Amanda's Eyes (20 page)

Real estate agents and federal
agents have at least one love in common—location, location, location.  Like her
two Tri-Am sister capitals, the District reserved her prettiest scenery for her
most secretive citizens.  I guess nothing says security to a spook quite like a
cloak of woodlands and a single avenue of approach.

Headquarters Building for the
Continental Intelligence and Investigative Service is a Babushka-doll nest of
figure-eights resting on its side, high at both ends and low in the middle.  Brick-red
concourses ribbon inward in progressively smaller loops, eventually winding
down to the central hub that houses the communications center and the director’s
office.

As Jack banked the Shrike, lining up
for the approach, I gazed wistfully back in the direction of the Capitol
building, picturing the way sunlight slides down the concave sides of that
deconstructed glass cube.  Was Dad in his office?  Was he worried about me?  Then
I pictured the slender white needle of the Columbia Justice Complex, where Jim
worked.  What would my big brother say if he knew what I was up to?  Would he believe
in my gift?

Had it only been a month since I had
seen them?  It seemed like years.  The family still didn’t know where I was,
only that Jack had, indeed, ridden to the rescue and taken me into protective
custody.  They wanted to be there for me, but we all understood why they couldn’t
be.  Not that understanding made the situation easier for us.  But we knew the reunion
would have to wait until I took care of the Ferrymen.

Correction.  Until
we
took
care of the Ferrymen.

I slid a sideways glance at Jack as we
touched down.  His cooperation would be key.  Without CIIS, I wouldn’t be able
to do much more than raise a stink and get myself killed.

All I had to do is make a believer out
of the world’s biggest skeptic.

As Shuki-O would say,
Pieceacake.

The observation broom closet—calling
it a room would be hyperbole—was narrow, windowless, and dim.  Then again, how
much space and light do you need to sit and spy on people?.

The broom closet was also occupied. 
I stared at the man seated in one of three chairs facing the left-hand wall.  “What
are
you
doing here?”

“I work here,” said Baker.

“I thought you were a nurse.”

“I
am
a nurse.”  He
shrugged.  “Or was.  Sort of.”

“Sort of?  You gave me sponge baths,
and now you’re telling me you’re
sort of
a nurse?”

Eyes dancing, he raised his hands,
palms up. 
What can I say?

“Relax.”  Jack nudged me into the
chair next to Dennis.  Eagan was in black again—leather jacket, t-shirt, and
black jeans.  Real mix-and-match kind of guy.  “He was a medic with the Teams. 
More training than an RN but less than a doctor.  Not much less,” he qualified as
he took the chair next to mine.  Bracing his elbows on his knees, he turned his
head to give me a slight smile.  “I
did
tell you we had people keeping
eyes on you twenty-four seven while you were in the hospital.”

“I remember.”  But I absolutely
refused to remember how much of me Baker
had
kept eyes on.  “I can’t
believe I didn’t at least suspect it was you,” I told him.  “It’s enough to
make me turn in my press pass.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.  You
had a load on your mind.”

“Yeah, but still.”  I didn’t ask who
else had kept eyes on me.  They probably wouldn’t tell.  Besides, ignorance is
bliss when it comes to feds who have put you on the bedpan.

“I’m going for coffee,” said
Dennis.  “Either of you want a cup?”

“Black,” said Eagan.

“Can I get some water?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Make it quick,” Jack said.  “We go
in ten.”

Exactly what would happen in ten was
his secret, and I had agreed not to pry.  Eagan’s terms, all the way.

After Dennis left, Jack and I fell
into a prickly silence.  What was left to say?  Either I would pass the test,
or I wouldn’t.  He was betting on the latter, had probably already written a
mental referral to his friendly neighborhood psychiatrist.  Yet, here he sat,
ready to run an experiment he no doubt considered an embarrassing waste of time. 
Why?  What made this guy tick?

Despite my skillful probing—conducted
with undeniable finesse, if I do say so myself—Sadie had given me zilch to go
on.  But if I passed his test today—and if he wasn’t too hard-headed to entertain
the idea—Eagan and I would probably be working this case together, no doubt to
our combined annoyance.  That meant my life and the lives of who knew how many
others might well rest on those broad shoulders.  But aside from the obvious—i.e.,
that he was bossy, over-protective, and could paralyze people with a freeze-ray
glare—what did I actually know about this character?  What kind of man was he?

