by Lynn Mason
The doors opened and they stepped into the white scanning cubicle. Sydney couldn't take it anymore. As they stood on the large black circle, letting the red sensor light wash over them, she leaned toward him and laid a hand on his elbow. “Um, hey,” she said with a hopeful grin. “I'm really glad you're back, Noah.”
He turned and looked at her just as the front wall of the cubicle opened, revealing the noise and bustle of headquarters. “I am too,” he murmured, his eyes staring right into hers. Sydney smiled. The flutters she'd felt in Paris returned at maximum strength. “But could you do something for me?” he asked, his voice low and serious.
“Sure,” she breathed in reply.
“You should probably call me Agent Hicks,” he said, and then calmly stepped out into the corridor.
Sydney couldn't move. Agent Hicks? But that was so impersonal. In Paris he'd been Noah. Didn't their near-death experience together mean anything?
She forced her limbs to propel her out of the scanning chamber and down the hall after Noah. Agent Hicks. Whoever he was. He certainly didn't seem like the same guy she'd hit it off with in Paris.
Don't freak out. It's no big deal, she told herself. But the more she tried to push it from her mind, the more she ended up obsessing. What exactly had he meant? That she was being too forward? Amateurish? Either way, it was a big deal.
They entered the op-tech room and sat down. Sydney was trying hard not to look at Noah, focusing instead on the newswire reports that were scrolling across the computer screen in front of her. It was just the default setting for the monitors, but Sydney would rather pretend to be riveted to the details of a train derailment in Germany than let Noah see how much he had hurt her. Screw it. If he wanted to be in work mode, fine. She'd be all current-events research and no small talk.
She could feel his eyes on her. He even coughed and shifted in his seat a couple of times as if he was going to say something but then changed his mind. Still she wouldn't look up.
To think she'd been fantasizing for days about seeing him again. She'd figured if anything, things could ease up more between them now that the mission was over. She'd envisioned them joking around in the corridors and reliving some of the most harrowing moments of the mission. She'd even had hopes of them meeting after work for coffee or dinner, where they could open up about their lives and really get to know one another.
She had not counted on Noah going all protocol on her.
Noah cleared his throat. “I wonder what's taking so long.”
Sydney made herself look at him. He sat slouched in his chair, left ankle on right knee, lazily rapping his pen against the side of the conference table. As usual, his rocky features were impossible to read.
“Wilson's really making us wait today, huh?” he added, slowly twisting his chair back and forth.
“Mmm. Yeah,” she replied, raising her eyebrows. “Really unprofessional of him, don't you think?”
She had a split second to savor the bewildered expression on Noah's face before the door flew open and Wilson lumbered into the room. “Hicks, Bristow,” he said, nodding at each of them. “I've just read your report,” he added, gesturing toward Noah with a stapled document in his right hand. “Excellent work. Both of you.”
“Thanks,” Sydney replied. Noah nodded, his eyes darting over to Sydney before focusing back on Wilson.
“I know we'd planned for an official debriefing today, but something has just come up.” Wilson sat down at the head of the table and hit a button on the control panel in front of him. The photo of a woman in her mid twenties appeared on each of the room's computer screens.
“This photo was taken today,” Wilson said. Sydney thought the woman looked incredibly cold and angry for someone so young. Her short dark hair emphasized the stiff, angular lines of her face. Her eyes were hard and narrowed. And small fissures crept from the sides of her nose to the corners of her full-lipped mouth, giving the look of a permanent scowl.
“Adriana Lizuca Nichita,” Wilson explained. “Heiress of the former ruling Nichita family of Romania. She's been living in exile since she was an adolescent. No longer welcome in her country, Nichita has nonetheless been clinging to power in Europe by using her vast fortune in hidden bank accounts to help finance clandestine deals in arms, drugs, and military and industrial intelligence. Yesterday, SD-6 sources managed to intercept a communication to her. However, Adriana Nichita has been in secret CIA custody for two days, charged with trying to bribe a high-ranking U.S. intelligence officer, so she never received the message.”
