Conard County Spy (20 page)

“Yeah, maybe. The question is, do I want to look right away? Anything I do could set off alarms.”

She wasn't liking this at all. Her stomach turned over and started burning again. She headed for the antacid, something she usually needed only rarely. “I'm still trying to grasp why knowing who it is will help.”

“Because then I'll know just what he's capable of. What kind of threat he'd pose.”

She still didn't really get it. Did he mean he needed to know what kind of murderer the guy might be? How he was capable of achieving it? “But if he's a high-level official, wouldn't he have sent someone else to deal with you?”

“Maybe he already did.” He held up his hand. “Screwup. So maybe now he wants to do it himself. I've known egos like that. Amazingly, they tend to rise high in some circles.”

“Well, that's an appalling thought.” She swallowed some antacid and wiped her mouth again. “So how can you find out?”

“Well, just generally speaking, I can find out which diplomatic missions are in the country from State. It's not like it's a huge secret, usually. And it would be great cover for this guy. He's here for a good, innocent reason for some kind of talks. If he disappears for a few days, who will report it?”

He punched the power button on her computer. It began revving up and made a few beeps.

“This is safe to look at?” she asked.

“This part, yes. Any reporter or citizen should be able to access it. By and large, secret diplomacy happens behind closed doors, but you can still find out who is in the country. Delegations are usually in the open.”

That fascinated her. It wasn't like she ever turned on the news and heard about it. Well, once in a while, when it was some really big deal, but most of the time, unless the issue under discussion was huge, she never heard a thing. “They must be coming and going all the time.”

“All the time,” he agreed. “Most are minor, managed by lower-level functionaries at State. They wouldn't make any news. This guy might be different. In fact, he should be considering what they're willing to do to clean up some mess.”

He moved her mouse so that he could manipulate it with his left hand, then put her back online through one of the VPNs. It was painful to watch him type with one hand, even though he was doing pretty well, and she had to bite back an offer to do it for him.

Translating English to English probably wouldn't make this go any faster, she thought sourly. Even if he wrote everything down for her, typing odd internet addresses didn't come naturally to her. She supposed a search engine, her usual recourse, wouldn't work at all.

“What are you looking for specifically?” she asked.

“Lists of current diplomatic missions, most especially from Eastern Europe.”

“Because of your work in Bulgaria.”

“Yes.”

Soon a list popped up on the screen. She was kind of relieved to see that nowhere did it have a label that said it was classified.

“Three missions from Eastern Europe,” he said finally. “Slovakia, Ukraine and Romania.” He clicked on one, and a small information box popped up. “Nothing unusual. Aid funding.” He clicked the rest and found the same thing.

“No Bulgaria?”

“Not recently.” He backed out of the page. “I guess I should try to see who's in the delegations, whether any of them are recognizable to me.”

But instead of doing anything more, he clicked on the “kill” button to take the computer off the internet. He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “I shouldn't have taken those pills.”

“Maybe you should sleep.” Nervous or not, she was beginning to feel the urge.

“I guess so,” he said after a moment. “Can you set an alarm? I want to get back to this in a couple of hours.”

“Sure,” she answered. She guessed that put paid to any hope of making love again tonight. But then, after that dose of painkillers, he wouldn't be in the mood anyway.

She washed up quickly and found him waiting in the doorway of his bedroom when she emerged from her bath.

“Stay with me,” he said.

So she climbed into the rumpled bed with him, the scents of their lovemaking still perfuming them, and felt a whole lot better when he spooned against her back, settling his arm over her waist.

“We'll hear the alarm in here?” he asked.

“Can't miss it. A Klaxon would be quieter.”

He laughed wearily. “Good. But don't let me sleep late. Micah's right. We can't count on anything.”

“I promise.”

She was just dozing off when she heard him murmur sleepily. “Kiev. John Hayes. I wonder...”

He drifted off then, but she was left suddenly wide-awake, staring into the dark room. John? Kiev?

