They ditched both cars at the first opportunity, and Clay rented them another car using a credit card that couldn’t be traced back to him. Once they were again back on the road, she had so many questions she burned to ask him that she didn’t know where to begin. But her mouth wouldn’t form words. For some reason, she couldn’t stop shaking, her teeth chattered, yet she wasn’t even cold.
She forced deep meditational breaths in through her nose and let the air out through her mouth. Think calming thoughts. The danger is over. Eventually her shivering stopped, but she’d never felt so tired in her life.
“How did they find us?” she asked, weary yet unable to sleep while sitting in the passenger seat.
He pulled the answering machine tape out of his pocket. The label had been peeled off. “They attached a transmitter to the inside of the label.”
“They knew we would come for the tape?”
“They’ve been one step ahead of us.”
“But why follow us?”
“They probably thought we had Jake’s documents or figured we could be…convinced to lead them to them.”
Convinced? He’d probably used a CIA euphemism for torture. Refusing to dwell on the nasty subject, she forced down rising panic.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She might be weary, but her brain was buzzing ahead on full speed. “That means they don’t have the documents. But neither do we. So where are they?”
“Maybe when your memory comes back, you’ll remember.”
How could he be so patient? She wanted to scream. Hit something. Pound on the dash. “So what do we do now?”
“First, you need rest. I want to listen to the tape again and track down every person who called.”
“Wouldn’t those agents have already done that? And don’t you need rest, too?”
“They may have missed something. And I usually get by on three or four hours’ sleep.”
“I suppose you spend all that extra time working?”
“We could make love, if you’d rather,” he teased, his tone light and sexy. “But I’m trying to honor your wishes and go slowly.”
His gentle teasing made the past hours less nightmarish, more bearable. Her nerves still twitched spasmodically, less and less frequently as they put more miles between themselves and the rogue agents they’d left behind.
“Clay?”
“Mmm?”
“What are the odds of us making it through this alive?”
“Excellent. They want the documents.”
“But they think I have what they want. Suppose they catch up and try to convince me to tell them what they want to know?”
“I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” He reached over, took her hand and squeezed comfortingly. “Your memories will come back.”
“Suppose they don’t?”
“Worrying can’t be good for you. You’re exhausted. Sleep.” His voice turned low. “Tomorrow, after you wake up, you may remember exactly where you put everything.”
He was wrong. They spent the night in a cheesy motel. Jake paid cash. She fell asleep the moment her eyes closed and her head rested on the pillow. She awakened with a kink in her neck and the sun shining through the windows, indicating that she’d slept away half the morning, and without any improvement in her memory.
Usually an early-morning riser who awakened cheerful and ready to go, she felt grumpy and disoriented, and her head ached. While she took a shower, Clay ordered breakfast. She washed down aspirin with lukewarm orange juice and skipped the runny eggs and soggy toast. Clay ate everything, seemingly unmindful of the terrible food.
For a man who’d teased her about making love, he didn’t appear to have any trouble ignoring her this morning. Thoroughly engrossed in his work, he stared into the tiny screen of his Palm Pilot until she wanted to kick him just to gain some attention.
His work ethic seemed turned on twenty-four/seven, and yet, as she watched him frown over his screen, she couldn’t keep from thinking how sexy she found all that condensed concentration. She pictured gears turning within gears, his mind a vast expanse of moving parts, electrical wiring with intense energy driving each thought.
Without looking up from the screen, he offered her a stick of cherry gum. After she refused, he unwrapped a piece and popped it into his mouth. “Those guys we tied up last night work for covert operations. Their names are Aleksi Polozkova and Jon Khorkina.”
“Polish?”
“Russian.”
“How do you know?”
“I speak both languages.”
“Really?” She’d never known anyone who spoke more than two languages. Amazed, she got sidetracked.
“I learned Japanese and Chinese from my mother.”
He didn’t appear to be even partially Oriental and she frowned. “She’s of Asian descent?”
“No. My grandfather was an ambassador and she picked up the languages when they lived overseas. My dad was in the military, and he learned Russian and Vietnamese during the war. Like many European children, I grew up familiar with several languages. The German came courtesy of a grandmother on my father’s side.”
“Wow. You could have worked for the United Nations.”
“Since childhood I’ve picked up Arabic, Hebrew, Cantonese, Farsi, Japanese and Korean. I suspect it was easier for me since I learned several languages as a child.”
All those words in his head. Impressed, despite herself, she realized that, if he wanted, he could say I love you in a dozen languages. “You could work as a translator for the United Nations, but I meant how do you know those men’s names?”
“While you left to get the plastic ties from the kitchen, I took their fingerprints on my Palm Pilot. The results just came back via scrambled satellite X-U-five.”
That was a handy device he owned, and she wondered what else it could do. She couldn’t help feeling annoyed that he hadn’t mentioned any of this to her last night, but contained her feelings. After all, while she’d been getting her beauty sleep, Clay had been working. “Russians work for the CIA?”
