Operation Sheba (12 page)

Chapter Fifteen

This is my safe room
, he thought, pulling off his suit jacket and throwing it on the bed. The room wouldn’t keep him safe from chemical or biological weapons, but it did offer him something less tangible and every bit as important when he left the CIA behind. It was the one place where he could find peace and happiness, no matter what was happening outside its walls.

Abigail must have given up her vigil of waiting for him. The room was dark except for moonlight shining through the western window. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he snapped his fingers at Pongo to lie down on his dog bed. The dog obeyed with a heavy sigh and Michael glanced casually at Abby’s side of the bed. No Abigail, just an open book of Rumi poetry she had been reading. He shifted his gaze to the nearby chair. Her leather jacket was strewn haphazardly across the back.

Setting his briefcase on the floor, he looked around. The security alarm’s usual green light was red, meaning it was off. He stood still and listened, noting that Pongo was not at all distressed, but still feeling a strange sense of unease. Something was off, and Michael was not one to ignore his internal warning system. A noise outside brought his attention to the French doors. On the balcony stood a figure dressed in black from head to toe…

Michael picked up his remote security device and put his back to the wall. Before he could push the alert button, the figure shifted and something about the way it moved seemed familiar. Another second passed as he continued to watch the figure’s face become illuminated by the moon.

What the…?

Michael threw open the doors and the figure startled. Abby turned, her face opening up in a smile for him. “Michael,” she breathed on a hard exhale. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“What in God’s name are you doing, Abby?”

When Michael entered his bedroom after midnight, Julia was pulling herself up over the balcony’s side railing. Ace, her new partner in crime, had come through for her. Conrad had gotten in to Michael’s house by bypassing security with a few simple tricks involving Pongo’s outside dog kennel.

Using night-vision goggles, the spy had slipped between the infrared tripwires near the dog kennel which sat almost directly under the balcony. The kennel itself was directly connected to the house with a doggy door Pongo used daily. The motion detector in that sector was set at thirty-six inches off the ground because the dog was constantly tripping it. No motion detector, no alarm. And when Con entered the kennel, Pongo was off for his daily run with Michael. No dog, no problem.

Julia had had to try it for herself. So she’d shut off the motion detector for that quadrant just like Michael did whenever they were going to sit on the balcony. Then she snuck out by way of the balcony, dropped down to the kennel area below and—
voilá!
—entered the house through the doggy door, Pongo her eager sidekick in the game. Reversing the route, she’d gone out through the kennel, to double check. Unfortunately she’d heard the sound of the garage door opening and Michael’s car zooming in when she was still outside. Pongo took off to greet him and Julia stood for half a second holding her breath. The doggie door entered the kitchen, right off the mudroom that tied the garage to the house.

Trying not to panic, she’d considered her choices. One, she could go back into the house via the doggy door and make up some story about playing with the dog that would sound totally lame, or, two, she could climb back up the balcony and try to sneak into the bedroom, throw off her black turtleneck and jeans and jump into bed.

Option two seemed viable. Michael usually stopped off in his home office to unload his briefcase and check his messages before he came upstairs to the bedroom. Scrambling to the top of the kennel, Julia jumped and climbed hand-over-hand up one of the balcony’s posts and hauled herself over the railing.

But, surprise, Michael had bypassed the routine stop in his office and was entering his room a few seconds later.

Catching her breath, Julia held on to the railing and racked her brain for a good story. When Michael opened the patio doors, she still didn’t have one. So she smiled and silently begged her right brain to get creative. “Michael,” she breathed on a hard exhale. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“What in God’s name are you doing, Abby?”

Reaching out for him, she pulled him to the railing, stalling for the briefest of seconds, desperate to dodge what was coming. What was the best way to handle this? A full-blown lie? A half-truth? “Waiting for you,” she said cheerfully.
Score one for truth
.

His gaze slid over her clothes. “Why are you dressed like that? You look like
Mission Impossible
trying to break into my house.”

Julia glanced down at her clothes and gave a dismissive wave. “I wanted to see the moon, stargaze a little, and after everything that’s been going on, I wasn’t sure who might be watching me or your house, so I threw on some black clothes. You know, to camouflage myself. You told me to be careful, remember? Isn’t it beautiful tonight?” She pointed up at the moon, cringing inside at her rambling half-truth and inane attempt at changing the subject.

