Chasing the White Lion
Page 6
“Did you? I must not have heard. Quite loud over here. Window’s broken.”
“Fine.” She pulled out her phone. “If you won’t work with me, I’m calling the Agency. Protocol dictates I call this in anyway.”
“Nope.” He snatched the phone away and tossed it out the window.
A semitruck crunched it under two of its tires. “Finn!”
The exit came up. He gestured at the sign with his gun.
Talia sighed and signaled for the lane change. “Please, talk to me.”
The noise in the car quieted as Talia slowed on the feeder. “All right. Here it is. Tyler worries. With good reason. Did you really think the attempt in Volgograd would be a one-off? And by the way, a thank-you wouldn’t kill you. I did just save your life. Again.”
“Thanks. Okay? Thanks for Volgograd and thanks for today.” She glanced at his arm. “You’re bleeding.”
“Nothing some Neosporin and a few Snoopy bandages won’t cure. Take your next right.”
She made the turn onto a long, tree-lined street and took a breath. “Tyler’s still hovering—”
“Looking out for you.”
“Hovering. And now he’s using you as a proxy?”
“Not me. Mac. Our Scottish friend is following in the Jag.” His eyes went to the rearview mirror, leading Talia’s gaze. She saw a Jaguar F-Type turn onto the road to follow them. Finn gave her a little shrug, almost shy. “I . . . volunteered to ride along.”
“Because you’re that bored?”
There was a flash of heat in his eyes. His features hardened, and he looked out through the broken window. “Yeah. I’m that bored. Take your next right, your highness.”
Her sarcasm had cut him more deeply than she intended. For the rest of the drive, she got nothing out of Finn but directions. One winding road turned to another until a gate swung wide and the trees gave way to a stone manor with a circular drive. Talia couldn’t nail down the period of the house, but a long garage beside the drive showed signs of having once been a stable.
Finn got out. “Go in the house, out of sight. I’ll park the car.”
“Finn, your arm. It needs—”
“I said go.”
Talia gave up on the argument and relinquished the driver’s seat. Mossy steps led to the door and, thankfully, to a friendly face.
“Conrad.” She took the older gentleman’s hand. Officially Tyler’s private chef, Conrad rarely traveled with the team, but he was Talia’s favorite. The sight of him was like a warm hug. She moved in for a real one.
“Oh my,” he said, patting her back. “There, there, child. I’ve missed you too. No one else in this band of misfits has a palate worthy of my creations.”
She released him and passed a finger over the rich velvet breast of his waistcoat. “Plum. I like it. Branching out from the usual tweed, are we?”
“I’m feeling festive.”
“Why?”
“You’re home safe.”
Home. What place qualified as home in their line of work? “What happened to Tyler’s place on Chesapeake Bay?”
“He found it too ostentatious.”
Talia glanced back at the Jag pulling into the drive. “Nothing is too ostentatious for Mr. Tyler.”
“Touché. Perhaps, in truth, the other house was too far away from you.”
Conrad led her inside, pausing beneath the walnut arch of a butler’s pantry. “Can I get you something? Sweet? Savory?”
“Surprise me.”
“I’ll take some o’ them wee sandwiches from last night if there’s leftovers.” Mac walked up behind them, waving a meaty hand. But Conrad had already disappeared into the kitchen.
Wolf Manor, as Mac called it, was a study in wood paneling and dim hallways. Sitting room, great room, dining room, atrium—the Scotsman gave her a tour while they both tried Conrad’s sweet pea and risotto cakes.
“And where is Tyler?”
“Waitin’ for ya in the library. Far end o’ the western wing.”
Mac directed her to a long hall, but he didn’t go with her. Talia found Tyler in a hexagonal room lined with bookshelves, each with a rolling ladder. As she walked through the door, he kept his gaze buried in the heavy text in his lap.
“So you’re not dead.”
“Thanks to you, I guess.”
“You guess? Wait, I’ve heard this one before.” He cracked a smile, eyes bright behind a pair of reading glasses. “You had it handled.”
“Maybe. I didn’t get the chance to try before Finn swooped in.”
