Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (20 page)

Just before dusk in northwest London, Vanessa entered Hampstead Heath near the athletic track and the ponds. She began the climb to the top of Parliament Hill.

Was it always damp in London? She’d done a three-month study exchange in the city during college and every day had been Groundhog Day, the same gloomy skies.

A mist hung in the air and she passed large standing puddles from earlier rains, but at this moment the skies were clear. She had arrived in London just under three hours ago, the minimum amount of time she needed to deal with the city’s heightened security as well as her own surveillance-detection routine. She made certain that she didn’t have unwanted company before she hopped the Tube from the Chunnel’s exit at Saint Pancras Station to Gospel Oak. She loved the names of the stops on the Underground, each marking centuries of history, a reminder that we are all part of a long lineage.

The hill was still a favorite of runners, pram pushers, and a few intrepid kite flyers. The weather, no matter how soupy or miserable,
never seemed to bother the British. Even with terrorist threats extending to all major European cities, London felt freer than Paris.

She was more than halfway up and her breathing had barely quickened; at least the smoking wasn’t affecting her lungs in any obvious way yet. Still, it had been beyond bad to take up the habit again.
A runner and a smoker? An idiot.

As she crested a small rise and turned onto a fork of paved path leading directly up to the hill’s apex, she saw kites dancing in the sky overlooking London. Beneath those kites, one long bench, offering the best view of London, was set on its own away from the paved path, away from runners and prams and the stand of trees beyond.

A lone and familiar figure occupied the bench. Alexandra Hall, director-general of MI5, who was in her fifties, sat with perfect finishing-school posture, cloaked in a chic winter coat lined with understated fur. A bright green scarf peeked over her collar. Her gloved hands were crossed in her lap. The effect was one of both control and ease.

Vanessa covered the last few meters. Hall still had not acknowledged her approach; instead, her gaze seemed locked on a vanishing point somewhere over the city near Saint Paul’s Cathedral.

Vanessa sat, keeping her hands in her pockets and a meter between herself and Hall. She appreciated the moment to decompress just a bit, while at the same time a sense of urgency gnawed internally. Given Hall’s rather forbidding presence, she felt uncertain if she should speak or wait until she was spoken to. A bit like waiting for the queen.

After what seemed a long silence, Hall spoke, enunciating her words with a posh Oxbridge accent. “You seem to be in the thick of it again, my dear.”

“I appreciate you taking what I know is your extremely valuable time to meet with me, Madame Director.”

“Then let’s not waste any of my time,” Hall said quietly.

“Right.” Vanessa’s fingers fidgeted with the lining inside her pockets. “I need to know why Dieter Schoeman was transferred out of Belmarsh just days before the bombing at the Louvre.”

“Why are you so eager to speak with Schoeman?”

Vanessa felt tension move to her jaw. She pushed her spine against the unforgiving bench. She still didn’t know whom she could trust, but she felt drawn to confide in Hall.

“Bhoot contacted me the day of the bombing.”

She might as well have said she liked the color blue for all of Hall’s reaction.

After what was, for Vanessa, an uncomfortably long silence, Hall said, “How did Bhoot get to you?”

“A disposable phone.”

“What did he have to say?”

“He denied involvement in the bombing, called it a diversion, said he’s been betrayed and that someone stole something of his, presumably the device he smuggled out of Iran.”

“I’ve read the intel reports from our analysts and officers as well as yours, and classified assessments of the state of play,” Hall said. “Are you quite certain that the device is a miniaturized nuclear prototype?”

“Not one hundred percent certain, but unwilling to gamble that it’s not,” Vanessa said. “It’s obviously something of great value to Bhoot, so great that he would risk contact with me.”

“I imagine he has more than one reason to reach out to you, Vanessa, and I’m sure you realize that you are playing with fire,” Hall said.

A toddler lurched off the trail and a woman who looked too much like him not to be his mother followed, chiding gently and a bit wearily. On another day, Vanessa might have wondered if she would ever become a mother.

Dusk was settling and the day was quickly darkening. When the child and his mother had almost disappeared along the trail, Hall said, “So it was Bhoot who sent you looking for Dieter Schoeman.”

“Yes.”

Hall turned toward Vanessa for the first time since their conversation had begun. “December must have been difficult for you for multiple reasons.”

