Dangerous to Know

by Merline Lovelace

  “You’d better let intel brief you,” the chief replied evasively. Not meeting her eyes, he held out a cobalt blue St. John knit tunic with a double row of gold buttons.

  Maggie poked her head through the square-cut neck of the tunic and eyed the pudgy chief suspiciously.

  “What kind of diet?” she repeated. “Come on, spill it.”

  “She’s, uh, a vegetarian.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “It’s true, I swear. It’s not public knowledge because Mrs. Grant doesn’t want to get the beef and poultry lobby groups up in arms.”

  “Wonderful,” Maggie muttered.

  While she wouldn’t exactly classify herself as a junk food junkie—after all, she did enjoy sampling Washington’s wonderful diversity of restaurants—Maggie preferred hamburgers and pizzas to vegetables any day. In fact, she’d recently discovered that she was violently allergic to a distant relative of the carrot family.

  “It’s only for two weeks,” the frizzy-haired wizard reminded her.

  “Oh, sure. What’s a mere two weeks without real food?”

  Sucking in her tummy to ease the bite of the constrictive corset, Maggie headed for the laboratory in the basement of the town house to check out her equipment for this mission.

  A spear of regret lanced through her when she surrendered her faithful Smith & Wesson .22 automatic. Although small, when loaded with hollow-point long-rifle stingers, the weapon could cause as much tissue damage as a .38 Police Special. But not even the high-tech masterminds in the Special Devices Lab could figure out how to shield her Smith & Wesson from the sophisticated security screens that surrounded the vice president. In its place, Maggie was issued a palm-size, .22-caliber derringer.

  “This is the same model Mrs. Grant keeps in her California home,” the chief of Special Devices told her. “It’s single-action, with a spur trigger, and carries five rounds.”

  After a few practice rounds at the firing range, Maggie felt comfortable with the derringer. But she felt decidedly uncomfortable with the fact that she wouldn’t have a weapon in her possession until she reached California. For the first time, she was going out on a mission naked. All she had to protect her from a potential assassin was her training, her instincts and her wits.

  And Adam.

  He joined her at the range a few moments later. The acrid scent of cordite filled the air as Maggie watched him test fire the small, rapid-fire Heckler & Koch 9 mm Special Devices had issued him. Legs spread, arms lifted, he pumped round after round into the targets. His tight expression underscored the grim reality of her mission.

  Back in the lab, Special Devices fitted Maggie with the combination directional beeper and body bug they’d hurriedly devised for this mission. To her amazement, she discovered that they’d soldered a state-of-the-art miniaturized radio transmitter/ receiver to the inside of a wide gold wedding band.

  “It’s identical to the one Mrs. Grant wears,” the technician explained.

  Maggie turned the heavy gold band over and over in the palm of her hand, but couldn’t find any trace of the tiny embedded device. She did, however, see the inscription engraved on the inside. Her heart thumped painfully as she read the words Now, and forever.

  How tragic, she thought. The woman who wore this ring, or one identical to it, hadn’t had much of a forever with her husband. Some years older than his attractive young wife, Harold Grant had died while still in his mid-thirties. They’d had only a few good years together, yet his widow had never remarried, and still wore her wedding band.

  “Because the bug is so small,” the head of Special Devices explained, “its range is more limited than we’d like. You’ll be able to communicate only with the chief, who’ll relay the necessary information to OMEGA headquarters via his own, more powerful device.”

  “Which is why we won’t be more than a few miles apart during this entire operation,” Adam said, coming to stand beside her. He took the ring from her unresisting fingers to examine it himself.

  Maggie frowned, not entirely sure she liked this turn of events. She was used to operating independently in the field. Very independently. The idea of passing all her communications through Adam was a little unsettling.

  She slanted him a quick speculative look as he hefted the gold band in his palm. She’d worked for and with Adam Ridgeway for three years now. In the process, she’d learned to respect his sharp, incisive knowledge of field operations. Like the other OMEGA operatives, she trusted him with her life every time he sent her into the field.

