Face, The (30 page)

Sarah

I
awaken as a faint thread of an acrid scent invades my sleeping senses. I sit up in the darkness, certain that something is wrong, and fumble for my earpiece. I put it on, and immediately hear the pulsing alarm, underscored by muted sounds of panic from the hallway.

Is the convent
burning?

I scramble out of bed, flatten myself against the wall, and run my palm over the door. It’s cool to the touch, so I summon up my courage and peer out. The security lights are flashing with a strobelike effect, illuminating the hall at half-second intervals. Dr. Mewton, clad in white silk pajamas, is standing in a shooter’s crouch, her eyes wide and vacant as she stares at the elevator. Judson is lying on his stomach outside the security station, his stumpy thighs protruding from a pair of boxer shorts. Perspiration has dampened his T-shirt between his shoulder blades. One of the security guards stands behind him, his gun drawn as well.

I lean against the wall as my knees go weak. “Jud, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Sarah.” He lifts his sightless eyes as the elevator opens at the end of the hallway. Someone steps forward, Dr. Mewton tenses, and in the dim light I recognize another guard from the security squad. Jeff Prather, I think, though I’ve only seen him a few times.

“Stop right there,” Dr. Mewton commands, her voice as brittle as glass.

“Hey.” I step forward and place my hand on top of hers, forcing her weapon down. “He’s one of ours.” I look at him. “You’re Jeff, right?”

The guard nods in a brief acknowledgement and taps the radio receiver on his collar. “We’ve got an all clear on the second floor.”

“Not quite,” Judson says, his face swiveling in the guard’s direction. “I gave Dr. Carey a gun, and I’m pretty sure she used it.”

Distracted by a sudden thought, I walk down the hall and stare into the security center. I see two chairs, the banks of monitors, one guard, one computer—so who is Jeff talking to?

He steps forward, his weapon drawn, moving from room to room. I step aside when he gets to my apartment, but he only glances inside before moving on.

“Where was Dr. Carey?” he asks.

Judson pushes himself into a sitting position. “In my room at first. But then…” His brow furrows. “Try the room across from the stairwell.”

The guard and Dr. Mewton hurry to the empty room. Dr. M’s shoulders slump as Jeff checks the stranger’s pulse, then taps his transmitter again. “We’ve got a dead tango on the second floor.”

“Where’s my aunt?” I shiver as gremlins of fear nip at the backs of my bare knees. “Where’s Aunt Renee?”

Dr. Mewton blinks at me, but Judson answers. “Dr. Carey heard them first,” he says, seeking me with his face. “Smart lady, your aunt. She figured they were coming for you.”

“What?” I glance again at Dr. Mewton, but the woman who has had an answer for my every question now seems unwilling to answer anything. She opens the door to her office and leaves it open as she walks inside, drops her weapon on her desk, and picks up the phone.

I kneel by Judson’s side, my pulse racing. “Suppose you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t have proof—only assumptions. They might be worthless.”

“Still…let me hear them.”

“Okay.” He pauses to wipe a sheen of perspiration from his forehead, then swipes his hand on his T-shirt. “Espinosa must have told them about you, your program, this place.”

“How did Aunt Renee know about Espinosa?”

Judson winces. “Traut introduced them. She knew about his mission, so when she heard the intruders, she must have figured they wanted you. She knew they were coming up the stairwell—the elevator would be too obvious.”

Nothing he’s said makes any sense, but when I stand and run to the empty staff apartment, I see blood-spattered walls, a rumpled blanket on the floor, and a man, his face gray and flaccid with the life drained out. The pillow still bears the imprint of a human head…and my nameplate is in the holder by the door.

I lean against the wall and slide to a crouch. Why would Aunt Renee pretend to be me? If Judson is right and Saluda’s men are behind this, she has nothing to give those people. She may be able to fool them for a little while, but she can’t maintain the charade for long. And when they discover that she knows nothing about computer programming, they’re not going to let her live.

