Operation Proof of Life (18 page)

“He still work for our friends?”

“Not clear, but probably. He opened a law firm in Chicago and got both girls U.S. citizenship. At seventeen, Brigit moved to London to attend Oxford. The same time Tory ran away from home.”

Conrad didn’t care about Tory. Finding her was Julia’s job. “So Brigit followed in her daddy’s footsteps and went to work for SIS after graduation.”

“Actually, before her eighteenth birthday. One of their operatives recruited her and sent her to Fort Monckton for training. They put her through the usual physical and psychological bullshit. Her IQ’s a hundred and nineteen so she had no trouble with the exams, but she struggled with some of the physical fitness tests. When they sent her back to campus to start cultivating agents, she sucked at it. They pulled her from their operative ranks, but paid for her postgrad education.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Just like she told you, she’s a consultant. She profiles psychosocial and antisocial disorders for various government organizations. In her spare time, she treats kids.”

“She’s a profiler.”

“A very well-paid, sought-after profiler, who I’m guessing breaks down personalities and disorders of a very elite subgroup.”

Kidnappers and terrorists were hardly elite. “Which is?”

“Presidents, prime ministers, queens and czars. You name it, she profiles ’em.”

Brigit had hit the interstate, still acting like her ass was on fire. Conrad passed an SUV on the on ramp to keep up with her. “Why?”

“You ask that question a lot.”

“That’s what Stone pays me to do.”

“In this day and age, dictators and elected officials alike want to know everything about their allies as well as their enemies. Brigit and Gunn have been in ten different countries in the past five years, consulting with top-level officials on a variety of projects including several kidnappings like Ella’s. My guess is they were also gathering info and intel for SIS.”

Conrad focused on his driving while his mind spun. “You think she’s been putting a profile of Stone together?”

Julia’s gaze left the road and zeroed in on him. She motioned for him to hit the speakerphone button. He did, and Smitty’s voice filled the Jeep’s cabin, while Conrad tossed the Bluetooth on the dash. “Michael’s next in line for the CIA Director’s job and Michael’s brother-in-law is days away from becoming the next president.”

Damn. “Good work, Smitty. I’ll pass the info on.”

“One other thing my asset revealed? Peter Donovan is Brigit’s older half-brother.”

“Holy crap,” Julia said.

“Hey, Jules. Didn’t know you were there.”

Conrad put a finger to his lips to shush her before she could respond. “You sure?”

“Yep.” Conrad could almost see Smitty nodding. “They share the same mother and there was speculation at the time Roberta Kent died in a fire that Peter had a hand in it. The British and Irish governments hushed it up, but Brigit’s been trying to track Peter down and bring him to justice for years. Probably why she did her doctoral thesis on him.”

“I’ll be goddamned.”

“Pretty sure you already are.”

Julia chuckled and Conrad disconnected. Stone was going to crap a brick.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Twenty-six miles outside of D.C., the Layton private airport did a small but prestigious business. While government officials, lobbyists and high-profile company executives parked their Gulfstreams at Reagan National and Dulles, the less pretentious, though equally rich, parked their jets at Layton where the policy of the owner was discretion above all else.

Layton’s security standards were as high as any public airport post 9/11. From ex-Army mechanics skilled in customized jet maintenance to ex-Air Force pilots experienced in international flights, their staff was topnotch. The airport’s layout had been designed by a renowned New York architect who routinely used one of the private hangars to store his Learjet. The waiting area showcased designer chairs featured in Elle Décor magazine.

Brigit sent Moira to the café, knowing the woman would never get through security, even with her expensive fake passport. The bruises on her face alone were enough to invite suspicion.

As she ran through the private waiting area to the boarding gate, she caught sight of the Learjet on the runway. Cormac O’Bern was crossing the tarmac, the collar of his raincoat up to protect his neck. An assistant tagged along behind him with an umbrella.

Brigit waved her DHS badge at the security officer, bulldozing past the gate barrier. “I have to catch Cormac O’Bern.”

The officer moved her body in front of Brigit’s and ripped the badge from her hand. “Are you boarding the plane, ma’am?”

O’Bern was halfway up the stairs. “Yes, but not to leave the country. I just need to ask Mr. O’Bern a couple of questions.”

Precious seconds ticked by as the officer eyed the badge and considered whether to let her through. Brigit saw O’Bern top the stairs. She pushed past the officer. “It’s national security and if I don’t stop that plane before it takes off, it’s on your head.”

