Operation Sheba (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Julia was in his lap, naked and warm in all the right places, and Conrad buried his face in the curve of her neck. Moving his mouth to the hollow of her shoulder, he felt her shudder as he licked her skin.

Amazing
. Even after the rain and the mud and the Dial soap she’d used to wash it all away, she still smelled faintly of lavender. His hand found her breast and she opened her mouth with a sharp gasp. Leaving her collarbone, he claimed her lips, living in the wet heat of her kiss and wanting more.

Her hands were in his hair, her body pressing against his and he let her leverage him back in the bed, feeling faintly disappointed when her mouth broke free of his as she straddled him, and her upper body took her wonderful heat away.

But he did enjoy the view.

She slipped her tousled hair behind her ears. “Okay, here’s the deal. If we’re really going to work together again, we need to get the Rules of Partnership out on the table.”

“Rules of what?”

She blew out a deep breath. “Think of it as Rules of Engagement for war, only this is about our partnership.”

Forcing himself to raise his gaze from Julia’s breasts, he looked in her eyes as she traced a finger over one of his eyebrows. Her expression was serious and he didn’t want to mess up by not paying attention. “Our partnership?” he repeated, trying to catch his breath and shift out of sexual overdrive, although that didn’t seem right. Was
definitely
not right.

“Yes.” She flexed her legs, tilting her hips into him, and he strangled the moan in his throat. He was trying to concentrate on her voice, but it was hard. Everything was hard.

He ran his hands up her thighs and moved his mouth up toward her, licking a taut nipple. “Can we talk about that later?” He squeezed her breasts together and buried his head in her cleavage.

She pushed him back down with a hand. “Listen, this is important.”

“This is important too,” he said, massaging her breasts and moving underneath her, “and it’s totally about our partnership as well.”

Julia knocked his hands away and leaned over him, putting her face right in front of his. “Focus for a minute.”

He
was
focused. Just on different topics than hers. “How, when you’re sitting on top of me naked?”

Her grin was wicked, but her voice came out serious as she sat back up. “Rule number one: don’t lie to your partner.”

Conrad rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, Jules. Whatever you want.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I mean it.” He sort of did too. He’d compromise anything when she was straddling him. “From here on out we’ll play it your way. You say ‘Do this’ and I’ll say ‘Okay, Julia.’”

She let out a disgusted sigh. “Come on, Conrad. I’m serious.” She ran the tips of her fingers across his stomach and down to the elastic on his underwear. His breath caught in his throat right behind a moan as she tugged the garment off, grazing her cool fingers over him.

“So am I,” he said in a strangled voice, not caring for one second about anything except burying himself between Julia’s thighs. He would have sworn he was a nineteen-year-old sailor boy again who’d just got into port. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose control of his blatant erection and embarrass himself.

“Rule number two,” Julia said. “Don’t put your partner in emotionally compromising positions with her boss.”

Doing his best Boy Scout salute, Conrad answered. “I swear I won’t.”

Keeping his touch light, he ran his fingers around to Julia’s back and stroked her lower spine. She arched into him and he took that as an invitation to do more. He slid his fingers into the space between her legs.

She shifted her hips, pulling herself away from his touch. “Flynn! I have more rules to lay down.”

“And I’m trying to lay
you
down. Give you a screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs orgasm. Now shut up and let me do it.” Pulling her hips back down, he rocked up into her, and felt smug satisfaction as she threw her head back and gasped, “
Mon Dieux
.”

“I love it when you speak French.” He moved higher with each thrust and enjoyed how her body countered his, pushing down hard. “Especially during sex.”

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge already,” she said, but she was laughing. It was a sweet sound.

Conrad’s focus was solely on where their bodies were joined. “Believe me, sweetheart, when it comes to us having sex, you’re always in charge. Whatever you want, you can have. As often as you want, you can have. Just say the word.”

“We have a lot of time to make up.” She ran her fingers over his chest.

“Years worth.”

She looked down at him, her hair spilling over her breasts, and arched an eyebrow.

