by Meryl Sawyer
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WHENEVER POSSIBLE, face-to-face contact was the best way to ensure the operative totally understood the mission and would carry out orders, but Brock had always taken extreme measures to remain anonymous. His handle was “Numero Uno” but none of his field operatives ever saw his face. If they didn’t see him, he could never be identified.
He’d sent the operatives to Santa Fe without meeting with them in person. Now he realized what a big mistake he’d made. Had he met them, Brock felt confident he would have realized what a loose cannon the woman was. He wouldn’t have been forced to spend all these months searching for Samantha Robbins.
Brock flew from Miami to Belize with a group of scuba divers. He pretended to be just another diver interested in diving the Blue Hole. Eons ago a huge underwater sinkhole almost five hundred feet deep had formed off the coast of what for years had been British Honduras but was now Belize.
The Blue Hole ranked right up there on a diver’s must-see list. The Great Barrier Reef. The Molikini Crater. The Puerto Rican Trench—the deepest spot in the Atlantic Ocean. The Blue Hole.
Brock could talk the talk. He’d done the Great Barrier Reef, and he’d boned up on the others. It always paid to blend in with the crowd.
He took Mayan Air from Belize City to Caye Caulker. 251 was staying on the larger and more popular Ambergis Caye. Brock had decided it was better to have one quick assessment meeting with the guy and leave. He didn’t need to hang around the same town with him.
He checked in to a B & B on Caye Caulker. The whole frigging island was a throwback to the seventies when Caye Caulker had been a haven for drop-out dopers. Belize had cleaned up the place a bit, but Brock would bet his life that a little money would buy you any controlled substance you wanted.
The Blue Fin B & B was painted a soft coral with lime-green shutters. It reminded Brock of Key West. All twelve rooms had been booked by the scuba diving group he’d flown in with from Miami. Brock’s room had a view of the Caribbean blue water and the waves crashing on the barrier reef a quarter of a mile away. Palms swayed in a refreshing breeze. Miles of white beach with very few people. It was picturesque—if you went for the tropics.
Give him a Gull Wing any day.
BROCK WAITED under the palms just a few feet from the water at Lilly’s Restaurant next to the Mayan Princess Hotel. Ambergis Caye was more happening than Caye Caulker. More people. More hotels. More night life.
Not that Brock gave a fuck. He’d been forced to come here a day early so he could dive the Blue Hole. One rule of going undercover was to play the part. It would look suspicious if he hadn’t gone diving.
He had to admit it, the underwater sinkhole made famous by Jacques Cousteau had been fascinating. On the surface the Blue Hole’s water was sapphire-blue and stretched a thousand feet across. Beneath he’d dropped one hundred and thirty feet, then swam under a ledge. Stalactites and stalagmites riddled the walls. Prehistoric looking red sharks swarmed through the dark waters. The sharks would have intimidated some divers, but Brock had seen plenty of them at the Great Barrier Reef.
Brock glanced at his watch. 251 had three minutes left, if he was on time. Brock had no use for agents who weren’t punctual. Attention to details was important to a successful operation. What he had in mind had to be executed flawlessly.
He gazed at the clusters of people nearby. He’d told 251 to wear a swimming suit. That way the kid couldn’t be wired. Not that he thought 251 would tape their conversation, but it always paid to be cautious, especially when this operative was going to be able to identify him.
Trouble was—everyone was in a bathing suit. He’d hoped to spot 251 as he approached and observe him. Sometimes the little, unconscious things people did told him a lot.
He remembered meeting Samantha Robbins for the first time in TriTech’s offices. The first thing he’d noticed—other than she was attractive—was that she could read a sheet of paper on a desk even if it was facing away from her.
He scanned the area again. People were in couples or groups—no single men. A twosome caught his attention. A blonde with tits like Jordan’s and a tall, tanned guy with shoulder-length dreadlocks that bounced as he walked. The top section of his dark brown hair had been bleached blond by the sun.
