Ark Storm (30 page)

“I need to go. Thanks for the party, for the stitches.”

Messenger made no move to get up. He sat, watching her curiously, like a puzzle he was determined to solve.

74

Outside on the lawn, tastefully arranged uplights revealed a party that looked like it was winding down. A close knot of bodies was crossing the grass. Peter Weiss spotted Gwen.

“Hey, here’s the heroine of the day!”

“Hey, Gwen,” echoed Kevin Barclay. “Perfect timing.”

She walked up to them; the three grunts were part of the group too. Mandy and Mel and Randy Sieber had gone.

“Join us. We’re going to hit the beach bar in Carmel.”

Gwen eyed them. They weren’t drunk, but they were on their way. She had the feeling if she ever wanted to slip in any discreet questions about Falcon and Messenger, this would be her chance.

“Sure,” she replied.

*   *   *

The bar was heaving with people. They spilled out onto the sand. Gwen sipped on the Coke Peter Weiss had bought her. Everyone else was on tequilas, save Weiss, who announced he was sticking to beer. Gwen thought he looked oddly guilty drinking even that. He kept looking round as if expecting censure. He wasn’t saying much, just sipping and lapsing into song. More R.E.M.; “Everybody Hurts,” this time.

The limos lined up on Scenic Road, further incitement, if any were needed, to a liquid night.

Gwen half listened in to the conversations, eyes on the sea, on the breakers silvered by the full moon.

Weiss moved closer to Gwen. “That was amazing, what you did today,” he murmured over the rim of his beer bottle.

Gwen shrugged. “Instinctive, really.”

Weiss gave a slight shudder. “Not for me. I wouldn’t have jumped in there.”

“If someone you loved were drowning…”

“Yeah, well maybe then, but hell, please don’t tell me you love Mandy.”

Gwen laughed. “No, Peter. Rest assured, I do not love Mandy. In fact you could say I am severely pissed with her.”

“I’ll bet.” He sipped, paused. “So, who do you love then, mysterious Dr. Boudain?”

Gwen looked at Weiss, standing before her, eyes sad. She thought for a while.

“Truly love, rather than care for?”

Weiss nodded.

“My parents.”

He nodded again. “Bit sad, isn’t it, to love the dead best.”

Gwen shrugged. “At least it’s love. How ’bout you?”

“My mother. My dead mother.” He gave her a wry smile.

Gwen nodded. “No one since?” She saw her chance. “Like a substitute father figure?”

Weiss looked at her sharply. “Meaning?”

“Dr. Messenger?”

“Shit! I don’t love him!” he said angrily, slopping beer over the sand as he gesticulated.

“He’s my boss. That’s it!” he declared, face reddening.

“A kind of mentor?” suggested Gwen. “Like he said, he’s made you all millionaires. He’s made you all part of something.”

“That’s what he thinks, with all his speeches and his grandstanding. There are bigger things, Gwen,” intoned Weiss, with a mixture of what seemed like bitterness and portent.

Still angry, he turned and headed for the bar. Did he mean religion, wondered Gwen? There had been a brief flash of a manic light in his eyes.

She’d get no more out of him, she realized. He’d joined Jihoon and Curt at the bar. They made way for him, but it was obvious he was the odd man out, the permanent outsider, thought Gwen, feeling a flash of sympathy.

Atalanta and Kevin Barclay had disappeared. Gwen was alone. She felt oddly calm. Her hands dangled by her sides. She stood quite still.

Her normal restive energy was all burnt out. She was only truly relaxed when she had felt the catharsis of fear, all adrenaline spent on the waves, or when she had had truly spectacular sex.

She smiled to herself.

With the calm came a kind of super clarity, where she felt as if she could have seen individual blades of grass, seen through pretenses to the core. It was as if all the extraneous noise in her head and outside had faded away to insignificance. It was a kind of addiction, this feeling.

Now she was left with one clear image, one clear want: Dan Jacobsen. Messenger was right. You could die at any moment. So she might as well really live. She could imagine the smell of Dan’s sweat: honey, musk, and salt. She craved him. With her body, with her mind. If she fell in love with him, if she got hurt, then it was a price worth paying.

