The Spy Who Loves Me (3 page)

“Good girl. Sorry for such a mundane assignment. And sorry you had to work with Bedichek to do it. I know you prefer to work alone.”

“No problem,” she said, crossing to her back patio and opening the door a crack. “I play well with others,” she said, “so long as I don't have to play with them for very long. And besides, the assignment brought back memories.” She'd been fifteen when the Unit had trusted her with her first solo mission. A diplomatic party in Prague, posing as a senator's daughter. She'd planted a bug on a foreign prime minister, never asking why. It hadn't mattered. Nothing had mattered back then. Nothing except doing the job right so that they wouldn't send her back to the center. Or, worse, back home.

“That's what I mean,” Brandon said. “Kid's play. I think you're a little overtrained for the job.” He shrugged. “But there was no one else available.”

“Don't worry about it.” Blackie, the ancient stray cat she'd pseudo-adopted, wandered in, whiskers twitching. Amber reached down and gave it a good scratch behind the ears. “Your job was the highlight of my week.”
That
was an understatement. Eight days ago she'd been in Chechnya, deep undercover on one of James Monahan's pet projects. She frowned. “He's going to raise hell when he learns I'm back in the States.”

Brandon grimaced. “Probably,” he said, clearly knowing exactly who Amber meant. “But there's no way he could have known that you'd met Eli before. The moment he saw you, the deal would have collapsed.”

“True enough,” Amber said. Her mission had been to go undercover as a photojournalist and use her manufactured press credentials to get close to a suspected gunrunner. Pretty standard stuff, until Amber learned that Eli Janovich, ex-CIA, had stepped in as head of security for her mark. Considering she and Eli went way back, she'd aborted the mission and called Roderick Schnell, Unit 7's head honcho. Technically, she reported to James, the second-in-command. But he'd been unavailable, and she'd needed reassignment.

“I left James a message,” she said, tamping down on a niggle of guilt. James had recruited both her and Brandon. No, that wasn't quite right. He'd recruited her, yes. But considering the course of her life back then, he'd also saved her from sure hell. She'd been thirteen, a smart-mouthed kid, scared out of her mind and facing a felony murder charge and a district attorney determined to try her as an adult.

James had pulled strings, gotten the charges dropped, and sent her to the Unit's training facility in Montana. More than that, though, he'd given her a sense of self-worth, and in doing that, he'd given her the world. Going over his head felt disloyal, even when her safety was at issue. It was a crazy business, with loyalties lost and won over coffee or a beer. And with James on the verge of retiring, she didn't want him to think that she'd already moved on.

“He'll understand,” Brandon said, reading her mind as usual.

“I hope so,” she said. “But he's going to be pissed. Too bad, too. If I'm going to incur James's wrath, I wish I were at least making some headway.” Schnell had ordered her to Los Angeles to keep an eye on Diana Traynor, a known associate of Drake Mackenzie, a former Navy SEAL and Black Ops commander. Mackenzie had even served with Schnell years ago. But while Schnell still worked for God and country, Drake had left the military for more profitable pursuits and had landed on the watch list of every intelligence organization in the free world.

Diana kept a Los Angeles apartment, but rarely used it. So when she'd returned a week ago, the Unit took notice. And then, when she started hanging out with a low-level programmer at Zermatt Aeronautical Engineering Labs, Unit 7 had gone on alert.

A defense contractor, ZAEL was currently working on a prototype of Prometheus, a space-based weapon system that had been commissioned by the Unit. All very hush hush; Amber doubted if the president even knew about the satellite. For that matter, only a few highly placed Unit members had knowledge, and then only on a need-to-know basis.

Amber was not one who needed to know—not everything, anyway. But the whisper was that the satellite controlled a laser with unheard of precision, so focused and accurate it could melt a dime on a sidewalk. That was only a rumor, of course. Amber had no way of knowing what the thing actually did, much less if it was finished. Still, she knew enough to do her job, and that was all that was necessary.

