by Lila Dubois
Alexander accepted the American passport. Hidden on her person. That meant Fisher, or one of his men, had searched her. Put their hands on her. Alexander’s jaw clenched.
He opened the book, turning it to read the inside front cover.
The picture was undeniably her, thought the blank expression wasn’t one he’d seen on her face.
Magdalena Moreau. U.S. citizen. According to her date of birth she really was thirty-one, and had been born in the state of Georgia.
She hadn’t lied about where she was from, and her legal name was close to the name she’d given—Magdalena to Alena, Moreau to Moore.
He closed the book and tossed it back to Fischer. “There was an article in Forbes about her. Her photo, but the name was Alena Moore.”
“I’ll have someone look into it.”
“What else?” Alexander asked.
“What else…do we know?” Fischer was only momentarily confused by his succinct question. “There’s very little available information. So little that I suspect someone scrubbed her digital footprint, though the tech team would need to confirm that.”
Alexander nodded for Fischer to continue when he paused.
“We're reaching out to contacts who might be able to access U.S. records that we cannot, but for now we know that Magdalena Moreau is well traveled based on the stamps in the passport. Her occupation, and this is self-reported on her only social media site, is as a consultant.”
“Consulting on what?”
“That we don't know, sir.”
“Find out.”
“We will. As I said, we're reaching out to colleagues who should be able to access her financial information, and based on that we will know who paid her, and therefore extrapolate what she was paid to do. We also have a contact in SCIP, who can tell us if she’s a member.”
He’d heard of SCIP—Strategic and Competitive Intelligence Professionals. It was supposedly a world-wide organization—a non-profit of all ridiculous things—but primarily American.
“Find out if she works for the U.S. government.”
Fischer hesitated. “If she's employed by the C.I.A., it will take more than trading favors with an American colleague to access that information.”
“Find. Out.”
Alexander turned away, aware that his terse statements, and probably unreasonable demands, weren’t helping. Nor was the fact that he was still in his pajamas.
Her red pashmina lay on the table.
The urge to go to her, to check on her, was nearly overwhelming. He squashed it, even as he grabbed the scarf.
He needed to be dressed. He needed his cellphone.
He needed to find that burning cold anger once more, let it take the reins before his stupid heart made him do something idiotic—like demand the security team focus on her comfort rather than keeping her securely in custody.
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
Fischer nodded, and Alexander stalked from the room. He took the stairs two at a time, and was breathing heavily by the time he reached his floor. He glanced back, wondering if he should run the stairs a few more times, let physical exertion work off some of the excess emotions.
No, that was a crutch. He would master his emotions, and deal with Alena—Magdalena—as if she were a stranger.
Not just a stranger. An adversary.
She was the enemy, and he would treat her appropriately.
Chapter 2
She was losing this round.
Alena twisted her wrists, and the guard cleared his throat. When she looked up, he shook his head. If he’d left her alone she was fairly certain she could get out of the zip tie cuffs, though they were the wider kind used by law enforcement rather than the narrower ones common in home improvement stores.
Alena grinned at him, showing teeth, then sat back.
The storage closet was as nondescript as a the title suggested, though the metal shelving on either side of her had been cleared of boxes of cleaning and office supplies. She supposed it was a compliment that they thought she was dangerous enough that she might be able to use a box of copier toner to escape.
Alena tapped her fingers against the arms of the chair.
She was that dangerous combination of scared and bored. Boredom had set in about half an hour ago, while fear had been her companion for hours.
No, she’d been afraid longer than that.
She’d been afraid since that first night with Alexander, when she realized what explosive chemistry they had.
She’d been afraid of her own feelings. Afraid of what she’d do when she walked away from him. Afraid of saying goodbye.
Her current situation wasn’t complete worst-case scenario, but it was damnably close.
“What if I need to use the bathroom?” Alena asked her guard in German. The big man, wearing what looked like riot gear, complete with helmet, had his back to the door, his body a physical barrier to her escape, as if being zip-tied to a chair wasn’t enough.
He didn’t reply.
If she could just talk to Alexander…
She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest, her tangled hair falling forward, hopefully shielding her face and hiding her expression.
She would probably never see Alexander again. They’d searched her and found her passport belt. That meant they now had her legal name. That wasn't much, because she had almost no digital “footprint” as people in the business would have said.
If they dug enough, they’d find out who her father was, but if they pulled that thread, they risked alerting the Secret Service. U.S. senators had tight security, and were routinely monitored for data breaches and any potential threat.
Still, her status as bastard daughter of a senator wasn’t going to get them the answers they really wanted.
Following the money wouldn’t work either, since she had Cayman and Swiss accounts. She and Alexander used some of the same banks. Her travel history wouldn't be hard to find—they had her passport after all—but everything else she did was hidden by design. She’d gotten where she was thanks to in-person, word-of-mouth recommendations.
