by Dee Davis
Right now, however, she needed to do her best Camille. Coughing to beat the band, she took the water and gulped it, gasping for breath in a way she hoped signaled the choking was at an end. "Thank you," she panted. "I'm not sure what happened. Something went down the wrong way, I guess."
Idina fluttered around her, patting her back and mumbling what sounded a hell of a lot like Czech endearments. Melissa choked down some more water, and lifted her gaze to meet Alexi's. As always, it was difficult to read his expression. Amusement surely, but just for a moment she thought she saw something else in his eyes.
Melissa shook her head and smiled, patting the still-flustered Idina. "I'm fine now. Honestly. Sorry to have frightened you."
"Maybe you'd better call it a day." Alexi was still watching under hooded eyes.
"I can't." Melissa shook her head, patting her camera. "Deadlines. There are proof sheets to go over, film to develop, and I'd still like to get a few more shots before this light is gone." She waved absently at the window, wondering what in hell had made her think this assignment would be less stressful than her usual fare. Give her a war zone any day. At least there you were dodging bullets, not people.
"Surely you're allowed to take a break now and then?" Alexi sounded just a bit too interested for Melissa's taste, but she'd learned a long time ago never to say never when opportunity presented itself.
"Now and then," she grudgingly admitted. "In fact tonight I'm actually attending a party as a guest and not a photographer."
"What kind of party?" Idina asked, her mask of composure firmly back in place.
"It's in honor of the Swiss delegation. I'm going as the guest of my brother-in-law."
"Your brother-in-law?" Alexi asked, one eyebrow rising with curiosity.
"Yes, he's with the diplomatic corps. Assigned to Brazil at the moment, but he and my sister are here on leave."
"Not much of a holiday," Alexi snorted. "The Swiss minister is a noted bore."
"So tell me what you really think." The words were out before she realized what she'd said. Europeans, especially Eastern ones, were often slow to get American humor, and she usually tried to restrain from making flippant comments in case she was misunderstood.
She need not have worried with Alexi, though. His laugh-ter erupted in full force. "I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn, but then that is, how do you say, par for the course for me."
"Well done." Obviously Alexi had a solid grasp on American slang. Part and parcel of a permanent assignment to New York, no doubt. "Anyway, regardless of the host's personality flaws, it'll be nice to leave the camera at home for once."
"And I'm sure you'll clean up beautifully." Again with the innuendo, and this time there was no mistaking the appreciative glint in Alexi's eyes.
Idina made a noise somewhere between a snort and a har-rumph, making a play of moving the stacks of paper on her desk, her expression even more forbidding than usual. Melissa toyed with the idea that the woman was jealous, and then dismissed it. Idina wasn't the jealous type. And especially over Alexi Kirov. There was certainly still no love lost between the Czech Republic and the remnants of the Soviet Union, so despite the fact that he was good-looking in a blond and blue-eyed kind of way, Melissa doubted Idina was pining away for him.
Anyway, he had a weak chin and his handshake was a lot like a limp noodle. Not that a handshake was the be-all and end-all of a man, but it was a good indication of where he was coming from. Idina probably had the handshake of a National League linebacker.
Shaking her head at her own folly, Melissa drank the rest of her water and handed the glass back to Idina. "Let me just get a last shot of you at your desk, and then I really ought to be going." After all, there was a CD burning a hole in her pocket, and the longer she stood there chatting, the more likely it was she'd be discovered.
She d been doing this kind of thing a long time, but sometimes she wondered how the hell anyone in the Company ever managed to take themselves seriously. Clandestine work was: fodder for situation comedy, Get Smart being a lot closer to the truth than some of the more frightening flicks people thought of as tributes to the kind of work she did.
"Will you be back tomorrow?" Idina asked with about as much enthusiasm as if Melissa were a dentist holding a drill. Melissa clicked the shutter and then lowered her camera.
"No." She shook her head for emphasis, and the other woman immediately relaxed. "I think I've got everything I need from you. I might be back in a week or so for reshoots. But in the meantime, Alexi, I do still need to get some shots of you."
