Dangerous Secrets (25 page)

Like a child, Charity hid her hands behind her back. She looked up at him, searching his eyes, trying to read him.

Nick knew exactly how to deflect curiosity and hide whatever he wanted to hide. It was one of his gifts, together with stillness and emotional detachment. It was what made him such a good undercover cop. He knew how to keep people out. But now he needed to switch gears, fast.

He deliberately drew down the shield he’d had all his life around his mind and heart and let her in.

Charity shook her head slowly. “Who
are
you? I think I’m going crazy. I fall in love with a man in the space of a week, then I marry him and become a widow on the same day. And now my husband comes back from the dead. It’s too much to take in.” She swallowed heavily. “I need the truth. Tell me what’s going on, Nick. Or is Nick even your real name?”

“Yeah, my name’s Nick. I’ll tell you everything, but first you’re going to clean up and then you’re going to sit down before you fall down.”

He held her hair back with one hand while she splashed
cold water on her face. He put a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste on the sink shelf and looked at her pointedly. She brushed her teeth, then rinsed her mouth with mouthwash. He put a comb in her hand and she combed her hair. Nick knew that these small grooming motions made her feel better, more in control.

A little color was returning to her face, but her hands were still shaking. He turned her toward him. “Okay now. We’ll have our talk, but not in here. It’s too important a conversation to have in a bathroom, so we’ll go to the living room. You’re going to walk to the couch or I’m going to carry you. Your choice, but you have to take it now.”

Charity blinked. He knew how to put command in his voice. She obeyed instinctively. She made for one of the armchairs, but he steered her to the couch and sat down next to her. She drew back, alarmed.

She wanted to avoid him. Tough shit. He was here and he was staying. He reached over for her hand. She gave a little halfhearted tug to try to get her hand back, but his grip was firm. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he wasn’t letting her go. He needed to be touching her for this part.

She turned to him. “Okay,” she said quietly, hand still in his. “This is what I know about you. Your name is Nicholas Ames, you’re thirty-four years old, you are—were—a stockbroker in New York. You made some money and this year you retired from the office you’d worked in for twelve years. You want to open a business of your own. Your father was a banker, your mother was a lawyer. So tell me—how much of that is true?”

Nick was so goddamned proud of her. Any other woman would be screaming by now, but not Charity.

Her words echoed in his head.
How much of that is true?
“Basically none of it,” he confessed.

She lost what little color she’d acquired. Her hand slipped out of his to cover her mouth. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “You’re already married. That’s what this is about.”

“No!” He grabbed her hand back. “God no, I’m not married. Never have been, either. Or rather, yes, I
am
married. To you.”

“No, you’re not. My husband’s dead,” she whispered. “I buried him.”

“No, honey, you buried someone else. Someone who tried to kill me. I have no idea what his name was because he had no ID on him.”

Charity blinked back tears. “He might not have had ID, but he did have your wedding ring.”

“Yes, he did.” Nick looked her straight in the face. “And putting that ring on his finger was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But it had to be done. It identified the body as me, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her face drawn. “When the police officer gave me that ring, I thought my heart would stop.”

Nick bent forward slowly until his lips touched her hair. She held herself stiffly but she didn’t draw back. One small victory. “I know,” he said against her hair, his breath moving a silken strand.

He’d almost forgotten the smell of her. A mix of shampoo, some springlike scent, and her skin. He breathed it in and somehow it calmed him. He’d been running on adrenaline since he’d driven the man off the cliff, wound tighter than a drum, feeling as if someone had ripped a huge, gaping hole in his chest.

Touching Charity, breathing her in, calmed him down, cooled something inflamed in him. He’d been like some wounded creature in the forest, blasted by a hunter, stum
bling around blindly, in pain, losing blood. Charity healed him, made him whole.

“Start with your name. I need to know your name.” Her head tilted as she studied him.