“Off the record, on the QT, and very hush-hush.”
She snorted in amusement at her own thoughts, but quickly sobered. By now, Alexander was talking to the authorities. The question was, which authorities?
Austria had, in the mid-2000s, combined their two police forces—the urban Polizei and rural Gendarmerie—plus other investigative and security services, into the BPOL, or Bundespolizei—the Federal Police.
Though based in Austria, Wagner Global operated import and export shipping services all over Eastern Europe, along the Danube, the Black Sea, and in the past twenty years or so, expanded into the Mediterranean and North Africa.
Given that she’d been stealing data from a company with such expansive reach, this would get kicked up the food chain. From the Austrian federal police to one of their military intelligence organizations, probably the BVT, which was their counterterrorism group, and from there, to Interpol.
Once that happened she would be—
The knock at the door made her lift her head.
The guard reached back without taking his eyes off her and opened the door a crack. Someone spoke in German, so low that she couldn’t hear what was said, and the guard replied, “Jawohl.”
Alena straightened her shoulders, shaking her hair back—the bun had finally fallen apart when they’d been binding her to the chair—and prepared herself to be questioned.
Rather than release her, the security team wheeled the chair she was strapped to back into the conference room.
If he’d expected her to look cowed, he was a fool. Though at this point, his status as fucking idiot was well established.
Alena was calm and composed. She gave the impression that the security guards were her servants, and the rolling conference chair the litter in which she was carried through the crowd.
Alexander’s hand curled into a fist as he fought twin impuls
es to stroke her cheek while asking her if she was alright and slap the small, amused smile off her face.
When he’d gone upstairs to change, all he’d been able to see was her. On her knees in the living room. Running her hands along books in his library. On the guest bed, astride him, riding him.
She’d tainted his home, and that had brought the cold anger forward.
Fischer looked at the guard in the corner, who hit record on the small camera set up on the conference table.
“Frau Moreau, Bitte beantworten Sie die Fragen.”
Ms Moreau, answer the questions.
Alena—Magdalena—screwed her face up. “I’m so sorry, Mr…?”
Fischer didn’t offer his name. Alena’s mouth quirked and she inclined her head in a brief nod as if she were acknowledging a touch in a fencing match.
“My German isn’t good. I’ll do my best, but…” She shrugged.
Why wasn’t she scared?
He wanted her scared. He wanted her to feel something as hostile and bleak as the anger coursing through him.
“Very well, we will continue in English,” Fischer said. “What is your name?”
“Magdalena Moreau. I also go by Alena Moore.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I’m a consultant.”
“What type of consultant?”
“That's confidential.”
“What is your interest in Wagner Global?”
“I don't have any particular interest in the company. I just needed a little bit of information.”
“What information?”
“That's classified.”
“Under what authority is the information classified?”
“My own personal guarantee.”
Fischer paused for a moment.
“Is this information for yourself or for a client?”
“You don't really expect me to answer that one, do you?”
“Where did you send the data packets?”
She stiffened, a slight movement that he wouldn't have seen if he wasn’t staring at her so intently.
“Figure that out already? Well good for you, gentlemen.”
“Where did you send the data stolen from the Wagner Global servers?”
“That’s confidential.”
“What is your relation to Kamil Frye?”
Alena blinked in surprise. “Who?”
Was that surprise real or fake?
“What is your relation to Samad Bowden?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea who those people are.”
They were executives for Wagner Globals biggest rivals, and individuals most likely to have initiated corporate espionage.
“What will the information you stole be used for?”
“It will be used for good, not evil. I know you might not trust me, but I do promise that much.”
“Trust you?” Alexander snarled. Frigid rage, howling through him like an arctic gale, made his hands shake, the muscles in his arms quiver. “I do not, not… I do not—we will not—trust you.” Damn it. He was stumbling over his words, and that made him feel even stupider, which in turn added to his anger.
The slightly amused, confident mask dropped and her expression turned mournful. “Alexander, I’m so sorry. I meant what I said, what was between us when...” She glanced at the camera, the guards, and then back to him. “When we…scened…together I never lied to you. That was all true.”
He stared at her forehead, worried that if he met her eyes he’d be taken in by her deceit. She was a good actress.
And part of him wanted to believe.
“How did you learn about Wagner Global’s security?” Fischer asked.
She signed, shoulder dropping for a moment before she took a deep breath and shifted her attention back to the security commander. “I bribed people.”
“Who?”
“It would hardly be kind of me to reveal their names after they were so helpful. Oh, I will say the bribes were not small amounts.”
