Operation Sheba (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Smitty drove on by. Michael Stone had not mentioned Senator King being in attendance for their meeting, and with his involvement with Susan and the afternoon’s melee, Smitty was reluctant to venture into the gated property. Only a careless man would assume he was safe at this point, no matter what his boss said, and Smith was anything but careless.

Half a mile south of Stone’s house, Smitty pulled the van over and killed the lights. He watched the rain run in rivulets down the windshield as he contemplated his next move. Lightning flashed in the valley and thunder followed a few seconds later. Zipping up his jacket and pulling on a cap, he wished begrudgingly Conrad were with him instead of with Julia. Sneaking around in the woods at night during a thunderstorm to do surveillance wasn’t his idea of fun. Con’s, yes. His, definitely no.

But Conrad wasn’t there and Smitty was, and Stone and Allen were waiting for him. Pissing off his boss and his boss’s boss by being late wasn’t his best career move, especially while AWOL, but ending up dead or in jail was far worse. Even Conrad couldn’t help him if he was dead, and he’d probably already damaged his career beyond fixing at this point anyway.

Grabbing his flashlight and night-vision binoculars, he locked up the van and backtracked along the road at a run until he was less than one hundred yards from Stone’s property. The rain was coming down in sheets and he was already drenched. Ducking into the tree line, he felt the rain ease but the darkness, if possible, got darker.

He stood still for a moment, closed his eyes and willed the sudden rise of claustrophobia back down. It was just like camp—dark as hell, raining, bullies ready to jump out at you on all sides like a carnival funhouse. It was almost worth turning around and taking his chances with Stone, Allen and King.

But he didn’t turn around. Following his flashlight’s beam, he cut through the woods in an easterly direction, moving as quickly as the rough, muddy terrain would allow. He hunkered his shoulders under his jacket and wondered what his chances of getting a decent letter of recommendation from Stone were after this was over. From the annoyed tone in Stone’s voice, Smitty guessed his chances were slim to none.

West Virginia

Conrad sloshed a half-inch of Chivas into the bottoms of the two glasses on the worn countertop in front of him. He’d found the bottle of whiskey in the pantry behind the cans of tomato sauce and mentally thanked the last guest of the CIA safe house for leaving it behind. It wasn’t his brand, but it would do.

Setting the bottle down, he listened for the sound of movement in the old farmhouse…feet moving across the scratched and faded hardwood floors, the sound of the shower running, the groan of bedsprings or a squeak of hinges from a door swelled with oppressive humidity. Ace was gone, Smitty was at Stone’s house, but Julia was somewhere above him, and his senses strained to pick up her presence.

Only the scratch of a maple tree branch against the window outside broke the silence in the deserted house. Spider webs and dust, which had accumulated exponentially over the months of inactivity, coated everything. A musty smell permeated the air. Conrad cracked open a window.

Set across the state line in West Virginia, the two-story farmhouse wasn’t far from the Appalachian Trail, but it was far enough from the people who had equipped it to hold human assets.

Running surveillance on the house off and on for over two months, Conrad knew the house had not been used during that time. Non-perishable foods were stored neatly in the pantry, men and women’s clothing hung in the bedroom closets, waiting for the next temporary houseguest. A secret room in the basement held a cache of communications equipment. A Honda Civic sat in the barn along with a backup generator, battery charger and a carefully hidden and highly efficient armory of weapons.

For tonight, he hoped he didn’t need any of those things. He simply needed a safe house, one that would grant him a stiff drink, a shower, a soft bed and time to think.

The papers Julia had stolen were in Stone’s hands along with the disc. Possession of those documents, Cari’s journal and his and Smitty’s evidence all provided Stone and Allen with a tidy and satisfying wrap-up to the problems plaguing the CIA for the past year and a half.

With what he knew from eavesdropping on Susan and the Senator, and from what Julia had garnered from the
Operation Sheba
documents, the overall picture was less puzzling, but no less dangerous. He could see what a fool he’d been, how he’d put his trust in the wrong person.

However, there was no benefit in dwelling on his mistake tonight. Time would balance the scale of right and wrong and an opportunity for revenge would present itself soon enough. He’d take it without hesitation after he was sure Julia and Smitty were safe.

Throwing a shot of the Scotch whiskey into the back of his throat, he swallowed it with a grimace and set the glass back on the counter. As he emptied his pockets of a handful of change, his wallet and his cell phone, his mind registered heat spreading in his stomach. He refilled the glass.

Unanswered questions about Susan’s Plan B cycled through his brain, but now that he knew who his real opponent was, he could guess her next move with some degree of accuracy. While she probably didn’t realize it, she was no longer in control of the playing deck. He was. And while he didn’t always play exactly by the rules, he held himself to a high standard of integrity, despising cheaters whose actions were unjustified or self-serving. Susan Richmond’s betrayal of her country and her honor for self-gain was unacceptable. Her actions had sacrificed countless operations and the lives of multiple CIA officers in the field as well as endangering her own countrymen. She had to be stopped.

On the surface, it was easy for him to calculate her downfall, but underneath the forced indifference of intellectual reasoning, Susan’s betrayal scratched his soul as raw as the whiskey did his throat. All the years of cultivating trust, shattered into a jagged-edged pill he had to swallow.

You can only be betrayed by someone you trust, Flynn
.

A second shot of whiskey cleared his throat and assaulted his intestines. This time he allowed himself a moment of emotional release. The empty glass flew through the air, exploding against the far wall and sending fragments flying over the kitchen table and under the chairs.