Tyler closed his book. “You mean Mac.”
“No, I mean Finn.”
His expression remained steady, as always, but Talia could see he hadn’t known Finn had gone on the excursion. So, Finn had been serious about volunteering to look out for her. Weird. He’d never shown that much care for her before.
Tyler set the book on a cherrywood lamp table. “And now you’ve hunted me down to tell me off. Go ahead. Get it over with.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
The window behind the library’s reading desk looked out over the Potomac. Tyler walked over, admiring the water, or perhaps scanning the shore for threats. “You can’t go home, Talia. You know that, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve seen two attempts on your life in under a week. You’re not safe out there.”
Talia’s apartment was one of her few refuges in an otherwise volatile life. She wouldn’t let Tyler wrench it away so easily. “Mac and Finn caught the assassin watching the Agency, not my place. Ergo, whoever is behind this doesn’t know my name or where I live. They only know my face and that I’m CIA. My apartment’s clear.”
He seemed to consider the argument, then rejected it outright. “Archangel is smart. She leaked enough intel to get you killed but not to point us to her position at the CIA. Plausible deniability.” Tyler looked past her to the library’s entryway. “Finn!”
“Yeah, boss?” The answering call came from the great room, followed by hurried footsteps.
“How do you feel about burglarizing Talia’s place?”
“Brilliant.” The Aussie appeared in the doorframe with a bandage on his arm—white gauze, no Snoopy. He spoke directly to Tyler, as if Talia weren’t there. “Smash and grab or ghost work?”
“Ghost. Leave no trace. Get her some clothes. And what else, Talia? Hair dryer? Curling iron?”
She caved, turning to Finn. “Fine. You both win. Get me some jeans. Grab the red sweater and the three suits at the end of the closet.” She hesitated, shot a glance at Tyler, and flattened her voice. “And my hair dryer, like he said. It’s with the makeup bag under the bathroom counter. While you’re at it, grab the makeup bag too.”
Finn folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.
“Please.”
Some of the hostility faded. “And . . .”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, your highness.” He ducked into the hall. An instant later, he leaned his head back into view. “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”
Talia winced. Why hadn’t she thought of the rest? Worse, why had he thought of it first? “Top drawer of the dresser. Just close your eyes and dump the whole thing into a duffel bag.”
“Right. Eyes closed.” The hardness had vanished. He was trying not to grin.
“Promise me, Finn.”
“Cross my heart.” He set off down the hallway.
“Don’t you need my key?”
Finn didn’t answer.
Talia turned to Tyler. “He doesn’t need a key.”
“No, he doesn’t need a key.”
“This is totally unnecessary. You know that, right?”
Tyler guided her into the room and sat her in the chair beside his book. She noticed the title on the cover—The Bishop of Myra. He pulled a stool over from the bookshelves. “When are you going to face facts? Someone is trying to kill you.”
“Out of the question.”
“Because Jordan is Archangel.”
He nodded.
Talia wasn’t ready to buy his theory. “If Jordan is Archangel, why did she let me take you along on the Ivanov job? The mission brief mentioned Lukon’s involvement. And you’re Lukon. Wouldn’t Archangel know that?”
“Negative. You’re forgetting the whole purpose of code names. I was the Agency’s asset, not Archangel’s. She was just the spy who requisitioned the . . . ,” he stumbled over his next words, “. . . the job. She never knew my real identity.”
The job in question had been the assassination of Talia’s father, another CIA spy, falsely accused of being a threat to the US by Archangel. Talia had forgiven Tyler, but the cold she felt in her core now at the mention of the murder was the whole reason she hadn’t wanted to get involved in the hunt for Archangel in the first place.
“Jordan might suspect I’m Lukon,” Tyler said. “Especially now, for the same reasons I suspect she’s Archangel. But she can’t be sure.”
“So in your mind, you and Jordan are playing this cat-and-mouse game and I’m caught in the middle. But you’re wrong. Yes, Jordan is wary of you. She’s suspicious of your vigilante activities and my involvement with them, but she’s not Archangel.”
