Operation Sheba (8 page)

Chapter Ten

Susan Richmond pushed her lover’s arm off her stomach and swung her long legs over the edge of the bed. Her head was pounding. She needed some Motrin and she needed it now.

The red digital letters of the bedside clock glowed 5:13 a.m. White sheers blew out elegantly from the bedroom window as she wrapped her silk robe around her and rubbed her head. The storm had brought rain and left behind cool air and a blinding headache.

In the bathroom she downed three pills with water from her cupped hand, relieved her bladder and started back toward the bedroom.

I wonder how Julia’s doing.
The thought caught her mid-stride and she stopped, her eyes fixed on nothing but empty hall space.

Abigail. She’s Abigail Quinn now, remember? You have to stop thinking about her as Julia. You could blow everything.

Oh no. She would not blow it this late in the game.

Turning on her heel, she strode down the hall and made her way into the study. Her worn leather desk chair squeaked as she eased into it, and she gritted her teeth. Forcing herself to ignore the throbbing in her head, Susan mentally reviewed her game plan again.

The carefully thought-out strategy had taken years to put into action. She had handpicked each of the players, coached them to their full potential, and occasionally carried the ball for them when things got dicey. It was working. One day at a time, one play at a time, everything was coming together quite nicely.

Toying with the small gold-plated globe on her desk, she let herself envision what the future would be like. Even if things didn’t go exactly as she had planned, she would still get what she wanted. With all of the troublesome players eliminated by one means or another, she had a straight shot to the top. To the dream she had been harboring for thirty years as she rose slowly through the bullshit bureaucracy of the CIA.

From analyst to field operator and back to Langley, Susan Richmond had done it all. She had been the CIA’s most successful recruiter of case officers and topnotch analysts. She had done her tour of duty at the Office of Russian and European Analysis and returned home to serve on the National Intelligence Council for three years. Along the way she had received her master’s degree in Military History. By and large, she was fully capable of running the CIA, if not the entire intelligence community.

And here she sat.

Directorship of the CTC was an important job that called on most of her skills, but she wanted more. She wanted what she couldn’t have.

Because, even in the politically correct environment of the new millennium, the male-dominated clique of the intelligence world was opposed to accepting a woman as DCI. The public even more so, no matter what opinion polls said. Television and Hollywood could throw as many female actors as they wanted into Presidential-type roles, but the well-known and self-evident truth in the United States was that someone of great stature was needed to run the intelligence community and no woman had the right anatomy to do the job.

The CTC Chief snorted. When her plan finally came together, the men who controlled her career were going to get their balls pulled right out their noses and then some. From the Deputy Director of Operations to the Director of Central Intelligence himself, heads would roll as one after the other was exposed for the worthless, inefficient leader he was, all thanks to her diligent work. Once they were out of the way, Susan would rise to the position due her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Expecting to find her lover, she was surprised to see another pawn in her game emerging from the shadows of the hallway.

Cari Von Motz ran a gloved finger along the edge of Susan’s desk. “Do you know what I love about America?” Her feminine voice was accented with the slightest hint of German.

Susan gripped the arms of her office chair and then forced herself to relax as Cari’s musky perfume filled her nostrils. Some designer fragrance, she was sure. The woman’s long hair had been cut into a short bob, a bold fringe of bangs lying across her forehead and squaring off her cheekbones. Cheekbones she had given her. “Why are you here?” Susan said. “How did you bypass my security?”

Cari touched the spines of the books shelved in layers on the south wall. “America truly is the Land of Opportunity. Look at all the choices you Americans have, all the places you can go, all the doors that are open to you just because of the country you live in.”

Susan watched as Cari examined the bottles of liquor on the nearby antique buffet. Picking up a bottle of brandy, Cari poured some into a snifter and held the bottle up to Susan. Susan shook her head, feeling her headache returning in full force. Cari Von Motz was the last person she wanted to deal with right now, but she held her silence and waited for the young woman to make her move.

Cari carried her glass of brandy to one of the red damask-covered Queen Anne chairs across from Susan and sat down, propping her booted feet on the edge of Susan’s desk. “It’s payday for me.” She sipped the amber liquid, “I delivered Flynn and Smith back to you, and carried my cover with Fayez. Now I want my money. Time for me to take advantage of a few opportunities.”

“Your payment will be delivered into your Swiss account when the deal is done, Cari, just like we agreed.”

Cari eyed her over the rim of the snifter. “But you have what you need to make the house of cards fall now and my work for you is done. I gave the information on Michael Stone’s spies to Heinrich, led Flynn on a wild goose chase and got Smith to leave his position in Europe. I even delivered a nasty terrorist to your doorstep. You have no more use for me, and you owe me more than my fee. Pay up now and I’ll be out of your life. For good this time.”

Susan fingered the globe again and calculated the odds of that happening. If only she hadn’t been young and stupid once. If only she hadn’t fallen in love with a married man. “Half will be paid to your account by the close of business tomorrow.” Susan knew the money would never be enough, no matter how high the sum. “The other half will be paid upon completion of the operation.”

Licking her lips, Cari studied the globe. “I still think killing Agent Flynn is a waste. Surely I could entice him into the black-market world.”

Susan rubbed her forehead. “You’ll never entice him into our world. He may cross the line into it once in awhile, but for him that’s a means to an end. He is, unfortunately, one of the good guys through and through.”

“Everyone has a price.”

Susan shook her head. “Money has never been a driving factor with Conrad Flynn. Only loyalty.”

“Loyalty?” Cari snorted. “There is no such thing.”

