Too Secret Service: Part Two Page 9

  Yes, the Angel of Death.

  The image was so serene; Wayne barely noticed the freezing breeze coming through the ruined peephole. Thankfully, the police had mysteriously left after only an hour at the battle site. After that, and some words of encouragement from his father, they had left.

  What had he said to them? He’s only a liaison to the SAS. He has diplomatic immunity—maybe—but unless he felt like telling them more than “go screw yourselves,” they should still be here, canvassing the area, cleaning up, and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

  But none of it mattered. His father said that his friends from MI6 would contact him today with Wayne’s new weapon and some extra Tom Clancy Spytech garbage. What they needed it for, Wayne had no idea, but he’d take all the help he could steal. He was halfway inclined to ask his father why he hadn’t volunteered to come along, the ex-Ranger’s enthusiasm had been so great—especially after shooting up his house. Wayne’s father had merely shrugged it off, making noises about “an excuse to remodel.”

  Williams tenderly wrapped his arm around Catherine’s upper back, holding her gently. For the barest of moments, he had trouble picturing her as an assassin….

  Which calls to mind a question: if her predecessor and trainer is primarily running missions and no assassinations, then why didn’t they send him?

  Or have they?

  Wayne observed her face once more, recalling what she’d said about the CIA Assassin she’d replaced. Or, more accurately, what she hadn’t said. For example: where was the rest of the CIA task force on this? He had merely assumed she’d called to confirm the threat was real. The Secret Service would’ve had a team assembled within thirty minutes of confirmation—usually less. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the CIA couldn’t have assembled one in thirty seconds.

  And why hasn’t anyone else contacted her? he wondered.

  He let his suspicions wander for all of about five more moments before he stopped himself in mid-thought.

  And who would you have called if you hadn’t been framed? Williams inquired of himself. What would you have done after finding the first bomb, other than mail it to a NEST team in the District? She’s that good, you prick. It’s that damn paranoia the boys drilled into you during your super-agent training.

  Wayne stopped chiding himself when his jacket vibrated against his chest. He looked at the pocket it came from as though it held something alive.

  “Either that’s a cell phone on vibrate,” Catherine said, her eyes still closed, “or you have a far more interesting sex life than you’re letting on.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  Wayne reached into his jacket and pulled out Paul Brennan’s cellular phone. It must have been Blaine Lansing. He hadn’t given anyone else the number. He flipped it open one handed, then it beeped.

  “That means you have email,” Catherine told him, rolling off the bed to her feet.

  Wayne looked at the display screen. There it was, in big letters: “You’ve Got Mail.”

  “Know it all,” he muttered playfully. He hit the Receive button.

  His smiled dropped markedly.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered flatly. He tossed his feet over the edge of the bed and stuffed the phone back into his suit pocket. “Just a message to hold on until Blaine can find a more permanent relay.”

  “I thought he was shot.”

  “Apparently the computer designer is far more durable than we thought. At the moment, he’s on the run from the guys who tried to kill him.”

  Catherine looked at him intently. “Are you all right? You don’t sound like you’re in perfect condition. In fact, you sounded better when you woke up after having your head bounced off the bridge.”

  “I’m just a little tired, that’s all.” He stood. “I’m going to take a quick run. You mind?”

  “Not at all. I’ll start my Tai Chi and put the coffee on. It should be finished brewing by the time we’re both done.”

  Catherine watched Wayne jog off, his body almost on autopilot. She followed him with her eyes as she settled down on the front steps, letting the brisk morning air refresh her.

  Moniak silently sat down beside her.

  The back of her head still facing him, she said, “How did you get here ahead of us?”

  “Just lucky. I got the plane you missed by five minutes.”

  Wayne dropped out of sight. She faced her teacher. “What about the attack last night, sir? What happened? How did they find us?”

  “Exactly like you said, Strongbow. They found Cabinet Member Brooks in his bed last night, only it looks like he blew his brains all over those pretty little photos you left for him.”

  “Professionals,” she noted. “A lot better than the one they sent to take out the computer nerd. You know who it was?”

  “One of the guys out there last night, Richard Coffey, mercenary. I worked with him once. Frankly, I think he didn’t get any real targets in recent years, otherwise he would’ve come up with a much better plan than he did last night.”

  “Yeah, him and every preschooler in a Miami public school. Anything else?”

  Moniak frowned. “Yes, one thing, but it’s not good.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a radio with a belt clip on the side. From one end, a microphone meant to fit in the palm of a hand dangled from the cord meant to run up a sleeve. The other end had the earpiece meant to go with it.

  “An old surveillance kit?” Catherine asked. The modern day pieces had a microphone built into a lapel pin and the curly wires were made of far less obvious ones that resembled telephone wires.

  “Yes, and here’s the really shitty part: It’s standard Secret Service issue.”

  * * * *

  Wayne jogged as though the devil’s own was right behind him. His breath came out in puffs of dragon smoke before him. He let the breeze clear the thoughts from his head. The thoughts of treachery and deceit.

  And lies.

