Hesitation. Then, reluctantly, “Yes.”
“Then I want to talk to him.”
“He is with his father. He cannot talk now. As I said, if you will leave a message.…”
“Tell him I know about the gold. If he doesn’t talk to me now, I go to the police.”
An audible gasp. “I’ll … tell him.”
Irish winked at Amy and formed an O with two fingers for the others.
In a moment, she heard a deep voice rumble through the receiver. “Brian Jordan. What do you want?”
“I want you to call off your dogs.”
Amy inched closer so she could hear better. Her head and Irish’s were nearly together.
“I have no idea what you mean. My father is a very ill man, and I don’t want him disturbed.”
“You have more than disturbed my friend Dr. Mallory, and me,” Irish said in a voice that could form ice cubes. “And now I want something for our trouble, plus a guarantee that nothing else will happen to her.”
“You should write fiction, Mr … Flaherty, is it? Or perhaps visit a psychiatrist. And now I am going to hang up.”
“I have a number that might interest you,” Irish said. He recited the number that was found in General Mallory’s desk. Amy knew neither of them were sure whether it had any validity or any meaning to Jordan, but it was the best chance they had.
A silence again.
“I also have a written account from General David Mallory about what happened fifty years ago. I wonder whether the federal government is aware that Jordan Industries was financed with stolen gold.”
“About that psychiatrist, Mr. Flaherty, I advise you to visit him soon.”
“That’s very good, Mr. Jordan. But you might ask your father before you turn down my offer. He might have a reservation or two.…”
“Look, if you want a job with the company …” Brian Jordan was obviously being very, very careful as to what he was saying.
“I want a lot more than a job,” Irish said. “Perhaps we can make a small trade.”
“Again, Mr. Flaherty I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“All right, Brian.” He emphasized the last word. “Then I’ll take what I have to the FBI tomorrow.”
Pause again. “Your grandfather was a friend of my father’s,” he said. “I would like to meet you. What about my office?”
Irish laughed into the phone. “I don’t think so.”
“Somewhere convenient to both of us, then?”
“You’re in Baltimore?”
“Yes.”
“Annapolis, then. City Dock. There’s always a lot of people there.”
“And Miss Mallory?” Jordan said.
“I don’t think so.”
“I do. Or else I’ll wait until we can all get together.”
Irish started to say no. She shook her head. “I’ll consider it,” Irish said.
“Noon?” Jordan said.
“Noon it is,” Irish confirmed.
“Where do I find you?”
“I think you will recognize me,” Irish replied dryly. “I know what you look like. I think I can find you.”
“I’ll try to be there.”
“No, my friend,” Irish said. “You be there, or my next stop is the FBI. And, oh, Brian.…” Again the disrespectful familiarity.
“Yes?”
“I have insurance. A lot of it.”
Another pause, then a firm “Good day, Colonel Flaherty.” The phone went dead.
Irish switched off the phone.
“I’m going with you,” Amy said.
“No,” Irish said flatly.
“Yes, I am. Otherwise he won’t show.”
“He probably won’t show anyway. He’ll have his lackeys there.”
“We don’t know he’s involved with all this. It might be his father. Maybe he doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Then he wouldn’t have agreed to meet.”
“Won’t he believe it’s a trap?”
“I’m sure he will. But he’ll have someone there anyway, and hopefully we can either take them or identify them. They have to know what we have, and he’ll want to size us up. Hell, Jordan thinks he’s smarter than us. People like him usually do. Arrogance is a weakness. And from what Eachan said, our Brian Jordan is very, very arrogant.”
“Then what?”
“If he decides we don’t have anything, then I think we’ll continue to be in danger. We know about him. Either he or his father or someone working for them doesn’t want any loose ends.”
“And if he decides we do?”
“He’ll try to find some way to get it. Payoff, maybe. But he knows, and I know, that wouldn’t end the possibility of exposure. He’ll come after us.”
“So it’s a matter of sooner of later?”
He looked at her levelly. “Yes. Our best chance is to make him so angry he gets careless.”
“Then I have to go. Tag will be there. And Mike. Sam. I’ll be okay.”
Irish’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Tag. Mike. Sam. What about me?”
“That goes without saying.”
“Does it?”
“And I have my pistol.”
“Could you actually shoot someone?”
She hesitated. She didn’t want to lie. She simply didn’t know. Had she changed that much in these past weeks? Could she actually take a life?
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
He leaned over and kissed her. “You are the most honest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Then I can go?”
“Absolutely not. Bo needs you. And Sam’s going to look after you both.”
Maybe. But not if she could do anything about it. But she didn’t say that. She would convince him.
Tonight.
twenty-seven
EN ROUTE TO WASHINGTON, D.C.
Sally looked out the window as the plane flew over the desert.
It helped calm her. Her heart had stopped beating so rapidly every time she brought back her mother’s words.
They had not come with tears. Instead there had been a quiet dignity as she’d recited a story that had never been told before.
