by Susan Mann
He turned to the page with the castle tower. Quinn wouldn’t have been surprised if thin wisps of smoke curled up from a tiny hole burned in the parchment from the way James’s eyes lasered in on the picture.
At his sharp intake of air, she jerked. “What?”
Wordlessly, he handed off the book to her and set the computer on his lap again. His lips were a thin line as his fingers pounded at the keyboard.
She hated not knowing what had triggered his flurry of activity. But she knew she wouldn’t want to be distracted if she were in his position. She forced herself to be patient.
Goose bumps prickled over her skin when his fingers stopped and hovered over the keyboard. His face had turned a chilling ashen gray. She rested a hand on his arm. “What is it?”
He swiveled the computer so she could see the screen. It displayed a photo of what looked like the turret in the manuscript. Only, it wasn’t a turret. It was a missile.
Her entire body went numb. “Nukes?”
“Yeah. This ICBM is what the Soviets called an RT-23. An SS-24 Scalpel to NATO.” His voice was hollow when he said, “The ice-cream cone at the top of the missile houses the warheads.”
A wave of nausea washed over her. “Warheads? Plural?”
“It’s a MIRV. Instead of one warhead, the missile can deploy ten reentry vehicles, or RVs, each with a warhead targeted to hit a specific location.”
“And Dobrynin got a hold of these intercontinental ballistic missiles and what, just left them in their underground silos?”
“That’s a definite possibility. SS-24 Scalpels had the ability to be deployed from railroad cars, too. The miniature of the guy pulling two caravan wagons makes me think Dobrynin was hinting at trains.”
“So he could have had these missiles trundled off on the railroad to a spur line in some little town out in the middle of nowhere and hid them.”
“My guess is that’s exactly what he did.”
“Those missiles have to be at least fifty feet long. How in the world did Dobrynin think he’d be able to deliver an ICBM or two to some random terrorist group? FedEx?”
James shook his head. “They wouldn’t take delivery of the entire missile. He probably planned to sell the locations of the missiles to a terrorist group or rogue nation. Then they’d strip them for parts. The targeting and guidance systems, even old Soviet ones, would be way beyond anything those groups could have developed on their own. Then there’s the solid rocket fuel, although the fissionable material in the warheads is where the money’s at.”
“James!” Another puzzle piece fell into place. She flipped to the next page with the diagram of concentric circles. “That’s not the medieval solar system. It’s an atom.” She grabbed the hotel pen and notepad from the nightstand. Starting at the innermost ring and working her way out, she wrote down the letter at the center of each sphere on each ring. CCXXXIX. “Two hundred thirty-nine.”
“It’s the isotope Plutonium-239—what’s used in most nuclear weapons.”
They sat unmoving as the magnitude of what they’d discovered settled over them. Eventually, Quinn said, “Now what do we do?”
“I call Meyers and tell him what we figured out. He’ll take it from there.”
“And they roll out a squadron of HALO-jumping CIA commandos under cover of night? Will you need to go?” The thought of him taking off and leaving her alone in London didn’t sit well with her.
“No.” He shook his head. “They’ve got other people who can secure the missiles.”
The chirp from a phone atop the desk drew their attention. It was the “James Lockwood” phone he’d kept with him in case Ben tried to contact him. James scrambled off the bed, glanced at the screen, and showed it to Quinn. Blocked caller. He slipped into his British accent and said, “This is James Lockwood.”
As he listened, his entire body stiffened. At his reaction, Quinn’s blood ran cold. His gaze settled on her and he said, “Yes, I can do that.” James crossed to the bed and sat next to her. He lowered the phone and pressed the speaker icon. “Go ahead.”
“Good morning, Ms. Ellington. Roderick Fitzhugh here. I’m delighted to speak with you.” His accent was polished and aristocratic. “My associate whom you met on Saturday, Paul Shelton, tells me you are highly intelligent and charming. And from the photos taken last night in Oxford, you are exceptionally lovely as well. You and Mr. Lockwood make quite the handsome couple.”