The information she
did
have was sketchy. According to the dossier she'd reviewed before it had self-destructed, security had been compromised and the access code leaked. The operator who'd revealed the code had shot himself rather than undergo interrogation, and the Unit had no way of knowing with whom he'd been working.

ZAEL had changed the access code immediately, of course, but one thing was clear—someone unauthorized knew about Prometheus…and wanted it for himself.

So when Diana had appeared in L.A. and started dating a data processor at ZAEL, it had seemed prudent to put a tail on her. But so far, nothing remotely incriminating had turned up. For seven days, the woman had done aerobics, visited spas, and had an endless stream of manicures.

“I don't know, Brandon,” Amber said. “Mackenzie might be plotting the end of civilization as we know it, but his girlfriend just wants to look good for the final party. I've been watching the woman do nothing but primp and fluff and flirt for days.” She sighed. “I know I shouldn't complain, but this assignment is a dead end.” Like any business, the prime assignments went to the best players. She could have shined in the Chechnya mission. This one, though…Amber feared this one was going to spiral into nothingness and she'd end up facing years of surveillance work before she could wrangle another primo job. Not a pleasant possibility.

“Maybe that's why you got sloppy in the hallway,” Brandon said, heading for the kitchen. “Too dull too keep you on your toes.” Blackie followed, probably hoping Brandon would accidentally dump an entire can of tuna on the floor.

Amber frowned, considering the theory. The idea that she'd been sloppy because she'd been bored didn't sit well at all. She loved her life—loved the rush of adrenaline she got just waking up in the morning. But she knew as well as the next agent that the excitement was countered by days of waiting and watching. That was the job, too. Part of both good and bad assignments. And she kicked herself for letting her professionalism slip, even if only for an instant.

Even worse, she'd been sloppy in front of Phineus Teague. And the mysterious Mr. Teague was a living, breathing question mark. Losing her cool around him wasn't smart.

She'd first run across Finn when she'd been assigned to track down Albert Alcott and the diamonds he'd stolen. Gemstone quality stones, they were originally intended for use as bait in a smuggling sting operation. When the diamonds had been stolen from Unit 7's undercover operative, that had been a serious setback. It had only gotten worse when Alcott had spirited them out of the country.

Amber had been assigned to locate Alcott, and in doing so she realized she wasn't the only one looking for him. A woman had hired a private investigator to find the man, and Finn had apparently come along for the ride.

So while Finn didn't know about Amber,
she
knew about
him.
And in her line of work, she didn't tend to run across the same civilian twice. The moment she realized he was also watching Diana Traynor, she'd run a full background check. The man had held every job imaginable and had ended up a lawyer in a firm that represented ZAEL.

A coincidence? Amber didn't think so. Finn was watching Traynor too closely. With most men, she'd simply assume that the interest was borne of testosterone. With Finn, though…

With Finn there were too many coincidences, and his persistent proximity was unnerving. She didn't know what he was up to, if anything. But she damn sure intended to find out.

Brandon headed back from the kitchen, a beer in each hand. “Anything new on your neighbor?”

“I was just thinking about him,” she admitted. “There's more to Phineus Teague than meets the eye.”

“I'll buy that,” Brandon said. He tossed her a beer, and she caught it one-handed. “But who does he work for? Chances are, we'd know if he was a Company man. N.S.C.?”

Amber shrugged. “Maybe. Could be a freelancer. That would explain the odd array of jobs.”

“Odd is right,” Brandon said. “Everything from ski bum to short-order cook to computer hacker.”

“The hacking put him on the FBI's watch list,” Amber said. But that had been years ago. All the computer stuff Finn had done recently was apparently legit—programming, game design, stuff like that. “Think he's a plant?” she asked. They'd run across that before—an operative with a manufactured background planted so deep even Unit 7's resources couldn't break the agent's cover.

“Could be,” Brandon said. “Or maybe he's just a computer-hacking, downhill-skiing civilian with a severe case of lust.”

Amber laughed. “In that case, he's in over his head.”

“Hell,” Brandon said, “even if he is an operative, he's in over his head. The man's green. It took you what, less than a day to make him?”

“About that.”

“Chances are Diana's made him, too.”