I close my eyes as an even more astounding thought penetrates the fog of uncertainty: My aunt is a bright woman. Surely she has realized these things, too.

I race toward my computer.

Renee

I
’m coughing and shivering like a frightened puppy as strong arms pull me into a boat waiting outside the cave. The diver gives me a shove, sending me headfirst over the railing, and another man grips my arm so roughly I know I’ll be bruised tomorrow.

Wet and cold, I sit on the floor of the boat and breathe in the scents of fish and motor oil. One of the men shines a flashlight in my eyes, forcing me to squint. He says something in Spanish; the diver responds with a grunt and what sounds like an explanation.

I lean forward, my hands still fastened behind my back, and cough up seawater. Twice during our underwater swim the diver took off his mouthpiece to let me breathe, but in my panicked state I inhaled water along with the air.

The diver picks me up and pushes me into a seat. I open my mouth to protest, but my voice is only a hoarse gurgle, stopped a moment later by another slap of duct tape. The boat lurches forward, and we ride through the darkness for at least fifteen minutes, bouncing hard over the waves, until I see a blinking light on a distant shore. The driver heads for the light, and a few minutes later we pull up to a dock. I’m hauled up like a bag of potatoes and carried to a paved area where a cargo van waits. The two men from the boat push me into the back of the van and climb in behind me. The doors slam and the vehicle roars away.

The back of the cargo van smells of gasoline and damp burlap. I shiver, my pajamas wet and cold next to my skin, and lean against a canvas bag. Despite the steady shivering that now has more to do with nerves than the cold, I’m glad I’m here in Sarah’s place. I don’t know what Espinosa told Saluda about my niece, but apparently he didn’t mention her appearance. In light of Glenda Mewton’s protectiveness, it’s possible he never met her.

I close my eyes in an effort to make the time pass more quickly. Somehow, despite my terror, exhaustion overpowers my fears and I drift into an uneasy doze.

Sarah

D
riven by frustration and fear, I run to my room, lock the door, and log on to my cloaked operating system. I task the nearest satellites to give me real-time images of the island and the surrounding waters, then switch to infrared. There’s nothing in our immediate vicinity, but I see several possibilities near the shore.

I pick up the phone and try to ring Mewton’s office. She should be calling in choppers, alerting Langley, talking to Traut. We have been compromised and one of our own has been abducted—

Dr. Mewton doesn’t pick up the phone. I grit my teeth and slam the receiver against the edge of my desk, then force myself to breathe deeply and calm down. I am not alone here. We all have jobs to do, and we will do them; we will find Aunt Renee.

With a deft series of keystrokes, I hack into the closed-circuit feeds and activate the passive camera in Dr. Mewton’s office. Within a minute I’m peering into the inner sanctum itself.

I’m sure she never dreamed I’d dare this intrusion—I’m a little surprised at my own chutzpah. Not even the security station has a feed into her private rooms, but one afternoon when she and Shelba went ashore for supplies, I installed a tiny camera in the ornate frame of an oil painting behind her chair. Now it’s registering the back of her head and the blank expression on Jeff Prather’s face.

No wonder she isn’t picking up the phone. She’s busy.

“You may go,” she says, her voice dull and lifeless in my headset. Prather nods and withdraws, closing the office door behind him. Dr. Mewton then reaches for the bottom desk drawer, rummages through whatever’s stuffed inside, and pulls out a package of cigarettes.

What the—?

Her fingers tremble as she crinkles the cellophane wrapper. She turns, bringing the package to her nose and breathing deeply, then shakes out a cigarette. She holds it between her pursed lips while she bends and searches through her drawer again.

Finally she pulls out a lighter, flicks a flame into existence, and touches it to the end of her cigarette. She tosses the lighter onto her desk and inhales.

I watch, horrified and fascinated. I don’t think Dr. M has smoked in years, though her clothing used to smell of nicotine when I was young. She must be operating in panic mode if she’s smoking again.