“Then why”—Tyler checked his watch—“after you’ve been away from work less than an hour, is she calling?” He drew a phone from his pocket, an exact match to Talia’s Agency device, which Finn had thrown under a speeding truck. “Eddie cloned a new one for you, sans the pesky CIA tracking chip.” He held it out to show her.
The screen was active with an incoming call, ID masked, a sure sign the Agency was on the other end.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
WOLF MANOR
WOLF TRAP, VIRGINIA
“ANSWER.” Tyler sat back against the reading desk. “But be cautious. Don’t tell her anything about the attack.”
Talia accepted the call and put it on speaker. “Inger.”
“Are you all right?” Jordan’s voice carried all the concern and fluster of a worried parent.
Tyler gave Talia an I told you so shrug.
She turned away from him. “Um . . . Sure. I’m fine. Why?”
“Why? The attack on Route 123. A witness saw a man we now know to be a Russian mobster shoot up a Civic. Your Civic.”
“My Civic?” Talia cringed at her own reply. Repeating a question was the most obvious form of avoidance. Jordan would see right through it. She followed up by trying to redirect the focus away from her car. “Like I said, I’m fine—out here on the vacation you ordered.”
Tyler touched her shoulder and waved a sticky note.
SHE’LL ASK LOCATION. SAY COFFEE SHOP.
Talia muted the phone. “She won’t ask where I am. It’s against protocol.” When she unmuted it again, she took it off speaker.
“Talia, I’m worried about you. Tell me where you are.”
Tyler jiggled the note. He was enjoying this too much.
“I’m in a coffee shop. Relaxing. You told me to take the day off, remember?” That earned her a thumbs-up. Tyler crumpled up the note and tossed it into the library wastebasket for two points. She wanted to punch him in the nose. “Um . . . What happened to your lunch with the senator?”
“I’ll make it. But my people are my priority. You should know that.”
The next note read, GET INTEL.
Talia scrunched her nose at him in the universal sign for No kidding. “I’m fine. I promise. Tell me about this attack.”
Silence. Now they were playing a game. “If you weren’t involved, I probably shouldn’t share details. This will become an FBI matter.” Jordan had moved her next piece, an attempt to block.
“But I’m so bored out here on my mandatory vacation, and I’m only an hour in. Besides. If the Bratva are shooting up cars in McLean, I should be kept in the loop, right?”
More silence. “Okay. Route 123. The stoplight at Dolley Madison and Churchill. Our witness saw the suspect use his hatchback to block a late-model Honda Civic. He then stepped out of his car and let loose with a machine gun.”
“Any cameras?” Talia remembered this time. She hoped Jordan was proud.
“The traffic cams on half the route were down for maintenance.”
Whoa. “Quite a coincidence.” Talia couldn’t stop herself from saying it. They both knew coincidences like cameras going down right before a hit didn’t exist, and the Bratva, the Russian mob, didn’t have that kind of pull. “What about your suspect? Is he talking?”
“Our witness was fuzzy on the details, but she thought the would-be victim ran the suspect down during the escape. Seems she was right. The cops caught him doubled over in his vehicle two blocks away but failed to respect the severity of his internal injuries. He died in holding.”
The blood drained from Talia’s cheeks. Finn had used a nonlethal round. Talia had bounced the hitman with his own car, but she hadn’t hit him hard enough to do lasting damage. Had Jordan or one of her people silenced the guy?
Tyler scribbled furiously on his notepad. SUSPECT IS DEAD, RIGHT?
She snatched the paper away, crumpled it, and threw it at the wastebasket. She missed.
He frowned and scribbled again. HANG UP.
She nodded. “Oops. Looks like my coffee’s ready. I have to go.”
“Okay, Talia.” Jordan clearly wasn’t buying it. She paused, so silent Talia could hear her own heartbeat. “I’ll be in touch.”
