Broken Honor (41 page)

Amy had driven with Irish to the house. Sam had followed. He was, she knew, to take her back to the motel. Irish would make the all-important call, then wait with his friends to see what developed.

But now she and Irish and Bo explored the house. She wanted to know everything about the house, about the preparations.

The home to its left was more elaborate, the landscaping more formal. She wondered whether that was the vacationing neighbors' house.

Amy recalled the fire that ruined her own house. She shuddered to think the same thing might happen here. But Irish felt he had taken precautions against that happening. Brian Jordan, if he was the person behind all this, couldn't afford another explosion.

Once inside, Bo followed her into the living room. Two men inhabited a cozy living room filled with overstuffed furniture and books.

They rose as she entered. Unlike Sam with his long hair, these two had short, neatly trimmed hair. They were clean shaven, and their bodies were obviously in extremely good shape. They had enough age that character was carved in their faces. They looked lethal.

Irish introduced the two just as Sam walked in. Mike and Taggart. Mike was a big blond in jeans and work shirt. Taggart wore expensive slacks and a dark blue sport coat over a blue shirt.

They both grinned. “Long time, Irish,” Taggart said.

“Thought you've given up all this for the ranch,” Mike said. “It was all you talked about.”

“I didn't choose this,” Irish said. “It chose me.”

Mike looked at Amy. Raised an eyebrow. Then shrugged. “We've rigged the house. There are two separate telephone lines. We bugged both of them, as well as every room. Doors have sensors. Also installed sensors along the hall. You'll know if anyone's coming.”

“I appreciate it. Send me your bill.”

“You're crazy, Irish. I've been waiting a long time to pay back a debt.” Mike, the big blond, looked at Amy. “He saved my life a long time ago. Whatever he wants, he gets.”

“You couldn't pay my price,” Taggart, the dark-haired one, added with a grin.

“Things that good, Tag?”

“Executive protection is a big business.”

Amy turned her attention to Mike. “What do you do?”

“Worked with New York P.D. for ten years, then went into business for myself.”

“He's a private dick,” Tag said. “Tried to get him to go in with me, but he would rather work for shyster attorneys.”

It was obvious to Amy that this was a frequent argument. The two men argued like old friends while they regarded Irish with some awe. She stepped back and looked at the four of them. Irish had always struck her as a loner, and the others made it clear they hadn't seen him in years. And yet they came from God knew where when he called.

Still, he seemed separate from them. When she had first met him, her initial impression was that he kept people at arm's length. In the past week, some of that feeling had faded. They had become close in so many ways. And yet, she realized, it was still there. Irish Flaherty was a man who never totally lowered the barriers.

She also knew, from looking at these men, that she didn't belong here. They all lived on the edge of danger. It was as much a part of their being as academia was a part of hers. She looked away from them and toward the Chesapeake, which sparkled through the window. Distant sailboats danced on its surface, and the sun sent ribbons of gold rippling over the water.

If there had ever been a portrait of peace and tranquillity, the bay was it. If there had ever been a portrait of violence, the four men in the room represented it. The juxtaposition sent waves of anguish through her. While the past weeks had made her feel more alive than she'd ever felt in her life, she knew deep within her that she needed something else. Tranquillity? Safety? Normalcy? She had built her life around those goals.

“Amy?”

She turned around at the sound of Irish's voice. Deep. Reassuring.
Loving
?

She closed her eyes against the pain she suddenly felt, then quickly opened them, hoping the others didn't see that moment of weakness.

“I'm here,” she said. “I was just looking at the bay.”

“Would you like to see the rest of the house?” the one called Tag said.

She nodded.

Tag led the way, pointing out the location of the phones, the sensors, the tiny cameras hidden in heating vents. She was familiar enough with the concept. She knew that such technologies were readily available to the public now through catalogs and even through stores that specialized in ways to spy upon your neighbor. As a civil libertarian, she had been appalled. She had certainly never thought she would be involved in their use.

Still, despite the little spying devices located throughout, she fell in love with the house. Her opinion of Dustin Eachan, who'd seemed a little arrogant and pompous, ratcheted up a notch. There was a large kitchen with shining pans hanging from hooks around an island. Two large bedrooms downstairs. One large bedroom and balcony upstairs. It looked pristine. If nothing else, Dustin Eachan was a very neat person—or he had a very competent housekeeper.

Then they went down to the living area that looked out over the Chesapeake.

Irish looked at his watch. “Four-thirty. It's time for the call. Hawke Jordan will be at home, and Brian Jordan should be at the office.”

Amy had listened as they discussed the best way to approach the Jordans. It was obvious that the older Jordan was the catalyst for what had happened. How much did his son know? That was the question.

Hawke Jordan was eighty years old now, but Dustin Eachan had said he still went into the office each morning, though now he left about 1
P
.
M
. He apparently had been loath to entirely surrender the company to his son, although Brian Jordan was chief executive officer.

Irish picked up a cellular phone that had a tap inside.

Amy put her hand on his. “Won't he wonder whether it's a trap if he can trace the number?”

“Tag's an electronic genius. This signal will be bouncing off several satellites. He'll be able to find us eventually, but it's going to be very, very difficult. I don't think he'll figure out that we really want him to know where we are. Or that it's plan b.” Irish dialed the home number Tag had obtained from hacking into the Jordan Industries computer.

Amy moved next to him, close enough to hear. Bo curled himself around her feet in his possessive mode.

A woman answered the phone. “Jordan residence.”

“I would like to speak with Hawke Jordan.”

“That's impossible. Mr. Jordan suffered a stroke several days ago. He cannot be disturbed.”

“He's home? Not in a hospital?”

“There's a nurse with him.”

Amy saw the look on Irish's face. Disappointment. Did Dustin Eachan know about this? She felt the same disappointment.