Too bad my quirky gift had its
limitations.  Be nice to get a sneak peek right about now.

Add up what you
do
know, and go from there.

Well, I knew he had been on the
Teams.  That implied some desirable qualities.  Above-average intelligence. 
Exceptional tactical skills.  Adaptability and cool-headedness, even under
fire, and almost super-human endurance.  Plus, the man could kill you six ways
to Sunday before you knew he was there.  I’m not a violent person, but given the
mob we were up against, lethality didn’t seem like a bad thing.

For all that, Jack apparently had a
compassionate streak.  He had, after all, gone out of his way to assuage my guilt
over Cuey and Michaels.  Even bent his own rules to let Jim break the news
about Bugsy.

Sadie liked him, and she was good
people.  Cosmo liked him, too.  If a sharp lady
and
her dog like a
person, he’s probably okay.  Right?

The one or two other data points I had
collected on him weren’t germane to my current situation.  They were, however, impossible
to ignore now that he and I were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

One, he smelled nice—like soap, leather,
and citrus.

Two, he looked even better than he
smelled.

Not that I had just noticed.  A
woman would have to be dead not to notice, and I am, after all, a professional
observer.  But when I first laid eyes on him back at Mount Zion, my life was a
twenty-four karat mess.  Eagan’s looks registered—
Bam!
—but I didn’t get
much further than that, because we had to move fast, and before I knew it, he
was gone.

Now he was back.  My life was still
a mess, but the more time I spent with him, the harder it got to ignore the
fact that Iceman was hot.  Chiseled and rugged are a combination I always find tough
to resist, but this wasn’t the most convenient time to be tempted.  Didn’t I
already have my fair share of problems?  Evidently not.  Evidently, murder,
mayhem, and the imminent threat of involuntary commitment weren’t enough excitement
for me.

“Problem?”

I glanced at him.  “No, why?”

“You were frowning.”

“Oh.”  I felt my cheeks heat and grimaced. 
“I’m keyed up, that’s all.  Anxious to get this over with.  The sooner you
believe me, the sooner we can move on Conover.”

Doubt tinged with an emotion
uncomfortably close to pity settled over his face like a cloud.  “Listen—”

“I’m going to make a believer of you,
Jack,” I insisted, praying it was true.

He appeared far from convinced.  “Okay. 
But remember your promise.  If this doesn’t turn out the way you expect it to—”

“It will.”  I hoped.  “And if it
doesn’t …. I never welsh on a deal, Eagan.”

“Back just in time,” said Dennis, coming
through the door with a Styrofoam cup in each hand and a bottle of water tucked
under his right arm.  “They’re on their way.”

Jack’s troubled gaze lingered on my
face a second longer.  Finally, he swore softly, stood, grabbed a cup, and
headed for the door.  “All right,” he said.  “Let’s get this over with.”

The wall in front of me was
transparent on our side, opaque on theirs when three men and two women, all
carrying takeout coffees, ambled into the adjoining conference room.

At first glance they came across as
a mismatched hodgepodge of accountants, blue-collar workers, and college
students.  Averageness seemed to be the only trait they had in common.  Average
height and weight, average features, dressed in your average business suit,
coveralls, blue jeans, and/or sweats.  Pass one of them on the street, and you
would never notice or remember.  That’s the way they’re supposed to
be—invisible.

I scanned for signs of tension and
came up empty.  The whole crew looked as cool as the other side of the pillow. 
They chatted and chuckled with easy familiarity.  Jack arrived last.

A blocky Hispanic, who looked maybe eighteen
years old in his faded jeans and gray hoody, greeted Eagan with, “Yo, Iceman. 
Didn’t I see that black getup in a spy movie once?”

“Spies don’t wear black, Juarez.”  This
from an accountant type in a charcoal-gray suit with a fine pinstripe.  He
grinned out from under his neatly trimmed mustache.  “
Ninjas
wear black.”

“I like it,” offered a strawberry
blond in tan coveralls.  Her hair was caught up in a long, heavy ponytail, and
a pair of canvass work gloves lay on the table in front of her.  “
Très
armed and dangerous.”

“It
does
make a statement,” agreed
the petite brunette sitting next to her.  Like Juarez, she was an erstwhile
college student.  Pink sweats, sheepdog bangs, and oversized hoop earrings.

