Fiona tilted her red head. “Why don’t you come and get it yourself? It’s the day before Christmas Eve. There’s hardly anyone in the office. Spencer is busy with God knows what. He told me not to expect him in the office until after the break.”
Mike shook his head. “Claire, he might be monitoring the office. He might have eyes and ears there. It’s too risky.”
“I don’t like what I’m hearing.” Fiona shoved the envelope of money into her purse. “Why would Spencer be watching for you, Claire? And what’s he going to do if you show up?”
“If I give you a thumb drive, Fiona, can you copy Spencer’s emails to it?”
“I can do that.” Fiona skimmed her nails along the velvet cloth covering Madam Rosalee’s tarot reading table. “But this is my last day in the office until after New Year’s. How am I going to get it back to you?”
“Do you still get off at five?”
“Yeah.”
“Mike?” Claire turned toward him.
He scratched his beard. “How do you get to work, a car or public transportation?”
“I take a bus. The stop is a block down from the office.”
“We’ll be waiting on the street in front of the office when you get off—black Mercedes sedan. Hand the drive to Claire through the window and have a happy holiday.”
Claire pressed the thumb drive into Fiona’s hand, and she dropped it into her purse.
“What if there’s nothing in the emails?” Fiona clutched her bag to her chest. “Do I still get to keep the money?”
“Absolutely. I appreciate this so much. You have no idea.” She gave Fiona a one-armed hug.
As Fiona opened the front door and set off the bells, Rosalee swept aside the beaded curtain and pointed at her. “Be careful. The aura of danger is strong.”
* * *
WHEN THEY LEFT Madam Rosalee’s, Mike headed a few miles outside the city center where he drove through a fast-food place.
They parked in the lot and Mike wolfed down a couple of burgers while Claire sipped on soda.
Between bites, he said, “I am so done with this. If I go through one fast-food place when I retire, that’ll be one too many.”
Claire chewed on the end of her straw. “I hope Spencer still has some of those incriminating photos in his email. Who do you think is blackmailing him?”
“It could be anyone. It could be Caliban himself. Once you start playing games like Correll, you’re in bed with some very dangerous people.”
His phone buzzed and Claire jumped. She’d called her son this morning and had given Ethan’s grandparents this number to call in case of an emergency.
Cupping the phone in his hand, he glanced at the display and shook his head at Claire. “It’s Jack.”
He pushed the button to answer. “I’m still alive, in case you’re wondering, oh, and you’re on speaker. Claire’s in the car.”
“Good. You both need to hear this.”
Claire bolted upright in her seat. “The videos?”
“We’ve identified the Oxford Don, Claire. Donald Yousef is the one who executed your husband and he’s the one in the video with Senator Correll.”
A sob broke from Claire’s throat and she covered her face with her hands.
Mike rubbed her back. “Do you know where he is, Jack?”
“He’s somewhere in the States. He’s a British citizen on a visit and has overstayed his welcome.”
“So, he could be here in DC.”
“He could be anywhere.”
Claire sniffled. “Is this enough to move in on Correll, Jack?”
“We have no audio from the video, no way of knowing why or how he met Yousef. He could claim it was a chance meeting or that Yousef contacted him and he had no idea who he was.”
Mike slammed his hands against the steering wheel. “But it’s gotta be enough to bring Correll in for questioning, to start an investigation.”
“It is, and we’re working on it right now. Are you two safe?”
“Safe and working on a new lead on Correll. Anything on the White House plot?” Mike held his breath. He wanted in on that in the worst way.
“We’ve notified White House security and the CIA that there’s a credible threat against the White House on Christmas Day. They’re sweeping the buildings and the grounds, including the room where the memorial for Haywood is being held. They haven’t come up with anything, and that room has been sealed off since the sweep—nobody in or out.”
“Then it’s a threat from the outside in. Correll must know about the extra security precautions.”
“He does.”
“I wonder if he realizes that Mike and I are behind them.” Claire brushed her wet cheeks.
