She dashed downstairs and changed into pale blue slimline stretch trousers and a soft blue cotton overshirt which tied at her waist, which hid the gun clipped to her waistband. She wound her hair up into a messy bun on the top of her head. White Oxfords with non-skid soles completed the outfit. The change of wardrobe made sure she looked natural out on the street and also completely different from the last time Warren had seen her.
Agata hurried back out to the square. The Imam was just settling himself upon the top of the steps up to the mosque on the east side of the square, to welcome everyone for the midday prayers. She was late. As she moved out of the square, the call to prayers sounded from the top of the white minaret.
She jogged and walked, making it back to the campus before noon. The building where Warren’s pre-noon class was held was buried in a cul-de-sac behind the libraries. She spotted Harry and Thomas Roe lingering in the shade on the south side of the narrow road. Before they noticed her, she slipped into the alley which ran to the back of the college. There was a fire exit on the far side, with another alley running through to the Valette. Harry did not bother monitoring the exit when Warren was here. It was sloppy work, but possibly designed to be. For that reason, Agata made her way around the building to the corner from where she could watch the fire escape door.
The bells on the church spire, on the other side of the Pantheon, dinged the hour in a slow, dignified peal.
The fire escape door eased open and Cain Warren stepped out. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, and a dark linen bomber-style jacket. He looked around carefully before allowing the door to shut irretrievably.
Agata was well hidden by the corner of the building. She stayed still and waited.
Warren let the door go and hurried into the alley leading to the Valette. He carried no books.
Agata gave him thirty seconds, then ran to the alley entrance and paused to check carefully around the corner. Warren was at the far end, just about to step out into the main thoroughfare. He didn’t glance behind him as he moved out—a rookie mistake. It wasn’t the only mistake he made in the next forty minutes.
Agata followed Warren out of the Latin Quarter, heading directly south. At first, she thought he was heading for Montrouge, where Anouk Thayer lived. Montrouge was in that general direction. However, ditching his security detail to meet a woman, when he had been open about taking her home with him last night, didn’t make sense.
Warren kept almost directly due south, crossing under the Boulevard Périphérique and into Gentilly. He slowed and relaxed after that, incorrectly assuming that if he had been followed at all, he must have ditched his followers by now.
Agata kept grimly on his tail, lingering a good fifty yards back and only closing the gap when he made turns. He wound deeper south into the Commune, forcing Agata to drop farther back, for there were fewer people walking these narrow, sloping streets.
Then he disappeared.
Agata stepped out from the corner of the building at the top of Condorcet and put her hands on her hips. The street was short, but not that short. If Warren wasn’t on it anymore, then he had moved into one of the buildings which lined it.
She walked slowly down the street, leaning back against the down sloping angle of the footpath, examining each building. Most were rendered, beige-colored structures with tiny yards railed off by wrought iron fencing. Or they presented blank, closed garage doors to the world.
She reached a section of bright red fencing, with a wide gate. The gate had a tiled roof over it and an abundance of greenery behind it.
Her heart gave a tiny thud. Nothing indicated Warren had entered here, only she knew he had. Her gut told her this was the place.
Agata made herself keep walking, a casual pedestrian. A larger double gate was just ahead. She could see the back end of a late model Citroën behind the red bars.
Signs were attached to the big pillars on either side of the gate. She glanced at them as she passed.
Won-bouddhisme Association des Amis du.
Association of Friends of Won-Buddhism.
It was a Buddhist temple.
As soon as she was beyond the temple yard, Agata pressed herself up against the next building’s façade and peered back at the temple. The windows on the upper floor were all open, beckoning any breeze. From inside, she heard the soft chime of bells.
People gathered in the upper room. Cain Warren was one of them. He had removed his jacket and hat and most likely his shoes, too, although she could not see his feet from here. His scrubby beard and sharp jawline and the shining black hair were distinct. So were the massive arms.