Turning his back on the broken glass, he grabbed a replacement from the cabinet, rinsed it in the sink and poured two fingers of Chivas again. He recapped the bottle, slipped it back into its hiding place in the pantry and listened to the house. Hearing nothing but the tree branch continue its grazing of the window, he slid his fingers around the two waiting glasses and went to find Julia.

She was standing in the bathroom in front of the mirror, twisting the ring on her finger. He handed her one of the glasses. “Drink,” he commanded.

She did, shivering as the whiskey ripped down her throat. “Ugh.” She stuck her tongue out. “That’s awful.”

“Strip. Clothes, shoes, everything.”

Julia handed him the glass. “Your seduction technique could use some work.”

Conrad snorted as he turned the shower on hot. “As you well know, my seduction technique is first rate. This is my survival technique and it’s even better. You’re going into shock, Julia. Now get your clothes off and get in the shower.”

Julia shivered under Con’s fingers, the stress of the past two hours bleeding off like a second skin. If she followed her usual pattern, the shakes would start soon. She needed to follow his advice and get warmed up, but she was still feeling hurt that Michael had not asked Smitty about her.

“Have you ever been hurt by someone you love, Con?”

The faintest of sighs escaped his lips and she saw him struggle with his next words. “I’ve only ever loved you, Jules. And, yes, sometimes you’ve hurt me.”

“Not intentionally, though.”

Conrad only shrugged. He started to help her out of her shirt. “Is this about me lying to you again?”

Julia shook her head as he tugged the shirt over it. “I thought Michael would have asked Smitty if I was okay. I thought he would…”

She left the thread of the sentence hanging, because she wasn’t sure exactly what she thought. Conrad paused before dropping the wet shirt on the floor, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he bent down and untied her muddy shoes.

She unbuttoned her pants. “I guess he’s really pissed.”

Between the two of them, they managed to peel off her wet jeans. Julia removed Smitty’s GPS device from her bra and handed it to Con. The room was steaming up from the shower. “Michael knows we’re back together,” she said to him. “He knows I betrayed him. He probably doesn’t care what happens to me now.”

Conrad took a sudden interest in the GPS unit. “Did you know tracking devices can be as small as the head of a pin these days? They can be sewn into a shirt hem or stuck into the sole of a shoe. They can be planted in a piece of jewelry or a belt buckle. If Smitty had let me, I would have stuck one in each of your bras.”

And if she hadn’t been so tired, she would have rolled her eyes. “Been reading the
Encyclopedia of Espionage
again?”

That brought a tight smile from him. “Tom Clancy.”

Goose bumps stood in rows on her arms. Julia unfastened her bra and dropped it on the pile of wet clothes. Then she pulled off her underwear. Conrad watched unabashed as she stood naked in front of him, but he only moved her into the shower.

Leaving her there, he picked up the clothes and walked out of the room. Julia rested her head against the tiled wall. The warm water was a welcome relief and she closed her eyes.

Dance in your blood.
That was the line from a Rumi poem inscribed inside the band of silver on her middle finger. The ring had belonged to a woman who had done just that, living through years of abuse. Julia tried to remember more of the poem her mother had whispered to her in the dark…

Dance, when you’re broken open.

Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.

Dance in the middle of the fighting.

Years, lifetimes ago, she had found love and happiness in her mother’s lap, songs and poetry flowing from Valerie’s mouth. While the young Julia struggled to grasp the meaning of it, she reveled in the passion she heard in her mother’s voice and the security of her arms. At that moment in the shower, she wished she could feel that kind of security again.

Sagging against the tiled stall, Julia hugged herself. Her job was gone. Her friendship with Susan over. Her relationship with Michael unsalvageable. She was on the run with Conrad.

This wasn’t how her life was supposed to play out. She’d never wanted fame and glory, but she’d never wanted to sit on the sidelines and watch the world go by either. All she wanted was to protect the innocent and find a minute’s worth of peace for herself. She wanted to be loved, accepted, respected for who she was as much as for what she did. Yes, her job was unique and had satisfied her desire to protect her country while providing her with the challenges she longed for, but underneath it all, she was just like every other woman. She just wanted to be happy, safe, loved.

The last of the adrenaline left her and even her ferocious determination couldn’t keep her legs from wobbling under the sudden weight of her situation.

Firm hands grabbed her as she slid down the wall and hauled her back up. Nose to nose with Conrad, he murmured, “Stay with me, Jules,” and she felt the strength return to her legs.

He had stripped his own clothes off and joined her in the shower. His hands pulled her further into the spray and he wet her hair and washed it gently with shampoo.

He had been and still was the love of her life. There was no denying it. There was something between them, something that linked them together. If Julia had believed in soul mates, she knew Conrad would be hers.

In her mind, she saw him again that fateful night in Germany. Saw him moving with purpose, remembered the sound of his voice and the urgency behind his caress. He had sacrificed everything. To save her, to save the Agency, to protect his country. He was not an illusion. He was a tangible, verifiable, authentic hero.

The faintest smile touched her lips. The moment Conrad had appeared in Michael’s bedroom, rare and wild exhilaration had flooded her senses. He was the toughest, shrewdest, most magnanimous man she’d ever known. The flip side was just as extreme—noble, kind-hearted and considerate to those he cared about. Her previous anger and disappointment at his deception had been overshadowed by the precious gift of having him alive again.

“I was a good partner,” she said to him, needing to confirm that he was there, that he was alive. “I never failed you. Never left you with your balls to the wall. You said, ‘Do this, Julia’ and I said, ‘Yes, Conrad’. We were a good team, weren’t we?”

Conrad paused while rinsing her hair. “You were a good field operator, but I don’t remember there ever being many ‘Yes, Conrads’. As I recall you were quite opinionated and your opinions rarely coincided with mine.”

She wiped water from her face and narrowed her eyes at him.