Talons of the Falcon

by Rebecca York

  Her suspicions were confirmed when Ramirez knocked on the door again about twenty minutes later. He was holding a covered tray.

  “I’m sorry, the chief of station sends his apologies. He’s too busy to see you tonight. But he has asked me to bring you up dinner, since you missed the officers’ mess this evening.”

  Eden silently took the tray. She was smart enough to recognize she’d just been very effectively snubbed by Maj. Ross Downing.

  “Thank the major for his consideration,” she told Ramirez.

  He remained in the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m directed to tell you that breakfast is between 0700 and 0800 hours. It’s an informal buffet.”

  Eden acknowledged the information and closed the door. Crossing to the desk, she set the tray down and lifted the white cloth napkin. The plate contained a slice of baked ham, speckled butter bean, and corn bread. Very Southern, she thought, taking a bite of the warm bread. Everything was good. But with her stomach still tied in knots, she could barely force down a few mouthfuls.

  Why couldn’t Downing have spared a few minutes to see her tonight? She had been primed for the confrontation. But he must have known that.

  She wished he’d sent up Mark’s classified case history along with dinner. Deception had never been her strong suit. Sooner or later she was going to slip up and mention something that she wasn’t supposed to know.

  Sighing, she pushed back her chair and looked over at the pile of luggage Ramirez had stacked in the corner. Somehow she just didn’t have the energy to cope with unpacking now. Probably her best strategy was to go to bed early. That way she’d be rested and ready for whatever Downing decided to hit her with in the morning.

  Rummaging in her overnight case, she found her toiletries and carried them into the private bathroom—the one luxury her room afforded. Though the plumbing was antiquated, she’d never appreciated a shower more, she mused, as she shampooed her hair and then let the lukewarm water wash away some of her mental and physical fatigue. But running water couldn’t completely ease her tension.

  After she dried her hair she slipped into one of the sleeveless satin nightgowns from Constance’s instant wardrobe. Her own tastes ran to more practical cotton, and the new acquisition felt sensuous against her skin.

  Reaching out, she turned off the lamp on the bedside table. Dim light filtered through the translucent shade, casting lacy patterns from the grillwork over the window. The darkness didn’t help to soothe her inner restlessness. In the space of a day and a half, her entire universe had been turned upside down. But her training had taught her that the human mind needed time to adjust to a massive shock. It was only now that she was beginning to realize the full implications of what Amherst Gordon’s revelations meant to her personally.

  Her thoughts spun back to the personnel folder he’d shown her in the comfortable solarium at the Aviary. It had contained more than a simple account of Mark’s double career. When she’d come across her own name in the log from five years ago, she’d blanched. She hadn’t realized that outside observers were taking notes on her personal relationship with Mark. But as she read further, she drew an even sharper breath.

  The note Mark had left her after their last incredible night of lovemaking hadn’t explained where he was going, nor had it held out any hope that she’d ever see him again. At first she’d been hurt, then angry.

  Now she knew that he had left her bed to be smuggled into a turbulent Middle Eastern country where he’d spent months negotiating the return of three American military officers being held by an antigovernment terrorist group. At the time, she’d assumed that her lover had simply walked out on their personal relationship because he hadn’t wanted to make a commitment. After reading his dossier she had a completely different perspective. Mark Bradley had chosen duty over personal happiness.

  But why hadn’t he come back to her when it was all over? What had she really meant to him? There was no way of knowing without asking. And he might not be in any kind of shape—might never be in any kind of shape—to tell her.

  Long ago she thought she’d come to terms with the knowledge that he didn’t care. Now she couldn’t help torturing herself with what must have been in his mind that last night they’d been together.

  The aching loneliness that pierced through her was suddenly more than she could bear. There hadn’t been many men in her life since Mark, because there’d simply been no substitute for that particular man.

