by Josie Brown
Donna was so amazed that she was at a loss for words. The man at the other end of the line must have realized this because he paused, then uttered in perfect English, “Peter? Are you there, Peter?”
“No, there is no Peter here,” Donna said firmly. “You have the wrong number.”
The deathly silence between them was finally broken when, in perfect English, the man asked ever so politely, “Tell me, who owns this phone?”
Before Donna could answer him, Carl plucked the cell out of her hand and disconnected the call.
She teared up, but didn’t say anything.
He felt her eyes follow him back to the bathroom, where he closed the door behind him. He knew his actions seemed cruel to her. He knew he should put on his game face and say something, but he was too shocked to think through a plausible lie as to why some German person was calling his cell and asking for him as “Peter,” let alone why it should have rattled him in the first place.
Peter was the alias he’d used in his dealings with the Quorum.
He had recognized the voice on the other end of the phone as that of his Quorum handler, Eric Weber.
He’d never given Eric his cell number.
Something was terribly wrong.
He had every right to be scared.
At that moment, he knew exactly what he had to do: play for time.
He waited a half hour. When he opened the door, the lights were off.
Donna was sound asleep.
He took the cell phone with him. After slipping downstairs and out the front door, he jogged down the block to an overlook perched above the traffic flowing up and down the Pacific Coast Highway. When he was sure he was alone, he dialed his client’s number.
Eric must have recognized his cell because he didn’t bother with the formalities in greeting the man he knew as Peter by name. “I’m surprised you called back,” he said in English.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Carl replied in perfect German. “I took care of the Canadian problem.”
“You were sloppy.” Eric’s tone sent a chill down Carl’s spine. “You can imagine our surprise when our contact in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service informed us of your affiliation with Acme Industries.”
With that statement, there went the hope Carl may have had that he hadn’t blown his cover.
“We presumed you were following our orders. But I see now how it might work in Acme’s favor as well. One of their clients is your neighbor to the north, ja? You’ve now rid it of a traitor. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.” Eric’s chuckled. “For a family man to take on such an assignment—to go under deep cover with a group such as the Quorum—you’re either very brave, or very stupid. Which is it, Mr. Stone? No need to answer. We both know the question has no merit to your future—or that of your family’s.”
“You’re writing me off too soon, Eric,” Carl muttered.
“You’ll have to convince me otherwise.” The response was glib, yet Carl knew Eric too well. He was dead serious. “And at this stage, Mr. Stone, our trust comes at a very steep price. You’ve got less than twenty-four hours to make us an offer that proves your loyalty, once and for all.”
The line went dead.
Carl walked back into the house, but he couldn’t go to bed.
He stayed up all night, until the plan came to him—how he would buy himself time with the Quorum.
How he could escape, when the time came.
What he would give up, so that he could protect his family.
When Donna rose at sunrise, she found him staring out the window.
He walked over to her. His kiss said it all: Forgive me, please.
He knew she had when she brought his palm to her cheek. “Always and forever,” she whispered.
Always and forever, he vowed.
What Carl dangled in front of the Quorum was indeed something they couldn’t refuse.
However, it would come at a very high price for Carl.
But should he deliver, the Quorum would need him more than ever.
Carl knew this was obvious to Eric, too, because of the way the German laughed raucously, even as he tapped Carl’s mug of glühwein with his own.
It was early evening. They were standing dead center in one of Cologne, Germany’s renowned kriskindlemarts. This particular open air Christmas market was the busiest in the city because it took place in a plaza that flanked the Dom, the city’s grandest cathedral and one of its most notable attractions.
The time and place of their rendezvous was both a curse and a blessing. Carl had no illusions that Eric had come alone. If he hadn’t liked what Carl had to offer, Carl would not make it out of the plaza alive. No doubt there was a sharpshooter or two scoping him from a window high in one of the buildings circling the market, if not from one of the shadowy corners in the cathedral’s steeply pitched roof. Even if a bullet missed him, he could easily be knifed while maneuvering through the thick crowd.
Eric didn’t ask how Carl would get his hands on the item in question. A bigger issue was when—and the sooner, the better.
“It will take some time,” Carl conceded. Not that he wanted Eric to know it, but if he were to cover his tracks, he’d have to move slowly.
“You have six months,” Eric warned Carl. He sipped the last of his hot mulled wine, left his mug on the slim waist-high counter between them, and slipped away into the throng of holiday revelers.
Carl was relieved, but he knew he hadn’t bought himself much time. More to the point, he hated the fact that by then, Donna would be near her due date. Still, if everything worked out as he planned, by then what the Quorum wanted wouldn’t matter.
And what he wanted in return would certainly be within reach.
Until then, the success of every mission assigned to him—by both Acme and the Quorum—was crucial.
In the meantime, he had to secure the safety of his family.
Which meant keeping his situation to himself, at all costs.
Ryan Clancy presumed that Carl’s tenacity was compensation for the Canadian mission’s hiccup. Since then, the intel he provided Acme about the Quorum was solid gold.