“I know,” she said. “If he's not careful, he's going to end up as fish food.” A shame, actually. The man was exceptionally good-looking. She might have forsworn relationships, but that didn't mean she couldn't appreciate a well-built man—and she certainly knew what to do with one.

“There are too many questions out there,” she continued, thinking aloud. “Teague's law firm represents ZAEL. Diana Traynor's been hanging around one of ZAEL's data processors. Finn moved in across the courtyard from Traynor. And when he's home, he keeps a pretty close eye on her.” She popped the top on her beer. “That must add up to something.”

The corner of Brandon's mouth twitched. “Seems like you know an awful lot about Mr. Teague's habits.”

“The man's got his eye on my quarry. Damn straight I'm going to watch him.” Was it her fault the view was nice? “As a matter of fact, I'm planning on doing a bit more than watch.”

Brandon's eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“Teague's an unknown quantity, and I don't like unknowns. Too messy. Is he friend or enemy? We need to know whom he works for. Hell, we need to know if he works for anyone at all.”

“And how do you propose to find that out?” Brandon asked, amusement lacing his voice. “Hidden cameras? Listening devices? A hypodermic filled with truth serum?”

“Last resorts,” she said, meeting his smile. “First, I'm going to simply get close to Mr. Phineus Teague.”

A
mber paused outside the briefing room for Unit 7's Los Angeles field office. The steel door was closed tight, as usual, and she stepped automatically to the left, taking off her sunglasses as she moved.

“Identify.” A computer-modulated command.

“Robinson, Amber,” she said, stepping closer for the retinal scan.

A burst of light, and then the voice again: “Accepted.” The heavy door slid open with a gentle whoosh, and she stepped through, waiting in the anteroom while Brandon completed the same process behind her. After a few seconds, the door whooshed open again, and he entered. Amber fought a grin. “They let anybody in this place these days.”

“Riff-raff,” Brandon agreed. “A tragic commentary on our times.” He cocked his head forward. “Come on. He's waiting.”

Another door—this one heavy oak, not steel—and then they were in the main briefing room. Thirteen chairs surrounded an oblong mahogany table, each empty except for one. Roderick Schnell sat at the head of the table, a file folder open in front of him. A lean man with salt and pepper hair, Schnell gave the appearance of a corporate executive about to head up a board meeting. Only Schnell was no corporate schmo. The man had dissident leaders killed before the
Washington Post
even knew they existed, and he organized coups with more style and flair than Martha Stewart ever dreamed of.

Amber stood, Brandon beside her, while Schnell finished reading. He looked up, and after he nodded toward the chairs, they sat.

“So there's a fly in our ointment,” Schnell said, without preamble.

“Could be,” Amber said. “We've done a preliminary background check and he seems to be civilian, but—”

“But he's watching Ms. Traynor.” Schnell's hands rested on the file folder, his fingers steepled. “That certainly raises questions.”

“I want authorization to move in closer,” she said. “Find out what this guy's up to.”

“We can't compromise the surveillance of Traynor.”

“No, sir,” Amber agreed. “That's why I'd like to request reassignment for Brandon. Have him help me out.”

Schnell had already turned to Brandon, clearly having anticipated the request. “Kline?”

“I have no problem with reassignment.” He flashed a smile that was uniquely Brandon. “I even emailed Linus. A new assignment requires new equipment.”

Amber hid her own grin. Linus Klondike's gadgets were famous within the intelligence community, and Brandon never missed a chance to check out the latest fruits of Klondike's tinkerings.

“Very well,” Schnell said, his tone even. He closed the file folder as he looked from Amber to Brandon. “Authorization granted.”

Amber stood, then paused.

Her hesitation wasn't lost on Schnell. “Is there something else?”

She drew in a breath, considering. Final authority for all the Unit's missions came from Schnell, so it wasn't as if she needed James's approval. But, even so…“I still haven't been able to contact James. Has he been informed of my reassignment?”

“The message has been dispatched,” Schnell said, which wasn't really an answer, but Amber knew it was as much as she was going to get. Oh well. If James was pissed that he'd been kept out of the loop, she'd deal with that later. In the meantime, she trusted that Schnell knew what he was doing.