  It had been a long time since she’d permitted herself to consciously think about Mark Bradley—or to hunger for his caress. Instead she’d put her emotional energy into her work. But now that she was so close to him, she was helpless to hold back the flood of memories that seemed to overwhelm her. Closing her eyes, she remembered their last night together. It was all there, every endearment, every touch, every kiss.

  “I need you so badly, Eden,” he had whispered, his breath warm on her lips just before his mouth had captured hers in a kiss of fiery intensity. He had pulled her tightly against his lean, muscular body before his strong hands had begun a journey of exploration across her passion-roused flesh. It was as though he was trying to memorize her body’s every nuance. Perhaps that had really been in his mind. She murmured his name in the darkness, conscious of how close he was. And it was a long time before she finally fell asleep.

  * * *

  EDEN WOKE TO THE SOUND of heavy feet on the stairs. For a moment she was disoriented. Then she remembered that this was Pine Island. With the realization came the knowledge that she was anxious to get on with her assignment.

  The clock on the bedside table told her it was well before seven. Apparently the enlisted men ate before the officers. Perhaps while they were occupied she could do a bit of exploring—and maybe even find Major Downing.

  After dressing in one of the A-line skirts and cotton sweaters from her new wardrobe, she opened the door and stepped out into the empty hall. Her low-heeled sandals made very little noise on the worn carpet of the stairs. There was no one in the foyer when she gained the first floor, although she could hear the sound of clattering silverware and masculine voices drifting from the end of the hall.

  She paused before one of the wide front windows and looked out at the overgrown gardens and the beach beyond, where sea green breakers curled against the white sand. This place could have been a resort gone to seed—except that it wasn’t.

  Turning away, Eden looked down the hall in both directions. One of the wings of the house must contain the office complex. She decided to try the one to the right. But the only evidence of the area’s use was a slight smell of antiseptic in the dim hallway. Perhaps this was the medical facility.

  Eden was about to retrace her steps when a door several yards in front of her swung open.

  She could hear a slightly mocking voice saying, “Time for your yummy oatmeal.”

  At that moment a large man swung into her line of vision. His back was to her and she had time for only a fast impression of sandy brown hair and massive shoulders. Eden straightened her posture as he turned. She could see now that he had been maneuvering a wheelchair out the doorway.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and her breath caught in her throat as her attention focused on the occupant of the chair. He was wearing loose-fitting gray sweatpants and a matching short-sleeved top. A wide canvas shoulder strap bound him firmly to the chair. Nevertheless, he was sagging forward and looking down so that his face was hidden. Only the top of his dark hair was visible. It had a dull, lifeless quality.

  The bulky attendant was the one who spoke. “Dr. Sommers?”

  Eden couldn’t have responded at that moment, even when she heard her name repeated.

  “This area is off-limits until after 0900 hours.”

  She was busy fighting to keep from gasping, not at the words but at the visage of the man who had finally raised his head to stare up at her from his mobile prison. Neither Gordon’s report nor her own imagination could
have really prepared her for this moment. Would she have recognized him as Mark Bradley if she’d encountered him in a private psychiatric hospital? She couldn’t honestly say.

  Her mind struggled to cope with the details of his ravaged appearance. Underneath the loose clothing he had lost considerable weight—as well as muscle tone. The dark hair was now a vivid contrast to the whiteness of his skin.

  It struck her suddenly that he looked like someone who had spent long months shut away in a dungeon. The lines at the corners of his eyes no longer suggested laughter but an experience so devastating that laughter might never be possible again.

  Apart from the effects of the injuries, this was not quite the face she remembered. But then the plastic surgeons might not have had a good photograph to work from.

  Anxiously, Eden sought some sign of recognition in his eyes. For a second she thought she saw a flash of pain in their obsidian depths. Then the eyes seemed to go flat. She had the feeling she was looking into an empty, pitch-dark room. And the knowledge that Mark Bradley lived in there was chilling.

