Terrorbyte (19 page)

The cold rain of the night before pelted against my skin and memories of crime scenes flooded my head. I turned off the shower. If the action replay was going to turn into a full-blown hurricane of a deal, with added blood and bourbon, I'd rather not be lost within it and find myself turning into a wrinkled prune under the hot shower.

By the time I was dressed in fresh jeans and a crisp, clean white tee shirt I felt better. I plonked myself on our bed and attacked my hair with the blow dryer. My, time flies: ten minutes later, it was no longer wet and I'd brushed it back off my face.

I flicked through the pictures in my phone while I waited for real daylight to edge its way through the crack in the curtains. Two pictures in particular caught my attention: Markov the dead Russian and Selena the crash victim. I studied her face. Admittedly, a camera-phone photograph of a passport photo doesn't make for a clear image.

My mind danced around the blurriness. Something in that picture of Markov, or whoever he really was, felt familiar. The eyes remained the same, but my imagination toyed with hair color and style. I was still sure he was the guy I tripped over in Richmond. Time passed more quickly as I played my little mind games, rather than staring blankly at the phone. Funny: a dead Russian one day and a marker pen with Russian writing on it another. What were the odds of that happening in the same week? A missing crash victim on the way from Richmond and a woman of the same name associated with a Richmond murder victim. Chlorine gas in the car and the smell of chlorine on all our victims: what were the odds?

The phone buzzed. I almost dropped it trying to answer the call. I read the caller's name on the screen: Caine.

“Morning,” he rumbled. “Meet me at the Defense Department in Arlington, not the Pentagon. Head to Courthouse Road.”

“Is that where the computer is?” That just didn't sound right. The ping came up as the Pentagon.

“Yes it is; our person of interest threw us a few curveballs trying to make it look like it came from the Air Force Department inside the Pentagon.”

“Smart.”

“We'll see.” I knew that tone. That gravelly, understated tone Caine favored.

“I'm not going to like this, am I?”

“No, not at all.”

I ignored it, nothing I could do about it. “I need a temp to cover Sam. I want someone who'll fit in and do the job without being babysat.”

“We'll deal with that too.”

I hung up.

My lips felt cracked. Not surprising with all the wind lately. Mac ambled into the room looking happier than I'd seen him all week.

“You seen my ChapStick?”

“Next to the basin in the bathroom.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I rolled the ChapStick around between my fingers, popped off the top and applied it without using the mirror. I knew where my lips were; I'd had them a long time.

Sometimes it's best to avoid mirrors. Times like this, when my eyes stared at me accusingly, I knew I wasn't getting anywhere fast with this case, and I didn't need to see that in the mirror.

Little Dakota sprang to mind. I needed to update his dad. I needed to ensure there was a total media ban on this case.

Lee bounded up the stairs calling, “Ellie, they found something.”

I flung open the bathroom door. Mac stuck his head out of our bedroom door.

“What?” we said.

“You were right, he was watching.”

“Pervert,” I hissed. “Dirty-filthy-killer-pervert!”

Lee bared his teeth. “We're sending the bug boys over all the Northern Virginia crime scenes, looking for cameras.”

“He could have returned to retrieve the camera,” I said, thinking about Sam.

“Possible,” Lee replied.

At least he wasn't asking how I knew about him watching. I have no answers for why I know half of what I know. Right then, I knew that the missing crash victim had something to do with this case. I couldn't prove it. I didn't even know what the link was, but I was sure there was one.

“Okay, Lee, it's morning; head on over to Ruby's. Ya'll have fun now, ya hear.”

Lee grimaced. “Fun? Getting a warrant out of Ruby?” He drawled, “Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while.”

There was no stopping the smile that spread across my face. He'd been working with me way too long.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped through the front door was the absence of rain. The rain had finally stopped. Things were looking up.

Caine was waiting for us outside the building. Beside him stood a man I'd never seen before. He wore dark trousers and a long stylish overcoat in black leather – the softest, most covetable, chamois – Matrix style.

