Broken Honor (43 page)

It did take her mind from the immediate meeting for a few moments. She browsed in the history books as Irish tried to look doting while scanning the exterior. In reality, it was the very best place to be. From one angle, they could see without being seen.

She looked at her watch. Ten minutes. She picked up a book, realizing how foolish it was. And yet it represented sanity to her. She paid for it with a credit card. It didn't matter now. Everyone knew where she was.

Irish gave her a smile. She knew he didn't expect anything to happen here, or he never would have allowed her to come, despite her threats to get there anyway. This was a thrust, an intelligence op, as she'd heard Tag say, not a battle. Even she understood that.

They left the store. She didn't see Sam but knew he must be nearby. She did see Mike. He was meandering down the street with headset on and a tape player around his neck. She had seen them in the store. The tape was probably “Historic Annapolis Walk with Walter Cronkite.” If there was a tape in the player at all.

Irish, her hand again tucked in his, walked purposefully toward a restaurant. He was wearing his uniform: jeans, T-shirt with a long-sleeve, loose shirt draped over it, and the gun in the small of his back. She clutched her purse with her small revolver in it.

The area was full of people. Mothers, fathers, kids. Midshipmen. Young professionals.

A shiver ran down her back. She felt like a quail with a hundred shotguns aimed right at her. She resisted turning her head back and forth like a submarine periscope. She had completely put her trust in Irish and his friends. Her hands clutched her purse.

One of the men who had looked out of place approached them. He was dressed in expensive slacks and a sport coat over a golf shirt. That's what captured her attention. A sport coat in this heat and humidity. Like Irish, he was concealing a weapon. Her mouth went dry.

“Colonel Flaherty?” he said in a neutral voice.

“Yes.”

“Our friend couldn't make it. He asked me to talk to you. I understand you have a business proposition, and he is always interested in new opportunities.”

Amy realized instantly that the microphones were for naught. Well, Irish had said as much. He'd also believed Jordan wouldn't appear.

“Sorry, my proposition is for his ears only.” He turned and tugged at her hand. “Come on, love. We wasted our time.”

“I have an offer.”

“From Brian Jordan?”

The man raised an eyebrow and seemed to look over her shoulder. She wondered how many others were with him.

“You can tell him we're not interested,” Irish said.

“My principal needs an indication of what you have to offer,” the man tried again.

“Quite a bit,” Irish said. “Some real masterpieces.”

Then he looked down at Amy. “We will take our offer elsewhere.”

“How can we get in touch with you?”

“You can't, friend. You just blew it.” Irish took his hand from Amy's and put his left arm around her. “Let's go.”

The man maneuvered in front of him. “I'll take you to him.”

“I don't think so.”

The man's hand moved quickly. Amy felt a hard object jab into her side.

“I do,” the man said. “My car is the blue one.”

Fear crept up her spine and settled firmly into her stomach. She tried to remember her self-protection class. Nothing came to her. She looked into eyes so cold she shivered. There was no excitement now. No adrenaline. Just plain terror.

Then she saw a change in his eyes. The pressure in her side relaxed.

“A stand-off,” Irish said in a lazy voice. “There are more of us.”

Sam was behind the man. Tag was to his side, a hand in the pocket of his shorts.

Aware now that there was more opposition than he expected and that the scene was probably being taped, the speaker shrugged. He backed off slightly. Amy didn't know what had been in her side. Whatever it was, it felt like a gun, but it never left his sport coat.

Suddenly the man in front of Amy fell against her, shoving her to the ground. She reached out to grab something and found Irish's hand but her knees hit the cement and she couldn't stop an exclamation. As she righted herself, she saw the man disappear into the crowd, two others with him.

The blue car was already moving, and the three men piled into it. Tag and Sam started to go after it. “No use,” Irish said.

Tag was staring at the license plate. Memorizing it, Amy assumed.

