by Liz Wolfe
“I see. And that’s where I come in?”
“That’s what I’d like to happen.”
“I don’t know. I’m not real comfortable with spying on my own country. I mean, I know the U.S. has some faults, but …” He almost held his breath waiting for Robertson to answer. He couldn’t appear too eager, but he needed to make Robertson think he was convinced. He knew for sure that his life depended on it.
“I understand and I wouldn’t expect any less of you. Hell, I’d be pissed if you caved so easily.” Robertsonstood and paced across the room again. “I’d never ask you to spy on our country. It’s not like that. The only thing I want you to do is let me know what the CIA discovers about us. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t believe it was in the best interest of America. In the best interest of the world. I believe in the Order. We’re doing the right thing for the world.”
“You make a strong argument, sir.”
“I’d like to fix this so you can get back home.” Robertson opened the door and turned back to Drake. “Think about it tonight. We’ll talk again.”
Drake heard the dead bolt slide into place, then muffled voices from the other side of the door.
“You sure you can trust him?”
“I’m sure,” Robertson said. “But we don’t have to rely on that. We have someone in place who’ll let us know if he turns.”
2
October 29, German Embassy, Washington, D.C.
ZOE TOOK A CHAMPAGNE FLUTE from a passing waiter and pretended to sip from it while she cased the room. From her position next to a ficus tree, she counted five senators, a dozen congressmen, three Oscar-winning actors, and a rock star with her newest boyfriend. It was an impressive turnout, and the German Embassy knew that the presence of the politicians and stars would ensure coverage in the major newspapers and magazines.
The room twinkled with the flash of jewelry and candlelight; buzzed with the hum of gossip and politics. Chamber music floated through the main ballroom, and tuxedoed waiters moved unobtrusively through the crowd with trays of wine, champagne, and hors d’oeuvres. Guests who preferred hard liquor were served their drinks from the multiple bars placed in various corners of several rooms. The German Embassy had made sure everything was perfect.
The small cubic zirconia–studded watch on Zoe’s wrist showed nine thirty, and she turned her attention to the wide, sweeping stairway. Precisely on schedule, Honoria Bueller appeared at the top of the stairway on the arm of her husband, Ambassador Heinrich Bueller. Zoe walked toward the rear door of the ballroom, keeping her pace fast enough to discourage anyone from approaching, but not so fast to draw attention. Her eyes focused on a point across the room, lips curved in a smile. Anyone watching would assume she was crossing the enormous ballroom to greet someone.
The fact that she’d done this a hundred times before didn’t stop the adrenaline from rushing into her system. She could almost feel the blood pumping into her arms and legs. Her vision seemed sharper as she swept her eyes across the ballroom lit with multitudes of candles and sparkling crystal chandeliers. Her heart thumped a few beats faster than normal and she deliberately slowed her breathing, trying to control it. It was a scary feeling and she liked the intensity. It was better than chocolate. Better than sex—sometimes. Hell, it was probably addictive.
At the far end of the ballroom, she paused at a set of heavily draped French doors and looked back at the room. The guests were turned toward the stairway as the ambassador and his wife welcomed them to the anniversary party. Zoe pushed the doors openand slipped to the other side, closing them quickly and softly behind her. The wide hallway leading to the kitchen was empty, all the kitchen help currently occupied with preparations for the buffet dinner that would be served later in the evening.
She entered the third door on the left, one of three coed restrooms used by the kitchen staff and servers. Setting her champagne glass on the vanity, she lifted the skirt of her heavy satin gown, pulled a slim plastic rectangle from a holder strapped to her left thigh and opened the door a crack. The hallway remained empty as she slipped the cord of the sign over the doorknob. Out of Service. That should keep anyone from knocking at the door and wondering why there was no answer.
She flipped the lock to the on position, unzipped the high-necked, long-sleeved gold satin gown and stepped out of it, revealing a beige bodysuit. After hanging the gown over a hook on the door, she pulled off her rings, watch, and fake diamond necklace, placing them on the vanity. The long, heavy wig landed in the sink and she made sure the nylon cap covering her own red curls was secure.