Then she remembered. He'd said a Ukrainian delegation was in the country.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly.
Oh, please, don't let this have anything to do with Johnny.

Chapter 11

T
he alarm woke her as she promised it would. Even from her own room across the hall, the noxious noise reached her, and she was trained enough to it that she popped her eyes open and stirred. The sun had still not risen, but it didn't matter. Her eyes felt grainy and she had to battle an urge to simply close them and return to sleep. She had promised.

“Trace?” She spoke his name loudly.

At once he jerked into wakefulness. “Julie,” he murmured, and ran his hand over her waist, her breasts.

“Keep that up, spy guy, and we're going to be here for a while.” Her voice, foggy from sleep, at least managed to sound light, not disappointed.

He groaned. “After this is over...”

“Yes?”

“A month alone with you on a desert island might just about iron me out.”

At least he still made her want to smile. She eased away, trying not to jar him. “I didn't set this wake-up rule. I'm going to make more coffee.”

“Espresso, please. Four shots. I'm going to need it.”

Well, she could do that. She took time to wash the sleep out of her eyes, brush her teeth and pull her hair back into a ponytail. Shower later, she thought. He hadn't wanted to sleep for long, so that must mean he wanted to get going on something.

She had just finished pulling the last of his four shots of espresso into a large mug and was able to hand it to him when he joined her. He'd changed into a dark fleece shirt and pants, but she didn't fail to notice that he also wore his boots.

She pointed to them. “Getting ready to go out?”

“Getting ready for whatever.”

Comforting answer. Not. She almost hesitated, but she'd never been one to keep thoughts to herself unless she thought they were hurtful or ridiculous. “Last night as you were falling asleep, you mentioned John and Kiev.”

He stiffened. “I did?”

“You know you did. Why?”

“I don't know. Maybe because there's a delegation from Ukraine in the country. I seem to remember you didn't want to pursue that avenue. The honest truth, Julie, is that nobody at my level knows what happened to John. The story is that he was caught in cross fire. Plenty of that in Kiev these days. And you heard Ryker warn me not to push at those walls again. He tried.”

She felt him closing in on himself, withdrawing into the person she'd first met, the self-contained operations guy. God, she had an urge to shake him out of that. “No more secrets,” she said sharply. “I need to know what I need to know, and there's no reason Marisa will hear any of it. In fact, she'd better not. So what about John?”

“Nothing really. It was just a confluence of thoughts in my head.”

She wanted to believe him. But one more question had to be asked. “Did he work for you?”

At last he looked at her, and she hated the way he seemed to have hollowed out. “Several layers removed.” Then he turned away and carried his coffee to the computer.

Several layers removed? What in the world did that mean? Was this all tied together somehow?

For once she cursed her own innate curiosity. Some things were better left alone, she reminded herself. How difficult would it be to meet Marisa's gaze again if she knew anything about Jonny's death? Impossible. She bit down until her teeth ached and battled her characteristic desire to have every question answered. And he was right, Ryker had warned him not to touch it. God, she hated these secrets.

“Last night...” He paused.

She waited, feeling torn in a million directions. A threat was moving toward them, whether fast or slow, they couldn't guess. Maybe they'd relied too much on the snowstorm. Maybe the guy was already somewhere around here. Even Trace had questioned last night whether they'd relied too much on the protection of the storm.

“Last night,” he repeated. “It was wonderful. Incredible. I want you to know that. Precious. But I can't promise any more.”

She didn't recall having asked for any promises, but there he was, pulling back into the safe enclosure he'd apparently built over the years. Did he mean he'd had all he wanted from her? Or was he telling her he was in no position right now to promise anything beyond this mission?

The whole life-and-death situation made long-term thoughts out of the question. She got it, but she wondered why he'd felt it necessary to say so.

“You know, Trace, you are a pain in the butt.”

