Noble Intentions: Season Three

by L. T. Ryan

  He cradled the phone in his hand, cool plastic against a sweaty palm. His finger grazed against a button on the side. The phone’s display came to life. A tranquil pond with swimming koi fish greeted him. He navigated to the dialing screen and pressed and held down the number 5. A moment later, the phone began to ring.

  “Hello?” a man answered.

  “Naseer? Is that you?”

  “Hello, Thornton. Is everything going according to plan?”

  “That’s what I’m calling to ask you.”

  “My plans are all set, Thornton. They hinge on our prior arrangement, though.”

  “And our arrangement hinges on you paying me.”

  Naseer laughed, his mouth too close to the receiver. Thornton pulled the phone away from his ear.

  “We’ll meet soon, my friend,” Naseer said.

  “When?”

  “In a day or two.”

  “I need a time.”

  “I can’t give you one.”

  Thornton paused. “OK.”

  The men stayed on the line, though no one spoke. Finally, Naseer said, “Is there something else?”

  “Yeah,” Thornton said. He reached for a tumbler, half-filled with scotch. “Jack Noble. You ever heard of him?”

  Naseer repeated the name. “I am not familiar with him. Would you like me to make some calls?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  “I will, and I’ll bring my findings to our meeting.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Naseer thumbed the end call label on his phone’s screen, then set the device on the table. He lifted his gaze toward the dark-haired beauty sitting across from him, smiled at her. There was only one reason a woman that attractive was with him, and he was OK with that. Being a billionaire had its advantages. Beautiful women throwing themselves at his feet was one of them. Controlling equally wealthy but weaker men was another, and that summed up his relationship with Thornton Walloway.

  Thornton had a need to fit in with real powerful men. Men with money weren’t good enough. Hell, the guy could get that kind of fraternity at his country club. No, Thornton wanted to be a part of something. The kind of something that would make other men fall to their knees and openly weep. Thornton wanted the same kind of power that Naseer enjoyed. And as long as Naseer let Thornton believe that the man would achieve that same power and standing within his group, Naseer had Thornton by the balls.

  The woman set her fork down and leaned forward. She asked, “Is everything OK with your friend?”

  Naseer nodded as he sipped from his wine glass. He was curious why she asked. She had seemed to know better than to try and discuss his dealings.

  “What was that about a Jack somebody?”

  Naseer lifted an eyebrow and smiled curiously. Twice now?

  “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “No reason,” she said. “Just sounded out of place. I’ve met most of your friends and don’t recall any Jack’s. Don’t recall any normal names.”

  “Yes, well,” Naseer slowly rotated his neck. “First of all, you haven’t met a tenth of my friends. Second of all, he is not one of my associates. I do not know who Jack Noble is, nor do I care. He’s probably just some British asshole that pissed off another British asshole who expects me to do him a favor.”

  The woman placed her elbow on the table, made a fist and rested her chin atop it. She smiled and blinked slowly. “You, my dear Naseer, are a British asshole.”

  “And you are an American bitch,” he said playfully as he leaned back in his chair and swirled the wine in his glass. “You know, I’ve killed men for less than that.”

  “Good thing I’m not a man.” She turned in her seat, facing him directly.

  He pushed back from the table, let his knees fall open. “It’s good that you are not.”

  She slid out of her chair, crawled toward him, climbed onto his lap. “No man would do this, would they?” She straddled him and kissed his neck while her fingertips danced across his bare chest. She scratched him with her nails, lightly at first and increasingly harder as her nails traveled down his tight abdomen.

  “I’m sure there are some,” Naseer said. “But I’d have to kill them.”

  She nibbled on his earlobe, kissed his cheek, his jawline. Her lips inched closer to his. She arched her back, pressing her breasts into his chest. She dipped her head, licked his lips.

  A knock on the door prematurely ended the moment.

  “Naseer, we need to talk,” a man said from behind the door.

  “Always with the damn disruptions,” Naseer said.

  The woman slipped off his lap and returned to her seat.

  “You won’t be leaving again, will you?”

  She shook her head.

  “You were only here a few days the last time.” He frowned at her. “No more sick aunts or uncles or whatever taking you away to the U.S. for a couple weeks?”

  “I’m all yours for the foreseeable future.”

  “And don’t forget it.”

  *****

  Clarissa remained seated at the table until she heard the click that indicated the solid door had shut. The lingering smell of Naseer’s cologne faded. Confident she’d be alone for a few minutes, she let her emotions out to play. She breathed in and out, heavily, warily. Her shaking hands wiped tears from her cheeks. She forced herself to her feet, staggered across the room and threw herself into the restroom and flipped on the light. A tear stained reflection in an oval mirror greeted her. Dyed dark hair hung in strands across her face. She tucked it behind her ears. She reached for a tissue and used it to wipe her tears away, being careful not to spread running mascara.

  For a moment, she stared into the mirror, then said, “What are you doing that these guys are so interested in you, Jack?”