The Russian smiled, the gesture transforming his expression into something that bordered on charm, but then he frowned and looked down at his watch. "I'm swamped with detail work at the moment, everything due at once. So I'll have to check my calendar and then get back to you." She waited for him to click his heels and bow, but instead he tipped his head, his expression quizzical. "Why don't I phone you and we'll set a time?"
"Of course," she said. "I certainly don't want to do anything to interrupt your schedule. I can always shoot background rolls in the meantime."
"Wonderful." He seemed distracted now, as if his mind had preceded him from the room. "We'll talk tomorrow?"
"Absolutely." She nodded, shivering as his chilly gaze swept over her one last time. Maybe she'd been too flip earlier in dismissing the dangers of her job. Fingering the CD in her pocket, she nodded goodbye to Idina and turned to go, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of Dodge.
"LOOK WHAT THE CAT dragged in." Madison Roarke contradicted her words with the warmth of her hug, as she embraced first Nigel and then Payton. Madison was a new mother, a profiler with the FBI and the wife of Nigel's friend Gabe. All three were difficult roles, but together they proba-bly qualified Madison for sainthood.
"How's the baby?" The last time Nigel had seen Andrea Roarke she was about three months old, chubby, cheerful and very fond of tugging on his mustache.
"Not so much a baby anymore. She's pulling up and crawling everywhere in sight. And Gabriel swears she said daddy. Although I'm pretty sure it was only a burp." Madison's smile was beautifully maternal, and Nigel felt an absurd sense of longing. Fortunately, it never lasted long.
"How was the flight in?" she asked.
"Bumpy." Nigel hated flying and Cullen's private jet only made it slightly more palatable. "But as usual, Cullen's accommodations were top-notch."
At the mention of his name, Cullen Pulaski looked up from the document he was examining and smiled at the assembled company. "Nice to all be together again."
Cullen was a kingmaker of sorts, the kind of man who stayed behind the scenes but still managed to control almost everything he touched. Last Chance was no exception. His idea from conception, he left the dirty work to the team, but was always there for moral support and to provide an endless bankroll, which helped immeasurably when it came to cutting corners and actually getting things done.
"Almost all," Harrison Blake corrected, glancing up from his laptop. Harrison was a genius when it came to bits and bytes, his ability to manipulate a computer taking on more legendary proportions with each operation. He'd never met a puzzle he couldn't solve, and his tenacity had bailed them out on more then one occasion. "Gabe's flying in later today."
"And Sam won't be here for another day or so. She's trying to close out a case." There was a note of dejection in Pay-ton's voice. For all practical purposes he was still a newlywed, but between his wife s job as an ATF explosives officer and his work for the CIA, the two of them were often separated for long stretches at a time, making Last Chance operations that much more attractive for the both of them.
"Well, since we've got a majority, why don't I go ahead and fill you in on what we know? Payton, you and Madison can brief your spouses when they arrive."
Payton nodded, his expression guarded as usual, his scar shining white in the fluorescent light.
"Works for me," Madison agreed.
Cullen laid down the sh
eaf of papers he was holding and crossed his arms. "Four days ago three canisters of R-VX were stolen from the storage facility in Shchuch'ye, Russia."
"R-VX?" Madison queried.
"Nerve agent." Payton's tone was grim. "One of the most deadly. VX can kill within minutes if inhaled or deposited on the skin."
"It was accidentally released in Utah in 1968, killing thousands of sheep, some of them as far as forty miles from where the gas escaped," Cullen said. "Imagine what that would mean in a crowded city."
"And worse still, it contaminates everything it touches, and remains dangerous for several days," Nigel added. "It was created by British scientists in the fifties. The only verified sources for its existence today are in the U.S. and Russia."
"Has it ever been used on humans?" Madison shuddered.
"Nothing verified," Nigel answered. "But there are stories."
"There was a village in Kampuchea," Payton said, his face hardening. "Everyone dead. Men, women and children. A couple hundred of them. They looked like macabre rag dolls littering the muddy streets, lying in their own excrement."
