“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
“I’m not afraid of a fight. But you, on the other hand . . .”
“I know karate and capoeira.”
“And I’ve killed a man with my bare hands. Now listen. You get out of here now, or I start breaking fingers. How many do you think I can get to before your bodyguard pulls me off of you?”
The kid recoiled, then turned to walk away. “Savage plebeian,” he said under his breath as he went.
Morgan was left alone next to Natasha, who had been ostentatiously ignoring the interaction. “Lovely crowd, aren’t they?” said Morgan nonchalantly.
“Give a trained monkey a decent suit and a professional haircut, and he would fit right in,” she replied, without missing a beat. She had only the slightest accent.
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Dressing a monkey in a suit would constitute fun, and I don’t think they allow that here.”
“I think they do,” she said without looking at him, “but only if it comes here to die.”
Morgan chuckled. “Sounds like you’re not crazy about being here.”
“I am counting the minutes to when I can leave this excruciating event.”
“Funny,” Morgan retorted. “I’ve been told that you’re actually fairly eager to stay.”
Her cunning eyes flashed on him with immediate understanding. “Perhaps,” she said. “Now that you’re here.”
Natasha opened the door to her suite at the Mandarin and pulled him in by his tie for an aggressive kiss. Her breath was fragrant, like wine, and her kisses were fervent, almost desperate. She held his head in her hands, leaning her forehead into his, noses scrunched up against each other. She breathed heavily with desire and smiled.
She was a subtle seductress. A lesser manipulator would have just used her body, leering stares, pure sex. But this, this was passion—real passion, calculating as it might have been. This was, without a doubt, a cat-and-mouse game, but it was unclear who was which. Both their masks were layers deep, and there was no way of telling how far down sincerity was, if it was there at all.
Morgan walked into the room warily. As assassinations went, this was the oldest trick in the book, and he would not fall for it, not even for a woman like Natasha. But there wasn’t anyone else in the suite. All that caught his eye was—
“Is that a checkerboard?” he asked, with a hint of authentic enthusiasm. It was the first chink in the armor, a tiny wrench in the works of their mutual manipulation. It was a touch of sincerity, of something genuine in what would have been, for both of them, a completely fabricated interaction.
“My favorite pastime,” she said. “It helps to while away the long hours of boredom. Do you?”
“Do I play? I’ve only been wiping the floor with any opponent since I was eight.”
“Then we play,” she said, decisively. “We shall find out if you can wipe the floor with me.”
She set up the board, and she chose black. They sat across from each other.
“Care to make it interesting?” he said.
“And how do you propose that?”
“An item of clothing for each captured piece,” he said.
“That’s hardly fair, is it? Capture six of my pieces, and I’ll be . . .” She smiled and blushed—a blush that Morgan suspected was not born of modesty. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”
She made her opening gambit, and he made his. As they made their plays, Morgan began to get a feel for her style. It seemed naïve, unsophisticated. He captured one of her pieces. With an alluring smile, she slowly removed a shoe, black and high-heeled, letting him get a look at her stockinged leg. She placed the shoe on the table next to the board.
This is going to be easy, he thought. And then he lost three pieces in one move. There went a jacket, a tie, and a shoe. Only then did he realize she’d been toying with him, leading him to underestimate her, get overconfident. She was a far more subtle player than he’d realized. He thought, this is going to be fun.
“I hope you have as many moves in bed as you have on the checkerboard,” he said.
And then the game really began. She, like he, seemed to be able to see many turns ahead. Every move became a sally or parry in complex strategies as each player tried to find an opening.
The game progressed, and Natasha was down to her dress and nothing more. He advanced, but it had been a trap—and there went his shirt. But the move had left her vulnerable. He took another one of hers.
She smiled slyly and pulled him in, by the hair, for a kiss. Then she turned her back to him, slowly unzipped her little black dress, and let it fall to her ankles. They never finished the game.
CHAPTER 17
Boyle shut the door to his office and almost bumped into the Deputy Director for HUMINT, or Human Intelligence, Julia Carr.
“Boyle,” she said, “I was just coming in to see you.”
Carr was an ex-Marine and had been a HUMINT handler herself, in her earlier days. She had a face that was both ordinary and attractive, which, with the right makeup and hair, could even be called beautiful. But she downplayed her beauty as much as possible. Her hair was cropped short, she wore no cosmetics, and she donned clothes that, while not exactly ugly, made it plain that she refused to rely on her looks to establish her authority or to gain the respect of others.
“I’m on my way somewhere,” Boyle told her. “Can it wait?”
“I’d really rather talk to you right away,” she said.
“Then walk with me,” he said. “You have about a minute and a half.”
They started down the hallway together. He could tell that she was straining to keep up with his vigorous pace.
“Sir, I’d like to know what’s going on in Kandahar.”
“Just what do you mean?” he asked. “Kandahar’s a big place. There’s plenty going on there at any given time.”
“I think you know what I’m talking about, sir,” she said.
“What you’re meant to know will come to you through the appropriate channels.”
