Ready for Anything, Anywhere!

by Beverly Barton

“And if I got caught,” she said bitterly, “I proved Kent’s point. Our information systems are so vulnerable that any disgruntled employee can walk away from the job with a disk full of unauthorized data.”

  Cutter stiffened. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me. Our systems are so vulner … ”

  “No! Before that.”

  “Do you mean the bit about proving the pompous ass’s point? Trust me, Kent could turn even a theft by one of his own employees into a political advantage. Not only do I show myself for the predatory female that he painted me, I help get him reelected by making more headlines for him.”

  “Kent’s up for reelection this year?”

  “Don’t you read the papers?”

  “I told you, I’ve been out of the country.” Dismissing her sarcasm with an impatient shake of his head, he strode across the room. “What’s the story with Kent? Does he have locks on his seat?”

  Startled by his bulldog, in-her-face aggressiveness, Mallory shed some of her own prickly attitude.

  “Not this time. He’s facing a tough challenge from his state’s former lieutenant governor. Or was,” she amended, “until the sexual harassment charges I filed edged his competitor out of the headlines and into obscurity. You wouldn’t believe how many points Kent gained in the polls after the charges were dismissed. My boss played the noble legislator, wrongly accused, to the hilt.”

  “Jesus!”

  Cutter paced the length of the library and back again, his mind churning with new and intensely disturbing possibilities.

  What if they’d followed the wrong scent? What if the Russian wasn’t involved? Or involved only on the periphery? What if this was all an elaborate setup, with Mallory fingered to take the fall while racking up more points in the polls for her former boss?

  Whirling, he strode back to the woman watching him with wary distrust.

  “Sit down,” he snapped. “We’re going to take this from the top. I want to know who knew you were leaving for France, who had access to your computer, and everyone who stands to gain if and when Congressman Ashton Kent is reelected.”

  Not until hours later, after they’d expanded the list to include everyone who stood to lose if Kent failed to win reelection, did they begin to zero in on a name.

  By then Gilbért had returned from town and Madame Picard had substituted the tray of untouched pastries with a heaping platter of ham-and-goat-cheese sandwiches. Cutter downed two, but Mallory only picked at the accompanying salad garnished with walnuts and crisp apple slices. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the intense grilling. Was she still a suspect or what?

  “This guy, Dillon Porter,” Cutter fired at her between man-sized bites. “You say he tried to talk you out of bringing charges against Kent?”

  “Dillon is Kent’s senior staffer. He’s been around the Hill a long time. He knew how tough it would be for me to make the charges stick. He also warned me to expect a vicious media backlash. He hit the bull’s-eye on both.”

  “Is he on Kent’s payroll, or a permanent employee of the House Banking and Trade Committee?”

  “He works directly for Kent, but …”

  “And he’s the person you called yesterday to help expedite your passport?”

  “Yes, but … ”

  “What did you tell him? Exactly.”

  “I didn’t speak with him personally, just left a message on his voice mail. I told him I’d lost my passport and had run into a bureaucratic wall trying to get a replacement. I asked him if he could look into it from his end and pull some strings.”

  “You didn’t mention losing anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing about the traveler’s checks or rental car or suitcase?”

  “No. But I did give him the number here, so he could contact me if necessary.”

  “Someone with Porter’s connections wouldn’t have any trouble tracing the number to Madame d’Marchand’s country estate.”

  Cutter downed the last of his sandwich, his jaw working on the crusty bread while afternoon sun poured in through the library windows. Light sparkled on the old, uneven glass and picked out reddish highlights in his dark hair that Mallory had never noticed before.

  She wouldn’t have noticed them now if not for the fact that he’d planted himself in the upholstered armchair set at right angles to hers, with only a round, leather-topped drum table between them. Dusting his hands on a napkin embroidered with the château’s crest, he leaned forward and pinned her with a hard look.

  “Did this Porter character know you were leaving for France?”

  “Everyone at the office knew. I’d been saving and planning for it for ages. I—I almost cancelled. The arbitrator took so long to make his determination. But after the decision, I had to get away.”

