by Cate Noble
Sometime later, he floated up from darkness. He blinked, eyes stinging. The pain returned, slowly at first, and then with more severity. He’d obviously passed out for a few seconds.
The sound of sirens grew more pronounced. Someone was trying to get his door open.
“Lera?”
It hurt to turn his head, but his wife, his son were so quiet now. He expected to see blood and prayed their injuries would not be too severe.
The front seat was empty. But the windshield had a gaping hole in the glass.
“Lera!”
Unable to move, he focused on the rearview mirror. Behind him, a crowd huddled around a lifeless form in the road.
A lifeless little bluebird wearing the same exact coat as Lera.
Chapter 14
Key West, Florida
July 7
(Present Day)
It took barely a half-week for Dante’s place to look as if he’d been there a month. Pizza and Chinese carryout boxes overflowed the kitchen garbage can. Dirty plates and cups were stacked in the sink.
Travis had returned to Langley four days ago. Rocco had gone on to Gitmo for appearances’ sake, but had returned to Key West late last night.
Dante stood in the center of the living room, explaining what he’d done while Rocco sucked down a cup of coffee and polished off a slice of cold pizza. Breakfast of champions.
“It looks like an office supply truck took a dump in here,” Rocco observed between chews.
He wasn’t too far off the mark. Dante had taken down the apartment’s mismatched seascapes and covered most of the wall with paper. Photographs, maps, charts, time lines. Other reports and files covered the coffee table.
As promised, Travis had been e-mailing copies of Dante’s old case files. After reading everything, Dante printed and highlighted key parts, then sorted and re-sorted the info by jobs, known associates, and personal data.
Because they’d worked together, most of Rocco’s, Max’s, and Harry’s assignments were included as well.
“Damn, I’d forgotten about half of these, too,” Rocco complained. “Please tell me the mind is the first thing to go. What’s your overall assessment on disgruntled adversaries?”
“Excluding the Taliban—they hate the world—the most likely players are Minh Tran and Obert Svenson.” Svenson was another slippery arms dealer they’d tried unsuccessfully to take down.
“My money’s still on Tran,” Rocco said. “Has Travis connected either of them to Cat?”
“She and Max worked the Svenson case with MI6. Nothing solid on Tran yet.”
Rocco pointed to another list. “What about DeBono? And the Belarus job?”
“DeBono died last year in prison. Viktor Zadovsky never fully recovered from that wreck. He’s still in Belarus, in a nursing home. His partner died when the Chechen rebels invaded the institute.”
“Chechens. Now there’s another nice bunch,” Rocco muttered as he studied the pins stuck in the map. “Is there a geographic pattern to these cases?”
“None. The assignments seem random regardless of whether I sort them by person, locale, or date.”
Rocco picked up a British security report stamped EYES ONLY. “When I grow up, I want to be Travis. He’s got more contacts than God.” Setting his coffee mug aside, he flipped through the report. “How much you wanna bet T’s one of those nameless rogues we hear about who run shadow government agencies behind our backs.”
“He’s not old and stodgy enough. But it would explain how he comes up with stuff.” Dante was referring to the foreign files Travis had managed to access on Catalina Dion. As a contractor, she’d worked for other agencies as well as the CIA.
“Did you know that Cat had been doing this for so long?” Rocco asked.
Dante shook his head, started to say, We fucked more than we talked. But that sounded like braggadocio. Or sour grapes. Hell, rotten grapes. “From what I can tell, she turned pro thirteen years ago.”
“She’s got more aliases than I do. Do we know if Dion is even her real surname?”
“No. But all the big players had that same birth certificate and it appears authentic.”
“Whoopee shit.”
“Exactly. Travis ran down vitals, parents, etc., but there are no living relatives.” The birth certificate in question showed that Catalina Maria Dion was born in Barcelona, Spain, thirty-three years ago.
Other documents had her age ranging between twenty-seven and thirty-five, a factor that in this business, wasn’t unusual.
Dante was thirty-six, but over the years, he’d had IDs ranging a fifteen-year span. He’d also used multiple aliases; it had been a running joke between him and Cat that neither of them knew the other’s real name.
Which at the time had been copacetic. It was an unwritten rule not to ask personal questions of people they worked with. It was also second nature to give away little. Or to simply adapt lies from their cover personas.
He’d done it plenty of times. In fantasy, he could make his life sound like it rivaled James Bond’s. Cat’s had sounded like Mata Hari Meets Bat Girl.
“She’s definitely worked for all the major security agencies.” Rocco read a list. “England, Israel, France.”
“Almost every American ally. Travis is also checking out who she didn’t work for. Right now, though, it appears she was in a position to cherry pick assignments. Everyone wanted her.”
A person with Cat’s skill set would be in constant demand. She was fluent in multiple languages and could mimic dialects perfectly. Combine that with her near perfect photographic memory, her mastery of disguise, and her explosives background, and she was any security agency’s wet dream.
“So who did the initial background and clearances on her—however many years ago?” Rocco asked.
“She started with MI6, working directly under Remi St. James.” Remi St. James was the infamous British spymaster who’d gone on to open a private security firm after his so-called retirement from MI6. “If St. James vetted her, she would have been considered golden. Untouchable.” Translation: No background checks needed.