Blindsided, the only words that came to Quinn’s mind were “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” He paused for a moment, shifting gears. “Mr. Lockwood, Ms. Ellington, I’ve no doubt you have an inkling as to why I am ringing you. You see, I am rather disappointed to find I have become a target of your systematic thievery.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” James said.
“Come now, James. May I call you James?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I know you took the letter you found in the secret drawer in the clock you examined at my home in Los Angeles. No doubt you are aware of my attempts to retrieve it.” What could they say? No one but Quinn, James, and Paul knew about the letter. When neither of them responded, Fitzhugh continued. “Your lack of a rebuttal supports my assertion. And now you and your cohort, Mr. Baker, have stolen my manuscript.” The joviality in his voice was pushed aside by a more sinister tone. “I want them back.”
“You have no proof we have those items in our possession,” James responded. “And even if we did, I think we’d deserve a hefty finder’s fee.”
Fitzhugh released a mirthless laugh. “You do, do you? However, I have something in my possession you may be willing to trade for them, if you had them, of course.”
James frowned and cocked his head in question.
A male voice, weak and croaking, said, “James. Don’t do it. Just leave.”
Bile surged up Quinn’s throat.
The voice belonged to Ben.
Fitzhugh came back on the line. “Your partner in crime has been most uncooperative in telling us where my manuscript is. This makes me think it’s of great value. With that in mind, I’m sure you can understand why I’m eager to get it back. I do hope you believe a man’s life is more valuable than a book filled with pages of old parchment.”
“I do,” James replied.
The cheeriness returned to Fitzhugh’s voice. “So you do have my items. Excellent!”
“I have the manuscript. The letter is still in Los Angeles.”
“That is troublesome, but not surprising. I’m sure you know where my estate in Northamptonshire is located. Be here at four o’clock. We can enjoy afternoon tea before we complete our transaction.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Your colleague will meet a most painful and unfortunate end.”
“I’ll be there.”
Quinn scowled at James and whispered, “What about me?”
“Oh dear,” Fitzhugh said with feigned distress. “I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression. I apparently failed to mention it is only Ms. Ellington who is invited to tea. You see, Mr. Lockwood, I no longer trust you will not attempt to steal me blind while you are inside my home. Additionally, I believe you will be on your best behavior until she is safely returned to you.”
“No way,” James stated flatly, while at the same time Quinn said, “Agreed.”
James’s head snapped up and he shook it, glaring at her.
She glowered right back at him with an eyebrow arched.
“Pity. You two seem to disagree.”
“I agreed and I meant it,” Quinn said.
James’s face reddened.
“You said you don’t trust James inside your home. Fair enough,” she said, ignoring James. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Fitzhugh. From here on out, James won’t let me out of his sight, so there’s no way I can get to you even if I wanted to. Let me propose a compromise. James is allowed to travel with me until I get inside your home. Otherwise, believe me when I tell you, you won’t g
et your manuscript back.”
After a brief pause, Fitzhugh said, “I agree with your astute assessment of the situation, Ms. Ellington. But I have two conditions of my own. One, I’ll have a car waiting for you both at the train station. My team will keep Mr. Lockwood company while we have tea. Two, if at any moment I am informed anyone is lurking about my estate during our meeting . . . Well, let’s just say you don’t want me to finish that sentence.” He paused before finishing. “When I have my manuscript and Paul has succeeded in securing the letter, you three can be on your way. Agreed?”
Quinn gripped James’s free hand and looked into his face, eyes pleading with him. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Agreed.”
“Agreed,” she said.
“I look forward to our time together, Ms. Ellington. Good-bye.”
James tapped the screen with his thumb, dropped the phone, and leapt off the bed. “What the hell were you thinking, Quinn?” He glowered at her as he stalked back and forth. “That you’ll have a nice cuppa with an arms dealer and then you and Ben will just waltz out and that’s that? That Fitzhugh will live up to his end of the bargain? We can’t trust him.”
