The Enclave (54 page)
And as she watched him go, it felt as if he were taking some vital part of her soul with him. She pressed her hands against her cheeks, aghast at the sudden, powerful sense of loss she felt, at the almost overwhelming desire she had to run after him, to go with him, to never be apart from him again. . . .
She swallowed, then laid her palms flat against the cool stone on the wall and stared blindly at the night-cloaked campus before her.
What is wrong with you? You’re thirty-three years old and you’re acting
as giddy as a teenager. You can’t be in love with him. You don’t even
know him. . . .
For a few moments she stood there, trying to talk herself out of what she was feeling, then dropped it all in horror as she recalled that she was supposed to leave the reception as soon as possible. With Swain still detained by his business associates, there was no better time than now. Pushing away from the wall, she hurried back through the gardens, beset with the irrational fear that she’ d started too late and he was going to get her after all. . . .
She was almost to the elevator when she ran into Swain’s East Indian servant, bearing Swain’s invitation for her to rejoin him. She nearly refused, but common sense prevailed. Why fight him now when she was so close to getting free? Better to endure for a few more minutes than jeopardize that chance. Thus she followed the servant back to the reception patio and past the dance floor at its far end, where a number of couples already swayed to the strains of a Viennese waltz.
Swain waited at its fringes and broke into his marvelous smile as she approached. “Ah, here you are! I understand you’ve been exploring my gardens.”
“I have,” she said. “They’re incredible. I’m amazed at all you’ve done up here.”
He grinned. “Wait until you see what I’ve done with the penthouse.”
It was as if one of the musicians had struck a sour note.
Oh, Lord,
please, not the penthouse.
He snagged two flutes of champagne from a server’s tray and handed her one. She took it reluctantly but did not sip from it, searching madly for an excuse to escape. Rattling on about the architect he’ d contracted to design his living space and the world-renowned interior designer who’d helped him decorate it, he guided her inexorably toward the lighted swimming pool glowing behind the penthouse-grounds gate.
“How about I give you a private tour?” he suggested, touching the lock pad beside the gate to open it. “We could go for a midnight swim later.”
When she couldn’t keep her dismay from showing, his face fell. “Not tonight, eh?” His tone carried an unsettling edge.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s awfully late.”
“Late? My dear, it’s barely midnight. The night has just begun.”
“Perhaps for you, sir. But I’m just the frog girl. I’m not used to all this excitement and wine and fancy food.”
He regarded her bleakly. “Is this my punishment for having left you so long in favor of attending to my business?”
“Of course not.”
He cocked a brow at her.
“I would never do such a thing, sir. In fact, I’m immensely grateful you invited me as your guest tonight.” She went on to pour out her appreciation for all the people she’d met, all the things she’d learned, the food, the gardens, the incredible evening she’d had. “But I’m turning into a pumpkin here, sir,” she lamented. “Some people may be able to get by on four hours sleep a night, but I am not one of them.”
“There are beds in the penthouse, you know. And I am quite skilled at massage. A little wine, a little downtime . . .”
She couldn’t hide her horror any better than her dismay. “I’m sorry, sir, but that would be
most
inappropriate.”
“Not for me,” he said, grinning. He sipped his champagne, then leaned close and whispered, “A lot of these people are judging you for being with me, it’s true. But only because they’re bitterly jealous that I chose you instead of them.”
She had no words to respond to that and was reduced to praying for deliverance.
Like everything else she’ d failed to hide, he must have seen her distress, for he backed off. “Very well, I’ll take a rain check for now. But rest assured, I’ll be back soon to collect.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll look forward to that.” Did he hear the tremor in her voice?
He motioned to the black-uniformed security guard standing near the gate and told him to escort her to the elevator. Nodding, the man turned and led her back toward the south side of the penthouse to a golden door in the granite block.
“I thought we were going to the elevators,” Lacey said warily.
“This is the express elevator, miss,” said the guard as the door slid open. He stepped in after her, slid his key into a small hole beside the door, and the car rose gently.
“Why are we going up?”