Another rich kid with nothing better to do than hang out in Belize.
The two kissed, a lip-lock that lasted a full minute, then the guy patted her on the butt. She sashayed down the beach, and the kid walked over to him and dropped into the chair across from Brock.
“Numero Uno.”
The kid said it with total conviction. How could he know? There were three other men sitting alone at Lilly’s.
Stunned, Brock nodded. “Let’s walk up the beach.”
“Let me get a beer first.” The kid signaled the waitress. “A Belikin.”
While they waited for the local brew, Brock asked where 251 had been diving. That way, if anyone was listening, it would sound like a normal conversation.
“I was out at Shark Ray Alley. Swimming with the sharks. There’s nothing like it.” He flashed a smile that probably made women drop their panties.
“Nurse sharks and reef sharks. They’re not dangerous.”
“You never know.”
“I was out at the Blue Hole with the red sharks.”
The waitress delivered the bottle of Belikin. The kid paid her and left a hefty tip. A waste of money, Brock thought. The kid rose and swigged the beer as they headed up the beach. Brock wasn’t sure what to make of 251.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah.” Brock wasn’t ready to discuss the plan with him yet. He wasn’t sure this was the right agent for the job.
“Why did you ask to meet in Belize? Something to do with your current assignment?” Brock didn’t expect much of an answer. Whatever 251 was working on was compartmentalized and top secret.
“Nah. I wanted to come to Belize to see my parents.”
Christ! The kid had hauled his ass down here just so he could visit a couple of retirees.
Since English was the national language, Belize attracted a lot of older Americans. The weather, the cost of living and the cheap real estate added to Belize’s appeal.
He could just imagine the kid’s parents. Farmers from Kansas or some other nowhere state who thought they’d died and gone to heaven.
“You’re not staying with your folks?”
The kid drained the beer and rubbed his temple with the cool bottle. “I spent a couple of days with them.”
“Where’s their place?
251 gave him a curious look. “I guess my jacket’s buried pretty deep.”
A jacket was the intelligence file Obelisk gathered on every employee. Brock had the information and had secretly copied every file to his laptop. Compartmentalization meant he didn’t know exactly what all the operatives were doing, but he knew all about their backgrounds.
“My family belongs to the Mennonite Church. They have a dairy farm at Spanish Lookout in Western Belize.”
Shit! Religious fanatics distantly related to Pennsylvania’s Amish. He hadn’t read that anywhere in the jacket he’d studied. His gut roiled with the sudden realization that he might not have all of the information on everyone at Obelisk.
Brrp-brrp.
“That’s your cell phone.”
Still hammered by the unexpected insight, Brock fumbled with the cell phone clipped to the waist of his khaki shorts. It was his source at the Pentagon.
“I’ve gotta take this.”
“I’ll wait for you at Wet Willie’s.” He pointed down a long pier where a thatched roof hut bar was perched on the end.
Brock watched as 251 sauntered down the pier. “Yeah?”
“There’s another DARPA night vision device being tested in Hawaii.”
“Give me the details.”
Brock listened while his source explained. That gadget was essential if he was going to go to Olofson about taking over Cassid
y’s job. But first he needed to whack Samantha Robbins.
He hung up and slowly walked out onto the pier. Sea grass lined Belize’s shore. Long piers lined with chaise lounges and nearly nude sunbathers extended out from the hotels. People swam off the docks and slipped into bars like Wet Willie’s for a drink.
Brock tried to make up his mind about 251. He needed the Robbins bitch taken out immediately, but it would require two operatives to handle the job. He couldn’t send one of them after the DARPA widget until she was permanently out of the picture.
It worried him that he might not be getting all the info on people. It wasn’t a good sign. Someone didn’t trust him. What he needed to do was prove himself by killing Samantha Robbins.
He found 251 sitting outside Wet Willie’s, a bottle of Belikin in one hand, his legs dangling over the end of the pier.
