Stranded with a Spy (12 page)

“
Everyone
at the office knew. I’d been saving and planning for it for ages. I—I almost cancelled. The arbitrator took so long to make his determination. But after the decision, I had to get away.”

“Did you take your suitcase to the office at any time before you left for Dulles Airport?”

She shook her head.

“You didn’t use it when you cleaned out your desk? Or swing by to say goodbye to friends on your way to the airport?”

“I didn’t have many friends left after the hearing.” She covered the still-sharp sting of abandonment with a shrug. “Most of the other staffers didn’t want their names associated with mine.”

In fact, they’d bailed like rats fleeing a burning tenement building. All except Dillon. He’d never once compromised his loyalty to Congressman Kent, yet had offered Mallory brutally honest advice when asked and a shoulder to cry on when she’d chosen not to follow it.

He’d also, she recalled with a sudden catch to her breath, delivered the written copy of the arbitrator’s decision.

“What?” Cutter asked, his gaze sharp on her face.

“I just remembered. Dillon stopped by my apartment the day before I left. Just for a few moments, to drop off some paperwork.”

“Where was your suitcase?”

“I don’t know.” She scrubbed the heel of her hand across her forehead, struggling to recall those last, chaotic hours before she’d made her escape. “In the hall closet, I think. Or I may have carried it to the bedroom to start packing.”

Cutter didn’t need to hear more. Shoving out of his chair, he unclipped his cell phone and stalked to the window. Feet braced, eyes narrowed on the topiaries trimmed into fanciful shapes in the formal garden outside, he waited for Mike Callahan to acknowledge his signal.

He’d already apprised Hawkeye of the incident in the woods. His controller was working the Remy Duchette connection hard, searching for ties to the Russian. Cutter’s terse call propelled him in a new and potentially explosive direction.

“Congressman Kent’s senior aide?”

Looking as happy as a lion with a thorn embedded in its paw, Lightning shoved a hand through his sun-streaked mane and paced the length of his office.

“Is Slash sure about this?”

“He sounded sure to me,” Mike confirmed grimly.

He’d spent most of the afternoon digging into Dillon Porter’s past, present and anticipated future. In a town where who you knew carried considerably more weight than what you knew, Porter had racked up an impressive set of credentials. Seventeen years on Capitol Hill, first as a page, then an intern, then a professional staffer, had solidified his power base and made him indispensable to Congressman Kent. The fact that he’d stuck with Kent despite the legislator’s rumored extracurricular activities suggested Porter was every bit as ambitious as his boss. Longevity carried its own cachet on the Hill.

“As far as I can tell,” Mike informed his boss, “Porter’s clean. I’ve screened his financials, his contacts with registered lobbyists, every overseas junket he took with his boss. I couldn’t find anything that even suggested a link to the Russian.”

“So Slash thinks the data theft may be a setup, with the ultimate goal of making Kent look good for pushing for tighter controls over personal financial data?”

“He thinks it’s a possibility. Kent was facing a tough challenge for reelection until the publicity resulting from the Dawes allegations painted him as a combination of unjustly accused and sly old dog.”

“Knowing Kent, he parlayed both roles into a solid block of votes.”

“Yeah, he did. The latest polls indicate the good ol’boys back home are solidly in his camp, but some women voters are still on the fence.”

“They’d topple off quick enough if Mallory Dawes was branded a thief as well as an oversexed temptress.”

“That’s the working hypothesis.”

Lightning shoved back his suit coat and splayed his hands on his hips. He knew as well as Mike they were walking a political minefield here. The President himself had stumped for his good pal and longtime political crony. Kent’s reelection was essential to the party’s midterm legislative agenda.

“What’s your game plan, Hawk?”

“I’m going to get up close and personal with Porter. He doesn’t know me from squat but, seasoned staffer that he is, he’ll certainly know that the Military Marksmanship Association has more than ten thousand members.”

Not to mention strong ties to the NRA. Mike had his opinions about gun control, which didn’t necessarily coincide with those held by many of his fellow sharpshooters. He suspected Dillon Porter would see only dollar signs, however, when he linked Mike with the powerful lobbying organization.

“When are you going to establish contact?”

