Dangerous Liaisons

by Tarah Scott

  “Jesse Evans.” With a manicured index finger, Juanita slid her sunglasses lower on her nose and peered over the rim. “How long has it been?” Her impeccable English held only a faint Spanish accent.

  Jesse forced a bright smile. Now wasn’t the time to remind Juanita Jesse had a photographic memory and wasn’t likely to forget their last encounter during the Madrid operation, when Juanita had comprised Spain’s agent contingent and observer—and spied on The Professor. Juanita had never mentioned the disc being missing from her purse, but Jesse figured she knew it was Jesse who had taken it.

  “Three years, I think.” Jesse embraced her, exchanged kisses on both cheeks, then pulled back. “How’s work at the Consulate these days?”

  Juanita dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “Too much to do and not enough resources to do it. You know, the same old story: diplomatic courier and all around expert on all things secret.”

  Yeah, Jesse thought. The Spanish had a miniscule but effective Secret Service thanks to people like Juanita. “I’m glad you could spare time for an old friend,” she said.

  The corners of Juanita’s mouth curved upward. “I hear you’ve been…shall we say…busy lately?”

  A vulgar flash of hot pink appeared amongst the dark green ferns to Jesse’s right and she glanced at the only other people around. She winced inwardly at sight of the gaudy Hawaiian style shirt worn by one of the men in the group of four tourists. She had seen the same tourists the two dozen times she had checked for anyone following her, and couldn’t help wondering if they were Feds. Only Feds would be stupid enough to dress so garishly in an attempt to blend in.

  Jesse linked arms with Juanita. “Let’s walk.” She headed toward the greenhouse that dominated the center of the gardens. “I need help.”

  Juanita erupted in the imitation Mata Hari laugh she used to lighten the mood in female company. “You need a miracle, girl. You know there’s an Interpol watch for you?”

  A sinking feeling hit Jesse’s gut. Interpol meant her picture had hit all world law enforcement agencies. The whole world now believed Jesse Evans had turned. Getting around Lanton would be tough, but she’d told herself she could do it. Getting to and hiding Amanda from the entire Western European law enforcement system was another story. Jesse glanced at Juanita’s brown arm linked with hers. Why had Juanita agreed to meet?

  “I hear Lanton wants your skin alive,” Juanita said.

  Jesse jerked her gaze onto Juanita’s face. Given the deep black of Green Team, even the mention of Lanton’s name by someone outside OIA indicated a serious breach of security. Why wasn’t she surprised? She and Juanita had played major roles in the Madrid operation. What were the odds Lanton had facilitated Juanita’s access to classified information on Tom’s computer? Damn good. Chock up another notch in Lanton’s poison pen.

  Jesse considered what she could offer in return for the tidbits of information Juanita had just thrown her. The cover story she had prepared about a solo, unofficial incursion onto foreign soil would no longer work. She could either offer a story closer to the truth, or end the meeting now.

  Jesse turned her stare straight ahead. “I hope you don’t believe those lies.”

  “I know you. I don’t know this Lanton.”

  Maybe she did, and maybe she didn’t.

  They left the large ferns behind and entered the passionflower walkway. “I have to clear my name,” Jesse said. “I’m looking for Perez.”

  Juanita looked sharply at her. “Amadeo Perez?”

  Jesse nodded.

  Juanita snorted. “You and a hundred others.”

  “I have to find him, or his financial accounts—or my name, my life—isn’t worth a plug-nickel.”

  Jesse tensed against the fear and guilt that rushed all too quickly forward. The tiniest links to the real world were an operative’s biggest liability and, usually, their loved ones were that link. She had known that, had known Amanda was in more danger than the average person because of her inability to care for herself. Amanda couldn’t even be left in a safe house. She could be drugged and transported there, but wouldn’t remain quiet.