Her mother had been an art student when she met Sally’s father. He’d been overwhelming for a girl who lived with her single mother and attended college on a scholarship. He and his family—the house and the wealth and the pedigree—had been like a fairy tale.
She’d fallen in love and eloped with him. His family made it clear they were unhappy with the match. But the marriage had been made public, and his family had said he’d made his bed, so he had to sleep in it. It was a long time before she realized she was his rebellion.
They took her in hand. Taught her how to dress, how to use a multitude of silver utensils, how to sip wine graciously. She lived in a grand house with her grandparents-in-law. Robert’s parents were overseas.
But they didn’t like her, didn’t approve of her family or what she was. She’d continued with her art studies, even earning a master’s degree, but her own art always drew criticism. She was told she wasn’t good enough to be a successful artist and that her degree couldn’t get her a job. She’d begged her husband to move from the house, but Briarwood was his identity. He never earned enough to buy anything similar, and his dependence on his family made him more and more bitter. It was a vicious cycle. The more he drank, the less he succeeded, and the less he succeeded, the more he drank.
His parents threatened to disown him. The only thing that would save him, he told her, was a son. Then they would love him as much as they loved his brother, the very proper Duncan Eachan.
They’d been married three years and no sign of a pregnancy. She was tested at an out-of-state fertility clinic and the doctor told her there was no reason she should be barren. Then he’d been tested. He was sterile, probably as a result of teenage measles. He begged her to use sperm from a donor. She thought a child might repair their marriage, and she’d never b
een able to deny him, not when he was at his most charming. She agreed.
Unfortunately for her husband, the child was a girl, not the boy he wanted. Still, there was a grandchild, and Robert doted on her. His obvious affection for her gave both his wife and his parents hope that he was ready to settle down.
And for a while he did. He got a job with an insurance company. His family had a lot of friends with a lot of insurance needs.
Only Chloe saw the restlessness. He blamed her for having a girl instead of a boy, although when others were around, he acted the perfect father. Only she knew that he was using Sally to keep his place in the family. If she ever left him, he said, he would make sure that he got custody. He had the money and family and connections to make the threat very real to her. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t his; his name was on the birth certificate.
Chloe knew she should leave. She discovered years later that she’d been emotionally abused to the point that she felt totally inadequate and unable to make decisions on her own. She could never raise a child alone, and Robert swore that she would never get a penny from the family. She believed him.
Robert was seldom around, but when he was, he was alternately neglectful to Sally and charming.
Chloe had watched her daughter worship hopefully at his feet, always grateful for whatever crumbs he threw her way.
Chloe realized she’d never been able to get close to Sally. Chloe had precious little love as a child, and she simply didn’t know how to give it. Robert had taken to calling her the ice princess. But she tried. She really tried. It nearly killed her to see Robert’s easy manner with Sally when their own relationship was strained.
Then one night the emotional abuse became something else. Chloe realized that was only the beginning. She called every friend she had, and one knew of a curator’s job at a small museum in Arizona. It didn’t pay much, but it spelled freedom to her.
For the first time, she fought back. She threatened Robert with a blood test to prove that he wasn’t the father. She had the documentation Robert thought she’d destroyed. He agreed to let her go. Let them both go.
She’d never told Sally. Sally adored him too much. Chloe never wanted her to know she was a tool in Robert’s arsenal. Instead, she had taken Sally’s abuse for eighteen months, until she ran away when her father died. Then Chloe had a choice: should she destroy a young girl’s version of her father now that he was dead? Would Sally even believe her?
It was different now. Dustin had never married. Sally had never married. There had always been something about the two of them. And Chloe saw the light in Sally’s eyes when she spoke of him.
This was a gift she could give her.
At least she hoped it was a gift. The exchange of an illusion for reality.…
A voice came on the intercom. They were reaching cruising altitude. Sally looked down at the hands clasped in her lap. Twenty years ago, she wouldn’t have understood, much less believed. Maybe not even ten years ago. She had never felt loved by her mother, and now she knew her mother had loved her in a way that was so totally selfless that it humbled her.
She wondered how much Dustin had known. He had tried to tell her over the years that her father had not been the god she’d thought him. But he had always couched his criticism carefully. He had been afraid, she realized now, that she would cut him off as she had cut off her mother.
And now she had to tell Dusty.
And she was going to get rid of the damn painting she’d kept all these years in her father’s memory. It belonged to someone else. She would make sure the rightful owner received it. If no member of the family was left, she would make sure it went to one of the Holocaust survivor associations.
She should have done it weeks ago when Dusty told her it might have been stolen property.
Dusty.
Would he care that they were not blood kin? Would it make any difference to him?
She could only pray.
For that, and for Flaherty and Amy Mallory. For herself.
She shouldn’t go back. She knew she shouldn’t.
But no one would know. She’d used the Mary Smith name. She’d disappeared completely.
She’d be safe enough. And now she had to tell Dustin what her mother had told her. She had to. She had to know how Dustin felt.
ANNAPOLIS
In the end, Irish had no choice.