This is a dig for the mistakes I made thirty years ago.
But her “if only’s” could change nothing, only remind her not to screw up now. “For Flynn there is such a thing as loyalty. His country, his friends and his family all garner his loyalty. It’s nearly impossible to gain Flynn’s trust, but once you have, he’s your guardian angel. There isn’t anything he won’t do for you. On the other hand, if you threaten him, or he brands you a traitor, you’re history.”

“And you have used that to your advantage.”

Susan let her mouth curve in a smile. “Exploiting his friendship with me and his loyalty to the CIA was easy. If anyone could bring down Michael Stone and Director Allen for me, it’s Flynn. All I had to do was plant the seed in his head and place his partner in danger.”

“What if this backfires and he figures out you are the CIA’s traitor?”

Still smiling, Susan rocked her chair slightly. “If you were the DCI, who would you believe? A rogue agent, with multiple episodes of misconduct noted in his personnel file, a man who faked his own death and went AWOL from the CIA? Or the director of the Counterterrorism Center who’s been a loyal and dedicated employee for over thirty years?”

Cari tapped the glass against her lips. “Still, it’s a shame to waste such an incredible male specimen.”

Susan sighed, struck by the idea that Cari and Julia were opposite sides of the same coin. Too bad they both would have to be disposed of. “It’s time for you to be going.”

Standing up, Cari drank the last of the brandy and set the glass down. “I expect full payment in my Swiss account by close of business tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll be disappointed. The best deal I’ll give you is half now and half later.”

She smiled coolly. “What a shame. Guess I better find myself another benefactor.”

Susan returned the smile. “Be my guest, but I doubt you’ll have any success.”

Cari moved toward the study’s door. “The Land of Opportunity, remember, Mother? America is the Land of Opportunity.”

The older woman watched the younger version of herself slip out the door and let out a deep sigh. Julia Torrison? Who cared how she was doing. Susan Richmond was in full-court press in the final game of her season.

Oh no. She would not. Blow. It.

Julia sat in the rocking chair, staring at Conrad’s back.

His muscular naked back. Stripped down to his black boxer briefs and white socks, he was flopped on her sofa, deep in sleep. She watched him breathe, stomach down, head turned toward the back of the sofa, feet dangling over the end. His right arm hung down, fingers resting on the butt of his gun that was lying on the floor. The other arm, complete with his classic sailor boy anchor tattoo, was snugged up under his head.

She let her focus wander over his olive-colored skin, allowed them to stop briefly on the two scars she could see. He had received both injuries during his SEAL days. One, on his right shoulder, he had received from a bullet and the subsequent surgeon’s knife needed to extract it. The other one, about two inches long and located just above the band of his underwear, was the result of a knife wound.
Reminders
, he would say.
Never rely on others to get your back
.

Julia wanted to reach out and run her fingers across the tattoo, press her lips to the scars. She wanted to feel the heat Conrad’s body gave off. Feel the sweat of his body mixed with hers.

She closed her eyes. God, this wasn’t fair. This was
so
not fair.

She’d been able to think only about Conrad last night when she fell asleep, but with the morning light came thoughts of Michael. Normally, she would have been on the veranda at his house about now, sipping coffee and reading the paper. Instead she was here, suddenly leading a double life again. Not only was she secretly cavorting with her supposedly dead ex-lover and an AWOL CIA chief, she’d kissed her ex-lover without any thought of her current one. She’d gone to sleep fantasizing about way more than a kiss too.
I can’t decide
, she mused,
whether I’m crazy or just slutty
.

But now it was morning. Fantasy time was over. Hello real life.

Opening her eyes, Julia curled her legs into the chair and watched Con’s back again.

Rise. Fall.

Rise. Fall.

Instead of retreating to the apartment down the hall, he’d spent the last few hours of the night on her sofa. Even after she had rejected him and told him to get lost.

Passive aggressive
, he would say,
wins the war, Julia
. Wear the opponent down by waiting him…or her…out.

He knew what he was talking about. Conrad excelled in HUMINT—the clandestine term for human intelligence collection. He had no qualms about using violence when necessary, but enjoyed equal success in stillness. In relentless study of his target until he located the weak spot that would bring the target down. In patient, unwavering pursuit of whomever and whatever he wanted. Once assured of his success, Conrad Flynn hit with stealth and accuracy.

His kisses were lethal.

Julia hugged herself. She had been his target before, but she had wanted him just as badly as he’d wanted her. This game was different. This time Michael was the ultimate target. With or without her help, Conrad was going to take him and the rogue organization down. Her stomach rolled at the thought it could be Michael orchestrating the espionage and betrayal of his own spies. But it was worse to contemplate that he could have manipulated and seduced her after failing to terminate her life in Europe. That she could have been used and betrayed again by someone she loved and trusted with the core of her soul.

It’s not Michael.

Conrad stirred, even in his exhausted state struggling to find a comfortable arrangement for his arms. Giving up, his right armed flopped back to the floor. A minute later, soft snores escaped from his lips.

Julia watched, feeling Michael’s presence hovering in the background. Years of experience in Conrad’s spy world had honed her gut instincts to a sharp point. She knew Michael was innocent and she had to prove it. She owed him that much. But how? Help Conrad and Smitty? Strike out on her own to find out who was setting them all up? Confront Michael?

She rubbed her temples where the beginning of a headache stirred.

Too many pieces of the puzzle are missing
.
I have to go back to step one and start filling them in.

Rising, she stretched and started a mental list of To Dos as she walked to the bathroom.

One: put Mariah Carey on the bathroom CD player and take a long, hot shower.

Two: makeup and hair.

Three: fat jeans (Michael was always feeding her and she’d gained seven pounds in the past year) and red cashmere sweater for casual Friday at work, topped off with her three-and-a-half-inch Prada’s.