Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (3 page)

Mark loosened his tie and
pulled his brown leather chair to his desk to examine the passport photo clipped
to the top of the file. Her deep black eyes leapt out at him from the glossy
gray page. Ana Kane: Caucasian female, age 29, 5'7', 125 lbs. He was struck by
the way her dark features played against the feathery whiteness of her skin.
She had a Spanish look.

Mark searched the file for
details regarding her parentage but found that standard piece of information
missing. The remainder of her dossier was remarkably intact, exceedingly
complete for a mere State Department contractor with no upper-level clearances
and no access to sensitive information.

The buzzer sounded on Mark’s
console.

'Sir, Mr. Cromwell would like
to see you right away.'

'Tell him I'll be there in ten
minutes,' he said, massaging his graying temples. Emblems of experience, he’d
joked to Camille. There was a tightness stirring behind them that told him he
was in for a long day.

'Begging your pardon, sir, but
his exact orders were 'Get Neal in here ASAP!’'

Cathy was still leaning on her
intercom when Mark burst out of his office and hurried down the hall, a bent
manila folder under his arm. He wound his way along the barren corridor until
he came to the nest of cubicles flanking Cromwell's office. Groups of analysts
were hard at work deciphering recent terrorist activity in the Middle East. Pearson's
team was huddled over a map in one corner, while at the conference table
Newberry's group studied a model of a Soviet T-72 tank made perfectly to 1/16th
inch scale. Here and there individual grunts were glued to their computer
terminals doing God knows what. Mark was grateful he was the only senior
analyst with an office.
A modest one perhaps, but one with a
view and without all this goddamned distraction.
It did not escape him
that he was Cromwell's rising star.

He’d been a reluctant recruit,
but at least now was making headway. Cromwell was one of the old boys and there
weren’t too many original DOS men left.

Cromwell sat at his
paper-encrusted desk, the top of his balding head barely visible above the
endless stacks of files and memos.

'Have a seat,' he said, looking
up through his horn-rimmed glasses.

Mark sat and tapped the yellow
file lightly against his knee. 'This what you wanted to see me about, sir?'

Cromwell pushed back in his
chair and grinned. 'Guess we don't call you an intelligence analyst for
nothing.'

Normally Mark enjoyed
Cromwell’s banter, but this morning something urgent hung in the air. Something
so pressing Mark didn’t even bother to dab the sweat gathering at his brow.
'Why is this Kane woman so important to Defense? We’re not the logical choice.'

'Suffice it to say we’ve got
our reasons.'

'Like?' Mark was not at all
sure he'd get a straight answer.

'Like, it's a pretty long
story.'


'I've got the time,' Mark said,
at last pulling the handkerchief from his breast pocket
.


'Yes, hell, I know you do, and
thousands of taxpayers are footing the bill.'


Mark smiled, knowing he was
getting warm.

'What the hell.' Cromwell
removed his glasses and put them down on his desk. 'I know you're cleared for
all of this.'
Mark noted the signs of exhaustion lining the older man's
face. The creases in his brow were deep and furrowed, his normally ruddy
complexion starting to sallow
.

'First,' he said,
'I think you should know we're dealing with two, possibly three, abductions
here.'


Mark slapped the Kane file onto
Cromwell's desk in frustration and opened his mouth to speak
.


'Hold on a minute.' Cromwell
flagged a palm in Mark's direction. 'The other files will be on your desk by
this afternoon, although I doubt you'll be needing one of them.'

'The driver?' Mark knew this
region and its operatives well. Unless the driver himself was targeted for
kidnapping, he would most likely have been shot at the scene to prevent leaving
a witness.

'You've got it.' Cromwell
reached over and handed Ana's file back to Mark. 'Here, you hang onto this.'

'Sir, I had a question about
this file.'


'In a minute.
First, let's lay out the boundaries of this thing.'

'Fine. Who was the second
MIA?'
Mark removed the gold pen from his pocket to take notes.

'McFadden, Joe McFadden, USAID
Contracting Officer.'

