by Aimée Thurlo
As Burke tried to figure out their next move, an armed man wearing a ski mask appeared between the van and the pickup, his pistol aimed at them. Burke fired, but the bullet struck the hood of the truck and the man ducked back out of sight, unharmed. Enesco suddenly rose up farther behind the shooter and fired. The bullet whined over Burke’s head.
He returned fire and, while Enesco sought cover, tossed his cell phone to Laura through her open window. “Call 911. Just tell them there are shots being fired, give them our location, then hang up. And stay down.”
Enesco made an attempt to run from the pickup to the juniper woods at Burke’s left, but Burke had anticipated the move, and drove him back to cover with two quick shots.
As the sound of sirens became noticeable in the distance, Enesco opened fire, pinning Burke down as the other man climbed into the van. Then the man in the van opened up, and Burke had to duck down as a bullet grazed the hood of the SUV. Soon, both the van and the pickup were screeching away.
Burke rose up and got into the rear seat fast. Any other time he would have given chase, but right now he had other priorities.
Not wanting to waste time, Laura moved quickly into the driver’s seat. The engine started on her first try. “Do you want me to go after them?”
“No. Drive in the direction we were heading before the collision, and go slow. Put the lights back on if they’ll work.”
She turned the vehicle around, and both headlights came on. There was a hard scraping sound coming from beneath the floorboards, but for now, it was merely an inconvenience. Slowly she crossed to the proper lane and continued down the empty street.
Finding his phone, Burke called Handler. “The police are on their way here, so I’m clearing out for now. I’ll explain later what’s going on, but I can’t afford to spend hours right now with the law, trying to clear ourselves. I’d like the agency to contact the feds while I ditch the agency’s SUV and get other transportation.”
“I’ll take care of that. Stay sharp,” Handler replied.
As Burke hung up the phone, he glanced at Laura and saw her hands on the wheel. She was shaking.
“We’re okay. It’s over,” he said gently, reaching for her hand.
She pulled it away instantly. “The way you turned the car around…you could have been killed…because of me,” she said, her voice trembling.
“No, not because of you,” he replied evenly. “What happened would have been the result of my own actions—something I chose freely.”
She shook her head.
“Laura, listen to me. I care about you and I won’t let anyone hurt you. But I’m fighting not only for us, but for what’s right. It’s what I do. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m just part of a case,” she said, her voice strained.
Spotting a gas station ahead, Burke asked Laura to pull in.
She did so, then switched off the ignition and looked at Burke anxiously. “Now what?”
In response, he dragged her to him, branding her mouth with a hungry and possessive kiss that took everything from her, and at the same time gave back. After long, pleasure-filled moments, he allowed her to take the lead, wanting her to feel everything he felt and more.
When he finally drew back, they were both trembling. “Now do you understand how I feel about you?”
“Tell me,” she whispered, her head buried beneath his chin.
“Why do women always value words more than actions?” he muttered, exasperated. Tilting her head up, he met her gaze and held it. “I love you, Laura.”
When he kissed her again, her mouth parted eagerly. He felt her needs and longings as clearly as he did his own. A wave of pure emotion filled him. He loved her. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that.
“I won’t make you any promises I can’t keep,” he said, his voice gruff. “You mean too much to me for that. I know that I’ll never be able to offer you the kind of security your heart needs. But I can give you love—the kind that won’t fade away when times get tough. The kind that stays the course.”
Laura started to answer, but he placed a finger over her lips. “No, don’t say anything. Just think about it, Laura. That’s all I ask. I can’t change who I am, but no one will ever love you or cherish you more.”
Burke could see the emotions on Laura’s face—her fears colliding against her yearnings, tearing her apart. He thought of kissing her again—hard—until she could think only of the feelings they shared. But this wasn’t the time for love. Theirs was a game of survival. He’d have to stay focused or they’d never make it through this in one piece.
Burke made another phone call, and within twenty minutes, an SUV of the same make and model normally used by the agency pulled up. The driver was a man Burke suspected was Wind. He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. The brim placed his face in shadow.
“And you are…” Burke asked crisply as he walked across the parking lot to meet him.
“Wind,” the man replied.
Burke breathed a sigh of relief, recognizing Ben Wanderer’s voice. “I need you to take this,” Burke said, turning over the journal to him. “Keep it safe—at all costs.”
Wind nodded and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Springer has applied for a job in Albuquerque. He’s been over there since this morning. Shall I continue to watch Al Baca?”
“No. Your job as of right now is to safeguard this book.” Burke was about to say more when his cell phone rang.
“I’ve got good news,” Handler said. “Our client, Mr. Begay, has contacted us. Please come to the office.”
Burke felt an incredible wave of relief. There had been very few victories to celebrate in this case, but finding out for sure that Doug was alive was definitely one.
“He’s in one piece?” Burke asked in a taut voice.
“Yes. I was told to assure you of that.”
Leaving Wind to take care of the journal, Burke ran back to the borrowed car, and he, Laura and Wolf drove across town as quickly as possible.