The guard didn’t answer, for already the car was stopping and the door on the opposite side was sliding open. Beyond lay a cathedral-like entry area with a wide curving stair and flowing waterfall. “Please exit the car, miss,” said the guard.
She stepped like an automaton into the penthouse’s entry.
“The director will join you shortly,” the guard said. “In the meantime he wishes you to make yourself at home.”
After leaving Lacey by the garden’s west wall, Cam walked directly to the elevators and descended to his sixth-floor apartment. The first thing he did was exchange his formal wear for the black running shorts and T-shirt he normally wore to bed, and after that moved restlessly between his three rooms.
Parting with Lacey had been difficult. He still couldn’t believe he’ d actually kissed her, struggling in the aftermath to recall whatever had possessed him to do such a thing. It was not the time, nor the place, nor remotely sensible, but somehow his desire had gotten the better of him. She had been so heart-stoppingly beautiful. Swain had surely chosen the dress to have exactly the effect it did, though perhaps he’ d not intended the effect to play out in Cam as it had. . . . One moment he’d been standing there, reveling in her nearness, her scent, her creamy skin beneath his fingertips as he’ d adjusted the necklace, and the next he was laying his lips upon hers.
Even more unbelievable was how she’ d responded. Thinking of it still made the heat rise and his fingers tremble. In fact, one of the reasons he’ d left the reception so abruptly was out of fear he’d run into Swain and be reminded of what the director intended for her. Every time he even came close to touching that possibility, the passion of his desire transformed itself instantly to a passion of fury.
And the last thing he needed at that moment was passion of any kind. He needed to be cool, calm, and in the moment, doing his job, undistracted by worries for her safety—or memories of holding her in his arms, her warm lips moving against his. . . .
He flung himself up out of the chair into which he’ d mindlessly collapsed a few minutes earlier and forced himself to attend to preparing for his mission—filling water bottles, getting out running shoes and socks, and collecting it all with fanny pack and head lamp in a pile beside his bed. At ten minutes until the blackout, he turned off all the lights save the lamp at his bedside, and climbed into bed, where he pretended to read his Bible as he waited.
The moment the lamp went out, he jumped out of the bed and made a quick circuit of the room, extracting from their hiding places the various implements Rudy had given him that first Sunday they’d met and adding them to the fanny pack: the fat ballpoint pen that worked like a pen but wasn’t one, a flash drive disguised as a heart-rate monitor, his special iPod, the Taser, and the pistol along with five magazines of shells.
When the lamp relit, he was in bed again, feigning sleep, and had only fifteen minutes to wait before the BlackBerry beeped and he snapped it up to read with profound relief the decrypted, translated text message:
Package received and home safe. You’re good to go.
He texted a
copy that
reply, slid the cell phone back into his fanny pack, then turned out the lamp for good and went to bed. There he tossed and turned, rucking up the bedding into a long ridge beside him in hopes that whoever was monitoring the surveillance images after the next blackout would be unable to distinguish the rumpled bedclothes from his body, at least until daylight.
It wasn’t hard to feign restlessness. Waiting was always the hardest part of any mission, but with this one it was especially difficult, given what he feared he would encounter down there.
But you’re just
eyes and ears. Just finding out where to send the team. You won’t have
to make contact.
With a sigh, he turned his thoughts to God, praying for direction and protection, reminding himself just who God was and that He was certainly stronger than anything Cam might find in Swain’s lair. . . .
The vibration of his watch jerked him out of a half-sleep, and he opened his eyes as the hum of the air-conditioning silenced, and the illumination under the door vanished. He punched off the watch alarm, reset it for thirteen minutes, and rolled out of bed. Shoving his feet into his running shoes, he tied the laces, then donned head lamp, water harness, and fanny pack and stepped into the silent, pitch-black corridor outside his room.
Four minutes later, he exited the east stairwell into the cool, starlit night and started up the east berm. By the time his watch vibrated again, giving him a two-minute warning for the re-illumination of the campus security lights, he’ d crossed over the berm’s crest and was moving upstream, following the familiar path by starlight. He found the black bag Rudy had left for him under the bush they’d agreed upon—a bit put out, not only that it was a duffle bag rather than the day pack he’ d requested, but that it seemed to be filled with rocks—and continued to the mine shaft without incident. He stood quietly beside the juniper for a few minutes, seeking any sign he’ d been followed. When none came, he shoved the duffle under the tree and crawled after it.