'McFadden? He's the –
what is it – nephew of the Ambassador down there?'


'Right. Tom Mooney's his uncle.
In fact, Tom's the one who contacted me about the disappearance.'


'Then how do we know McFadden
wasn't the target and this Kane woman wasn't just along for the ride?'


'This was a set-up, but not for
McFadden. Fellow’s got a reckless reputation –'
Mark looked up from
his note taking.
'Kid stuff, really.
Guy's a bit of a
boozer,
likes the ladies, that type of thing. Oh yeah, and
check this. McFadden packs a piece.'

'Cowboy, huh?' Mark had met the
type before and didn't savor the thought of chasing after one, not even down a
paper trail. He thumped his pen lightly against his notepad wondering what the
connection between McFadden and Ana Kane really was.

'Right. So you've got yourself
one probably dead driver, one missing cowboy and one little lady in need of a
rescue.'


Mark leaned forward in his
chair. 'This makes for a great story, Chief, but it still doesn't tell me what
DOD wants with Ana Kane.'

Cromwell blew a breath of
surrender.

'She’s important to us because
her Daddy was a heavy hitter for Defense during the War.'

Mark laid down his pen.
'Defense Intelligence, you mean.'

'Exactly.'


'And Kane’s connection to the
DOS?'


'Did the long haul. Ran with
the Service forty some-odd years. Heart gave out four or five years
ago.'


'You’re guessing, sir?' Mark
knew that Cromwell was never imprecise.

'More or less.'
Mark gave
him a scrutinizing look. 'Natural causes.'


Mark knew better than to push.
'About the mother –'


'Isabel’s to be left out of
it,' Cromwell said. And he meant it.

Isabel
?

'Forgive
me, sir. But Miss Kane’s mother is Spanish?'


'Yes, fine, Mark. Spanish.
Some southern province.
But that’s as far as this train
goes.'


Mark knew then that Ana’s
mother would never be notified of her daughter’s disappearance. Perhaps his
boss would be more forthcoming regarding her father.

'What about Kane’s
cover?'


'Spanish
professor.
University of Delaware.'

Mark mulled this over.
Still convenient to DC.
A Spanish wife, hours of paperwork,
travel to Spanish-speaking countries.
And Kane – having
been an operative.
Then it clicked.

'Wasn't Kane the OSS man behind
MILO II?'


'One and only.'


'And Ana, I presume, has been
in the dark this whole time.'


'You know the protocol.'

He knew the whole stinking
drill. And he’d seen more than a few lives destroyed by it. Ana had to know of
her father’s military affiliation. How much of the truth she’d pieced together
over the years was anybody’s guess.

Cromwell was standing to leave.

Mark rose from his chair and
Cromwell looked him squarely in the eye.

'I want you to understand
something. This is not just DOS business –'
That
much Mark had figured. 'It’s personal.'


'Yes, sir.
I'll get on it right away. Who's our field man?'

Cromwell drew closer and
swatted him on the shoulder. 'Why, you are, son!'


'Me, sir?
You’re sending me to Costa
Negra
?'


'
Si, senor
, to Costa
Negra
.'
Cromwell had turned and was making his way to
the door.

'But, sir, wait! I don’t even
speak Spanish–'


'I’ll see what I can do to line
up backstop support. Talk to Cathy about travel arrangements and
papers.'


'Sir, it’s been years–'
Mark began, fully aware Cromwell was not about to let him finish
.


'Your time in Special Forces
will come back to you.' Cromwell looked down at his watch in a very pointed
manner. 'Besides, Mark, you’re the best man I have.'

You
mean the
only man
, Mark thought. He knew the whole directorate was tied up with
that Middle East exercise. Cromwell would never get away with pulling someone
off a team now, especially to tackle a personal priority. Mark was rusty, sure.
But he hadn't been out of the loop so long he couldn't handle it. Or had he?

Mark laid his briefcase on the
low cedar chest that had belonged to his grandmother and stuffed a few
necessary items into his athletic bag. Cromwell had given him one hour to go
home and get his things in order. It was best to do it now during the lull.
Once he’d been assigned support and the rest of the paperwork came in, there’d
be no time for such luxuries.

