Endgame (Last Chance Series) (3 page)

Gabe looked first to Pulaski and then to Evan, an eyebrow raised in question. It was a calculated look he'd practiced as a child, and once learned had never abandoned. "When I got the word, I assumed I'd been made."

"The operation hasn't been jeopardized." Jensen's voice was soft, but it was tempered with steel. "It's just been handed over to another operative."

Gabe opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it again. There was no point in antagonizing Jensen. Whatever was happening was obviously beyond his control. To hell with the fact that he'd sweated blood over this one. His was not to question why or some such
bullshit.

"All right then, beyond Cullen's
needing
me, why don't you tell me what this is about?" There was cynicism in his voice, the overlay part and parcel of his personality. In the fourteen years he'd been with the company, he'd seen just about everything.

A waitress stopped at the table, set a cup of coffee in front of Gabe, and pulled out a pad, but Evan waved her away. So much for breakfast. Gabe reached for the coffee, sipping the acidic brew, the action soothing in its familiarity.

"What do you know about the American Business Consortium?"

"Not much." Gabe frowned. "It was formed in the wake of 9/11. An attempt at communication and cooperation among leading industrial bigwigs. If I remember right, the FTC had a field day, until the president stepped in and gave the consortium a get-out-of-jail-free card. All's fair in the fight against terrorism, I guess. Even collusion."

"There is such a thing as the greater good, Gabriel. You of all people should recognize that fact." Cullen leaned forward, his eyes sharp with intelligence. "The idea behind the consortium is really twofold. First on a reactive front, it provides a communication base and a set of standard operating procedures, should something or someone try to bring down American commerce. And, on the proactive front, it allows for increased leverage in the international market. An opportunity to forge alliances that strengthens the United States' position worldwide, both economically and politically."

"A noble cause." Gabe said the words, but didn't for a moment believe them. As far as he was concerned, patriotism couched in economic gain was suspect from the get-
go.

Evan frowned in warning, but Cullen only shrugged. "There are two sides to every coin. But in this case I honestly believe the primary beneficiary is the country."

"Gentlemen," Evan cut in, "we can discuss economic philosophy until we're blue in the face and never come to agreement. The fact of the matter is that the consortium exists, and if you're correct, Cullen, under possible attack."

It was Gabe's turn to frown. "From whom?"

"I don't know." Cullen shook his head, and took a sip of coffee. "I'm not even certain there's really a threat. I don't have anything definitive. Just a pattern. But in my business patterns are everything, and I can't ignore this one." He studied them both for a moment, leaving Gabe feeling as if he'd been found wanting. "A close friend of mine passed away recently. He met with an accident in a subway tunnel."

"Inelegant way to go," Gabe mumbled. "Was there an investigation?"

Cullen nodded. "He fell onto the tracks in front of a train, so there was of course suspicion of foul play, but the autopsy indicated a massive heart attack."

"Which would explain the tumble onto the tracks."

"Yes, but, the more relevant fact is that he was in perfect health."

"People have heart attacks all the time, Cullen. So what makes you think this one is questionable?"

"Cullen's friend is Bingham Smith, and he was on his way to a meeting with the Chinese delegation," Evan said, his tone solemn, ominous. Bingham Smith made Cullen Pulaski look like chump change. The man was notorious for leveraging takeovers of even the most unavailable companies.

"The consortium has been working on a trade deal with China for almost three years now. And we were close to success. But Bing was our lead man. He'd built a relationship with his Chinese counterpart that can't easily be replaced."

"And you think someone purposefully took him out to quash the deal?"

"I think it's a possibility."

"But surely this is something the police should be handling." Gabe looked from Cullen to Evan in confusion.

"There's more," Evan said, shooting a sideways look at Cullen.

"I mentioned a pattern. The fact is that two other consortium members have died recently."

"More subway problems?"

"No." Cullen's smile was terse at best. "Totally unrelated as far as cause. Jacob Dashal was electrocuted, and Robert Barnes was killed when one of his warehouses burned to the ground. Both deaths were ruled accidental."

"So what's the pattern, other than the fact that they were also members of the consortium?"

"Nothing concrete. It's more of a feeling I have. But each man was significant in the effort to reach economic accord with China. And their deaths caused setbacks that have been difficult to overcome."

"How many people are in this consortium?" Gabe asked, setting his now cold coffee on the table.

"There are about fifty member companies, headed by an eleven-member board, of which I'm now the acting chairman."

"Bingham served as chairman until his death. And both Barnes and Dashal were key players in the negotiations," Evan added for clarity..

Gabe nodded, trying to assimilate the information. "So you believe that someone out there wants the trade agreement to fail. And that your friends' deaths have been an attempt to stop things from moving forward."