Ryan didn’t know it, but this was only because Carl had to keep playing both ends against the middle until his plan was in place. The stuff being fed was actually chicken feed—genuine enough, but nothing of earthshaking importance, mostly disinformation and intel on the organization’s discarded assets. Typical of most terrorist organizations, the Quorum had a high burn rate anyway.
Still, Acme showed Carl its appreciation with a much-deserved raise. It provided a down payment for a spacious mock-Tudor in Hilldale, an exclusive planned community in Orange County, just south of Los Angeles.
When Donna saw all that Hilldale had to offer—the spacious lots, a country club, its very own “village square” with a gourmet grocery and upscale retail shops—she couldn’t believe he was serious. “It’s a big financial leap for us, what with the baby on the way, and all,” she said doubtfully as she patted her belly. “I mean, it certainly is beautiful. And the schools here are incredible! Still…well, I’d feel guilty about the commute you’d have to make every day–”
But Carl had already made up his mind: the house was going to be theirs. The telltale sign of this was the cocky tilt of his head. “Don’t feel guilty, ever, because I’ve earned it—the hard way. Believe me.”
For just a second, Carl’s satisfied grin was replaced by a hard grimace. “This promotion means more extended business trips. That’s part of my new deal. Don’t I deserve a palace to come home to?”
My new deal.
She’d never really know the terms of that deal—or with whom it was made.
From the wary look on Donna’s face, he could tell she was still uncomfortable with the idea of this new house. So to keep from arguing about it in front of the children, Carl scooped up Jeff and tossed him over his shoulder.
Their son squealed with delight.
“My turn, Daddy! My
turn!” Mary jumped down out of the tree house in the broad heritage oak, which she had already claimed as her own. Wrapping her arms around Carl’s knees, all three tumbled to the ground, laughing.
“See, babe? This is the American dream, right? This is what it’s all about.”
Chapter 2
Raven
In the world of espionage, the term “sparrow” is used to describe a female agent whose job is to entrap a potential asset, or acquire necessary intel, by any means possible, including seduction.
Male agents may also use sex as a means of accomplishing the mission at hand.
It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
“Are you someone I should know?” The woman—tall, willowy slim with dark auburn hair, exquisite cheekbones, and an aristocratic British accent—wasn’t smiling, but there was a hint of flirtatiousness in her tone.
The yacht glided gently yet swiftly over Venice’s Grand Canal. Despite the fact that the sun had already melted into the horizon, the woman did not remove her sunglasses, making it all the more difficult for him to know for sure if she was coming on to him.
There was enough of a breeze that she held onto her large floppy hat with one hand. It was the exact shade of turquoise as her strapless sundress.
Jack Craig wondered if her eyes were also that hue.
On the other hand, by the way in which she rolled her tongue slowly over her full parted lips, he’d be willing to bet all the chips he’d won last night on the blackjack table at Ca ’Vendramin Calergi that he could have her, right then and there. It was film festival time in Venice, so anything was possible—especially on a yacht headed to an after-party celebrating the opening night screening of the most talked-about documentary of this year’s selections, Sparks Fly.
Smiling down at her, he murmured, “No, sorry. I’m just along for the ride.”
Just at that moment, Jack caught the eye of the yacht’s owner—the film’s producer, Ross Tanner. He’d obviously heard their little tête-a-tête because he roared with laughter. “Don’t believe him, Rebecca. Mr. Craig is the reason Leonid is throwing this little shindig. We’re trying to coax him into financing the sequel to Sparks Fly.”
Jack, Ross, and the sublimely attractive Rebecca were just three of the beautiful people on the boat headed to Palazzino Alvisi, a historic estate fronting the Grand Canal. For the duration of the festival, it had been leased by Ross’s producing partner—Leonid Romanov, the son of a Russian industrialist worth around sixteen billion dollars, whose contracts with his country’s state-owned oil company made him the world’s richest oil trader.
Jack presumed Rebecca was an actress, like the other the women on the yacht. She certainly looked familiar, but he didn’t go to enough movies to be certain.
“Ah! The moneymen are circling, like flies. I hope you’re willing to make a generous offer,” Rebecca nodded toward a fussy little man standing on the starboard side of the boat. He squinted at the water, not through tinted frames, but through round horn-rimmed glasses. Whereas most of the men were casually attired in slacks and open-necked shirts under blazers, the man wore a wool suit, and his neck was noosed in a thin tie. One odd little vanity was a ring, which the man wore on his pinky finger—gold, with a flat black onyx stone adorned with some sort of design in gold filigree.
It’s the number, ‘13,’ Jack realized.
The waves slapping against the boat were gentle, so there was no reason for the man to be ill. Still, his complexion was pale, and he was uncomfortable enough that he patted the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
An angelic smile lit Rebecca’s face. “Perhaps you should take me with you when you negotiate. I can be a good luck charm, you know.”
Jack smiled, but added firmly, “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass. I’ve heard that Mr. Romanov is easily distracted in the presence of beautiful women. This is one time I need his undivided attention.”
Her pout would have been more believable if it hadn’t come so swiftly on the heels of a sly smile.
It won her a wink, but no concession from Jack. The last thing he needed was to be chased all night by some starlet with an ambitious agenda. He had his own end game:
Steal a thumb drive from their host that contained a list of Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin’s offshore bank account numbers and passwords.