“What did the communication contain?” Noah asked, frowning at his monitor.
Wilson hit a switch. Instantly a map of Europe materialized on the screens, zooming in on a tiny, landlocked country on the Balkan Peninsula. “What do you know about the nation of Suratia?” he asked.
Noah sat up straight, peering at Wilson with new interest. “An ancient principality that has had the same ruling family since the sixteenth century. Since it's unable to compete with the larger countries in the European market, Suratia has become famous as a hotbed of illegal activity. For over a century it has had a policy of averting its eyes while black marketers, arms merchants, mobsters, and black-op spies do their dealings. Any fugitive can find safe haven inside its borders. In exchange, these underworld organizations pay quarterly sums of money, arms, or other goods and follow a strict hands-off policy on Suratia's people and property.” He looked right at Wilson, his bushy brows raising to perfect arches. “Why? How are they involved?”
Wilson grasped his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Last week a private plane belonging to the ruling monarch, Prince Xavier, crashed after takeoff. Prince Xavier lies in a coma and is not expected to survive. The heir to the throne, his oldest son, Kristophe, was killed. Next in line to succeed him is his second son, Prince Frederique. Not much is known about Frederique except that he has always been passionate about putting an end to this back-door corruption. He is young and popular, especially with Suratia's military force, which, although small, is very nicely equipped. Obviously, the European underworld is in a panic.”
He pressed the control button once again, and a photo of a steely-eyed man with a meticulously combed mustache appeared before them. “Herbert von Muller,” Wilson went on. “His black market would seriously suffer from Suratia's policy change. To deal with the situation, he has scheduled a summit meeting between underworld representatives at one of his estates—the remote Balfour Manor off the western coast of Scotland. The message to Nichita contained an invitation to this meeting, which will be held two weeks from now. Sloane sees this as a tremendous opportunity to gain vital information on our European-based enemies. It is expected that a rep from K-Directorate's European cell will be there, as well as a member of Mercado de Sangre and other drug runners and arms dealers.”
“Great,” Noah said, nodding briskly. “So what's the plan?”
Wilson raised his hands and pressed his fingertips together. Then he exhaled sharply. “SD-6 wants Sydney to go to the summit,” he said. “Alone.”
“What?” The word burst out of Sydney's mouth before she could compose herself. For a moment, she forgot all about being angry with Noah. She looked over at him and saw that he too was gazing slack-jawed at Wilson.
“Adriana has rarely been photographed. With a little makeup artistry, Sydney could have a physical resemblance to her. Because of her linguistic aptitude, Sydney could attend the meeting in Adriana's place and do valuable reconnaissance,” Wilson went on. “We may never have such an opportunity again.”
Sydney tried to unravel the tangle of emotions inside her. She was amazed and flattered that they would trust her with such an important job. But she was scared, too. What if she wasn't up to the task? After all, she'd only been on two real missions so far—one and a half, actually, since the first was thrust on her with no real preparation and without her knowing. Still, they wouldn't even consider her for this if they didn't think her capable . . . right?
Noah leaned forward and placed his hands on the tabletop. “What did you mean about her having to go in alone?”
Yeah, Sydney wondered. What exactly did that mean?
Wilson let out a long sigh. “Von Muller is an eccentric paranoid,” he began. “He has insisted that no weapons or bodyguards be allowed during the meeting, for himself as well as the others. All parties will be searched for hidden tools and high-tech circuitry. Sydney will not be able to wear a com link. Balfour has no electricity. No telephone wires. We might be able to send messages to Sydney, but she will have no way of communicating with us. If she ends up exposed, or if the mission is compromised in any way, we won't be able to help her.”
Sydney sat in stunned silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Noah glance from her to Wilson and back again. She kept her gaze fixed on the map in front of her, letting Wilson's words ricochet through her mind. Completely on my own . . . No help at all . . . No Noah or Wilson to give advice or cover her back. No reassuring words mumbled through a hidden earpiece. And even though the thought of using a gun on someone still made her queasy, the thought of not having one strapped to her for protection was even more unsettling.
