by Gayle Wilson
“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice stiff, offended.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
The unforgivable humor had been wiped totally from his deep voice. And she realized Griff could still read her every mood, every nuance of her tone.
“Jake uses the computers to find...patterns,” he explained. “In purchases, phone calls, bank withdrawals. In a thousand different ways we leave footprints of our movements in the computer. We do it a hundred times a day without even thinking about it. Without ever being aware that if someone wants to find out about us, the computers that handle our every transaction offer a wealth of information.”
“And he...this Jake...finds that information.”
“Compiles it. Examines it. Sorts through it until he discovers a pattern. Something recognizable.”
She thought about the process Griff had described, trying to see how Jake’s expertise might be applied to her daughter’s kidnapping.
“I don’t understand how that will help,” she said finally. “How will that help find Gardner?”
“I’m not sure. But that’s always where we start any search. With Jake. With the computers.”
“You think they aren’t going to contact us,” she said, fear making her voice flat.
That was the only explanation that made sense out of Griff using someone like Jake Holt. They would only need to do that if the kidnappers didn’t issue any ransom demand.
“No,” Griff said quickly. And reassuringly. “They’ll call. They want something or they wouldn’t have taken her. You’ll hear from them. Making you wait is simply part of their strategy. Because they know the longer it goes on, the more eager you’ll be to agree to whatever they ask. They’ll be in touch. I promise you that, Claire.”
The calm surety in Griff’s voice comforted her, lessening the urge to hysteria she had hidden during this endless day. Hours during which she had pretended to be rational and controlled. And she realized she had found his promise to be far more reassuring than Minger’s professional opinion or her grandfather’s earlier buoyancy.
Because, of course, this was Griff. If he told her everything would be all right, it would be. And if he told her he would get Gardner back, then he would.
“I knew your team could find her. I was trying to get in touch with Jordan,” she said, remembering the hope that idea had given her. Almost as strong as the one Griff had just planted in her heart. “Or with Hawk. I thought that if anyone could find her, they could. Of course, I didn’t know that you...”
Her voice faded. I didn’t know that you were alive. Alive, she thought again, almost unable to deal with that on top of all that had happened.
“They’re very good at what they do,” Griff agreed.
They were his men. Accustomed to working under his orders. He had trained them. He didn’t remind her of that. And, of course, he didn’t need to.
“When Grandfather tried to locate them through the agency, he discovered all their records were destroyed. According to the CIA, those men never existed,” she said, wondering if Griff had known what the agency had been doing.
“Because they have found them to be...difficult to control,” he said.
She recognized the care he had taken in that choice of words. And underlying them, she heard amusement again. Difficult to control.
She knew from her grandfather that among some elements of the intelligence community, Griff himself had been considered difficult. But he had also been brilliant and insightful and incredibly successful, his operations so well planned and executed there were seldom problems for the agency to deal with. No collateral damage.
And so they had been willing to put up with him in exchange for what he could do. Even willing, it seemed, to put up with Griff’s arrogance.
Moral arrogance. The phrase he had once used against her echoed in her head again, but in a different context. Griff wanted to help find their daughter. She had come here because she was desperate to contact someone who could. Even more easily than Jordan or Hawk, Griff would be able to do that. And he would have more reason to, of course.
“If you’re wrong... If they don’t call...” She took a deep breath and, setting aside her anger over the lie he had lived, she asked, “Will you find her for me? Will you find Gardner?”
Will you help me find your daughter? Will you return to me your child? The child you gave me. The child who was my only comfort in the long empty darkness of your death.
“Yes,” he said.
No equivocation. A simple statement. A promise and a vow. And without questioning whether he could really do what he had just said he would, Claire found herself, as always, believing him.
WHEN GRIFF HAD ELICITED every detail, every piece of minutiae Claire knew—which were too damn few, he acknowledged—he had sent her home to wait for the contact from the kidnappers he’d promised. That would come eventually, he believed. And when it did, he wanted to be ready to move.
And if it didn’t... Then he would call on those same people who had answered every call he had made on their strength and courage and intelligence during the past ten years. There were more than a dozen men who had worked on the special operations team known as External Security. And he knew that any of them would respond to his plea for help.
Each of them had, however, very specialized skills, and he wasn’t sure yet which of those he would need. That depended on the conditions the kidnappers demanded for the exchange. That was always the trickiest part, of course. And although it wasn’t their usual mission, the team had handled a few of those kinds of negotiations in the past.
Once they had been sent to recover an operative whose cover had been blown. Once it had been to achieve the release of an MIA, by whatever means. Those situations had been too politically sensitive to be made public, but they’d been successful. So Griff had no doubt they could arrange this exchange.
Maybe Claire felt that the man she was involved with, the baby’s father, wasn’t equipped for this. Not many people were, which was why Griff had offered her his help. One of the reasons, he acknowledged.
