“She kicked me out,” he said. “It’s less than I deserve. I was never the best husband. I was never there for her the way I should have been. It’s this job. It takes no prisoners when it comes to relationships.” Burke tossed the empty drink at a garbage can but missed.
“Tell me about it,” Sam muttered to herself.
Burke said, “Maddie knew the stakes going in. We did alright at first. We made it work. But somewhere along the line I think we both stopped trying. Lately it’s been worse than usual and Dana, well, she was there. You know?”
“I know,” said Sam, thinking of Hunt. He had been there when Jake was not. She put her back to the wall and stuffed her hands in the pockets of her blazer. “What are you going to do?”
“Too early to say.” Burke admitted. “Slip out of that bra.”
“Turn around,” Sam said.
Burke directed his attention through the square opening to the movie screen where Bogie and Bacall were exchanging witty repartees. While his back was turned, Sam shrugged out of her blazer, unbuttoned her shirt and took off her bra. She put the shirt and blazer back on and held the bra out for Burke. “At least we can prove Rhodes planted false evidence against Standish.”
“Which we facilitated,” Burke pointed out. “That would put us in jail right along with her. It’s not enough.”
“It’s the best we have until I get reinstated,” Sam said.
Burke grimaced, showing the gap between his front teeth. “The election is right around the corner.”
“What’s going on in Mexico?” Sam asked.
Burke glanced up at her with the unspoken question written on his face.
“I got a call from Greg Hunt earlier today,” she said by way of explanation.
“Mexico is where my worst fears were realized,” Burke told her.
Sam turned a plastic milk crate over and sat. “Want to read me in?”
“This could end my career,” Burke said. “The less you know the better.”
Sam raked a hand through her hair. “My first official job for the Company is a black on black intelligence gathering operation against a United States politician, on American soil. That’s illegal, in case you forgot. My career could be over before it begins. If this is going to go any further, you need to read me in.”
He sized her up. Being half in the tank probably helped. He said, “It started a decade ago. I was still overseeing Special Operations in the War on Terror back then. American was fighting the Taliban and no one was afraid to put the word Islamic in front of terrorist.
“One morning I woke up convinced we had a leak. The idea formed so gradually I was hardly aware of it until it was full and staring me in the face. I couldn’t point to anything specific, you know? It was gut instinct, really. The occasional operation went sideways, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. Still, I was certain there was a mole inside the Company.
“At first I tried to ignore it,” Burke said. “Paranoia is a job requirement in this business. But there’s a fine line between healthy suspicion and paranoid schizophrenia.”
“I remember the lecture.” Sam said. “You gave it my second week at the Farm.”
“Yeah, well, I left some parts out,” Burke told her. “Constant suspicion puts a lot of stress on a person. Over the years, I’ve watched brilliant agents lose the battle with paranoia. The lucky ones get to retire. The unlucky ones end up in a mental institution run by the Pickle Farm.”
“I’d heard rumors we had our own nut house,” Sam said.
“It’s true,” Burke said. “I didn’t want anyone thinking I had scrambled my noodle, so I kept my suspicions to myself. I buried the idea for as long as I could, but it kept floating back up to the surface anytime an operation went off the wire, or an agent ended up dead.”
“What’d you do?” Sam asked.
“A few years ago, I started keeping detailed notes on all of the failed operations. I tracked every officer, every asset, every analyst. I eventually compiled a list of probable suspects. Then I fed out a series of barium meals.”
“Barium meals?” Sam asked. “I’ve never heard the term.”
“You wouldn’t,” Burke said. “Your generation is all about high tech espionage. But back in the Cold War, a barium meal was one of our best tools for weeding out Reds who had infiltrated as double agents.”
“How does it work?” Sam asked.
“It’s simple really.” Burke slipped into the tone he used when he taught counterintelligence classes at the Farm. “Let’s say you have eight possible traitors. You set up eight different operations and then you feed key bits of intelligence back to your suspect pool. Then you wait to see which op goes bad.”