A flat nylon pouch on her left thigh yielded latex gloves. From an identical pouch on the right thigh, she pulled out a dust mask and placed it over her nose and mouth. She snapped the gloves on and climbed onto the lid of the toilet tank.
The ventilation duct cover came off with a couple of tugs. Zoe laid the vent on the vanity and braced her gloved hands on the inside of the duct. She blew out a breath and hoisted her weight onto her arms, lifting her torso into the duct and tucking her knees tight to her chest. Her legs shot out and landed her butt just on the edge of the duct.
The plans she’d been given showed that the duct traveled along one wall of the kitchen to the rear of the building, then joined a vertical duct that led to the second floor. She crawled along the duct, glancing into the kitchen through the regularly spaced vents. When she reached the vertical duct, she braced her back and feet against opposite sides and inched her way to the second floor of the embassy. She paused for a moment, her breath coming hard from the effort, then crawled down the connecting duct past several guest rooms.
The occupants of the second room had evidently elected to spend their evening pursuing personal pleasure rather than attending the anniversary celebration. Stopping at the fourth vent, she took a moment to check out the large guest suite through the ventilation grate. Empty. Just as it should be. She pressed her fingers through the vent cover and pushed it out.
The cover stuck for a moment, then gave, almost slipping through her fingers. Zoe swore under her breath and tightened her grip on the grate, carefullylowering it to the leather love seat under the opening. She scooted forward and leaned out into the bedroom of a two-room suite.
The guests of the ambassador were treated to excellent accommodations. The spacious room boasted a king-sized four-poster bed and triple dresser made of carved, nut brown oak. Solid wood from the look of it. No cheap veneer for the German Embassy. She pulled back inside the duct, squirmed around, and backed out, dropping silently to the love seat.
The only light in the bedroom came from a bedside lamp, but it was enough. She moved cautiously to the double doors that led to the sitting room and opened one door a few inches. Dark and quiet. She pulled the door almost closed and turned her attention to the wall with the Mathias Grünewald painting. It was an original, worth thousands. She ran her fingers over the painting, then pulled her hand back. She wasn’t here for it.
Zoe swung the painting away from the wall, looked at the ornate twenty-carat gold R on the dial, and grinned. A Remington double-walled safe with a group two combination lock.
Not bad. Better than most personal safes.
Zoe took a breath and blew it out, then lightly touched the black dial with her fingertips. She twirled the dial until she felt the first click. Then she turnedit slowly in the opposite direction. Another click. She continued picking up the wheels, her fingers telling her when the drive cam sent the drive pin into contact with the wheel fly. The wheels and notches lined up to let the fence fall. The bolt slid free and Zoe swung the door open.
Velvet jewelry cases were stacked inside along with a sheaf of papers and a wad of cash. She pushed the cash and papers aside and pulled out the jewelry boxes. Ethan had been specific. Rubies, diamonds, and emeralds—only the most valuable jewels. Zoe dropped the appropriate necklaces, bracelets, and earrings into the pouch strapped to her thigh, tossing the less expensive pieces back into the safe.
The last velvet
box held a simple platinum chain with a small cross on it. A nice piece, but nothing a self-respecting thief would take.
Just a little something for herself.
Zoe’s fingers twitched and a surge of desire pulsed through her body. She’d felt that desire before. Often. And she’d given in to it.
Not tonight. She snapped the case closed and tossed it back inside the safe.
Zoe repeated her actions in the other six guest rooms, then headed back through the ventilation system to the bathroom. Less than an hour had passed since she’d started. She replaced the vent cover,stripped off the latex gloves, and looked at her image in the mirror.
She was covered in dust from the ventilation ducts. Hair, face, and bodysuit. She washed her hands and used damp paper towels to remove the dust from her face and bodysuit. She pulled the wig on over her hair, replaced the rings, watch, and choker, and stepped into her satin gown. Now all she had to do was leave the party, drop the jewels off with Shelby, go home, and hope that the Order took the bait. She hurried down the hall and opened the French doors.