  Still, for all her personal and very private admiration of Adam, Maggie had to admit they sometimes clashed professionally. They’d had more than a few disagreements in the past over her occasionally unorthodox methods in the field. In fact, the only times any of the OMEGA agents had ever seen Adam come close to losing his legendary cool were during Maggie’s mission debriefs.

  Well, the next few weeks would no doubt provide a severe test of his restraint, she thought. She was the field operative on this mission, and she fully intended to follow her instincts, just as she always had. Her generous mouth curved in a private smile. She’d always hoped to be on the scene when the iron-spined Adam Ridgeway’s control finally slipped its leash.

  Maybe, just maybe, she would be.

  He caught her sideways glance. “Let’s see how well this works,” he said, holding out his hand.

  A funny little quiver darted through her stomach as she placed her left hand in Adam’s right. His palm felt warm and smooth beneath her fingertips, like supple, well-tanned leather. Nibbling on her lower lip, she watched him slide the gold band over the knuckle of her ring finger. When it slipped into place, his hand closed over hers.

  Startled by both the tensile strength of his hold and the intimacy of the gesture, Maggie glanced up at the face so close to her own. His blue eyes locked with hers.

  A voice at her shoulder jerked her attention back to the hovering technicians. “How does it feel?”

  Her hand slipped from Adam’s hold. “Fine.”

  Actually, the heavy circle felt odd. Unfamiliar. Maggie rarely wore jewelry, and when she did, it was more the funky, fun kind. This solid ounce of precious metal weighting her hand was a new experience for her. Using her thumb, she twisted the ring around her finger. It fit perfectly. Not too tight, not too loose. Yet when she tried to remove it, the thing balked at her knuckle.

  “The inside of the band is curved to slide on easily, but that sucker won’t ever come off,” the team chief told her with a smug grin.

  Her newly dyed dark red brows snapped together. “What?”

  “Not without a special lubricant.”

  “Wait a minute. This special lubricant isn’t another one of your no-fail formulas, is it? Like the solvent that was supposed to instantly remove the tattoo you put on my chin? It took three months for the thing to fade completely.”

  The technician waved a hand to dismiss that minor inconvenience. “The lubricant will work, I’m sure.”

  “You’re sure? You mean you haven’t tested it yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, we haven’t quite developed it yet. But we will by the time this mission is over. Besides, the chief suggested we size the ring like that.”

  “Oh, he did?” She turned to the man at her side, her brows arching.

  “So you won’t have to worry about losing it,” Adam said easily. “And I don’t have to worry about losing you.”

  After another round with intelligence and a final mission prebrief with Jake and Adam, Maggie pulled on the cobalt blue pea jacket that matched her designer knit outfit and slid into the back seat of a limo. A slow, simmering excitement percolated through her veins during the ride to the target point. She locked her gloved hands in her lap to keep from beating a nervous tattoo on the leather armrest and stared out at a capital still blanketed by a layer of white, now more slush than snow.

  They’d decided to make the switch at the vice president’s official residence.
The old executive office building, where the VP’s office and staff were located, swarmed with people all day and far into the night. By contrast, the pillared, three-story residence tucked away on the wooded grounds of the naval observatory in northwest Washington had limited access and much less traffic.

  Outside of OMEGA, only three people knew exactly when and how the switch would take place. The vice president, of course. Lillian Roth, Mrs. Grant’s personal assistant and dresser. And the SAIC—the special agent in charge of her personal security detail—William “Buck” Evans.

  Maggie, Adam and Jake had debated strenuously whether or not to read Buck Evans into the script. With the treasury secretary himself under suspicion, they hesitated to include anyone in his chain of command in this deep-cover operation. But Mrs. Grant had insisted, and the president himself had concurred.