When briefing Jack about this mission, Ryan Clancy, Jack’s boss at Acme Industries, made no bones about why it was important that he succeed.
“For fifteen years, the US has been trying to follow the money. This is our big break. With this intel, the US will be able to freeze Putin’s assets based on current sanctions our country and the UN have placed against Russia. Even more importantly, public knowledge of how Russia’s prime minister has skimmed from his country’s coffers may be the call-to-arms the Russian people need.”
“How did Leonid get ahold of the account list?” Jack asked.
“Boris Romanov, Leonid’s father, is one of only five men in Putin’s inner circle. This illustrious group got the pick of Russia’s plum businesses—it’s oil, transportation and financial services. Lucky Boris refines all of Russia’s oil reserves. In return, these men provide hidden kickbacks, all of which filter into various hidden bank accounts that are managed by Boris. By now, Putin’s piggy bank is estimated at over fifty billion dollars. And it’s not just cash, either. Other assets include mansions, cars, planes, helicopters—you name it.” Ryan shrugged. “But Boris was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer. Leonid is being groomed to take over the business, which is why Boris gave him a copy of the account list on a thumb drive.”
Jack shrugged. “I imagine an active CEO of something as important as Romanov Corporation wouldn’t have time to dabble in filmmaking, let alone enjoy the perks that come with it—the photo ops with actors, walking the red carpet at the film festivals, and an endless cavalcade of starlets through his bedroom.”
Ryan nodded. “You’re right. Leonid is not too keen on this turn of events, since it’ll make a dent in his very active social life. On the other hand, Leonid’s wife, Irina, would certainly appreciate this change. Reliable sources tell us that his latest infatuation is Tatyana Zakharov, the Russian operative who works for the Quorum, an organization that finances terrorist cells. Acme has an agent or two who’ve been tracking it for quite some time now."
Jack shrugged. “I guess someone has to foot the bill for all those jihadist camps.”
“Trust me, the Quorum does much more than that. From the intel we’ve gathered so far, its leaders are well financed, well connected, and well hidden from public view. But even the Quorum would appreciate a windfall, if it fell into their laps. Apparently, the organization also has its eyes on Putin’s private cash stash. Tatyana must not have delivered the goods yet, because she’s still very much Leonid’s current arm charm.”
“So, I’ll finally get to meet the Quorum’s infamous sparrow.” Jack was up for a Tatyana sighting, if only out of professional curiosity.
“I doubt it, since Irina is also in Venice and will certainly be attending the party. Leonid may be an egotist, but even he isn’t bold enough to flaunt his latest dalliance in her presence. Irina’s father was the last director of what we quaintly remember as the KGB. Why tempt a family feud?”
Ryan handed Jack a photo. Irina Romanov was a square-jawed, thin-lipped woman in her early forties. The gray suit she wore in the picture did nothing to enhance a full body that was soft, but not plump. Her dark brown hair was pulled back from her face in a French twist.
“Any suggestions on where I might find the thumb drive?” Jack asked.
“Except when he’s walking the red carpet, Romanov keeps an aluminum attaché case with him at all times. During his stay in Venice, the best guess is that it’s kept in his private office at Palazzino Alvisi. At some point in the evening, you’ll have your meeting with him and his co-producer, Ross Tanner, to offer financing terms for the film. More than likely, the mee
ting will take place there. It will give you a chance to scope it out, and to return when you know it’s empty. You’ll be working solo, but our new tech op, Arnie Locklear, has a couple of toys for you to take with you.”
Arnie shook Jack’s hand vigorously. “I’ve already sent you a schematic of the villa, which you can easily memorize. The office has a safe large enough to hold an attaché case. You’ll find it behind a framed poster of the movie Tart and Sour, which Romanov produced as well. It opens with a retinal scan.”
“Then how will I open it?”
“Easy. Just take a selfie of you and Leonid, with this.” He handed Jack an iPhone. “The camera is equipped with pattern-capturing software that will reproduce his irises exactly. Just point the picture at the color dot, and you’ll be in the safe in no time.”
“Ryan, why a thumb drive? Why not place the intel in a secure cloud instead?” Jack asked.
“Putin isn’t just grousing for the cameras when he declares the Internet has been a CIA project from its inception. He rightly believes that Russia is under American scrutiny at all times.”
Ryan glanced at Jack’s intricately carved platinum band. “Leave it on. Your cover includes your marriage.”
Jack winced. He hadn’t broken the news to Ryan that, recently, his wife of two years had left him—the first of many relationships to crumble under the strain of a stressful job that took him all over the world and bound him to secrecy.
Just this morning, when he discovered she’d taken the square ebony box holding those things dearest to him, he made the decision to remove the ring.
How ironic, he thought now.
Apparently, ambitious actresses aren’t sentimental either. While the deck hands scurried to secure the yacht among the others tethered to Palazzino Alvisi’s massive dock, Rebecca removed her sunglasses in order to better admire his wedding band. At the same time, Jack had a first glance at her eyes—almond-shaped, hard and bright, like well-cut sapphires. “Ah! Your wife has wonderful taste.”