“Is there something else?” Schnell asked.

“No, sir.”

Schnell's smile was dismissive. “Then I'll let you two get back to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Unit was located in one of Los Angeles's many high rises, purportedly doing business as a legitimate publishing company. Brandon went out the back, but Amber exited toward the front, stepping out into the main offices.

The floor was lined with windowed offices, the interior filled with cubicles housing men and women hunched over computers. They all received paychecks from the publisher; they all worked for the Unit. She waved at a few of the clerks she recognized, her eyes scanning the cubicles for a particular person. She found him four cubicles down, centrally located under the watchful eye of the Unit's security cameras.

“Hello, Al.”

Albert Alcott looked up from the computer, his eyes blank at first, then brightening as he recognized her. “Amber,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Wow. It's good to…I mean, why are you here?” He frowned, concern flashing across his features. “I'm not going to be—”

“Of course not,” Amber said. “As far as I know, the Unit's perfectly happy with you. Your job is safe.”

Amber almost laughed at the wave of relief that swept across Al's face. Spending all day in front of a computer would bore her to tears, but from Al's perspective, she supposed it was a dream job. After she'd tracked him down, she'd cut a deal with him. Instead of serving jail time for grand larceny, now Alcott was working for the Unit.

Not a bad deal for a guy like Alcott.

And, she had to admit, not a bad deal for her, either. Alcott had learned the ropes quickly. And on more than one occasion he'd been able to ferret out information when she'd needed it.

“I brought you something,” she said, digging into her day pack for the dog-eared novel. She passed it to him. “You liked the Ludlum that I lent you last month, so I thought you might like this one, too.”

“Thanks,” Al said, riffling the book's pages. “You're on that Traynor assignment, right?”

She nodded. “Anything new for me?”

“Nothing. I'll keep my eyes open.”

“Thanks.” She cocked her head toward the door. “I'm out of here. See you around.”

“Thank you,” Al said, lifting the book. “And, Amber…”

She turned, an eyebrow raised in question.

“Watch your back.”

 

By the time he'd read the entire Sunday
Los Angeles Times,
showered, dressed, downed two cups of coffee, and watched
Meet the Press,
Finn knew he had no other options—it was time to get back to work.

He levered himself up and off the couch, then headed toward the table, eyeing the little stacks he'd left last night like a big game hunter might eye his prey. A yellow highlighter, a copy of the
California Code of Civil Procedure,
a brand new bag of Cheetos, two yellow pads covered with notes, and the dreaded pleadings and depositions that had been giving him grief all weekend. Everything was in order; he had no excuses anymore. It was time to rock 'n' roll.

He frowned, not thrilled by the prospect. Particularly when his imagination was so much more enticing.

With a sigh, Finn drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Too bad he couldn't really be his fantasy alter ego. After all, Agent Python wouldn't be cooped up reading depositions. No, if Python were locked up in this apartment, it would be because the mission required it.

Finn grinned, letting his imagination run wild. As a top government agent, it was Agent Python's job to bring down the key players in Superior Criminals United for Mayhem, a notorious group of international bad guys bent on world domination. But rather than engage in a risky helo drop into the New Mexico desert that surrounded the S.C.U.M. headquarters, Python was using this seemingly dull Los Angeles safe house to keep an eye on S.C.U.M.'s exotic blonde agent, Tatiana.

At the moment, Tatiana was holed up in her apartment, so Python would use the time to poke around in S.C.U.M.'s files. If he couldn't go there in person, he'd go there virtually.

In that regard, Python's undercover identity as a mild-mannered attorney actually helped quite a bit. The law firm represented ZAEL, a defense contractor that Agent Python knew had been infiltrated by S.C.U.M. agents. With a chuckle, Finn fired up his laptop. As Agent Python, Finn hadn't really spent week after boring week reviewing endless boxes of documents as part of a pretrial review; instead, he'd been gleaning information crucial to his super-secret mission.