Irish tried one last time. “Tell him an old friend wants to talk to him. Tell him that Flaherty is on the phone.”

“I don't think.…”

“Just tell him.”

A pause, the sound of a telephone being laid down on a desk.

Several moments later, the woman's voice came on again. “He's sleeping. I won't wake him. If you leave your number and location, I'll give him your message.”

Location?

“Is his son there?”

Hesitation. Then, reluctantly, “Yes.”

“Then I want to talk to
him
.”

“He is with his father. He cannot talk now. As I said, if you will leave a message.…”

“Tell him I know about the gold. If he doesn't talk to me now, I go to the police.”

An audible gasp. “I'll … tell him.”

Irish winked at Amy and formed an O with two fingers for the others.

In a moment, she heard a deep voice rumble through the receiver. “Brian Jordan. What do you want?”

“I want you to call off your dogs.”

Amy inched closer so she could hear better. Her head and Irish's were nearly together.

“I have no idea what you mean. My father is a very ill man, and I don't want him disturbed.”

“You have more than disturbed my friend Dr. Mallory, and me,” Irish said in a voice that could form ice cubes. “And now I want something for our trouble, plus a guarantee that nothing else will happen to her.”

“You should write fiction, Mr … Flaherty, is it? Or perhaps visit a psychiatrist. And now I am going to hang up.”

“I have a number that might interest you,” Irish said. He recited the number that was found in General Mallory's desk. Amy knew neither of them were sure whether it had any validity or any meaning to Jordan, but it was the best chance they had.

A silence again.

“I also have a written account from General David Mallory about what happened fifty years ago. I wonder whether the federal government is aware that Jordan Industries was financed with stolen gold.”

“About that psychiatrist, Mr. Flaherty, I advise you to visit him soon.”

“That's very good, Mr. Jordan. But you might ask your father before you turn down my offer. He might have a reservation or two.…”

“Look, if you want a job with the company …” Brian Jordan was obviously being very, very careful as to what he was saying.

“I want a lot more than a job,” Irish said. “Perhaps we can make a small trade.”

“Again, Mr. Flaherty I've no idea what you're talking about.”

“All right,
Brian
.” He emphasized the last word. “Then I'll take what I have to the FBI tomorrow.”

Pause again. “Your grandfather was a friend of my father's,” he said. “I
would
like to meet you. What about my office?”

Irish laughed into the phone. “I don't think so.”

“Somewhere convenient to both of us, then?”

“You're in Baltimore?”

“Yes.”

“Annapolis, then. City Dock. There's always a lot of people there.”

“And Miss Mallory?” Jordan said.

“I don't think so.”

“I do. Or else I'll wait until we can all get together.”

Irish started to say no. She shook her head. “I'll consider it,” Irish said.

“Noon?” Jordan said.

“Noon it is,” Irish confirmed.

“Where do I find you?”

“I think you will recognize me,” Irish replied dryly. “
I
know what
you
look like. I think I can find you.”

“I'll try to be there.”

“No, my friend,” Irish said. “You be there, or my next stop is the FBI. And, oh, Brian.…” Again the disrespectful familiarity.

“Yes?”

“I have insurance. A lot of it.”

Another pause, then a firm “Good day, Colonel Flaherty.” The phone went dead.

Irish switched off the phone.

“I'm going with you,” Amy said.

“No,” Irish said flatly.

“Yes, I am. Otherwise he won't show.”

“He probably won't show anyway. He'll have his lackeys there.”

“We don't know he's involved with all this. It might be his father. Maybe he doesn't have anything to do with it.”

“Then he wouldn't have agreed to meet.”

“Won't he believe it's a trap?”

“I'm sure he will. But he'll have someone there anyway, and hopefully we can either take them or identify them. They have to know what we have, and he'll want to size us up. Hell, Jordan thinks he's smarter than us. People like him usually do. Arrogance is a weakness. And from what Eachan said, our Brian Jordan is very, very arrogant.”

“Then what?”

“If he decides we don't have anything, then I think we'll continue to be in danger. We know about him. Either he or his father or someone working for them doesn't want any loose ends.”

“And if he decides we do?”

“He'll try to find some way to get it. Payoff, maybe. But he knows, and I know, that wouldn't end the possibility of exposure. He'll come after us.”

“So it's a matter of sooner of later?”

He looked at her levelly. “Yes. Our best chance is to make him so angry he gets careless.”

“Then I have to go. Tag will be there. And Mike. Sam. I'll be okay.”

Irish's lips twisted into a wry smile. “Tag. Mike. Sam. What about me?”

“That goes without saying.”

“Does it?”

“And I have my pistol.”

“Could you actually shoot someone?”

She hesitated. She didn't want to lie. She simply didn't know. Had she changed that much in these past weeks? Could she actually take a life?

“I don't know,” she admitted.

He leaned over and kissed her. “You are the most honest woman I've ever met.”

“Then I can go?”

“Absolutely not. Bo needs you. And Sam's going to look after you both.”

Maybe. But not if she could do anything about it
. But she didn't say that. She would convince him.

Tonight.

twenty-seven

E
N
R
OUTE TO
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Sally looked out the window as the plane flew over the desert.

It helped calm her. Her heart had stopped beating so rapidly every time she brought back her mother's words.

They had not come with tears
. Instead there had been a quiet dignity as she'd recited a story that had never been told before.

Her mother had been an art student when she met Sally's father. He'd been overwhelming for a girl who lived with her single mother and attended college on a scholarship. He and his family
—
the house and the wealth and the pedigree
—
had been like a fairy tale
.

She'd fallen in love and eloped with him. His family made it clear they were unhappy with the match. But the marriage had been made public, and his family had said he'd made his bed, so he had to sleep in it. It was a long time before she realized she was his rebellion
.