Garrett had received the call from the CSIS director in Ottawa telling him that Beausejour couldn’t be tracked a few minutes before the munchkins came banging on his door. Oh, and by the way, the director had added, those missing weapons parts turned up in Pakistan. He’d wanted to have Isabelle formally detained on suspicion of facilitating terrorism because she’d been in Thailand when someone brokered the exchange. He believed there was a possibility she’d been acting on her father’s behalf.
That was when Garrett had started to sweat. CSIS had a very broad mandate. Deliberately so. It gave the director a great deal of latitude in making judgment calls.
“Terrorism is a stretch in this case, don’t you think? Canada doesn’t have any issues with Pakistan,” he pointed out.
“They’ve never signed the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. Therefore, the illegal sale of weapons systems with nuclear capabilities, even parts, to any Pakistani aircraft maintenance company can be viewed as a potential act of terrorism.”
“She’s a Canadian citizen. She has rights. She’s hardly a terrorist.”
The director sounded tired and stressed out, and increasingly impatient. “I’m less concerned about her rights than I am in saving innocent lives, and possibly avoiding a war. If there’s even a remote possibility she can implicate even one of the people involved, then I’m willing to have her formally detained. She’s got to know something useful about Beausejour. I want him found. You have three weeks left. If she hasn’t helped you pin him down by then, I’m stepping in. In the meantime, whatever you do, don’t lose her.”
So here Garrett stood. Her father had a large number of strikes against him, making him a potentially bigger player than CSIS first thought, and he’d stepped away from the plate, leaving Isabelle to pinch hit for him.
At least her confusion was real. Garrett thanked God for that. He had no idea why her father had gone into hiding, or who he was hiding from. Until Garrett had caught Isabelle trying to sell her passport, Beausejour had been of no more than a passing interest to CSIS, and since no one but the CSIS director knew of Isabelle’s connection to Garrett’s investigation, there was no way Beausejour could have learned they’d gotten more curious.
But if he wasn’t hiding from CSIS, then who?
That VPN activity leading to the Russian Business Network made Garrett nervous. She’d said herself that her father had tried to keep his work separate from her, but if Garrett had made the connection, someone else could, too.
“I thought you were going to tell me he was dead,” she said.
She was shaking, he realized with a jolt. Remorse punched him in the gut. He hadn’t been particularly sensitive. To him, Marc Beausejour was a criminal involved in espionage. A traitor to his country. But to Isabelle, he was someone she loved very much.
He couldn’t simply stand here and watch her try to hold herself together, pretending he wasn’t affected by her distress. He wasn’t trying to break her.
His shoes crunched in the thick layer of dead leaves, broken twigs, and pine needles on the path as he took two steps across the small distance between them to draw her to him. He pressed her face against the front of his shirt, stroking her hair. With the heel of his other hand, he rubbed the small of her back. She balled her fingers into fists and rested them beneath his rib cage. To his enormous relief, she didn’t cry.
“How much trouble is he in?” she asked, speaking into his chest.
“I’m not sure. It could be a lot.”
Dappled sunlight sprinkled the clearing. The tangy scent of spruce and mulched earth settled into his lungs. She was quiet for a long time.
“I really don’t know anything,” she finally said. “I never wanted to know.”
Her not wanting to know was what worried him most. She had to have recognized that her father’s activities weren’t legal, even if she couldn’t say for sure what they were. While Garrett didn’t give a damn what happened to her father, what happened to her was a far different story. She was in trouble, too. Her cooperation now would go a long way toward minimizing the extent of the damage. Those New Year’s parties in Amsterdam had to be a big part of all this. So far as he could tell, they were the only thing consistent about Beausejour’s movements in recent years, and she’d lost contact with him not long after the last one. Unfortunately, this was July. Garrett couldn’t wait another five and a half months and continue to keep Isabelle off the CSIS radar. He had three weeks.
He continued rubbing her back, allowing his thoughts to wander for a few seconds. He still hadn’t quite figured out what it was about her that attracted him so much. Yes, she was prettier than he’d first thought. And in the dress she was wearing, even prettier still. But it was more than that. He liked the feel of her against him. He liked touching her. He liked making her smile.
He counted to ten and shifted his focus back to his investigation. Right now, he needed names. Even first names would be something. He put several inches of space between them, shifting his hands to her elbows so he could maintain physical contact with her, but also study her face.
“Why did you tell me your father’s name is Leon?” he asked.
“Because it is. Marc Leon. But only very close friends call him Leon,” she admitted. “My mother did.”
The name might have no significance. Or, it might have a lot. “At these parties in Amsterdam, what did people call him?”
He watched her mull over the question, a tiny frown clouding her eyes as if she were trying to remember—or decide how much was safe to reveal. She’d be excellent at poker.
Then, “Most people call him Marc.”
“Most? Not all?”
Another prolonged silence. “I’m so used to hearing him called by both names I don’t really notice anymore.”
Yet when he’d asked for her father’s name in Bangkok, she’d been quick to give him one he might not recognize rather than the one most people knew him by. “How many people can you think of who always call him Leon?”
“Three, maybe four. He was Leon at my boarding schools, too, so that was how any correspondence he received from them was addressed.”