"Yes. But I've had trouble convincing local authorities of the same. All three men died in different states, which means different jurisdictions and varying degrees of interest in pursuing anything more."

"What about the Feds?"

"Same reaction. They gave it cursory attention. I demanded that much, but the conclusion was that although it was an unfortunate coincidence, there was no evidence to support a conspiracy of any kind."

"So he's brought it to the CIA?" Gabe frowned at Evan.

"No, Gabriel," Cullen said, forcing Gabe's attention back to him. "I went to the president. And once I'd explained my concerns, he authorized a task force, a group of experts to investigate the situation and report directly back to me. I've got carte blanche to pull the members from wherever I see fit."

"Our tax dollars at work." Gabe tried but couldn't keep the cynicism from his voice.

"Cullen wants you to head up the task force, Gabe. That's why I called you in."

"You risked my operation to send me on a wild-goose chase, trying to find some illusive conspiracy dreamed up by an over moneyed, highly imaginative computer magnate?" Gabe glared at Evan, purposely ignoring Cullen.

"Yo
ur job, Roarke," Evan growled, "is to go where I tell you to go. And while your operative skills are unimpeachable, your attitude is not. The president gave the order, and wild-goose chase or no, you will head up the task force, or find a job in the private sector. Am I making myself clear?"

"
Crystal." Gabe allowed his tone to border on subservient. If he hadn't been so tired, he'd never have let his anger show, but he'd been undercover for months now, and the strain was obviously taking its toll. "I didn't mean offense, Cullen."

"None taken." Cullen waved off the apology. "I realize this is out of the ordinary. And the only thing I can say to reassure you is that this accord, if successful, has the power to change the face of international commerce. Which means it's as important as whatever you're doing now."

"
If
there's a conspiracy."

Cullen's eyes narrowed to slits, all geniality vanishing. "There is. I'm certain of it. A good deal of successful business is based on intuition, Gabriel. And I can feel this in my gut. Something's afoot. And I need you to figure out what it is." He leaned forward, his hand gripping the edge of the table, adding a feeling of urgency to his words. "You'll of course have all the funding you need. And any personnel you desire."

"I can pull together my own team?" The idea had a certain appeal, and since the assignment was inevitable, he might as well enjoy it.

"More or less. I am asking someone from the FBI to work with you. And I suspect she'll have some ideas as to the makeup of the task force."

"She?" His eyebrow shot up again, this time of its own accord.

"Madison Harper. She's with the Investigative Support Unit."

"A
profiler
?" The other eyebrow rose to meet its partner, his voice breaking on his surprise.

"An excellent one." Cullen nodded, ignoring Gabe's reaction. "She's also a friend. I trust her implicitly. An
d more importantly, I think she'll be the perfect complement to your more tumultuous style."

Gabe decided to let it pass. There was enough to deal with without further antagonizing the man who was apparently his new boss. "How soon do you want to get started?"

"As soon as possible. Evan has agreed to let you have anyone you need, and I have similar permission from other agencies. I want the best. And I trust that you can get them for me. Of course you'll probably want to meet Madison first."

Actually, she was the last person he wanted to meet. He wasn't a share-command kind of guy, and quite frankly the prospect of sharing it with some quasi-cerebral FBI guru made the idea that much more loathsome.

Especially when said guru was a woman.

NIGEL FERRIS LISTENED to the hum of the 747's engine, his ear catching the subtle whine as the pilot adjusted the flaps. Everything was fine. The fact that he was suspended in a tin can thirty thousand feet above the earth was non-negotiable.

Gabe called, and Nigel answered.

Even if it meant flying commercial.

It was ridiculous, really. He'd spent the better part of his career taking risks that no sane human would even contemplate, and here he was afraid of a bloody aeroplane.

"Can I get you something to drink, sir?" The flight attendant was a middle-aged woman, from La Paz by the sound of it. Not exactly the nubile nymphet one associated with the word
stewardess
.

Nigel contained a sigh. "I'll have a whiskey, neat, please." Might as well numb the discomfort churning in his gut. It wasn't just the plane. It was the whole damn thing. He smiled blankly as the woman handed him his drink, then took a sip, the accompanying burn doing little to assuage his worry.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, he'd been deep in the jungle, immersed in a world far removed from the quasi-luxury of whiskey in a plastic cup. Not that he was enjoying the fact. Truth was, he'd rather be back in camp.

He'd been close to accomplishing his goal, and now all that was blown to bloody hell.

Because of Gabriel Roarke.

Nigel leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes, the past tumbling through his mind, cushioned by the Maker's Mark. He'd first met Gabe in Saudi Arabia, part of a mission into Iraq so classified he still wasn't allowed to talk about it.