But we have no time to waste. My hand moves toward the phone.

Dr. M exhales in a steady stream, then closes her eyes and presents me with an expressionless profile. None of Aunt Renee’s lessons are helping me now; Dr. M’s face is as still as death.

What is she thinking? Does she see the dead man imprinted on the backs of her eyelids? Or is she seeing Aunt Renee trussed up and crammed into the trunk of a European car?

Maybe she’s seeing Mr. Traut’s face, his features tight with disapproval and scorn. Or maybe she’s seeing me…and wondering why Saluda is so desperate to reach me.

I search that exposed slice of a face, desperately seeking some sign of anger or fear or desperation, but the woman offers no clue.

I’m about to dial her extension again, but Dr. M takes another drag from her cigarette, then tips an empty coffee mug and sets the stick inside the mug to smolder. She reaches across her desk for the intercom’s broadcast button. “May I have your attention,” she says, her message entering my room in a brittle stereo. “I’d like all employees to gather in the dining room ASAP. We’re going underground.”

Renee

W
hen the sounds of life abruptly cease, I sit bolt upright, as awake as if I’d just been given an intravenous dose of pure caffeine. The van has stopped, and when the side door slides open, I realize we must have traveled a considerable distance. I can no longer hear the sea, and this place lacks even the barest breeze. The air is cool and still, and stinks of garbage.

Could this be Valencia?

We are in a sleeping city. The streets are dark; the surrounding buildings seem deserted. A few lights gleam in windows, and silence covers the street like a mist. The eastern sky glows faintly with the promise of dawn, and when one of the men stubs his toe and curses, a dog begins to bark.

The driver of the van shoves me toward a small building with a glass door. I’m amazed by the ordinariness of the place—this could be an accountant’s office or a repair shop. Another man opens the door, and we walk through a nondescript front room filled with a sun-faded sofa, an uneven card table, and the stench of cigarette smoke.

“Vamanos,”
the driver says, thumping the space between my shoulder blades.

I continue walking through a paneled hallway that opens into a larger room. The man behind me flicks a switch. The overheated air pulses with fluorescent light and the hum of computers—at least a half dozen, set up on folding tables scattered throughout a room where the air has been breathed far too many times. What is this, a tech support center for drug dealers?

I am shoved again, so I step over a tangle of cords and walk toward the nearest chair. When I turn to ask if I’m supposed to sit, a pair of muscular arms pushes my shoulders down and turns my chair toward a desk covered with computer towers, keyboards, and monitors.

The driver of the van bends and examines me, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. I’m not sure if he’s reacting to the prancing sheep on my pajamas or my bedraggled appearance, but something about me elicits a crinkled nose and a curled upper lip—elements of the universal expression for contempt.

Someone stirs behind me, then another man steps into my peripheral vision and nods at the driver. The driver inclines his head in a respectful gesture and steps away, leaving the space open for the newcomer.

The short, white-haired man who stands before me wears wire-rimmed glasses. A thin gray mustache barely clings to his upper lip, and his dark eyes narrow when he focuses on me. I have no idea who this man is, but he is obviously a person of some importance. Perhaps Sarah or Glenda would know him on sight. I only know he’s well-dressed, well-groomed, and probably well-armed.

“So this is the brilliant computer programmer,” he says, speaking in heavily accented English. “Not so smart today, eh? Not smart enough to outfox Señor Adolfo Morales y Rios.”

He strips the duct tape from my mouth in one rough gesture, but I hold my tongue, convinced that the less I say, the less likely I am to reveal my identity. By now the people at the convent have realized the intruders’ intention. I need to give them time to do whatever they must to protect Sarah.

The short man turns my swiveling chair to face a computer keyboard and nudges the mouse with his index finger, waking the hibernating machine. The monitor flashes to life, revealing lines of numbers. I may not know much about computers, but I’ve seen enough movies to recognize the strings of zeros and ones.

