Darkness at Dawn (20 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Jennings

Tags: #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Contemporary, #Fiction

BOOK: Darkness at Dawn
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“That’s what the manuscript is about, right?”
She sighed. “I imagine. It’s undoubtedly a fake, but I can stretch out its ‘restoration’ for as long as you need. Anyway, Changa is trying to wear the mantle of the Snow Dragon. Marrying the last of the royal blood would help a lot in that.”
“Paso,” Mike said.
“Yes. If Jomo passes away, she will be the last of her line. If Changa marries her and they have sons, they will be of royal blood.” Her beautiful face was somber. “I don’t know what he thinks he’ll get by using bioweapons; it doesn’t make sense. But he’s got a hot lab, and a manuscript tailor-made to suggest he’s the Snow Dragon. If he marries the princess, no one will be able to stop him.”
“What does Paso plan?”
“I have no idea. That’s why I need to talk to her.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Mike held his hands up in a time-out gesture. “Just where are you meeting her and when? Did she slip you a piece of paper or something? As I recall, the two of you never touched.”
“We didn’t have to. Do you remember she greeted me ‘by Buddha’s birth’?”
Mike nodded.
“It might have sounded like a traditional Nhalan greeting, but it wasn’t. I’d never heard the expression before. But Buddha was born after a ten-month gestation, so she wants to meet at ten o’clock. And that flower she gave me? It’s a fairly rare kind of snowdrop that only grows above a certain altitude and under the branches of a Himalayan yew tree. It’s cultivated in the Palace Orangerie, a sort of greenhouse. So she wants to meet at ten in the greenhouse.” Lucy checked her watch and stood. “I’d better get going if I want to be on time. You stay here, I should be back in about an hour.”
“No, no way.” Mike stood, too. “There’s no way you’re going to that meeting alone.”
Lucy’s face stilled, her tone was cold. “I beg your pardon? Why not?”
Mike’s brain froze. Simply stopped functioning. He couldn’t think above the clanging warning bells in his head. There was no way he was going to let her step into possible danger, but he needed to say that in a way that didn’t push her buttons.
He tried frantically to reason it out, but the cogs weren’t working. His mind simply whirred emptily, no words occurring to him. But there were pictures in his head, oh yeah. Very clear ones, the worst one of a dead Lucy in a pool of blood with a coldly triumphant Changa standing over her. That one messed with his head so much he couldn’t even talk.
The silence stretched out. With a sound of impatience Lucy moved toward the door, and Mike stepped in front of her, getting right into her face. She was wearing flat shoes, and he towered over her, using his height deliberately to intimidate her.
“Mike,” she said quietly. “Get out of my way.”
“No.” He set his jaw.
“Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” Each word was punctuated by a sharply tipped nail of her index finger poking holes in his chest.
She could fucking punch holes in him with an ice pick. He wasn’t moving.
He drew in a deep breath and willed his head into action.
“No,” he said. “Think about it. If you’re found wandering the halls alone, it’s going to look suspicious. But if you’re found sort of strolling around arm in arm with me, it will just look like we’re jet lagged and you’re showing me around the Palace. We weren’t told to stay in our rooms. No one will think twice about it.”
She blinked. “That makes sense,” she said slowly.
Mike let out his breath. He’d been very stupid and he wasn’t a stupid man. He’d been around women long enough to know for a fact that smart women did not like being told what to do. He
knew
that the way he knew the sun rose in the east. So why had he just issued his order like some tinpot dictator, knowing it would raise her hackles?
That image of a hurt or dead Lucy had just switched the thinking part of his head right off, and he’d been left with instinct. And his instincts now were those of a warrior. He’d stepped in front of her exactly the way you’d push a comrade out of the line of fire.
Act now, explain later.
That didn’t usually work too well with women.
He was very lucky that Lucy was not just a smart woman but a sane one, too. A lot of women turned mildly insane when they felt an obey-me-or-else button had been pushed. Not Lucy, thank God.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “So let’s go for a stroll that will just happen to take us past the whatever it’s called, the greenhouse, just two clueless tourists. Give me a minute to get dressed, okay?”
She nodded and he lunged for the closet, dressing fast just in case she changed her mind, because he knew one thing and that was that she wasn’t walking out there alone in the middle of the night with possibly trigger-happy guards around. Not an option. He’d tie her to the bed first. So he was really happy this was going to be done peacefully.
His second instinct was to tell her to stay put and he’d go to the appointment, but that was a guaranteed buttingheads moment. And, if he was honest with himself, he knew that he’d accomplish less than she would. It was entirely likely that the princess wouldn’t even talk to him. And they needed intel.
Mike found himself in a dilemma that had never happened to him before. Soldiering was a really straightforward business. At least the kind that he did was. He rarely went in undercover. He went into the field in uniform with a brief to wipe out the bad guys. Not easy to do but easy to understand.
There were never any countermanding considerations, except for the pissy rules of engagement, and they were written out. He commanded men who were well trained, well armed and who knew how to look after themselves.
This kind of situation was brand-new to him and he didn’t like it. Because while he absolutely understood the imperatives of their mission—he would never forget the sight of that poor man literally vomiting his guts out then disappearing in a cloud of dust—he also found himself unable to accept danger to Lucy. To this beautiful woman who could rise above her fears.
Jesus, he was a mess.
But a chic mess, he found, as he dressed quickly in some dark-colored clothes he pulled out of the closet. Designers duds,
très
elegant. In seconds, he was back at the door where Lucy was waiting for him, having turned her back to allow him privacy as he dressed.
She looked up at him. “Smile,” she ordered.
What the . . . He scowled.