  She knew what kind of man Naseer was. She knew the kind of men Naseer associated with. Like him, they were psychopaths, cold and cruel. They were hell bent on reshaping the world in their image through whatever means necessary. Her purpose in London was not only to gather information on Naseer, but also his expansive network.

  Adding Jack to the equation would only complicate her mission.

  She considered calling Sinclair and having herself removed from the situation. Given the circumstances, it was probably the best option. She decided against doing so. She had to find out why Jack was in London, and why someone asked Naseer to look into him. She thought it best not to make Sinclair aware of Jack’s presence until she knew why he was there. She had a contact she could use who might know why and would keep her query private.

  The trickiest part would be finding Jack and alerting him without making him aware of her presence. If there was one person who could ruin her cover she’d built with Naseer and his group, Jack was the guy. That would set them back months, and in those months, anything could happen.

  The thought sent a shiver down her spine. God help the world if Naseer unleashes his vengeance, she thought.

  She closed her eyes, inhaled, exhaled, opened her eyes.

  “Get it together, girl,” she told her reflection. “Stay focused. Naseer first, then Jack.”

  She cupped her hand, filled it with water, splashed it on her face. She grabbed a light green towel, used it to dab her eyes and cheeks. She opened the door, bracing herself for an inquisition from Naseer in the event he overheard her talking to herself or noticed the faint tear tracks on her cheeks.

  But the room was empty.

  Clarissa rushed past the table and exited the dining room. The dining room sat between two halls. Naseer had exited to the west. Clarissa used the door on the east.

  The winding hallway led past an oversized living area equipped with three sixty inch flat panel televisions. The men routinely watched soccer and squash and criquet in there. Clarissa avoided the room as often as possible. Tonight the room was empty. She figured that they were all meeting. Whatever Naseer had been called out for was important. She hoped she’d find out more later, but up to this point, Naseer ha
d been reluctant to share information with her. All of the intelligence she’d gathered had been through other methods.

  She continued down the hall until she reached her room. She performed a quick scan looking for bugs. It had become routine for her to do so. She didn’t find any. Hadn’t up to that point. Either Naseer trusted her and didn’t plant them in her room, or he planted them where she couldn’t find them. Clarissa had to assume the latter. She grabbed her bag from the closet, set it on the bed, and then flipped it over. The bag contained a false bottom which had come in handy on several occasions. In this case, it contained a cell phone and scrambling device. Not even Sinclair knew she had this phone.

  She connected the micro USB male connector of the scrambler into her phone and waited for both devices to power on. The phone’s contact list was empty and the call history was not saved. Should the device ever be confiscated, they’d get nothing out of it. She dialed a number from memory, one that Jack had given her years ago should something happen to him or should she find herself in trouble and unable to reach him.

  On the third ring, a man answered. “Who is this?”

  “Brandon?” Clarissa asked.

  “Depends,” he said.

  “It’s Clarissa. Jack’s friend.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to know if you know anything about Jack’s whereabouts.”

  “Who is this again?”

  “Clarissa.”

  “Colonel Abbot’s daughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  A pause. Then, “I think if Jack wanted you to know that, you’d already know.”

  “I’m concerned about him, Brandon.”

  “You are or the CIA is?”

  “You would know if they were. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. You’re more connected than anyone.”

  “You got a point,” he said. His breath filled the earpiece and she imagined that he held the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, hands free. “You said you’re concerned. Why?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “How come?”

  “What I’m doing is classified.”

  “What if I already know what you’re doing?”

  “Then I shouldn’t have to say anything.”

  Brandon chuckled, leaving Clarissa feeling a little more at ease.

  “OK, Clarissa,” Brandon said. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Jack is in London. He got an offer from a former employer to do one last job for them. He’s there to take out a man named Walloway comma Thornton.”

  Clarissa nearly dropped the phone. She knew the name, had heard it mentioned in passing by Naseer. She reached behind herself and sat down. The bed bowed in the middle under her lithe frame.

  “Any idea why?” she said.

  “Nope, and that’s where my involvement ends. Goodbye.”

  “Wait.”

  The line was silent, but still connected.

  “What?” Brandon said.

  “Don’t tell Jack I was looking for him, OK?”

  “Why not?”

  “He wanted me to leave with him, and I kind of declined. I don’t want him thinking I’m trying to find him. Or, you know, pining for him or something.”

  Brandon laughed. “That’s what all this was about? You got me giving up the man’s secrets because you’re regretting leaving?”

  “No, that’s not it at all, I just—”

  “Whatever, lady. Listen, none of this gets out, you got it. Remember, my friends are more powerful than your friends.”

  The line disconnected. Clarissa felt like throwing her phone at the wall. How could she be so stupid? Why couldn’t she just leave things alone?

  Because of Jack, that’s why. And now she had to figure out where she could find Thornton Walloway. And make sure Jack wasn’t walking into a trap.