“I know, but what other choice do we have? If we don’t go, we may never get Ben back. Besides, we don’t need the actual manuscript anymore. We can take pictures of every page right now, e-mail them to your analyst buddies at the CIA, and let them pore over every word and miniature. He can have the letter, too. We know it’s not important.”
“Of course I’ll send pictures of the manuscript to Langley. I’m not worried about that. But how am I supposed to let you go in there by yourself? That would be an incredibly dangerous thing for a trained operative to do, let alone a civilian. This isn’t paintball.” The knuckles on his clenched hands turned white. “You can’t go in there. I won’t let you.”
“Then you’re signing Ben’s death warrant.”
“What if I’m signing yours, too? I can’t—” He closed his eyes and shook his head, battling his emotions. When he opened them again she had crawled off the bed and on her feet in front of him. Wordlessly, she slipped her arms around his neck. They stood there for a long moment and simply held each other.
She leaned back, rested her hands on the sides of his face, and tipped it down so she could look him in the eyes. “I’m gonna be okay. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No, I can’t,” she admitted with a sigh and placed her palms flat on his chest. “The train could derail along the way and we could both be hurt.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, frowning.
“I do, but you know I’m right.” Her gaze never wavered. “You know I have to do this. Never leave a man behind.”
He regarded her from under lowered eyelids. “Do you promise to play nice with Fitzhugh and do exactly what he says? No heroics? No channeling spy novels? No Edward Walker or Chance Stryker?”
She drew an X over her chest with her finger. “Cross my heart.”
“I’m not convinced. If Fitzhugh looks at you funny and you bust in his cranium with a first edition of War and Peace, we could all be in a lot of trouble.” He leaned in and gave her a soft, languid kiss. She sank into it. He said in a gruff voice, “Hopefully that’s a bit of incentive for you not to do anything crazy.”
So much for their taking a step back, she thought. “Incentive, huh? You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“You think you need more than that? It could be arranged.”
She shook her head and bunched his shirt in her hands. Up on her tiptoes, she yanked him to her and kissed him, hard. The pressure from his hands linked at the small of her back mashed her body to his. The kiss left them both panting and her weak in the knees.
“Is that some incentive of your own?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm. Did it work?”
His emphatic nod came swiftly. “Your wish is my command.”
She smiled. “Good. Now let’s go save Ben.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Quinn squeezed the hand that gripped hers during most of the train ride. “I’ve got it, James.” They shared the carriage with several other passengers, so she spoke in a hushed tone. “We’ve been over this five times already. I go into Fitzhugh’s house, have tea, give him the manuscript, and tell him where the agency said they stashed the letter for Paul to find. Once he has what he wants, he lets us go and we’re out of there.”
“Good. And remember, you’re not alone.” James leaned closer and kept his voice equally low. “I’ll be able to hear everything that happens through your earwig. I won’t be free to talk to you; I’ll keep the mic on my comm muted so whatever is going on with me won’t distract you. But I’ll be listening no matter what. Okay?”
“Okay.” She unhooked a strand of hair from behind her ear and let it fall loosely over the inserted communication device. “You’re sure he won’t know it’s there?”
“Positive. It won’t be picked up even if he’s paranoid enough to sweep you for bugs or recording devices. But I don’t think he’ll do that. He thinks we’re a bunch of thieves, no more, no less.”
“Right.”
“There are officers on standby not far from the estate. Fitzhugh won’t know they’re there; we have backup if needed.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t try to get him to say anything incriminating. We’ll go after him another time. This is only about rescuing Ben.”
“I know.”
“Just be yourself. Quinn Ellington, not Riordan.” The lack of rings on her finger reminded her of that. “You got this.” James’s knee bounced, a bundle of jittery, nervous energy. He turned and peered out the rain-streaked window. “You’ll be great.” He’d uttered those three words so many times in the last half hour, they had turned into his own personal mantra.