“I know, I know,” he said. “That’s my fault and I feel guilty as hell about that. I’m oozing guilt. There’s guilt everywhere.”

She punched him in the stomach, and he pulled her down, twisting his body to stay inside her. She rocked her hips up under him and he met her ferocity with his own. Her skin was flushed and damp in the pale moonlight filtering through the white sheers at the window. He took her mouth, licking into it, and felt a twinge of macho triumph at the low moan that came from her throat. Moving his mouth down, he kissed and licked the dampness at the base of her throat, then trailed his tongue down to her breasts.

She arched against him as he teased each nipple for long moments and then ran his hands over her ribs and down her sides. He began a slow descent, kissing his way down to her navel, but before he could go lower, her hands were in his hair, forcing him to raise his head and look at her face. “I want to see you. When I come, I want to know it’s you inside me.”

She pulled him back up and he slid hot on top of her. Their eyes locked as he pushed himself between her legs again. With each stroke, he whispered in her ear how beautiful she was and how much he wanted her, and his hands raised her hips up to meet his.

And then he deliberately pulled himself back from the edge, slowing his rhythm to match hers, slowing the pulse so they could tease out the vortex of pleasure building between them. When he looked in her eyes, the half-lidded green orbs pulled him into her soul and he knew she understood. She slowed her body with his, letting them both live in the moment, a parallel universe that wiped away an ugly reality.

Minutes, eons later, she tightened all around him. “
Please
.”

“Rule three, Con,” she whispered in his ear. “Don’t die.”

Arlington

Raissi watched with the eye of a mentor as another of his recruits wired Stone’s back door. The plastique explosives were being secured at all major entry points of the house. If any attempt were made to enter the structure through the conventional openings, the house would be reduced to rubble.

Originally Raissi had wanted to take the leaders hostage at CIA headquarters, but Susan Richmond had cut that plan down in one breath. He considered ignoring Susan’s orders, moving them all to CIA headquarters and following through with his original plan, but the risk was too great they would be stopped, the mission blown. Raissi would not risk that. This was his last stand. He had to make it a strong one.

Touching the young man on the shoulder, Raissi offered a comment in their native language,
When dealing with explosives, don’t rush
. The man nodded and took a deep breath before continuing, slowing his fingers and re-checking his work.

Leaving the young man to finish his work, Raissi walked the house. In the opulent dining room he stared at the crystal chandelier, the expensive china in the cabinet and the silver tea set on the buffet. He ran his hand along the backs of the intricately carved wooden chairs. He sat in one of them and savored the moment, imagined what it was like to live in this world of greed and riches. It was not an unpleasant thought.

Drawing himself out of that fantasy, he played out a different one instead. One where his countrymen would speak his name for centuries as the prophet who had crucified the great leaders of Evil. Sheik bin Laden was already receiving such acclaim, and Raissi now had the chance to claim some of that for himself. Fayez Raissi would be the next great leader to bring Islamic pride and vengeance to the West.

Raissi smiled. That fantasy was much more satisfying.

Chapter Thirty-Six

He drew out his cell phone and made three calls.

First, he called Ace, roused the wheelman out of bed and demanded he go get Con and Julia from the safe house and bring them to him.

Second, he called Stone’s house. No answer.

Third, he called the FBI.

The phone rang in the background again. Raissi had considered disabling it, thus killing the annoying interruption, but decided the unanswered phone worked to his advantage, like the three dead security officers and the deserted automobiles outside the front door. Soon it would be time to talk, to play the game and offer the prize, but for now it was in Raissi’s best interest to keep silent. Let the United States government hypothesize and analyze and live in their fear for awhile. Make them sweat.

The beeper went off at 12:02, waking FBI Special Agent Tim Buchanan as he dozed on his couch.

Pushing himself up on one elbow, he turned the TV off and read the pager’s LCD screen. His heart, already tripping over itself from the rude interruption of sleep, started a quarter-mile all-out sprint as he dialed in to headquarters.

In less than five minutes, he was in step with his heart and driving through the rain to a meeting with FBI Director Lyle Banker and the FBI’s East Coast Hostage Rescue Team.