  Evans had been assigned to the vice president’s detail since the early days of the campaign. At one whistle-stop, he’d thrown himself in front of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound crazy who objected to her stand in favor of government subsidies for AIDS research and treatment. In the ensuing brawl, the protester had chewed off the tip of Buck’s ear. The agent had declined cosmetic surgery, claiming that the mangled ear added to his character. From that day on, he’d been permanently assigned to Taylor Grant’s detail, and she trusted him with her life.

  Besides, the vice president had said tartly, without Buck’s assistance, it would be impossible to pull off this masquerade. As SAIC, he screened the agents assigned to her protective detail, approved all security procedures and set the duty schedules. He could ensure that the people accompanying the VP on her long-planned vacation were the ones least familiar with the twists and turns of her personality. He would also provide the real Mrs. Grant with protection during her secret treaty negotiations at Camp David.

  So when Maggie’s limo drove around to the back of the turreted turn-of-the-century mansion that served as the vice president’s official residence, it was Buck Evans who stepped out of the shadows and yanked open the rear door. Digging a hand into her arm, he half helped, half hauled her out of the back seat.

  “I’ve diverted the surveillance cameras. Let’s get you upstairs, fast.”

  He hustled her through a side door, past a darkened room and up a set of narrow stairs. After scanning the wide hallway that ran the length of the second floor, he tugged her after him, toward a door set halfway down the hall.

  “Go on inside. I’ll reset the cameras, then come back for Mrs. Grant when she calls.”

  Maggie had barely stepped into a small foyer before the door shut behind her. She stood still for a moment, trying to slow her pounding heart. From her breathless state, she guessed that the total elapsed time from the moment Buck Evans pulled open the limo’s door until he shut this one behind her had been less than a minute.

  “Harrumph!”

  At the sudden sound, Maggie spun to the left and dropped into an instinctive crouch. Her hand reached for her weapon before she remembered she wasn’t armed.

  “So you’re the one!”

  A diminutive figure in a severely cut navy blue suit, thick-soled lace-up shoes, and an unruly mass of steel gray curls stood framed in a set of glass-paned French doors. She held herself ramrod straight, her chin tilted at a belligerent angle and her mouth thinned to a tight line as she surveyed the newcomer from the tip of her auburn head to the toes of her black leather boots.

  Maggie straightened slowly. From her intelligence briefings, she recognized the other woman instantly. Lillian Roth, the vice president’s personal confidante and assistant for almost twenty years. The sixty-three-year-old woman had appeared rather formidable in the few photographs intel had dug up of her. Maggie now discovered that the photos hadn’t really captured the full force of Lillian’s character. In person, she radiated all the warmth and charm of a Marine Corps drill sergeant on a bad hair day.

  “Well, I must say you’ve achieved a startling resemblance,” the dresser said with a small sniff. “But it takes more than mere physical presence to emulate someone of Mrs. Grant’s stature.”

  “I agree completely.”

  Maggie’s cool reply duplicated exactly the vice president’s voice and intonation. Lillian’s gray brows rose, but she obviously couldn’t bring herself to unbend enough to praise what Maggie considered a rather impressive performance.

  “I’ll take your coat. The vice president is waiting for you in her sitting room.”

  Having memorized the floor plans of the residence, Maggie walked confidently through the double doors into a tall-ceilinged, airy room. She paused just past the threshold, visually cataloging the fixtures and furniture in her mind. Although an attack on the VP was unlikely in this secure environment, Maggie wasn’t about to take any chances. She’d spend only one night here, but she wanted to be able to find her way around these rooms in total darkness if she had to.

  The furnishings in the spacious sitting room were a tribute to Taylor Grant’s exquisite taste and vibrant personality. A framed print of Monet’s famous water lilies of Giverny hung in a lighted alcove between tall curtained windows. Accent pieces scattered throughout the room took their cue from this masterpiece of swirling blues and greens and purples. A magnificent green jade Chinese temple dog, one paw resting imperiously on a round ball, dominated the huge coffee table set between two facing sofas, which were covered in a shimmering blue-and-purple plaid. A collection of crystal candlesticks in varying shapes and sizes decorated the white-painted wood mantel, reflecting the light from the fire in a rainbow of glowing colors.