But still . . . they trusted her. They needed her. They were counting on her and her alone. Sydney turned these thoughts over and over in her mind like a lucky coin. In a way, she'd never felt so proud in her life.
“Sydney?” Wilson sounded as if he were calling from a faraway cliff.
She jerked herself out of her trance and looked up. “Yes?”
His gaze intensified. “I need to know before we go any further,” he said, his gray-streaked brows scrolling together. “Knowing all these risks, are you willing to take on the mission?”
Yes. The word formed in her mind free of any real consideration. Of course she would go. No question.
Before she could answer aloud, Noah lifted his hand. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, raising his other hand in Sydney's direction like a frantic traffic cop. “I don't think this is a good idea.”
Sydney gaped at him. “Why not?”
“Yes, Agent Hicks,” Wilson said, peering closely at Noah. “I'd like to hear your reasons for that opinion.”
Noah drew back his arms and glanced over at Sydney. She got the distinct impression there was a silent message in his expressionless stare. What it was, though, she had no idea.
It was irritating as hell. For all her so-called genius with languages, she always felt like a complete imbecile when it came to reading Noah Hicks. And today he was particularly incomprehensible.
“As the leader of the Paris mission, I got to observe Bristow in the field,” Noah began. “And I have to say . . . I don't think she's ready to take on an operation like this by herself.”
Sydney crumpled forward slightly. How could he say that? She'd been good on the mission—damn good, in fact. He'd told her so himself! So why was he betraying her? Why was everything suddenly so different between them?
Wilson also seemed surprised by Noah's remarks. “This is very unexpected, Agent Hicks. Especially since your mission report contains nothing but high praise for Bristow's work.” He patted the document on the table before him.
Sydney felt a bubble of hope. So she hadn't imagined things. He really had commended her. She looked back at Noah. His features remained stoic and cement-like, but there was an almost imperceptible change in his stance. A minuscule droop in his shoulders, an accelerated blinking of his eyelids.
“I'm not saying that Bristow isn't skilled, or that she doesn't have the potential to be a first-class agent,” he said smoothly. “But she still lacks the necessary discipline and often reacts without thinking, tendencies that could easily spell disaster in a situation like this.”
Once again Sydney felt a ripping sensation inside her. Her throat tightened and warm tears bathed her eyes, blurring Noah's face. She wanted to yell, but her breathing was too weak and ragged. She could only glare toward the hazy, distorted image of Noah swimming in front of her and crunch her thumbs inside her fists.
“I see,” Wilson said.
Sydney glanced toward the blur that was Wilson, afraid of what he might say. Was this the end of her career at SD-6? Could this sort of negative feedback drum her out of the agency forever?
“Of course you have every right to voice your opinion, Agent Hicks,” Wilson said matter-of-factly. “However, SD-6 feels differently. The final decision is Sydney's,” he said, pivoting in her direction. “Are you willing to go on this mission?”
Sydney's vision cleared. She took a deep breath and stared over at Noah. “Yes,” she replied in a loud, determined voice. “You can count on me.” I'll show you, she thought, keeping her eyes on Noah. I'll show everyone I can handle this. Even myself.
“Good,” Wilson said. He pushed back his chair and stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “You'll begin intensive training immediately. In one week we will meet for a final briefing before your trip to Scotland.”
Sydney rose from her chair. “Sounds good,” she said, smiling. “Thanks, Wilson.”
She turned to flash Noah one more look of triumph, but he wasn't in his seat. The door was open and he was already stalking down the crowded, narrow corridor.
I'M THE BAD GUY NOW.
BUT IT'S FOR HER OWN GOOD.
I HATED IT, THOUGH. THAT BRITTLE LOOK IN HER EYES. THAT CREASE THAT APPEARS DOWN THE MIDDLE OF HER FOREHEAD . . .
IT JUST ABOUT KILLED ME.
AND I LOST ANYWAY.
3
Sydney remained stiff as a statue, concentrating with all her mental energy. Just a couple more seconds . . .