They arrived at the Gray Wolf office a short time later, and Handler instructed Burke to press the speaker button on the phone.
“Hey, buddy.” Doug’s voice came clearly over the wire.
“You had me worried,” Burke growled. “Are you in the country?”
“I’m safe and in friendly territory,” Douglas hedged. “And you’ll be glad to hear that I can finally tell you what’s going on.”
“About time,” he snapped.
“Two months ago, I was approached by dissidents and asked to help them get a journal written by Vladimir Rogov out of the country. The authorities were closing in on them and three people had already died. As you know, I’m part of Freedom International, so I agreed. The journal had been written on scraps of paper that were slipped to Rogov in secret, then smuggled out. To insure the success of the operation, everything that left the prison went out in sections. The portion that became part of Laura’s book was only one of several. But all the couriers except one were captured by the secret police, and only the journal segment you now have in your possession made it out.”
“And that’s why the agents we’ve been fighting want it back so badly,” Laura said.
“Exactly. The information you now have could bring down the current government by exposing gross human rights violations and naming names. Hopefully, it’ll lead to reforms that will restore basic freedoms.”
“But why did you choose my book?” Laura asked. “Was it just chance?”
“Not exactly. It was more like fate. After I learned of the journal, I ended up having to leave West Medias to attend a book fair in London. I couldn’t take the pages with me, because by then I was being watched. So I kept to the familiar routines expected of me. The book fair was filled with U.S. publishers who were selling foreign rights. That’s when I started getting the idea to smuggle the pages out in one specially printed book.”
“But why mine?” she insisted.
“Your p
ublisher is affiliated with us and had a booth close to ours. Your books were prominently displayed, so I picked one up and read your bio. When I realized you lived in the same town as my buddy Burke, the plan just unfolded.”
“But why didn’t you simply send the book to Burke?” she asked.
“Sending it to anyone but you, the author, would have instantly alerted people who had begun to monitor and censor my e-mails and personal mail. It had to go out as routine business for the publishing firm I worked for, and, most important of all, in a way that wouldn’t raise suspicion. I knew you’d been sent copies earlier of West Median editions of your books. We do that all the time as a courtesy to the authors, so it was the perfect cover. And, in case someone checked, two of the three books I sent you were accurate translations. Of the other one, the first two hundred pages and last hundred were straight from your book. Only the middle was replaced.”
“Good plan, buddy. That explains why Enesco didn’t find it. So what went wrong?” Burke asked.
“There was an informant in our office. He caught on to the fact that I’d received a section of the journal—but he couldn’t figure out what I’d done with it. I was able to ship the book out past the authorities, along with other West Median editions that went to American authors.”
“And then they came after you?” Burke asked.
“Yeah. I knew that eventually, by checking up on my past and my contacts, they’d be able to deduce that Laura was the recipient. What I was hoping they wouldn’t figure out, at least right away, was the exact form the journal took when we smuggled it out. That would buy you guys—and me—some time to finish the operation. But I knew you two wouldn’t be able to fight a danger you weren’t aware of, so I contacted you. I told you as much as I could, then went underground. I was being monitored, so I couldn’t say any more than I did.”
“Well, you did a good job. The journal’s safe,” Burke said.
“But now you’re not,” Doug answered. “As long as you have the book, you’re still a prime target.”
“I hope you’re not advocating that we hand the journal over to you and just walk away,” Laura said angrily. “The people who came after me are responsible for the death of someone I loved. I can’t just pretend it never happened.”
“But once we have the journal, the danger to you diminishes considerably.”
“Unless, of course, these agents decide to retaliate against us,” Laura objected. “But even if that doesn’t happen, they can’t be allowed to come to this country and terrorize people here. They started this, but now we have to finish it. To not fight people like these tips the scales in favor of those who knowingly do what’s wrong, because they think they’re above our laws. To me, that’s not an acceptable option.”
No one said anything. Finally Douglas spoke. “I can’t argue with your motives. I know they’re mine and Burke’s as well. But you realize that by trying to catch those involved, you’ll be exposing yourself to even more danger?”
Handler spoke at last. “Mr. Begay, though I realize your goal’s been met, there are other issues here that also demand attention. I’m expecting two FBI agents here shortly. Laws have been broken and people have died. Miss Santos is right. This has to be handled here and now.”
“I’m glad the FBI are coming,” Laura said. “Burke will need their protection.”
Burke choked. “I can handle myself.”
“You’ve protected me, but no one’s protecting you. You could get killed as easily as I.”
“Not quite,” Burke said. “I shoot back.”
“There are also two important issues we need to factor in,” Handler said. “The good news is that once the journal is made public in a convincing way, Vladimir Rogov’s life will no longer be in jeopardy. The fact that he’s alive and imprisoned—which the evidence from the journal will establish to the world—will throw public opinion in his favor and virtually guarantee his freedom. But there’s a downside, too.”
“What is it?” Laura asked.
