All the Queen's Men (15 page)

He held up a hand. "Details aren't necessary. How long will it take you to find out which type of erasure he used?"

"Not long."

He waited patiently while she got into the hard drive and began searching for bits of data. There was nothing. The drive was as pristine as the day it came off the assembly line.

"Nothing," she said in disgust.

Ronsard put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "That is what I expected, really."

"Then why get the computer?"

"Because I want to know Mr. Temple. If he were careless enough to leave data on the computer, then perhaps I shouldn't deal with him. As it is-" Ronsard hesitated and gave a thin smile. "I've learned that he is almost as careful as I."

'Almost."

"I'm not going to him," Ronsard said gently. "He is coming to me."

Chapter Twelve

Your name is Niema Jamieson," Medina said, handing over a passport, driver's license, and social security card.

She looked down at them in both interest and disbelief. "Niema?" she questioned.

"Your name is so unusual you'd probably slip up if you had to answer to anything else. It's always best to stay close to your real name."

"Is that so, Mr. Darrell Tucker?" she murmured.

He gave a faint smile in acknowledgment of the hit. "I've used so many names, I ran out of similars."

She opened the passport. Her photo was there, as well as several pages of stamps. According to her passport, within just the past year she had been to Great Britain twice, once to Italy, once to Switzerland, and once to Australia. Niema Jamieson was certainly well-traveled.

The driver's license looked just as authentic. She was a resident of New Hampshire, evidently. Niema Price Jamieson.

"My middle name is Price?" she asked in disbelief.

"That's your maiden name. Your family is old friends with the ambassador's wife's family."

"So I'm married?"

"Widowed." He gave her a steady, unyielding look, as if expecting her to object to a cover line so close to her own life. "Your husband, Craig, was killed in a boating accident two years ago. The ambassador's wife-her name is Eleanor, by the way-persuaded you to join them in Paris for a vacation."

She was silent. Of course so many of the details paralleled her own life; that way the story was easy to remember.

"And if Ronsard does invite me to his home and does a background check on me, he'll find. . . what?"

"He'll find that you're exactly who you say you are. He'll find society page articles mentioning you. He'll find an article on Craig Jamieson's death that mentions his grief-stricken widow, Niema. Don't worry; your cover will stand up to any scrutiny."

"But what about the ambassador and his wife? They obviously know I'm not an old family friend."

"Yes, but they're accustomed to covers. You know how many Agency personnel are in our embassies. It's standard."

"Then why won't Ronsard suspect me?"

"Because you aren't staff. Believe me, they know, or have a good idea, who is Agency and who isn't."

She took a deep breath. "When do I leave?"

He pulled a ticket folder from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Tomorrow, on the Concord."

"Cool." Her eyes lit. She had always wanted to fly on the supersonic jet. "When will you get there?"

"You
won't see me until we're both at Ronsard's villa. If he doesn't invite you-" He broke off and shrugged.

"Then I won't see you again." She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact, but inside she didn't feel that way. In just a few days he seemed to have become the central element of the excitement she felt. But she had known from the beginning how things would be, known that he would leave as abruptly as he had appeared.

"I didn't say that."

"No, but I've worked with you before, remember? When the job's finished, you disappear. And now that I know who you are, I know why."

"Niema ..." He put his hands in his pockets, looking oddly ill at ease. Medina was always in such control of himself that his expression diverted her. "I'll be back. That's all I can say now."

She was immediately intrigued, and alarmed. Did he mean he wanted to use her on another job? Part of her wanted to shout "Hell, no!" but deep inside was a yearning, a craving for more.

Common sense took the upper hand. "This is a one-time deal, Medina; don't bank on sucking me into another job. I don't get hazardous-duty pay, you know."

"Of course you do."

Taken aback, she warily eyed him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you get a hefty bonus for this."

