Noble Intentions: Season Three (5 page)

“Hello?” a man answered.

“Naseer? Is that you?”

“Hello, Thornton. Is everything
going according to plan?”

“That’s what I’m calling to ask
you.”

“My plans are all set, Thornton.
They hinge on our prior arrangement, though.”

“And our arrangement hinges on you
paying me.”

Naseer laughed, his mouth too close
to the receiver. Thornton pulled the phone away from his ear.

“We’ll meet soon, my friend,”
Naseer said.

“When?”

“In a day or two.”

“I need a time.”

“I can’t give you one.”

Thornton paused. “OK.”

The men stayed on the line, though
no one spoke. Finally, Naseer said, “Is there something else?”

“Yeah,” Thornton said. He reached
for a tumbler, half-filled with scotch. “Jack Noble. You ever heard of him?”

Naseer repeated the name. “I am not
familiar with him. Would you like me to make some calls?”

“Yes, please do.”

“I will, and I’ll bring my findings
to our meeting.”

Naseer thumbed the end call label
on his phone’s screen, then set the device on the table. He lifted his gaze
toward the dark-haired beauty sitting across from him, smiled at her. There was
only one reason a woman that attractive was with him, and he was OK with that.
Being a billionaire had its advantages. Beautiful women throwing themselves at
his feet was one of them. Controlling equally wealthy but weaker men was
another, and that summed up his relationship with Thornton Walloway.

Thornton had a need to fit in with
real
powerful men. Men with money weren’t good enough. Hell, the guy could get that
kind of fraternity at his country club. No, Thornton wanted to be a part of
something. The kind of something that would make other men fall to their knees
and openly weep. Thornton wanted the same kind of power that Naseer enjoyed.
And as long as Naseer let Thornton believe that the man would achieve that same
power and standing within his group, Naseer had Thornton by the balls.

The woman set her fork down and
leaned forward. She asked, “Is everything OK with your friend?”

Naseer nodded as he sipped from his
wine glass. He was curious why she asked. She had seemed to know better than to
try and discuss his dealings.

“What was that about a Jack
somebody?”

Naseer lifted an eyebrow and smiled
curiously. Twice now?

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“No reason,” she said. “Just
sounded out of place. I’ve met most of your friends and don’t recall any
Jack’s. Don’t recall any normal names.”

“Yes, well,” Naseer slowly rotated
his neck. “First of all, you haven’t met a tenth of my friends. Second of all,
he is not one of
my
associates. I do not know who Jack Noble is, nor do
I care. He’s probably just some British asshole that pissed off another British
asshole who expects me to do him a favor.”

The woman placed her elbow on the
table, made a fist and rested her chin atop it. She smiled and blinked slowly.
“You, my dear Naseer, are a British asshole.”

“And you are an American bitch,” he
said playfully as he leaned back in his chair and swirled the wine in his
glass. “You know, I’ve killed men for less than that.”

“Good thing I’m not a man.” She
turned in her seat, facing him directly.

He pushed back from the table, let
his knees fall open. “It’s good that you are not.”

She slid out of her chair, crawled
toward him, climbed onto his lap. “No man would do this, would they?” She
straddled him and kissed his neck while her fingertips danced across his bare
chest. She scratched him with her nails, lightly at first and increasingly
harder as her nails traveled down his tight abdomen.

“I’m sure there are some,” Naseer
said. “But I’d have to kill them.”

She nibbled on his earlobe, kissed
his cheek, his jawline. Her lips inched closer to his. She arched her back,
pressing her breasts into his chest. She dipped her head, licked his lips.

A knock on the door prematurely
ended the moment.

“Naseer, we need to talk,” a man
said from behind the door.

“Always with the damn disruptions,”
Naseer said.

The woman slipped off his lap and
returned to her seat.

“You won’t be leaving again, will
you?”

She shook her head.

“You were only here a few days the
last time.” He frowned at her. “No more sick aunts or uncles or whatever taking
you away to the U.S. for a couple weeks?”

“I’m all yours for the foreseeable
future.”