“Caine.” I drawled out my version of a half-assed greeting.

“Ellie, allow me to introduce Officer Misha Praskovya.”

The man stepped forward and grasped my extended hand with both of his. “Ah, the famous Special Agent Conway. It is an honor to meet you.”

I was taken aback by his pleasing accent and enthusiastic greeting. I shook off the goldfish expression I was sure I had on my face and animated myself. “Excuse me?”

“I am honored to meet you.”

“That's what I thought you said.” I doubt I hid my confusion at his remark too well. “That's very nice of you.”  

He laughed, making his dark blue, almost black, eyes gleam. I felt the edges of unearthliness creep in. He looked every bit as if he'd stepped off the cover of a Mills & Boon novel. A scream resounded inside my head. I didn't do romance novels. Make it stop.

He let my hand go and turned to Mac.

I breathed again.

A car door banged and Lee hurried to join us, just in time to hear Officer Praskovya say. “Even in Russia we have heard of the beautiful Agent Conway.”

Now he's just freaking mocking me. Mocked by a Russian: now that was a new twist on my day. How would anyone have heard of me?

Mac and Lee beamed like dorks and appeared incapable of speech. So I spoke. “You've heard of me?”

“Yes, you think the world hasn't heard of you?” It was hard to tell but I think he was genuinely surprised at my reaction. Or else he was good at making fun of people. “We have heard of you and the Delta Team and, of course, your poetry prowess, the way you used the sales of your book to start the Foundation.”

Up until that moment, it had never occurred to me that we were internationally newsworthy. It was hard enough getting local media to take an interest in the Foundation.

I dismissed his comments as politely as I could, “That's flattering I'm sure, but right now we have a pervert to interview, you'll have to excuse us.”

I shot Caine a get-me-away-from-him look and all he did was twitch. A sneaky suspicion crept up on me. This Russian had something to do with our case. Another Russian link.

I addressed Praskovya, “Why are you here?”

“Destiny,” he replied. From inside his coat he produced a copy of our book. “May I trouble you for your autographs?”

Mac took the book, pulled out a pen and signed inside the front cover, then passed the book and pen to me. My brain was racing to fathom the situation. But even to me, standing outside a defense building, signing an autograph for a Russian officer seemed beyond extraordinary. I still didn't have an answer! I signed the book and gave it back to Praskovya. I couldn't see a way out of it.

I shook my head. “No, no, why are you here in front of the Defense Department building?” I resisted the urge to elaborate further by adding, ‘Why are you in my face, carrying a copy of our book?'

“Your case and my case share an overlap,” he said. Smooth didn't describe him.

“Shall we?” Caine said, walking towards the entranceway. We followed him. I slowed to let Mac catch up and walk with me. Lee caught up with Praskovya. I had the feeling he was going to stick to him like white on rice.

We followed Caine down several corridors and finally into a fluorescent-lit, open-plan office. An armed guard stood inside the doorway. He nodded to Caine. I counted seven workstations with computers. The area was devoid of personnel.

Caine stopped at the fourth desk from the door. It faced out into the office and was unremarkable except that the computer was the only one running. He put a latex glove on, touched the mouse and cleared the screen saver. The picture on the screen was an internal view of The Butterfly Foundation website – not the public access area – but the areas we used, with access to all personal information on clients.

“Certainly looks like our perv used this machine,” I stated. Praskovya stood too close to me. I felt the warmth from his body. To say I found it disconcerting was an understatement. I moved over so I stood closer to Mac.

“Your perv is female,” Caine replied.

“Female …” I repeated, “Does she work here?”

Praskovya spoke, “No. She borrowed an identity to get in here. She needed the use of the computers here to hide herself while she did what she needed to do.”

“Why here? I'm sure she could use another computer, one easier to access, for instance.”

“When you are on foreign soil you go where you are comfortable. She is comfortable in defense areas.”

“We know this how?”

“She's an integral part of a case I have been working on for three years.”