Agata’s jaw sagged.
She had been expecting…well, anything but this. Booze. All the recreational drugs, which were a weakness for him. Parties, sex, loud music. Every bad cliché had run through her head while following him here.
Her shock made her careless. When Warren turned his chin to glare through the open window, she stood half a pace beyond her cover, fully exposed.
His gaze met hers. His eyes narrowed. His mouth was held in a hard, straight line. He nodded, as if something had been confirmed for him.
Then his attention was drawn away from Agata by a woman wearing all white, including a white cap, and a saffron yellow jerkin. She touched his shoulder. Warren turned away from the window.
Agata felt as though she had been released. She stumbled down the hilly street, her heart hurrying.
Well, now she knew his secret. This one, at least. It wasn’t a secret which put him in danger, either.
Did Harry know what Warren did when he shrugged them off this way? She thought not. From ribald comments she’d heard in her off-hours, she knew the rest of the detail—all of them—presumed just as she had, that Warren paid them off so he could live his dissolute life without Warren Senior finding out.
How long would Cain Warren put up with her knowing the truth, before he did something about it?
She was in deep shit all over again. If she wasn’t dumped back on a plane first thing tomorrow, this was going to be a very long, hard-wearing assignment.
[3]
Washington D.C. Seven months later.
Holding Christmas parties in November was indecent, in Dima’s opinion. This particular Christmas party provided an opportunity, though. She would suck up the commerce-driven festivities to capitalize on the chance, in fine American fashion.
She handed over her wrap and smoothed down the raw silk of her skirt and looked around for the waiters carrying the trays of drinks. The room was cavernous, even with the plethora of tinsel and glittering orbs filling every corner and crevasse.
A ten-piece orchestra played softly—Rachmaninov, Dima thought. It was background music while the most powerful of Washington’s elite networked in a frenzy before the dinner and formalities deadened their instincts.
Benny Santiago should be easy to spot. He was short and his hair, even when it was properly combed and arranged, sprang from his head like a lion’s mane, ferociously energetic. The gray streaks running from his temples and his lined face didn’t diminish the effect at all.
Dima recognized many of the people in the room. They were nearly all above her pay grade, although she’d had reason to deal with each of them over the years.
The unexpected face, though, was Lochan’s.
Lochan stood out because of his height. He wore the politically correct tuxedo and wore it well, although he was not smiling and pressing flesh the way everyone else was. He held a full champagne glass. No bubbles rose in it. He’d been holding it long enough to warm the glass and flatten the bubbles. He was on duty, then.
His gaze met Dima’s. No recognition touched his face. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer than a stranger’s would, then moved on. He couldn’t speak to her, then, or acknowledge her.
Beside him, a gorgeous Latino woman wearing a strapless ballgown of pink and silver laughed and chatted with an admiring group of people. Her face was animated, her eyes sparkling.
Her long, dark hair fell in glistening waves down each shoulder.
Dima knew the woman only because she had seen her photo on Benny Santiago’s desk. It was his daughter, Fabiana.
What on earth was Lochan doing formally escorting Benny Santiago’s daughter?
And where was Leela? Dima’s last information about the two of them was that they were in London, although her information was a few weeks old.
The mystery made Dima’s job easier in one respect. She’d found Fabiana. Benny wouldn’t be too far away and it was possible they’d all sit at the same table, which made locating Benny even easier.
Dima approached a waiter holding a tray of fruit punch and grabbed a glass. She sipped the overly sweet concoction while cataloging names, affiliations, associates, usefulness…. It was an old game, and a favorite of the Washington set.
True to form, Benny Santiago appeared beside Fabiana about twenty minutes later. He touched her arm and smiled at her, then shook the out-thrust hands of everyone standing around Fabiana.
It was almost, Dima thought to herself, as if they had been talking to Fabiana just to meet her powerful father when he showed up.