“Tonight. I obtained a copy of Porter’s schedule. He’s on the Hill until six, then he and his boss head over to a reception in honor of the new Secretary General of the World Bank.”

“The World Bank?” A smile spread across Lightning’s tanned face. “Well, well.”

Mike matched Nick’s grin. They couldn’t have orchestrated the initial contact any better if they’d planned it. Adam Ridgeway, OMEGA’s former director, now headed the International Monetary Fund, the operating arm of the World Bank.

Keying his intercom, Lightning summoned his executive assistant into the office.

“Do you know what your folks have on the agenda tonight, Jilly?”

“They’re attending a function for the IMF. Wayland and I were supposed to go with them but he had to fly up to New York on a case. Why? What’s the deal?”

“Hawk wants to connect with someone attending the soiree.”

Her glance slid to Mike. He’d steeled himself for the impact of those sapphire eyes…or thought he had. Damned if it didn’t hit him with the force of a 40mm rubber-tipped, riot-control bullet.

“That works out perfectly. You can be my escort.”

The protest came fast and straight from his gut. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Sure it is. I’ll be your cover, Hawk. Pick me up at seven.”

M
ike had landed in a number of desperate situations since joining OMEGA. He couldn’t ever remember feeling as hinky as he did when he pulled into the circular drive leading to the home of Gillian Ridgeway’s parents, however.

Set on a wooded lot in McLean’s priciest neighborhood, the two-story brick residence wore a graceful patina of age. Ivy climbed up the mellow brick. Boxwoods framed the walk to the door. Leafy maples and oaks shaded the house, molting bright layers of orange and red onto the carpet of lawn.

Mike drove up the circular drive and parked his newly washed Blazer under the pillared portico. The scent of wood smoke filled his lungs as he mounted the front steps. One thought filled his head.

This was an assignment. Just an assignment. Gillian Ridgeway’s sole purpose was to provide an entrée into her father’s set. With that admonition firmly in mind, Mike rolled his shoulders to settle his tux and leaned on the doorbell.

Instant chaos erupted inside. When the door jerked open a moment later, the noise shot up another ten or twenty decibels. Maggie and Adam’s teenaged son added to it by bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“Would you please
shut up!
”

The sheepdog lunging frantically in the kid’s hold ignored the booming command. Tongue lolling, jowls flapping, it howled an ecstatic welcome and went up on its back legs to paw the air. Mike was treated to a hairy chest, a freckled pink belly, and a sack of balls that would have made a stallion strut. The dog was hung like a Clydesdale.

“Shut up, I said!”

Grunting with the effort, Adam Ridgeway II—Tank to everyone who knew him—hauled on the hound’s collar to drag him away from the door. Dark-haired and brown-eyed like his mother, the kid gave every indication he’d soon match or exceed his father’s height. Both parents lived in mortal fear of the not-very-distant day Tank would qualify for his learner’s permit and hit the streets.

“Sorry ’bout that,” he shouted over the still-ecstatic barking. “He’s just a pup. Hasn’t learned to mind real well yet.”

No kidding.

“C’mon in.” Planting his sneakered feet, Tank struggled to control the leaping, cavorting animal. “Been meaning to ask you. When are we going to the range?”

Thankfully, Maggie’s intervention saved Mike from having to answer. Grimacing at the unceasing din, she shouted over the rail of the circular stairs.

“Tank, please! Take him outside.”

Muscles straining under his maroon-and-gold Washington Redskins sweatshirt, the teen hauled the hound down the hall.

The sheepdog thought the rough handling was great fun. His claws scrabbled on the marble tiles. His tail scissored back and forth. He made repeated lunges, woofing joyously and almost knocking Tank on his butt several times before both disappeared through a side door.

“Sorry, Mike.” Smiling ruefully, Maggie Sinclair, code name Chameleon, descended the rest of the stairs. “Radizwell Senior passed all of his energy and none of his manners to his numerous offspring.”

The original Radizwell had exhibited even less restraint than his progeny, but Mike knew better than to badmouth Maggie’s beloved pet. The Hungarian sheepdog, along with a completely obnoxious lizard she’d picked up during a mission to Central America, had ruled the Ridgeway household for as long as anyone could remember.

