“You want to tell me what the hell is going on, Stone?” Riley demanded.
Calm and self-assured, Mitchell pointed to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
“Sam—Agent St. John—almost got captured by those cold-blooded bastards MI-6 sicced onto her. Someone penetrated our communications security.”
“I know. Have a seat.”
Riley paced the floor. “I don’t feel like sitting.”
“Are you in communication with Agent St. John at present?” Mitchell asked.
“Agent St. John has cut off communication to me through her sat-phone.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Not that I blame her. If I was in her shoes, I’d have done the same damn thing.”
“She has to trust you. She’s trapped in a foreign country. No way out. Wanted by the police. Hunted by mercenaries working for MI-6. You’re all she has.”
“C’mon, Stone,” Riley said. “A play gets busted this badly, this quickly, over what is supposed to be an encrypted communications network, you know what she’s gotta be thinking.”
The CIA director made no reply.
“It’s the same thing that you or I would think. It’s the same thing that brought me to your damn door in such a hurry after St. John pulled her fade.”
Mitchell nodded slowly. “That someone here at the Agency sold her out.”
“Yeah,” Riley growled. “But I know it wasn’t me.” He leaned forward in his chair, piercing the director with his gaze. “So I’m here, Stone, and I want to know why you sold out Samantha St. John to the Brits.”
More than an hour after her escape from the trap at Karlsplatz, Sam walked through the door of a cybercafé near the Franz Josef Strauss Airport. Neon tubing advertised the existence of the business tucked in between office buildings. Video cameras, carefully situated in the room so they couldn’t view the computer monitors covering the high tables around the room, panned the door.
The knowledge that someone somewhere was getting her image made Sam nervous. Brief pieces of news footage she’d seen in an apartment she’d broken into for a change of clothes let her know that Munich police had taken several people into custody. No mention was made of who they were, and no mention was made of her by name, although the news anchor reported that some of the rioters had escaped.
After negotiating the computer and Internet rate, keeping the conversation in German and mimicking the local accent, Sam put herself behind one of the machines in the corner. Despite her anxiety and the urgency she felt, she ordered a tomato sandwich and a latte. Although there’d been food at Steiner’s castle, she hadn’t eaten much. Now she found she was famished.
One of the things she had learned about being in a succession of foster homes while growing up, of never knowing what kind of reception she was going to receive there or what the accommodations would be, was to eat whenever she was hungry. Served on a toasted bagel, the tomato sandwich was filled with a thick tomato slice, cream cheese, chopped onions and watercress.
She ate quickly, managing the keyboard with one hand. She used one of the e-mail addresses she’d set up for use while out in the field when she didn’t want the Agency to track her every move. A blind e-mail was easy enough to set up, but couldn’t be used more than once without possibly blowing the integrity of the security.
The trick was to contact someone who knew who she was despite the unfamiliar e-mail address. The second trick was to contact someone who would be in a position to help her.
With the chaotic background she’d lived through, and the succession of foster homes, Sam’s resources outside the CIA were limited. The single happy time in her childhood that had fostered feelings of permanent relationships was her time at the Athena Academy.
Located in Arizona, outside the Glendale/Phoenix area, the Athena Academy for the Advancement of Women had come into being about two decades ago. Situated in the foothills of the White Tank Mountains, the five-hundred-acre educational facility offered an array of subjects for elite female students between the ages of ten through eighteen.
One of Arizona’s senators at the time, Marion Gracelyn, became the Athena Academy’s prime promoter. Calling on favors and using her knowledge of government operations, Senator Gracelyn laid out the plans for the school, then found the people and the money to make it come to fruition. Christine Evans, a retired army captain, was chosen as the school’s principal.
The goals of the school were multifold. Creating opportunities for women in all branches of the military, espionage agencies, national law enforcement bodies such as the FBI and the United States Marshals Office, as well as political office was the first goal.
Students who attended the Athena Academy were special: scholastically and physically superior, the kind of women who could succeed at anything they gave their hearts to. When the school first opened, only one hundred students attended. At present, the student body was limited to two hundred.
