Troubleshooters 08 Flashpoint

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She realized that he was more put off by her being here than he was letting on. And he was less rested and relaxed than she’d thought at first, too. He kept rubbing his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s been three years since I’ve been in Kazabek,” he said. “But I think it’s better to say we met just a few weeks ago.”

  “Weeks?” And after knowing each other such a short time, they were already married?

  “Yeah.” Nash didn’t seem to think that was far-fetched. “They know me in Kazabek as James Nash. I’m the director of a not-for-profit organization called People First,” he told her.

  “James,” Tess said, “not Jimmy?”

  My name’s Jimmy.

  He met her eyes only briefly, and she knew he remembered telling her that, too. They had both been naked at the time.

  “No.” He cleared his throat, went on. “The story is that I was hired by PF right out of college. Which, by the way, was right down Mem Drive from you. I went to Harvard.”

  During the interview, she’d told Tom Paoletti that she’d attended MIT. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Is that so hard to believe?”

  “No,” she said swiftly. “I just . . . I had no idea.” His file hadn’t mentioned Harvard, but of course, it wasn’t that sort of file. “When were you there? Maybe we could say we met in Cambridge, you know, and were friends for years before—”

  “I was there right after I participated in that manned spaceflight to Mars,” Nash told her.

  Tess stared at him. He was just such a good liar, it was hard to know what was truth and what was cover story. What was real and what was make-believe.

  “Where did you really go to school?” she asked.

  “Harvard,” he said. But then he added, almost gently, “Really is relative. The only really you need to be concerned with is the one that drives our cover story. Which is I went to Harvard, graduated fifteen years ago, worked for People First ever since.”

  “You worked for the Agency for fifteen years,” Tess said aloud, and he paused. He was clearly wondering how she knew that, and she then realized that this wasn’t public knowledge.

  “You told me,” she reassured him. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to lie.

  But like most liars, he was extra suspicious. “When?”

  “How should I know?” she said with an eye roll that expressed just the right amount of exasperation. “You came into support and sat on my desk only 854 times in the past three years. It was one of those times.”

  If she’d been specific—May 14, 2002, at 3:30 in the afternoon—he would’ve known she was making it all up.

  Instead he nodded. “Here’s the deal, okay? We met three weeks ago, in D.C.”

  “Not while we were at school?” Tess asked. “It seems perfect—”

  “It’s not. There’d be too many years of ancient history to keep straight. We met three weeks ago, while I was in town for a conference,” Nash told her. “People First is based out of Boston, but I travel a lot. Particularly to D.C. Where you live . . . doing what?”

  “Working for a dot com?” It was what she probably would have done if she hadn’t been recruited by the Agency. “How about . . . After MIT, I worked for a dot com that peaked big, but then died,” Tess suggested. This was kind of fun. Or at least it would have been if she’d been playing this game with anyone but Nash. “It gasped its last breath a year ago. I’m so, so sick of computers, I decided to go back to school, right there in D.C. To law school.”

  “Are you really sick of computers?” he asked.

  Tess gave him a look. “Harvard?”

  Nash nodded, smiled. “You’re good at lying.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I think.” Of course, coming from the Liar King, that was probably the highest praise.

  They were both silent then. So exactly how did they meet, Tess the law student and James the head of a not-for-profit organization, three very short weeks ago?

  That particular detail—three weeks and then, bang, a wedding—still seemed weak to Tess.

  Across the table, Nash rubbed his forehead.

  “Headache?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He smiled ruefully. “Hangover.”

  Ah. “It might help if you drink some water.” She fished in her bag for the extra bottle she’d bought at the airport, slid it across the desk to him. “Here.”

  She’d surprised him. “Wow,” he said. “I’m—” He shook his head. “Thanks.”

  “How about if I was doing work-study as a legal assistant for a firm—you know, pro bono law for not-for-profit groups,” Tess said as he opened the bottle and drank. “Maybe one of our clients was People First. And that’s how we met.”

  “No,” he said, wiping his mouth with his hand. “I mean, yes, that’s excellent, but let’s not have your firm connected with People First. It would be too easy for someone to check and see that there’s no record of . . . We could do it if we had more time to set it up, but we’re on a plane to Kazabek in just a few hours. Let’s say instead that you hadn’t heard of PF until you met me. What if . . . you had a meeting with a pro bono client who was attending that same conference. Your meeting was in the hotel bar.”

  “But he didn’t show,” Tess said.

  “Yeah. I walked in, saw you sitting there alone, and it was love at first sight. And here we are, three weeks later. Married.”