"Oh, God." Madison had obviously turned inward, her profiler's mind recreating the scene.
"It's bad stuff." Payton nodded. "Like smothering to death, only before it kills you, you sweat and salivate like a pig, your bowels releasing at whim, your muscles twisting and cramping until you're most likely praying for death. Basically, your central nervous system goes AWOL right before your respi-ratory system shuts down completely—paralysis, coma and then death. It's pretty frightening what humanity creates in the name of war."
"The R in R-VX is for the Russian variety, I take it," Harrison interjected, pulling them away from the horror as he typed the name into his computer.
"Exactly. The chemical makeup is apparently somewhat different." Cullen leaned forward, his palms pressed to the table. "But the effect is every bit as deadly."
"So why is it still in existence?" Madison asked. "I thought there were agreements to get rid of the stuff."
"There are," Cullen said. "But unfortunately chemical weapons aren't easy to destroy safely. And it can be quite costly. The deadline for destroying stockpiles is 2007, but there's little likelihood that either side will be able to meet that deadline."
"Which means that places like Shchuch'ye serve as one-stop shopping for terrorists." Payton's voice was filled with contempt. "The place is practically falling down, and the weapons are just lying on shelves waiting for someone to come along and pick them up."
"You've been there?" Cullen queried, his eyes sparkling with interest.
"Once." As usual Payton chose not to elaborate. Not that Nigel doubted him. He'd never been to Shchuch'ye but he'd seen similar facilities.
"But surely there's security?" Harrison frowned.
"Not much," Nigel answered. "The truth of the matter is that the new Russia simply doesn't have the money or personnel to deal with Soviet stockpiles, whether we're talking about conventional weaponry or chemical and biological ones."
"So someone just walked into the facility at Shchuch'ye and helped themselves?" Harrison had stopped typing, his brows drawn together in frustration.
"More or less," Cullen agreed. "They had help. A man named Yuri Dynkin. He'd worked as a guard at the facility months earlier, and was fired for insubordination of some kind. Apparently, the man held a grudge."
"Or was looking to make a quick buck," Payton growled.
"I'm afraid we'll never know for certain. Dynkin was killed on-site. A bullet in the back."
"From which side?" Nigel quipped. "Not that it matters."
"No way to know." Cullen shrugged. "And unfortunately the rest of the party got away, along with three canisters of R-VX."
"Just the nerve agent?" Payton asked, his eyes narrowing in thought.
"No." Cullen shook his head. "The canisters are actually binary warheads."
"I'm not sure I'm following." Madison leaned forward, elbows propped on the table.
"Basically the warhead acts as a chemical reactor," Nigel explained. "Two substances are stored inside in separate containers. When the thing is detonated the wall between the two canisters collapses, the substances mix, and the nerve agent is formed."
"So all someone has to do is shoot the thing?" Harrison asked.
"Or blow it up. There are really any number of ways it can be used." Nigel sighed, the reality of the situation beginning to sink in. "Do we have any idea who took it?"
"No," Cullen said, tipping back his head and rolling his shoulders. "No particular group has claimed credit. But they had help from Hamas, so we're guessing Islamic extremists. And the chatter internationally seems to support the idea."
"So why were we called in?" Madison asked. "Surely I here are international groups more equipped to handle some-ihing like this."
"There are." Cullen nodded to emphasize the point. "But despite the fact that no one is claiming responsibility, we've got very credible intel that the stolen R-VX is headed for the U.S.—most probably here in New York. We believe the canisters are being routed through the Black Sea. I've got sources trying to confirm that fact now. But if we're right about the U.S. being the target, then we've got to move fast."
"It'll be like finding a bloody needle in a haystack." Nigel's frustration was echoed on the other team members' faces.
"Maybe not quite that bad." Cullen actually smiled. "The CIA has an ongoing covert investigation into the possibility that someone at the UN, specifically someone working for Peacekeeping Operations, has been using Peacekeeping transports to smuggle weapons and other illegal goods."