“Nick. Nick Ireland. But that’s not my family name. I have no idea what my real name is. I was left in the baby hatch of an orphanage in upstate New York. There was a note pinned to the blanket saying that the baby’s name was Nick. Later that day, a girl called, asking if I’d been found. She was crying. The secretary of the orphanage said she had an Irish accent, so they called me Ireland. No one has any idea who she was.”

Nick watched Charity’s eyes. He’d never told this story to a woman, ever. He was really good at making up fake legends. It never even occurred to him to tell the truth. He didn’t want to see pity or horror.

He wasn’t seeing them now.

Charity was listening quietly, watching him, face somber. “Go on,” she said.

“I was in the military for ten years. Army.” He didn’t say which part of the army. Actually, he
couldn’t.
Delta operators’ jackets were kept confidential for twenty years. “I was wounded on a mission and had to resign my commission. I’ve been working for the government for the past couple of years, on a special task force investigating international organized crime collaborating with terrorists. There’s more and more of that, and we’re there to stop it.”

He watched her process the information. He was sure she was filing away every piece of data he was giving her, putting it all together. He kept forgetting how smart Charity was. It was easy to forget, at times. She was so pretty, so gentle you could easily overlook the fact that she was as sharp as a tack.

“The army,” Charity mused. “So, I guess you didn’t fall on your aunt’s shower curtain rod, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.” There was utter quiet in the room as she absorbed this news.

Charity was losing that shell-shocked look. She had no expression at all, like a porcelain doll. He didn’t like it, because more bad news was coming, as inevitable as a wave rolling in to shore.

“So—if your job is as an undercover cop—that
is
basically what you said, isn’t it?”

Nick nodded.

“So, what are you here for? Parker’s Ridge is a quiet little New England town. What could you possibly be looking for here?”

This was it. Nick had to walk carefully here, over hot coals. Barefoot.

He tightened his grip on her hand. “We’re here because of Vassily Worontzoff. He’s the head of one of the most powerful Russian mobs and there’s a lot of chatter that he’s about to get in touch with an al Qaeda cell. And that is highly classified information, Charity. I don’t have to tell you that it goes no farther than this room.”

She was staring at him. She gave a half laugh. “You’re investigating
Vassily
? Are you crazy? He’s a writer, what does he have to do with—wait a minute.” Nick could almost see the cogs in her head, spinning so hard they generated steam as she put the pieces together. “If you’re after Vassily—which is crazy—then that means that you were after
me
. Everyone knows I’m his best friend here.” Charity pulled her hand away and suddenly stood up. “Oh my God.” She put her hands on her head and spun around, as if finding it hard to be in the same place with what she was saying. “You came
to me for information. I was—I was your
mission
. Oh God, oh God. You were sent here to seduce me. Like Mata Hari, only a male. I can’t believe this. I was your job.” Her voice was rising in agitation.

Nick opened his mouth, then shut it as a car braked sharply in front of her house and a man emerged fast, coming at a run toward the front door. A second later, the bell rang.

Well, this was getting interesting.

It was Di Stefano, and judging by the look on his face, he was furious. At Nick.

Here to join the rapidly growing I Hate Nick Club.

The one good thing about being angry—really, truly angry, as she never had been in her life—was that it settled her stomach and warmed her up.

Charity’s head was reeling at seeing Nick, alive and well, and here in her house.

The man before her was Nick, but not Nick.
Her
Nick was a reassuring sort of man, exuding a kind of bland calmness.
This
Nick was like a dangerous animal, a panther or a lion. Instead of elegant business clothes, he was dressed all in black from head to toe, like a ninja. Jeans, sweatshirt, light parka. Instead of shiny, elegant shoes, he had well-worn black boots on, the kind of footwear meant for serious business and not for show.

He held himself differently, too, with a coiled energy just waiting to spring. Instead of the affable half smile that was his default expression, he looked grim, mouth tight, jaws clenched.

