“I see.”
“We disagreed about my vacation. I told him I wasn’t taking time away from the Yard while Azzam bin Naah Al Basri was still at large. Besides, if Azzam wanted to find me, he could very well find me on vacation as easily as on duty. My father seemed to agree and backed off. In fact, he promised me all the backing and full resources I needed. I remembered the young officer’s eyes—still open—with the screwdriver in his chest. My father must have remembered him too. His name was Miller.”
“Relation?” Dan asked.
“Distant cousin. I hadn’t known him, but apparently he knew me—and my father of course. I was told my father inspired him to join the Yard.”
“I wonder if Azzam knows. It’s as personal now for you as it is for him,” Dan said.
“You’re goddamned right.” Chauncey took a swig of his drink and felt the satisfying burn. He needed the edge of that burn to quench his frustration. He looked at the men around him and knew they understood.
David cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, he apparently changed his mind the next day and ordered you to Boston.”
“No. I was given the order by my direct supervisor, the Chief of the Counterterrorism Command. He swore it hadn’t come from my father when I threatened to go to him. He said it was between him and his superior, the Assistant Commissioner of Specialist Operations. He claimed they alone knew. He promised the assignment would keep me active—that it was no vacation. They’d received another threat. A parcel had arrived that morning. A gruesome promise against me and anyone I loved. It was a picture of my mother’s grave—defaced.” He kept his voice flat, even as his pulse jumped and a muscle twitched along his jaw. He relaxed himself from the inside out before his throat constricted, affecting his ability to speak.
“I left that night telling no one and with a false ID. They’d somehow miscommunicated the code name when they called David or it got confused with my real name along the way, allowing me to be easily identified at the airport.” He remembered spotting Sophia standing there with the placard bearing his name and almost thinking there must be someone else with his name.
“All Azzam had to do was watch Pix—Sophia and wait as she stood there with her sign announcing ‘Chauncey Miller.’”
“No one is more sorry about that than I am,” David said. “But I believe you’ve brought us up to speed on the background of how and why you got here. The purpose in sending you to the Exchange Program was to keep you on ice while they searched for Azzam in Europe. The thinking was that he was now without resources and they’d catch up with him before too long. They also thought you might be useful to me here. And now with Azzam in the U.S., it’s up to us to arrange his capture.”
“As a safety precaution, they sent me off with no notice to anyone—not even my father,” Chauncey paused and watched the men all nod at the significance. Someone who wasn’t supposed to know tipped off Azzam. “I took no luggage and left no word with others in my unit or even the postman. Yesterday I was in my office and today I was swimming in Boston Harbor.” As he spoke the words, the gravity of the situation settled on him.
“From what you’ve said, I’m afraid it sounds almost certainly like an insider leak,” David said.
“I agree, yet it seems impossible. We’re a tight-knit group.” He felt a twist of his gut at the throught of a traitor in his unit—or anywhere in the Yard.
Dan spoke up. “There are other ways of getting information—high-tech ways of listening in or compromising computer systems and databases, intercepting e-mails.”
That had to be it. He thought of his father again.
“You’re right, of course,” David said. “I’ll hold off on making any inquiries. But just in case, we should keep our plan of action to ourselves for now. Whatever we hatch to nab this guy must stay on this side of the pond until further notice. Agreed?” David said. He and Dan nodded.
Chauncey looked at Joe, who stood grim-faced. He considered asking Joe for another drink, but he was saved from drunkenness by the reappearance of the three women. The two blond Graces were listening with rapt attention to his redheaded Pixie. He had no idea why he should think of her this way—as his—but the thought and feeling in him at that moment was undeniable. He watched her speak as her hands fluttered about.