“What about the officer running the operation?” Sam asked.
Burke’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“You gambled with people’s lives,” Sam said.
“We do that every day.”
Sam leaned back against the wall, crossed her arms over her chest and let the pieces come together in her mind. “One of your barium meals was in Mexico?”
Burke inclined his head. “God help me. It was the last one I suspected would go bad. I included it just to cover all my bases.”
“Who is it?” Sam asked. “Who’s the leak?”
“Helen Rhodes.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
SAM SAID, “That’s a hell of an accusation, Burke.”
“That’s why I need irrefutable proof,” he told her.
Someone was passing by the projection booth. Burke held up a hand for silence. They waited until the footsteps retreated down the hall.
“If you are wrong about this, we’re both finished,” Sam said.
“I wish I were,” Burke told her. “Torres, the field officer in Mexico, found evidence she’s been taking campaign funds from the Los Zetas cartel.”
Sam whistled.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Burke said. “I did some digging into her financials. Over the last two decades, she’s received over a hundred million dollars in payouts from Saudi Arabia, Libya, Colombia, and a half dozen other countries on America’s naughty list. It turns out the Secretary of State has been getting large infusions of cash from the Muslim Brotherhood and various Middle East groups with ties to radical Islam.”
“All groups that want to see America destroyed,” Sam said.
Burke nodded.
She stood up and paced. “If she gets elected, her campaign donors will be holding her leash.”
“Too bad I can’t prove it.”
“What about the information Torres uncovered?” Sam asked.
“Missing,” Burke said.
“How did Rhodes even find out about a CIA operation against the cartels?” Sam asked.
A spiteful grin formed on Burke’s face. “She and Foster are thick as thieves. They went to Columbia Law together. She’s the reason he’s sitting in the Deputy Director’s chair. It certainly has nothing to do with talent.”
The ramifications left a sick feeling in Sam’s stomach. “Once she’s elected, she’ll appoint Foster as Director. She’ll have open access to every operation the Company lays in the works.”
Burke nodded. “And she’s beholden to the various terrorist and criminal organizations funneling cash into her war chest. Any operations that threaten her donors will go sideways. A lot of innocent people will die.”
Sam said, “We need to take this information to the Wizard.”
Burke spread his hands. “And tell him what? I know she’s bent, but I can’t prove it. And I don’t know if Foster is on the take or just plain stupid.”
“I can’t decide which would be worse,” Sam said. “Who else knows about this?”
“Just you, me and Dana.”
Sam threw her hands in the air. “Is there anything you haven’t shared with your secretary?”
Burke pulled a face.
“Sorry,” Sam muttered. “That was a low blow.”
He waved it aw
ay. “What did you learn from your conversation with Hunt?
“Noble’s in Mexico and he’s in trouble,” Sam said. “Greg’s there now with a team trying to hunt Jake down. I caught some crosstalk before we hung up, it sounds like they’ve got a lead on his location.”
Burke pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Damn, that kid is resilient.”
“Which one?” Sam asked.
He smiled. “Both.”
“I’m worried,” Sam said.
“Me too,” Burke admitted. “Noble embarrassed Hunt once already. He’ll be looking for payback and that kid has a chip on his shoulder the size of Gibraltar.”
Sam felt a quick stab of panic and wasn’t sure who she was worried about, Greg or Jake. Or both. She said, “Greg wouldn’t kill Jake.”
Burke gave her a sidelong look that said he wasn’t so sure.
“What should we do?” Sam asked.
“Go home.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“Right now, the most important thing you can do is stay in character,” Burke told her. “Rhodes might have people watching you. Remember, you’re a recent graduate of the Secret Service and you’re already on administrative leave. Act accordingly.”
“What about Jake?”
“He’s a big boy,” Burke said. “He can handle himself.”