“Jeff, come on,” she said, lowering her voice. “Don’t bullshit me here. Something’s going on. I’ve got people in the field. I gotta know if they’re going to be in some kind of danger.”
“My answer’s still the same, Julia.”
She held out her arm for him to stop. He did and turned to face her.
“Throw me a bone here, Boyle,” she pleaded. “I can’t be left out of the loop like this.”
He sighed. “Rogue agent. Purpose unclear, whereabouts unknown. And that’s all I’m giving you.”
“Isn’t much,” she said.
“It’s as much as you need to know. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
He gestured down the hall and walked on to his meeting. When he burst into the conference room, Kline and Plante were already waiting for him.
“One of you care to tell me what the hell is going on with the Cobra situation?” said Boyle.
“We have reports of gunfire and several dead at the Kabul Zoo,” Kline began. “Witnesses describe the shooter as a man who closely matches Cobra’s description. Witnesses also say—get this—that the man shot a lion during his escape.”
“Any idea where to?” asked Boyle.
“He flew out of Kabul under the identity of an Italian citizen named Antonio Bevelaqua,” said Kline. “He took off in a private jet at the Kabul airport eight hours ago, headed for Amsterdam.”
“So we—”
“The plane,” Plante cut in, “was forced to make an emergency landing in Istanbul. Where he went from there is anyone’s guess.”
“Then we need to focus on finding him, right away. Kline. Put together a task force. I want them concentrating exclusively on finding Cobra. Do what you have to, and make provisions to bring him in.”
“Sir,” interjected Plante, “do we need to treat him like a fugitive?”
Kline cut in. “As far as I’m concerned, this is what he chose, and we should treat him accordi
ngly.”
“I know Cobra,” said Plante. “Probably better than anyone else here. He’s a good man. An honorable man. Whatever he’s doing, there’s got to be a reason. I think the best thing we can do is to bring him in quietly and just ask him what’s going on.”
Boyle seemed to think about it, even swayed. “In any case,” he said, “I want someone at the ready, in case this really is some kind of vendetta. I’m not going to have a highly trained ex-operative on the loose without a contingency measure. I want Wagner on standby.”
“Wagner?” said Plante, taken aback. “Sir, isn’t that a little drastic? I mean, Morgan used to be one of us, after all.”
“That’s exactly what concerns me,” said Boyle. “Kline, you have a problem with any of this?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get to it. I want this taken care of. And everything goes through me, understand? You make a move on him when I say so.” His voice became low and grave. “I don’t even have to tell you how dangerous it would be to have a rogue operative out there. Find him, gentlemen. Do whatever you have to, and find him.”
CHAPTER 18
Nickerson set the receiver down and sat motionless in his office, a deep frown on his face. Things were not going according to plan, and he did not like that at all. It was unworthy of his intelligence and cunning. He would, of course, be the first to admit that he was a vain, proud man. But he did not consider this a fault or a weakness. He knew his own worth, his own power. That was all. Except, when it slipped through his fingers, it was almost enough to make him dizzy, thinking of himself as fallible. All he could do was remind himself of his many superior talents and attributes—
He was brought back to the here and now by the ring of his intercom.
“Sir? Senator McKay is here to see you. Shall I send her in?”
“Please do.”
He’d almost forgotten about this appointment. It should serve as a pick-me-up, at any rate. He looked over himself in a small mirror mounted on his wall when he heard the knock on the door. He ran his fingers through his hair, flashed himself a winning smile, and, satisfied, said, “Come in!”
Senator Lana McKay walked in with quiet assurance. She had short, carefully coiffed brown hair, a strong and harmonious face, and fierce, determined green eyes. Her presence was enough to fill a room. Admirable, almost worthy of jealousy to Nickerson. She was quite a bit older than the women he usually pursued, but he toyed with the idea of making an exception, just this once.
“Hello, Senator Nickerson,” she said, extending her hand.
“Oh, hello, Lana. It’s good to see you,” he said warmly. “Thank you so much for coming. Please, call me Ed.”
“Well, thank you, Ed,” she said, settling down where Lamb had previously sat. “It’s always a pleasure to speak with you. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Right to business, then,” he said, with a broad smile. “The way I like it.”
“No point in wasting each other’s time when there’s work to be done, right?”
“Of course. So here is why I asked you to come. I’d like to discuss this new bill you’re pushing for.”
“I was actually hoping I could count on your support, Senator,” she said, picking up the thread of the conversation. “Tightening up the rules and oversight of government contractors in Iraq and Afghanistan is not only extremely urgent—it’s a no-brainer.”
“Yes,” he said, dragging the word out so that it sounded like it had three distinct syllables. “Undoubtedly, it’s an issue of some importance. I understand what has you fired up about it. But I favor a more cautious approach. Frankly, I believe it’s premature.”
“What do you mean, ‘premature’?” She drew herself back slightly, defensively.
“This is a sensitive point in the reconstruction effort.” The practiced words rolled smoothly from his tongue, designed, in tone and content, to elicit confidence and understanding. “Our contractors are out there helping to ensure the safety of our troops and to aid us in our efforts to reshape Iraq and Afghanistan. They are under a lot of pressure, and their success is our success. I’m afraid no good can come of our meddling with these companies. I believe that it would be in the best interest of the American people to table your bill for the time being.”