But he remembered. Dear God, he remembered. It was the stuff of his nightmares.

Taking another sip of his drink, he opened his eyes again to stare down at the open dossier on his lap. It might have been Gabe's message
that pulled him out of the jungle, but it was another man that had clinched the deal, at least as far as Nigel's superiors were concerned.

Cullen Pulaski.

A man would have to be dead not to know who he was. His name was plastered across the headlines enough. Every news rag in the free world covered Cullen Pulaski. But Nigel wasn't interested in magazine articles. His connection with Pulaski was much more personal. And the idea of working with the bastard again wasn't exactly the thrill of a lifetime.

Still, it was bound to be interesting. Nothing about the man was ever boring. And if Gabriel and Payton were involved, he wasn't one to be left on the outside. Not that it had been an option.

His orders had come from the very top. The prime minister's directive. The objective abundantly clear.

And he supposed that, as much as anything, was causing his queasiness. Gabriel Roarke wasn't a man one wanted to cross, and certainly not betray.

And yet, if Nigel was to be true to his directive—that's exactly what he was about to do.

*****

"I REALLY SHOULDN'T BE doing this, you know." Harrison Blake looked up from the FBI computer terminal, his hair sticking up every which way. He was the epitome of the boy next door, and one of the best computer forensic men in the country.

He was also Madison Harper's friend. They'd trained together at Quantico, and even when Harrison had left the Bureau for the private sector, they'd remained close. He was the first person she'd called after she'd received the news about the task force.

In the past twenty-four hours she'd managed to finalize the paperwork on Paul Jackson, update her replacement concerning ongoing cases, and meet with Cullen for a rundown on what he expected. All that was left was to assemble the team. But before that, she needed an ally, and Harrison fit the bill to a tee.

"It was either you come to New York, or me fly to Texas, and since you've got an expense account..."

"Which beats the hell out of what they offer around here." Harrison laughed as he shot a look around the cubicle Madison called an office. The FBI wasn't noted for its lavish perks, and the New York branch was no exception. "But I still could have accessed my own system."

"I know, but this is faster. And it's not like you're here to steal state secrets. I just want to know what, if anything, we've got on Cullen's theory, and you know your way around a computer far better than I do."

"You could have asked one of the computer techs here."

"And given up the chance to see you?" She smiled, but knew the gesture didn't quite reach her eyes. The whole task force idea left her with a bad taste in her mouth. She'd worked incredibly hard to rise within the ranks of the Bureau, and the idea of mavericking for Cullen, no matter how close they were, left her uneasy.

Harrison, as usual, read her mind. "The director approved this, right?"

She nodded, chewing on her lower
lip, the habit ingrained since childhood. "He didn't have a choice. Cullen went through the White House."

"And you're worried that his strong-arm tactics won't sit well with the brass."

"Exactly," she sighed. "The last thing I need is to be accused of throwing around my pedigree." Her godfather and her father between them controlled a large chunk of the American economy. Which meant they also had political connections to rival the president. Her career, however, had been built on her own terms. She used her mother's maiden name, and was well into her work as a profiler before her connection to Philip Merrick had become public knowledge.

Until now, she'd never done anything that could even remotely smell of collusion with her godfather or her father, her need to stand on her own two feet almost second nature. But Cullen had blurred the line. And even if she'd wanted to say no, she doubted that she could have.

"I just don't want to lose all that I've worked for, and dropping three cases in order to unofficially chase after Cullen's shadows isn't exactly the way to make agent of the month."

"This one's totally off the record?"

"Yup. He's tried getting various agencies to investigate, but none of them bought into his theory. So, in typical Pulaski fashion, he's cut through the bullshit and gone straight to the top."

"And tapped you to head up the task force." As usual Harrison was multitasking, talking and typing at the same time, the computer humming with activity.

"Not alone. I'm supposed to share that responsibility with some guy from the CIA. We're meeting him at Cullen's offices tomorrow."

"You don't sound very excited by the prospect." Harrison swiveled his chair so that he could see her, hazel eyes concerned.

"I'm not. CIA types tend to be a bit over the top when it comes to macho, and I really don't want to have to prove myself yet again." There was a hint of bitterness that surprised her. She usually took sexual inequality in stride, the fact that she had to work harder than most men a given.

"I've no doubt you'll wow him." Harrison's grin widened. "You always do."

She bit back a laugh. "I'm glad you're here."

He turned back to the computer. "I just hope your macho man is equally pleased."

"I'm as much in charge as he is. I have every right to recruit who I want to help. Besides, how could he not want you?"

Harrison saw a computer as an endless puzzle, one that fascinated him to the point of obsession. That obsession had served law enforcement well. He could access almost any system, and in doing so, secure information that was otherwise unobtainable. He saw patterns in data that even seasoned detectives missed.