His eyes widened. “Just stating the obvious. What can I promise you? Not even that I won't be dead in the next few days.”

“Funny, nobody can. And I don't remember asking for anything.” Determined to remind him, she brushed past him, then wiggled her hips.

“Julie, what the...?”

“Just remember, secret agent man, that you wanted it, too.”

Once again she had the delight of stunning him. “Now get to work. Save the world or save your life. I'd really like you to accomplish both.”

His jaw clamped shut, then his eyes danced, taking her by surprise. “You're too much,” he said. “More than a handful. I like it.”

Then without another word, he settled at her computer and went to work.

She turned on the TV quietly. The weather was improving. Time had just grown very short.

* * *

The Virginia morning dawned clear and warmer. As the clerk got out of his car at Langley, he thought again of the cherry blossoms and he figured they'd be gorgeous by the weekend, especially with the weather warming.

Then he looked at the iconic CIA buildings that held so many secrets and half wished he'd called in ill that morning. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to be sent on another mission to see that disgusting general. He wanted no part of whatever was going on here.

But he didn't know how the hell to get out of it.

His phone rang before he was halfway across the parking lot. He glanced at the caller ID and seriously considered not answering it. He'd taken the advice to keep it off all weekend, but now it was his boss. Time to get back to work, whether his superior was happy about it or not.

He answered, giving only his first name. In theory the phone was secure, but anything traveling over the airwaves and via cell towers was anything but. He'd long since learned to avoid saying something that could cause trouble.

His boss's voice poured into the phone. “No control,” he said.

“Sir?”

“Whatever we were doing, our dog slipped the leash. You and I are off this mission.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be grateful,” his boss said. “There's a line about company and old fish...anyway. I have a meeting, so clear my morning when you get to the office.”

“I will.”

By the time the clerk cleared building security, stopping at the cafeteria to pick up a bran muffin and coffee for his breakfast, questions were rising in his head like a tsunami pushing hard on a seawall. He knew he should just let it go; he'd been around long enough to know that when he was off something, he was really
off
it. As soon as his involvement ended, he needed to forget he'd ever been a part of it.

But he kept remembering that familiar older man who'd spoken to him at the coffee shop. The target was one of their own operatives?

That seemed so wrong he still didn't want to believe it. But he knew that man, and he was pretty sure he knew him from this building. But how could he find him again without drawing attention? And worse, what would he tell him? He was presuming the dog was the general, but he couldn't be sure. And after their attempts to keep the man from leaving town, he'd apparently taken off anyway. To where?

That storm... Maybe it hadn't been enough to stop the target. Or maybe someone higher up had changed the parameters. He could only wonder. He'd never know.

But he kept a sharp eye out for that older man. An hour later, he was almost relieved to run into him in the washroom.

“I need a cigarette,” the older man said. “Join me?”

The clerk had been nervous before, but now he was more nervous than ever. “I...”

“I know you don't smoke. I like company when I stroll, though.”

Then, drying his hands on the towel, the other man left him.

The clerk remained at the sink, hoping the shakiness he felt didn't show. Maybe he didn't want to become an operative after all. Judging by this experience, he ought to be happy to spend his life safely pushing files around the bowels of this building.

He should just ignore this. Maybe meeting this man would be an act of disloyalty. Or maybe he'd be saving a life. He'd heard the vitriol in the Ukrainian general's voice as he spoke of needing to clean up this mess. What mess? The clerk was quite sure he didn't want to know.

Outside the restroom, he turned toward his office, his mind nearly made up. Then, before he took two paces, he changed course. Stepping outside for a walk with a fellow employee would hardly raise any suspicions. People did it all the time.

* * *

“I think I've got it,” Trace announced. “Holy mother of...” He trailed off.

Julie hopped off the couch and went to stand beside him. “What?”

“There's a Ukrainian general who's in Washington. He's part of a formal delegation. Are you aware of the fight going on over there? Russia trying to reclaim parts of Ukraine?”