  Selfish, Jesse berated herself. She should have sent her away years ago. Amanda would have forgotten about her. But the thought of her sister forgetting brought a lump to Jesse’s throat. She had told herself she could maintain anonymity, but she’d been wrong and now she no longer had the luxury of simply dropping off the face of the earth.

  Juanita slowed. Jesse felt the world slow with her. The sweet aroma of passionflowers washed over her, bringing with it unsettling memories of the failed operation…and death.

  Juanita spoke in a whisper. “All I know is that he uses cell phones and trusted messengers exclusively. We have had a watch on the airwaves for years, but Perez is a vaporous personality.”

  Jesse nodded. The only known picture of Perez was at age fifteen. He’d remained anonymous for nearly twenty-five years.

  “So far, we have been unable to get inside his network,” Juanita went on. “Even our attempts at creating a crisis to force one of his connections to contact him have been unsuccessful.”

  Up ahead, the path split. The right fork led to the tropical greenhouses, the left, to the palm grove. Anxiety gnawed at Jesse’s gut. She had been in the open too long. Juanita might be watched. It was time to call in a favor.

  “I’m out here in the cold. I need anything you can give me.”

  Juanita shook her head. “Your files were sealed when your operation went haywire. I can’t access them without raising flags. Those damn computers are too smart.”

  Normally, Juanita’s attempts at sounding American amused Jesse. Today, she could only think how far beyond haywire the operation had gone. “How about information on one Cole Smith, a U.S. operative who works for the man you mentioned?”

  Juanita slanted her a questioning look. “Why are you interested in him?”

  “He helped foil a kidnapping.”

  Juanita raised one perfect eyebrow. “Kidnapping?”

  “Mine.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “One more thing, I need some equipment.”

  Juanita gave another musical laugh. “You don’t ask much. Like what?”

  They reached the Y in the path, and Jesse stopped. “You say Perez only uses cell phones. How about an airlink sniffer?”

  Juanita frowned. “My English isn’t as good as I’d like. Eh, como se dise…”

  “My Spanish isn’t nearly as good as your English,” Jesse replied. “I don’t know the translation.”

  Juanita’s face lit up. “No!” she cried with a decidedly Spanish accent. “You mean the device that listens to cell-phone radio waves and decodes the protocol?”

  Jesse snorted a laugh. “Not bad for a woman who’s English is lacking.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Give me another year, and I’ll run circles around your professors at Princeton.”

  “No contest,” Jesse said. “I need the sniffer to be portable and untraceable. Top of the line. I won’t be getting a second chance.” Just like she wouldn’t be getting a second chance with Juanita. This was it. Jesse Evans was outside the system. The realization alleviated a sliver of the guilt she had about the meeting planned for that evening.

  Juanita studied her. “You actually think you’ll get close enough to Perez to use a sniffer?”

  “If I manage the miracle, I intend to be ready.”

  “Why not just buy one?” Juanita asked.

  Jesse’s jaw tensed. “My assets are indisposed.”

  Juanita’s brow shot up in question. She laughed when Jesse didn’t offer anything more. “All right. Give me a couple days.”

  “I have to split.” Jesse nodded at the path to the palm grove, which led to the garden’s exit. She palmed a card with her email address from her jeans pocket and pulled Juanita into a hug, kissing both cheeks again. During the embrace, she slipped the card into Juanita’s jacket pocket, making sure
she felt the movement.

  Jesse pulled back an arm’s length and looked into Juanita’s sunglasses. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You know I have to fill out a contact report.”

  “Can you sit on it for a week?”

  Juanita flashed a sly smile. “Those computers can be so pesky and exacting. Sometimes it takes a week or so to get them to accept a report.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Us girls have to stick together.”

  “Yeah,” Jesse agreed, and again thought of Amanda.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jesse’s pulse accelerated when a tall, well-built man stepped from the cantina she stood outside of in Santa Marta, Colombia. He halted three feet from where she leaned against the wall, only his profile visible to her. Even without the dim light of the single streetlamp at the end of the street, she would have recognized the man she’d fallen in love with her senior year in college—the man whose uncle was southern Colombia’s answer to the Godfather.