Her words had the right effect. “I’ll hold your badge here. Are you armed?”

“Not unless you consider an umbrella a weapon.” She ran out the gate into the rain just as the jet’s stairs made a mechanical grinding noise.

They began to lift off the ground as Brigit leapt onto the bottom one, grabbing the handrail. Off balance, she tripped on the stairs folding under her feet and toppled into the plane as they slammed shut behind her.

“Brigit?” Tory stood by the door dressed in a dark navy skirt and jacket just like a flight attendant. “What are you doing here?”

O’Bern’s assistant was helping him get out of his wet raincoat. The poet frowned. “Who are you, and what are you doing on my plane?”

Brigit righted herself and fingered her umbrella. Her DHS badge was being held hostage back with the security officer. “Dr. Brigit Kent,” she said to him, ignoring Tory. “I’m with the Department of Homeland Security, and I’m afraid there’s a security issue I need to address with you.”

“Wait.” O’Bern pointed a finger at her. “I know you. You’re the lass who got herself shot at my lecture.”

Tory laid a hand on Brigit’s arm and spoke softly under her breath. “Are you all right?”

Brigit nodded and answered O’Bern. “Peter Donovan is on board this plane, Mr. O’Bern.”

“Peter?” The man’s face paled. “On my plane?”

The assistant’s gaze darted around the cabin, panic evident. “Where?”

From behind her, Brigit heard the cockpit door open. She wheeled around, raising the umbrella.

The beard had disappeared. The colored contacts, along with the pilot’s uniform, worked to disguise Peter. He glanced down at the raised umbrella and back up to her face. “Give Tory the umbrella, and go sit down.”

The deep nasal quality of his voice sent shivers down her spine.

“Peter?” O’Bern gripped the back of the seat in front of him. “Where’s Calloway?”

Without taking his eyes off Brigit, Peter answered. “Your pilot is unharmed, as you will be if you follow my orders.”

Brigit raised the umbrella a notch, but Tory moved in between it and Peter and put her hand on the tip. “Do as Peter says, Brigit, and no one will get hurt.”

Brigit looked over her sister’s head to keep eye contact with Peter. “Don’t believe him, Mr. O’Bern. His plan all along was to kill you.” She flicked her gaze to Tory and back to Peter. “What I don’t understand is why you tried to hurt Ella. How could you leave an innocent girl to die in a fire?”

Tory pushed the umbrella’s end toward the floor. “Peter didn’t set the—”

“Tory.” Peter placed a hand on Tory’s shoulder. “Take the umbrella.”

Brigit snapped it away from her sister’s grasp, but Peter was just as quick. The dark end of a black gun appeared in front of Brigit’s face.

“You always were a pain in the ass,” he said, his eyes cold and merciless, his voice rumbling in his throat like a pit bull’s. He cocked the gun. “Now give the goddamn umbrella to Tory.”

At that moment, Brigit understood Peter would have no qualms about killing her, yet she couldn’t hold back her laugh as she handed over the umbrella. “I thought you were smarter than to shoot a gun inside a fully gassed plane, but then there’s the difference between you and me. I work for the good guys. They teach us basic common sense.”

Enraged, Peter pushed Tory aside and tackled Brigit full force, slamming her back against the plane’s interior. The cool barrel of the gun bit into her temple and his breath rushed out as he spoke. “You think I won’t blow this plane to Kingdom Come with you and Tory in it?”

His breath was like a disease flooding her senses and sinking into her skin. She had to swallow bile in her throat.

Tory grabbed at Peter’s arm, but he didn’t budge. A flush rose up his neck and spread to his face. His nostrils flared as he gritted his teeth. “I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in.”

Brigit choked back the bile, her own anger matching his. “Neither am I.”

In one swift motion, Peter struck her with the butt. Pain exploded in her head, hot and white, before all went dark.

Michael hugged Ella goodbye before taking the front stairs to his waiting car. “You be good,” he called to her over his shoulder.

Thad, Ruthie and Ella stood on the porch, Ella holding one of her dolls against her chest. “Mom says I have to go back to school tomorrow.”

Michael frowned at Ruthie but kept his opinion Ella should have more time off to himself. Life went on. There were political campaigns to run, news conferences to hold, school.

“You’ll be okay,” he said, sending his niece a confident wink and a smile. “Call me if you need anything, got it?”