  Especially the lies…

  He couldn’t get the message out of his head. He had to lie. He had to think. Because he couldn’t be sure what to make out of the message Blaine had sent him. Lansing had told Wayne to wait until he had a safe location to phone from, but he had also sent one other line that Williams couldn’t ignore. The last line:

  “MD= X (?) CIA Damp.

  ~BL”

  Wayne could only translate it as “Michael DeValera, possibly ex-CIA.”

  And “Damp”?

  Michael DeValera had been in wetworks. A CIA assassin.

  Just like Catherine Miller.

  Chapter 32

  Angelita Sierra glared at Peter as the two FBI agents sauntered into the late-night Cyber café to send their message to the man named Williams, who was not a serial killer, apparently, although that’s what some people thought.

  “What is it with you and bombs?” she asked him.

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never used one in my entire life.”

  She shot him one of her Now is not the time looks, to which he replied with his It’s always the time smile.

  Angelita sighed, wondering what she’d ever seen in this man in the first place…aside from his gun in her face.

  He settled back into the driver’s seat. His eyes wandered to the rear view mirror, studying the image there. “By the way, Angel, you did leave the masking tape over the plates, right?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Just checking.” He reached for the door handle and gently pushed it open. “I have two men in dark suits who’ve been tracking us since Daniel’s house. Be back in a bit.”

  Peter slipped out the door into the blistering cold wind. He casually walked over to the car he’d spotted: a black Mazda. His shoulders were hunched for protection against the wind. The eyes of both men were upon him as he approached. He stopped in front of the driver’s side window and dropped to the balls of his feet in a half crouch, tapping against the glass. The hard-faced driver eyed
him critically as he lowered the window. Peter noted the bulge of a gun in the right side hand of his jacket.

  He smiled. “Hi, guys, I was wondering if either one of you knew the way to Washington.”

  The driver shot a glance of stone. “It’s south of here. You’re heading the wrong way.”

  Peter let his jaw drop, and he pounded his forehead gently against the window frame. “Damn, damn, damn, damn!” He met the driver’s eyes. “I don’t believe”—Peter’s fist shot out across the driver’s jaw and into his jacket, pulling out the gun. He pointed it at the passenger before he realized what happened—“you’re that utterly stupid.”

  Peter rocked back on his heels, pulling the gun out of the car while keeping it level on the passenger. The driver was out cold with the one punch.

  “Now,” Peter said, smiling, “let’s see what sort of arrangement will allow for your continued breathing.”

  * * * *

  Catherine gracefully moved along the living room floor, the music to “Time To Say Goodbye” running through her mind. She wasn’t a fan of Andrea Bocelli, but Sarah Brightman was worth it. She just wished she could concentrate on any one thing at a time. She tried to process everything that Moniak had told her about the attack last night, about Michael DeValera, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Wayne and what he had said last night. After the first two verses, she decided to give up and concentrate on Wayne, get him out of her head.

  What he had said last night wasn’t new. Moniak had told her long ago she shouldn’t hold herself accountable for her boyfriend’s death. He had told her about a similar experience he had had with one of his partners. If it hadn’t been for his old partner, a man he called Viper, he would have fallen into self-pity and feelings of guilt. Somehow, Moniak had never stopped looking at her with at least a trace of concern in his gaze. He probably thought she hadn’t noticed, but it was always there, hovering just behind his flashing blue-green eyes and his gleaming smile. It had diminished in recent years, but it hadn’t died yet.

  Catherine made another turn. Now time for business.

  The bad guys had an ex-CIA assassin working on the payroll, mercenaries who also used to work for the CIA. They had more than one nuclear bomb, unless anyone would seriously believe that nuking Belfast was worth the effort all by itself.

  It isn’t.

  So the simple question was: What the hell is going on?

  * * * *

  Cochran pulled into his parking space at Langley, half-scared out of his mind. He fought off an urge to call Director Grant immediately, but he wanted to use a secure phone. The most secure he could possibly get would be from his office—which just happened to be right next to Grant’s.

  He walked through the lobby with a faster-than-usual gait, nodding at the guards at the front desk as he wandered down the hall, treading directly over the CIA eagle on the floor. Thankfully, the guards recognized him immediately. He had forgotten his ID badge. He was so deep in thought he was oblivious to everything around him. He made it to his office on autopilot and only snapped out of it when he had to look down to put the key in the lock of his office.

  Patrick spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over to a light peering out from under the Director’s door. His eyes snapped open now, fully awake. Keys in hand, he strode over to the door and knocked, wondering if the director had merely left the lights on.

  “Come,” Grant’s voice sounded through the door.

  Cochran raised an eyebrow as he took the knob and pushed the door open. Grant was at his desk, reading glasses balanced on the edge of his nose. His giant assistant, Percy, stood in front of him, nodding. He turned to leave, spared Patrick a brief look, and marched out.

  The Director glanced at him. He then did a small double take. “Pat, what a surprise to see you. I didn’t know you were working this late.”

  “Technically, I’m not.” Cochran took a seat without being offered. “You see, David, I have a friend in the FBI, Daniel Clark.”