It didn’t surprise her that this new Nick said he’d been
in the army and was now a law enforcement officer. Then again, he could actually be a criminal—right now she was reserving judgment on anything he told her. One thing was for sure—he looked dangerous, every inch of him.

And, unfortunately, incredibly sexy.

This was not a good thing. She didn’t want to notice that at all. The doorbell rang a second before Nick yanked it open. There was a tall blond-haired man on her porch, as grimfaced as Nick.

“I knew it,” he began furiously. “What the
fuck
are you doing here?”

Nick was unfazed by his anger. His shoulders stiffened and he stepped forward and got right into the man’s face. “We’ve had this conversation already and watch your mouth, you fuckhead, there’s a lady here.”

The man’s mouth closed with a snap as he looked past Nick’s broad shoulder and saw her. “Ma’am,” he said warily.

Charity nodded. She had no idea what to say.

He sighed and dug into his jeans pocket, coming out with a leather wallet he flipped open. There was a brass badge on the bottom and photo ID on the top. He held it out at chest height and walked into the room, stopping a foot from her.

Charity stepped forward and examined the brass badge. It had an intricate design with symbols she didn’t understand.
Department of Homeland Security
was etched along the bottom. The ID had a photograph of the man in front of her, obviously taken in happier times, since he was faintly smiling, totally unlike the grim expression he wore. Above the photograph was his name: Special Agent John Di Stefano.

She looked up at him. He wasn’t quite as tall as Nick, but he was still much taller than she was. “Special Agent Di Stefano,” she murmured.

There was sudden silence in the room, as if no one knew where to go from here. They all waited for someone to take the lead.

“Show her yours, Nick.”

Charity’s eyes widened and she almost said,
I’ve already seen his
, but she bit her lips before the words could tumble out, pure hysteria bubbling in her throat.

Nick took out the exact same kind of leather wallet, with the exact same kind of brass badge with the symbols and
Department of Homeland Security
written on it. The photo ID was the same, with a grim-looking photograph and Special Agent Nick Ireland above it. He snapped it shut and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans.

With a hostile glance at Nick, Di Stefano cupped her elbow and started steering her toward the couch. She didn’t have the strength to resist.

He sat her down on the couch and took an armchair, shooting another hostile glare at Nick when he sat right next to her.

Di Stefano leaned forward in the classic male position, legs apart, hands dangling over knees. He stared straight into her eyes and said, “You haven’t seen me. I don’t exist. This meeting never happened. That has to be said and understood right up front, ma’am.” Another dirty look at Nick. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, though. You shouldn’t know about us at all.”

Nick placed his arm along the back of the couch, angling to hold her against him. She leaned forward, away from his grasp.

“Special Agent Di Stefano,” she said clearly, turning her head away from Nick. “I imagine you are referring to the fact that apparently you are both here on a confidential mission. I assure you that I have no intention whatsoever of divulging
information that might be harmful to my country. However, if your mission here is to spy on Vassily Worontzoff, then I think you are wasting your resources and our country’s resources. The man is a great writer and nothing more.”

Nick threw some objects on the coffee table between her and Di Stefano, stopping Charity just as she was getting heated up in her defense of Vassily.

She looked at them. A box of medicine, what looked like a steel bolt, and a CD.

“What are these?”

Nick’s jaw muscles rippled. “My own little Worontzoff kit. Pick them up.” Charity just looked at him. He waved a long finger at the little pile. “Go ahead. Pick them up.”

She did so, gingerly, wondering if maybe they hid something. But no. They were perfectly normal objects. A box of medicine by a big international pharmaceutical company with a vial for IV administration inside, a bolt, and a CD with no markings. When she finished studying them, she put them back quietly and waited.

Nick picked the box up again and put it back in her hand. “This is a breakthrough drug, used in the treatment of some advanced cancers, especially effective in pediatric medicine. Look at the price.”

She turned it over and searched for the price on the bottom flap. Her eyes widened.