“I beg your pardon,” Zoe said as the door to the ballroom bumped against someone. Great. Mrs. Weston-Smyth. Three hundred people at this little soiree, and she had to bump into one of the few she’d actually talked to, just as she needed to make her escape. The woman had cornered her earlier in the evening and asked penetrating questions about Zoe’s background. She’d lied, of course.
“Oh, there you are, dear. I was just telling Logan that I wanted to introduce you two.”
“Really?” Zoe asked with a bright smile.
Mrs. Weston-Smyth leaned toward Zoe and placed a gloved hand, heavy with jewels, on her arm. “Logan was educated in Switzerland, too. I thought you two would have a lot in common.” She gestured toward Logan. “Logan Forrester, Zoe Alexander.”
Zoe offered him her hand and gave him a polite smile. Logan was the kind of handsome that usually indicated a lousy personality. Taller than average height, wavy brown hair streaked with gold, dark green eyes. His tux hung from broad shoulders and skimmed over a lean, muscular frame. He smiled and she couldn’t help grinning back. She liked handsome men.
But this was a bad time.
“Where did you come from?” he asked.
Zoe leaned forward a little and lowered her voice. “I was looking for the ladies’ room and got lost.”
“I see.” He grinned and reached out to brush his fingers against her neck. “There’s dirt on your neck.”
Zoe’s mouth went dry. She wasn’t sure if it was from his touch or that he’d noticed the dirt she’d missed. “I opened a utility closet by mistake and a feather duster fell on me.”
“I see. Your name sounds incredibly familiar to me. Have we met before?”
“I’m sure I would remember if we had.”
“Come along, they’re serving dinner soon.” Mrs. Weston-Smyth waved them toward the far end of the ballroom.
“Of course. May I escort you lovely ladies to the dining room?” Logan held out an arm to each woman.
“I’m sorry, I can’t stay for dinner. I have another engagement.” Zoe affected an apologetic look.
“What a shame,” he murmured.
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Weston-Smyth shook her head. “But I understand. When I was your age, I often had several engagements in one evening.”
“It was so nice meeting you both. I hope we’ll run into each other again.” Like hell, she did.
“Oh, now I remember,” Logan said.
Zoe turned and looked at him, her face a frozen mask of casual inquisition.
“But it was a man’s name that I recalled. Zeke Alexander. Any relation?”
“I really must run or I’ll be late. Good night, Mrs. Weston-Smyth.” Zoe nodded to Logan. “Good evening.”
She moved through the crowded reception hall smiling and nodding, sneaking a glance down to make sure none of the stuff strapped to her thighs was noticeable under the stiff satin gown. The coat check retrieved her velvet stole, and she slipped out the door and into the waiting limo.
Throwing the stole onto the seat, she scrunched up her skirt, ripped off the pouch strapped to her thigh, and tossed it to Shelby.
“There!”
Ethan had asked Shelby to work out of Langley as Zoe’s handler since the CIA was involved in the op. Zoe had been more than a little pleased when her boss had agreed. The stealing was no big deal, but the spystuff was scary, and she couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather have telling her what to do.
“Well done, Zoe.” Shelby opened the pouch and pulled the jewels out.
“Where’s my bag?”
“It’s in the trunk,” Shelby answered, still examining the gems.
“Hey!” Zoe banged the heel of her palm on the window separating them from the driver. Shelby grimaced and pressed a button to lower the window.
“Stop the car and open the trunk,” she instructed the driver. The car slowed and pulled over to the curb. Zoe jumped out, grabbed her bag from the trunk, and slammed the lid. She was unzipping the bag when she got back in the car.
“Really, Zoe, are you always this way after a job?”