"Oh, great! That means anyone in payroll-"

"Nope. This is black ops, remember? Everything comes out of an off-books account. And try to call me John, instead of Medina. John's a fairly common name, but there are a lot of people in this town who would perk up their ears if they heard you call me Medina."

Reluctantly she said, "John." She preferred thinking of him and referring to him as Medina; that kept him at a certain distance, at least in her mind. She was having a difficult enough time battling her attraction to him as it was. "Back to my original statement: This is a one-time deal. It has to be."

Hands still in his pockets, he wandered over to the kitchen window and absently fingered the hook and eye latches she had installed. For the past two mornings he had been reduced to wriggling through a damn small bathroom window, and the fit was so tight he had to do some major contortions to get in. She was so pleased with those little latches that he didn't tell her he'd figured out a way to unlatch them. The average burglar wouldn't have the means of doing it, and anyone who really, really wanted to get into the house would simply break a window anyway. The ordinary citizen usually couldn't afford the safety measures that would make a house truly burglar-proof, but then the ordinary citizen didn't need to go to
that effort and expense.
"Don't think you can ignore me," she warned. He gave her a brief, warm smile as he turned away from the window. "I've never thought that."

Both the smile and the statement rattled her. Deciding to change the subject, she took a deep breath. "Let's get back to the plan. What happens when-if- I wrangle an invitation to Ronsard's home? What if you aren't invited for the same time?"

"I've already received an invitation. Ronsard is hosting a formal party in ten days. He does it annually, as sort of a repayment to all the people who look the other way when delicate situations arise concerning his occupation. The security is extremely tight, even tighter than normal, because of so many people in the house. He would consider the meeting with me more controlled. If Ronsard invites you to the party, accept. If he merely invites you to his house for a visit, decline. That will only whet his interest."

"What I know about whetting interest would rattle around in a peanut shell," she muttered.

He grinned. "Don't worry, Mother Nature took care of that. We men are easy. We don't require much more than that a woman be breathing, and we're interested."

She tried to take umbrage, but instead found herself laughing. "That simple, huh?"

"Compared to women, we're amoebas. Our brains only have one cell, but it's dedicated."

So said the most complicated man she'd ever met. She shook her head.
"
I think we need to get to work
,
before your one cell goes completely haywire. What's on the agenda for today?"

"Nothing," he said. "Get some rest, pack, brush up on your French. I just came by to give you your papers."

She had become so accustomed to working out with him that the prospect of a day without that challenge seemed flat. "So this is it, huh? If I don't get that invitation, I won't see you again."

He hesitated, then reached out and lightly touched her cheek with his fingertips. He started to say something and stopped. Something like regret, only more complex, flickered briefly in his blue eyes. Without a word he turned and left, letting himself out the back door, his movements so silent she wouldn't have known he was there if she hadn't been looking at him.

She stood in the kitchen, fighting the chill that raced over her at his touch. No, she wasn't cold. She was shivering, but she wasn't cold. Just that light touch of his fingertips had set her nerve endings to tingling. Holy cow. What would it be like to actually-"No," she ordered herself aloud. "Don't go there." Don't imagine what it would be like to make love with him. Men like John Medina didn't make love, they had sex; they didn't have relationships, just encounters.

Though one couldn't tell it from the way she had lived her life for the past five years, she had sometimes thought, in a vague way, of remarrying and having children. That was always in the nebulous future, and even though there hadn't been any candidates for the position of husband, still she had expected her life to eventually take that route. If she became involved with John, though, she could kiss that dream good-bye. She wouldn't be able to settle for an ordinary Joe if she ever let herself indulge in an affair with him.

He might pass himself off as a sheep to most of the world, but she knew him for the wolf he was. And she knew her own nature, knew her craving for excitement. She'd never be able to get herself back, because sleeping with John would be going one step too far. That was the ultimate kick, and nothing else would ever equal it But if she didn't let herself taste him, she would never know what she missed. She might suspect, but she wouldn't know, and she would still be capable of happiness with that ordinary Joe who had to be somewhere in her future.