  “I remember him. He was involved with the Pavel Lee business, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s how we met. We’ve kept in contact and I thought you might want to know something.”

  David Grant cocked an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  “He asked me about Michael DeValera.”

  The Director dropped the papers on his desk, and then slowly leaned back in the chair. “DeValera,” he echoed. “I might’ve known.”

  “Known what, sir?”

  “There’s been a bit of trouble recently, Pat. I kept you out of it because I wanted it to be only my head if this hit the fan. I did my best.”

  “And you succeeded marvelously,” Cochran told him. “What is it?”

  * * * *

  “Think that’s sufficiently vague for our friend the Super Secret Service Agent?” Blaine asked in front of the Internet café computer terminal.

  Jennifer nodded. “Are you certain you’re sending the information to the right person?”

  He met her eyes. “After what you’ve told me about Secretary Stevens, I’m positive. Besides, he doesn’t know I was—had been—involved in the trace of the threatening email. My guess is he went for any contact within the FBI he could get. If the best he could do is a computer geek, that’s what he’ll settle for.”

  Jennifer nodded. “Yes, but I think there’s a slight problem. I’d swear our director doesn’t like our Agent Williams.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because if ballistics hadn’t come back on SecTreas’s bullet, we’d be hunting him now.”

  Blaine let out a soft sigh of exasperation. Maybe going into computer programming would be a viable career option now rather than later. Scofield’s far too eccentric a boss for my taste. He didn’t mean ‘eccentric’ as one would refer to an entertainingly odd English lord. He meant it as in a comet with an eccentric orbit. Bosses with needs and loyalties that unpredictable were dangerous at best. You couldn’t please them because you couldn’t guess what they wanted— and they’d never tell you for reasons of their own.

  He sent the email. “Let’s get outside.”

  They both slid back into the black Rabbit, Blaine behind Peter and Jennifer behind Angelita. Both of them were smiling.

  “I sent the message and—what?” Lansing asked.

  Peter lifted his left hand, a gun hanging lazily by his index finger. “You need one of these?”

  Blaine nodded cautiously and slowly took it from Peter’s finger. “Where did you get this?”

  Peter jerked his head toward the back windshield. “Two guys in black suits. They don’t have any Federal ID, so I put them to sleep, slashed their tires, and took their guns.”

  Jennifer stared at him, slack-jawed. “How—?”

  “Magic.”

  * * * *

  Patrick Cochran leaned back in his chair after Grant finished with his story, listing the current crisis. “What have you done to see to it?”

  “I’ve assigned Strongbow and Moniak.”

  Cochran cocked his head ever so slightly. Patrick thought about what the world would be like without Michael DeValera to worry about anymore.

  To start with, terrorism will reach an all-time low.

  * * * *

  Wayne came back from his run at about seven o’clock, London time. An hour of jogging hadn’t helped clear his mind half as much as he would have liked. He didn’t want to think anymore. He had two CIA assassins: Strongbow and DeValera. He had two attacks: one in Langley outside of the CIA and one in Washington inside the FBI building. A threatening email. Supposedly ten nuclear bombs, some of whose strategic placing made no sense.

  Hopefully, there would be more clues in Rome.

  But what about Catherine?

  She was a problem in more ways than one. Each time he thought about her, his mind didn’t focus half as well as it used to. He kept wondering if she even remembered his last words to her before the shooting started. Whether or not she was
offended by his remarks…

  Then there was the idea that if she was with the CIA, and DeValera had been with them in the same profession, could he trust her?

  The CIA? Give me a break, Wayne. Why send an email? Why blow up anyone on those specific dates?

  Wayne covered the steps to his father’s home two at a time. His hand touched the handle as it jerked away from him. The door flew open as Catherine stood there in her sweat suit, eyes beaming. “I have Michael DeValera!” she said. “He used to work for the CIA!”

  Wayne arched his eyebrows as his eyes widened in shock. “The Company?”

  Catherine stepped aside, letting him in. “Yes, as a ‘counter-terrorism specialist,’ which we both know is a euphemism for assassin,” she said, closing the door as he walked past. She followed him into the living room. “I called my old mentor about it. It seems he was laid off for some mysterious reason my source wouldn’t tell me about. Probably something petty, maybe not, who knows? I knew he looked familiar when I first saw him—on the CIA watch list. Come on, coffee’s ready. And what’s the matter with you? You look less relaxed than when you left.”

  “Just going over…a lot.”

  She smiled, amused at his vagueness. “Anything more specific?”

  He sat down on the couch, leaning back. He met her eyes. “I’d like to start by apologizing for the brief bit of psycho-babble I inflicted on you last night before the shooting started.”

  She blinked, not expecting that. Catherine sat next to him and smiled sweetly. “I think I’ve gotten a pretty good picture of you by now, Wayne, and I know you wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t care.” The smile broadened a bit more. “Besides, you aren’t the first one to say that.”

  He matched her smile. “I suppose he was your instructor?”

  Catherine nearly blanched at the phrasing. “You suppose who was my instructor?”

  He angled his head slightly. “The first guy to tell you that.”