Washington…
She sighed to herself, then picked up the hem of her long skirt and made her way over to the big group. Waiters were gamely trying to work their way around the edges of the group and avoid spilling champagne down someone’s back. Dima stepped around the waiters. The group stood in a hexagonal space between round tables, close to the giant Christmas tree in the corner.
Dima waited until the polite opening chatter subsided, then tapped Santiago on the shoulder. “Benny, a word?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder, then was pulled back into the conversation by one of the louder speakers in the group. He looked back at Dima sharply. A classic double-take.
Lochan’s gaze flicked toward her, too.
Santiago excused himself and touched Fabiana’s shoulder once more. She smiled at him and returned to her conversation with the junior clerk from State who seemed to be genuinely interested in her and not her father.
Dima moved between the two nearest tables to the small space between them and turned to face Santiago. He looked irritated. That was reasonable, under the circumstances.
“What are you doing here, Dima?” Santiago kept his voice down. “You’re supposed to be at the United Nations.” He had a mild Hispanic accent.
“New York is only a couple of hours away, Benny. My son lives here, remember?”
“What are you doing here, then?”
“You know why.”
He shook his head. “No. We are not having this conversation again. Especially not here. By God, Dima! There are rules. Protocol. Security! Do they mean nothing to you?”
“They mean nothing to the Kobra, Benny,” Dima said calmly. “You refuse to take my calls, or let me make an appointment, leaving me with this as my only way to speak to you.”
Benny shoved his hand through his hair, explaining in part why it stood so high. “This obsession of yours will kill us all.”
“The Kobra will do that, not me. It’s been nearly a year since you dismantled my team, Benny—”
“As I had to do!” he shot back, his voice low and harsh with fury. “You and your damn team shot up Austria! Bodies everywhere and not a single shred of information about the Kobra, which was your single mandate. You utterly failed, Dima. How long will it take for you to absorb that? You failed. You have lost all credibility. Now you get to pay your dues.”
“I’ve paid for a whole year,” Dima replied. “A year, Benny. In that whole year, the Kobra has been sucking out every dollop of data about us, with nothing and no one to stop him.”
“You didn’t stop him!” Santiago shoved his fingers through his hair once more.
“I slowed him down,” Dima said grimly. “Think about it, Benny. With a team, I can apply pressure. I can make him sweat and keep an eye upon me. When he’s watching me, he can’t focus on something else. I’d keep his attention split, at the least. And I was getting closer, Benny. You know I was. You read the reports. Aslan knew the Kobra. He said the man made him. We can follow Aslan’s trail backward and find where his life intersected with the Kobra. It’s the first real lead we’ve had.”
“Aslan is dead,” Benny pointed out coldly. “And you had a leak the size of the Grand Canyon in your group. Someone was dirty and you don’t know who.”
“Records don’t die,” Dima shot back. “If I can work with my team, I can figure out the mole. I can’t do that with them scattered around the world.”
Benny was interrupted by a House rep, who gripped his hand and wished him the best of the season.
Dima glanced toward the Christmas tree. Lochan and Fabiana were moving toward the big doors into the foyer, their satellite of company shifting with them.
The House rep headed for the next networking opportunity and Benny turned back to Dima, pulling at the knot of his bow tie with irritation.
“What is Lochan doing with Fabiana?” Dima asked.
Benny glanced over at his daughter. “What?”
“Lochan is working. I saw the signs. What is he doing with her?”
“That’s classified.” Benny scowled. “Anyway, they met each other in college.”
“That’s the official party line, is it?” Dima asked, hiding her smile. “Benny, give me back my team—minus Lochan if you can’t spare him. You’ve got them all doing shit jobs, and none of this was their fault.”
Benny shook his head. “Only you could call Paris and Florence and the United Nations shit jobs.”