"It's not what he thinks that matters, anyway." She looked up to meet Harrison's questioning gaze. "Cullen is ultimately in charge, and he's delighted to have you on board."

Harrison grinned. "I thought you abhorred using connections to get what you wanted."

"It's not the same thing and you know it." She shrugged off a twinge of guilt, determinedly changing the subject. "What are you finding there? Anything of interest?"

"Well, the best way to test a pattern is to try and find an anomaly. So, using Cullen's database, I've been looking at records for all the members of the consortium. Each company has a designated representative. And in almost every case it's the president or chairman of the board. So I culled out the ones that have had a change in leadership within the last two years. Which ultimately gave me a list of fifteen."

"But there are only six here." She stared at the screen, reading through the names.

"That's because the others were legitimate changes of the guard. Retirement, takeover, that kind of thing."

"And these?" She recognized the names of the recently deceased board members and suddenly it clicked "They're all dead, aren't they?"

"Yup." Harrison nodded. "And more interesting than that. Only two of the six died of natural causes. The other four met with rather untimely deaths. Seems they were a bit accident-prone."

Their gazes met and held.

"Or Cullen Pulaski is right."

*****

THE CLINK OF glassware, low murmur of voices and static from the TV blended together to provide the perfect white noise. Panama City was perpetually full of tourists, people fleeing the cold northeast for sanctuary in the sun, but the Blue Room catered to locals. No umbrellas in pineapple glasses here. This was a whiskey-straight-and-beer- from-a-bottle kind of place.

Exactly what Gabe wanted. He sat in a corner, back to the wall, waiting. He'd put the word out a little over twenty-four hours ago, but he knew his friends would respond as quickly as circumstances allowed. There was a code between them, a bond forged in the fires of hell. There were things they could never talk about, even amongst themselves, but push come to shove, they could be counted upon.

And with Cullen Pulaski's long arm behind him, there would be no problem with approval. The powers that be would jump to make certain Pulaski's demands were met
. Not that it really made a difference. If Gabe had called without any clearance at all, they'd still have come.

"I see you're still a creature of habit." Nigel Ferris materialized from the shadows and slid into the empty chair next to Gabe's. Ever-vigilant, his gaze swept the room. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he smiled, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes.

Gabe shrugged and sipped his whiskey. "Old habits die hard. I didn't expect you until tomorrow."

"You shouldn't have expected me at all." The Englishman's eyes crinkled in genuine amusement. "Your message to London was routed through the Bolivian consulate. And those assholes are mired so deep in political bull it's amazing they manage to find the office each morning, let alone get a message to a supposed subversive working with left-wing anti-American guerillas."

"Undercover again, I take it?" Gabe raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with his friend's diatribe. Nigel hadn't changed a bit. British to the core, he had the breeding of an earl and the morals of a street urchin, the combination making him one of MI6's best operatives.

He'd been with Special Forces when they'd met, assigned as an adjunct to their Delta Force team. Not only had he proved himself a valuable team member, he'd won Gabe's trust, and the two of them had worked together on subsequent operations as their respective countries' needs had coincided.

"Let's just say I was working." Nigel shrugged. "That is, until I got your summons."

Gabe frowned. "I wouldn't call it a summons, exactly. More of a friendly request."

"Listen, mate, that
request
had to clear three countries' security levels, pass through at least five armed checkpoints, and then wend its way upriver to a place most Bolivians don't even know exists." He signaled a passing waitress, ordered a beer, then sat back. "So what gives?"

"Cullen Pulaski." Gabe spit the words out like a curse. "It's his game. He pulled the strings to call me in."

"And you used those same strings to get me."

Gabe nodded. "Misery loves company."

"He pulled you off a mission." It was a statement, not a question.

"
Two-year op."

"You call Payton?" Nigel took his beer from the waitress and sat back, waiting.

"Yeah. His voice mail was routed through so many connections there's no way of knowing where the hell he really is, or if he'll get the message, but I tried."

"Last time I ran into the bugger he was in Singapore posing as
an import-export man. Wouldn't have known him except for the scar. He had it camouflaged behind a beard, but if you know it's there you can still see it. Surprised he can still work undercover with a mark like that."

"He gets the job done. That's all that matters when you get right down to it. Hopefully he'll meet us in New York."

"New York?"

"Yeah, Cullen's corporate headquarters are there. Guess he thought it would be easier to have us operate off his home turf. He's supposed to be setting up some sort of command control. No idea what the hell that means exactly, but you can bet your ass it'll be top of the line. All that's left is to assemble the team."

"So, assuming Payton gets word, we'll be together again." Nigel frowned. "Not sure I like the sound of that. The last time we were together people died."