Nick nodded curtly. “That drug is worth eight hundred euros, more than one thousand dollars at the current exchange rate. It’s experimental, and expensive. Or would be, if it were genuine. What you’re holding is about ten cents’ worth of printed cardboard, glass for the vial, and tap water. Worontzoff’s business partners slipped these packages into shipments to hospitals. Not a bad business at all. One thou
sand dollars for ten cents’ worth of product. We’re talking a markup of nearly a million percent. Most profitable business on earth. Nothing else comes even close. In comparison, dealing in cocaine and heroin is for chumps. The only downside is that some poor kid dying of leukemia will get a shot of tap water in his veins instead of a drug that could save his life.”

Shocked, Charity turned to Di Stefano. He nodded. “Yeah. New spin on the drug trade.”

“And this?” Nick continued, handing the bolt to her. “A very expensive component of the latest generation of wide-bodied airliners, made of a titanium alloy and machined to within a tolerance of a few microns. They cost seven hundred and fifty dollars each because of the rigorous testing each bolt goes through. Except that this one is made of cheap nickel. It’ll start splitting at about the tenth takeoff. For a while there, until they figure out what’s going on, it’ll be raining planes.”

Charity dropped the bolt as if it had suddenly become red-hot.

“And this?” Nick held the CD up. “I saved this for last. On this CD are the access codes for about twenty percent of our nuclear arsenal. We intercepted it on its way from Worontzoff to the Iranian minister of defense and replaced it with fake codes. Cost—something in the range of ten million dollars. It will take the Iranians some time to figure out they’ve been ripped off, and when they do, it is my earnest hope that they will whack Worontzoff for us, so we won’t have to go to the expense of bringing him to trial.” He clenched his jaws so hard the skin over his temples moved. “And right now? Right now, good old Worontzoff, man of letters, is going to meet tonight with one of the world’s top terrorists and it is
very likely that scumbag one will have something nuclear to sell to scumbag two.”

Charity swallowed. Her throat had tightened so much it was hard to get the words out. “That’s his business meeting?” she whispered. “With a terrorist?”

“Not just
a
terrorist,” Di Stefano said. “
The
terrorist. A guy we’ve been after for years.”

“So you see, Charity,” Nick said heatedly, “there is no way on this earth that you can go to Worontzoff’s house tonight. As a matter of fact, we’re going to take you into protective custody as of right now, until this whole thing is over.” He slanted a hard glance at his partner. “That right, Di Stefano?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t be a good idea for you to be there, Miss Prewitt. Some bad things are going to happen and it’s best you be far away.”

“But—I still don’t understand what Vassily is doing
here
. In Parker’s Ridge. It’s certainly not a crime center. It’s not a center of anything. It’s a remote little town in northern Vermont. What could he possibly want here?”

“You,” Di Stefano said bluntly.

Charity jolted.
“Me?”

Nick tossed something else on the table—a photograph of a woman. “Last item in my Worontzoff kit.”

Charity turned it around and gasped.

The photograph was a color close-up of a woman done by a professional photographer. At the bottom of the photograph were Cyrillic letters, perhaps the photographer’s name. The woman had dangling earrings and was made up in a way that was slightly old-fashioned. She had pale blond hair cut in a bob. Charity scanned the familiar features, heart pounding.

She made a little sound of shock. The woman could have been her twin.

“Yeah,” Nick said. “She’s a dead ringer for you.”

Charity couldn’t take her eyes off the portrait. She picked it up, drinking it in with her eyes. It was like looking at herself in the mirror, wearing a wig. She touched the hair in the photo. A pale blond, several shades lighter than her own.

“He—he wanted me to bleach my hair. Light blond. And cut it. In a bob. Like this.” She ran the tip of her finger along the line of the woman’s hair, cut at the earlobe.