She was clearly taken aback. “Ed, contractor oversight is a vital issue. Some of these companies aren’t only working outside of the law, they’re doing evil things in our name, and with our money! They’re undermining the reconstruction and putting our troops in greater danger!”
“I’ve read all the media hysteria—”
“‘Hysteria’!” she exclaimed in disbelief. “We have incontrovertible evidence of serious criminal malfeasance!”
“—but the truth is more complicated than that,” he continued calmly. “It always is. Reform like this isn’t always possible without serious compromises. And politics, as you know, is the art of the possible. The timing just isn’t right for something like this, Lana. Perhaps in two more years, we can talk about it again.”
“This is an intolerable situation! Something needs to be done, and I’m going to do this with or without your support.”
“Are you certain about that, Lana? I have significant influence in the Senate. How far do you really think this can go without me by your side? You can’t do it without me. Right now, your choice is to have it die in committee or on the floor.”
“I will not abandon this issue,” she said.
He smiled gently. “I understand that you’ve committed yourself to this already and that there is a political cost to abandoning it altogether. But I believe we can come to a compromise on a . . . more moderate bill, one that will satisfy your constituency without causing potentially disastrous interference in the war effort.”
She jumped out of her chair. “I will not defang this bill for the sake of political expediency!”
“Lana, please calm down and listen to me. I know you are passionate and idealistic, and I know you feel strongly about this. But our legislative body is built on compromise.” He cleared his throat. “As you know, we’re going to pass an energy bill later this year. I know how important the coal industry is in your state. This is going to be a major issue with your constituents. Work with me on this, and I can guarantee that whatever bill gets passed will protect your interests.”
She laughed wryly. “I guess it’s true what they say about laws and sausages.”
“Why don’t you take a couple of days to think it over . . .”
“I don’t need to,” she said curtly. “The answer is no.”
“Lana . . .”
“I am not interested in compromising my principles for the sake of votes, Senator.” She got up to leave.
“I admire your moral courage,” he said, standing up as well. “Just remember, that can be a dangerous thing in this town.”
“I know what I signed up for. Good-bye, Senator.”
You have no idea, he thought to himself, smiling as she stormed out of his office.
CHAPTER 19
As she drove home, Jenny Morgan reached into her purse and cursed herself for forgetting her cell phone again. She had just spent hours going over swatches and fabrics with a client who had rejected option after option Jenny showed her with a slight, snobbish flick of the hand. To keep herself from saying something outright rude, Jenny had promised to come back with more samples the next day. And still, she would likely lose the client, anyway. But worst of all, another day had passed and she still had not heard from Dan.
Her instinct was to trust him, but his story about having to stay in DC was more than a little fishy and alarming even on the face of it. Jenny was not stupid. There was obviously more going on than her husband had told her. But as she neared home, she tried to push it out of her mind. She knew there was nothing she could do once Dan had decided something.
As she turned into their street, her eyes were drawn to a white van parked across from their house, marked BALD EAGLE
PLUMBING. Strange, she thought. She seemed to remember seeing that van there that morning. Jenny looked at it suspiciously, then, in a moment of self-consciousness, laughed and shook her head. Living with Dan over the years had really made her paranoid. They were there for a big plumbing job, and that’s all; perfectly normal, nothing to be concerned about.
She parked in the driveway and went inside. Neika ran to greet her, panting and licking her hand. Jenny said hello to Alex, who was sitting cross-legged on the living-room couch, sullenly staring down at a book, her short hair concealing her eyes. Jenny wished she could tell her daughter that Dan hadn’t just gone away on business, that he was doing things of serious consequence. But it wasn’t her place. Dan would have to be the one to tell her. What’s more, Jenny knew about Alex’s new political inclinations and that, if anything, her daughter would probably be appalled if she found out. Dan at least deserved a chance to be there to explain his own side of things.
“Did your father call?” she asked Alex, who shrugged in response. Jenny walked to the kitchen counter and found her cell phone there, still attached to the power cord. Seven missed calls; three new messages. She flipped it open and clicked through to voice mail. One message was from a client who wanted a consultation, and there was another from her sister, who had just called to say hello.
The third was from Dan: “Hi, Jen, it’s me. I’m calling to tell you that everything’s fine here. I’ve been held up at the auction, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to call again. I’ll probably be home in a couple of days. I can’t wait to see you and Alex again. I hope your friend Clara’s surgery went well. I know how worried you were about her. Oh, and make sure you take the GTO out for a spin. You know how it needs a little air now and then. I love you.”
Her friend Clara. She didn’t have a friend named Clara, and no one she knew was in the hospital. What was this—and then she remembered. It was their code, something her husband had made her memorize, along with emergency plans, in case anything happened. The meaning of the message was vivid in her mind: Danger! Get away! She had always thought this business with secret codes was a bit ridiculous, but now that she had gotten the call, she didn’t feel ridiculous. She felt afraid.
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