“…and now it looks like my biggest problem is, I don’t have a thing to wear to tonight’s reception.” She flashed her green eyes at him as if she knew he’d been staring, and a grudging lift of one corner of her sumptuous lips signaled a smile. Looked like her mood improved. No one had confirmed yet that he would be her bodyguard for the duration. And that duration could be for some time. He doubted she’d taken him seriously earlier when he warned her she’d be under wraps until Azzam was caught, or better yet, killed. Hell, he’d hardly believed it himself.
“I’ll arrange something, honey, don’t you worry,” said Grace, the woman he believed to be her boss.
“Maybe I could find something in my closet…” Madeline began.
He withheld a chuckle as Sophia put up her hand to stop the ridiculous suggestion.
“Don’t even say it. I know you mean well, but I couldn’t possibly wear anything that would fit you—and I wouldn’t dream of having you alter any of your gorgeous clothing. I love your clothes and you do wear them so well. That Armani suit that you wore last week…”
“You remember what I wore last week?”
“Oh, you don’t know our Sophia,” Grace said. “She’s a fashion nut. Drapes, dresses, you name it. If I hadn’t insisted she work with me, she might be in Paris right now hunched over a sewing machine.”
“Or Milan,” Sophia put in.
“How do you feel about costumes?” Chauncey asked.
“What?” All three ladies turned at the same time.
David looked at him questioningly.
“I’ve got an idea and it involves disguises for you and me—alternate identities. We’re taking the hiding in plain sight strategy to the next level.” He addressed his colleagues as well as the women to test his spontaneous plan. The response was mostly open mouths and silence.
“I love it! Disguises are fun,” Grace said.
David stepped up and put his arm around his wife. “Not you this time, darling.” He swept her toward the door. “Time for us to get you home.” David turned back to him. “We’ll talk more about your plan later, but I think I see where you’re going with this.” They both looked at Sophia, whose face had reverted to its skeptical squint. David and Grace left the room with Dan O’Keefe in tow. Chauncey had no idea where Dan was going or where that left him. David was his boss as long as he was in the Exchange Program, but Chauncey had been used to being on his own and rather preferred it if truth be told. So it was up to him to figure things out.
“Joe, tell me about this affair tonight—who’ll be there?”
“Thirty percent of the crowd will be security, some media and some government officials from the legislature and cabinet, and the guest of honor, the President of Malta.”
He turned to Madeline. “Do you suppose I could use the house phone?”
“Certainly. I can see you’re up to something. But do me a favor—leave my husband out of your caper if you can, please? I’d be very grateful. If you’ll excuse me.” Madeline left him with Sophia and Joe in the immense yet cozy room. He searched past the book-filled walls to the Palladian window in front of which sat an immaculate desk. He spied the phone. There was no computer in sight. The desk had to be for show. This room clearly was not the governor’s working office. He reached for the phone.
“Who are you calling? What are you doing? You don’t know anyone in Boston.” Sophia’s voice had that telltale squeak of alarm that made his pulse jump with the excitement of exciting her.
He smiled and dialed the internal line—it was an old-fashioned phone. He asked the governor’s receptionist to connected him to a local clothing shop and directed the manager to deliver some clothes appropriate for a f
ormal affair. “Woman’s size four, something in green,” he said. He finished his order and hung up the phone. Sophia stood in front of him with her arms folded.
“That was heavy-handed, don’t you think? Where’d you get my dress size? What makes you think I’ll wear some random dress to a swanky affair with heads of state to impress?”
“I’m an expert at guessing women’s sizes, and green is your color.” He leaned on the desk and inspected her. “And you definitely don’t need to worry about impressing anyone. In spite of your height, you measure up quite well.”
She reached out a hand and he caught it before she connected. He figured it was the short stature bit that got to her and he grinned. “Still letting off some steam from the events of the day, I see.”
“You don’t see a thing. Tomorrow is the biggest event of my life—the shoot for my design show audition…Oh, what does it matter. The whole thing is blown now.” Her eyes gleamed. He had the impression that she’d have spit at him if they weren’t in the governor’s library with Joe as a witness to her almost subdued meltdown.
