“And that one?” Aisha let her finger slide over the faintly pink and mottled mark on Vanessa’s biceps—where she’d been grazed by the Chechen’s bullet.
Vanessa forced herself not to squirm at the touch—she barely even acknowledged the scar, almost never touched it herself. She leaned away casually to lead into her lie. “I did some brush-up training this fall—jumped out of a plane and landed in the wrong bush.”
Enough focus on herself—Vanessa pointed to the scar she’d noticed earlier that evening at the base of Aisha’s neck. “What about that?”
“Probably when I was about nine, too. Shrapnel from a bombing on my street in Lebanon.”
Vanessa took that in; she’d asked around about Aisha and she knew enough about the factions and fighting in Lebanon to take a pretty clear guess what Aisha’s childhood had been like. A nightmare. She ran a finger around the rim of her glass. “You win.”
“No, not really.” Aisha tipped back her head to drain her shot. “You and me, we win, but we don’t win.”
“That sounds grim,” Vanessa tried to joke. “I hope you’re not one for gambling.”
“Only with life and death,” Aisha said, holding Vanessa’s gaze before she looked away again.
The music melded into a new song, and behind her, Vanessa felt the bartender in motion. She turned in time to admire his skill as he filled three small glasses with a liquid that was both milky and blue.
Vanessa made a face, glad she wasn’t drinking.
Aisha handed a large bill to the bartender. She slid one glass to Vanessa and raised the second before setting it down again without drinking.
Vanessa assumed the third glass was for the missing Tanya.
One long song later, Tanya finally appeared. She was thin, small-boned, and she wore a skimpy lingerie top that showed off her striking tattoo: A taloned bird of prey gripping a skull in its beak flew across her left shoulder.
Vanessa quickly studied Tanya’s face: eyes wide open, pupils dilated, makeup smudged over wan skin. High on something, she guessed.
Aisha greeted Tanya with a kiss-kiss, and then she introduced Vanessa as “Chloe, mon amour.”
Mon amour? Vanessa quickly donned the role of girlfriend as Tanya kissed her cheeks.
“À l’amour!” Aisha raised her glass, toasting Vanessa.
“À l’amour!” Tanya took the stool between the women and she grabbed her shot with shaking hands—but to her credit, she waited until Vanessa reluctantly picked up the third shot.
Ignoring Aisha, Vanessa smiled at Tanya. Fine, she could play Aisha’s lover, especially if it would get the intel they needed. And then she drank, sputtering as the sharp, cloying liquid stung her throat. Bourbon was no problem, but this stuff—her whole body seemed to go a little numb.
Aisha waved for another round and the bartender set them up with three more of the same. Tanya reached for the drink with trembling hands, gulping it back. Vanessa ignored hers. Aisha drank her second glass more slowly. Then she surprised Vanessa; she reached across Tanya to gently touch Vanessa’s cheek where the tiny cuts were still visible. Her eyes flashed, and her mouth quivered as she spoke—“Chloe got hurt yesterday. She was in the courtyard when the bomb went off. She could have been killed. I might have lost the love of my life forever.”
Tanya’s deep, dark eyes filled with tears. She broke into speech—a Slavic language, probably Ukrainian—and from her gestures and tone she was very sad for Vanessa’s troubles.
Aisha caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for another round. She pushed the unclaimed glass toward Vanessa, nodding. “Bois!”
You’re kidding me—you’re working. Vanessa shook her head. But Tanya was staring at her, a tear rolling down one cheek. Vanessa drank, but she managed to spit almost all of it back into the glass before she pushed it away. She knew her stealth move hadn’t fooled Aisha.
When the new round arrived, Aisha put a drink into Tanya’s hand and raised her own glass—but both women again waited for Vanessa to join in on a toast.
When Vanessa raised her glass, Aisha said, “Tchin!”
Tanya grinned suddenly, calling out, “Za vas!”
“Santé!” Vanessa added. She kicked back her drink in time with the others.
As the milky blue liquid hit her throat, the burn spread and she almost coughed it up. Instead, she went into a new sputtering fit. Tanya laughed tearily, and Aisha mugged, letting Vanessa play the clown. And Vanessa was feeling the effects of the drink; it appeared to be a lethal mix.