Michael ignored the night sky and took her in, processing her words, her clothes, her too cheerful explanations, Julia knew, which made her acutely aware of two things. One, Michael didn’t believe her, not totally anyway, and two, she had definitely lost her ability to lie successfully under pressure. She was sure she could blame Conrad for that.

Michael leaned his hip against the railing and crossed his arms. Waiting. Patiently.

For the truth.

As she took a deep breath, Julia flipped on the bravado switch.
Truth or Consequences
was always a tough game, but sometimes a little truth mixed with a lot of confidence would carry it off. “I was playing spy.” She looked him squarely in the eyes, hoping the act to follow was more believable. “And checking out your security system. The bugs in my apartment and car, the fact someone might be watching us, following us. The fact that we still don’t know who disposed of Conrad and the others…” She let her voice trail off before she continued. “I’m a little freaked. I needed to double check things here myself. To feel safe again.”

Michael’s posture didn’t change, but Julia felt a subtle drop in tension. His voice was smooth, calm and assuring instead of accusatory, when he commented. “That’s understandable. Do you feel safer now that you’ve checked things out?”

A flush of relief spread through Julia’s body and for a second she almost told him the truth—that any decent criminal could slip through his expensive security system. But something—that little spy voice Con had planted in her head—made her stop before she spilled the beans.

Staring at Michael’s dark gaze and knowing what a crappy day he’d had and yet he was still able to understand her paranoia, she felt a little flip in her stomach. It
was
a beautiful night and any other time she would have enjoyed seductively wiggling her way into Michael’s arms and pushing a few of his testosterone buttons. He was smart and intuitive, but he was still of the male species and sex was always the fastest and most fun way to pull him out of a bad mood.

But the instant she thought about laying Michael, naked and needy, out on the patio table under the full moon, Conrad and his damned lips popped into her head. And then a memory of the two of them lying on the floor of a small walled balcony outside of Paris, rain falling on a canopy of potted palms and ferns that circled the stone walls and dripping off onto their naked bodies. Con kissing her wherever a drop fell. She felt a shiver and the flip in her stomach again, but this time it made her lightheaded. She grabbed the balcony railing and looked out into the night.

“We need to talk, Abby.”

Uh-oh. Still not off the hook, and sex was out of the question. From somewhere deep inside her brain, a thought sprang forth. She faced him. “Say my name.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Abigail,” he responded.

Julia shook her head. “I want to hear you say my real name.”

The air between them seemed to fuzz out as Michael hesitated. He rubbed his eyes and dropped one hand to the railing.

“Please.” A true ache of longing had lodged in her chest. This wasn’t just about getting Michael off track or buying herself a few more minutes to think. She really wanted to hear him say her real name. To see her, not as Abigail Quinn, but as Julia Torrison. Not the Julia he’d picked up and put back together, but the Julia who stood before him, confident and able to take care of herself.

Michael closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to resign himself to her lead. “Julia,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She smiled. “Again.”

“Julia.” This time it came out stronger.

Letting out a sigh, she slid into his body, her back to his stomach as she looked out over the dark landscape lit softly by the moon. “It’s late,” she said, drawing his arms around her. “You’ve had a long day. Let’s save the talk until morning.”

After a second, she felt his chin rest on the top of her head, felt the release of his breath, and she knew she’d won this round of
Truth or Consequences
. At the very least, delayed it.

A few hours later, just before sunrise, Julia awoke with Michael’s arm thrown over her. Before she could think, she scanned the room, looking for Conrad. Assured he wasn’t there, she snuggled down under the covers and tried to go back to sleep, but her brain wouldn’t let her. While she’d been sleeping, her subconscious had seized on a thought. Now awake, her brain spit it out and it seemed reasonable. Fleshing out the details, Julia let the idea float around for awhile while she listened to Michael’s solid deep breathing. She knew how to take his doubts away and still get out from under his watchful eye while she tracked down the real traitor.

Pleased she still had some deviousness left in her and satisfied her plan wouldn’t hurt Michael in any way, she relaxed and fell asleep again as the room began to lighten with the first bars of sunlight.