Smugness. Triumph. These were the things Talia expected from Tyler as she put the phone away. But he gave her none of those. He pushed himself off the desk and let out a long breath. “Usually I like being right, but not this time. I’m sorry, Talia. I know you looked up to Jordan. But I’m convinced. She’s trying to kill you.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
BAN DOI HENGA REFUGEE CAMP
THAI/BURMA BORDER
MAE HONG SON PROVINCE, THAILAND
THET YE HAD TOLD NO ONE about the uniformed men in the jungle. He couldn’t say the same for Hla Meh.
“I warned you.” Aung Thu slid close to Thet Ye on a bench beneath the school’s pavilion. The older boy closed his mouth as the teacher neared. She handed each of them their graded assignments from the day, then moved on. “This is what comes of having a girl for a best friend.” He poked Thet Ye in the arm with a bony elbow. “Hey, you hear me? She wanted to be your wife. You said no. Now she wants nothing to do with you.”
Thet Ye refused to look at him. He watched Hla Meh, who sat with her gaze buried in her lap at the other corner of the pavilion, as far from him as possible. “You don’t know anything.”
“Then tell me why she’s angry.”
“I can’t.”
If Thet Ye told Aung Thu, by nightfall everyone in the camp would know of the men in the jungle—except Aung Thu would be at the center, confronting a whole platoon. No one would believe him, but Thet Ye could not take the risk. The teachers might get in trouble, and the school might close.
Hla Meh did not seem to care.
After confessing her fears to Thet Ye, Hla Meh had gone straight home and told her mother, who assured her that the uniformed men were part of the Thai military, there to keep them safe.
The following day, Hla Meh had dragged Thet Ye home with her. “Thet Ye saw the men too,” Hla Meh told her mother. “He saw the militiamen.” She grabbed him by the hand and jerked him forward. “Tell her!”
What was he supposed to do? Thet Ye kicked at the dusty floor of the hut, unable to meet the woman’s eyes. “I saw uniforms. The men spoke Thai. That’s all.”
Hla Meh’s mother ushered him out into the mud alleyway, apologizing for the tearful shouting that followed. Since that day, Hla Meh had not spoken to him.
Under the schoo
l pavilion with Aung Thu, Thet Ye finally tore his gaze from Hla Meh. “I guess I need a new best friend.”
But Aung Thu was no longer paying him any attention. The bitter scent of scorched bamboo hit Thet Ye’s nostrils.
His friend jumped up from the bench, waving his arms. “Fire!”
Teacher Rocha saw the flames too. “Everyone, move to the back of the pavilion. Form a line.”
The flames spread quickly, leaping from hut to hut. Within seconds, the thatched roof of the pavilion ignited.
The teacher’s calm crumpled. “Back, children.” She spread her arms and moved the whole line sideways. “Into the yard. Quickly.”
The girl beside Thet Ye tripped and fell. As he lifted her up, the thought occurred to him. He had forgotten about Hla Meh.
“Hla Meh!”
She didn’t answer.
Embers swirled and spun on a growing wind of pure heat. Thet Ye shielded his face. “Hla Meh, where are you?”
The teacher shouted over the roar. Thet Ye did not understand her.
The little girl he had helped to her feet a moment before tugged at his elbow. “Teacher says run to the church.”
The line broke. The students raced across the yard. Thet Ye and the girl were only a few paces from the church when the pastor burst through the door and tumbled down the steps, his shirt on fire. Smoke billowed out behind him.
The little girl screamed. The students gathered in a helpless circle while their pastor rolled in the grass at their feet. Teacher Rocha forced her way between them with a tarp and smothered the flames.
“I’m all right.” The pastor, known in the camp as Pastor Nakor, pushed the tarp away. “Only a little singed.”
He was not all right. Thet Ye could tell by the way he scrunched up his face as the teacher helped him to his feet. But Pastor Nakor took charge anyway. “We must go into the jungle. The trees will protect us.”
Thet Ye understood. His father had told him the story. On the night of the last fire in Ban Doi Henga—the night Thet Ye was born—the jungle had saved many. The trees of the Thai rain forest were so wet they refused to burn.
Still, the students stood in the yard, hypnotized by the flames.
The pastor motioned them onward. “Go!”