The truth was, during those dull weeks of document production, Finn probably
had
gleaned enough to hack past ZAEL's security. Which meant that all he needed to do now was plug in some basic company information and the decryption software he'd developed two years ago would do the rest….

His fingers flew over the keys. Then he pressed enter, and the computer hummed and whirred, the software doing its thing. A few electronic beeps and gurgles, and then
voila…
he was past the first level of security.

Was he the man, or what?

Now to poke around and figure out what S.C.U.M. had in mind for ZAEL. Just hack a little further in, and then—

No!

With a frustrated groan, Finn killed the power to his computer and pushed back from his desk. What kind of an idiot was he? ZAEL was a
client,
for Christ's sake. There was no plot, no evil scheme. Just highly classified information he had no business accessing. Hell, if anyone found out he'd hacked into the system, his ass would be grass. And nobody would believe he'd done it on a whim while he was engaged in a bit of fantasy. No, that would not only get him fired, it would get him an appointment with the company shrink.

Irritated with himself for letting his imagination run so far astray, he headed across the room and back to the kitchen table. He picked up his highlighter, opened the first deposition, and started reading.

He was all the way to page three when a blast sounded from the courtyard, so loud his patio door shook.
The twins!
Finn was on his feet and through the door in seconds, worrying that one of his young neighbors had managed to blow off a body part.

But no, both Elijah and Callie were perfectly whole, thank goodness, smiling up at him like the little hellions they were. The exploded remains of a bottle rocket lay on the charred grass between them, smoke still rising from the debris.

Finn grimaced. The kids had moved with their parents from Idaho two months ago, and he'd met them, bored and lonely, in the laundry room. The twins had looked like they needed entertaining, and so he'd wasted half a Saturday building a bubbling volcano out of Play-Doh and household chemicals. Apparently, he'd created a monster. Or two.

“Are you kids insane? You could get yourselves killed!”

Callie looked at Elijah, who shrugged. “We were careful,” she said.

Finn raised an eyebrow, trying for a stern parental look and probably not succeeding. “Then why the large explosion?”

“An accident?” Callie said, turning what should have been a statement into a question.

“No kidding.”

“It wasn't
that
big an explosion,” Elijah added, looking toward his sister for confirmation.

Finn ignored him. “Your mother's going to have a cow if she sees you two out here.” And considering Finn had piqued their interest in things that go boom, he really didn't want to incur Mrs. Jacoby's wrath. “Especially if—” He clamped his mouth shut. He'd noticed something in his peripheral vision, and now he locked on target.
Blasting caps?
“Where the devil did you get those?”

“We found them,” Callie said. “Last month at our grandpa's farm. There were a whole bunch in an old trunk in the attic.”

“These,” Finn said, “are dangerous.” He bent over and grabbed up the one remaining cap.

“Oh, please,” Callie said, “couldn't you just show us a trick with it? A rocket or something, like you did last week.”

“And the green goo smoke bomb,” Elijah added, looking up at Finn with puppy dog eyes. “That was really cool.”

Finn felt his resolve weaken and he steeled himself. “No. I don't want you getting hurt.”

“But, Finn,” Callie said, drawing his name out into a full-fledged whine. “You'll be here. It'll be safe.”

“I mean it,” he said, shoving the cap deep into the front pocket of his jeans. “Enough explosions for the day. Go home. Watch television. Read
Harry Potter.
Clean your rooms.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He was getting the hang of this paternal thing. “And give me those matches.”

Elijah rolled his eyes but complied, placing the book of matches into Finn's outstretched hand.

“Now go,” Finn said, pocketing the matches.

And amazingly enough, the kids went. Finn watched them slump their way up the stairs, duly impressed by his newly acquired preadolescent negotiating skills.

Of course, as soon as they disappeared from view, he realized the implications of sending them away—now he had to go back to work.

Well, hell.

With an appalling lack of enthusiasm, he parked himself at the table again, and was finally about to settle down for a scintillating few hours lost in legalese, when a movement across the courtyard caught his eye. Tatiana's curtains had been closed, but they were wide open now…and Finn turned just in time to see her slip through her front door.