“No.”
“But they could have.”
That comment gave Coop a bit more pause. “Yes.”
“It’s not your fault.”
She was cutting him more slack than he was willing to cut himself. His jaw settled into a hard line. “We were in charge. The responsibility rests with us.”
“The guy got through deadbolts and past federal agents, Coop. What more could you have done?”
He wished he knew. But that still didn’t exonerate them. They were the experts. They should have been able to prevent this.
“Besides, it’s really my fault.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You and Mark told me I should go to a safe house on Saturday. I should have listened to you. But I thought everyone was overreacting. Including my father.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Monica.”
“I’m sorry if this is going to cause you problems with your boss.”
He was more worried about the reaction of the White House. But he didn’t need to add that to her burden of guilt.
“We can handle it. Les has been in the field. He knows what we’re up against in a situation like this.” That didn’t mean he was going to show them any mercy, but Monica didn’t need to know that, either.
“I can talk to him if you want.”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he imagined her going head-to-head with the Bulldog. “I appreciate the offer, but it won’t be necessary.”
“Maybe my willingness to go to the safe house now will smooth things out.”
“That will help.”
“Where is this place?”
“I don’t know. Les will brief us at the field office.”
“Will the safe house be . . . safe?”
Her gaze pinned him, demanding an honest answer. He wanted to tell her there was no way anyone could get to her there, but there were no guarantees in this business . . . despite all the precautions they might take. Today proved that.
“As safe as we can make it.” It was the best he could offer.
A flicker of fear sparked in her eyes before she snuffed it out. “Okay. I know you’ll do your best.”
Coop appreciated the vote of confidence. It was more than they deserved after the episode at her house.
He just hoped they could live up to it.
“Who’s in the room?” Les Coplin’s voice boomed over the speaker phone on the secure line in the Richmond FBI field office.
“Mark and Dennis Powers.” Coop leaned back in his seat, bracing for the interrogation to come. Mark and the Richmond SAC looked as on edge as he felt.
“Okay. I promised Washington answers. Do you have any?”
“Not yet. When we got back from the speech, Mark did a sweep of the house and everything seemed to be fine. The deadbolts that were installed on Saturday were locked and there was no sign of forced entry.”
“The two agents on duty this morning are on their way back to debrief,” Dennis added. “We had one man in front and one in back while Ms. Callahan was gone. No one came anywhere near the house.”
“That they noticed.”
A flush surged on Dennis’s neck. “They’re two of my best agents. They wouldn’t miss anything suspicious.”
“Then how did someone get past them? Apparently with a key?”
“The ERT is en route to the house, along with a K-9 bomb sniffer. Until they have a chance to check it out, I can’t answer that question.”
“I want any information you get the second you get it.”
“Understood.”
“Where’s Ms. Callahan?”
“In a vacant office down the hall,” Mark chimed in.
“Is she doing all right?”
“She’s pretty shaken up,” Coop replied. “And she’s agreed to go to a safe house.”
“Good. Because at this point, that’s not even negotiable. If I had a choice, I’d hand her over to the Marines at Quantico. This is a hot potato.”
Les’s comment about the Marines didn’t exactly bolster Coop’s confidence, and Mark’s frown confirmed he felt the same way. But Coop couldn’t deny that a Marine base might be more secure than a safe house. And Monica’s safety had to come first.
“Do you think we should suggest that to her father?”
“No. He asked for the HRT, and he’s going to get the HRT. I expect you boys to make it work.”
The sound of shuffling papers came over the line, and Coop pictured Les squinting as he gummed his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
“We’ve got a gated house lined up ninety minutes outside of Washington, near Charlottesville. Belongs to a retired government official who’s in Florida for the winter. The owner is an old navy buddy of David Callahan’s. We’ve already had our people check it out and set up a command center on-site. Dennis, we’re going to need your people as backup on this too. We can’t pull in local law enforcement. This has to stay off the radar screen.”
“No problem. We’ll use agents from the Charlottesville, Lynchburg, and Fredericksburg offices.”
“When we hang up, I’ll fax you a layout of the house and directions. Coop and Mark, let me know once you have an ops plan in place. Dennis, get evidence from Ms. Callahan’s house to Quantico ASAP. It’s got top priority for analysis. Anything else we need to go over?”
“No,” Coop responded after a raised-brow query to the other two men.
“All right. I’ve deferred Washington for the moment. But they want answers about how this breach happened. And so do I.”
The line went dead.
“Not a happy camper.” Dennis rubbed a hand over his short-cropped, gray-flecked brown hair. “And I can’t say I blame him. Invisible enemies who go through locked doors make great sci-fi movie villains, but they don’t exist in real life.”
“Meaning we’re dealing with flesh-and-blood opponents who must have left us some clues about how they pulled this off.” Mark doodled on the pad of paper in front of him—a series of boxes with one side missing.
“If they did, the ERT will find it,” Dennis said. “In the meantime, Ms. Callahan should be secure at the safe house.”
Coop hoped Dennis was right.
But whoever these people were, they were good. Very good.