Vanessa tensed protectively, trying to mirror Hall’s stoicism and unearthly equanimity. She glanced toward Hall and then away, but she did not feel compelled to answer, sensing that Hall had more to say. She was right.

“Dealing with the holidays just weeks after you killed a man. Taking a life, however justified that act may be, leaves an unseen mark.” Hall followed a lonely, fishlike kite with her eyes. “And your father’s birthday—it must have been hard for your mother.”

“Yes, hard for all of us,” Vanessa said. Oddly, she felt herself let go, ease her guard a bit. For all Hall’s power and her ability to wield that power ruthlessly, Vanessa somehow felt safe around her. Certainly the fact that Hall had known and respected her father was part of it. Vanessa thought of him every day; she wished she could ask his advice.

“You’ve had a rough start to the new year,” Hall said, interrupting Vanessa’s thoughts.

“I plan to make it better soon.” She felt Hall’s eyes on her face, assessing her strength, her energy, what? She turned to meet Hall’s gaze. “It’s getting late,” she said softly.

“So it is,” Hall acknowledged. She took a long breath. “The directive to move Dieter Schoeman came from someone high in your own government.”

“
What?
From
Washington
?” Dumb questions, but Vanessa was gobsmacked, as the British like to say. Her heartbeat zipped ahead; the internal gnawing started up again.
“Who? Why?”

“I hate to be guilty of spouting clichés, but there truly are some doors that cannot be closed once they are opened,” Hall said.

Vanessa, her back straight, leaned forward intently. Her mind raced with possibilities.
A traitor?
“Who ordered Schoeman’s transfer?”

“This was a top-secret directive. I have no reason to share a name with you.”

“You said you owe me a favor because of my father and for saving your life. So I’m calling in the chit,” Vanessa said quietly. “I doubt that surprises you. You’re here, you came.”

“Almost nothing surprises me at this stage of my life, Vanessa.”

It did not escape Vanessa’s attention that Hall used her name for the first time since she’d taken her seat on the bench. Feeling uncomfortably like a pleading child, she pushed a strand of hair from her face and then she clasped her hands together in her lap.
“Please.”

“The order to transfer Schoeman out of Belmarsh to a CIA black prison in Slovakia came from your very own deputy national security advisor.”

Allen Jeffreys—holy Jesus.

She pictured his face on the cover of
Time
just weeks ago. In the portrait, one corner of his mouth was turned down in what Vanessa had always thought was an arrogant sneer. She whispered, “Jeffreys.”

Hall rose to standing but didn’t take a step. “I’ve loved it here since I was a very little girl and my parents brought me to fly kites. I believe the view opens the mind: Canary Wharf, the Gherkin, Saint Paul’s, and the Houses of Parliament used to be much more visible.”

She turned now to look intently at Vanessa, who had the sense Hall might be seeing some younger part of herself.

“I’m sure it won’t be any more effective cautioning you to be very, very careful moving forward.” Hall clasped her gloved hands behind her back. The sky had darkened, and almost everyone had gone home for the evening. Vanessa felt abruptly lonely.

Hall took one step, pausing to say, “However, I will indulge myself
the luxury of wasted breath. So I repeat: When you play with men like Bhoot and Allen Jeffreys, however differently they exercise their power, you play with fire.”

She did not look back as she said, “Try not to get burned alive, Vanessa.”

Allen Jeffreys sat behind his desk in his office at the Old Executive Office Building, watching with some amusement as the CIA analyst exited hurriedly without once glancing back.

After the pointed click of the door closing, he smiled at his own image reflected in one of the half-dozen family portraits adorning his desk. He had made her sweat. She had been cranky and uncooperative and Asian to boot. His father would have called her a wannabe inscrutable Oriental and would have said watch out for the Chinks—they’ll own America someday if we don’t teach them about Jesus.

Jeffreys made a very small adjustment to the photograph of Eileen, his wife of twenty-eight years, and the mother of his two sons and four daughters. Coiffed and wearing full makeup in this photo, Eileen looked almost like her younger self. She was still pretty enough, although nothing like the radiant bride he’d married.

He frowned as he pictured Eileen in contrast to the recent visitor to his office. She could only be described as irritatingly unfeminine, but industrious, he’d give her that. And she had shared information
with him—even when she tried so hard to hold back to protect her friend.