Dima stepped closer. “The Kobra has a direct line into the CIA. You know it. Maybe it’s just my mole. Maybe it’s more than one inside man. He anticipates everything. It’s not just an open channel, Benny. It’s the Amazon fucking river. Don’t you want it shut down? Don’t you want to earn back your own credibility?”
Benny’s face darkened. “Jesus Christ, Dima—”
Someone screamed. The scream was wiped out by an ear-shattering explosion. Dima whirled, in time to see the giant Christmas tree toppling toward her.
“No, let me talk to her,” came the soft directive.
Dima tried to open her eyes and groaned as the bright lights hurt. She shut them again. She had glimpsed enough to realize she was still in the ball room. There was little of the Christmas theme left. The air above her was smoky and filled with dust. Many strained voices gabbled over each other, the sound mixed with sirens, sobs and moans of pain.
She was lying on the ground. Scott Belo had told everyone to leave her alone, if she was still any judge of voices.
A hand on her cheek. “Dima, it’s Scott.”
She opened one eye. Yes, it was him. He gave her a grim smile. “You’re still whole,” he told her. “Concussion from the blast is all.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was on station at Andrews Air Force Base,” he told her. “I dropped everything and hitched a ride with the MPs.”
“You knew I was here?”
His expression sobered. “I know where everyone is,” he murmured. “Lochan is here, too. They haven’t found him yet.”
“He was close to the center,” Dima whispered. “Find him. Until we know what this is about…” She met his gaze.
Scott nodded. “Got it.” He patted her shoulder and stood and moved away, which gave the first responder room to surge back to Dima’s side, annoyed at being directed by a civilian.
Dima let the poor woman do her job. She asked for Tylenol and was refused. So she asked for water. Eventually, the water was given to her. By then she was sitting on the pavement outside the hotel, a blanket around her and an icepack to the back of her head, where it had hit the floor. The urgent care patients were loaded into ambulances. The walking wounded were piled into the back of police sedans when they ran out of ambulances.
Scott sat on the step beside her. “It was a strap-on bomb. Small enough to fit beneath clothes, I�
��m guessing. Lots of noise and shrapnel, but not a lot of structural damage. Lochan was close to the epicenter. He and Director Santiago’s daughter are both at Georgetown, already in surgery.” He paused.
Dima waited.
“She is in a very bad state,” Scott added.
“Lochan was working,” Dima said.
“Was Fabiana the target?” Scott asked
“We have to talk to Lochan.” Dima swallowed. Her throat was dry. “They won’t release me until a doctor checks me, and I’m way down on the totem pole.”
Scott nodded. “Got your cellphone?”
She groped for the in-seam pocket in her skirt and pulled out the phone. The skirt itself was a ragged lace of burned silk fibers up to her knees. The phone, though, was still in one piece. “Apparently, I do.”
“Open code,” Scott said, rising.
She nodded, then halted the movement and winced.
“And get some rest,” Scott added.
Dima shivered and pulled the blanket around her once more. “Not until I hear from you.”
“Fast as I can.” He left, moving through shock-slowed survivors in a weaving pattern, pulling out keys and thumbing his cellphone with the other hand.
The doctor, an intern wearing a borrowed Parka over his scrubs, who looked too young to shave, shone a light in Dima’s eyes and pronounced her fit to leave. Dima thanked him and drove herself home at ten miles an hour under the speed limit. She stayed off the freeways. It took longer, but she was less of a menace at turtle speed.
Home was a bare shell, for she was living out of a hotel in downtown Manhattan, close to the UN building. There was nothing in the refrigerator, not even outdated pickles.
She drank a gallon of water and fell asleep on top of the bare mattress in her room, her cellphone resting on her chest.
Its vibrations woke her some time later. Dima was surprised to find she could focus enough to see the time on the top line of the screen. It was 3:32 a.m. Her headache was less than it had been, too.
“It’s me,” Scott said. He didn’t use his name, because the name showing on the ID screen wasn’t his. “Logan’s fine. Only…”
Inside Man Page 3