“I bet Grace will handle it all. Maybe she can arrange to have it rescheduled for you.” He didn’t know why he said it. He had no idea what Grace could or would do. He only knew that he’d do it himself if he could. The harder Sophia tried to be in command, throwing her anger at him instead of letting herself fall apart, the more he saw her vulnerability and wanted to protect her.
Sophia had no idea the governor’s mansion could be such a happening place, but at 7:30 that night the place felt like a five star hotel preparing for a thousand-plate affair. It hopped with activity. She led Grace inside her room and away from the bustle of the main rooms.
“Getting to meet the Maltese President almost makes up for not being at the town house tomorrow.” At least part of the jittery feeling in her stomach had to be from the impending Maltese President meeting. Her nerves were so revved she felt like a rivet on the receiving end of a jackhammer. Or something like that. The whirlwind of events had her brain whipped into a useless froth. She now understood how those poor catatonic mental patients felt. She reached out for Grace’s hand and held on.
“Don’t worry about tomorrow—I’ll take care of it. Your instructions were very detailed—how could I go wrong?” Grace attempted to cheer her, as always.
“And first thing in the morning you’ll call the production company and have the shoot rescheduled…”
Grace cut her off by smothering her in one of her famous hugs. She felt as silly as the MacArthur Park song about the cake out in the rain with her pitiful worries about a design show when lives were at stake—hers being one of them—and a terrorist was at large. Heck, capturing him could very well affect the safety of the free world, for all she knew. She shook her head and tried not to sink into melodrama. Not about the safety of the free world nor the cancellation of her design show audition. Maybe catatonic was better.
A tear dripped as she held onto Grace. Where was her flippant wit and sarcastic attitude when she needed it?
“Enough of this. I need to rise to the occasion, Grace.” She pushed her friend away and jutted out her jaw. “I’ve had a hunky, though bossy, British hot shot spy dropped in my life and a Head-of-State from Malta affair tonight. The last thing I should be doing is whimpering about it.”
“When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad. And you have been hankering for some adventure.”
“Exactly. Hankering?” She gave Grace her you’re kidding look, then shrugged. “Who am I to complain that it’s not Tuscany with the reincarnation of Valentino? I should appreciate the excitement of the moment—maybe even contribute to world peace while I’m at it.”
“Now you’re talking.” Grace almost clapped her hands, then stopped. “Valentino? Are you putting me on?”
Sophia laughed. “Not exactly. I may not be a Pollyana, but I don’t want to be a big baby.” Or a cynic either, she thought. She said, “At least I can try not to be.” She walked to the bathroom door of her hotel-like bedroom. She had no idea who had decorated it. The governor had at least six design firms on the project, including theirs, in the interest of spreading the business, or more likely the voter support. So she was still a cynic. Big deal. If Chauncey the hunky spy could be a cynic, so could she.
“Let’s get dressed and get out of here,” she said over her shoulder to Grace as she walked into the bathroom to prepare. She shivered, but she kept going.
Sophia stepped into the foyer all decked out in her shimmery emerald shift that made her look at least ten feet taller, acording to Grace who was right behind her. She bounced back a step when she came face-to-chest with her hunky spy, and squeaked.
“You—you’re here—what are you doing lurking outside my room?”
“My job. Bodyguard. Shouldn’t be too dangerous, but we’ll have to keep you out of any photos. I’m afraid the media people will be your number one enemies for the night.”
“Darn. I got all dressed up to get my picture in the paper.” She swept past him and he caught her arm escort-style. He managed to maneuver Grace to his other side so they could march down the stairs a threesome.
“You ladies both look wonderful this evening. I imagine David is waiting downstairs?” he asked Grace.
“Waiting and checking on security.”
It occurred to Sophia that Chauncey was dressed up in a tux and she knew he had no luggage. “I see you found a tux on short notice.”
“It’s a wonder what can get done when the governor is making the request.”