He sat down behind his desk, propping the cane against the edge. It had been a long day and a longer night, and he could feel every minute of it aching along the damaged nerves and muscles of his leg.
He debated whether or not to try to contact Jake again, or whether to grab a few hours of sleep, whatever was left of the night. That was something they had all learned to do—sleep when they had the opportunity. When things weren’t happening.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost 2:00 a.m. They needed to formulate a plan for what they would do if, worse case scenario, the kidnappers didn’t contact Claire. For that he would need a clear head. And given the strains of this day, he knew he didn’t have one.
He had already, during his first call, asked Jake to check for anything that looked suspicious in Claire Heywood’s world. That reminded him that he needed to tell Jake about the malfunctioning security alarms. Griff had chosen the company that had installed Claire’s system, and they were the best in the business. Whoever had rigged it to short-circuit last night had to be pretty sophisticated. That expertise might give them a starting point.
He glanced down at the keyboard of the computer, thinking about sending Jake an e-mail at home. It wouldn’t be encrypted, but that shouldn’t matter in this situation. After all, this wasn’t agency business.
It took a second for his brain to register what he was seeing. A single piece of paper, folded once, lay on top of the keys. His name had been typed in all caps across it—GRIFFON CABOT—and he knew it hadn’t been there earlier tonight when he had called Jake. Or when he had made the arrangements for the chopper. He would have seen it. Which meant...
Which meant that someone had put it there while he’d been gone. He had given his housekeeper the holiday weekend off, so it couldn’t have been her. Maybe Carl had come back for some reason and, finding him gone, had left a message. After all, Steiner was one
of the very few people who knew the man who lived in this house by that name.
Griff found a silver letter opener in the desk drawer and carefully inserted its point between the edges of the opening formed by the two sides of the folded sheet. He lifted the top half and read what was written there.
It was a message that changed everything he thought he knew about the kidnapping. Everything about his relationship with Claire Heywood. And if what was written on this piece of paper were true, then everything about his own life, as well.
Chapter Five
Poor dear, Rose Connor thought, listening to the sounds the baby she held was making. Poor little darling.
She pushed the rocking chair back and forth, her broad, bare toes barely making contact with the wooden floor. The soft creak of the chair was relaxing, and her eyelids drifted downward. When she realized what was happening, she jerked them up again, fighting the urge to sleep.
Only a little longer, she told herself, patting the small bottom held securely in the crook of her arm. The baby had gradually relaxed, the screams that had awakened Rose turning into soft sobs and then finally into small, hiccuping breaths. Now even those were fading, as the little girl’s dark head rooted in the soft flesh of Rose’s shoulder.
Almost asleep, Rose thought, her toes pushing rhythmically against the floor. Almost...creak...asleep...creak... The same steady rhythm of the human heart. Never forgotten.
And as soothing to her as to the dear ones she cared for. She smoothed thick, spatulate fingers over the tiny back, cherishing its regular lift and fall. Savoring this incredible moment of triumph. Of success.
She had always loved this feeling. She had begun caring for her brothers and sisters when she was just a wee bit of a thing herself. Her mother had so much to do to tend to them all during the day, and too little sleep at night.
So when the baby cried, Rose would slip out of bed, and moving through the darkness of the cottage on bare feet, she would hurry to the crib to comfort the newest addition to the family. Holding the infant against her narrow chest, she would croon the same wordless lullabies her mother had sung to her.
Just the two of them in the quiet world of night. She and a babe who needed her. Who responded to her touch. Who loved her. As near to heaven as Rose Connor expected to get here on earth.
Soon, she knew, she’d be able to put this one back into her crib. Then maybe the blessed sweetheart would be able to sleep out the rest of the night. And if she couldn’t, poor little mite, then old Rose would come again and hold her.
Chase away the shadows. Soothe the nightmares and frighten away the bogeyman. Stand in for that sad little mother who must be missing the quiet joy and satisfaction of this closeness.
Poor little thing, Rose thought again, her toes pushing and then relaxing against the floor. And this time, it wasn’t the baby that her warm heart pitied.
CLAIRE THOUGHT she had probably slept less than three hours. And those had been spent in a half-waking consciousness that something was very wrong. Listening with dread—for the phone, for a knock on the door or for any of the sounds she should have heard last night and had not.
When the doorbell did ring, a little before six, she was in the kitchen making coffee. It was something to do besides worry. And if the technicians and investigators who had passed in and out of the house yesterday came back today, she thought she should at least be able to offer them a cup of hot coffee.
She realized that whoever was at the door was in all probability simply the first in the long line of people who would ask her questions or take pictures or dust one more object in the nursery for nonexistent fingerprints. However, the adrenaline had kicked in so strongly with the sound of the bell that her hand was shaking as she hurried to turn off the alarms and open the front door, leaving its security chain in place.