“So do Chinese, Iranians, Lebanese and—”
“I get the idea. How does our government know where their loyalties lie?”
“That’s always been a problem. Luckily, when most people defect, they see the economic advantages of a democracy. Many of the agency’s most loyal people have fled other countries for their lives and are grateful to be here.”
“I assume you’re checking out those men—Aleksi and Jon.”
“Down to their shoe size.”
She couldn’t imagine the information was as easy to get as punching in a command for a simple download. “Isn’t the information classified?”
“Breaking code is very similar to hacking.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re hacking into the CIA’s classified files?”
“You don’t want me to answer that question.”
He was right. She didn’t want to know.
Already too many thoughts swirled in her head. Disturbing thoughts. They’d worn gloves when they’d stolen back the tape, but their fingerprints were all over the beach bungalow. Not only did they now have a lead on the rogue agents, but those agents would soon know Clay’s identity.
They’d learn Clay worked in the CIA. She looked over at Clay, who appeared as calm as usual. “We’ve lost a huge advantage, haven’t we?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“When those men finally free themselves, they’ll find your fingerprints and look up your identity the same way you did theirs. They’ll learn they’re dealing with a professional who could blow their operation.”
CLAY KNEW MELINDA believed the stakes had been raised. She was correct to some extent, but not in the way she thought.
“My prints aren’t on file with the agency,” he explained.
“Why not?”
“I erased them before I took this assignment.” He grinned at her and caught a glimpse in the mirror of his white
teeth gleaming like a satisfied lion’s after a successful kill. Pleased that he’d had the foresight to outwit their foes, he hoped he could keep outthinking them. While he realized he wasn’t playing a chess game with the winner thinking ahead a few more moves than his opponent, keeping his emotions in check helped him to keep a clear head.
“You anticipated this kind of trouble?”
He nodded. “My boss expected problems from the start. We thought it best to conceal my true identity. So, for the purposes of this mission, I’m on my own. And we’re safer on our own.” Much safer since calling for help might alert their foes to their location.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered.
“Look, once we find those documents, we can hide while I break the code.”
“Suppose we don’t find them? Suppose we never find them?”
She looked so sad he wanted to gather her into his arms and kiss away her fears. “Oh, I have a feeling they’ll turn up.” He checked his watch, then picked up their bags. “We need to move out.”
“I’d like to check on my neighbor, Sheila,” Melinda told him on the way to the car. “Sometimes she needs my help, and I’m worried about her.”
“We can stop by later. First, I want to visit this Sam Bronson.”
“Who?”
“The man who left the mysterious message on your answering machine. While you slept, I found his address. He works nearby.”
Melinda frowned as she slipped into the passenger seat. “He said he wanted to talk to me. What’s so mysterious about that?”
“Don’t you think it odd he didn’t leave a message?”
“Not if he was trying to sell something.”
“I spoke to him at home this morning, and he didn’t seem eager to talk over the phone. He agreed to meet us for lunch.”
Clay knew what he was doing, but he could see doubts on Melinda’s face. Undoubtedly, she thought he might be reading more into the phone message than it required, but following every lead, no matter how small, was how cases were cracked. Tiny bits of evidence and information often meant little on their own, but when collated, they often formed a pattern.
“Have you found out any more about the two CIA agents?” Melinda asked.
“My search engine’s pulled in some data.” He turned a corner and checked the rearview mirror, thankful he saw no sign of pursuit. “What’s interesting is that my query flagged several cookies.”
“Cookies? Remember, I don’t talk spy.”
“Sorry. Someone tried to trace my request.”
She tensed and looked over her shoulder. “So they’re on to us?”
“I hope not. I scrambled and digitized and asked the question in Cantonese—so unless these guys are very, very good, we’re still safe.”
“All right, then. I’m glad you covered your tracks.” She sounded pleased and less wary. “So, we can visit Sheila after we talk to Sam Bronson?”
“Going back to your house—”
“To her house,” she corrected him.
“—might pick us up another tail.”
“She never calls twice. She must need me,” Melinda insisted. “She’s a spry enough lady, but cataracts cloud her vision.”
Clay drove cautiously, hoping the meeting with Sam Bronson would prove helpful. At least Melinda would eat something during lunch. All she’d had for breakfast was a cup of coffee.
He pulled into the restaurant parking lot ten minutes early. He left the engine running while he took out a pair of binoculars and scouted the area. Off the beaten track, the restaurant was the kind that attracted more locals than tourists. They had a take-out service and a drive-thru that did a bustling trade.
Even with the air-conditioning on and the car windows closed, delicious scents wafted through, tickling his nostrils and teasing his stomach. The one-story block-and-glass building sported tinted windows. The sun’s angle and the advertised specials painted on the windows made a thorough check of the inside impossible.
Melinda drew a brush through her hair. “Is that homemade pizza I smell?”
“Hungry?”
“I am now.” She started to open the door, then hesitated. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m not sure. First, we find out why Sam Bronson left the message on your machine.”