It didn’t take long before Chauncey was swept up by the governor and he left her with Grace with strict instructions to stay low.
“Is that a sexy Italian accent I hear?” Sophia perked up and looked around to find the source of the distinctive male voice. Cocktails were in full swing when they entered the governor’s mansion ballroom. She felt small under the cathedral ceilings over the space.
Grace laughed. Somewhere a cello played something romantic.
Sophia lowered her fake eyeglasses and through a maze of stuffed shirts she spied a man who actually looked like the reincarnation of Valentino, with swarthy good looks and elegant build. He had to be the source of the Italian accent—he waved his hands about as he spoke into the ear of some woman lucky enough to be standing next to him. She wanted to be that woman. She would be that woman.
She grabbed a hold of Grace’s wrist and led the way.
“Where are we going?”
“To a place where Valentino can whisper in my ear.”
“What’s gotten into you? Since when have you become so fanciful?” Sophia knew the moment Grace spotted the Valentino double by the sound of air being sucked in and then let out on a sigh.
“Hold on,” Grace said, and stopped when they were within whiffing distance, if the smell of exotic cologne was any indication. Sophia turned to her.
“What? What now? I may as well have some fun tonight and take advantage of the opportunity to meet someone exciting.”
“Have you forgotten? You’re supposed to be Chauncey’s assistant. And…well…”
“Well what?”
Grace lowered her voice. “You’re not exactly dressed up to meet a Valentino dreamboat…”
“Grace—I’m surprised at you—how shallow.” Yet she did have a point.
“I meant—you’re in disguise—you can’t tell him who you really are.”
“Oh. That.” Sophia considered. “The heck with it. I’m okay with a one-night stand as geeky girl if he is.” Because, what were the odds of ever getting another chance? She ventured forth.
As chance would have it, the sexy-scented dreamboat gestured his hand directly in her path and it landed on her forward most point—or points. She squeaked her shock.
The man in question turned her way and with a completely unembarassed high wattage smile, said, “’Scuse, miss. I am so sorry.”
“Oh…”
“What is your name? It is right that we
be properly introduced under these circumstances, yes?”
She might have giggled, but Grace saved her from the hideous embarassment of reverting to her fourteen-year-old self.
“This is…the assistant in the Scotland Yard Exchange Program Department… um… Trixie…” Grace did the honors of stumbling about in front of this Mediterranean man of her dreams.
He all but clicked his heels when he bent slightly and took her hand. “Charmed, Ms. Trixie. I am Olivier de Marco, President of Malta, a guest here and enjoying your country very much. You sound like a very important person in this city.” He smiled. She gulped.
Grace had been right. She didn’t know who to be if she wasn’t herself. She nodded and looked down. As she concentrated on finding something un-awkward to say, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.
“President de Marco. Good to see you again,” Chauncey said as he stepped into the circle of people, placing himself between Sophia and de Marco. He gave Grace a nodding glance but kept his back to Sophia. Though his anger simmered that she would approach the most high profile person at the event when she was supposed to be laying low, he kept his voice calm.
The inevitable camera flashed, but he effectively blocked Sophia from the picture.
“A welcome surprise to see you here in Boston, of all places. I did not expect to meet you again…so soon,” President de Marco said. Chauncey knew what he meant was that he never expected to see Chauncey ever again. He looked at Grace again, gesturing with a jut of his chin that she move along. She finally got the picture and took Sophia by the hand and led her off without a scene, thank heavens.
When de Marco leaned around him to watch her go his blood pressure rose and he felt an angry heat boil up in him that had nothing to do with security risks. He insisted to himself his reaction was due to de Marco’s ungentlemanly behavior—but as the man turned back to him with a pleasant smile, the ludicrousness of such a notion hit him. He—Chauncey Miller—felt the striking stab of jealousy. He remembered it only from adolescent experience and was not thrilled to return there.
The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Page 72