***
Sam followed orders and went home, tired and emotionally wrung out. Perspiration had soaked through her button-down blouse. She poured a tall glass of chianti—in keeping with her cover story—and then drew a hot bath. She kicked off her heels and stripped out of her slacks. She hung her clothes from a hook on the bathroom door. Her gun went on the toilet lid within easy reach and her panties went on the floor. She eased into the steamy embrace of the tub with a long sigh.
What a day.
She sipped wine and picked up a hardback copy of Cold Fury, the latest thriller from William Miller. She read a few pages, shook her head and snorted. Spy novelists never get the details right. But this one wasn’t too bad. Sam tried to get lost in the book, but her conversation with Hunt kept intruding on the narrative.
She felt guilty for giving Noble the brush off. They had a good thing going. Then she had been forced to choose between Jake and the Company. Meeting Hunt her second week at the Farm had only made the decision that much harder. In the end she decided to cut him off, go cold turkey. A clean break.
She put the book aside and waded into the confusing tangle of emotions. On the one hand, there was Hunt: handsome, well-spoken with an easy smile and a promising career. But Hunt had a reputation. Then there was Noble: silent, taciturn and a little rough around the edges. He was a former spy with no direction and no future. And despite all of the strikes against him, Sam couldn’t manage to banish Jake from her thoughts.
Now both men were on a collision course in Mexico.
The idea started a quiet panic in her gut. For all she knew, they could be trading bullets already. But there was still a chance to warn Noble and maybe defuse the situation. She scrubbed her face with both hands. How hard could it be? All she needed was a 24-hour superstore and a prepaid burner phone. She chewed her bottom lip. Before she had time to think it through, Sam was out of the tub and toweling off.
Chapter Forty
AFTER SUPPER, Alejandra felt up for a walk so they strolled around the garden. Dead rose bushes lined the path. Weeds ran riot. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leeching most of the light from the sky, but sweat still soaked though their clothes. Alejandra had on a moth-eaten floral print dress that she had found in one of the upstairs closets. Wearing her dead mother’s clothing must have been heart-wrenching, but she never let it show and Noble didn’t ask. She plucked a slender vine and tortured it between her fingers as they walked. “Tell me about Diaz.”
“Torres,” Noble corrected her. “He was a good man.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He saved my life,” Noble said, “On several occasions.” A sad smile crept over his face. “During the opening days of America’s War on Terror, we were training guerilla fighters in the mountains of Afghanistan. The locals had a knack for horseback riding, so joint special operation command gave us the task of teaching them to fight in the saddle.
“But Torres grew up in L.A. The only horses he had ever seen were on television.” Noble chuckled. “The Afghans gave him this giant dappled grey. The beast was seventeen hands high. Torres barely came up to the saddle.”
Alejandra cracked a smile. “What happened?”
“He grabs hold of the pommel, vaults himself into the saddle and the horse bucks. Torres lands flat on his back in the dirt. We all thought he broke his neck.”
“Was he hurt?”
Noble shook his head. “No. He jumped up and cold-cocked that horse right in the head.”
“He punched it?”
Noble nodded. “From that day on, Torres and that horse had an understanding. For a kid from L.A., he turned out to be one of the best riders on the team.”
Alejandra laughed and threaded her arm through his. They walked arm in arm. A strange sense of displacement came over Noble, like he was filling in for his dead friend. He wondered if Alejandra felt the same. It was sad and sweet all at the same time.
“The Taliban had been hammering a firebase in the Korengal Valley,” he said to fill the silence. “U.S. troops were taking heavy causalities. We were patrolling the area, trying to make contact, riding our horses through a shallow wash when a mortar round came whistling down. I was riding point. The explosion killed my horse and I was trapped beneath him. While everyone else rushed forward to engage the enemy, Torres stayed behind to protect me. The jihadists lobbed one mortar round after another. Explosions were going off all around us. I told Torres to find some cover, but he refused. He shielded me with his own body until our guys could engage the mortar team.”