And the bad feeling he’d had Saturday about this assignment returned with a vengeance.
10
The ringing phone pulled David Callahan back from the fog of an exhausted sleep, and he groped for it on the Spartan nightstand in his embassy quarters, trying to jump-start his brain.
“Callahan.” He swung his legs to the floor and reached for his glasses, sparing a quick glance at the clock. Twelve-thirty. After delivering the backpack of cash, he’d stayed in his office until almost eleven, hoping the informer would follow through on his end of the bargain. But eventually he’d succumbed to fatigue—and common sense. Losing sleep wasn’t going to expedite the process. And the intelligence people would let him know if there were any developments.
Perhaps that’s what this call was about.
Anticipation gave way to shock as he listened, however. The news about the security breach at Monica’s house was not what he’d expected, and he struggled to rein in his burgeoning panic as the implications became clear.
When the call ended, he depressed the button on the phone, waited until he heard a dial tone, and punched in the number for the FBI.
“Can I interest you in some Chinese now?”
As the door to the vacant office opened, Monica looked up. Coop lifted an aromatic white bag in invitation while Mark grinned over his shoulder, waving a second bag. It was five in the afternoon, and lunchtime was long past, but she had no appetite. As the FBI had scurried to make plans for her safety, she’d had nothing to do but sit, brood, and try—with limited success—to erase the image of the blood in her lingerie drawer. Not an appetizing picture. Her only diversion had been when an agent fingerprinted her for a set of elimin
ation prints to supply to the ERT scrutinizing her house. That hadn’t been very appetizing either.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m not very hungry.”
The two men came in anyway and set the food on the empty desk in front of her. Mark snagged two side chairs that were against the wall and pulled them up. It appeared they weren’t going to take no for an answer.
“You need to eat.” Coop’s comment confirmed her conclusion. Instead of taking one of the chairs, he settled a hip on the desk as Mark opened the food containers, blocking her view of his partner.
She could sense his scrutiny, but she stared at the center of his broad chest, focusing on one of the buttons on his white dress shirt. “I can’t forget the blood.”
He leaned close to hear her soft response. Close enough for her to see the gold flecks sparking in his deep brown irises when she looked up. And close enough for the kindness—and caring—in his eyes to tug at her heart.
“Images like that are hard to forget.” His tone was gentle, understanding. “But all you’ve had today is a piece of toast and a handful of M&Ms. Will you at least eat a few bites while we go over our plans?”
He’d noticed what she’d eaten. Did any detail escape this man? And was he this attentive on every job? Or was there a personal element to his caring? She swallowed past the sudden, surprising longing that tightened her throat. “I’ll try.”
Her response was met with a warm, approving smile. Standing, he reached for a disposable plate and utensils and slid them toward her. “What do we have, Mark?”
“Cashew shrimp and”—his partner peered into the second container—“mongolian beef, maybe?”
“What would you like, Monica?” Coop picked up the rice container and put a dollop on her plate.
“The shrimp, thanks.”
He spooned the garlicky mixture over her rice. Both men loaded up their plates with a generous helping of each of the dishes and dove in. She supposed they’d seen far worse than a drawer of blood-soaked lingerie, had learned long ago to steel themselves against such horror. But shock waves continued to reverberate through her.
When Coop caught her eye, then glanced at her plate, she got the hint. Picking up her fork, she scooped up some rice and shrimp. Under his watchful gaze, she forced herself to put the fork in her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. For an instant her stomach churned, as if unsure whether to accept or reject the offering. She waited a few seconds, prepared to bolt for the ladies’ room if necessary, but to her surprise, her stomach settled down and her appetite kicked in. She took another forkful, and Coop smiled at her.
After she’d eaten half of the food on her plate, he wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and picked up some layouts. “Ready to hear about your temporary home?”
“Sure.”
“Keep eating while we run over this.” He set a layout and an aerial photo beside her plate. The house was long and low, contemporary in design. It seemed to be situated on several very secluded acres, and the entire compound was surrounded by a tall, decorative wrought-iron fence. There was a swimming pool in the back, and a curving, circular drive in front. What appeared to be a small guest cottage stood apart from the main house near a wooded section of the backyard.
“Nice,” Monica remarked.
“How the other half lives.” Mark grinned as he continued to wolf down his combination lunch/dinner.
“The house has a state-of-the-art security system, including off-site video monitoring from two cameras. We’ll be able to tap into that feed at our TOC—tactical operations center—in the guest house.” He pointed to the smaller building. “A two-person HRT security team will be with you in the main house 24/7. Mark and I will be on days, Rick and Mac on nights. We’ll also have field agents spaced around the fence to secure the perimeter of the property. There are a few ground rules too.” Coop turned to Mark. “If you’re done stuffing your face, why don’t you run over them while I finish eating?”
“Hey, I’m a growing boy.” Mark winked at Monica, and she managed to give him a whisper of a smile as he laid down his fork. “The rules are simple. Stay inside unless you’re with one of us. Sections of the security system in the house will be left on, and opening an outside door will trip the alarm. We’ll deactivate it only to let people in and out. You have free run of the house, and someone will always be a shout away. Don’t hesitate to call for us if anything—and I mean anything—spooks you.”