“He just might, Claire. That’s why you two still need to keep a low profile.”
Mike crumpled up the paper from his burgers. “Is sitting in a fast-food parking lot in Virginia low profile enough?”
“Figures you’d be eating, Becker. Just so you know, Bennett and Liam McCabe are heading out to DC to work this White House threat.”
Mike closed his eyes briefly as a shaft of pain knifed his temple. “Sure, boss.”
Jack paused. “Mike, you’ve been my number-one guy for a long time and you’re number one on this assignment, too. You have nothing to prove.”
“Got it, boss. Keep me posted.”
“Same atcha.”
Mike ended the call and then curled his arm around Claire, pulling her close. “You did it, snow queen. Justice for Shane. How does it feel?”
She blinked wet lashes at him. “Like some huge weight off my shoulders, like I can move forward with my life.”
“You’re not going to shift your focus back to your mother’s accident?”
“If Prospero or the CIA can link Spencer to these terrorists, to Tempest, and put him away? That’s justice for Mom, too.”
He kissed the side of her head. “Maybe Fiona can give us something that’ll put the nail in Correll’s coffin, and then he’ll give it up on the White House plot and Caliban.”
“It’s good that Prospero is sending backup, right?” She entwined her fingers with his. “The point is to stop the attack. You’ll still be in on the action.”
“Of course.” He squeezed her hand, cursing his transparency in her presence. “It’s almost five o’clock. Let’s go meet Fiona.”
They drove back to DC and through the crowded streets near the Mall with Claire directing him toward her stepfather’s office building.
As they turned the corner, Mike’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. An ambulance, fire truck and three Metro police cars took up the space on the curb in front of a high-rise office building.
“Is that his building, Claire?”
She had one hand at her slender throat. “Yes. It can’t be... Please, God.”
Mike slowed the car as he pulled up behind a fire truck parked at an angle. He rolled down the window and shouted to a guy at the edge of a crowd of people on the sidewalk. “What’s going on? What happened?”
The man took a step back from the crowd. “Some woman. Someone said she was attacked in that stairwell in the parking structure.”
Claire hung on the edge of the car window. “Is she okay?”
“No idea. I think they’re putting her on a stretcher now.”
Mike threw the car into Park. “Climb into the driver’s seat in case you have to move the car. I’m going to have a look.”
He jumped out of the car and shouldered his way through the crowd, peering over everyone’s head. The EMTs raised the gurney and started wheeling it toward the open doors of the ambulance. A white sheet was pulled up to a woman’s chin, but not over her face. Mike’s gut knotted when a tumble of red curls spilled over the side of the gurney.
With his heart thudding in his chest, he made his way back to the illegally parked car with Claire in the driver’s seat, her head bowed.
He slid into the car next to her and slammed the car door. Punching his fist into his pal
m, he swore. “Damn. It’s Fiona. She looks badly beaten, but she’s not dead. Thank God, she’s not dead.”
Claire put the car in gear and squealed away from the curb, glancing over her shoulder.
She took the next turn hard and then gunned the sedan on the straightaway.
“Claire?” Mike drew his eyebrows over his nose. “Are you okay? It was Fiona on that stretcher.”
“I know.” She plunged her hand into the cup holder and swung a thumb drive from its ribbon. “But we got the goods anyway.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mike snatched the drive from her fingers. “How the hell did you get this?”
“While you were on the sidewalk, Madam Rosalee came up to the car window and gave it to me.”
“Madam Rosalee?” He drove the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Now I’m really confused.”
“She didn’t have much time to talk. You can imagine she wanted to get out of there, but she told me she’d had a bad feeling about Fiona when she left her place—that dangerous aura.”
“Yeah, or maybe she just eavesdropped on our conversation.”
“Whatever.” Claire flicked her fingers in the air. “She went to Fiona’s office on the pretense of delivering her astrological chart and told her that if she hung on to that thumb drive I gave her, she’d be in mortal danger. She assured Fiona she’d get the drive to me.