Radizwell I had succumbed to old age after spawning several successive generations. Terence the Lizard was still around. Somewhere. Mike snuck a quick look at the chandelier gracing the entryway to make sure the evil-tempered creature wouldn’t drop down on his head before taking the hands Maggie held out to him.

“I believe this is the first time I’ve seen you in a tux, Hawkeye. You look very distinguished.”

“You look pretty darn good yourself, Chameleon.”

She looked better than good. Her slinky black cocktail dress hugged a figure that could still turn heads on any street in any city. Laugh lines fanned the skin at the corners of her sparkling brown eyes, but those tiny wrinkles were the only indication she could have a daughter Gillian’s age, another in college, and a son as tall and skinny as a scarecrow.

“Jilly’s almost ready. While we wait, you can brief Adam and me on what’s going down.”

Tucking her arm in his, she steered Mike into the den. Her husband was already there. As cool and contained as Maggie was warm and spontaneous, Adam Ridgeway looked up from the pitcher of martinis he was stirring. The gleam that lit his eyes when they skimmed over his wife was nine parts admiration, one part smug male possession.

“New dress?”

“Yes, it is. Do you like it?”

“Very much. Hello, Hawk. Martini?”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

Nodding, Ridgeway passed his wife a long-stemmed glass. His gaze turned several degrees cooler when he took his own glass in hand.

“Have a seat,” he invited in a tone that had Mike unconsciously squaring his shoulders, “and tell me just what kind of op you’ve involved my daughter in.”

Mike thought the grilling by the father was bad. Making the rounds at the crowded reception with the daughter’s body tucked against him was worse.

Much worse.

Gillian had dressed for the occasion in a strapless, flame silk sheath that revealed more than it concealed. Decorated with tiny beads that sparkled when they caught the light, the dress and its wearer drew every eye in the place, including Mike’s.

She’d added killer three-inch stilettos in the same heart-stopping red that brought her shoulder almost level with his. She’d also swept her thick black hair up in a cluster of curls that left her neck bare except for the tiny baby hairs on her nape. Those soft, feathery curls snagged his eye every time she turned to greet another friend or acquaintance. Since she seemed to know everyone in the place, every curl had burned into Mike’s brain by the time he spotted Congressman Kent.

His face animated beneath his carefully styled silver mane, the legislator was evidently relating some inside joke to a circle of cronies. When he finished, the men around him burst into raucous laughter. The lone woman in the group rolled her eyes.

Mike’s nerves began to hum with something other than acute awareness of the woman on his arm. Wherever Kent was, his aide wouldn’t be far away.

A moment later, Gillian leaned closer. “There’s Porter,” she murmured. “Second in line at the bar. Gray suit, yellow striped tie, rimless glasses.”

The staffer looked a good five years older than the photo in the file Mike had pulled up. Then again, bag-carrying someone like Kent would probably add years to anyone. He was still on the job, Mike saw, working the line at the bar, engaging both the man ahead and the one behind with the skill essential to a politician’s aide.

Mike bided his time until Porter had procured two drinks and delivered one to his boss. Kent took it with a careless nod and turned back to his cronies. His aide lingered at the edge of the group for a few moments before drifting toward a newscaster for one of the local affiliates.

“Okay, Jilly. Let’s move in.”

Cutter received Mike’s update early the next morning, European time.

He was just out of the shower after a grueling dawn run. He’d needed the run to clear the cobwebs from his head. If he’d slept more than a few hours last night, he’d be surprised. His mind had gnawed restlessly at the problem of the stolen data. The rest of him had remained tense and edgy, all too aware of the fact that Mallory slept just on the other side of the connecting door.

Only two nights ago she’d flamed in his arms. He could still feel her body taut and straining under his, still hear her hoarse groan when she’d climaxed. He’d come within an ace of knocking on that door a half dozen times and trying his damndest to recover the ground he’d lost with her.

He might have done it if she hadn’t been wrung dry by the incident in the woods yesterday morning, not to mention the grilling he’d put her through for most of the afternoon. After that exhausting session, she’d opted for a tray in her room and an evening on her own to try and sort through everything he’d dumped on her.

The report Cutter had just received from Mike wasn’t going to help with the sorting. Slicking back hair still damp from his shower, he rapped on the connecting door.