“Smile,” she repeated firmly. “Remember at all times who you are. You are Mike Harrington. You are a successful investment banker. You are rich, your job is secure, you’re healthy, engaged to me. You’re on an adventure in this country you’ve never been to before. So that’s your persona—rich, contented businessman. Clueless, nice, happy.” She reached up to smooth out the lines on his forehead. “
Happy
, I said. If you go out right now, looking like this, you’re endangering the mission and you’re endangering me. So look the part. Empty your mind and fill it back up with the personality of Michael Harrington.”
She was absolutely right. They were out on a limb, way exposed. In enemy territory without backup. Looking for clues to a mortal danger that was going to be well guarded by soldiers led by a strongman.
Lucy opened the door and smiled up at him. He gave her a blinding smile in return, trying to look as if he’d suddenly been able to Botox all his worry lines away.
“Well, if we can’t sleep, we might as well go for a walk, don’t you think, darling?” Her voice was light, amused.
He schooled his own voice to lazy pleasure. “Absolutely, honey. Let’s explore a little. Never lived in a palace before. My partners are gonna want a complete rundown.”
They walked out at a leisurely pace, arm in arm, barely glancing at the soldier who’d been stationed outside their door. Surreptitiously, Lucy directed Mike to the right, and he followed her.
Mike hadn’t even glanced at the soldier, but he had excellent peripheral vision and he was reassured by what he’d seen. The man was sitting in a chair, which was good news in itself. No soldier posted to serve serious guard duty would do so sitting down. Just wasn’t done. Mike had seen a thousand Marines guarding prisoners and potentates and they never sat, never. They hardly even blinked.
The guy outside their room had been dressed in some kind of male sari belted kind of thing, lots of yellow and green silk. A ceremonial guard. Mike hadn’t even seen a weapon besides a small dagger in a silk sheath.
Good. So Changa wasn’t taking them seriously.
He and Lucy strolled arm in arm down the corridor. He murmured nonsense words in her ear and she gave a light laugh, as if he’d said something amusing.
He glanced at his watch. Nine forty p.m., local time. Two forty p.m. Zulu time. They had twenty minutes to make it to the greenhouse. And he was expected to file a report, encrypt it and send it via his special comms unit as a single burst of ultra-low-frequency waves at 4 p.m. Zulu.
They turned the corner into a magnificent, enormous, empty corridor. Lucy dropped his arm and speeded up.
She kept herself in shape, that was for sure. A quick walk was nothing for Mike, he could walk fast forever, but most people he knew who weren’t soldiers were out of shape and got winded easily. Not Lucy. She was speed walking, moving toward what seemed to him to be the heart of the building.
“You know where you’re going?”
They were at a sort of intersection. The corridors were so huge they were as big as small town streets. Lucy glanced down the left corridor and then the right, hesitated just a second then turned left. “Yeah, I know where I’m going. Paso and I spent a couple of years running wild through the Palace. They’ve made a few changes, it sometimes throws me off. But we’re headed in the right direction, don’t worry.”
“To the greenhouse?”
“The Orangerie,” she corrected. “Built by a Frenchman in 1737. It’s going to be really warm in there. We’re overdressed.”
“Well, we’re not overdressed for out here.”
“No.”
Unlike their quarters, the corridors were unheated and chilly by normal standards. Mike wasn’t bothered by the cold, and neither did Lucy appear to be.
They’d been walking for nearly twenty minutes. It was almost ten o’clock. Lucy was standing still at a corner, checking all the features, when she saw something she recognized and took off again.
She seemed to have taken minor routes. The only person they’d encountered had been an elderly lady carrying a tray, who hadn’t even glanced at them.
“We’re almost there,” she said and Mike tensed.
Lucy seemed to be absolutely convinced that Princess Paso was still her friend, but Mike hadn’t seen anything that convinced him of that. Her gaze had been as cold and as opaque as the general’s. And the hidden message might not have been a message at all. Lucy knew Nhalan, but she hadn’t been in the country for fifteen years. Maybe
by Buddha’s birth
had become some kind of common greeting in the meantime, like, say,
yo
. And maybe that flower was cultivated everywhere now.
And maybe they were walking into a trap. Goddammit, he didn’t even have a weapon.
Lucy stopped outside a set of truly huge doors. They’d moved generally in a southern direction, though with frequent deviations, and by Mike’s calculations they were now at the outer southern wall.
If only they’d been able to find a floor plan, he could have pinpointed their location to within a foot with GPS. But the only map they had was in Lucy’s beautiful head.
She knocked lightly at head height on the right-hand panel of the enormous door stretching at least twenty feet high. Before he could stop her, Lucy bore down on an enormous brass handle, opened the door and nearly ran inside. Mike followed right behind. He moved fast when he heard Lucy cry out.
T
EN
 
CIA HEADQUARTERS LANGLEY OFFICE OF DD/O
 
“FOR you, sir.” A young assistant left a piece of paper on his desk and exited quietly. Christ, he looked about twelve, and yet he was probably the same age as Montgomery had been when he’d been recruited right out of college. Ten thousand years ago, it felt like.
He rubbed his eyes, making them even redder. They felt as if his eyelids were made of sandpaper. He was on his fifty-sixth hour straight without sleep, and it didn’t look like sleep would be on the agenda any time soon.
As DD/O, his office came equipped with everything—including a well-appointed bathroom and a very comfortable sofa bed. A closet held several changes of clothes, including several sets of pajamas and tennis outfits. He could lift up his phone and order an excellent meal with a decent French wine, a massage, or he could drop down to the spacious inhouse gym and go for a swim or relax in the steam rooms.
He’d done them all in his time. Sometimes crises lasted days. He was fully equipped to face even weeks without leaving his office, but also without roughing it.
He was roughing it now, never leaving his desk, simply because there was no way he could leave it. Intel was streaming in on an hourly basis.

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