“I thought she might have been hurt,” Sam said apologetically. “I should have grabbed him.”

“Then we probably would have had the gunfight at the O.K. Corral,” Irish said. “People might have gotten hurt. Maybe this wasn't the best place.”

“A public place was best,” Tag said. “Otherwise they could have brought an army.”

“But now they know we have help.”

Tag smiled, and Amy, whose body was still trembling from the aftermath of fear, didn't think it was a particularly benign one. She knew she never wanted Tag as an enemy. “But, old buddy, they have no idea how many or who we are. He's off-balance now.”

“We still don't have anything to take to the police, though. Nothing on tape. Or even assault,” Irish said wryly. “No one actually saw a gun.”

“We knew it was a long shot,” Mike said. “But Tag should have their photos. Between your sources and mine, we can probably identify them. They're going to be running out of soldiers before long.”

“I have a lot of photos and video,” Tag confirmed. “I'm going to make several copies of this tape and send them off. We might even have some photos of the assault, although it was done very carefully. He could say he just tripped.”

Irish turned back to Amy. “Are you all right, love?”

Amy nodded. “Some people are so rude.”

Irish grinned. “Let's go home, love.”

They walked to their car, Sam staying with them. “Follow us,” Irish told him. “Make sure we are not being trailed. Then you take Amy to the motel.”

Despite her promise, Amy wasn't so sure she was willing to leave him. Still, she tried to hold her tongue. They had skills she didn't, and she still felt tremors of fear as well as that odd exhilaration.

Irish helped her into the car.

Sam hesitated. “He was very close to you,” he said. “Check your purse.”

Amy knew exactly what he meant. She was becoming expert in the spy business. Swallowing her embarrassment, she dumped the contents of her purse on the car seat. Everything tumbled out: old receipts, several lipsticks, compact, billfold, pens, keys, dog biscuits, loose coins, the gun.

Irish raised an eyebrow.

“I'm a pack rat,” she admitted as she sorted through everything. She stopped when she saw an expensive-looking pen. She was a fan of fifty-cent pens.

She handed it to Irish, and he looked at it, weighed it with his fingers. “Bingo. Sam hasn't lost his instincts.”

He started the car. “I'll take care of it,” he told Sam.

Sam stepped back and saluted. “See you later, Irish.”

Irish pulled out of the parking place.

“When will they come?” she asked.

“Soon.”

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Sally opened the safe deposit box. In the silence of the bank's private room, she stared at the painting that had meant so much to her. It was dark, violent. A ship tossed in a vicious storm. The strokes were bold, the colors exquisite in their shading.

At one time, she'd thought the ship gallant. Now she saw it as foundering, doomed. How could she ever have loved it?

It was deceptive. Like her father. Like everything in her life.

Stolen art. She'd had time to get used to the idea now. It had been a month since Dustin told her about the possibility. Her first thought had been to keep it safe. She hadn't wanted to give it up. For some reason, she connected it with her father, with all she knew of him. If she were to believe her mother, her father was weak, an alcoholic. Not a monster. Just weak. Her mother had loved him once. Sally had loved him all her life. And now she had to deal with the knowledge that he was never her blood father, that she would never know her blood father.

Strangely enough, it didn't matter. She'd grown up in the past few days. She would always love the man she called Father, though now she could view him through realistic eyes. She had little curiosity about the man who was paid to provide the sperm that contributed to what she was today.

The most important thing was Dustin. And giving the painting back to whoever should have it.

She hoped that her motives were altruistic and not just the reaction to learning that much of her life had been a lie. In any event, she just wanted to get rid of it, and Dustin could help her find the best way of doing it.

Sally's finger traced the oils, then she turned the painting over, wondering whether there were any markings there. The paper in the back was wrinkling, and looked stained. It was, she noted, cheap paper. Why would someone put such cheap backing on a valuable painting?