  The male nurse studied her speculatively. “Colonel Bradley looks a lot better than he did a month ago. But that isn’t saying much. I was hoping to fix him up a bit before you met him this afternoon.” The whole speech completely ignored the presence of the patient himself, who in turn seemed oblivious to the exchange.

  Eden struggled to get a grip on her composure. “Thank you, Sergeant Marshall,” she said. As soon as the name was out of her mouth, she realized she’d made her first slip. She shot Marshall a glance, but the fact that she knew his name before he’d introduced himself didn’t seem to have registered.

  Her next words were for the man in the chair. Since they were also supposed to be strangers, she’d have to be more careful in carrying out the charade. “Colonel Bradley, I’m Dr. Sommers. I’ll be working with you from now on.”

  The patient didn’t acknowledge her words.

  “Well, I’ll be looking forward to seeing you later,” she added warmly.

  With that, she turned back to Marshall. “I was trying to find Major Downing.”

  “His office is at the other end of the hall. He’s usually down there at the crack of dawn.”

  “Thank you.”

  Before moving away, she risked one more look at the man in the wheelchair. The Mark Bradley she had known had been in superb mental and physical condition. Oh, God, what have they done to him?

  Chapter Three

  Eden was suddenly aware that she was standing on the front porch of the main house staring blindly out at the breakers washing against the deserted beach. Her mind kept replaying that brief encounter with Mark. The emotional impact was as strong as the relentless force of the surf pounding the shore.

  Finally the rhythm of the waves helped calm her. As her pulse steadied she found herself watching a piece of driftwood tumbling up the sandy slope, only to be pulled back into the green water by the force of the undertow.

  In a way she was like that piece of flotsam. She’d been tossed into a troubled sea by Amherst Gordon—and he’d left her to sink or swim by herself.

  But she wasn’t going to be swept under, and she wasn’t going to let Mark down, either. Turning, she pulled open the heavy wooden doors and strode briskly through the foyer and down the hall in the direction that Marshall had indicated.

  When she reached a door with a polished brass nameplate that said “Major Ross Downing,” she hesitated. Inside, a chair squeaked. Before she had a chance to reconsider her course of action, the door was flung open and she was standing face-to-face with the island’s security chief.

  He looked momentarily surprised. “Dr. Sommers. I didn’t expect to see you quite this early.”

  “Well, I’d like to get started with Colonel Bradley as soon as possible. But of course I felt I should check in with you first.” The last was a pointed reference to her reception—or lack of it—last night.

  He took a step back. “Then come in.”

  She followed him inside. The office was the first room in the old house that showed any extensive redecorating. Apparently the major had fixed his private domain to suit himself. The floor was carpeted in a muted tweed. One wall boasted a display of Civil War swords and pistols. On the other was a framed poster featuring a white chess piece against a black background. “Make security your first and last move,” it advised judiciously. It was a far cry from what she would have chosen.

  The wide oak desk looked as though it had been salvaged from the estate’s library. It was clean except for one crisp manila folder, a mug with the air force security service crest and an old-fashioned manual typewriter of the kind she hadn’t seen in years.

  But the man himself dominated the surroundings. Like his staff, he was in mufti, although instead of jeans he wore light gray slacks and a blue knit shirt. Even in the casual attire, he exuded an aura of command, as though he expected his orders to be executed without question. From where he stood now behind the desk, he seemed to tower over Eden, and his frankly male assessment was an instant reminder that she was the only woman on this isolated, high-security base.

  Eden met his confident gaze as they exchanged the stiff greetings of wary strangers. She suspected that Maj. Ross Downing’s blond Viking appearance would appeal to a certain kind of woman—although he wasn’t her type. From Gordon she knew that this man had been a security officer for the last fifteen years and had an unmatched reputation for toughness. Yet he also had a record of being fair. So why was he coming down so hard on Mark Bradley?

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see you when you arrived,” he began, settling into a comfortable chair behind the oak desk. Somehow the apology lacked sincerity.