“Didn’t St. James leave the biz for good after nine/eleven?”
“Actually he closed shop and vanished right around the same time I was captured,” Dante said. “He’s another literal dead end.”
“Does Travis think he’s been murdered, too?”
Nodding, Dante moved to another grouping of papers tacked up on the wall. “The odds aren’t in his favor. See this list? It’s Cat’s known associates. The ones on the left are confirmed homicides.” Max and Harry topped the list. In the last four months, two MI6 agents, and one Mossad operative had all died in deliberate bombings. “Travis got the preliminary lab reports on my boat. The explosive used was identical to what was used overseas. Semtex.”
“New stuff?”
“Brand new. Whoever designed that bomb was advertising.” The detection taggants that were now added to plastic explosive gave it a distinctive vapor signature. It was as identifiable as a fingerprint; not the type of mistake a pro would make.
He eyed the list of dead agents. Had any of these men caught a whiff of cologne before their brains were blown out?
Rocco pointed to the bottom. “Why are these names scratched off?”
“Their deaths have been attributed to verifiable causes. Those last two guys died in a raid on an Afghanistan stronghold.”
Now Rocco’s attention shifted to the four names on the right-hand side. “Alive: You and I. Gotcha. Remi St. James with a question mark. And who is Giselle Barclay?”
“You knew her as Topaz. Turns out she was our source on the Pakistan job. She was also St. James’s lover, so she stayed behind the scenes. However, she was also a friend of Cat’s. And Giselle disappeared around the same time St. James did.”
“Find one, I bet you’ll find them both. Any chance they’re working with Cat?”
“Travis says no on St. James, or else MI6 would have a noticeable hard-on. The
y consider St. James a national hero.” If St. James were indeed dead by Cat’s hand, there would be holy hell to pay if the Brits caught her first. “Giselle’s a wild card.”
“Hold that thought. I need more caffeine.” Rocco grabbed his cup and disappeared into the kitchen.
Alone, Dante focused on the most barren spot on the wall: the section containing personal data on Cat.
There were lots of pictures. The camera obviously loved her. He knew the short, blond hair he’d seen her with most frequently had been artificial. Yeah, she’d been meticulous about roots, but no one had that shade of white blond hair naturally.
He studied the various shots. Were any of them the real Catalina Dion? She was adept with wigs and makeup, frequently using facial prostheses to disguise her natural beauty.
Rocco returned with more pizza in hand. “Any reports of video exposés on the other agents?”
“None besides me.”
Rocco squinted. “I don’t get it. If she’s trying to cover her tracks by eliminating anyone who might know personal details—why be so blatant with the cologne? The Semtex?”
“Beats the shit out of me, too. We’re missing something.”
“What did you learn about her fake demise?” Rocco asked.
“According to the death certificate, Margo Sheldon, a known alias of Cat’s, drowned just outside of Paris, in the Seine. A year ago. Police received an anonymous call that a woman had jumped from a bridge. The body was identified by a woman claiming to be her sister, Bernice, who filed a missing person complaint the day before. The coroner noted track marks on the victim’s arms and legs and her sister confirmed that Margo had a drug problem.”
Rocco groaned. “It doesn’t get more clichéd than that. Find a homeless addict with the correct physical resemblance, shoot her up, and stage an accident. Bet the body was cremated.”
“Yup. And it gets better. The photographs and lab samples disappeared as well.”
Dante’s phone rang just then. Travis had supplied both men with tricked-out cell phones modified to deter detection.
“Rocco back?” Travis asked when Dante answered.
“Yeah, he’s here.”
“Good. Check your e-mail. I got a lead on Remi St. James.”
Stepping over the coffee table, Dante moved to fire up his laptop. “Tell me it’s not another body.”
“It’s not. Turns out St. James was diagnosed with lung cancer almost two years ago. Surgery and conventional chemo didn’t help, so he opted to try an experimental treatment in Jamaica, which actually seemed successful. Until he was diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s.”
Jesus. “What a waste.” Dante had never met Remi St. James, but was familiar with the man’s reputation. “Is he still in Jamaica?”
“Negative. But the doctor who treated him there is affiliated with another experimental clinic in the Bahamas. For Alzheimer’s.”
“Can we confirm patient registrations?”
“I’ve struck out with all the alibis I know St. James has used. And most of the superwealthy clientele at the Bahamas check in under aliases anyway. Lots of celebs. We’ll need a visual.”
Dante glanced at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. “I can be in Freeport this afternoon.”
Under the guise of researching treatment options for his fictional mother, Dante was able to book an appointment at the Freeport clinic for the next morning. Rocco had opted to stay in Key West to review the new files Travis sent, but as Dante eyed the clinic’s exterior, he wondered if he should have stayed in Key West. Places like this, no matter how nice, made him feel uncomfortable. “Experimental” brought to mind guinea pigs. Is that how they viewed patients here?
Nouveau Place looked more like an exclusive hotel than clinic. Private and exclusive, the walled compound exuded a quiet desperation. A confirmation that money didn’t buy everything.