“Three years? Who is she?
The Jackal
?” I really wished I hadn't gone there with that comment. Visions of Bruce Willis as a fat greasy Canadian mixed with the more pleasing Richard Gere as the Irishman Declan Mulqueen. I knew who I preferred. Damn my mind and its movie-style interruptions. I wanted to dally on the Richard Gere memory but it was not the time.

“She is not Jackal. Who is this Jackal?” Praskovya said, impatience overshadowing his initial charm.

“Never mind, nineteen-nineties movie … it's a book too,
The Day of the Jackal
. Frederick Forsyth wrote the original … a great read.  As a state security agent, I'm surprised you haven't read it; it's about the attempted assignation of a European president.”

Praskovya smiled. “It is interesting inside your head, I think.”

Yeah yeah. “And how does this woman affect our case?”

Praskovya replied, “Whoever she's trying to find has something to do with the Foundation.”

“She was found then lost again,” Caine said. “Anything about that car crash you called in a few days ago seem off to you?'

I stared at Mac. His inscrutable expression gave nothing away. I swallowed hard hoping to dislodge the lump in my throat before speaking, “Yes. The whole thing. I don't think I wanted to believe it had something to do with us but I couldn't shake the feeling it
was
about us. I was thinking Mossad originally, and obviously that was way the hell off the mark, but my next thought was Russian.”

Praskovya perched on the edge of the desk and spoke again, “Markov found her. She killed him and escaped.”

“And he was?” Apart from being the guy I tripped over in Richmond. I looked at Mac. His eyes bore the knowing look that came from listening to my ramble earlier about the Russian/New Zealander.

Praskovya continued, “Russian police working with Interpol, tracking terrorists.”

I looked at Caine. “You're telling me there are Russians tracking someone in our country and we didn't know about it?”

Caine glowered. “Were and we know now.”

Could it be any more complicated? The cloak and dagger shit was making my head spin. Russian police using a New Zealand passport; I was pretty sure I didn't want to know how that came about.

I turned my attention back to Praskovya. “She's a terrorist?”

“Yes, and more; she is finding a serial killer.”

“A terrorist looking for a serial killer? To what end?”

“Yes, looking for. We think recruitment.”

That one word transmuted my blood to arctic crystals. A terrorist wanted to recruit a serial killer. This was exactly what I needed, not! Fan-fucking-tastic.

Caine's phone buzzed, he excused himself. When he came back he told us Officer Praskovya was working with us and would replace Sam.

It was an announcement more than anything else and there was zero room for my opinion on the subject. Caine left to get back to his meetings and paperwork.

I tried to get a handle on Misha Praskovya. Apart from the whole escapee-from-a-romance-novel thing, he seemed pleasant enough; obviously his credentials checked out and he was competent, or Caine wouldn't drop him into my team.

He addressed Lee, “You are Lee, yes?”

Lee nodded.

“You know computers?”

Lee nodded. “Do bears shit in the woods?”

Praskovya looked confused. It took a minute for him to comprehend, then he moved right along. “Can you check the history on this machine? Can we see everything she was looking for?”

“Probably.”

“Do it now.”

Lee looked at me. I shook my head.

Praskovya repeated, “Do it now!”

I interrupted, “That's not how it's done here. I need the computer experts to look at this machine.” I sensed Mac smiling and could almost guarantee Lee was having a quiet smirk. Obviously, Praskovya didn't know Mac was our resident expert in all things to do with social networking and computers. He could probably have used his skills to uncover some info from the machine in question but although Mac was with cyber, he wasn't a computer forensics technician, which was really what we needed. I couldn't take the chance of evidence being declared unusable for whatever reason. Best to leave it to the experts.

The Russian knocked the desk hard with his leg and the monitor wobbled. Praskovya complained, “Too much red tape: have Lee do it.”

Who the hell did he think he was? Mr. Tall Dark and Hunky couldn't just swoop in and start ordering my team around. I needed to stop thinking of him in Mills & Boon terms before the whole scenario took over and led to my inevitable committal to a psychiatric facility.