Sam St. John had gotten into the school at age nine, a full year earlier than the youngest students were usually admitted. At home, Sam had hacked into a secure computer site that handled sensitive espionage matters for the United States Government. After her astounding feat had been discovered, and her foster parents at the time had admitted that they wouldn’t be willing to take any further responsibility for her, a full scholarship had been awarded to Sam. She’d gone to live at the academy, thinking that it was just another way station on her way to adulthood and a time when she could take care of herself.
But in that first year at the Athena Academy, Sam had been assigned to an orientation group with girls who had become known as the Cassandras. Groups were assigned at the beginning of each year as thirty new students were brought into the school and divided into five groups of six members, each group delegated to a senior mentor. The groups of first-years were pitted against each other in several friendly competitions. Tory, Josie, Darcy, Kayla, and Alex had seemed about as different from one another as they could be, but Rainy—Lorraine Miller, at the time—had been made their mentor.
In spite of her best intentions to simply survive the school, get an education and get out, Sam had ended up making friends who she was sure would remain in her life forever. No matter how hectic things became, they still got together on special occasions.
Kayla Ryan had gone on to become a police officer. Alexandra Forsythe had become a forensic scientist with the FBI. Josie Lockworth was an air force captain. Victoria, or Tory, Patton became a reporter and now worked for a national news agency. Darcy Allen had worked in Hollywood as a costume designer and makeup artist before marrying a famous movie producer. Rainy Miller Carrington was now an attorney.
And they’d sworn at the end of that first year that they would always be there for each other. They’d called their vow the Cassandra Promise.
Unfortunately, Sam felt that none of her closest friends could currently help her. But the Cassandras weren’t the only friends Sam had made through Athena.
Given her present situation, only one person came to Sam’s mind. If the woman wasn’t there, Sam had no choice but to either proceed without information or hunker down and try to wait out the storm that had overtaken her.
Allison Gracelyn, daughter of Senator Marion Gracelyn, had graduated the Athena Academy with Rainy. Like Rainy, Allison had maintained close ties with the school. Currently, Allison worked as a computer programmer and mathematician at the National Security Agency, the most top-secret spy organization in the United States. However, she also served as a board consultant and overseer at Athena.
When Sam had applied for the CIA, Allison had stepped forward and written a letter of recommendation on Sam’s behalf. The act had surprised Sam, because she hadn’t been close to Allison. Not that she was terribly close to anyone outside of the Cassandras. But Allison was a good friend of Rainy’s. Sam had guessed that Rainy had triggered the letter from Allison.
Since that time, Allison had kept in touch with
Sam and had provided some guidance while Sam worked with the Agency. On a few occasions Allison had asked Sam to translate some of the HUMINT and SIGNIT intelligence the NSA’s spy satellites and agents had gathered.
HUMINT was human intelligence, conversations and confessions garnered or overheard by NSA agents in the field. SIGNIT was signal intelligence, stolen away by listening devices and computers. Although she’d been able to help with the translations on most occasions, Sam still didn’t know for certain what significance those brief bits of information had. Allison had been appreciative of the help and had written more letters to the CIA directors that had helped Sam’s career.
That doesn’t mean I can e-mail Allison and expect help, Sam reminded herself.
In point of fact, there was a good chance Allison could trace Sam through the Internet Service Provider and give her location to MI-6, in return for an espionage favor, or to the CIA. Sam had no doubt that Riley McLane was desperately hunting her.
Lightning flashed outside the cybercafé, startling Sam. Then the dark heavens opened up and rain drummed the street.
She turned her full attention to the computer. She went online and tapped into one of the Web sites where she stored her computer tools and programs, then downloaded them to the computer she was on.
All of the tools were cutting edge, programs that she had either written herself or modified. Some of them were designed to break into sites. Others allowed her to trace people through the Internet. And some, like the ones she downloaded now, allowed her to mask the ISP she was logged on at.
Her configuration set, she typed, ONLINE?, hesitated a moment, then sent the message.
Chapter 5
T he computer pinged to let Sam know the message had been successfully sent.