Alexander took his phone from the pocket of his slacks and sent a quick message to the head of employee services asking her to reach out to each facility—there were several dozen spread over five countries—and ask for the names of anyone who’d quit recently, gone on a last-minute expensive vacation, or made a large-ticket purchase. They'd start there and if needed would audit the financials of everyone who worked for him from the vice presidents down to the dockworkers and truck drivers.
“How did you know there was a server located here?”
“More bribes.”
“Did you approach Mr. Wagner with the intention of deceiving him into allowing you access to his home?”
Alexander could feel it when she turned her attention to him, the weight of her gaze causing him to clutch his phone so tight his fingertips turned white.
“Yes,” she answered softly.
“Did you have any plans to harm Mr. Wagner?”
“No, though I'm sure I hurt him. That was the last thing I wanted.”
“If you had not been caught, what were you planning to do?”
“Exactly what I told him I would do—have his driver take me to the airport.”
“And where would you be flying to?”
“I hadn't decided. I don't have a ticket booked, I would have done it when I got to the airport.”
Fischer was quiet for a moment, then started questioning over again. Alena appeared bored, and her answers were the same the second time around.
And the third.
An hour later, when they started the fourth round of questioning, Alexander accepted that Fischer wasn’t going to get any answers out of her. Not like this.
“Stop.” Alexander motioned for Fischer to join him out in the hall.
“Sir,” Fischer started, “we can bring in an interrogation specialist, or we can—”
“Interrogation specialist?”
“A former detective we keep on retainer. I’m not proposing anything criminal.”
Alexander nodded. He wouldn’t let anyone torture information out of her. He found that morally reprehensible. And besides, he was the only person who should be allowed to torture her.
Alexander stiffened at that thought.
“We will turn her over to the federal police. You will need to file a report of the break-in, and we may need to give them the security footage. Given your international ties, the investigation will most likely be elevated to another organization.”
“Interpol?”
“Possibly. If there’s any possible connection to terrorism then the BVT may get involved.”
Terrorism. Few people knew that supply lines were one of the most vulnerable points in modern society. It wouldn’t be flashy terrorism the way blowing up a building was, but it would be highly effective. Take out a few key ports and the ability of companies like his to move massive quantities of goods, particularly food products, would be crippled. While repairs were made or alternate ingress and egress arrangements were being found, bread, milk and eggs would start to disappear in import countries. That would in turn lead to a run on scarce goods, wiping out the remaining supply.
In the net export countries that made more grain, produce or milk than they could consume, the value of goods would plummet, crashing the agricultural part of the economy. There were only a handful of countries who didn’t either heavily import or export goods, and therefore could survive if worldwide supply lines were compromised.
After that would come civil unrest and riots.
Alexander closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Alena wasn't a terrorist.
It was naïve of him, given what he saw, given the cool way she handled the interrogation, but he just couldn't bring himself to believe that she'd seduced him and used him as a way to begin a world-wide terrorist attack.
Put in that perspective, corporate spy hired by his rivals was the far less horrifying option.
Alexander open his eyes, and looked at Fisher, who had a professiona
l, blank expression. The man hadn't asked exactly how Alena has gotten him to bring her into the house. He had to tell someone, but Fisher was smart enough not to ask embarrassing questions of a man who could easily report dissatisfaction to Fisher’s boss’s boss, or altogether terminate the relationship between Wagner Global and RTW Security.
Still, the question needed to be asked. Fischer would probably pass that grim duty off to those higher up the food chain. Damn it, that meant Zakaria was going to show up.
Or maybe they’d leave it to the Federal Police.
They’d ask him how and where he met her. He could say a private club, and hope everyone was cowed enough not to press the issue. But what if they asked her? Would she expose the Orchid Club, essentially destroying the organization that had, for years, been his secret haven?
“There are things she knows I would rather the BVT not be told.”
Fischer grimaced slightly. “Once we turn her over we will have no control over what she does or does not say to them.”
And that was a problem.
A very big problem, that risked not only his privacy, but that of every other member.
The Orchid Club allowed sex acts that were illegal in countries that still had sodomy laws. Austria was liberal in that respect—prostitution was legal and had been since the late 1800s. The same wasn’t true for all the places Orchid Club events had taken place. The hosts of events in applicable countries—he been to one in Rabat, Morocco, another in Alexandria, Egypt—might face criminal charges, based on sodomy laws, if information about their activities and proclivities were made public.
“It’s not just myself I’m worried for,” Alexander said.
Fischer looked at him and nodded slowly.
The more he ran through the possibilities of what could happen once Alena was turned over to the authorities, the more certain he became that the benefits outweighed the risks.
There was an alternative.
“Can you track where she sent the data?”
Fischer hesitated. “I’m not sure. It’s not my area.”
“Find out.”
Fischer nodded and reached into a pocket on his vest, then hesitated. “You’re proposing we do not involve the authorities?”