, one of the few he’d gotten from her. I’ll take that. “Can you identify who these people are?”
“Karakurt is the code name for Alexy Nikolaevich Lukashin. Officially, Lukashin is a cultural attaché to the Embassy of the Russian Federation in Washington, D.C. Unofficially, we—the CIA—know him to be the rezidentura, a legal resident spy.”
“The others?” He pointed to the screen.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Everyone uses an alias, but I’ve been following Lukashin for so long, I know his code name. The other names I don’t recognize.”
“Lukashin referred to someone, although not by name.” He reread what Trista had typed. “He’s not who he says he is, and if it comes out, it will ruin everything. Do you know what he’s talking about?”
“No idea.” Again, she shook her head.
“Can you find Lukashin? Without letting it be known where you are?”
“Not without Dark Curtain.”
“The hide-and-seek program you developed.”
She uttered a feminine snort. “You were paying attention.”
“It’s my job. So let’s try to figure this out with what we’ve got.” He sat on the edge of the desk, angling the laptop so he could still see the screen. “Whoever White is, he seems to have authority over Lukashin, essentially ordering him to take care of the reporter, Thomas George.”
“Banks, however,” Trista interjected, “seems to answer to Lukashin.”
“Agreed.” He began massaging his chin, the side she hadn’t kicked. “Iqaluit…don’t know where it is, but I feel as if I’ve heard of it recently in the news. Is that an Inuit name?”
“That, I can answer.” Her eyes sparkled as she opened a search engine and quickly pulled up a map of northern Canada and the surrounding Arctic Circle. “I was researching Iqaluit right before the fire. It’s a tiny town by most standards, but the largest northern city in Canada. And,” she added, zooming in, “it has an airport.”
“Aside from the airport, there’s not much up there.” From what he could see on the map, the entire city was surrounded by absolutely nothing.
“Can I turn these on?” She pointed to the other two monitors on his desk. “I want to show you the articles I found on Iqaluit.”
When he nodded, she pushed the power buttons, and again, her fingers clicked on the keyboard with speed and expert precision. In seconds, a different article displayed on each of the three monitors. Resting a hand on the back of her chair, he leaned in and began reading. When she sat back, her thick, silky hair brushed against his fingers, making it tough as hell to concentrate.
Somehow he managed, and five minutes later, he’d read all three articles. “So there’s a military power play at work here between the Ru
ssians and the Canadians. And the Canadians are scared the Russians will take over the shipping routes and control vast areas of untapped resources in the Arctic Circle. Iqaluit is where the Canadian government will meet to figure out how to thwart them.”
“I’m impressed.” Again, she smiled at him, and again, he liked it. Too much.
He slanted her a sarcastic look. “I did go to college.”
“I never meant to imply you hadn’t.” She turned to face him full on, crossing her arms, plumping her breasts. “But not every college graduate can pick up on the subtle nuances of an international article with worldwide implications so quickly, let alone cut to the heart of the matter with such pinpoint accuracy.” She scrunched her face, something he’d seen her do when she was pondering truly deep stuff. “What did you study in college?”
“Political science and law.” With a few criminal justice classes on the side that he’d intentionally failed to mention to his father.
“Where did you get your degree?” she asked.
“Harvard.”
“No shit.” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
He snorted at her spontaneous curse word. She was already getting the hang of it. “Try to contain your shock. Cops can read.”
“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“Clearly.” He scowled.
“How is it you wound up in law enforcement instead of practicing law?”
“Fate, I guess.” And a life-altering event he wasn’t prepared to share. “Sometimes life has a way of pointing us in the direction we were always meant to go, even if it wasn’t where we thought we’d wind up.”
Clear green eyes held his for several moments. “Sounds like there’s a story there. Care to elaborate?”
“No.” The word came from his mouth with more force than he intended. “We have more important matters to discuss than”—my fucked up life—“my past.” Still, he’d enjoyed the spirited banter, finding she was easy to talk to and smart as a whip. Not that he was surprised. And she hadn’t even noticed that she’d just had an entire conversation with him without stammering once. “This reporter, Thomas George. Did you get around to researching him yet?”
“No. I didn’t get the chance before the fire, and after that, I assumed my boss would assign someone to contact him.” She frowned, and a look of worry came to her eyes. “Do you think he really did?”
“He’d be stupid not to. Someone tried to kill you just for overhearing that chat, and the wording indicates George knows something critical enough that Lukashin’s boss ordered him stopped.” He hooked his fingers into quotation marks as he said the last word. “I’d say Thomas George was on their hit list before you ever made the top ten.” Which presented one helluva dilemma.
As a sworn police officer, Matt was ethically and duty-bound to protect someone if he thought their life was in danger. But this was a CIA matter, and like Trista, he wasn’t an operative. Sure, he had most of the training and skills, but that didn’t classify him as a field agent. Regardless, he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. What’s more, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Trista’s boss was hiding something, and not just because Matt didn’t have clearance.
He opened the desk’s side drawer and pulled out a cell phone, handing it to her. “This is a burner phone. Unlisted and untraceable. Call your boss and ask him if he had someone call that reporter or notify the local PD that there might be a hit on him. Put the call on speakerphone but don’t tell him I’m here. If he asks where you are, don’t tell him.”
Hesitating for only a moment, she stood and dialed, putting the call on speaker.
“Hello,” a voice Matt recognized as Wayne Gurgas answered.
“Wayne, it’s Trista.”