  Tess looked at Jimmy Nash, with his perfect hair, his bedroom eyes, his broad shoulders, and his washboard abs—oh, she couldn’t see them now, but she knew they were there beneath his shirt. “Is anyone really going to believe that? We meet and we’re married in just a few weeks?”

  “Yeah, and it’ll help explain why we don’t know each other all that well. That’s important, unless you want to spend hours on the flight memorizing brands of toothpaste and deodorant, favorite foods, favorite movies, whether you like anchovies on your pizza—”

  “Definitely not—to both of those things. The memorizing and the anchovies.”

  “I figured as much,” he said. “The anchovies, I mean.”

  “I suppose you like them.”

  “Absolutely. Live large, I always say.”

  “Anchovies are small. And awful,” Tess pointed out. “And people don’t really get married after knowing each other for only a few weeks.”

  “Sometimes they do. We’re going to Kazabek, Tess, not L.A. There’s not a lot of premarital sex happening there. People get married before they get busy—and likewise, people who want to get busy get married first. You know, women have been sentenced to death for adultery there—even women who were raped.”

  Tess nodded. “I do know. I’ve read the packet of information on Kazbekistan that Tom Paoletti gave me.”

  “Then you also know that their women’s rights movement has recently regressed about two hundred years,” he said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Whenever you’re outside, you need to be covered.” Nash had on that same concerned face she’d first seen in the car, two months ago, on the way to rescue Decker at the Gentlemen’s Den. He was using the same commanding officer voice. These were orders he was giving, not suggestions. “Down to your ankles and wrists and up to your neck.”

  “So much for my budding career as a topless waitress.”

  Nash was not amused. “I’m serious.”

  “That’s very apparent.”

  “Even if it’s a hundred degrees in the shade.”

  “I’m clear on that,” Tess told him. She resisted the urge to salute.

  “You’ll have to carry a scarf whenever you go out, too,” he said. “In case you’re stopped and asked to cover your head.”

  “Yes, I read that. In the packet.”

  “Some people don’t read the packet.”

  “I did.”

  “There are parts of the country where women have to wear a burka and veil,” Nash told her.

  “Some parts of the capital city, too. And some women
in Kazabek actually choose to wear burkas all the time. Or at least so I understand, after having read the packet,” Tess said.

  “Think of this as a test,” he told her.

  “You mean, a pop quiz on the reading material, or more of a ‘How long will it take before Nash drives me nuts’ kind of test?”

  “This is your first time out there.” As if he had to remind her. “I’m going to be on top of you every minute. You don’t like it when information is repeated? Too bad. I’m going to make damn sure that you know everything you need to know to keep from getting hurt or, yeah, even killed. People can die in the field, Tess.”

  She did know that.

  “And if you want to have a contest to see who drives who crazy first,” Nash continued, “well, congratulations, you’re already winning.” He stood up. “Do you have other clothes with you? Because you can’t wear that to K-stan.”

  “Yes, I know. These are interview clothes. I have a suitcase in the rental car.”

  “You can’t take a suitcase to Kazbekistan.”

  “Yes, I know that, too. I just wasn’t sure how many changes of clothing to bring, so—”

  “Get ready to smell bad,” he told her. “Figure that your entire wardrobe’s got to fit in that shoulder bag you’re carrying. And don’t overload it, because you’ll be carrying my bag, too.”

  Tess laughed. Of all the . . . “Look, Nash—”

  “You should get used to calling me James.”

  “James,” she repeated. “I know that you’re trying to frighten me off, but it’s not working. You may not know my brand of toothpaste or my favorite movie, but haven’t you caught on, maybe even just a little bit, that I don’t scare easily?”

  “Colgate regular and it’s probably a toss-up between Moulin Rouge, The Philadelphia Story, and Casablanca,” he reported, smiling briefly at the expression of surprise that she couldn’t keep from her face. “I was in your apartment, remember?”

  Yeah, like she’d ever forget. “Snooping among my DVDs?”

  “No, just keeping my eyes open.”

  “While you snooped among my DVDs.” After she’d finally fallen asleep, he must’ve stopped to look while he was on his way out the door, because she’d been with him every other moment and they’d been nowhere near her entertainment center. Funny, she would have thought he would have been in an enormous hurry to escape before she awoke. Instead he’d stopped to look at her things.

  “I meant what I said about packing light,” Nash told her now. “You really are going to be carrying my bag.”

  “Isn’t that overdoing it a little in terms of following Kazbekistani customs?”

  He lifted the bottle she’d tossed to him, toasting her before he finished off the last of it. “I’ll be carrying our water.”