The pen teetered to the left. Sydney quickly compensated by tilting her head to the right a few millimeters, and the pen once again stabilized, its tip bouncing in the lower quadrant of her vision.
It hadn't been easy figuring out how to balance a pen on her nose, but she'd done it. The long, straight slope had had her at a disadvantage from the start. But luckily, she found that the small notch at the tip served as the perfect fulcrum if she raised her chin an inch or two.
She remained motionless in her chair, slightly cross-eyed as she fixed on the swaying fine-tipped Bic. It had probably been five whole minutes now. Maybe more . . .
“What the hell am I doing?” she exclaimed suddenly. She shook her head and the pen dropped to the floor, rolling under her writing desk.
Okay, so she was nuts. But hey, it wasn't like she had lots of really important things to do. Like study for her history exam. Or finish her essay on Chaucer. Or bone up on her Romanian for the top-secret, life-threatening spy mission she was going on in a week.
It was all Noah's fault. Damn him. She had tried to study her Romanian. For a while, it had been going along really well. The problem was that it was a lot like French. Which reminded her of Paris. Which reminded her of their mission. Which reminded her of what an utter creep he had been toward her the day before.
The familiar pangs returned. She was used to this sort of hurt happening within her desolated family life. Or her nearly extinct love life. Not SD-6. For several months it had been the one player in her life (besides Francie) that was completely loyal and committed to her. And now Noah had to louse that up. Now she had all kinds of negative feelings attached to her work. It was unfair. Even worse, it was dangerous.
I've got to get a grip, she told herself. So I obviously overestimated his feelings for me. So what. I can be big about this. I can be professional.
The way she figured it, Noah was either:
a) a traitorous scumbag who had only pretended to care about her during their mission in the interest of international policy, but who actually couldn't wait to get back to HQ and slander her name, or
b) telling the truth. Maybe he honestly thought she wasn't up to it. Maybe it wasn't enough that she'd covered his ass and come up with a plan that saved their entire mission.
She didn't like either option. Plus, neither one made sense.
How could he be so convinced she wasn't ready for this job? Wilson and the top brass thought she was capable enough. And although she hadn't read his report, Noah had apparently commended her fieldwork in Paris. Her knowledge of the opposite sex might be preschoolish at best, yet she was savvy enough to know that he didn't hate her. She didn't know exactly what had been between them in Paris. Camaraderie? Flirtation?
It definitely hadn't been hatred.
She hunched back over her desk and reopened her history text. Inside lay a tall, thick, saddle-stitched paperback full of the Romanian words and phrases she'd been reviewing with the help of tapes at SD-6. She should at least study some good choice names she could call him. She had to hold on to this anger to keep from curling up on her bed and sobbing.
Hmmm. How would one say jerk-off traitor in Romanian?
At that moment, the door to her dorm room was flung open and Francie bounced in, all glittering eyes and high-wattage smile. She took one look at Sydney sitting at the desk and froze. Her eyebrows raised and the corners of her mouth drooped slightly.
“Uh . . . Syd? What are you doing?” she asked through her grin.
Sydney's eyes darted back and forth, searching for an audience or hidden camera. “I'm studying?” she replied slowly, sensing that it was the wrong answer.
“Syd!” Francie whined, her face falling completely. “I thought you'd be getting ready by now.”
Sydney continued to look at her blankly. “For what?” she asked hesitantly.
Francie blinked at her, her features smoothing into a flat, frustrated stare. “Don't tell me you forgot,” she mumbled.
Ohh-kay . . . I won't, Sydney thought. She flashed Francie a helpless look and gave a small shrug.
“The mixer!” Francie said, stepping forward and throwing up her arms in exasperation. “You promised you'd go with me!”
Oh, yeah. Now she remembered. Francie had been so excited to hear about the party at . . . some frat. Sigma Delta Fee-Fie-Fo-Fum something. And since Francie was between worthy guys at the moment, Sydney had promised to go with her. But that had been before her mission assignment. Before Noah—damn him—had completely thrown her powers of concentration out of whack.