Aisha focused in on Tanya, talking to her, laughing, joking, and as minutes passed Tanya relaxed visibly from the alcohol and the attention.
Aisha leaned over to whisper something in Tanya’s ear.
Instantly, Tanya stiffened, visibly spooked.
Aisha put another drink gently between her long, childlike fingers. She gestured to Vanessa to share another toast, but Vanessa covered the empty glass with her hand.
Aisha put her arm around Tanya’s shoulders and started talking in French. Vanessa, slightly light-headed, heard most of what Aisha was sharing with the other woman.
She spoke in singsong—about growing up in a war zone, about the hardships for family and friends, watching them die around you, how hard it was to see a brother or sister get sick, how the poisons took Tanya’s brother so slowly . . .
“I know what you’ve lived through,” Aisha said, holding Tanya’s hand. “You know I’ve lived with war and evil my whole life.”
And Vanessa sensed the authenticity of Aisha’s monologue, even as it was framed to manipulate Tanya into giving them good information.
And through it all, Tanya nodded and weaved on the bar stool and came to the brink of tears repeatedly.
Aisha reached the end of her sharing. It was time for Tanya to deliver.
But the woman shook her head, her eyes filled with sorrow, her voice breaking. “Non, non. Désolée, non.” She slipped off the bar stool and stood evenly, apparently steadied by the alcohol. She apologized again, hugging both women before she disappeared into the crowd.
Vanessa kept her breath shallow because her head was pounding again.
Displaying almost no expression or disappointment, Aisha turned to attract the bartender’s attention, leaving some euros on the bar. Oddly, she patted Vanessa on the knee. “Let’s go.”
Vanessa had to steady herself to stand. She’d put up with the vile drinks, and they had nothing to show for it. “What the hell was that drink?”
“Won’t kill you, but it’ll give you a memorable hangover,” Aisha said over her shoulder. “Don’t be such a Girl Scout.”
Outside, they were halfway up the alley, walking in the drizzling rain, when footsteps sounded behind them. They turned in unison.
A child ran toward them: a boy, no older than six, Vanessa thought.
Aisha smiled, squatting down instantly to greet him. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and offered Vanessa a shy smile. His somber eyes were a mirror of Tanya’s.
He pushed a piece of paper into Aisha’s hands and then he turned and ran back toward the club.
Both Vanessa and Aisha watched until he disappeared.
Aisha glanced quickly at the note. “We got the name we need.” Her voice sounded hard. She turned, already walking quickly toward the street. “Now we just have to find the asshole.”
Before they reached the end of the alley, Vanessa saw what looked like fresh paint on the side of the warehouse. The scrolling writing was Arabic.
Aisha reached to touch the graffiti. “It’s wet—so we just missed the artist.”
“What’s it say?” Vanessa asked. Her mouth tasted like cheap Tussin cough syrup.
Aisha translated. “True Jihad will crush the infidels—we see your every move, we hear your every thought. Be very afraid.”
“A bit windy,” Vanessa joked weakly. But a sharp gust ran through her body.
25
Before sunrise, Vanessa stood at the safe-house door, cold an
d still a little bit drunk. She swore under her breath as she fumbled with the punch-code keys of the lock. Good thing it was still yesterday’s code; when Hays arrived at about 0600 hours, he would change and activate the new one for the day.
Finally, after several tries, the state-of-the-art locking mechanism released with a smooth click.
She pushed the door open and immediately tripped over the threshold and into the darkened foyer. A couple of deep breaths helped her regain balance. She stood listening for a moment. No voices, just the sigh and tick of radiators and the hum of computers.
She tried to sling her jacket over the coat rack, missed, and didn’t bother to try again when it fell to the floor.
Ever since the weird blue-tinted drinks, her head ached; this time a little guy with a sledgehammer was thumping on the middle of her frontal cortex.
Thank you, Aisha.
Bracing against the bedroom doorway, she kicked off her stiletto boots, shimmied awkwardly out of her tight leather pants, and fell into bed—and onto something hard.