More than one man had referred to him as the King at His Throne
, Jeffreys thought.

His musings were interrupted by the discreet, familiar tap on the door. Jeffreys looked through the tortoiseshell frames of his glasses at his secretary, who also happened to be his eldest son, Francis Warren, who had poked his head into the office.

“I’ve updated your schedule. You are due at the White House in fifteen to meet with POTUS and Senator Blaine on the upcoming negotiations in Istanbul. Then you go to the Circle for the prayer meeting at five-thirty. I can have your car brought around at five.” Pause. Eyebrows peaked. “Was she helpful?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t know it.” Jeffreys paused. “We haven’t heard from our friend in Yemen?”

“Anytime now. He is waiting for the right opportunity to deal with loose ends.”

Sitting cross-legged in her boxers and T-shirt on her bed in the safe house, Vanessa drummed the side of her laptop as the FaceTime link connected one continent to the other—1830 hours in Virginia, 0030 in Paris. She had returned from London four hours ago, and since then, unable to sleep, she’d kept busy researching Jeffreys using open source.

No way could she run her suspicions through official channels. So she had rehearsed different ways to do this. She would be asking yet another colleague to ignore SOP, something she’d become too good at lately. She didn’t enjoy feeling like she was using Zoe, but there was no denying the analyst was a whiz at connecting the dots.

Zoe appeared suddenly on the screen, and her eyes widened after a blink. “Oh, no,” she said, dread pulling down her face. “How did you get my personal FaceTime username?”

“I’m sorry,” Vanessa said, pushing a loose strand of hair from her eye. Contacting Zoe this way allowed for very minimal security, she knew, but she saw no other way than to take the risk. If her
instincts were right, they were all in far bigger trouble than they had thought.

“But this was the only way. I need to know this exchange is absolutely between us. It goes no further, and if you’re not comfortable with that, you need to tell me now.”

“Fine. I’m not comfortable.” Zoe met Vanessa’s gaze, unblinking.

And she stayed silent until Vanessa’s palms broke a sweat.

Zoe inhaled, frowning so deeply her mouth puckered. “Fuck, of course I’m not comfortable. Just stop.”

“Hey, I—”

Zoe pushed her palms to the screen. “Really,
stop
.” She stood and walked away from the screen and out the door of what Vanessa could now see looked like her bedroom, judging from the neatly made bed and the dog curled up on the spread.

Okay, that was a fast refusal,
Vanessa thought. She sat at a loss for a moment. Her pride in what she considered her unusual skills of persuasion hadn’t gone very far in this case.
Disconnect or wait?

She stared at what she could see of Zoe’s room, her gaze flicking from the small quilt mounted on the wall, each square a slightly varied pattern of a panda, to the carefully mounted topography maps to the family photo on the dresser: an Asian man, Caucasian woman, Eurasian boy, and Zoe, when she was about twelve or thirteen, all of them smiling except Zoe, who seemed to be scrutinizing the camera warily. Vanessa knew that expression because it pretty much summed up Zoe’s MO: Proceed with extreme skepticism.

Vanessa knew Zoe would admit they had raised each other’s hackles when they first met. And for the next months, their interactions could only have been categorized as prickly: a rivalry, except Zoe was an analyst while Vanessa was ops. You almost couldn’t find two more different animals.

Furry lopsided ears and big buttery eyes appeared suddenly in front
of Vanessa: the dog had raised its shaggy head and now it stood up on very short legs to peer into the laptop screen. Vanessa was staring back at the dog’s damp nose when the animal suddenly rose into the air and Zoe sat down again. The analyst set the dog firmly down in her lap.

Zoe moved her face closer to the screen, her expression even more somber than usual. She sighed. “Meet Ludwig van B., who happens to adore FaceTime.” Zoe held her hands up to the screen: Her phone and a loose battery rested in her palm.

“Call me paranoid, I call myself prudent because I usually take the battery out of my phone when I get home,” Zoe said quietly. Her voice volume was lowering sentence by sentence, no doubt moving into conspiratorial mode. Almost to a whisper, she continued, “But I had just walked in when I heard your beep. Okay, so now where were we? Oh, my first question: Does this have to do with the ultra-
ultra
-secret, high-security investigation I’m part of at, um, the office?”