“Yes. I don't follow closely, but there's been a lot of fighting, right?”

“Right. Anyway, this guy is a former Russian army officer. Now he's with the Ukrainian army. I wouldn't even venture to guess which side he's really on.”

She licked her dry lips, the butterflies once again flapping frantically in her stomach. “So how can you know it's him?”

“Because I recognize his name. Because I know...” He hesitated.

God, she hated this secrecy. “You can't tell me, can you? Okay, I'll put it together myself.” If Trace was aware of him and thought it might be him, then the guy must have worked for Trace or his superiors at some point. A very important asset. From the beginning Trace had said there were assets they couldn't afford to lose. To her it seemed a general with connections on both sides of a war might fit the bill perfectly. A general who was part of a diplomatic mission.

“Anything else?” she asked.

Again he hesitated. “Well, I can tell you he's got an ugly past. A violent man. Not afraid to do his own wet work, and totally capable of it.”

“Wet work?” But understanding hit her like a punch. Of course. Killing. The guy was able and willing to kill. “So...is this someone you should be afraid of? Seriously?”

“If it's him, anyone should be afraid of him.”

“Great.” Her knees felt rubbery, but increasing agitation made her want to pace. Trace wasn't minimizing the guy's capabilities. He was in the best position to judge.

Reality was hitting her hard again. Really hard. This wasn't a spy game. Trace could really die. And if Ryker somehow became involved, Marisa might... “Women and children?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“He has no lines.”

She closed her eyes, not sure how much more she could take. “Is he still in Washington?” she asked, a whisper.

“I don't know. If he's staying at the embassy, I have no way to find out. If he's staying elsewhere...well, how many hotels are there in the area? I could spend a day calling them all and asking for him. Hacking into the hotels' databases would probably take as much time.”

“You've got to find out more.” Suddenly dropping to her knees beside him, she looked up at him. “Trace... Marisa. Ryker. Whatever it takes. Please.”

He grew so still he might have turned to stone. Then, as if recovering his ability to move, he cupped her head with his hand and pulled it to his side. She could hear his heart beating, and it amazed her it wasn't hammering as fast as hers.

“I'll protect them,” he said, his voice like steel. “I'm the one this hunter wants. There's no reason for him to take out anyone but me. He'd only get a bigger mess.”

She hated to hear him say that even if it was true. He sounded like a man who was willing to go to the guillotine rather than let anyone else get hurt.

But she didn't want him thinking that way. That was dangerous. “You've got to save yourself, too,” she begged. “Please, Trace. Don't just give yourself up to this madman.”

The steel remained in his voice. “I may have been sidelined, but I am not inoperative.”

* * *

The clerk and the older man, who identified himself only as Bill and didn't ask the younger man's name—probably because he already knew—took a stroll along one of the walkways around the buildings. Most led to the parking lots, but some were just pleasant to walk on a nice day. Occasionally, when the pressure cooker grew to be too much, a handful of employees would stroll or jog out here. Lunch hour was a favorite time. Usually, however, they remained at their desks.

Overall, the place looked like a sterile campus, but with none of the older architecture that would have lent it grace. No one was much interested in grace except at the visitors' entrance and central courtyard. The two of them strolled toward a parking lot, away from the buildings.

The clerk remained edgy, and a whole bunch of new reasons for it were rattling around in his brain. How had Bill identified him? How was it the man seemed to know what was going on? He could only imagine that Bill had a massive network of informants in the CIA. Or possibly, that Bill was behind this, whatever it was. In which case the clerk figured he was about to lose his job. But he kept remembering the words from the coffee shop. He didn't feel right about any of this.

“So, you've been thinking?” Bill asked.

“Too much or not enough.”

“Let me assure you, the target was not responsible for what's going on here. There's a cover-up. You got caught in the middle.”

The clerk wished he were anywhere else on earth. “I'm out of it now.”