Ella’s chin raised a fraction of an inch. She held up a tiny thumb. “Got it, Uncle Michael.”

Three miles down the road, Michael’s cell phone rang. It was Flynn. “Where are you?”

The tone of his voice was the same, the demanding attitude as well, and yet Michael knew something had happened. Something concerning Brigit. “What did she do?”

“She hopped a ride with Cormac O’Bern back to Ireland. Left her government ID with the security guard at the gate.”

As he forced himself to breathe, he also forced his mind to consider the reasons Brigit would do such a thing. Heading to Ireland. Leaving her ID behind. Leaving
him
behind without so much as a goodbye.

Another rush of instant knowing slammed him, choking off his air. He loosened the tie at his throat and drew in a deep breath. She wouldn’t leave the D.C. area right now unless she was chasing Tory. How had Tory gotten out of the country? Had that been Brigit’s goal all along? To make a deal with him so he let his guard down, and then she could take off on her own to hunt for her sister?

Or help her sister get to safety?

Flynn’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I followed her to Layton Air Strip. She got out of her car with another woman. I was only a minute or two behind them, but I lost her. The security officer said Brigit claimed she wasn’t leaving on the plane, only wanted to ask O’Bern a question, but the plane took off with Brigit still on board.”

Jesus. She’d tricked him. Anger flickered low in his gut. “What happened to the woman with her?”

“Haven’t seen her. She probably high-tailed it when Brigit left.”

“Did you get a good look at her?”

“Better. I got a photo of her with my cell phone. Del’s running it through the system. Want me to have someone pick her up when they land?”

Michael’s first response was yes, but the authorities would want a solid reason and he didn’t have one. Until he figured out what she was up to, he’d be better off to play things cool. “Let me think about it.”

“There’s more. I’m on my way to your house. Meet you there.”

Dread pushed in beside anger. “Just spit it out, Flynn.”

“Twenty minutes? Sounds good.”

The line went dead. In the ensuing silence, Michael stared at the seat facing him where Brigit had sat less than eight hours before, her hair up in a ponytail and his T-shirt still hugging her curves under her fleece jacket. It didn’t make sense. He’d been with the CIA for ten years and worked his charm on everyone from hardened politicians to infamous criminals. Most had succumbed without much of a fight. He’d read their personalities and their intentions with better accuracy than any psychiatrist or profiler and manipulated them—charmed them, as Michael preferred to call it—right out of their hardened states. Brigit Kent should have been a piece of cake compared to the rest.

There’s more.

More Flynn refused to discuss over the phone.

God
damn
. Michael threw the phone at the seat.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Conrad snagged two squat glasses in a cabinet alongside a bottle of Jack in Stone’s den and poured a finger of the whiskey into each. He sat down in a leather chair and sipped the liquid as he eyed the remodeling job his boss was still doing on the south wall.

The sun was setting and a smattering of round patches of drywall mud stood out against the gray background as the waning light suffused the room. On the floor beside the wall sat a five gallon bucket of mud and several scrapers. An unopened paint can, containing the same gray-colored paint as the wall, held down one corner of the drop cloth. Drywall dust coated everything.

When Stone entered the room a few minutes later, Conrad noticed the hard set of his eyes, the rigid posture. The man was primed for a fight.

Conrad had gone a few rounds once before with him and had no desire to repeat the performance. Most men who sat at desks all day were soft, their reflexes slow. Stone wasn’t most men. Even though he’d been shot and undergone surgery, when the two went fisticuffs he’d nearly kicked Conrad’s ass. Since that time, he’d doubled his daily run distance and taken up kickboxing. Where once Michael Stone had been a decisive force, he was now an overwhelming one. He was lean, mean and still angry over Raissi catching him with his pants down.

Conrad stood, picked up the waiting glass and held it out like a shield. “What I’m about to tell you…remember, I’m just the messenger.”

In two strides, Stone was at his desk, slamming his briefcase down on the top and shedding his wool coat. “What is it?”

“You might want to sit down.”

Stone crossed his arms over his chest in his best
quit screwing me
stance.

Still holding out the glass of bourbon, Conrad took a step back. “I have reason to suspect Dr. Kent has been profiling you for The Firm.”

Stone glanced at the glass and back up at Conrad’s face. “That’s it? That’s what you refused to tell me over the phone?”