He took only one suit, knowing
he could have it cleaned, along with an extra shirt and tie.
A
pair of gabardine trousers, a green turtle neck.
No, those would be too
hot. He pulled them out of his bag and set them on the bed, considering a
moment. For God’s sake, he wasn’t going down there to make a fashion statement.
He threw in his swim trunks,
then
walked to the
bathroom to collect his razor. It had an international current adapter he
always kept in its case. He glanced in the mirror, seeing his mid-day stubble
had already sprouted. He gave himself a cursory shave, combed his short, brown
hair,
then
packed his toothbrush and travel-size
bottle of shampoo.

Mark checked his watch against
the clock on the nightstand as he passed back through the bedroom. A navy quilt
with swirling paisley print fit squarely over the queen-size bed. He’d ordered
the mattress extra long to accommodate his height and still his ankles draped
uncomfortably over the edge.

His dresser was a classic, an
antique he’d picked up from a vendor at Eastern Market. It was a man’s bureau,
four feet high with five deep drawers, in elegant cherry. He’d purchased the
companion piece on a whim.
Or perhaps a prayer.
The low
ladies’ dressing table stood mostly empty, save the few pairs of pantyhose and
extra lipsticks Camille kept there for emergencies.

Mark hurried down the stairs
and set his things by the front door, then walked to the kitchen where he
pulled a paper grocery bag from under the sink and began filling it from the
refrigerator. There were many items that wouldn’t keep. He’d drop them by Mrs.
Williams’ on his way out.

Rose Williams was a thoughtful
woman living on her deceased husband’s government pension. She never acted as
if she didn’t have enough but Mark had seen how she lived. Always carefully
washing the tin foil, folding it over to use again; saving old gift-wrap and
ribbons. Asking Mark if he’d mind too terribly much if she read his paper when
he was done. He’d ordered her a subscription without her knowledge. And every
morning when she found the folded copy of the Washington Post on her stoop, she
assumed it was because he’d already read it before rising early and heading off
to work.

Mark grabbed his extra key from
the hook beside the door. He’d ask Mrs. Williams to look after his plants. Two
of her children lived in Washington, but were always too busy with their own
lives to make her feel needed.

Ana awoke to the sickly smell
of urine. Feeling the spreading warmth between her legs, she quickly realized
it was her own. All around was a sinking black horror, a dark paralysis. She
remembered tearing through the jungle. Then struggling against the crude clamp
of his arm. She realized they had drugged her – chloroform.

But why?

Because she
was American?
Because she was female and they hadn’t seen a woman in
that renegade part of the country in weeks? Her skin crawled at the
insinuation.

She tried to move her arms and
realized they were tied behind her. Her legs were bound at the ankles and she
lay against a cold slab of earth. She shifted her head, trying to look up. Fine
slits of yellow light filtered through the cloth covering her eyes.

Her cheek smashed rudely back
into the dirt. Her head was still heavy with whatever they’d given her.
Probably something else.
Something after
the chloroform.

She worked to gain clarity,
thinking she must devise a plan. But even her name became a blur as she found
herself hurling back into the darkness.

Junior Analyst Pete Jarvis
walked into Mark’s office and held out his hand. He was young and arrogant,
with the bronzed, muscled look of a lifeguard.

'Pete Jarvis,
sir.
Here to assist you.'

Mark stood from his chair to
take Jarvis’ hand,
then
offered him a seat. He was
disappointed Cromwell hadn’t chosen someone a little older, but knew
their
current limitations.

'I understand you know some
Spanish.'

'Yes, sir.
Consider myself fluent.'
His face was a hard chisel with the sort of
mouth that rarely smiled
.


'Well, good,' Mark said,
'because I’m going to need some help.'


Jarvis’ flat gaze shifted and
for a moment he looked hopeful. 'Travel assistance?'


'Afraid not,' Mark answered,
remembering how eager he’d once been to get out in the field. 'What I need from
you is backstop support. Home office stuff.'