Dante arrived early for his 10 a.m. meeting with the clinic’s new patient representative, Sally McDonald.
Sally greeted him warmly and offered a tour. “So how did you hear about us?”
“A friend of my mother’s is being treated here.” When Sally didn’t ask for a name, Dante went on. “I’ve done some research, but wanted to see your facility personally before building up my family’s hopes.”
“That’s understandable.” Sally was an attractive brunette, whose tanned skin made her look older than forty-two. Still she was the picture of empathy. “How long since your mother’s diagnosis?”
“Three weeks. Seems longer.”
“It always does.” She led the way, showing off the private gardens first. The neatly manicured plants had an artificial look, the blooms reminding Dante of flowers from a funeral spray. The few patients and staff that he saw were all female.
As they walked, they discussed Dante’s mother’s disease, created right off the Internet.
“The options we’ve been given aren’t pleasant,” Dante said.
“That’s where treatment centers such as this come in.”
Treatment. He stopped cold, as a picture floated across his mind. He’d been strapped to a table once…But where?
“We offer hope,” Sally was saying. “In a landscape that’s very bleak.”
“Exactly.” He took a deep breath, wondering how much of the conversation he’d blanked out.
Sally touched his hand briefly, the empathy once more resurfacing. “I understand how upsetting this must be for you. For all the strides medicine has made, there is much to be conquered. Let me show you one of our guest suites now.”
Dante’s hopes of checking out more patients were dashed by a hallway lined with closed doors.
After the tour, they ended up in Sally’s office. He sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, while she gathered a packet of information.
“Some of these forms may seem redundant,” she said. “But we believe in being thorough. Our fee schedule is all-inclusive and based on the patient’s level of self-care. Also, there’s a list of the medical information we would need on your mother in order to do a preliminary evaluation. If you like, I’d be happy to review these with you.” She leaned slightly forward and gave him an I’m available smile.
“By all means.” Dante tugged out the chair next to his, encouraging the woman’s flirting.
She moved from behind her desk and slid in the offered seat. For the next thirty minutes, they discussed the forms and the clinic, while politely volleying personal questions.
He learned that Sally was divorced. She promised to show him the island when he returned.
“And last but not least, we have the releases,” she said. “As you know, our treatments, while successful, are considered experimental. If someone in the family has been appointed guardian, they will need to sign these. Any questions?”
Lots of questions, he thought. “I believe you covered everything, though I’m sure my sister will think of something I forgot to ask.” He forced a grin. “Actually, I’d like to take you to lunch. If you’re available, that is.”
Sally beamed. “I have to wait until my assistant returns. I could meet you someplace if you’d like.”
“I don’t mind hanging around. In fact, maybe you can help me with one other matter. I’d like to check on my mother’s friend, but I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve forgotten his name.” He made a show of checking his pockets before opening his briefcase. “Mom gave me some old photographs to share with him, but it looks like I’ve lost them, too. No! Here they are.” He withdrew several pictures, then handed her the most recent shot of Remi St. James. “Knowing Mom, this isn’t a current picture. She gets things mixed up.”
“That’s common.” Sally’s smile faded as soon as she looked at the photograph. “This looks like Mr. Barry.”
“Yes!” Dante snapped his fingers, pretending not to notice her sudden reticence. “That sounds familiar. While you’re waiting for your assistant, could I say hello, perhaps show Mr. Barry the other photos Mom sent?”
“
I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Patient privacy, right? I’d never ask you to break a rule.”
“In this case…well, it’s not exactly a rule.” Sally chose her words carefully. “Mr. Barry passed away.”
Dante wanted to gnash his teeth. “When?”
“Just last week.”
He’d get the exact date from her shortly. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard. I suppose I should have contacted his family before coming here.”
“Um, how well do you know Mr. Barry’s family? Do you by chance have contact information for them?”
“Not with me,” he said. “Is there something I could perhaps pass along when I get home?”
“No.” It was evident Sally had an internal debate going on inside her head. Patient privacy would be one issue. The clinic’s image another. You didn’t sell medical services by advertising dead clients.
“From what I gathered, Mr. Barry’s prognosis wasn’t good to begin with. I’m sure the clinic did everything possible.” Dante dropped his voice. “If you’d like, I could call my sister later; perhaps ask her to get a phone number from Mom’s address book.”
“Would you mind?”
“Not at all. I’ll admit I’m a little surprised you don’t have it already. Unless…Oh, I get it. His family didn’t know he was here, did they?”
Her eyes flared, but her voice remained businesslike. “They knew. One of them at least. Actually I should probably contact the authorities while you’re here. They might be interested in whatever information you have.”
There was only reason why the local authorities were involved: suspicious death.
“I doubt I can be of help. I, uh, sense we’re both tiptoeing around here, trying to avoid asking each other for private information. Tell you what.” He touched the top of her hand. “Let’s agree this discussion is off the record.”
Sally’s eyes softened, and then she nodded. “Mr. Barry took his own life, but I must emphasize it was through no fault or negligence on the clinic’s part. It’s believed his daughter helped, both in supplying the drug and in distracting his private nurse.”