What the hell?
She dug under herself and pulled out her cell phone. Okay, there are moments when the stars align. Always good at numbers, Vanessa dialed one from memory, starting with the international code for the UK. Her headache had leveled off to a dull, rhythmic throbbing. The number began ringing to a private cell phone that belonged to Alexandra Hall, the director-general of MI5.
Sometimes, when you save someone’s life, they feel they owe you a favor.
She reached Hall’s voice mail, a simple Leave me a message.
All of a sudden Vanessa realized how early it was. She briefly left her name, her cell number, and an urgent request for a few minutes of Madame Director’s time.
She hung up and rolled over, landing again on top of her phone. But this time she didn’t feel a thing.
—
AT SOME POINT she came halfway to consciousness and stumbled to the bathroom to be sick.
Avoiding the mirror—it wouldn’t be a pretty picture—she limped back to bed, only then remembering the vague shadows of a dream: a deserted alley, a man in dark silhouette stepping out of a doorway, whispering her name as she approached. Bhoot.
She pulled the covers over her head and disappeared into the fog of sleep once more.
—
ANOTHER DREAM: hushed and familiar voices just outside her door, a man and a woman in deep discussion . . . Vanessa told them to go away, leave her alone . . .
“Good morning, Sunshine. You look like shit!”
She sighed and opened one eye just enough to confirm it was Chris standing in the doorway.
Not a dream, because she still heard a woman say something about the striking view from the living room. Voice familiar, but it didn’t make sense, it couldn’t be . . .
She opened both eyes wide and pushed herself to sitting.
Chris read her question and nodded. “It’s exactly who you think it is.”
Dr. Peyton Wright, the Agency psychologist. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s here to talk to you.”
Vanessa groaned.
He continued, “I heard last night was a success.”
Vanessa tried to nod, but the throbbing pain in her head prevented her from moving too quickly.
“Okay, take your time, but not too much time. Grab a shower,” Chris said.
“Okay . . .” Her voice was more of a croak.
“And brush your teeth.”
Twenty minutes later, barefoot but otherwise dressed, she followed the sound of voices to the living room. The French doors to the balcony were wide open, the rain had stopped, and Chris and Peyton both leaned against the iron railing, staring across the street toward Saint Thomas d’Aquin church.
From her first glimpse of the psychologist in Paris, Vanessa noted she was maintaining her reputation for great style and presentation: her pale blue sweater and gray slacks were cashmere, perfectly matched with soft leather boots and a Louis Vuitton print scarf. She might have stepped out of The New York Times Style Magazine.
“Where’s everybody?” Vanessa asked when she reached the open doors.
Dr. Wright turned and took in Vanessa, a long, assessing look. “Hello, Vanessa. Glad to see you looking so well after all that’s happened.”
“Thanks.” Under the circumstances, Vanessa didn’t know what else to add.
“I hear you’ve had some interesting encounters,” Peyton said.
Vanessa looked over to Chris. She still wasn’t sure if she forgave him for calling in Peyton. And she was concerned about secrecy—could Peyton actually keep information from Headquarters about something that put it at risk? She wasn’t sure how much she could trust Peyton. The CIA shrink was smart, intuitive, and very close to the head of the NOCdom. At the same time, Vanessa felt oddly relieved to see the woman who signed off on her return to duty after everything that had happened.
Chris returned her look with a small nod. Vanessa took a deep breath—Do I really have another option at the moment? She would trust Chris and his call.
“I think you need some air,” Peyton said. “And I could use a walk.”
“Coffee?” Vanessa said, hearing the slight whine in her voice.
Chris smiled, pointing toward the kitchen. “There’s a fresh pot, but drink fast,” he said. “Let’s take advantage of the clear weather.”
26
Outside, at this hour, only a few people were on the boulevard. A white-haired man passed them carrying a satchel filled with fragrant loaves of fresh bread.
Vanessa hesitated, and it was Peyton who guided them. “If my memory serves me, the Cluny is just a fifteen-minute walk in this direction.”
“You know Paris well?” Vanessa asked, walking between Chris and the psychologist.