A lengthy pause followed before Gurgas replied, “Why are you calling?”
Odd, Matt thought, surprised he hadn’t asked Trista how she was doing, what with nearly being murdered in a fire less than twenty-four hours ago.
“I’ve been thinking,” she answered, looking at Matt. “I’m worried about that reporter. Thomas George. Did you or someone else call him or notify the police that he might be in danger?”
“For Christ’s sake, Trista. This is classified information you’re discussing over an open line.” There was another pause, then a door slammed shut in the background. “I told you to stay out of this.”
“So you did warn him?” she asked.
“I’ve had someone trying to reach George for days. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.” Another pause, this one lengthier. “Where are you staying?”
Matt shook his head, re-emphasizing his warning.
“Someplace safe.” Her brows knit together, and it was obvious she was just as suspicious of Wayne’s responses as he was.
Matt heard a click and grabbed the phone, ending the call.
“Oh my God.” Her eyes went wide.
“Yeah.” He powered off the phone. “He started to trace the call.”
“Why would he do that?” She sank into the chair.
“I don’t know.” But he damned sure wanted to find out where she was.
While Matt had been out, he’d also called Buck. His boss had informed him that Gurgas had changed his mind, wanting to put Trista in a safe house of the CIA’s choosing. Something had niggled at Buck, and his boss had refused. From Buck’s description, Gurgas had gotten severely hot under the collar, trying to pull rank. Buck stood his ground and eventually Gurgas backed down. For the moment, anyway. Although Buck suspected he hadn’t heard the last of Gurgas and ordered Matt to stay far away from Langley.
“I wonder if he really has someone checking up on George?” She began tapping her fingers on the desk, then looked up at him. “Even if I can find Thomas George, it would be an operative’s job to contact him.”
“Do you see any operatives around here?”
Grinning, she turned back to the computer and began clicking away. The speed with which she pulled up one database after another was nothing short of amazing. She really was a computer prodigy. A brainiac. Most computer geeks he’d met were just that. Geeks. She, on the other hand, was one hot geek.
In less than three minutes, she had a home address, phone number, and employer information. Thomas George was a freelance investigative reporter who wrote a lot of articles for the Arlington Sentinel. George lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, a six-hour drive from Langley.
Using the burner phone, he called George and left a message on the man’s voicemail urgently requesting a callback. He debated calling the Charlotte police, but not having any contacts in that department meant he had no assurances they’d take him seriously. Besides, word might get back to Langley that a CIA K-9 officer was snooping around, way off his turf.
“Dinner’s up,” Nick’s deep voice came from the kitchen.
“Go ahead,” he said to Trista. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
She grabbed her empty glass and left his office. Staring at the monitors, he reprocessed everything he’d learned today and was just as disturbed by it the second go-around.
The same instincts that had kept him alive in the Middle East during his stint with the Marines, and later with the Alexandria PD, were screaming out a warning to him as surely as if it were painted on the side of a patrol car. Something was very wrong inside Langley.
And Trista still had a bull’s-eye on her forehead.
Chapter Fifteen
For the tenth time that morning, Trista yawned. It was seven a.m., but despite going to bed at ten, she was still wiped out. All because of what she’d discovered in the bottom of the bag.
After slipping on the sexy emerald-green silk nightie Matt had bought for her, she’d run her hands down her body, luxuriating in the sensual slide of the slinky material over her skin. Then she’d imagined the feel of his hands doing the same, and from that moment on, sleep had been slow to come. In fact, she’d tossed and turned half the night.
What was he thinking, buying me that?
> Although, she was glad he had. She’d never slept in anything so pretty. Even the charm bracelet had been a welcome surprise, and she’d fallen asleep wearing that, too. She didn’t wear jewelry—her toe ring being the only exception—but for some reason, she loved the silver bracelet.
“C’mon, Poofy.” The Angora mewed, circling her legs, rubbing his head against the back of her calf. With Matt’s promise to keep the house canine-free, Poofy now had the run of the place, and that suited them both fine.
At the bottom of the stairs, she and Poofy paused at the sound of men’s laughter coming from the kitchen. Last night had been fun. The poker part, anyway. The part where Matt had scared the shit—er, pooh—out of her with his description of human charred flesh, not so much. But working with him to reason out what was going on with the CIA and the Russians had been enlightening. Matt was intelligent and quick-witted, and she admired his dedication to his job. Hopefully, that reporter would get back to him today. She’d feel better if she didn’t have to worry about the man’s safety.
“Morning, pixie girl.” Nick vacated his kitchen stool, motioning for her to sit.
Jaime poured coffee into a travel mug and handed it to her, along with the milk carton.
She accepted the mug and poured in a hefty amount of milk. “Where’s everyone else?”
“In the kennel.” Nick tipped his head. “Matt’s outside.”
Capping her coffee, she took a sip, realizing how nice it was to feel comfortable socializing with people. Such a simple thing had always been a major challenge for her. Bonnie and Kevin were the only constants in her social circle. Getting nicknamed “Brainiac” early on in life hadn’t exactly garnered her many friends. No, she much preferred being called “pixie.” Especially by a group of handsome, hunky men.
Why is that?
Her social abilities were definitely evolving since she’d begun staying with Matt and his friends. The stammering thing—even around Matt—seemed to be getting better as well. During their conversation yesterday in his office, she hadn’t stammered once. Although, she had to admit, they’d focused on work matters, an area of her life in which she was totally confident. It was the personal stuff that got her all tongue-twisted.