  Without being invited, Eden took a seat across from him.

  “Perhaps you won’t be as anxious to get to work when you see what you’re up against.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dr. Sommers, the guy we have down here has been so badly messed up that all you’ve got to work with is a human shell, as empty as a coconut that’s been sucked dry.”

  Aware that he was watching her reaction, Eden struggled to maintain her facade of professional composure. A few minutes ago, when she’d seen Mark, she’d been shaken by very similar thoughts. Now the chief of station’s confirmation of her feelings was like a hot knife slicing through her flesh. Downing was simply describing a man who had been brought to him for interrogation. Her fears were for someone she’d cared very deeply about.

  “Dr. Hubbard agrees with your diagnosis?” she asked quietly.

  “Hubbard’s just an M.D.,” Downing said, with a gesture of dismissal. “His comments on the patient’s mental state aren’t worth beans. But just for the record,” he added, “bringing a clinical psychologist in on this case wasn’t my idea, either.”

  Eden took in the set line of his jaw. Apparently he couldn’t tolerate losing control of the situation. Hubbard’s weak questioning of his decisions was simply an annoyance. She, a psychologist, had the potential to challenge his authority. Last night he must have been trying to deny her presence at Pine Island while asserting his domination over the base.

  “I have very little faith that your fancy methods are going to work with Colonel Bradley,” he continued.

  Apparently your methods haven’t worked either. Or I wouldn’t have been called in, she thought.

  “However, I always follow correct procedures,” he added. “That means I want a report from you on the patient’s present mental state as soon as possible.”

  “You’ll get my written psychiatric evaluation within the next ten days,” Eden returned.

  “I don’t have ten days. I need results now.”

  “Major, I’ll do the best I can.” She paused and then continued. “You must know if you’ve studied my past cases—or those of anyone else in the field—that no one can guarantee success overnight. I’ve got to gain Bradley’s confidence before I can get anywhere with a therapy program. That means I need a fre
e hand, without your team’s interference.”

  Downing’s eyes seemed to bore into her head. When he finally began to speak, his words were clipped and precise. “The last thing I’m interested in is a therapy program. Our mission is to find out what Bradley told the East Germans. If you don’t start getting something out of him pretty fast, I have other options.”

  Gordon had told her about those other options. They had made her blood turn to ice. Was Downing frustrated because his own tried-and-true methods hadn’t worked? Or was the major trying to protect himself by making sure that Mark never recovered? Finding out would have to be part of her hidden agenda.

  The chief of station glanced at his watch. “Since you’re so anxious to get started, I’ll call Dr. Hubbard. He can fill you in on the medical details.”

  Downing phoned the doctor and then looked back up at Eden. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Apparently, Bradley got too much of his sleep medication last night and he’s a little dopey this morning.”

  “What? I assumed the colonel would be drug free while I was working with him,” Eden shot back. Downing’s casual mention of a drug overdose had hit a nerve. But she instantly regretted having lost her composure.

  “I just want Bradley alert when I’m working with him,” she stated with less vehemence.

  The man on the other side of the desk pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That’s your choice—for the time being. But Colonel Bradley suffers from nightmares, I’m afraid. If you take him off his knockout drops, you’ll also have to keep him quiet so the rest of us can get some sleep. I assume you won’t object to moving from your present quarters into the room next to his?”

  Eden fought to mask her elation. Downing might have thought he was giving her the equivalent of disciplinary duty. But having as much access to Mark as possible would make her job easier. “I guess that’s only fair,” she murmured.

  Dr. Hubbard’s tentative knock terminated the interview. Eden turned to greet him. He was of medium height, with white hair, wire-rimmed spectacles and a rather pasty complexion. The man was only in his midfifties, she knew. Yet his shoulders were slightly stooped, and his years appeared to weigh him down like a heavy cloak. And although he held the same rank as Downing, he seemed to be almost afraid of the chief of station. Did the man have some hold over him?