“Fiona told her to give it to us when we pulled up to the curb, that she’d wanted to leave the office early anyway since it was her last day before the holidays. Madame Rosalee stopped for coffee to wait for us when all the commotion started. Someone had discovered Fiona in the stairwell, beaten to a pulp, and called 9-1-1.”
“My God. They knew. Somehow they knew Fiona had taken that info. Maybe Trey Jensen placed a tracer on Correll’s computer.” He made a fist around the thumb drive. “But we got the info anyway.”
Claire bit her lip. “Whoever beat up Fiona didn’t find anything on her. They might believe they were mistaken.”
“I doubt it, Claire. They know she took something, and they may know that we have it. I just hope to God she pulls through.”
“H-how did she look?”
“Bad, had an oxygen mask over her face, but I didn’t hear anything about her getting shot or knifed.”
“Thank God for small favors.” She huffed out a breath. “After what Fiona paid to get this out, I hope there’s something on it we can use to nail Spencer for sure.”
“So do I. I’m also hoping there’s something about the Christmas Day attack. We need all the help we can get on that.” He tapped the GPS on the car’s control panel. “Do you know the way back to the Bennetts’?”
“I have a terrible sense of direction. Punch it in.”
Mike entered the address into the GPS and checked his watch. “We’ll check on Fiona later when they get her to the hospital.”
The voice on the GPS directed her to take the next turn, and Claire turned down the volume. “Do you think she told her attacker about the thumb drive? About us?”
“Fiona is a pampered admin assistant in a senator’s office.” Mike traced the edges of the thumb drive. “I think she told them everything and would’ve given up the drive if she’d had it on her, and I don’t blame her for it at all.”
Claire squeezed her fingers around the steering wheel as a sick feeling seized her gut. “But she didn’t tell them about Madam Rosalee, or they would’ve gone after her. She didn’t tell them about the handoff at five o’clock or we would’ve seen someone—emergency vehicles or no emergency vehicles.”
“My guess is she told her assailant that she already gave the drive to us. At that point, she could assume Madam Rosalee would be successful in putting the drive in our hands.”
“Once Spencer goes down, I’ll make sure Fiona gets another job on The Hill if she wants it.” Claire ground her back teeth together. If Spencer could arrange for his former lover to get beaten, who knew what else he’d be capable of doing?
“That would be a hard sell.”
“What would?”
“Finding a position for someone in government who’d sell out her boss for a few bucks.”
“Ah, but she didn’t sell out her boss. She was assisting in the takedown of a terrorist.”
“Let’s hope she survives to take advantage of your salesmanship.”
They drove in silence for the next several miles, during which time Claire said a number of prayers for Fiona and even a few for Madam Rosalee.
They crossed into Maryland and Claire asked, “Is Jase going to be at his house when we get there?”
“I’m not sure. He’s been with his fiancée, who’s expecting a baby. She’s been through a tough time, so I’m surprised Jack got him to come out here, although Jase probably jumped at the chance to take down a Tempest plot.”
“He has history with Tempest, too?”
“Yeah, Liam and Jase—and now me.”
Another few miles and Claire pulled the sedan up to the Bennett fortress. Mrs. Curtis had given them the code for the gate, and Claire entered it.
Mrs. Curtis met them at the front door, her eyes popping at Mike’s altered appearance. She hadn’t seen him since they first arrived.
“It’s me.” Mike skimmed his hand over his buzz cut. “Do you mind if Claire gets some lunch from the kitchen?”
“Of course not. I’m sure Mr. Jason told you to make yourselves at home. There’s cold chicken, some salad and some hummus and pita bread.”
Claire plucked the hat from her head. “That sounds good, but, Mike...”
He took her by the shoulders and aimed her in the direction of the kitchen. “Eat. I’ll bring my laptop into the kitchen and we can multitask.”
Mrs. Curtis bustled ahead of her, but Claire put a hand on her back. “Don’t go to any trouble, Mrs. Curtis. I can help myself.”