“Unless the agents who are after the journal are arrested, they’re going to be in a position to try and destroy the credibility of what Mr. Begay sent to you. The second they find out what form the journal took when it was smuggled out, they can produce a variety of credible fakes, all with different information, and have people all over the United States take copies to different newspapers. They’d convince the world that the one we have is simply one of many smuggled to the U.S., and all part of a disinformation plot pulled by dissidents. The whole thing would be made to look like an anti-regime propaganda stunt.”
“There’s no way we’re letting this slide, Doug,” Burke said. “The agents operating here on our soil also pose a threat to other West Medians living in the U.S., and constitute a security risk for our government.”
“You’re right,” Doug agreed. “There’s also another problem. If they discredit the journal, the West Median secret police could quietly do away with Rogov, and only a few people would ever know the truth. You’ll have to round these agents up before they can do any more damage.”
“The ball’s in our court now,” Handler said. “We’ll handle it.”
“If we want to catch these agents, we’re going to have to force them to come after us—but on our terms.” Burke glanced at Laura. “You shouldn’t stick around for this. We’ll find another woman who fits your general description and keep you out of it.”
“I’m not going anywhere. And, for the record, you don’t have time to go shopping for a double of me. They know what I look like—exactly. If you play a trick they can catch on to so easily, they’ll begin to suspect that the journal is already in the hands of the authorities, and they’ll start their countermeasures before you take your next breath. We have to play this out fast, here and now.”
Burke expelled his breath in a rush. “All right. It’s time to set a plan in motion.” He paused, glancing at the speaker phone. “Doug, from this point on, it becomes an agency operation and strictly confidential.”
“Understood. But keep that journal safe.”
“That’s been taken care of.” After Doug said goodbye, Burke filled Handler in on the accident and his meeting with Wind.
“And Wolf? Is he all right?”
“He seems fine, though he got tossed around a bit in the collision.”
“Can you identify the other driver, the one in the van?” Handler asked.
“Enesco was driving the pickup. But no, I don’t know who was in the van,” Burke answered. He looked at Laura questioningly.
“I saw Enesco briefly as well, but I never saw the other man’s face,” Laura admitted.
A moment later, a knock sounded at the door. Burke looked through the special monitor and asked the arrivals to identify themselves. “There are two men outside holding up FBI badges,” he told Handler.
“That will be FBI agents John Wylie and Albert Miller. Let them in,” he said. A buzzer sounded, and the door unlatched.
The two agents, clad in lightweight suits, one gray and one dark blue, stepped into the office and, after brief introductions, were offered chairs. The men were both well over six feet tall, and looked guarded and cold, a combination that fit seasoned agents who’d dealt with the seamy side of human nature, Laura guessed.
As she glanced at Burke, she saw the beginnings of that same telltale expression on his face. Burke loved the work he did, but she could see that it exacted a high toll on those who pursued it.
Yet Burke also possessed an inner strength that wasn’t apparent in the others. His Navajo beliefs and his sense of mission—all part of what he called “walking in beauty”—would give him an edge most didn’t have.
John Wylie appeared to be the senior agent, both in age and rank. He leaned back and regarded her and Burke thoughtfully.
“We were briefed about your situation. As I’m sure you’ve discovered, you’re up against a world of trouble.”
“I’ve asked the Bureau for backup, and your super
iors have granted it to us. That’s why you’re here,” Handler said.
Looking somewhat uncomfortable, Wylie glanced at the speaker that carried Handler’s altered voice through the room. Burke saw the questions in his eyes but, because he didn’t ask them, assumed that once again Handler had managed to pull some strings.
“The journal, is it in a safe place?” Wylie asked.
“It is,” Burke answered.
“It would be safer with us,” Albert Miller said, his tone almost defiant.
Burke shook his head. “To bring it out now, even to hand it over to you two, would entail a risk we shouldn’t take. People have died to get that journal excerpt to us.”
“Tell me more about the suspects,” Wylie said to Burke.
“Michael Enesco, the senior center’s driver, is the only one I’m sure is directly involved. But Enesco has had help, so there’s at least one other player,” Burke answered.
“Handler reported that the woman, Nicole Maurer, is somehow involved with Enesco and his illegal activities,” Wylie said. “Clarify that connection for me.”
“We haven’t established that conclusively,” Burke said. “Our theory is that Nicole’s being blackmailed into providing a cover for Enesco.”
“That wouldn’t be unusual. Often, immigrants are blackmailed into doing things they never would otherwise, when the safety of those they left behind in their country is threatened.”
“We need to bring Enesco and whoever his accomplice is out into the open,” Laura said. “And I have an idea of how we can do that.”
“We’re listening,” Wylie said.
“I want to call Nicole Maurer and tell her that I’ve recently received a leather-bound book written in what I’ve learned might be Rumanian, and that I’d like her to take a look at it and tell me what it is. I’ll explain that although my books get translated all the time, the copies I get usually have regular cover art, so I’m curious to find out what this is.” She paused and looked at the men. “I think that should get her going, don’t you think? And it’s something we could easily fake.”