What difference did it make? she wondered, pressing a fist to the pit of her stomach in an effort to squash the butterflies that were fluttering there. He was gone. If this plan didn't work, she probably wouldn't see him again. Though he'd said he would be back, she didn't quite believe him. She couldn't let herself believe him, because if she did, she might start dreaming he was coming back for her, and that was the most dangerous fantasy of all.

Niema packed in the battered Vuitton luggage that had been delivered the day before. The luggage was a nice touch, she thought; it was expensive and fit with her supposedly well-heeled background, but still looked far from new. It looked, in fact, as if it had been around the world several times. The name tags carried her fictitious name and address.

She dressed in a stylish linen and cotton blend sage green dress for travel, a simple chemise style that she topped with a lightweight cardigan. On her feet were sensible taupe flats. For all its simplicity, or perhaps because of it, the ensemble shrieked "money." Old money, at that.

The day was bright and sunny; there wouldn't be any bad weather delays. She felt jittery and couldn't tell if it was due to anticipation or dread. But she felt ready; she wanted to be in Paris right now. She wanted to meet this Louis Ronsard and see if breathing was, indeed, all she had to do to be come-hitherish. John needed her inside Ronsard's villa; he would continue on his own, but the job was less risky if he had backup. She had to get that invitation.

Uneasily she thought of a precaution John had insisted she take: birth control pills. It was standard for female operatives, he'd told her. Did he expect her to sleep with Ronsard? She knew that sex was often the route women used to get to the men they targeted, in real life as well as in espionage. Well, her devotion to the job didn't go that deep; she would not, could not, sleep with the arms dealer, no matter how good-looking he supposedly was.

The cab arrived on time, and the driver came to the door to carry her bags. As he went back down the sidewalk she looked around at her comfortable home, wondering at the weird sense of disconnection, as if she would never see it again. This wasn't much different from going on vacation. A week, two weeks at the most, and she would be home again, once more settled into the routine of work and chores. This episode wouldn't be repeated.

She carefully locked the door and set the alarm, which John had reactivated. He had definitely made her more safety conscious, though; even with the alarm, she found herself going around to every window and door and hooking the latches. She had bought a timer for the lamps and television, to give the house at least the appearance of being lived in. And John had promised that Agency people would keep an eye on the house for her, so she wasn't really worried.

The cab driver was looking impatient, so she hurried down the walk, and with every step her spirits lifted. She was finally in action again!

* * *

She was met in Paris by a uniformed chauffeur who loaded her luggage and solicitously handed her into a large Mercedes-Benz. She sank into the leather seats and closed her eyes with a sigh. Did the Concord eliminate jet lag, she wondered, or did the body automatically note the position of the sun and know something was wrong? The supersonic flight was much faster than a regular jet, but she was still as exhausted as if the flight had taken the normal length of time. All she wanted was a long bath and a quiet place to lie down.

The Marine guards at the embassy checked the car and her passport before allowing her into the embassy grounds. As the car stopped out front, a tall, slender woman in her early sixties, with striking silver-white hair, came down the steps, her hands outstretched and her face wreathed in smiles.

"Niema!" she cried. "It's
so
good to see you!"

This must be Ambassador Theriot's wife, Eleanor, the old family friend. The chauffeur opened the door, and Niema climbed out, going straight to Mrs. The-riot with a warm hug.

"You look exhausted," Mrs. Theriot said, patting her cheek in a motherly way. "Jet lag is terrible, isn't it? Supposedly it's worse going west-or perhaps that's east, I can never remember which it is, but it doesn't matter because I get jet lag no matter what direction I'm traveling."

Mrs. Theriot was giving her recovery time by chattering, Niema realized. She managed a smile. "I
am
tired, but I don't want to waste my visit lying around."

"Don't worry about that," Mrs. Theriot cooed as she led her up the steps into the embassy.
"
A nap will do you a world of good. There's nothing you have to do, nowhere you have to go."