“I’ll just take it out for you, and then I’ll leave you two alone to discuss business.”
How did she know they had business to discuss? Must be all those years looking after Mr. Jason.
Mrs. Curtis puttered around the kitchen, unwrapping some chicken and popping a few rounds of pita bread into the microwave. “Would you or Mr. Becker like some coffee?”
“I wouldn’t, not sure about Mr. Becker.”
Mike barreled back into the kitchen, his laptop tucked beneath his arm. “Not sure about what?”
“Would you like some coffee, sir?” Mrs. Curtis held up the coffeepot.
“No, thanks.”
“Then I’ll leave you two.” Mrs. Curtis stopped at the door. “Only Mr. Curtis and I are in residence, in the back house, and we’re leaving for Mississippi later tonight to visit our grandchildren for Christmas.”
Mike issued a mock salute. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. Curtis, and enjoy your holiday. We’ll be fine on our own, and Jase is due back tonight or tomorrow morning.”
She smiled and wished them a merry Christmas, then headed out the side door toward the back house on the grounds.
Mike set up his laptop on the granite island in the middle of the kitchen while Claire spooned some hummus onto a plate. She removed the pita from the microwave and tore off a piece.
Mike looked up from his computer. “Jack sent me the file they have on Donald Yousef, and it’s not much.”
Clicking the keyboard to scroll through the file, he continued, “He’s been keeping a low profile. He’s not on any watch lists, hasn’t attended any training camps that we know of. There’s been no indication in the past that he’s been involved in terrorist activity.”
“But Prospero is still sure he’s the man in the video with Shane?”
“They’ve verified it through some very sophisticated computer matching of features, body type, gestures.”
“Will that hold up if they decide to pick him up and detain him for questioning?”
“The system we’re using is not recognized in court, but for us it’s enough to bring him in—when we locate hi
m.”
He tapped the keyboard a few more times and then frowned.
“What’s wrong? You look confused.”
“Who’s that woman your stepfather is taking to the White House event? Brit-Saud Oil, right?”
“That’s right.” She licked some hummus from her fingers. “Julie Patrick. Her husband owned massive shares of Brit-Saud Oil, and now they’re all hers.”
“Brit-Saud Oil.” Mike tapped his finger against the laptop’s screen. “Don Yousef is a beneficiary of Brit-Saud Oil.”
Her heart jumped. “What does that mean, beneficiary?”
“The company offers scholarships to promising students in the Middle East who have been adversely affected by war.”
“Is that how Yousef got to Oxford?”
“Yes, and you’ll never guess who’s chairperson of that program.”
Claire dropped her pita bread on the counter. “Julie Patrick?”
“Exactly.” He hunched over the laptop. “Where did you read that puff piece about the guest list for the director’s memorial?”
“The Washington Spy.”
“That’s appropriate.” He brought up the website and did a search for the article. “This only mentions Correll and his guest, Julie Patrick. We need to get ahold of that guest list.”
“If Prospero is monitoring security at the White House for the event, they’d have the guest list, right?”
“Yep.” Mike had already lunged for his phone. “Jack, I need that guest list for the Haywood memorial. More specifically, is Julie Patrick bringing a guest?”
Jack’s voice came over the phone’s speaker. “Hang on. Do you want me to send it to you or just tell you over the phone?”
“I just need to know if she’s bringing a guest—over the phone.”
Jack paused and then came back on the line. “Julie Patrick is most definitely bringing a guest.”
“Who is it, Jack?” Claire gripped the edge of her stool. “Is it Donald Yousef?”
“Donald Yousef? Of course not. After ID’ing him as your husband’s executioner, you don’t think we’d notice his name on the White House guest list?”
Mike held up his index finger at Claire. “Then who is it, Jack? Who’s she bringing?”
“Some kid named Assad Ali-Watkins. He’s one of her scholarship kids.”
Secret Agent Santa Page 17