Langley

A mere four hours had passed since Susan Richmond had left CIA headquarters. Paranoia had driven her there for the evening where she shredded certain documents and prepared one more alternate plan in case Raissi somehow failed. She now entered the conference room on the seventh floor and nodded at the two men and one woman already seated at the long table in the center of the room.

With the addition of Susan, all four directorates of the CIA were represented. As was typical of the group, no one spoke. There was no love lost between the separate deputy directors, each one chauvinistic about his directorate’s importance in making the beast known as Central Intelligence function. And since the current DCI had cut his teeth on the clandestine side of the CIA, Science and Technology, Administration and Intelligence usually focused the brunt of their dissatisfaction with everything from paperclips to toilet paper on Operations.

Jurgen Damgaard, the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, or DDCI, had told Susan little over the phone about the purpose of the meeting. As the second in charge of the Agency, Damgaard flaunted his position with flair but handled his knowledge with annoying secrecy. Though an outsider to the CIA, he was competent enough as DDCI. He had served for several years as director of the FBI, and before that as a judge. Unfortunately with that background, he often treated the spy group the same way several of his predecessors had—as a troubled teenager. Tough love was his motto when dealing with Operations.

The door to the director’s office opened and Damgaard strode in with purpose. He spoke to his three deputy directors and nodded at Richmond. A deliberate shunning.

She ignored it and kept a neutral expression on her face. At this point she didn’t give a damn about Jurgen and his over-inflated ego. She wanted to know what was happening at Michael Stone’s house.

Dropping his notepad on the table, Damgaard glanced at his watch and cleared his throat. “At approximately midnight, I received a phone call from FBI Director Lyle Banker. One of his men, Agent Tim Buchanan, had an anonymous phone call from a man claiming to be outside the home of Michael Stone. He reported to Agent Buchanan that Director Allen and Senator Daniel King were inside, three shots had been fired and three bodies, supposedly security officers for Director Allen, were left outside the front door.

“Director Banker placed calls to Maime Allen and Lacy King. Neither has seen or heard from their respective husbands since late afternoon. Both men were believed to be meeting with Michael Stone at his home. Maime told Director Banker she has repeatedly called the house and gotten no answer. Lacy King, Senator King’s wife, reports she cannot raise him on his cell phone.”

The leaders of the three directorates around the table exchanged glances and shocked murmurs. Susan stared at the table.

So far Plan B was going perfectly. The anonymous caller was no doubt Flynn or Smith.

Damgaard continued. “The anonymous caller assured Agent Buchanan that there was movement inside the house. He has seen at least three different men with guns. One is stationed at the guard house and two others brought the security officers’ bodies outside.

“We are assuming we have a hostage situation, probably terrorist-linked. From our caller’s description of the men he’s seen, our hostage takers are quite possibly Middle Eastern. My gut says Palestinian based on the U.S. stand on recent events in that area, but they could be associated with anyone. The FBI, the NSA and the Pentagon have been notified and an action plan has been initiated.” He glanced at his watch again. “A hostage rescue team should be in place by now at Director Stone’s house. They will monitor it and try to make contact with the hostage takers. We should have more answers shortly.”

Susan’s analytical brain was unconcerned with the specifics of the hostage situation except in relation to her plan. She knew there would be no hostage rescue. Everyone in that house was going to die. “Who will be assigned as acting Director of Operations, Jurgen?”

“You,” he said without hesitation and Susan’s heart leapt at her new role. One step closer to her final goal. “I want you out at the site as soon as this meeting is over and I expect your counterterrorism people to be available as well to assist the FBI. Director Banker wants every specialist you’ve got. Get your bin Laden, Hezbollah and GIA people on site to give the HRT whatever information it needs.”

“Of course,” Susan replied, calm as ever on the outside.

“Who’s your head analyst?”

The question hit her like a sucker punch and she hesitated, clenching her hands on the arm of the chair. “Abigail Quinn.”

The quirk of his eyebrow was subtle and then he nodded. “Good. See that Ms. Quinn is briefed and on site with you within the hour.” He paused to look around the table. “Any further questions?”