They’d have needed a mailing address. There might be old records on file he could use to track Beausejour’s movements while she’d been at school. He could cross-reference them against anything she could remember of where her father had been during those years, and what CSIS already knew. At least it was a place to start.
“I’ll need to know the schools you attended,” he said. “I’d also like the names of anyone you can think of at that last New Year’s party. Even if all you can remember are their first ones.”
Isabelle shrugged off his hands, no longer meeting his eyes. She smoothed her hair, refastening the knot at the nape of her neck. “There’s no need. I’ve heard enough to satisfy me that there’s no use in my trying to find him. He’ll turn up when he’s ready.”
“You asked for my help,” he reminded her.
“And you gave it to me. Thank you. I’ll just have to be more patient and wait for him to contact me again.”
“It’s not quite that simple.”
“It is for me. You have to understand my father. Life is a game to him. When I was a girl in boarding school, he’d arrange secret meetings for us. I’d sneak out of my dorm after hours and we’d go to the theater together, or to the bars, or sometimes, just for a run late at night. On holidays, he’d send me a train ticket to a large city, like Paris, where he’d meet me. From there, we’d head to another destination. Belgium, perhaps. Italy. It was never by the same route, and it was always an adventure. I can see why his travel habits might trigger alarms. But he’s more like a spoiled teenager than some…” She struggled to find the right description. “…Third world warlord.” She tipped her head back and looked at the sky through the filter of trees. “We both know you’re CSIS.” When he tried to speak, to remind her he was a government program officer—also the truth—she cut him off. “My father works in internationa
l security management. Sometimes maybe he protects people he shouldn’t. I don’t want him going to jail for being guilty by association.”
She was scared. She didn’t like what she was hearing. She had to be starting to understand that her father’s desire to keep his movements secret had always been less about protecting her than himself.
Nobody ever thanked the messenger.
“This might go a bit beyond association,” Garrett said carefully. CSIS had been thorough. They shared information with worldwide organizations. Nothing in Beausejour’s history indicated he worked in international security, legitimate or otherwise. That was a story he’d told her and she chose to believe it.
“You’re wrong.”
He caught her wrist. She continued to refuse to look at him. He had to be careful not to push her too hard, but to play on her fears. “If we find him, we could be saving his life.”
She wasn’t listening to him anymore. “We should head back. Cheryl might need my help with the children.”
“It’s your day off,” he said. “She and Peter can look after their own kids.”
“Everyone will think we’ve gone off to be alone together.”
“We have.” Garrett looked around the empty clearing. “We are.”
He understood what she meant. While he might not mind what anyone thought, it was plain that she did. She’d found herself in a similar position before and it had cost her a job. Still, he couldn’t let her go back to the barbecue looking as if her world had ended. She was still shaking. Reality had begun to set in. Peter would take one look at her, and this time, Garrett was the one who’d be tossed out on the street.
So yeah, maybe he minded, too.
“Come here.” He tugged on her wrist, still loosely clasped in his fingers, then settled his hands on her bare shoulders, loving the feel of all that smooth, sun-kissed skin. He ran his fingers down the length of one arm, then moved his hand to the sleek swell of her buttocks, tucking a knee between her thighs to draw her against him.
Instead of pulling away, she pressed closer, and the way she was looking at him, her emotions so carefully guarded, yet with a tiny spark of hope in the depths of her eyes, pricked his conscience. He couldn’t begin to imagine what her life must be like. She had no home. No one to depend on. In another six weeks, when the kids went back to school, she’d be jobless again. He’d have to speak to Peter about finding her something with a real future to it that would give her independence from her father and his criminal associations. If she wouldn’t look out for herself, he’d have to do it for her.
He was falling for her. He could admit that much, at least to himself.
Then don’t break her.
He cupped her face between his palms and kissed her, lightly, because he couldn’t stop himself. “Everything’s going to be okay, Isabelle.”
“Je l’espère, vous avez raison. Je l’aime mon papa. Il est un homme bon,” she murmured under her breath. I hope you’re right. I love my father. He’s a good man.
Her father wasn’t a good man. Garrett knew it. He didn’t think she really did. But he couldn’t say for certain, which raised a question—how much of this attraction he felt between them was real on her part, or about her using him to protect her father?
She was so very different from any woman he’d ever met. He couldn’t figure her out. But in the end, even though he might understand her using him for her father’s sake, he’d never be able to get past it. And if she decided he was only using her to find her father, she might never forgive him, either.
They had good reason not to trust each other.
He brushed his thumb against the silky skin of her cheek, contemplated kissing her again, then instead, let her go. He shouldn’t be taking these chances. Not when it came to his emotions—or hers. Some matters would have to wait until others were resolved. Right now, she’d choose her father over him.
“You’re right,” he said. “We should get back.”
When they reached the edge of the trees, Isabelle stopped. She tipped her face toward him. Any doubt or indecision she might have harbored was long gone. Again, he was reminded of the general fearlessness of her. One had to dig deep to find the vulnerability. He’d managed to reach it, but it remained buried.
“I’ll tell you everything I can remember about names and places,” she said. “In return, all I ask is that you keep an open mind about my father.”