“Do you think they’ll be able to figure out where I am?”
“Not if we can help it.” Coop polished off the last bite of his food, pushed his plate away, and folded his hands on the desk. His jacket had been discarded long ago, and he’d loosened his tie and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. The fine sprinkling of dark hair on his muscular forearms held Monica’s attention for a brief moment before she raised her head and waited for him to continue.
“We don’t think we were followed here, but considering these people have fooled us once, we’re not assuming anything. We’ll leave here between five and six, when the bulk of the employees go home, disguised, and we’ll coordinate departures to ensure more than a dozen cars leave when we do. If anyone is watching, we’re not going to make it easy for them to spot you—or to follow. I’ll be in the car behind you, Mark will leave separately. Later this evening, we’ll rendezvous at the safe house.”
“But what if they do manage to follow us?”
“All agents are trained to watch for—and lose—tails.” He paused, and she sensed an internal debate was taking place. “But we’re not perfect, as today proved. When we talked to our boss earlier, he mentioned the possibility of moving you to the Quantico Marine base. It’s not the protection your father asked for, but if you’re more comfortable going that route, I can put in a call to Les.”
Noting Mark’s surprised expression, Monica frowned. “Is that what you recommend?”
“Security there is very tight.” He sidestepped her question.
“Would you . . . and Mark . . . be there?”
“No. That’s a military operation. But they have good people.”
She considered the offer. “Do you think the risk is higher if I choose the safe house?”
“We’ll minimize it as much as we can. Using agents from other towns for perimeter security will help. No one should be looking to those offices to provide any clues about your whereabouts.”
As a diplomat’s daughter, Monica had been on enough military bases in her life to know they were like small towns—lots of people, lots of hustle and bustle. Security was tight, especially at access points, but it could be breached. And she doubted she’d have the kind of dedicated, one-on-one protection there that the HRT and field agents would provide at the safe house.
Either way, there was risk, she realized. But she’d rather trust Coop and the FBI to protect her than a bunch of Marines she didn’t know at Quantico.
“I’ll go with the safe house.”
“You’re sure?” Coop’s assessing stare drilled her.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes. I’d rather be with you guys.”
A flash of warmth shot through his eyes before he angled away to sort through the papers on the table. Retrieving a blank piece, he pulled a pen from his pocket and placed both items in front of her. “Put together a list of anything you need—clothes, toiletries, whatever—and we’ll see it’s taken care of. Sizes too. If this goes on beyond—”
He paused and pulled his BlackBerry from its holster. As he checked the number of the incoming call, a muscle in his jaw tightened. “It’s the embassy in Kabul.” He pressed the talk button. “Cooper here . . . We’re trying to find out, sir. The Evidence Response Team is on the scene, and we’re preparing to transport Ms. Callahan to a safe house . . . Yes, sir. I understand. We’re doing our best.”
“Coop.” Monica touched his elbow. “Let me talk to him.”
Slanting a look over his shoulder, Coop spoke into the phone. “Sir, your daughter is here now, and she’d like
to speak with you.”
Silence fell in the room.
“Sir?” Coop listened, then handed the phone to Monica. “We’ll be in the hall.”
She took the phone and waited to speak until the door clicked shut behind the two men.
“It’s Monica.”
“Monica.” Her father breathed the word more than said it. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. And the FBI is doing everything it can to protect me. What happened at my house was . . . bizarre.”
“It could have been fatal.”
She flinched at his blunt, but truthful, assessment. “Everyone understands that. But I don’t know how it could have been avoided. The precautions that have been taken to protect me are very elaborate.” She took a deep breath, praying for the strength to let go of bitterness and the courage to reach out. “I was going to call you earlier, before all this happened. I wanted to thank you for going to that bazaar. You took a huge risk.”
“It was worth it.”
The quiet, heartfelt words touched a place deep inside Monica, and she was jolted by a sudden insight. He hadn’t said I love you. But she heard his unspoken message. You were worth it. Had he sent her such veiled messages in the past too? she wondered, shaken. Messages she’d been deaf to?
All at once, the elusive theme she’d been trying for weeks to nail down for her next book sharpened into focus: listening with the heart as well as the ears. It seemed that was a lesson she needed to learn too.
“I’ve been thinking a lot over the past few days about our relationship, and I . . . I’m sorry we’ve lost touch.”
“I’m sorry too. And the fault is mine, Monica.”
“Not all of it.”
“I disagree. But maybe . . . after this is all over . . . we could debate the point in person. I’ll be back in Washington for a debriefing as soon as the situation is resolved. If you have a free evening, perhaps we could meet for dinner. Or coffee, if you prefer.”
She heard his trepidation, understood from the options he’d offered that he would meet her on her terms. That he didn’t want to push her beyond her comfort level. But all at once she felt the need to push herself. “Dinner would be nice.”
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