“Uno, look at that stingray. Has a six-foot wing span at least.”
Amazing, Brock decided. Wet Willie’s was crammed full of people getting a jump on happy hour, waves crashing on the reef not far away, and dive boats returning for the day loaded with people. Despite the distracting noise 251 had heard him coming and knew who he was without looking.
Brock sat down beside him and pretended to be interested in the stingrays gliding through the clear water.
The kid turned to him. “Just because I was raised a Mennonite doesn’t mean I’m not the best operative around. Ask anyone who’s worked with me.”
“I have. You seem to be tops in the field.” He emphasized “seem to be” to keep the punk from being so cocky.
“I’m the best because of the strict way I was brought up. Life as a Mennonite is like being in the military—except for all the praying.”
Christ! Just what Brock wanted to hear. He was a firm believer that a military background best prepared operatives for fieldwork. They took orders without questions.
“Look,” Brock told the kid, “I need an operative who blends in, not someone who sticks out. This is a very sensitive, top secret assignment.”
“Gotcha.” The kid stood up. “Meet me for dinner at Caliente’s at seven.”
Before Brock could answer, the kid was gone.
CALIENTE’S WAS A WATERFRONT cantina down the beach from the Mayan Princess. Brock walked into the cantina and sat at the bar. He scanned the crowded room, but 251 hadn’t arrived yet.
Rather than return to Caye Caulker, Brock had walked the streets of San Pedro. It hadn’t taken much time to cover the three unpaved streets and duck into the shops.
He supposed tourists found the place charming, but Brock was too worried to be interested in Mayan arts and crafts. Like a knife, the thought that he wasn’t being given total access to Obelisk files stabbed repeatedly at his thoughts.
Who would have the authority to do such a thing? Only Cassidy. Brock was positive Cassidy wouldn’t have done it without encouragement from General Olofson and “the boys.”
Why?
If it had been info about money, Brock would have understood. But he was in charge of security. He should know everything about everyone in the field—not their assignments that were compartmentalized—but their backgrounds were crucial to security. How else could he check up on operatives?
It was possible that he’d read 251’s jacket too fast and overlooked the Mennonite business, but he doubted it. Normally he’d check his laptop immediately, but he’d left it locked in the safe at his house. He hadn’t thought there would be a secure place to store it here, and he’d been right. As soon as he returned, he would double-check 251’s profile.
He glanced at his watch. Almost seven. He wasn’t sure why the kid wanted to have dinner. Brock had already made up his mind. He was going to recruit his second choice.
It didn’t hurt to have dinner with 251, he decided. Who knew? Someday he might have a job for him.
Brock ordered a Belikin, annoyed because the kid was late. Mennonites must not have proper respect for time, he decided. But what did he know about Mennonites? Very little, but he’d learn more as soon as he returned to his office.
A group of people jammed their way into the bar, laughing and talking. The kid wasn’t among them. Brock sipped his beer. Drinking beer wasn’t his thing, but from the looks of the bottles lining the wall, rum and tequila ruled in Belize. It didn’t matter. After that night with Jordan and the killer hangover, Brock doubted he would be drinking Scotch again soon.
He picked up his beer and decided to check outside for 251. There were tables on the sand a few steps down from the bar. None of them appeared to be occupied by a lone male, but perhaps he couldn’t see them all.
As he rose, the nerdy kid with the short butterscotch-colored hair and wire-rimmed glasses at the far end of the long bar caught his eye. The loser was attempting to chat up the girl on the barstool next to him. Lots of luck.
Then it hit him. It was 251. His short hair and stoop-shouldered posture along with the glasses had transformed him completely. He’d been in the bar the entire time. Brock couldn’t help smiling. The kid had wanted to show him how he could alter his appearance.
He wanted the job. Brock admired that in an operative. If they were hungry, they obeyed orders without question. He’d been right all along. This was the guy to pair with 77.
Samantha Robbins was as good as dead.