She took a sip of her latte and waited. She was just about to give up when an Instant Message box opened on the screen.
I’M HERE.
IT’S MIRAGE. Whenever Sam contacted Allison, she always used e-mail that pertained to mythological beings and places.
WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU, MIRAGE?
Sam quickly logged on to the IM box and opened the dialogue. She typed rapidly. I THINK I’M IN TROUBLE.
WHAT KIND OF TROUBLE?
I DON’T KNOW YET.
SO TELL ME.
Sam hesitated but couldn’t keep her fingers from typing, CAN I TRUST YOU? She hated asking the question and immediately felt embarrassed. But that was one of the questions she’d always wanted to ask the different sets of foster parents she’d met over the years. And it was usually the one question she never asked but always got the answer to at some point.
YOU ALREADY HAVE, Allison replied.
After a brief hesitation, Sam typed, NOT TRUSTED COMPLETELY. I’VE MASKED THE ISP I’M USING. IF YOU TRY TO FIND OUT ANYTHING MORE ABOUT MY LOCATION, I’LL KNOW YOU’RE LOOKING AND I’LL BE GONE.
DON’T BLAME YOU. SCARY OUT THERE.
WHAT DO YOU KNOW?
NOT MUCH.
THE BRITISH SHADOWS ARE CHASING ME.
I KNEW THAT.
WHY?
Allison’s answer came back at once. I HAVEN’T FOUND OUT YET. IT’S A SENSITIVE MATTER. NO ONE’S TALKING ABOUT IT. I DON’T WANT TO PUSH TOO HARD. THE SITUATION ISN’T IN ANY OF THE FIELDS I’M RESPONSIBLE FOR. I ONLY FOUND OUT A FEW MINUTES AGO.
Sam thought about that. HOW DID YOU FIND OUT?
CIA DIRECTOR MITCHELL CALLED ME. SAID YOU MIGHT BE IN CONTACT. THAT MADE ME CURIOUS.
WHAT DID YOU TELL HIM?
THAT I’D LET HIM KNOW IF YOU GOT IN TOUCH WITH ME.
An iron fist wrapped around Sam’s stomach. For a moment she thought she was going to throw up. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting MI-6 agents to come busting through the door. Instead, she caught the two young men gazing at her, then saw them quickly try to cover that fact up.
The computer pinged, letting her know Allison had already sent another message.
I LIED.
The fist clenching Sam’s middle relaxed. But only a little. She hated trusting anyone outside her own skin. Nobody had ever looked out for her the way she’d looked out for herself.
Well, almost nobody. The Cassandras had come close. Rainy had been like the big sister Sam had never had. And Darcy had become almost like a mother.
WHY ARE THEY AFTER YOU? Allison asked.
I HAVEN’T STOPPED LONG ENOUGH TO ASK.
The cursor blinked for a moment, then Allison asked, HOW MUCH INVOLVEMENT HAVE YOU HAD WITH THEM?
PRACTICALLY NONE. SPOT ASSIGNMENTS. NOTHING HANDS-ON WITHOUT OTHER AGENTS BEING PRESENT.
WHAT DO YOU NEED FROM ME?
Sam thought about that only for a moment. I NEED TO KNOW WHERE THE HEAT’S COMING FROM.
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
STAY HUNKERED DOWN UNTIL I FIGURE OUT MY NEXT MOVE.
THAT MEANS YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE HERE FOR THE FUNERAL. THAT’S GOING TO BE HARD ON THE OTHERS. THEY WERE HOPING YOU WOULD ALL BE TOGETHER TO SAY GOODBYE.
A creeping chill filled Sam. She made herself read the words again. Nothing there made sense. Breaking the thrall that held her, she typed, WHAT FUNERAL?
YOU DON’T KNOW?
Sam waited. The list of people that Allison knew Sam would be upset over was short. And all of those people meant the world to her.
RAINY.
The single word froze Sam’s heart. Her hands turned numb. She couldn’t type. Images of Rainy—Lorraine Miller Carrington to anyone who didn’t know her—danced through Sam’s head.