  Ah. Bottles of water would definitely be much heavier than clothing.

  “Go and get your suitcase, Mrs. Nash,” he said. “I’ll help you figure out what to bring.”

  Mrs. Nash.

  Hearing that from his lips was just too weird.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Decker watched Nash watch Tess Bailey browsing in the airport bookstore.

  Nash looked up, feeling Deck’s gaze.

  Decker shook his head in disgust, and Nash played dumb. “What?”

  It was only because he asked that Decker answered. “You’re an asshole. Two months—and you didn’t call her once. And now you get to pretend to be her adoring husband?”

  Nash was going to share a room with Tess, which by nature would generate intimacy. Add in the adrenaline inherent in a dangerous mission, plus the romance of being in an ancient, foreign city . . .

  “It’s a tough job,” Nash said, trying to turn it into a joke, “but someone’s got to do it.”

  “Yeah, well, do more than pretend, and I’ll beat you until you bleed.”

  Nash looked at him.

  “Yes,” Decker said. “I am serious.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Nash said. “I was just kidding. I’m not going to take advantage of her. I mean, not that she’d let me.” He looked over at Tess. “Although, holy Mother of God, I forgot just how hot she was.”

  Decker shook his head. Hot. Tess Bailey was beautiful and brilliant. She was funny, and enthusiastic, and brave. She was so much more than merely hot.

  And Nash had walked—no, run—away from her.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Decker asked.

  Nash met his gaze only briefly. It was hard to tell if that was because he was uncomfortable with the direction their conversation was going—they didn’t talk like this, not about things that mattered—or if it was because he couldn’t keep his eyes off Tess. “That was a rhetorical question, right? I mean, you don’t want me to make a list or anything. . . .”

  “I thought you didn’t mess with women who worked support.” Decker knew this was senseless. Talking about it wouldn’t change what had happened.

  “I didn’t,” Nash said. “I mean, I never did before. It was just . . . It was that one crazy night.”

  Wait a minute. “One night?”

  “Yeah.”

  Decker could feel his blood pressure rising. “You had a one-night stand. With Tess Bailey.” Fuck. He’d thought Nash’s fling with Tess had been going on for a while. “That night at the Den.”

  “Yeah,” Nash said. “I mean, well . . . You saw her.”

  “Yes,” Decker said. “Yes, I did.”

  “How could I say no?”

  Jesus, Nash was practically drooling as he watched Tess.

  Decker got right up in his face, but he kept his voice low. “I meant what I said before, douche bag. You so much as touch her again, and I will beat the living shit out of you.”

  Nash was amused. “Shit, Deck, you sound like I slept with your girlfriend.” He stopped laughing and actually looked shocked. He did a double take, looking from Deck to Tess and back in disbelief. “Did I sleep with your girlfriend?”

  Okay, now they’d managed to dive headfirst into territory Decker didn’t want explored. “No. Forget it, all right?”

  He turned away, and Nash let him go. But then he followed. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

  Decker gave up. “Look, she wasn’t my girlfriend. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s never going to be my girlfriend.”

  “She could be.”

  “No,” Deck said. “Even if . . .” He laughed his disgust. “I’m her team leader now.”

  “To hell with that.”

  Decker just shook his head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Life goes on,” Decker said.

  Nash was back to watching Tess. He sighed. “Shit.”

  “Tom Paoletti gave me an additional job to do while we’re in Kazabek,” Decker told him. “He asked me not to mention the details to anyone else—including you.” That got Nash’s full attention.

  “That figures,” he said. “I could tell he didn’t really like me.”

  “Give him time,” Decker said. “He’s naturally got some questions about you.”

  “So that’s what the closed door was about. This secondary assignment, and him asking you questions—like are you sure you can trust me?” Nash’s laughter sounded remarkably real. If Decker didn’t know him so well, he would have been certain that Nash didn’t give a damn.

  But Deck knew that it bothered him. Nash pretended that he found it all amusing, but he was particularly sensitive to some of the nastier rumors that circulated about him.

  “Yeah,” Decker said. “I told him that as long as we paid you enough, you wouldn’t flip to the other side.”

  “Screw you!” This time Nash’s laughter was real.

  Decker smiled. In truth, Tom hadn’t asked the trust question that everyone usually always asked about Nash. He hadn’t had to—he was a smart man who knew he’d gotten enough of an answer when Deck had told him
he didn’t keep secrets from Nash, that anything Tom told Decker would find its way to Nash’s ears, no exception.

  Well, okay. Maybe Deck would keep it secret if Tom wanted to throw Nash a surprise birthday party. But probably not, because Nash hated being surprised.