  But it was the woman standing beside the fireplace who drew Maggie’s attention. For an eerie moment, she felt as though she were looking at her own reflection through a large invisible mirror.

  The vice president wore royal blue pleated slacks and tunic exactly like the one Field Dress had procured for Maggie. Overhead spots highlighted the subtle gold tints in her wine-colored hair, which was styled in the simple, elegant shag the OMEGA agent now sported. Her eyes, deepened to a dusky violet by the bold color of her outfit, stared at Maggie with the same unwavering scrutiny.

  For a long moment, neither woman spoke. Then Mrs. Grant’s full mouth twisted.

  “It’s kind of a shock, isn’t it? Every woman wants to think she’s unique. Special in her own way. Yet here we are, two identical clones.”

  “Not quite identical,” Maggie replied, smiling. “Underneath this very flattering outfit, I’m trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

  The vice president’s lips quirked in response. Without thinking, Maggie duplicated the small smile.

  Mrs. Grant’s eyes widened. “Good grief, you are real, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Adam said you were good,” the vice president murmured, “but I see now that was somewhat of an understatement.”

  Adam, Maggie noted. Not the special envoy. Not even Adam Ridgeway. Just that casual, familiar Adam. A little too familiar, in her opinion.

  Taylor Grant gestured toward one of the sofas, then took the other. “You go by the code name Chameleon, don’t you?”

  Maggie nodded. No one, not even the president, knew the OMEGA operatives’ real names or civilian covers. That simple but rigid policy protected the president in the event anything should go wrong on a mission. It protected the agents, as well. With OMEGA maintaining absolute control over such privileged information, they didn’t have to worry about the inevitable leaks that plagued the CIA or FBI.

  “Well, I can certainly understand how you earned that particular designation,” the vice president said. She eyed Maggie for a moment, her expression uncompromising. “You understand that I’m not happy about this charade? At all?”

  “So I was told.”

  “If my presence at these secret treaty negotiations wasn’t so necessary, I wouldn’t allow you to be used as a decoy like this. I’ve never backed away from a challenge…or a threat…in my life.”

  “I know that
, Mrs. Grant.”

  For all her refined appearance and well-known sense of humor, this woman was as tough and as resilient as they came. She’d battled her way up through the political ranks on her own, without a prominent family name or fortune to ease her way. Obviously, she didn’t like someone else taking the heat for her. Her deep brown eyes speared Maggie.

  “I understand I have approximately twenty minutes to fill you in on the more intimate details of my life.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The vice president’s jaw tightened. “I’m not used to sharing this kind of information,” she said after a moment. “With anyone. Politics doesn’t encourage a person to reveal her innermost secrets.”

  “Whatever you tell me doesn’t go beyond this room,” Maggie said with quiet assurance.

  She and Adam had agreed that this half hour with the vice president would be private, unrecorded. The little bug in her ring wouldn’t activate until Mrs. Grant left the compound. Maggie’s innate honesty compelled her to add a kicker, however.

  “Unless you tell me something that will help identify the man who called you this morning.”

  An emotion that wasn’t quite fear, but was something pretty close to it, rippled across the vice president’s face as she glanced at the phone on a table beside the sofa. Maggie could only admire the vice president’s courage as she mastered that brief, unguarded emotion and turned away from the telephone with a contemptuous look.

  “I don’t like being threatened any more than I like revealing the details of my private life.”

  Realizing that they weren’t making much headway, Maggie sat up straight, tucked her hands into her sleeves and assumed a soulful expression.

  “I once went underground in a convent. If it helps any, just think of me as a religiosa, a sort of female father confessor.”

  Some of the stiffness went out of Mrs. Grant’s slender frame. “Somehow I can’t see you as a nun,” she drawled.

  “It wasn’t my favorite assignment,” Maggie admitted with a grin, abandoning her postulant’s pose. “Those wool habits itch like the dickens.”