A piece was peeling back. Very gingerly, she eased it back as far as she could without tearing it. She saw a sheet of paper under the backing. More recklessly now, she pulled it farther, not caring if it tore. Between the painting and the cheap backing were three sheets of paper. She eased them out and stared at the bold black handwriting. She turned to the back page. It was signed by her grandfather. Her heart beating rapidly, she leaned against a wall and read them. Sally put the sheets of paper in her purse, then used the cell phone Dustin had given her to call him.

He was in a meeting with the Secretary, the assistant said, and shouldn't be disturbed. Was it an emergency? Sally hesitated. She'd interrupted Dustin's work repeatedly. No, she finally said. She would meet Dustin at his Georgetown home. She had a key.

She needed time to think. Neither of them thought that Dustin would be attacked directly. His home had good security and she had a key. State Department phones were swept on a regular basis, and he'd told her his personal phones at work and home had been swept. No one knew where she was, and there would be no reason for anyone to look for her at Dustin's home. Not after she'd disappeared so thoroughly. She'd even used the Mary Smith name on her return. Once she got to Dustin's, she could E-mail Amy Mallory and Irish Flaherty. They needed to know, and all four had agreed on using E-mail for communication.

Satisfied that she was doing the best thing, she rewrapped the painting, replaced it in the box. She left the bank and found a cab outside. She gave the driver Dustin's address.

twenty-eight

W
ASHINGTON
, D. C.

His hand shook slightly as he tried to dial the number. Things were getting out of control. It should have been easy enough to take out a teacher and an over-the-hill Army officer. Attempt after attempt had failed.

Now it had become crucial. They might well have information that could destroy the family. Could destroy
him
.

A voice answered. Defensive. “They got away.”

“How this time?” he asked with deceptive patience. He didn't feel patient at all.

“They had help. And there were too many witnesses.”

“You fool. Why didn't you realize they had help?”

“Until now.…”

“Another excuse. Now they know your face. How many others?”

“I don't know.”

“We have to guess they saw all of you. That makes at least five men they can identify now. We can't use them again. Not until Flaherty and Mallory are dead.”

“I can move them to another country.”

“Do it. And I want Flaherty's background checked for past associations.”

“That will take time.”

“What about Eachan's Washington house? Has anyone been there?”

“Just Eachan. And some business associates. Should we take
him
out?”

“Not yet. That's a last resort. There would be a hell of a stink at his death. The other—Flaherty—he has any number of enemies. He's put enough people in Leavenworth to keep cops looking for months. Still, keep an eye on Eachan's house. I want to know who's coming and going.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And get rid of that damned interfering Flaherty.”

A silence at the other end of the line. “Do we know where he is now?”

“We pinpointed the location of the call. It's the area of Chesapeake where Eachan has a second home. Someone is checking out the house now.”

“And if they're there?”

“I want them eliminated. But no more gas leaks or fires.”

Silence. “What about a burglary gone wrong?”

“Just make sure nothing comes back to me.”

“I'll hire some freelancers. They won't know who's paying them.”

“This is Wednesday night. Time is critical now. I don't want them talking to anyone else. There will be a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus.”

“And Eachan?”

“We'll take about Eachan later. If he's put his oar in this water, then we'll have to find a way to take him out, too. We'll just have to be a bit more creative.”

The receiver crashed down.

M
ARYLAND

Irish stopped at a busy-looking restaurant and dropped the pen/transmitter in the back of a pickup. He waited until the truck drove off, then he and Amy and Sam, who had been following, went inside for lunch.

“I want you to go with Sam to the motel,” he said as they finished a lackluster meal.

“I would rather stay with you.”

“You promised,” he reminded her.

She frowned, and reluctance was evident in the set of her chin. But he knew deep down she would agree because she had promised. In addition to being so damned honest, she had more integrity in her little finger than most people had in their entire body. He was determined to minimize the risk to her as much as possible. The opposition knew now that they had help, and possibly had incriminating information. They would have to move swiftly.