“It’s the hormonal cascade,” Zoe explained to her boss as she rummaged in the bag and pulled out a giant-sized candy bar. “You know, there’s the adrenaline rush from the fight-or-flight response to the possibility of getting caught. Then you don’t get caught and you have all that adrenaline still in your system. The sugar helps.”
“All that chocolate can’t be good for you.” Shelby wrinkled her nose and dropped the jewels back into the pouch.
“What are you going to do with those?”
“They’ll go to a fence who’s about to get out of the business.”
“Willingly?” Zoe asked.
Shelby laughed. “He was recently found in possession of some rather valuable merchandise. In return for this favor and some information, he gets to spend his golden years in a cozy cottage on the coast of Maine rather than in a prison cell.”
“I see. So the word gets out that I snagged the jewels, the fence gets caught with them, everyone gets their valuables back, the fence doesn’t go to jail, and everyone’s happy.”
“It’s a sweet deal any way you look at it. So, how did it go tonight?”
“This was really an easy job. I could have done it when I was ten.” Zoe frowned in thought. “Actually, I think I did one similar to this around that age.”
“It only seems easy to you. To anyone else, it’s a big job that you pulled off flawlessly. It’ll go a long way to establishing your reputation as a thief.”
Her reputation as a thief. Something she’d spent her youth developing and several years eliminating. Her father had tutored her from the age of eight. Or maybe it had been earlier. Six? Five?
She’d accompanied him on her first real job when she was nine. It seemed like a game and the prize for pleasing her father was his attention. Even when Nana
Phoebe had tried to convince her that stealing was wrong, she’d stayed on with her father until he took on an apprentice. A young man who was just about the age her brother would have been had he lived. That’s when she knew beyond any doubt that she’d never be good enough for her father. Ever. Because she’d never be his son.
After her brief retirement, it was necessary to convince the thieving community that Zoe, the heir apparent to Zeke Alexander, was again active. And that she was as good as she’d ever been. Maybe better.
The weird part was that Zoe could now do the only thing she’d ever been really good at. And she could do it legally. For the government. What a hoot.
“Shelby, do you know anything about Logan Forrester?”
“How do you know Logan Forrester?”
“I hate it when you answer my question with another question. Who is he?”
“Did you meet him tonight?” Shelby asked.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Did he approach you? What did he want?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and turned to look out her window.
“Crap.” Shelby sighed. “Logan Forrester worked with the NSA as a cryptanalyst until a few weeks ago.”
“Cryptanalyst? You mean he decodes stuff?”
“Forrester is one of the best. Actually, he is the best. He started in the CIA, got through the basic training for field agents at The Farm, and then they discovered his uncanny ability with codes. He was moved to the NSA and quickly became their top cryptanalyst.”
“And he’s left the NSA? Why?”
“Just up and quit. Said he was taking a job with some computer company for a lot more money. But when his supervisor at the NSA tried to reach him at the new job, he was told that Logan wouldn’t be starting the job for another few months. Then his name turned up in connection with the Order.”
“That figures,” Zoe said.
“How did you meet Forrester?”
“Mrs. Weston-Smyth introduced us. I think she was trying to be a matchmaker.” Zoe’s stomach twisted remembering his parting question. “He mentioned my father. Wanted to know if we were related.”
“Did you deny it?” Shelby frowned.
“I didn’t answer either way. It kind of threw me. At first I figured if he was asking about my dad, then I should admit to it. Then I thought that if I jumped at it, he’d think something was wrong. I mean, if I’m really a thief, I wouldn’t be too eager to admit who I am right after pulling a job.”
“Good.”
“Was this planned?”
“For you to meet him? No, not at all.” Shelby shrugged. “We believed the Order would have someone at the event tonight. That’s why we sent you in to steal the jewels. It was just luck that Forrester approached you.”
“What else have you found out about them?”
“What do you know about cold fusion?”
“That it’s an impossibility,” Zoe said.
“That’s not precisely true; it’s just never been done on a consistent basis. There are problems with stability and consistency.”
Zoe sighed. “I understand that. I just meant that most scientists consider it impossible because of those issues.”