“And don’t forget it.”

*****

Clarissa remained seated at the
table until she heard the click that indicated the solid door had shut. The
lingering smell of Naseer’s cologne faded. Confident she’d be alone for a few
minutes, she let her emotions out to play. She breathed in and out, heavily,
warily. Her shaking hands wiped tears from her cheeks. She forced herself to
her feet, staggered across the room and threw herself into the restroom and
flipped on the light. A tear stained reflection in an oval mirror greeted her.
Dyed dark hair hung in strands across her face. She tucked it behind her ears.
She reached for a tissue and used it to wipe her tears away, being careful not
to spread running mascara.

For a moment, she stared into the
mirror, then said, “What are you doing that these guys are so interested in
you, Jack?”

She knew what kind of man Naseer
was. She knew the kind of men Naseer associated with. Like him, they were
psychopaths, cold and cruel. They were hell bent on reshaping the world in
their image through whatever means necessary. Her purpose in London was not
only to gather information on Naseer, but also his expansive network.

Adding Jack to the equation would
only complicate her mission.

She considered calling Sinclair and
having herself removed from the situation. Given the circumstances, it was
probably the best option. She decided against doing so. She had to find out why
Jack was in London, and why someone asked Naseer to look into him. She thought
it best not to make Sinclair aware of Jack’s presence until she knew why he was
there. She had a contact she could use who might know why and would keep her
query private.

The trickiest part would be finding
Jack and alerting him without making him aware of her presence. If there was
one person who could ruin her cover she’d built with Naseer and his group, Jack
was the guy. That would set them back months, and in those months, anything
could happen.

The thought sent a shiver down her
spine.
God help the world if Naseer unleashes his vengeance
, she
thought.

She closed her eyes, inhaled,
exhaled, opened her eyes.

“Get it together, girl,” she told
her reflection. “Stay focused. Naseer first, then Jack.”

She cupped her hand, filled it with
water, splashed it on her face. She grabbed a light green towel, used it to dab
her eyes and cheeks. She opened the door, bracing herself for an inquisition
from Naseer in the event he overheard her talking to herself or noticed the
faint tear tracks on her cheeks.

But the room was empty.

Clarissa rushed past the table and
exited the dining room. The dining room sat between two halls. Naseer had
exited to the west. Clarissa used the door on the east.

The winding hallway led past an
oversized living area equipped with three sixty inch flat panel televisions.
The men routinely watched soccer and squash and criquet in there. Clarissa
avoided the room as often as possible. Tonight the room was empty. She figured
that they were all meeting. Whatever Naseer had been called out for was
important. She hoped she’d find out more later, but up to this point, Naseer
had been reluctant to share information with her. All of the intelligence she’d
gathered had been through other methods.

She continued down the hall until
she reached her room. She performed a quick scan looking for bugs. It had
become routine for her to do so. She didn’t find any. Hadn’t up to that point.
Either Naseer trusted her and didn’t plant them in her room, or he planted them
where she couldn’t find them. Clarissa had to assume the latter. She grabbed
her bag from the closet, set it on the bed, and then flipped it over. The bag
contained a false bottom which had come in handy on several occasions. In this
case, it contained a cell phone and scrambling device. Not even Sinclair knew
she had this phone.

She connected the micro USB male
connector of the scrambler into her phone and waited for both devices to power
on. The phone’s contact list was empty and the call history was not saved. Should
the device ever be confiscated, they’d get nothing out of it. She dialed a
number from memory, one that Jack had given her years ago should something
happen to him or should she find herself in trouble and unable to reach him.

On the third ring, a man answered.
“Who is this?”

“Brandon?” Clarissa asked.

“Depends,” he said.

“It’s Clarissa. Jack’s friend.”

“What do you want?”

“I need to know if you know
anything about Jack’s whereabouts.”

“Who is this again?”

“Clarissa.”

“Colonel Abbot’s daughter?”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then, “I think if Jack
wanted you to know that, you’d already know.”

“I’m concerned about him, Brandon.”