"Do they have proof?"
"Nothing verifiable, of course, or they'd have taken action. But I'm told they're getting close. They have someone working on the inside now. And I've arranged a meet. Her position is, as you can imagine, very vulnerable, so there's no way to just call her in. But her handler has arranged for one of you to connect at a diplomatic party."
"So who's going?" Harrison asked, looking like he'd rather eat nails than attend. Not that Nigel felt all that differently. Social dos weren't really his cup of tea, although they were often unavoidable in his line of work.
Cullen's gaze settled on Nigel.
"Not me," he groaned.
Madison laughed, although she at least had the good sense to bide it behind her hands.
"Unfortunately, you're the perfect choice," Cullen said. "It's unlikely that anyone will connect you with us, and you're certainly not American, which is a plus." He actually said it as if in normal circumstances being a non-American was a detriment. To date, Nigel had found the opposite far more likely to be true, unless one happened to reside in Nebraska. "Gabriel and Madison will accompany you. Madison's father will be there, so that gives them legitimacy."
"You knew about this?" Nigel asked.
"About the party?" she quipped with a debutante smile. "Yes."
"I didn't bring a tux." He sounded sulky and he knew it. But, bloody hell, he hated getting trussed up like an overstuffed pheasant.
"Not a problem," Payton said with a rare smile. "We're about the same size. You can wear mine."
"Wonderful." Nigel sighed, accepting the inevitable. "You said my contact is a woman?"
"Yes, but I don't know much more than that. As I said, they're trying to keep her exposure to a minimum. Anyway, she'll have a description of you. And there'll be a signal."
"The red salmon are running in Peru?" Payton's smile had turned to a grin. "Hell, why don't you just have her carry a neon sign or something?"
"Look, there wasn't much time to get this all arranged. And the thought was that the easiest way to deal with this was for her to find you, give you the signal—and then you can talk." Cullen waved his hand through the air in dismissal. "I'll leave the details up to you."
"So what is the signal?" Nigel asked.
Cullen had the decency to look embarrassed. "She'll ask how you like the weather in New York, and you'll respond that it's much c
older than Spain."
"You'll be a regular Eliza DoolMe," Payton said with a laugh, and Nigel shot him a look, wondering what the bloody hell he'd been thinking agreeing to help out. This operation had disaster written all over it. He hated tuxedos, he hated society parties, and he hated playing James-fucking-Bond.
CHAPTER THREE
MELISSA WASN'T BIG on parties, especially the kind where she had to dress formally, but she had to admit that she looked pretty damn good in her sister's gold Ungaro. The dress, made from lace and gold embroidery, was barely more than a slip and much more revealing, but it clung to her curves as if it had been made for her.
She twirled in front of the mirror, watching the hem of the skirt flutter in the resulting breeze.
"You look beautiful."
Melissa jumped and then smiled at her sister standing in the doorway. Alicia looked elegantly regal in a shimmering white sheath that highlighted her flawless beauty. Nothing was ever out of place with her sister. She was the perfect diplomat's wife.
And Melissa's mirror opposite.
"Thanks. I feel sort of like a princess. Or the ugly duckling."
"Nonsense, you always look spectacular." Alicia walked over to adjust the shoulder line of the dress and fluff Melissa's hair. "This just highlights your beauty in a more sophisticated way."
French couture had a way of doing that.
Melissa smiled at her sister in the mirror. Despite their differences, the sisters were close, perhaps because they'd had only each other to rely on for so very long. Even Alicia's marriage to Aaron hadn't severed the bond—although the relationship had changed, no denying that. Alicia's first loyalty was to Aaron now.
Which was as it should be. But sometimes it still hurt. Anyhow, it was all for the best—Melissa's lifestyle didn't allow for long-term responsibility. Still, that didn't mean she couldn't make time for her sister. Unfortunately, between Aaron's postings abroad and Melissa's assignments, it wasn't all that easy, which was why she'd agreed to go to the party in the first place.