Di Stefano winced. “He’s wanting to turn you into her in every way. To make you exactly like her. Physically at least. Wasn’t there some creepy Hitchcock film about something like that?”

“What was her name?” Charity whispered, without looking away from the portrait. So many things were becoming clear to her. The way Vassily sought her out. The way he looked at her, seeing her but not seeing her. He wasn’t seeing her at all. He was seeing his long-dead love.

“Katya.” Nick’s voice was harsh. “Her name was Katya Artamova. She was a poetess and the love of his life. She was arrested together with him. They were both sent to Kolyma. She lasted about a week.”

“Katya,” Charity murmured, touching the face that could have been her own. Poor Katya. Poor Vassily.

Vassily had not only lost his love in the prison camp. He’d lost his soul.

Charity turned to the table and touched the objects, one by one. She was cursed with a vivid imagination. It took very little to imagine a child dying of leukemia, desperately hoping that the tap water in his IV was going to save him. Or to imagine one of the planes going down. She’d read that the
newest generation of planes could carry from four to seven hundred passengers. Thousands of dead, charred bodies. Or—God!—nuclear secrets in the hands of an Iranian minister who hated America.

She looked up. “How are you going to follow the meeting tonight?”

Di Stefano and Nick looked at each other. Finally, Nick gave a what-the-hell shrug. “We’ve got a special device aimed at his study window that lets us listen in on conversations.”

“Is it the same kind of device that let you listen in on my conversation with Vassily just now?” she asked sharply.

Nick looked embarrassed. “Ah, no. Those are just old-fashioned bugs I planted. What we have aimed at Worontzoff’s study window is a laser-driven remote listening device, controlled from a surveillance van about a mile out.”

Charity frowned. “Just the study? What happens if they talk business in the living room, or the conservatory or the winter garden? Vassily’s house is huge. If you’re just listening in on one window in one room, what are you going to do if they hold their talks elsewhere?”

Di Stefano heaved a huge sigh. “Good question. With no good answer. All we have is the one laser device, so we’re just going to have to hope that they meet in the study. And that they meet soon. Because of course there’s the problem that—” He stopped suddenly and looked uncomfortable.

“What?” Charity asked. “The problem what?”

Nick slanted Di Stefano a hard glance, a warning. Di Stefano bit his lip.

“What?” Charity asked, her voice sharp. “What problem?”

“Well, the thing is, we can’t use the laser much after last light. Just like we can’t use it in a heavy snowstorm. The
laser beam becomes visible. It’s like a huge neon sign—we’re listening to you.”

“So what happens if they meet after dark? Vassily invited me over for dinner, presumably after the talks or negotiations or whatever are over. Or what happens if it starts snowing, just like the weather forecast says. What’s Plan B?”

Silence. Di Stefano looked embarrassed and Nick looked grim, jaw muscles jumping.

Finally, Di Stefano spoke. “There really isn’t a Plan B. We’ll try to get photographs of who goes in and out. Use thermal imaging to count warm bodies.” He shrugged. “We’ll do our best with what we have.”

“There’s another way,” she said softly. “To get more information.”

“Yeah?” Di Stefano raised his eyebrows. “Which is?”

“Wire me,” she said simply.

Nick exploded. “No!” He jumped up from the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. “Not just no, but
fuck
no. Are you crazy? Hassan al-Banna and Vassily Worontzoff in the same fucking room and you walk into it? Together with God knows how many of their goons? There’s no way in hell you’re going anywhere near that place.” He whirled. “Goddamn it, Di Stefano, you tell her.”

But Di Stefano was looking at her thoughtfully.

“It could work,” Charity said, ignoring Nick.

“It could,” Di Stefano replied.

“No! Jesus, you can’t send a civilian into that! There’s no precedent, no protocol. We can’t do that!”

Di Stefano swiveled his head to stare at Nick. “Seems to me that you’re the first one here to have thrown precedent and protocol out the window, Nick. We’re just picking up the pieces here.”