75

Gwen detoured along the beach, wanting to make sure neither Weiss nor Jihoon nor Curt saw her. On one side was the ocean, on the other a line of cypress trees. She had to do a big loop to get to her car. She was fine with that. She pulled off her shoes. The sand was cold and soft underfoot. As she walked further from the bar, the darkness deepened, relieved only by the pooling glow of the streetlamps on Scenic Road. She was about to head up toward the road when a sound stopped her. A sort of grunt, half protest, half fear.

She stopped, foot poised, toe to sand, like a ballet dancer at the barre. The sound of movement, of breathing, a word cut off: “N—”

Eyes straining, she caught movement behind one of the cypress trees. She walked closer, on silent feet. Closer still, she could see limbs thrashing. A man, on top of a woman. She wanted to turn away, but something told her to stay. The woman was thrashing her head back and forth, trying to evade the mouth of the man on top of her. Long black dreads. Atalanta.

“Get off her! Now!” said Gwen, loud, but calm.

The writhing bodies froze. Kevin Barclay rolled off Atalanta, who sat up and spat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Barclay.

“You bastard!” shouted Atalanta, scrambling to her feet, backing away from Barclay.

Barclay stood slowly, hands on hips, eyes dark with fury, mouth sneering, as if none of it mattered.

“You weren’t saying that a minute ago,” he drawled.

“I was saying
No!
Until you stuck your fucking hand on my mouth.”

Gwen took a step closer to Barclay. “So what’s your problem Barclay? You think
no
means
maybe
? That it?” asked Gwen softly.

“Her body language, her come-ons all night. All that meant
yes
.”

“Maybe in your eyes. But
no
’s kinda unequivocal, don’t you think.” Gwen walked closer, put down her own bag, picked up Atalanta’s, which lay on the ground. She turned, handed it to the woman, who was watching her with big eyes. Atalanta took her bag with shaking hands.

“You really would have raped her, wouldn’t you Barclay?”

He barked out a laugh. “And she would have loved it, sucked it right up. Anything to squirm up the ladder. If you hadn’t fucking come along.” He took a step closer to Gwen. “Now why don’t you just fuck off and leave us alone.” He shot his hands out to push her.

He didn’t see it coming. Gwen didn’t see it coming, just acted out of instinct, and training and anger. With her left arm she blocked him, sweeping away his hands while she shot out her right palm, hand rigid, and smashed it onto the end of his nose. Barclay yelped with pain, lashed out his hand. Gwen dodged easily, caught his hand, turned it palm outward until the pain bit, then pushed him down to his knees; an aikido hold, one of Dwayne’s, a favorite of Special Forces who had to subdue someone without damaging them. Barclay knelt on the sand, nose gushing blood.

Gwen stood over him. With her free hand, she grabbed his hair, pulled up his head so he had to look at her.

“You try anything like that again, then I will really, truly hurt you. And if you do anything, and I mean any tiny little thing in the office to cause trouble for Atalanta, I will tell Messenger about this. And then I will hurt you again.”

Barclay said nothing. His breath rasped in and out.

“Do you understand me?” asked Gwen.

Barclay tried to nod.

“Not good enough,” said Gwen.

“Yes!” spat Barclay. “I understand you.”

“Good.” Gwen released him and backed away, keeping her eyes on him until she was a safe distance. She turned to Atalanta, who was staring at her, mouth open. She picked up her bag and her shoes.

“Let’s go, Atalanta.”

The other woman nodded. As they walked away, Barclay spoke again.

“You psycho bitch,” he muttered.

Gwen paused, turned, laughed. “Yeah, that’ll cover it.”

They left him on the sand.

“That. Was. Truly. Amazing,” breathed Atalanta.

“Had it coming. Fuckwit,” said Gwen.

Atalanta sucked in a breath. “I did flirt, I grant you—”

Gwen turned to her. “Not you! Him!”

“Ah. Yeah. Sorry. And you gave it to him, my God! I got you wrong, girl. I owe you a grade-one apology. And the biggest thank you. How can I?”

Gwen smiled. “You can buy me lunch one day. Might want to give the Cupcake Café a rain check for a spell.”

“Just say the word! Anytime.”

Gwen walked Atalanta back to the limos, saw her safely in, watched the limo drive off down Scenic Road, through the orange pall cast by the streetlamps.