Conrad frowned as Stone sighed with what sounded like relief. “SIS has had a profile of me since I was Director of Operations. They didn’t send Brigit here for me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

A new thought popped into Conrad’s head. “What about your brother-in-law? Could SIS have hired Donovan to stage Ella’s kidnapping in order for Brigit to profile him under a stressful situation? He’s probably going to be the next president, and he’s already stated he’s not going to be best friends forever with Britain like his predecessors have been. Maybe they wanted him to back out of the election.”

Michael dropped his arms, rubbed his eyes. “I don’t have time to examine your warped conspiracy theories—” He stopped in mid-sentence. Straightened. “Our friends aren’t digging into Thad’s psyche, it’s Jeffries.”

Conrad set the glass down. “President Jeffries? Why?”

“He didn’t want me questioning Brigit after Ella was rescued. She told me it had something to do with Ruthie and coerced me into a deal. If I helped Brigit get the charges against her sister reduced, she’d tell me about the secret Jeffries is keeping concerning Ruthie.”

“She didn’t tell you what it was?”

“No.” Stone sank into his desk chair. “And now Brigit’s run off to Ireland.”

Conrad couldn’t find the connection. “I’m lost.”

Stone shook his head. “Me too.”

He wasn’t the king of logic like Stone was. All he knew was most people were driven by lust for power and money. On the surface, Ella’s kidnapping was a diversionary tactic. Probably had nothing to do with Brigit working for Jeffries. Except for the one thing Conrad still hadn’t mentioned to Stone.

He slid the glass of untouched bourbon closer to Stone’s side of the desk. “Peter Donovan is Brigit’s half-brother.”

Stone didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe. He sat there as if this news was as inconsequential as the previous news. As if he’d just shut down.

But as Conrad relayed the information Smitty had told him, Stone started breathing again. Muscles in his jaws worked as he ground his teeth.

When Conrad stopped talking, there was a minute of complete silence. Then Stone reached out and took the bourbon and swallowed the shot whole.

As he set the glass down, Conrad’s cell dinged with a message. It was from Del.

Moira Raphael. Sharpshooter for Palestinian army 2000-2004, freelance assassin since.

The list of Moira’s dealings with various terrorist organizations was long. Conrad handed the phone to Stone and let him scroll through the message.

Recovering the whiskey bottle from the credenza, Conrad poured another shot for each of them.

Stone handed Conrad back his cell, ignored the second shot and pushed buttons on his landline. The man was going to need dental work the way he was grinding his teeth. A minute later, he was giving the head of the FBI Moira’s name and background. “I have reason to believe she is the sniper you’re looking for.”

Another minute of conversation flowed before Stone ended the call. He looked at Conrad. “Why would Brigit willingly take the woman who shot her to the airport?”

“Willingly is the key word. What if she was forced?”

The office chair squeaked as Stone sat back. “Forced how?”

Conrad sipped his bourbon, shrugged. “I don’t know, but if Brigit did it willingly, she’s working with Moira.”

Stone was a short step behind him. “Which would mean she’s working with Donovan.”

“Her brother.”

The two sat in silence, both working out the implications. Conrad shook his head and twirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Makes no sense, because why would Moira shoot Brigit if they were both working for Donovan?”

Stone’s phone rang and then Conrad’s did too. The two of them exchanged a look. Something had just broken. Something big.

As the Deputy Director answered his phone with a forceful, “Michael Stone”, Conrad checked caller ID and saw it was Del again. He set his glass down. “Yeah.”

Del’s voice vibrated with excitement. “Night crew at Layton Airport just found a body in the southwest international hangar. No ID.”

“And?”

“The southwest international hangar, Hangar M, was where Cormac O’Bern’s plane was stored. Body’s not O’Bern. Could be his pilot.”

Conrad caught Stone’s eye and another round of silent communication passed between them. He’d received the same information, probably from the FBI. Stone spoke into his phone. “Someone needs to meet that plane when it lands, and find out who’s on it and what’s going down.”

The caller said something and Stone nodded to himself. What it all meant, Conrad wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was the hair on his arms stood at attention. “We need the identity confirmed ASAP,” he told Del.

“The minute I know, you’ll know.”

Conrad disconnected, found Stone staring at him with that expressionless persona he’d perfected as Deputy Director. He was too still again, trying too hard not to show his frustration and anger. Conrad returned his cell phone to his belt and wondered how the guy kept all that hostility bottled up without going crazy.

“You want to hear my conspiracy theory now?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Peter Donovan just kidnapped the man he’s trying to kill and gained himself a free ride to Dublin.”