“That sounds like Diaz,” Alejandra said. “Did he… have anyone…”
“No.” Noble shook his head. “No wife. No kids. Our unit was the closest thing he had to a family.”
They did two more laps around the neglected garden, sweating through their clothes and ignoring the stink of rotting vegetation, before Alejandra turned her steps toward the veranda doors.
***
Noble had taken up residence in a room with a window that looked out across the courtyard to the front gate. Generic furnishings suggested a guest bedroom, which suited Noble just fine. He didn’t like the idea of sleeping in a dead man’s bed. The smell was another matter. It smelled like an attic, even with all the windows open. Outside, cicada buzzed in the night.
It was after midnight when his ears caught the sound of bare feet outside his bedroom door. His eyes snapped open. His heart jogged in his chest. He slipped a hand under the pillow and brought out one of the Glocks he had taken from the Mexican police officers.
There was a soft knock. The door swung open on worn hinges. Alejandra stood in the frame. The lines of her naked body were silhouetted against the darkness of the hall. Traces of soft moonlight caressed her curves.
Noble sat up. “Something wrong?”
She hovered in the doorframe, caught by indecision.
He placed the Glock on the bedside table. “You should be in bed. You need your…”
She crossed the room and silenced him with a kiss. It was warm, soft and eager. Noble’s hormones rallied and his body responded to her touch. Their lips melded together. Her naked flesh pressed against him. Her breath came out in trembling bursts. Noble wanted to enjoy this, but thoughts of Torres kept crowding his mind. He gripped her shoulders and gently pushed.
Their lips parted.
Noble said, “I’m not him.”
It was several seconds before she spoke. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” Noble said.
She slipped off the bed and went quietly to the door.
Noble relaxed into the pillows an
d let out a long breath. He wasn’t in the habit of turning down sex and it had been a long time. Too long. His God-fearing mother would be proud, but his libido was screaming in revolt at this unprecedented turn of events.
He consulted the luminous dial on his TAG Heuer. It was 12:47am. Noble closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would start making plans. He had been on hold while Alejandra healed, but if she was well enough for sex, she was well enough to plot an assassination. He still wanted to know what the key unlocked and why Torres had sent it to him, but that could wait until Machado was dead.
He was drifting on the edge of sleep when he realized the cicadas had stopped buzzing. Alarm bells jangled inside his skull. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, listening intently.
His phone vibrated on the bedside table and Noble’s heart tried to climb out though his throat. He checked and found a text message from an unknown number.
You’ve got company.
Chapter Forty-One
HUNT PARKED a rented pickup a half kilometer from the abandoned villa. He climbed out, left the door open and checked the magazine on a nickel plated .45 caliber Kimber Custom. It was a beautiful weapon with a five-inch barrel, tritium night sights and mother-of-pearl grips. He had bought it after graduating the Farm as a gift to himself. It was his signature accessory. Some guys had a wristwatch they favored, others had cufflinks or a tie tack. Hunt had his Kimber Custom, like Dirty Harry’s famous .44 Magnum. He even had his initials engraved in the slide.
He took a moment to disable the overhead dome in the pickup so the light wouldn’t give him away, then crept along the wooded road toward the property, keeping his eyes open for movement and his ears alert to the smallest sound.
It had taken Gwen most of the day, but she finally managed to locate the address of the estate nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Madres. Miles from the nearest farm and hidden from prying eyes by a festering jungle, it was the perfect place to lay low.
Hunt paused at the entrance. Pale light from a half moon showed him a stone wall covered in thick ivy and an open gate. He had waited until the early morning, to catch Noble at the low point in his circadian rhythm, but walking in through the front door was an option of last resort. Instead, he threaded his way through the trees, working around the perimeter toward the back of the property and found a spot where the wall had surrendered to age. The stones had spilled outwards like a child’s toy chest turned on its side.
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