“You are or the CIA is?”

“
You
would know if they
were. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. You’re more connected than anyone.”

“You got a point,” he said. His
breath filled the earpiece and she imagined that he held the phone between his
cheek and his shoulder, hands free. “You said you’re concerned. Why?”

“I can’t say.”

“How come?”

“What I’m doing is classified.”

“What if I already know what you’re
doing?”

“Then I shouldn’t have to say
anything.”

Brandon chuckled, leaving Clarissa
feeling a little more at ease.

“OK, Clarissa,” Brandon said. “You
didn’t hear this from me, but Jack is in London. He got an offer from a former
employer to do one last job for them. He’s there to take out a man named
Walloway comma Thornton.”

Clarissa nearly dropped the phone.
She knew the name, had heard it mentioned in passing by Naseer. She reached
behind herself and sat down. The bed bowed in the middle under her lithe frame.

“Any idea why?” she said.

“Nope, and that’s where my
involvement ends. Goodbye.”

“Wait.”

The line was silent, but still
connected.

“What?” Brandon said.

“Don’t tell Jack I was looking for
him, OK?”

“Why not?”

“He wanted me to leave with him,
and I kind of declined. I don’t want him thinking I’m trying to find him. Or,
you know, pining for him or something.”

Brandon laughed. “That’s what all
this was about? You got me giving up the man’s secrets because you’re
regretting leaving?”

“No, that’s not it at all, I just—”

“Whatever, lady. Listen, none of
this gets out, you got it. Remember, my friends are more powerful than your
friends.”

The line disconnected. Clarissa
felt like throwing her phone at the wall. How could she be so stupid? Why
couldn’t she just leave things alone?

Because of Jack, that’s why. And
now she had to figure out where she could find Thornton Walloway. And make sure
Jack wasn’t walking into a trap.

Bright light spilled through the
cracks in the vertical venetian blinds. Thin fingers of lights danced across
Jack’s face. He squeezed his eyelids tight, rolled away from the source of the
light. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light to look at the room the night
before. Fatigue had won out. He had dropped his bag and collapsed onto the
oversized bed. Asleep before his head had hit the pillow. He caught his first
glimpse of the room. It was white, bright. An antique armoire stood at the foot
of the bed, a chest of drawers to the left. Tall double hung windows to the
right. His eyes adjusted and he rolled toward the window, split the blinds in
two and looked out over the backyard. The sun hovered inches above a cluster of
trees.

He swung his legs over the side of
the bed, reached down and grabbed his shirt and khakis from the day before. He
put them on, got up and stopped in front of the mirror, attempted to iron out
the wrinkles with his hand. His hair was still matted on one side. He ran his
hands across the top and sides of his head, but it didn’t make a difference.
And it didn’t matter. He was among old friends here.

The dark aroma of freshly brewed
coffee greeted him when he opened the door. He glanced at his watch. Eight a.m.
He ignored his body telling him it was really only three. As far as he knew,
there was no other way to adjust to the time difference. His feet left the
comfort of a shag rug and landed on the cool hardwood floor that led to the
staircase. He descended quickly, each step down resulting in a snap or a pop,
either from the wood or his stiff joints. At the base of the stairs he heard
the sounds of the kitchen, pots clanging, light chatter, plates and silverware
being set on a table. He followed the noise that inevitably led him to his
destination.

Leon spotted him first. The guy
smiled and nodded and turned his broad shoulders and faced Jack. Next to Leon
stood Dottie. She looked twenty years younger than her age. She always had. If
he’d told anyone that she had reached the other side of sixty, they wouldn’t
believe him. And she’d kick his ass for saying so. Women like Dottie were a
rare breed, but Jack was more accustomed to them than most people were.

“Good morning, Jack,” she said,
smiling, a mug dangling from an outstretched arm. “Coffee?”

Jack took the mug full of steaming
black liquid and lifted it to his face. The steam singed the inner rims of his
nostrils. He sipped from the edge of the cup. The coffee warmed his mouth,
throat, chest, belly.