  “Did you take your suitcase to the office at any time before you left for Dulles Airport?”

  She shook her head.

  “You didn’t use it when you cleaned out your desk? Or swing by to say goodbye to friends on your way to the airport?”

  “I didn’t have many friends left after the hearing.” She covered the still-sharp sting of abandonment with a shrug. “Most of the other staffers didn’t want their names associated with mine.”

  In fact, they’d bailed like rats fleeing a burning tenement building. All except Dillon. He’d never once compromised his loyalty to Congressman Kent, yet had offered Mallory brutally honest advice when asked and a shoulder to cry on when she’d chosen not to follow it.

  He’d also, she recalled with a sudden catch to her breath, delivered the written copy of the arbitrator’s decision.

  “What?” Cutter asked, his gaze sharp on her face.

  “I just remembered. Dillon stopped by my apartment the day before I left. Just for a few moments, to drop off some paperwork.”

  “Where was your suitcase?”

  “I don’t know.” She scrubbed the heel of her hand across her forehead, struggling to recall those last, chaotic hours before she’d made her escape. “In the hall closet, I think. Or I may have carried it to the bedroom to start packing.”

  Cutter didn’t need to hear more. Shoving out of his chair, he unclipped his cell phone and stalked to the window. Feet braced, eyes narrowed on the topiaries trimmed into fanciful shapes in the formal garden outside, he waited for Mike Callahan to acknowledge his signal.

  He’d already apprised Hawkeye of the incident in the woods. His controller was working the Remy Duchette connection hard, searching for ties to the Russian. Cutter’s terse call propelled him in a new and potentially explosive direction.

  “Congressman Kent’s senior aide?”

  Looking as happy as a lion with a thorn embedded in its paw, Lightning shoved a hand through his sun-streaked mane and paced the length of his office.

  “Is Slash sure about this?”

  “He sounded sure to me,” Mike confirmed grimly.

  He’d spent most of the afternoon digging into Dillon Porter’s past, present and anticipated future. In a town where who you knew carried considerably more weight than what you knew, Porter had racked up an impressive set of credentials. Seventeen years on Capitol Hill, first as a page, then an intern, then a professional staffer, had solidified his power base and made him indispensable to Congressman Kent. The fact that he’d stuck with Kent despite the legislator’s rumored extracurricular activities suggested Porter was every bit as ambitious as his boss. Longevity carried its own cachet on the Hill.

  “As far as I can tell,” Mike informed his boss, “Porter’s clean. I’ve screened his financials, his contacts with registered lobbyists, every overseas junket he took with his boss. I couldn’t find anything that even suggested a link to the Russian.”

  “So Slash thinks the data theft may be a setup, with the ultimate goal of making Kent look good for pushing for tighter controls over personal financial data?”

  “He thinks it’s a possibility. Kent was facing a tough challenge for reele
ction until the publicity resulting from the Dawes allegations painted him as a combination of unjustly accused and sly old dog.”

  “Knowing Kent, he parlayed both roles into a solid block of votes.”

  “Yeah, he did. The latest polls indicate the good ol’boys back home are solidly in his camp, but some women voters are still on the fence.”

  “They’d topple off quick enough if Mallory Dawes was branded a thief as well as an oversexed temptress.”

  “That’s the working hypothesis.”

  Lightning shoved back his suit coat and splayed his hands on his hips. He knew as well as Mike they were walking a political minefield here. The President himself had stumped for his good pal and longtime political crony. Kent’s reelection was essential to the party’s midterm legislative agenda.

  “What’s your game plan, Hawk?”

  “I’m going to get up close and personal with Porter. He doesn’t know me from squat but, seasoned staffer that he is, he’ll certainly know that the Military Marksmanship Association has more than ten thousand members.”

  Not to mention strong ties to the NRA. Mike had his opinions about gun control, which didn’t necessarily coincide with those held by many of his fellow sharpshooters. He suspected Dillon Porter would see only dollar signs, however, when he linked Mike with the powerful lobbying organization.