At least, he thought not as he drove Amy through the historical city of Annapolis.
The only way to keep Amy safe would be to tie her up, or lock her in the room, but he would wager almost anything that she would find a way to escape, even with Sam watching her. She’d already made a friend of him, finding out everything—nearly everything—there was to know about shrimping, and even a great deal about his past life in special services.
She had explained her reasons for going very logically last night. Nothing would happen at City Dock. It was too public. Second, Jordan was on a fishing expedition. He wanted to know what they had. Then he would have them followed. If anything, she would be safer with Irish than by herself.
She certainly couldn’t make herself more of a target than she already was. And she had a right to know her enemy. To see for herself what she was up against.
She explained all this while in his arms. Before and after they had made love. And love was exactly what they’d made. Frenetically at first, then slower and more erotically. Even thinking about it, he felt waves of desire sweep him again.
But she’d made sense. That was the problem. She always made sense. She was never emotional or irrational. Instead, she laid out her case carefully. And she was right. He had learned to value her judgment, and Jordan might well not appear unless they were together. But he’d made her promise, in return, that after this she would stay well away from Dustin’s home and do what Sam said.
This time she’d agreed. And he trusted that. Not once had she lied to him. She was always painfully honest.
But he’d instructed Sam, who had gone ahead with Mike and Tag, not to let her out of sight once they reached City Dock. He was confident that Sam would do just that. He’d never seen his friend respond so readily to anyone as he had to Amy. Perhaps because Amy listened to him intently, as if every word was gold. Or perhaps he just recognized authenticity.
But after today, they would have to separate. He would wait at Dustin’s house for their enemies. He and his old team.
Bo was not with them today. Sam had a sister thirty miles away who loved dogs and agreed to look after him for a few days. Surprisingly, Bo had taken to her immediately. He’d wanted to leave with Amy, but he’d also obviously enjoyed the companionship of the woman’s two friendly dogs.
Irish had seen how much Amy had hated to leave Bo, but she’d hated even more to leave him in a house that was no longer safe, nor could she have left him in the car while they went to City Dock. And if there was trouble, a dog would only compromise an escape.
It had been one of the conditions Irish had made for her to accompany him to Annapolis. In truth, he thought she would probably stay under those conditions, but she made it very clear that she thought Bojangles would be in more danger the longer this continued. A bad guy wouldn’t recognize—or care—that Bo would be of little threat to him. Or maybe not. Bo had been uncharacteristically brave in the motel room. Or maybe it wasn’t uncharacteristic at all. Maybe there had just never been anything important enough before to evoke such a guard dog mentality.
In the meantime, Irish enjoyed her rapt expression as they drove through Annapolis, and he gave her a running commentary. He knew the area well. When he was posted in Washington for a while, he often drove to Annapolis. It had a pull for him, and he realized it had a pull for her, too.
Someday, perhaps he could bring her back.…
He drove down to City Dock. He had to drive around several times before finding what appeared to be a rare parking place. He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. Half an hour to go.
Sam was following
them. Mike and Tag should already be there.
Irish checked his watch. It was a tiny microphone that Tag had provided. Amy had earrings, one of which contained a second microphone. Both could be easily detected with a pocket sentry.
What he hoped couldn’t be detected was the parabolic microphone that Mike held.
It probably wouldn’t work, but it was worth a chance.
Irish stepped out, went around the car, and opened the door for Amy. She usually bounced out before he had the chance. But they had already discussed this. She would not leave the car until Sam was out of his, and nearby. It had been Irish’s condition.
When he finally saw Sam find a parking place not far from his own, he opened the door. He held out his hand to Amy, who looked surprised for a moment, then took his hand and squeezed it. No words. Just warm communication.
Pleasure flushed through him, even as his gaze left her face and roamed over the open area. To the left were the docks. To the right were restaurants and gift shops.
Her eyes bright with interest, Amy pulled him toward a bookstore.
He resisted for a moment as he searched the area. He saw Tag, dressed in a flowery shirt and looking every bit the tourist, talking to a woman.
He didn’t see Mike immediately. Sam was locking his car, obviously waiting to see what direction to take. His hair was loose today, and he wore a tight T-shirt that outlined his heavily muscled chest and arms. He sported an easy grin and resembled an aging hippy unless you looked too closely into his eyes.
Irish felt a sudden tension, as if unfriendly eyes were on them. It made sense that the opposition would have their people here, too. He felt Amy’s fingers tighten in his and followed the line of her gaze. Two men stood together. They were dressed casually, but their stance was watchful.
Amy had found them faster than he had. He leaned down like a fond new husband and brushed her cheek. “Very good,” he whispered in her ear.
She tried to smile, but it was a little stiff.
“Let’s go to the bookstore,” she said. “We still have a few moments.”
“Whatever you say, love,” he said. Looking like a tourist suited him, even though he knew he and Amy had most certainly been marked. Pictures were not hard to find. Or take. There were probably any number of theirs in hostile hands.
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