* * *
Garrett’s words about possibly saving her father’s life had resonated, reflecting fears she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.
Beneath the fragile shell of calm she’d cocooned herself in, panic simmered. He could well be working a security job somewhere that had somehow gone wrong. If so, she should be doing everything she could to make sure he was safe. Since CSIS would be far more interested in her father’s connections than him personally, she didn’t know why she’d even hesitated to agree to give Garrett the information he wanted.
Yes, she did. Because he unsettled her with his soft kisses and gentle touches, even though it was nothing more than deliberate misdirection on his part. It made her not trust him. Twice now, when she hadn’t shied away from him, he’d stopped.
At least she knew he had a line he wouldn’t cross. Or, maybe he didn’t find her attractive at all, and was simply a very good actor—but only up to a point. Whichever it was, it was important that she stand her ground with him. He’d exploit any weaknesses.
“Fair enough,” he was saying, his expression steady and serious. “But what if it turns out I’m right?”
It didn’t bear thinking about. “Then I’m the one who’ll have to be open-minded.”
“Let’s hope you’re the one who’s right, then,” he said with a trace of wry humor. “Because we can’t have that happening.”
His kindness toward her was almost unbearable. She and her father must seem like such train wrecks to him. A knot hitched in her heart. The worst of it was, right now it was true.
They walked out of the trees to find what seemed like fifty children running and screaming around the side of the farmhouse, at least ten of whom sported enormous water guns. Bringing up the rear were Chris and Max, Peter’s oldest nephews.
One of the younger children, a redheaded boy of nine or ten, swiveled to return fire at Max with the water gun he carried. As he turned, he caught the toe of his shoe on an untidy pile of firewood.
Isabelle watched the disaster unfold in slow motion. The water gun went flying in one direction, the boy in the other. As he fell to his hands and knees, he cracked his head on a stick of wood. Immediately, blood erupted. Seconds later, so did tears.
Max, a lanky fifteen-year-old, reached him first. By the time Isabelle and Garrett got there, the teenager already had him on his feet. Blood streamed from a cut above the boy’s temple to drip off his chin.
“What’s your name, bud?” Max was asking him. “Is it Fred? Ralph?”
The boy made a fierce face at Max through the blood and tears. “It’s Ronan.”
Max looked up at Isabelle and Garrett with relief. “That’s the extent of my first aid knowledge,” he said to them.
Around the cut, Isabelle could see that the boy’s forehead had started to discolor and swell. The swelling slowed the bleeding, but so far showed no signs of stopping it.
“Will you let me have a closer look?” she asked Ronan.
Garrett made a gesture for her to move aside. “Here. Let me take care of this. You’re going to get blood all over your dress.”
“No!” the boy cried, shrinking away from him. “I want Isabelle to look at it.”
“And I want to see it,” she assured him. “The lump is very impressive.” She knelt down and put her arm around his shoulders, not at all concerned for a dress she rarely wore and wouldn’t miss. A wardrobe was disposable. She replaced it as needed, to suit whatever climate and situation she found herself in.
Max peeled off his T-shirt and handed it to her. “It’s clean. You can use
it to stop the bleeding. I’ll go find Anna.”
Anna, a friend of Cheryl’s, was Ronan’s mother. She was also a nurse, Isabelle recalled. She sometimes dropped off Ronan and his sister to play in the pool with the Mansford children.
Very gently, not wanting to cause more distress, Isabelle pressed the T-shirt to Ronan’s forehead. He was steady on his feet, and his pupils looked normal, which came as a relief. Head wounds tended to bleed a lot and sometimes looked worse than they were. When she peeked under the T-shirt, however, she could see that the cut was deep and gaped open at the edges. He was going to need stitches.
“Well, monsieur Ronan,” she said, “let us go in the house while we wait for Max to find your mother.” She took him by the hand, carefully holding the T-shirt to his head with her other one. “If we put a big enough bandage on it and cover your eye, we can make you look like a pirate. You are very lucky,” she added. “Not every boy your age can say he was wounded in a shootout.”
Ronan’s tears stopped. He ran his free wrist under his nose. “Do you think it will leave a scar?”
She squeezed his fingers. He looked a great deal happier at that possibility than his mother was likely to be. “Most assuredly.”
The other children hovered nearby, concern and uncertainty on their young faces. Now that the worst of the drama was over, Chris, who had been quietly watching out for them, took charge.
“There are new kittens in the barn,” he said. “Who wants to see?”
While the children took off across the yard to the barn, weaving through the jumbled maze of parked cars, Isabelle led Ronan to the rear entrance of the house. Garrett trailed behind them. Inside there was a large mudroom, with a laundry tub next to the washer and dryer, and an adjacent shower and toilet enclosure. Two pairs of stained coveralls hung on hooks beside the bi-fold door to the toilet. Isabelle boosted the boy onto the counter beside the laundry tub. Clean towels sat on a shelf above their heads.
A few minutes later Ronan’s mother Anna, a pretty woman with curly red hair that matched her son’s, arrived to take over. After a quick look, she confirmed that a trip to the emergency department for stitches was in order.
Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) Page 9