  CHAPTER 8

  Bright light spilled through the cracks in the vertical venetian blinds. Thin fingers of lights danced across Jack’s face. He squeezed his eyelids tight, rolled away from the source of the light. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light to look at the room the night before. Fatigue had won out. He had dropped his bag and collapsed onto the oversized bed. Asleep before his head had hit the pillow. He caught his first glimpse of the room. It was white, bright. An antique armoire stood at the foot of the bed, a chest of drawers to the left. Tall double hung windows to the right. His eyes adjusted and he rolled toward the window, split the blinds in two and looked out over the backyard. The sun hovered inches above a cluster of trees.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached down and grabbed his shirt and khakis from the day before. He put them on, got up and stopped in front of the mirror, attempted to iron out the wrinkles with his hand. His hair was still matted on one side. He ran his hands across the top and sides of his head, but it didn’t make a difference. And it didn’t matter. He was among old friends here.

  The dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted him when he opened the door. He glanced at his watch. Eight a.m. He ignored his body telling him it was really only three. As far as he knew, there was no other way to adjust to the time difference. His feet left the comfort of a shag rug and landed on the cool hardwood floor that led to the staircase. He descended quickly, each step down resulting in a snap or a pop, either from the wood or his stiff joints. At the base of the stairs he heard the sounds of the kitchen, pots clanging, light chatter, plates and silverware being set on a table. He followed the noise that inevitably led him to his destination.

  Leon spotted him first. The guy smiled and nodded and turned his broad shoulders and faced Jack. Next to Leon stood Dottie. She looked twenty years younger than her age. She always had. If he’d told anyone that she had reached the other side of sixty, they wouldn’t believe him. And she’d kick his ass for saying so. Women like Dottie were a rare breed, but Jack was more accustomed to them than most people were.

  “Good morning, Jack,” she said, smiling, a mug dangling from an outstretched arm. “Coffee?”

  Jack took the mug full of steaming black liquid and lifted it to his face. The steam singed the inner rims of his nostrils. He sipped from the edge of the cup. The coffee warmed his mouth, throat, chest, belly.

  “Glad you’re not tea people,” he said.

  Dottie gave him a merciful grin while shaking her head. “You’ll never understand our humor, Jack.”

  “That’s OK with me.”

  Jack looked past the man and woman in front of him and stared out through the extra wide and extra tall bay window. The ground floor view of what he saw through his bedroom windows. The lush green scenery combined with the smell and taste of the coffee could lull him into a false sense of security. He wondered if every day of retirement would start with this exact feeling.

  His eyes lazily scanned the area behind the house. Neatly manicured grounds boasted a tasteful selection of flowers and shrubs. There was a children’s play set in the far corner, probably a relic left behind by the previous owner. At least it added credibility should someone come snooping around. Mature trees ringed the property, offering extra privacy and protection from curious eyes. They kept Dottie and her people out of sight. They also kept intruders hidden until the last minute.

  “It’s safe here,” she said.

  Jack shrugged.

  “I see you looking,” she said. “No need to worry. I’ve got security everywhere.”

  “Bet I could spot them.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Leon said.

  “I spotted you, didn’t I?”

  Dottie lifted an eyebrow, a curious look on her face. Jack figured that Leon hadn’t told her how the two men had met. She’d sent her best, and Jack had bested him.

  Leon smiled, shook his head. “You said you could spot them. Not that you had. Watching your eyes, you passed over at least three of my men.”

  “There,” Jack said with a nodding gesture. “And there,” another dip of the head. “And there,” a final toss of his jaw to the left.
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  “Interesting,” Leon said.

  “Anyway,” Jack said. “Do you want to shoot the breeze for a while, or do you want to tell me what I’m doing in England?”

  “That’s why I always liked working with you, Jack,” Dottie said. “No pussy footing around. Always right to the point.”

  “And you dance around it,” he said.

  “You know me well,” she said.

  “Too well,” he said, wondering how long the tango would go on before she got down to business.

  “Should I leave?” Leon said, grinning.

  “No,” Dottie and Jack said at the same time.

  The three shared a smile, sipped from their ceramic mugs, moved to the other side of the kitchen. They each took a seat at the round oak table, each one a point in a triangle. Jack’s stomach roared with hunger, but he declined to ask for food. Dottie appeared to be ready to talk, and he didn’t want to give her a reason to procrastinate any longer.

  “You had the misfortune of meeting my estranged husband in Monte Carlo,” she said.

  Jack nodded, said nothing.

  “He wasn’t always like that, Jack. Honest, he wasn’t.” She took a moment. “I thought that when I left the agency I was through with men like that. You know, all ego, all about them, no matter the expense.”

  Jack nodded again. Still said nothing.

  “I met him around the time you last did a job for me. I was attending some Lord’s party. I forget who. It was a fancy event, lots of powerful people there. Quid pro quo. My former Deputy Director at the agency invited me. He now holds my old position as Director. I always enjoyed those kinds of things when I was in charge, so naturally I accepted. And it was there that I met Thornton Walloway.”