Sam Bronson turned out to be a fifty-five-year-old executive with a great tan, sun-streaked blond hair and worried green eyes. When he spotted them from a red-leather booth with a matching red-and-white checkered tablecloth, he stood, nervously glancing at the front door. “I’m sorry for making you drive all the way out here, but under the circumstances, I thought staying away from my regular haunts might be best.”
Clay let Melinda slide in first, while he took the aisle and faced the door. He had his weapon within easy reach, although he hoped he wouldn’t need to use it. Meeting with Bronson was risky. Especially since his foes had listened to the tape and could be watching the man to see if Clay and Melinda would contact him.
Clay peered closely at Sam’s shirt and saw no signs of a wire. But he didn’t let down his guard.
A pregnant, tired-looking waitress handed them menus. “I’ll be back to check on your order in a few minutes. The lunch special is thin-sliced cheese pizza with capers and olives.”
“What circumstances? What’s the problem?” Melinda asked, setting aside her menu and facing Sam with a worried frown.
Clay needed to keep his mind on business, but he couldn’t resist thinking about how different she’d looked after his kiss last night—happy, excited, reckless. She’d responded to him just the way he’d hoped. No, better than he’d hoped.
Now the frown lines between her eyebrows clearly told him the stress was getting to her. She wouldn’t be human if it didn’t, but he still wished things might have been different. He wished they’d met under normal circumstances, maybe had dinner, then caught a movie. He could have walked her to her front door, stolen a few kisses and asked for another date.
Instead, they’d gone from strangers to almost-lovers in a few very intense hours. They’d packed more into those hours than some couples did in years. Oh, he might not know her favorite brand of perfume or her taste in magazines, but he knew a lot about her character.
Melinda Murphy faced adversity with courage. She knew what she wanted out of life and she wasn’t afraid to go after her goals. She would risk what she had, push past her comfort zone to reach for success. Nor had she been afraid to pick up a gun and help him out of a tough situation last night. Yeah, she was one gutsy lady.
Even now as she sat beside him in the booth, he felt her tension. She’d crossed one leg over the other, her free foot tapping. She leaned forward slightly, her hands tense and twisting in her lap as if she feared what Sam Bronson would tell them.
Sam sipped his water, seemingly in no hurry. “Yesterday, two men came to my house and asked me questions about you.”
“Men from the CIA?” Clay asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Bronson swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the door as if he expected the men to show at any time.
“What did they want?” Clay asked, keeping his tone even without difficulty. He’d already anticipated that the agency men would have contacted everyone on that tape.
“They didn’t come right out and say what they were looking for.”
The waitress returned, and they all ordered pizza and soft drinks. Two booths down, a baby cried and her mother handed her a bottle. A lunch crowd slowly filled up the empty tables. The waitress gathered up the menus and departed before Clay spoke again.
“What did the men ask you?”
“How well I knew Ms. Murphy.” Sam folded his hands in front of him. “They had an intimidating manner. You know the kind. Swaggering. Arrogant. They spoke with no accents, yet I got the idea English might not be their first language. They told me that my country needed me to tell the truth.” He sighed. “I don’t fall for that kind of patriotic talk anymore—not after serving in N
am. Oh, I’m patriotic still, I fly Old Glory on the Fourth of July and Veterans Day, but I don’t believe everything I’m told, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand,” Clay said encouragingly. Sam Bronson might be talkative and slow to come to the point, but the man was extremely observant, which might eventually prove helpful.
“But I saw no reason to lie since I had nothing to hide. I told them Ms. Murphy and I had never met.” He hesitated. “I don’t think they believed me.”
“Why not?” Melinda demanded. “You told the truth.”
“Those guys wouldn’t know the truth if it rose up and knocked out their teeth.”
Melinda nodded, no doubt remembering the two men who’d sneaked into the bungalow. Clay had been around such cold and dangerous men for so long, he’d become hardened to their faults. For a moment he wondered what it would be like to sit on a beach and watch the sunset without automatically tracking which spy satellite was overhead.
The waitress delivered their soft drinks, and Melinda took a long drink, her lips pursing as she sipped and swallowed. “So, why did you call me?”
“I should have left a message.” Sam lifted his hands, palms up, apologetically. “And I could have told you on the phone, but I thought those guys might have tapped my phone or something. I probably made you drive out here for nothing.”
“It’s okay.” Melinda leaned back as the waitress delivered a large, piping-hot, thin-crust pizza with extra cheese.
The waitress served them each a slice and then left them to their meal. Impatient, Clay refrained from pressing the nervous man, but he really wished he’d get to the point.
The pizza, with just the right combination of spicy tomato sauce and cheese, made him realize how rotten his breakfast had been. Melinda sprinkled hot peppers over hers, then tilted back her head and tipped a slice toward her mouth, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. With her perfectly straight teeth, she nibbled, then took a full bite.
“Good?” Sam asked.
“Mmm.”
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