Stone was again in sync. “And he took Brigit with him.”

The minute Flynn left, Michael banged his fist on the top of his desk. The glasses jumped. In the fading orangey light, he paced from his desk to the far wall to the couch and back.
Peter Donovan is Brigit’s half-brother
.

As he replayed the rest of Conrad’s information on Brigit, Michael upped his pace. Brigit had lied to him and apparently everyone else to protect her sister, who was working with Donovan. Get her away from him. So why hadn’t she brought the fucker to justice?

Because Tory would be implicated too.

As his brain spun in tighter and tighter circles, so did his laps around the den. Renewed anger burned in his gut. Damn terrorists. How many families had Peter Donovan torn apart, including his own, in the name of his cause? How many people had suffered because of his self-righteousness?

Early in his career, Michael had tried to understand men like Donovan. To understand what drove them to join a cause and put everything on the line for it. They believed their cause was just, moral. Because Michael believed his own cause was also just and moral, it wasn’t a hard leap to grasp Donovan’s motivations or convictions for standing up for what he too, believed was right. However, Michael would never condone moral absolutism.

The afghan lay half on, half off the sofa, one corner skimming the floor. The image of Brigit, sleepy and smiling at him, filled his head, and his lower half responded. So did his chest. If Donovan had killed O’Bern’s pilot and kidnapped her, she was in serious trouble.

He snatched the afghan up and rubbed the soft material between his fingers. Even though she’d deceived him, he still wanted her. Wanted to touch her hair again, watch her walk across the room. Hell, he’d even drink the awful coffee she made just to have her back safe and sound in his house.

He threw the afghan down and paced to the far wall. The patches were ready for painting, but all Michael could still see were the holes the bullets had left behind. All he could feel was the cold grip of helplessness in the memory of Raissi’s smile. Raissi had stripped him of control. Now Donovan had done the same.

Raissi’s face morphed into Donovan’s. Without thinking, Michael punched the drywall, his large fist busting a gaping hole right where the patches had been. He lowered his head and punched it again, the anger scraping along his veins. Two more punches and the skin on his knuckles cracked and started to bleed. He waited for the pain. Only numbness surfaced.

The hole wasn’t big enough to match the one inside him. In the nearby toolbox, he shuffled tools out of the way until he found his hammer. Facing the wall, he reared back and swung. The hole widened, drywall breaking, dust flying. He hammered it again and again, mindless to the damage.

What seemed like hours later, the wall lay in bits and pieces. Michael’s lungs burned from inhaling the dust, and his left shoulder ached.

“Nice to see you lose your shit for once,” a voice said from behind him.

He jerked to the left, bringing the hammer up at the same time like a weapon. Flynn stood in the doorway, the room’s shadows almost hiding his seemingly satisfied smile. Truman Gunn stood next to him, eyebrows arched above his glasses in surprise. Both men raised their hands in self-defense.

Lowering the hammer, Michael took a deep breath and spoke to Truman. “What the hell do you want?”

“The same as you.” He lowered his arms and shot his cuffs. “Stop Peter Donovan and save Dr. Kent.”

“You’re sure Dr. Kent needs saving?”

Truman’s response was a quick nod. His lips pressed in a tight line, his jaw squared. “You may not trust her or understand her motives, but I assure you, she is in grave danger aboard that plane. As is O’Bern.”

Flynn eyed the destruction of the wall. “I talked to Titus. You’re due for a vacation and his Gulfstream’s on the tarmac at Dulles being fueled as we speak.” He changed the tone of his voice and spoke with a strong brogue. “Thought ye might wanna see a bit of me homeland.”

Michael tossed the hammer onto the drop cloth and brushed at the dust on his shirt. “You were born in New York.”

“Aye, but I’m Irish through and through.”

Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, Michael considered what Titus and Flynn were offering. A sense of control sparked in his gut. He toyed with the idea, found it surprisingly appealing. His hand went to his shirt above the scar and he rubbed it. “Funny, I’ve been craving a pint of Guinness and a pot of stew.”

Flynn’s smile deepened. “Then you’d be a cute whore.”

Michael raised one eyebrow and glared at him. “Excuse me?”

“A cute whore,” Flynn said, losing the brogue. “It’s how the Irish would say you’re astute, cunning.” He walked over and patted Michael on the back. “We’ll work on your Irish language deficit on the plane.”