“I went to school here—my junior year of college. The Sorbonne.” She smiled. “I certainly know this neighborhood. I lived off of Rue du Bac.” She looked over at Vanessa and said, “I always welcome any opportunity to visit, whether pleasure or business.”
“I doubt you will find much of the former on this trip.” Vanessa zipped her jacket up to the top.
Chris frowned. “I’ve asked Peyton to assist Team Viper.”
“And I’m here and eager to get going,” she said. “So let’s not waste time. You’ve had a highly unusual week, Vanessa. I’m sorry, I know it’s been tough.”
Vanessa shot a dark look at Chris—she couldn’t help it. “I need to know this conversation is going to stay between the three of us . . . somehow.”
Peyton took her time responding. “Here’s what I can say for now: Because of the extremely sensitive nature of this operation and the absolute need for secrecy—and because we have an ongoing internal investigation for a probable security breach—news of this meeting and its focus will not go beyond the three of us.” She tipped her head thoughtfully. “If anything changes, I will let you both know ASAP. Does that help?”
By now they had reached the corner of Saint-Germain and Boulevard Saint-Michel. The Cluny was tucked away at the end of the next block. When they had crossed the intersection, Vanessa said, “For now, yes.”
“Good,” Peyton said. “As I understand it, there has been no additional contact—or attempt at contact—since the afternoon of the bombing.”
“That’s right,” Vanessa said.
“Given that even your highly trained memory will be fallible, let’s say for the sake of brevity that you transcribed your conversation with Bhoot accurately. It has been an invaluable addition to the ongoing data I’ve been gathering as part of his psychological profile. When he makes his next move and reaches out to you again, it is vital that you have some means to actually record the conversation, Vanessa. Both for your own safety and for the data we can collect from such a recording.”
When Vanessa didn’t respond, Chris said, “We can see what Hays can provide very discreetly.”
“Good, because it’s imperative.” Peyton gestured to the
low wall that ran parallel with the boulevard. “We’ve reached the garden, one of my favorites in the city, and it seems we have it all to ourselves for the moment.”
They turned in unison into the open gate to follow a now deserted walkway where animal tracks had been imprinted into the stones.
“I believe this is the Unicorn Garden . . .” Peyton said, her voice fading for a moment as she seemed to follow a memory. Then, with a quick intake of breath, she refocused. “Let’s review what we know. The first obvious and very frightening conclusion we can draw is: He knew exactly where to find you.” She stared at Vanessa. “Given the necessary assumption that he has eyes everywhere, every possible precaution must be taken to protect you.”
Chris kept quiet, but his jaw tightened.
Vanessa tried to ignore a sudden and desperate craving to smoke.
“Next, we have his claim that he is not behind the actions and threats of True Jihad. He took the risk of contacting you, betting that you would take the bait, so to speak. Very few operations officers would go off official radar on this, for obvious reasons: the danger from Bhoot, the danger from Headquarters. You, Vanessa, are the exception. And Bhoot bet correctly that he could hook you. He believes that he knows you.”
“He’s crazy,” Vanessa snapped. The conceit was repellent to her, but it also stirred deeply buried doubts.
“No, he’s actually quite sane.” Peyton spoke very quietly. “And he’s managed to get his teeth in you. That’s a bite you don’t want.”
“It makes me incredibly uncomfortable that you’re still involved in this, Vanessa,” Chris said.
“Like it or not, I’m the one he contacted,” she said, surprised by the conflicting emotions she felt—frustration, defensiveness, anger, determination, and others that she didn’t want to acknowledge even to herself.
Perhaps to calm them both, Peyton let the silence lengthen before she said, “He enjoys the contact with you, as long as he can feel challenged and yet dominate every exchange you have. But I don’t believe he initiated contact solely for the purpose of toying with you and the Agency. Vanessa, in your transcript, Bhoot says, ‘I want what is mine.’ And you make note of his rising rage. He goes on to refer angrily to the U.S. government damaging his interests—that seems a clear reference to our bombers destroying the Iranian facility last year—and following that statement, he adds that someone has set him up, isn’t that right?”
Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) Page 11