  She melted a little deeper into the shadows. Eight years had passed since she’d left him. Doubt quaked at the foundation of her plans. The same doubt which had plagued her a week ago when the idea to find him had surfaced on her flight from the States.

  During their time together at U.C. Berkley, Michael Quesada had done nothing to engender distrust. In fact, although he never spoke of it, she knew he didn’t want to follow in his uncle’s footsteps. Yet, she’d instinctively understood he had no choice. Just as she now she had no choice.

  Michael reached inside the pocket of his linen jacket and pulled out a silver cheroot case. He opened the lid, removed the single cigar, stuck it between his lips, then returned the holder to his pocket and took out a lighter.

  He leaned his head toward his cupped hands and ignited the lighter. A flash of fire lit up his face as he puffed the cigar, and Jesse saw the chiseled features of a mature man. The young man she’d known was gone. He slipped the lighter into his pocket and blew out a long puff of smoke.

  He started in the direction of the internet café Jesse had visited earlier, and she said, “Hello, Mikey.”

  Michael halted and Jesse felt an unexpected thrill at the realization that he recognized her voice after all these years. She pushed off the building as he turned. Their gazes locked for a long moment before his eyes slid down her length.

  He gave a slow shake of the head, “Jessica Evans,” he said in cultured English.

  He retained the same deep voice that used to drive her crazy. She had been right, though, all those years ago; they had ended up on opposite sides of the law. Her heart twisted. Now that difference might save her.

  “How have you been?” she asked.

  His gaze bore into her. “What are you doing here, Jessica?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Could he know she was on the run? If he did, that meant he knew she was OIA—Blue Team. Her research had turned up evidence Michael was laundering the family money. His education had served him well, just as his uncle had planned. A pang of regret stabbed her heart. Stupid, she told herself. She had come to him knowing—needing—his connections.

  The high whine of a wounded Moped approached. A lone rider motored past and disappeared into the night. Jesse waited until the drone of the engine had died, then said, “I’m in trouble, Mikey.”

  Michael took a long drag on his cigar. The ash burned red hot. He blew out smoke, then said, “I knew you’d come to a bad end.”

  Jesse blinked, then recognized the hint of amusement in his voice. She grinned. “I always knew you were too smart for your own good.”

  He sighed. “And here I’d hoped you’d come to your senses and were here to beg forgiveness for breaking my heart. I’ve waited a long time.”

  Jesse’s lips twitched. “Eight years can be a lifetime. Have you saved yourself for me?”

  He gave a solemn nod. “Every day, I’ve prayed to St. Agnes for strength.”

  Jesse lifted a brow. “The patron saint of chastity?”

  “And purity and virgins,” he added.

  “You look good,” she said.

  “But not that good?”

  Jesse sobered. “Too good,” she admitted.

  A man stumbled out the cantina door and barreled into Michael.

  “Lo siento, senor,” the man slurred.

  “No importa,” Michael said, and steadied him.

  The man glanced at Jesse, then back at Michael. He flashed a wobbly grin, then began weaving his way down the street.

  Michael looked back at Jesse. “It’s getting late. The cantina will become rowdier as the night wears on.” He motioned with his head for her to follow and started down the walkway.

  Jesse fell in beside him. “A lot has happened since we last saw one another,” she said.

  Michael drew on his cigar.

  Jesse took a deep breath. “I’ve been accused of selling information that got five men killed.”

  He glanced sharply at her. Three heartbeats of a pause drew out before he said, “Were these men important?”

  “If you call Special Forces important, yes.”

  “Ah.” Michael looked back at the street. “What do you want from me?”

  “The man who is said to have paid me for this information is Colombian. It’s asking a lot, Michael, but I need to find him.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “Amadeo Perez.”