  “When are you going to establish contact?”

  “Tonight. I obtained a copy of Porter’s schedule. He’s on the Hill until six, then he and his boss head over to a reception in honor of the new Secretary General of the World Bank.”

  “The World Bank?” A smile spread across Lightning’s tanned face. “Well, well.”

  Mike matched Nick’s grin. They couldn’t have orchestrated the initial contact any better if they’d planned it. Adam Ridgeway, OMEGA’s former director, now headed the International Monetary Fund, the operating arm of the World Bank.

  Keying his intercom, Lightning summoned his executive assistant into the office.

  “Do you know what your folks have on the agenda tonight, Jilly?”

  “They’re attending a function for the IMF. Wayland and I were supposed to go with them but he had to fly up to New York on a case. Why? What’s the deal?”

  “Hawk wants to connect with someone attending the soiree.”

  Her glance slid to Mike. He’d steeled himself for the impact of those sapphire eyes … or thought he had. Damned if it didn’t hit him with the force of a 40mm rubber-tipped, riot-control bullet.

  “That works out perfectly. You can be my escort.”

  The protest came fast and straight from his gut. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Sure it is. I’ll be your cover, Hawk. Pick me up at seven.”

  Chapter 12

  Mike had landed in a number of desperate situations since joining OMEGA. He couldn’t ever remember feeling as hinky as he did when he pulled into the circular drive leading to the home of Gillian Ridgeway’s parents, however.

  Set on a wooded lot in McLean’s priciest neighborhood, the two-story brick residence wore a graceful patina of age. Ivy climbed up the mellow brick. Boxwoods framed the walk to the door. Leafy maples and oaks shaded the house, molting bright layers of orange and red onto the carpet of lawn.

  Mike drove up the circular drive and parked his newly washed Blazer under the pillared portico. The scent of wood smoke filled his lungs as he mounted the front steps. One thought filled his head.

  This was an assignment. Just an assignment. Gillian Ridgeway’s sole purpose was to provide an entrée into her father’s set. With that admonition firmly in mind, Mike rolled his shoulders to settle his tux and leaned on the doorbell.

  Instant chaos erupted inside. When the door jerked open a moment later, the noise shot up another ten or twenty decibels. Maggie and Adam’s teenaged son added to it by bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  “Would you please shut up!”

  The sheepdog lunging frantically in the kid’s hold ignored the booming command. Tongue lolling, jowls flapping, it howled an ecstatic welcome and went up on its back legs to paw the air. Mike was treated to a hairy chest, a freckled pink belly, and a sack of balls that would have made a stallion strut. The dog was hung like a Clydesdale.

  “Shut up, I said!”

  Grunting with the effort, Adam Ridgeway II—Tank to everyone who knew him—hauled on the hound’s collar to drag him away from the door. Dark-haired and brown-eyed like his mother, the kid gave every indication he’d soon match or exceed his father’s height. Both parents lived in mortal fear of the not-very-distant day Tank would qualify for his learner’s permit and hit the streets.

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” he shouted over the still-ecstatic barking. “He’s just a pup. Hasn’t learned to mind real well yet.”

  No kidding.

  “C’mon in.” Planting his sneakered feet, Tank struggled to control the leaping, cavorting animal. “Been meaning to ask you. When are we going to the range?”

  Thankfully, Maggie’s intervention saved Mike from having to answer. Grimacing at the unceasing din, she shouted over the rail of the circular stairs.

  “Tank, please! Take him outside.”

  Muscles straining under his maroon-and-gold Washington Redskins sweatshirt, the teen hauled the hound down the hall.

  The sheepdog thought the rough handling was great fun. His claws scrabbled on the marble tiles. His tail scissored back and forth. He made repeated lunges, woofing joyously and almost knocking Tank on his butt several times before both disappeared through a side door.

  “Sorry, Mike.” Smiling ruefully, Maggie Sinclair, code name Chameleon, descended the rest of the stairs. “Radizwell Senior passed all of his energy and none of his manners to his numerous offspring.”