As he stood upright in the darkness beyond the entrance hole and switched on his head lamp, Zowan leapt up from the rock on which he sat waiting.
“Where have you been?” the boy cried, sounding so much like Swain, Cam worried for a moment it really was Swain and that he’ d been horribly deceived.
“I told you I’d be late,” said Cam, squatting beside the duffle bag to unzip it.
“Is that all the supplies and clothing?” Zowan asked.
“There’s been a change in plans.” Cam glanced around. “Where are Parthos and Terra?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been down and back three times now. The drum hasn’t been moved. I’m afraid they’ve been caught.”
“The Elders are probably all in a tizzy after your disappearance. Security may just be tighter than usual.” Cam pulled open the duffle. Right on top was the set of tan technician scrubs he’ d requested.
“We never should’ve talked them into going back,” Zowan moaned.
“We did the right thing,” Cam assured him as he tore open the plastic packaging.
“But now they’re stuck down there,” said Zowan. “Or worse.”
“And you and I are going to go and get them.” Cam shrugged out of his T-shirt and donned the tunic.
“You and I?” Zowan asked. “What about your friends? The ones you said you’d bring?”
“My friends’ll be here later. First I have to find out where they’re supposed to be going.”
Zowan looked at him aghast, and Cam saw the fear of betrayal sweep across his face. “I haven’t betrayed you, Zowan,” he said hastily. “But security is very tight at the zig.” He would have stopped there, but God nudged him to go on. “And there’s more at stake than you know. Swain’s got something down there that could destroy us all. I have to find it.”
“The secret lab,” Zowan said, nodding.
“Or worse.” Cam pulled off shoes, fanny pack, and belt, then stripped off his shorts and replaced them with the scrubs’ trousers.
“If the Enforcers catch me,” Zowan said presently, “they will kill me.”
Cam looked up at him, seeing suddenly how young he was, how innocent. How could he even ask the kid to do this? He wasn’t a trained soldier. He sighed. “Okay, don’t go, then. But do you think you could draw me a map?”
Zowan said he could, and Cam handed him a note pad and pen.
As Zowan sat down on the rock and began to draw, Cam put on the gray leather walking shoes Rudy’d supplied with the scrubs. Then he examined the other things that had been slipped in under the clothing: compass with clinometer and small laser range finder designed to connect to the BlackBerry; a tiny computer with miniature keyboard and flip up screen; several packets of light-duty explosives; a half dozen smoke grenades, and . . . ah. There was the reason for the duffle bag instead of the pack: Rudy had supplied Cam with an assault rifle, a dozen clips of ammunition, and a good two dozen hefty packages of C-4. No wonder the bag had been heavy. He frowned at it all, filled with foreboding. What need had he of all this just to look around?
His eye caught upon a corner of paper sticking out from among the blocks of explosive. It was a handwritten note from Rudy:
I fear the mission is unraveling out of my control. Do what seems
best to you. And trust no one but God.
Cam stood up slowly, reading the note repeatedly, more alarmed than ever. The mission was unraveling? What did that mean? Was he already compromised? No. Rudy would have called him off if that were so. Wouldn’t he? Then what was this stuff about “trust no one but God” and “Do what seems best to you”?
“I can’t do it,” Zowan exclaimed in despair, breaking into Cam’s frantic ruminations. “It’s too complicated. They’re not all on the same level, and I don’t know how to draw it in a way that keeps them all straight. Plus I have no idea how to draw the way out of the pump room.”
Cam reached for the pad and flipped through the several pages that Zowan had marked on. He was right; it was a chaotic jumble. “I guess I’ll have to wing it, then,” Cam said, closing the pad and tucking it back into the duffle.
What in the world are you doing here, God?
He zipped up the bag, looped its handle-straps over his shoulder, then tossed his shorts, shirt, and shoes into the corner.