Trying her best to be cryptic, Zoe was referring to the special counterintelligence team put together to discover the identity of the mole.

Vanessa nodded.

A huff of air escaped Zoe’s lips, as if she were blowing an irritating hair from her face. “Of course I feel totally
uncomfortable
, but I will give you five minutes just between us and the NSA.”

Vanessa smiled weakly, grateful that Zoe was sitting across from her. This was a time she desperately needed support and expertise, and Zoe seemed willing to offer those, at least for five minutes.

“I need you to look into someone on the QT.”

“I hate to tell you,” Zoe said, her voice rising now. “But that’s nothing new for me.”

Vanessa looked down at her lap, then back at Zoe. “It’s different this time, believe me.”

Zoe swallowed, and her forehead creased again. “God, you’re giving me premature wrinkles. Exactly
whom
are we talking about?”

“He had a major profile in
Time
last month,” Vanessa said. She pictured Jeffreys’s face as it appeared in the magazine: quarter-profile, a dramatically shadowed sharp-eyed stare, military bearing and the haircut to go with that bearing; a pose crafted to communicate power, patriotism, and a ruthless zeal for security, not to mention his barely concealed political ambitions.

Zoe had taken a second to process the reference and her eyes were wide again. “That’s crazy . . .” She shook her head so hard her shiny blunt-cut blue-black hair waved.

“Okay, I
know
it sounds crazy.” Vanessa felt a kind of tightness behind her solar plexus, in the spot where she often registered stress. “Think about it. He has the access. He inserts himself into our ops way beyond what’s usual. He asks a lot of questions that are not normal. And he has the power to act with global reach: He also oversaw the secret transfer of Dieter Schoeman three days before the bombing at the Louvre. Dieter is Bhoot’s most trusted colleague in the network, and Jeffreys had access to him. Mr.
Time
could have been passing our intel to Bhoot through Dieter.”

Zoe stared at the screen but her eyes were lifted, as if she were calculating a data set. “Okay . . . then why? Not the money. And he’s already powerful. And he’s got everything to lose if it was true and he was found out.” Her volume dropped again. “What possible gain would make a man like that betray his country?”

“Maybe he’s paranoid? Maybe he wants more and more power? He’s a megalomaniac?” Vanessa shook her head. “I don’t know. Not yet. But I’m going to find out, even if it’s just to eliminate him from suspicion, right?”

“Okay, yes, it sounds crazy,” Zoe said at last. She wasn’t making her usual ate-something-rank face like she did when she’d had enough of Vanessa. “But who knows . . . I don’t know about the motives, but on other fronts, you might just be onto something,” Zoe said at last. “It fits . . . with some of our findings . . . it makes sense in some ways.
Damn . . . this is the kind of information that gets people killed.” She wrapped her arms around Ludwig van B. “You need to know this: The SOB called me into his office.”

Vanessa’s eyes widened. “When? Why?”

“This afternoon. To pump me about the investigation. His office sent over an official car and driver to pick me up and deliver me and take me back. It was really, really odd.” Zoe’s eyes rolled right and then they refocused on the monitor and Vanessa. “Listen . . . he asked me about you, too, about what you are doing. His questions were actually pretty subtle. He’s extremely smart and obviously capable of being crafty, as if everything really falls under his domain and he
should
be asking these things about the investigation.” Zoe paused for a moment before she said, “This isn’t good.”

“Agreed,” Vanessa said softly. “Really not good . . .” She heard a worried whine coming from Ludwig.

“So let me get back to you on this stuff,” Zoe said slowly. “I’ll see what I can find, but I can’t be looking, if you get my drift . . .”

Vanessa nodded; the tightness behind her solar plexus had hardened into a knot. She contracted her hands into fists, frustrated by how few words, how little information they could exchange. “I won’t say more now.”

“Oh, hallelujah for that!” For an instant Zoe was almost smiling.

Vanessa felt a surge of gratitude for the show of support from someone she respected. She thought Zoe might feel the same way about her. But even more, she felt afraid for both of them, Zoe and herself, and for everyone at CPD.

Vanessa took a quick breath, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Zoe said. “And don’t contact me like this again. I’ll contact you.”

With a small, twisted bleep the screen went blank.