Rainy had thick chestnut-colored hair and bright blue eyes. She was quick out on the mats in a martial arts dojo, a whirlwind of determination. Rainy had served as an instructor at the Athena Academy. She’d thought she had taught Sam some new moves. Sam had just never let her friend see how good she really was.
More than anything, the night when Rainy had “injured” her ankle while on a survival camping trip, Rainy had somehow managed to defeat Sam’s ingrained emotional defenses. Rainy had been the group leader of the Cassandras. They’d been an odd group, none of them getting along well with the others. They’d done poorly at every competition in their first trimester at Athena. None of them had worked well with the others at first, and it showed in their poor performance in group activities.
Sam had been the youngest member. At that time, she’d carried a lot of anger inside her and unleashed it on anyone who tried to get close to her. Rainy had changed all that when she’d pretended to be injured out there in the mountains. During that night, while caring for Rainy, all of them—Tory, Josie, Darcy, Kayla, Alex and Sam—had somehow pulled together to take care of Rainy and each other. And the Cassandras had become the strongest of all the groups that year.
No. Not Rainy. Rainy can’t be dead. Nothing can happen to Rainy.
Sam felt the hot flash of tears burn at the backs of her eyes. She walled those feelings off, drawing on the skills she’d learned while getting bounced from foster home to foster home.
Nothing could touch her. She wouldn’t let it.
I’M SO SORRY, Allison typed. OH, GOD, I’M SO SORRY. YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TO FIND OUT LIKE THIS.
Sam stared at the screen, then blocked out the hurtful words. She typed WHAT HAPPENED?
“Miss, would you like a pillow?”
Torn from her thoughts, Sam glanced up at the flight attendant. He was young and slim, elegant looking in his uniform.
“No,” Sam replied. She heard the strain in her voice. Fatigue had settled in like a heavy quilt once the jet had taken off. She hadn’t spoken since the jet had lifted from Innsbruck, Austria.
After finishing her conversation with Allison Gracelyn, Sam had abandoned Munich at once. She’d rented a car in one of her cover names and driven down to St. Anton, Austria. Once there, she’d spent the night in one of the ski resorts under yet another name. After she’d lost herself among the skiing crowd and made certain she hadn’t been followed, she’d rented a car and driven to Innsbruck to take the first p
lane headed west that offered jumps to Tucson, Arizona, where Rainy was going to be buried. She was going to have to say goodbye to her friend forever.
Tomorrow. How am I going to do that, Rainy? How am I supposed to go on and never see you again?
It wasn’t fair. This hurt too much. Sam had gotten really good at telling foster families goodbye. She’d made certain after the first few that she never got to know the families that followed.
Sam glanced at her watch. Tomorrow was only hours away. She was somewhere over the Atlantic seaboard of the United States. With the layovers she had scheduled in Atlanta, Georgia, and St. Louis, Missouri, getting to the funeral on time was going to be close.
“A magazine, then?” the flight attendant suggested, as if uncomfortable leaving her there staring into the darkness outside the window. “Or headphones for the television or radio?”
From the corner of her eye, Sam noticed that the rest of the travelers on the late-night flight were asleep or reading or watching the recycled sit-com on the small television monitors that flipped down from the cabin roof.
“Headphones, please.” Sam paid for the disposable headphones, plugged them into the appropriate slot on the seat, and didn’t switch the sound on. With the headphones in place, her inability to sleep and preoccupation with the painful memories and incessant questions that kept slamming around in her mind were effectively disguised.
Satisfied, the attendant offered a beverage of her choice, accepted her polite refusal of the same and went away.
Fatigue leeched at Sam’s reserves, but she couldn’t rest. Even if she hadn’t been running from the combined forces of the CIA and MI-6, she wouldn’t have been able to sleep.
Rainy was dead.
And with her friend gone, something of Sam St. John felt dead and MIA, as well.
Sam still hadn’t cried. She refused to allow herself. Crying had never done her any good while she was shuttling from family to family, usually wearing out her welcome and sometimes alienating the families because she wouldn’t socialize with them.
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