She checked her watch and noted they were scheduled to arrive at the train station in about five minutes. The butterflies that had been fluttering around in her stomach since they’d boarded the train turned into the Blue Angels zooming around in F/A-18 Hornets.
A few minutes later, the train pulled into the station and came to a stop. Quinn rubbed her clammy hands up and down her thighs, psyching herself up and drying her hands on her jeans. With her mind focused, she stood and shouldered her bag with the manuscript in it.
James stood when she did. “You’ll be . . .”
Her gaze rose to meet his when he stopped.
Looking her dead in the eye, he said, “You are great.”
The conviction she heard in his voice bolstered her confidence. She flashed a smile and gave him a sharp nod.
After he responded in kind, they disembarked. It wasn’t long before a hulking man and an equally intimidating woman approached them. The man towered over Quinn like a redwood tree. The thick wool of his coat was drawn taut across his shoulders and strained against his bulk. There was no doubt in Quinn’s mind he could snap her in half with his giant, meaty hands.
The woman, while not as physically imposing as her partner, was just as menacing in her own way. Her expression remained neutral as she approached, but Quinn knew the dark eyes were assessing the threat level they posed. Quinn threw her shoulders back in a posture of confidence. She couldn’t intimidate the other woman even if she tried; this looked like a woman who knew two hundred different ways to put someone on the ground while not dislodging a hair from her tight ponytail.
“Ms. Ellington, Mr. Lockwood?” the woman asked. When they nodded she said, “Mr. Fitzhugh sent us to collect you.” Her gaze flicked from Quinn to James and back. “Before we go any further, I need to ensure you have the item.”
Quinn complied by opening her purse and holding it out for inspection.
The woman peered into the bag. “Very good. This way, please.”
They strode toward the exit, with Quinn flanked by the woman on one side and James on the other. The giant man walked on the other side of James.
Once outside, they headed direc
tly toward a grand, stately car. With one glance at the winged hood ornament atop the iconic grill, Quinn knew it was a Rolls-Royce.
“Is that a Phantom VI?” James asked in his James Lockwood accent. Quinn suppressed a smile at the mixture of excitement and awe she heard in his voice.
“It is,” the woman answered. She opened the back door and looked at Quinn. “Ms. Ellington.”
Quinn slid into the backseat as directed while the man she’d dubbed “Bruiser” in her head opened the front passenger door for James. In quick succession, the doors closed. Bruiser strode around the front of the Rolls and took his place behind the steering wheel. “Ms. Badass” sat in the back with Quinn.
She hardly heard the engine turn on and didn’t feel a bump or bounce as the dark car glided out of the parking lot and onto the road.
As they drove through Northampton, James peppered Bruiser and Ms. Badass with questions about the car. They obliged and went on to compare the V-8 engine with the 6.75 liter engine. When Quinn ran her hand over the soft leather seat and mentioned she thought the car was fit for the queen, she was informed that Her Majesty had two in her fleet. Of that, Quinn was not surprised.
James managed to turn what could have been an unbearably tense and awkward car ride into an amiable drive to the country. Quinn didn’t know if it was due to his innate enthusiasm for exotic cars, if he was attempting to disarm the guards, or if it was all for her benefit to keep her distracted and relaxed. Knowing James, it was probably all of the above. The reasons didn’t matter. His easy manner had indeed calmed her nerves. Her admiration and affection for him deepened.
It grew silent inside the car as Bruiser turned off the two-lane road and stopped in front of a tall, black wrought-iron gate. After a few seconds, it swung open and the car slowly passed between two stone guardhouses. The Rolls cruised along a narrow lane that cut through a sprawling expanse of green grass dotted with copses of tall, leafless trees. A mile later, they entered a large, gravel-covered courtyard. Pebbles crunched under the tires as the car slowly approached the house.