  Michael halted. “Amadeo Perez, the drug lord?”

  Jesse nodded.

  Michael started walking again. They strolled in silence while he drew hard on his cheroot. “You’re right. It is asking a lot. What makes you think I can help?”

  “I need the information, Mikey.”

  He laughed. “The ends justify the means. You’ve changed, Jessica.”

  Anger shot through her. “I’m not asking you to murder anyone, just get me a piece of information. Anything that happens to Perez as a result won’t be any great loss.”

  “You plan on killing him?”

  The quick response startled her back to reason. “No. I don’t kill people. That’s never been my business.” Killing hadn’t been her business, but she had killed—twice. The taste still turned her stomach. “I gather information.”

  “But you don’t sell it?”

  “I haven’t changed, Mikey.” But she had. Just how much, she wasn’t sure.

  He sighed. Jesse remembered that sigh all too well, and it gave her hope. Michael Quesada was a tough man, but he was also sensible and sensitive. A poet at heart—a poet born into the wrong family—which is why she still thought of him as Mikey, The pet name she’d him on their first date.

  They reached the end of the street. Michael took a final puff on his cigar, then dropped it on the ground and snuffed it out with the toe of his boot.

  “I don’t know Perez, Jessica.”

  “I know. A lead, Mikey, that’s all I need.”

  He laughed. “You and every other D.E.A. agent in the U. S.”

  “I’m not D.E.A.” She paused, then added, “One more thing.”

  He lifted a brow. The expression on his face contained a hint of incredulousness. “You always did have guts. What is it?”

  “I need information on a Cole Smith. He started out in the military, Afghanistan, Iraq, then moved into Special Forces. I hear he was part of the mission I’m supposed to have sold out. I need to know everything about him you can get.”

  Michael gave a nearly silent laugh, then sighed again. “I won’t be coming back to Santa Marta for a long time. Do you still have that fantastic memory?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Mquesada at bogatel dot com. Email me in three days. I’ll send you what I find.” He shook his head. “I can’t hand you Perez. No one can. If you don’t hear from me, then I didn’t get anything.” He leveled his gaze on her. “Or I changed my mind.”

  “I understand.”

  Michael stepped from the sidewalk onto the street. “Don’t come looking for me a
gain, Jessica.”

  Jesse watched him cross the street, then stroll down the sidewalk until he blended with the shadows. This really was the last time she would see him. The thought hurt.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jesse slumped in a seat beside a trash barrel at Bogotá International Airport. Despite the cotton chemise worn beneath her oversized peasant dress, the straps of the one-piece, latex foam belly and breasts—part of her fat, middle-aged Colombian laborer disguise—chaffed her shoulders. Ernesta had insisted on the lifelike latex foam.

  “Just because no one is going to touch, doesn’t mean the disguise shouldn’t be as real as possible. You never know. Some young man might become smitten.” Ernesta had grinned that morning as she applied the finishing touches to the dark makeup covering Jesse’s face, neck, arms, and hands.

  Jesse shifted in her seat and the black wig’s thick locks brushed her shoulder blades. “Any young man who tries touching these breasts is liable to get a mouthful of fist,” she had told Ernesta. “I’m in no mood for amoré.”

  The five-foot-one, bombshell had grinned. Amoré wasn’t what Ernesta had in mind.

  Ernesta had spent the first four of her teen years on Bogotá streets. If there was one thing she understood, it was what it was like to disdain a man’s touch. She also understood what kind of breasts it took to convince a man they were real.

  A year after Jesse joined the Marines, she transferred to a unit in Colombia assigned to guard the embassy. While out on the town one night, she found Ernesta hustling on the streets. Something about the girl suggested she was different. It wasn’t just her looks. Ernesta had brains.

  Jesse spoke to the Colombian Ambassador about Ernesta. That day changed the lives of both women. Ambassador Sanchez gave Jesse Emilio Santiago’s number, and passed Jesse’s name onto the OIA.