“Black leather jackets are passé.”  The
African-American at the far end of the table brushed an imaginary piece of lint
from his narrow lapel.  “Harris tweed is where it’s at.  Retro, baby.”

Eagan held up a hand.  “All right, settle
down.  You don’t get paid enough to be fashion consultants.”

Somebody muttered a wry
amen
as holographic monitors materialized in front of each of them, and Jack kicked
off what was obviously a briefing.  Three agents gave updates about ongoing
investigations, then Jack handed out two new assignments.  The brunette with
the bangs, Stephenson, would run down a drug pipeline, possibly involving one
or more tenured professors at a handful of Ivy League universities.  The
strawberry blond, Tracey Haskell, would work with Harris Tweed Retro—otherwise
known as James Henderson—to uncover a military procurement ring diverting weapons
for sale on the black market.  He would infiltrate in uniform, posing as an E-5
procurement clerk; she would work the loading dock at the suspect shipping facility.

As they ironed out the details, I
asked Dennis, “Do you think they know somebody’s watching?”

“This is the Puzzle Palace, A.J.  Somebody’s
always
watching.”

“Where’s the trust in that?”

“There isn’t any.”  He stretched his
legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles.  “Mind telling me why
we’re
watching?”

That would require more explanation
than I was ready to give at the moment.

“Did you ask Jack?” I stalled, still
scrutinizing the faces in the conference room.

“He said I wouldn’t believe it, if
he told me.”

Keeping my eyes on the agents, I
grimaced.  “Yeah, well, that about sums it up.  How about this?  I’ll let you know
when I see it.”

“This is payback, right?  For when I
wouldn’t tell you what Iceman looked like?”

My lips curved, belying the tension knotting
my muscles.  I had a bundle riding on this tryout.  Half of me was already
savoring the moment I served Eagan a man-sized helping of crow.  The other half
was suddenly wondering exactly how I was supposed to do that now that Jack had
segued into a rousing discourse on equipment allowances.  If I was going to see
into that other dimension,
somebody
had to at least break a sweat.  Five
more minutes of this malarkey, and the entire room would go from calm to
comatose.

“They’re increasing the allowance,”
Jack was saying, “but they’re tightening the audit process.  The bean counters will
nail you on the details, so dot all your i’s, cross all your t’s, and upload
your five-twenty-threes within seven days of purchase.  Any questions?”  They
shook their heads.  “Okay, that’s it.”

I sat straight up.  “‘
That’s it?’
 
Did he just say
, ‘That’s it’?”

The agents were pushing back their
chairs, and I was composing an earful that would raise blisters on an Iceman, when
Eagan added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, one more item.  The Director’s
Office handed down a new reg yesterday.”

This announcement provoked groans
all around.

“What are you moaning about,
Stephenson?” said Juarez.  “We’re talking about the
book
, girl.  You
know you love it
.
  Heard you keep a copy tucked in your panty drawer. 
You and the director.  The two of you should get together sometime.  You know,
compare favorite articles and sub-sections and stuff.”

“The director and the original Ms.
Rules Were Made to Be Broken?”  Tracey wrapped the end of her ponytail around
an index finger.  “We could sell tickets.”

“As I was saying,” Jack interrupted
pointedly, “The DO handed down a new reg yesterday.  The inner loop wants more
frequent truth-and-loyalty evals on all hands.  Word has it, the Head Shedders
beefed up the process—added some next-gen pharmacology and a deep-brain scan
that picks up even unconscious deception.  From what I hear, nothing gets by
this combo.”

“So much for Oakley’s secret
high-heel fetish,” said Henderson.  When the guy in the pinstriped suit flipped
him the bird, he shrugged.  “Hey, man, I don’t think they’ll actually terminate
you for it.  I mean, your pumps, your business, right?”

Again, Jack nipped the byplay in the
bud.  “We don’t have all day, so let’s wrap this up.  About the evaluations.  Bottom
line, the sooner we make the inner loop happy, the sooner we can get back to
fighting for truth and justice.  I had to pull some strings, but we’re on for
tomorrow morning.  Quick and painless, okay?  Here’s the lineup:  Henderson at
eight, followed at two-hour intervals by Haskell, Juarez, Stephenson, and
Oakley.”

He went on to give some additional
details, listen to some gripes, and answer a few questions, but I was no longer
tuned in to the conversation.

I only had eyes for one person.