Chapter Sixteen

Allahu Akbar.
God is great.

He shifted his arm slightly and drew in a steadying breath. Looking through the PSO 1x4 scope attached to the top of the rifle, he slowly followed the perimeter of the large property two hundred yards downhill from his post. There was a gated entrance but no fence in the rear, only the double set of infrared laser tripwires that enclosed the half acre lot in the back where it sloped downhill. Raissi had found the tripwires on a previous scouting trip as well as the location of every motion detector and security camera posted around the house.

To the average criminal looking for a place to rob, the house’s security was a deterrent. To a trained terrorist who had been observing the place and gathering intelligence, the simplistic security was almost insulting in its lack of challenge.

Raissi was no average criminal.

The house was dark, no one up yet. The terrorist scoped the woodsy area beyond the flowerbeds and the perimeter of the yard and mentally scoffed at Americans. Even with their heightened paranoia about terrorism in their homeland, they were still amateurs in comparison to security standards of officials in the Middle East. Their lack of security measures was not surprising, even for a CIA director. Americans were still arrogant in their belief they were safe on their home turf, especially because no attacks had taken place since 9/11. This arrogance made them easy targets. Stupidly, they were more concerned about their personal freedoms than their very lives. America’s throat was fat and soft and that made Raissi and his comrades’ job so much easier.

God is great
.

Of course, this part of his job was made easier by his current benefactor. She was the reason he had made it to America and now stood on the threshold of destroying key leaders of the CIA. It galled him to think he was taking orders from a woman, but the means to the end was sanctioned by more than his own personal glory. His people would attain respect, and maybe, Raissi thought, some peace from his act of global revenge.

Raising his eye from the scope, he swung the rifle underneath his shoulder and onto his back. Rising to his feet, he glided smoothly from tree to tree and made his way down the side of the hill on the vacant lot adjacent to the target’s property. As he neared a hedge that ran between the property lines, he dropped to his stomach and crawled the last few yards, never leaving the shadows.

Raissi squinted at the house but there was still no change in its dark façade. Rising up on one knee, he pulled a night-vision scope from his cargo pants and traced the infrared beams again. They wouldn’t be a problem.

God is great.

After replacing the night-vision scope, he climbed snake-like back up the hill, stopping now and then to watch the sun continue to push the edges of night back. He also wanted to keep the woman at the top waiting. He knew her patience with him was measured out in small, controlled chunks. Making her wait gave him a minute or two of control, a reminder to her of his importance in her plan.

The number of sunrises he would witness was dwindling swiftly. If he stopped to notice this last one, so be it. At forty years of age, Raissi had seen more than his share of life and figured he’d already used up his allotment of days on the earth. He was battle-hardened from watching the land and the people he loved beaten again and again. The dreams of his youth had been beaten along with them. Now he was simply a messenger. One more messenger bringing war to the West.

Raissi scratched at the thick stubble on his jaw and ran a finger across the scar on his cheekbone. He had one more day. When the call from his benefactor came, Raissi and his comrades would be ready to move. They would deliver their message and strike another blow into the soft throat of America for their beloved Islam.

Allah’s will be done.

In the shadows of the tree line, Raissi gave Susan Richmond a nod of commitment as he passed her by.

“Ace’s Body Snatchers. Rack ’em, pack ’em and stack ’em. What can I do for you?”

“You’ve been made,” Conrad said into the phone. “Did it ever occur to you to not drive the freakin’ hearse?”

There was a short silence on the other end. “The Jeep had a flat, Connie. It’s gettin’ fixed today. And, come on, who’d suspect my body wagon?”

Conrad rubbed his forehead. “Stone also made you. No more surveillance for you, Ace.”

“Aw, don’t pull me yet. I needed a little practice, that’s all. C’mon, bro. I’m down with this. I can do it.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Conrad hung up and then paced the living room floor for the hundredth time.

“You look like a tiger in a cage, Con,” Smitty said. “You’re wearing a hole in the carpet.”

“Go to hell.”

Smitty toyed with a zip drive. “Why don’t you do something constructive? Take your mind off her?”

The tiger’s pace slowed but he didn’t stop. “I don’t need to take my mind off her. I’m fine.”