Then she got into her own car and drove. It was 1:00
A.M.
She should have been tired. She wasn’t. She’d gone to the party hoping to learn more about Messenger. She’d learned that Mandy was a drunk, Barclay was a rapist, and Messenger had a hidden streak of kindness. She’d made two new enemies. Not altogether useful for her purposes. Fate had dished out the shit twice to her that day. She didn’t believe bad luck would come in threes.

76

SEVENTEEN MILE DRIVE, 1:15 A.M.

Gwen parked outside Dan’s house. Rang the bell. No reply. Following instinct, she walked round to the lawn overlooking the sea.

As if he’d known she were there, he called out: “Over here.” His voice was low. The faint huskiness tightened something in her stomach. The full moon lit the night. Gwen saw him, his back to her, standing at the edge of his land near the cliff top. She stopped by his side, gazed out with him at the moon-silvered path that cut across the ocean.

He turned to look at her. His eyes held hers. His lips quirked into a smile, but still those green eyes just looked at her, revealing nothing.

Gwen wanted to see the desire she felt reflected back at her, but all she saw was control. She smiled her own smile. I’ll break that into a million pieces, she vowed.

She turned to look out to the sea. “I used to imagine walking along that path when I was a little girl. Wondering where it would take me,” she said softly.

Dan remained silent for a while. “Funny thing, so did I.”

They turned back to each other.

“Your path seems to have brought you here. To me,” he said.

Gwen laughed softly, moved away, five paces, ten, twenty. She stood, the moon glowing off her, smiling across at Dan. He gave a smile of understanding, moved across the silent grass to her.

“And my path has brought me to you,” he said. Still they didn’t touch. The air between them felt alive. Gwen could feel him even though she wasn’t touching him. She could feel the force that was him, the energy pumping out of him. And she throbbed with the energy and the desire pumping out of her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come to me,” he said.

“Neither was I. I tried to hold back, for the longest time.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve known from the beginning if we do this there is no holding back. At least not for me.”

Dan raised an eyebrow. “Why would I hold back?”

“Because you do. Because underneath that dude exterior you’re as controlled as anyone I know. Whatever’s hidden inside, that’s what I want. All that power, all that loneliness and stillness, all that contained violence I feel in you. I want it all. I want to feel it all.”

“You want me to lose control?” Dan asked, his voice raw-edged.

As she spoke, his eyes turned hard and wild; that look she had glimpsed, seen in her dreams, wanted above all else. His body seemed to be vibrating with tension.

Gwen took a step closer. “Can you do that, Dan?” she asked softly. “Can you lose control with me? No holding back?”

“Jesus, Gwen. I’m catching fire here.”

Gwen laughed. “Let it burn.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, right here. I don’t want a bed and sheets and pillows, safe and sanitized in your bedroom. I want you here, outside, under the moon, on the grass, the night air on my skin.”

Any remaining control snapped. Dan grabbed Gwen in one swift move. He pulled her into him, chest to chest. She could feel the armor of his muscles. He bent his head, mouth on hers, kissing her with all the violence and the yearning she had sensed in him. Abruptly, he broke away, held her at arms’ length.

“You want it all, I’m gonna give it to you. Every last bit.” Then he pushed her down onto the grass. Gwen pulled him onto her, felt the weight of his body pressing down on her. She kissed him back, pulling him to her as hard as she could grip. Unnoticed by either of them, her stitches began to bleed, all pain subsumed.

77

NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, MONDAY MORNING

Rain pattered against the bulletproof windows of Andrew Canning’s office. Dead leaves scuttled along the ground outside, dank and depressing. He hated the slow prelude to winter. Slow death. It made him feel old, and he was only fifty-three. He sat defiantly in his shirtsleeves, scowling at the weather. He had his weekly golf game scheduled that evening.

He turned away from the window. The core of what he regarded as his Sheikh Ali team sat before him: Del Russo, Peters, Furlong, Zucker, and Southward, whom he had co-opted to CTC for as long as he needed her. By special arrangement, she traveled back and forth between Fort Meade and Tyson’s Corner.

Canning could see Southward was pleased with the arrangement. NSA must get a tad dry, and the woman was flourishing here at the sharper end. She seemed to be on a mission to get Sheikh Ali. Canning liked that. A zealot with brains. A rare combination, in his experience.

He eyed his team in turn.