  The original Radizwell had exhibited even less restraint than his progeny, but Mike knew better than to badmouth Maggie’s beloved pet. The Hungarian sheepdog, along with a completely obnoxious lizard she’d picked up during a mission to Central America, had ruled the Ridgeway household for as long as anyone could remember.

  Radizwell I had succumbed to old age after spawning several successive generations. Terence the Lizard was still around. Somewhere. Mike snuck a quick look at the chandelier gracing the entryway to make sure the evil-tempered creature wouldn’t drop down on his head before taking the hands Maggie held out to him.

  “I believe this is the first time I’ve seen you in a tux, Hawkeye. You look very distinguished.”

  “You look pretty darn good yourself, Chameleon.”

  She looked better than good. Her slinky black cocktail dress hugged a figure that could still turn heads on any street in any city. Laugh lines fanned the skin at the corners of her sparkling brown eyes, but those tiny wrinkles were the only indication she could have a daughter Gillian’s age, another in college, and a son as tall and skinny as a scarecrow.

  “Jilly’s almost ready. While we wait, you can brief Adam and me on what’s going down.”

  Tucking her arm in his, she steered Mike into the den. Her husband was already there. As cool and contained as Maggie was warm and spontaneous, Adam Ridgeway looked up from the pitcher of martinis he was stirring. The gleam that lit his eyes when they skimmed over his wife was nine parts admiration, one part smug male possession.

  “New dress?”

  “Yes, it is. Do you like it?”

  “Very much. Hello, Hawk. Martini?”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  Nodding, Ridgeway passed his wife a long-stemmed glass. His gaze turned several degrees cooler when he took his own glass in hand.

  “Have a seat,” he invited in a tone that had Mike unconsciously squaring his shoulders, “and tell me just what kind of op you’ve involved my daughter in.”

  Mike thought the grilling by the father was bad. Making the rounds at the crowded reception with the daughter’s body tucked against him was worse.

  Much worse.

  Gillian had dressed for the occasion in a str
apless, flame silk sheath that revealed more than it concealed. Decorated with tiny beads that sparkled when they caught the light, the dress and its wearer drew every eye in the place, including Mike’s.

  She’d added killer three-inch stilettos in the same heart-stopping red that brought her shoulder almost level with his. She’d also swept her thick black hair up in a cluster of curls that left her neck bare except for the tiny baby hairs on her nape. Those soft, feathery curls snagged his eye every time she turned to greet another friend or acquaintance. Since she seemed to know everyone in the place, every curl had burned into Mike’s brain by the time he spotted Congressman Kent.

  His face animated beneath his carefully styled silver mane, the legislator was evidently relating some inside joke to a circle of cronies. When he finished, the men around him burst into raucous laughter. The lone woman in the group rolled her eyes.

  Mike’s nerves began to hum with something other than acute awareness of the woman on his arm. Wherever Kent was, his aide wouldn’t be far away.

  A moment later, Gillian leaned closer. “There’s Porter,” she murmured. “Second in line at the bar. Gray suit, yellow striped tie, rimless glasses.”

  The staffer looked a good five years older than the photo in the file Mike had pulled up. Then again, bag-carrying someone like Kent would probably add years to anyone. He was still on the job, Mike saw, working the line at the bar, engaging both the man ahead and the one behind with the skill essential to a politician’s aide.

  Mike bided his time until Porter had procured two drinks and delivered one to his boss. Kent took it with a careless nod and turned back to his cronies. His aide lingered at the edge of the group for a few moments before drifting toward a newscaster for one of the local affiliates.

  “Okay, Jilly. Let’s move in.”

  Cutter received Mike’s update early the next morning, European time.

  He was just out of the shower after a grueling dawn run. He’d needed the run to clear the cobwebs from his head. If he’d slept more than a few hours last night, he’d be surprised. His mind had gnawed restlessly at the problem of the stolen data. The rest of him had remained tense and edgy, all too aware of the fact that Mallory slept just on the other side of the connecting door.