The kid looked up, realized he’d been made, said something to the girl and came over to Brock. Not only had his appearance changed, but the way 251 carried himself had also been transformed. He shambled along, stoop-shouldered, rather than sauntered the way he had when Brock had first seen him.
No one would bother to look twice at this guy.
“Good thing I tipped the guy five bucks to hold our table,” said 251. “I thought you were never going to figure out who I was.”
The punk was cocky, but this time Brock couldn’t fault him. He was good, and Brock needed him more than he was willing to admit.
“We’re eating down the beach at Jambel Jerk,” said 251. “It’s noisy on their roof deck. No one will hear you tell me about my new assignment.”
Brock followed the kid down the steps to the sand. He mentally went over his story to convince 251 to whack the bitch without arousing any suspicions.
Brock waited until they were seated on the rooftop deck and had ordered jerk lobster. To Brock, Belize was a supreme bore, but they had great cheap lobster and he liked the Caribbean influence in their food.
“This is a sensitive mission. It’s being directed from the highest level in the government.” Brock deliberately made it sound as if the president himself had authorized this operation.
The waitress delivered their Belikins, but didn’t try to flirt with 251 the way she undoubtedly would have had he still looked the way he had this afternoon.
Brock wiped the ice-cold brown bottle with the napkin wrapped around the top of the bottle. “Why do they always put a napkin on the bottle?”
“The caps tend to rust. You’re supposed to wipe it off before you drink.” 251 wiped off his bottle and took a small sip, his mannerisms totally different than they had been this afternoon.
Brock kept his voice low. “This is an antiterrorism project.”
From behind the wire-rimmed glasses, 251’s eyes might have narrowed slightly. Since Brock didn’t know what exactly 251 had been doing in Colombia, he didn’t know what line they’d fed 251. Patriotism was the usual angle.
“We’ve discovered a sleeper cell in the States. You’re familiar with sleepers?”
“Sure. They’re programmed by Al Qaeda or whoever and lie in wait until they’re given the signal to attack.”
“Exactly, but what’s unusual about this cell is that it’s headed by a woman.”
“What’s unusual about that? We’ve seen suicide bombers who are women.”
“This woman is an American citizen.”
The kid whistled softly into his beer bottle.
“The order from the top is to kill her before she causes t
housands to die.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DEVON STOOD BESIDE CHAD on the North Shore and watched the surf pummel the beach while Zach romped along the water’s edge. The retriever had the good sense not to plunge into the dangerous surf.
“I surfed here almost every day when I was growing up,” Chad told her.
“Impressive,” Devon replied, and she meant it. The surf here was awesome—some of the biggest waves she’d ever seen. They crashed onto the beach with frightening intensity.
Chad had insisted on taking her for a drive after she’d told him the story she’d concocted about Nate Albert. He was a real person—his name supplied by Warren—the story was pure fiction. Her overwhelming sense of guilt hadn’t subsided one bit during the long drive up here.
She watched Zach playing tag with the waves as they raced up on the shore and reminded herself why she’d fabricated such an outrageous tale. Staying here with Zach had become terribly important to her—more important than telling the truth. Once she wouldn’t have believed this, but her time in WITSEC had taught her to do anything and everything she could to protect herself.
“What are you thinking?” Chad unexpectedly asked.
She stared at the powerful waves for a moment, then turned to him. “Will you do me a favor?”
He pushed his shades to the top of his head, and his eyes met hers. The intensity in his expression astounded her.
“What’s the favor?”
“I want you to forget about me. Go on with your life as if you’d never met me.”
He put his large hand on her shoulder. His touch calmed her, took a bit of the darkness away somehow. It was a dangerous feeling. To rely on him could be fatal—for him, for her.
“I can’t forget about you. I can’t just walk away. I already…care about you.” He drew her into his arms. “You know that. Don’t you?”
It was all she could do not to give in to her emotions and rest her head on his sturdy shoulder. “This is way too fast. I can’t do this.”