“Really? Since when is ‘fine’ defined as aggressive, hostile and confrontational?”

Conrad stopped and blew a sharp breath out between his lips. “Stone has already informed Security about the bugs, so we can’t remove them without throwing suspicion on Julia. When they do their sweep and find those bugs, they won’t stop with her apartment. They’ll sweep and search the whole building and then we’re screwed.”

“They can’t search the other apartments without a warrant or permission from the renters.”

“Hello. We’re talking CIA here, Smith. They’ll do whatever they want. Once they uncover the bugs in Julia’s apartment, they won’t have trouble getting permission from a judge or the other renters to search for more.”

Smitty scratched his head. “So what do you want to do?”

“Do you still have the extra keys you lifted from the super’s office in the basement?”

“I made copies and returned the originals.”

“Good. Get them out. We’re going to spread a few more listening devices around and plant a receiver in the basement.”

“What about this stuff?” Smitty swept his hand across the computer hub. “You said we couldn’t risk moving all of this in the middle of the day.”

“Changed my mind. We need to break camp and get out of here.”

Smitty let out a sigh and swiveled in the office chair toward the computer screen, shaking his head. “Okay, suggestions for a new home base of operation?” He moved the mouse and began shutting down the system.

“We’re going mobile.”

“How do we let Julia know where we’re going to be? You can’t exactly call her at Stone’s.”

Flynn actually toyed with the idea for a minute before discarding it. “I’ll think of something,” he said and headed out the door.

Conrad found the iPod he was looking for on Julia’s nightstand beside the clock radio. It was surprising she hadn’t taken it with her, but then again, she’d been distracted by their fight when she left.

Slipping it out of the leather case, he flattened the paper with his cell phone and pager numbers on top of the menu pad and slid the whole works back into the case. His fingers played with the cord from the ear buds, rolling it between his fingers as he wondered what Julia was doing. Was she at Stone’s now, sitting out on the balcony? Reading a book in his study? Working out in his private gym in the basement?

Jesus, Flynn
.
You’re losing it. Big time.

Not his mind or his insatiable drive.
It
as in his edge.

Yes, he was definitely losing his edge.

He figured he could blame his age. Chronologically, he was only thirty-two, but physically he was too old to deal with this crap. Mentally too. After years of living undercover, running agents and messing around with the worst of the worst, he was burning out. He’d done his damnedest, but the dictators, the religious zealots and the drug czars were still out there.

Terrorists were still terrorizing the innocent.

Special interest groups were still running the government.

Now on top of everything else, traitors were running the CIA.

It was getting harder and harder to convince himself he’d made any difference in the world at all. When it all came down to it, the changes he had brought about were unnoticeable in the Big Picture. He was feeling more like George Bailey these days than Conrad Flynn. Before he knew it, he’d be contemplating jumping off a bridge and find himself talking to his guardian angel.

He was giving serious consideration to walking away. If he’d really lost his edge, his guardian angel was a moot point. He was destined to meet with a bullet.

It wouldn’t be difficult for him to disappear for good. He already had two separate identities established for himself that no one, not even Langley, knew about, and he had plenty of money, courtesy of the government and Smitty’s investment proficiency, securely stashed in a bank in the Caymans.

All he had to do was walk.

He tossed the cord back on the nightstand and ran his hand over Julia’s pillow.

But not yet.

Because there was Smitty, who was counting on him to finish this sting. Smitty, who had put his career aspirations aside and gone bad to help Conrad eradicate the shadow CIA. Smitty, who had worked side-by-side with him to protect Julia.

Ah yes, then there was Julia.

Conrad stared at her white camisole lying on the crumpled bedspread. Could he really walk away from her again? He played with the idea for a moment, remembering her outburst at him the night before…

You have no right to me anymore
.

He’d never had any right to her, period. None. No one, not even the Great Conrad Flynn as she liked to call him in bed, could ever own a piece of Julia Torrison. She was too independent to let them.

The best thing he could do for her, as well as himself, was to walk away. Disappear for good when this was all over.

Don’t kid yourself, Flynn. Walking away from the CIA is child’s play. Walking away from Julia Torrison is suicide.