Griff Cabot was standing on her doorstep. An obviously furious Griff Cabot. “I saw your light,” he said, the words bitten off. “We need to talk.”
“Something’s happened to her,” Claire said, her sudden fear as paralyzing as when she had first discovered Gardner was missing. “Oh, my God, Griff, something’s happened to Gardner.”
Eyes wide, she watched his face change, the anger fading, or at least controlled, with his recognition of her terror.
“No,” he said quickly. “No, Claire, I promise you that isn’t what this is about.”
That isn’t what this is about. The words made no sense, since there was nothing else between them now. But she could see the truth of what he said in his eyes. And the same compassion that she always remembered from the dream. The compassion that had been there the night he had opened his door and found her outside.
“Do you swear that’s the truth, Griff?” she demanded, but she already knew it was, and her racing pulse began to slow.
“As far as I know, Gardner is safe. I swear to you.”
As far as I know. That’s really all she could ask him for. So she nodded, and then slid the knob of the chain out of the slot and opened the door.
“I made coffee,” she said. “We can talk in the kitchen.”
He hesitated, lips compressed, before he stepped inside. She noticed for the first time that he held a cane in his right hand. And then, as he limped past her, she realized why.
She let him lead the way. He knew the house, of course, but that wasn’t the reason. He seemed totally in charge, in command. That was Griff’s personality, but today that quality was even more pronounced. And, of course, that was exactly what she had asked him to do, she acknowledged. To take charge of whatever was going on. To get Gardner back.
When they reached the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the room. It was a comfortable aroma, familiar, making things seem almost normal. Even between the two of them.
“Sit down,” she suggested. “I’ll bring your coffee to the table.”
She knew at once her unthinking offer had been a mistake. She would probably have said the same thing to any other guest, but she had never waited on Griff. She had never treated him as a guest in her home because he had been so much more.
And she knew by his face how he had interpreted what she’d said. Even she couldn’t be certain that she hadn’t made that offer, at least in part, because of the limp and the cane.
She would have felt free to ask about those had they still been the same two people they had been before. Had their relationship been the same. But it wasn’t. So, despite what was in his eyes, she said nothing.
The awkward silence lasted only a few seconds before Griff obeyed, shrugging out of his overcoat and throwing it over one of the kitchen chairs before he eased down into another, leaning the cane carefully against the edge of the table. She watched his movements, and when she realized she was, she turned to the cabinet above the sink and took down two mugs, filling them with the fragrant Jamaican blend Griff had introduced her to. Something she still unthinkingly bought because he had liked it.
She put one of the steaming cups in front of him and then sat down across the table, preparing to hear whatever had brought him out here so early this morning. Whatever had made him angry. She held her mug with cold fingers, savoring the warmth as she watched him lift his to take the first sip.
His eyes met hers over the rim of his cup, and the almost physical connection that had always been between them flared within her, igniting memory. And the slow-burning fuse of desire. Nothing had changed, she realized, in how she felt about Griff Cabot. The same way she had always felt. Since the very first time she had seen him, standing with her grandfather at some crowded Washington party.
She had thought he was the most attractive man in the room. Remarkably, nothing had changed about that initial assessment, even after she’d arranged to be introduced. It had never changed. To her, Griff Cabot would still be the most attractive man in any room.
Watching him complete the interrupted motion of his cup, which hid whatever had been in his eyes, she was forced to acknowledge, ho
wever, that he was different from the man he had been then. Some changes, like the limp, were terribly obvious. Others were more subtle. And she guessed there were some no one would ever be allowed to see.
The physical ones were the easiest to trace, of course. The coal-black hair threaded with gray. The deepened lines around the corners of the sensitive mouth she had known so well. Etched by pain? Or by the frustrations she knew he would feel over the limitations a damaged leg would impose on the man he was?
Remembering the limping journey down the hall, she realized for the first time that he had really been seriously injured in the attack at CIA headquarters. Last night, she had assumed the agency had used that act of terrorism as an excuse to further their own ends in some way. Now she recognized that the terrorist’s bullets might actually have been the cause of the story they’d put out—that Griff was dead. And she remembered what he had said about being in no condition to stop them.
Of course, none of that explained why he hadn’t contacted her later. When he was once more in control of his own destiny. Their destiny, she amended bitterly.
He was watching her, she realized, when she looked up from her coffee. The dark eyes were unreadable now. Lips unsmiling.
“I know what they want,” he said.
It took a moment for the import of that to sink in.
“You know what the kidnappers want?”
“I received a ransom note last night,” he said, his voice as hard as it had been when she’d opened the door.
That even made some kind of sense, she supposed. Their contacting Griff. After all, he was much better off financially than she was.
“How much?” she asked.
“You’re not surprised the ransom demand was sent to me?” he asked instead. His eyes were cold. And so dark they were almost black.