Determined to play my part, I lift my chin. “You want me to do something special with that binary code?”

“Show me,” the man says, bending close enough for me to smell bacon on his breath, “how you hid that code in a .jpg file.”

The events of the past few days collide in my head like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. He wants to know about concealing code…so does he know about Sarah because of the agent Espinosa or because she sent Adolfo Rios a message?

I have no idea, so I shoot him a withering glance. “Am I supposed to type with my nose?”

He glares at me, eyes hot with resentment, and cuts the plastic restraints on my wrists. I swing my stiff arms back to their natural position, wincing as I stretch.

He points to the screen again. “This is your code,
señora.
Explain it.”

I return his glare and flick a glance at the gibberish on the screen. “I shouldn’t have to explain something so elementary.”

“Do not be funny. I am an impatient man.”

“Then perhaps you are in the wrong line of work.”

The blow arrives without warning, a strong backhand that snaps my head to the side and fills my vision with pulsating blobs of color. I blink, trying to focus, and somehow manage a grimace. “If that was meant to motivate me, I’m afraid it’s the wrong approach. I’ve always responded better to positive reinforcement. Chocolate, perhaps. Or the promise of a bubble bath.” I glance at the two goons leaning against the wall. “Alone.”

Another blow, from the same direction, and this one fills my mouth with the metallic taste of blood. I let my head fall forward and offer him only the top of my skull for a target. If he wants to smack me again, he’s going to have to manually lift my chin—I’m not about to do it for him. If he keeps this up, my face will look like a bruised grape in no time.

I think I’d like to preserve my face.

I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath, and struggle to think of my training. Any good hostage negotiator would try to enter the mind-set of the perpetrator, but how can I do that? This man wants something I can’t provide, but I can’t let him know he’s grabbed the wrong woman. So I need to stall. I need to give him something, and I need to ask for something.

I swallow the blood in my mouth and lift my head high enough to catch his eye. “You want one of my programs, right?”

His mouth curves like a snake. “Why play coy with me? I got your message.”

I smile, glad that at least one question has been answered. “You are Adolfo Rios? I’m sorry—I thought you’d be a bigger man.”

He bends his arm, preparing to backhand me again, but I hold up a warning finger. “Stop—no more hitting. I will not tell you a blessed thing if you hit me again.”

His squint tightens, but then he lowers his arm and pushes my chair closer to the keyboard. “Show me.” He picks up my hand and drops it on the keys. “Show me how you hide code in such pretty pictures.”

“Not so fast.” I remove my hand and deliberately set it back in my lap. To play this game, I must remain in control; I have to ask for something, even if it’s only a glass of water. “Before I tell you anything,” I say, licking my dry lips, “I want—”

“I know what you want.” He jerks his chin upward and gestures to a thug in the back of the room. The man comes forward and unfolds his massive arms, revealing a folder clenched in one hand.

My interrogator takes the folder and drops it in my lap.

“What’s this?”

He snorts. “See for yourself.”

My fingers tremble as I lift the stained manila cover, exposing several black-and-white photographs of a bare-chested man stretched out on a table. His bare arms are dotted with dark circles, his hands have been fastened to the table by the sort of metal clamps I’ve seen supporting two by fours at a construction site. Blood has turned his face into a glistening mask, and only when I flip to the fourth picture do I recognize the profile—

Kevin.

A hoarse cry escapes my lips as I hunch forward, my body bent by a sorrow that the passing of twenty years has not healed. “They told me,” I gasp, “that he died in a car crash.”

Rios sits on the edge of a desk and folds his arms. “Do you believe everything you are told? That man died in this room, under torture. Your superiors know this. They have known it for years.”

The CIA has known all along about my brother…Sarah’s father. The secret Sarah has been seeking has been entrusted to me.

I lower my head into my hand and weep…for Kevin, for Sarah, and for all the years we will never share.