Mallory took her time answering. The dark smudges under her eyes suggested she hadn’t slept any better than he had. Bundled from neck to ankle in a plush terrycloth robe, she read the news on his face.

“Your friends didn’t find anything on Dillon, did they?”

“Not yet. They’re still digging, but at this point he looks squeaky clean.”

Too
clean, in Mike and Cutter’s collective judgment. Everyone had skeletons in their closet. Porter couldn’t have spent all those years at the center of power without acquiring one or two himself.

“So we’re back to square one,” Mallory muttered wearily. “With me dangling at the end of your hook, bait for this Russian character.”

“Let’s talk about that.”

When she sank onto the edge of the rumpled bed, her robe parted at the knee. Not much. Only enough to give Cutter a glimpse of smooth, bare calf. Ruthlessly, he slammed the lid on the insidious thought that Ms. Dawes was halfway to naked. He’d done some hard thinking in the dark hours before dawn.

“I think it’s time to switch gears. That incident yesterday morning scared the crap out of me.” Cutter wasn’t going to forget seeing her go down any time soon. “I don’t want you hurt, Mallory.”

The admission elicited a small huff. “I’m not real thrilled at the prospect, either.”

“If Remy Duchette’s attack
was
linked to an attempt to retrieve the disk, whoever wants the data is getting both frustrated and desperate. That makes him dangerous. We need to send him a signal, make it clear you don’t have the CD.”

“How do you plan to accomplish that?”

“We’ll use the media.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding!”

“I know, I know. They ate you alive at home. With a few words dropped in the right ears, they’ll do the same here.”

Cutter hated the idea of feeding her to the sharks again but didn’t see any other option at this point.

“We’ll put you in front of the cameras. Have you relate your sad tale of the riptide carrying off your rental. You’ll stress that you lost everything, including your suitcase and all its contents. Then I put you on a plane back to the States and hang around Mont St. Michel to see if someone tries to recover the disk.”

Manfully, he kept his gaze on her face while she fiddled with the flap of her robe and mulled over his plan. He could see it didn’t thrill her.

“I know you came to France to escape the media, Mallory. I don’t like asking you to put yourself out there again, but it’s the only way I could think of to throw any would-be predators off your scent.”

“I can handle the media.”

“What the problem, then?”

Dammit, he wished she’d stop playing with the flap of her robe. The thick fabric bunched, was smoothed flat, bunched again. Cutter was starting to sweat when she finally voiced her objections to his plan.

“I skipped lunch for almost a year to save for this trip. It started as a vacation, but morphed into my escape from the ugliness at home. I’m not ready to wade back into the mess yet.”

“I understand. I do.”

He’d watched her unfold during those hours in the sun, when they’d sipped Calvados and picnicked with Monsieur Villieu and his wife under the apple trees. Warm color had dusted her cheeks. Laughter had sparkled in her eyes. Now the shadows were back, and it ate at Cutter’s insides that he’d been the one to put them there.

“You can’t just pick up your vacation where you left off,” he said quietly. “Not while whoever put that disk in your suitcase thinks you might still have it.”

Chewing on her lower lip, she smoothed the terrycloth several more times.

“Okay,” she said after a moment, “here’s
my
plan. We orchestrate the media blitz as you suggest. I admit I lost everything. Let the world know my suitcase went to sea with my rental car. Then, after we’ve thrown whoever wants the disk off my scent, as you so delicately put it, I go my way and you go yours.”

“No good.”

The swift, uncompromising negative took her aback. “Why not?”

“I can’t let you wander around the countryside on your own.”

“Let?”
she echoed, stiffening.

“I’ll rephrase that. I don’t want you wandering around France on your own. There’s no guarantee this media ploy will work. Word that you don’t have the disk in your possession might not reach the right people. Or they may not believe it. You could still be a target, Mallory. I can’t…I don’t want to take that risk.”

“If they think I still have the data, I wouldn’t be any safer at home than I am here.”

Yes, she would. Cutter had requested 24/7 surveillance for Mallory and her apartment. She wouldn’t take a step without someone right there, behind or beside her.

He couldn’t tell her about the tag, however. Not yet.
He
was convinced she hadn’t stolen the data but until he proved it, she’d remain under watchful eyes.