Arch Enemy (5 page)

“T
his is a debriefing session for operation number 1032A-3. Subject is Daniel Morgan, code name Cobra, internal designation AZ27-F. Speaking is Diana Bloch, AZ04-D. At my side are Paul Kirby, AZ43-I, and code name Smith, AA-004.”

Clear, crisp, and professional, Diana Bloch rattled off the information, pretending to look at a script even though Morgan knew she needed no prompting. The prim head honcho of Zeta Division, brown hair in an impeccable bun, neutral makeup on a face set in neutral professionalism, in a classic silk blouse and pearl earrings, sat review-panel style between two others. On her left was Paul Kirby, his back so straight that a broomstick might have run all the way from the chair to his oversized oval head. His chin was raised and his weasel face was at a slight angle, giving him an air of insufferable smugness. To her right was Smith, the inscrutable, with his fastidious short hair, his blank façade, in his trademark black suit, hands lightly clasped on the table. From the far corner of the tiny interrogation room, a camcorder on a tripod recorded him at a three-quarter angle.

“Could we turn down the heat?” said Morgan. The air inside Zeta headquarters felt like a midsummer day. He ran his hands over his still-wet hair from the shower. He'd carried the grime from the Saavedra compound through the airlift all the way here, so they let him bathe in the Zeta gym and pull on a fresh T-shirt and jeans he kept in his locker before the session.

“Surprising as it may seem, the thought had crossed our minds,” said Kirby in his usual pissy-polite tone. His forehead, extended by a receding hairline, was glistening with sweat.

“There's some problem with the regulating software,” said Bloch. “Shepard's looking into it. Now, if you don't have any further objections, shall we start?” Morgan nodded in assent. “The purpose of the mission was to gain the trust of Francisco Ruiz, also known as Paco, in order to make contact with the Saavedra cartel, to in turn find their connection in Acevedo International, suspected of involvement in smuggling weapons into and drugs out of Colombia.”

“Agent Morgan,” said Smith, “please relate the events that transpired yesterday, from last night until your airlift from the Saavedra compound this morning.”

Morgan told the story with no interruptions but the occasional request for clarification from Bloch or Kirby. Smith didn't speak at all.

At least until Morgan got to the good part.

“I drew Paco Ruiz's sidearms and shot Saavedra's armed bodyguards.”

“And why did you do that, Agent Morgan?”

“The op was blown,” he said. “Saavedra was having me sent away, possibly to kill me. I saw an opening, and I took it.”

Kirby interjected. “We had the tactical team at the ready to extract you at the first sign of danger. We could have used the connections and information gleaned from this operation to find out more about this Mr.”—he looked at his notes—“White. Instead, we lost our only promising thread in this investigation.” He looked at Morgan for a response with all the smug superiority of a schoolmarm facing a child caught misbehaving.

“Saavedra is dead, and so is his cartel,” said Morgan.

“And another will rise to take its place,” said Bloch. “Meanwhile, the Acevedo operator is still at large.”

“Do you realize,” said Kirby, “that not only does this sever our best lead to connect Acevedo with their arms dealings, but that they now realize that someone is after them? Worse, that someone at Acevedo now knows what you look like?”

Morgan bristled. The heat in the room was suffocating. “It all looks so clear from behind your desk, doesn't it, Kirby? Ever wonder what it's like on the ground?”

Kirby scoffed. “Don't pretend this was a tactical decision. Why—”

“You have no idea—”

Kirby raised his voice. “You are a professional, and you made a decision—”

“—a decision that ended a bloody criminal—”

“Tell us why you did it, Morgan.”

“
Because the son of a bitch deserved to die!
”

Morgan gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Wrong thing to say.

“I think I've heard enough,” Smith said. Then, to Bloch: “I want the full report by morning.” He stood up and walked out without saying a word.

Kirby held a tight-lipped sneer as Morgan finished his report and stood, collecting his notes. “I'm going to bring up a list of Acevedo employees and associates. Report to the War Room when you're done, Morgan. Let's see if we can't ID your Mr. White.”

Bloch motioned for Morgan to stay behind as Kirby cleared the door. She clicked off the camera.

“What were you thinking?” she demanded.

Morgan leaned against the glass. “I couldn't let him get away with it.”

She banged her hand against the table. “There is a chain of command. When you subvert it, you put the mission and everyone's lives in danger.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No one on our side died, last time I checked.”

“You are my weapon.” Her voice was sharp, ice-cold steel. “You're here to do as you're told.”

“I made a judgment call—”

“You disobeyed a direct order. Rabid dogs are put down. Remember that.”

He pushed himself off the wall. Fully upright, he loomed almost a full head over her fragile frame. “Is that a threat?”

Bloch stepped forward, undaunted. Her thin nostrils flared in anger. “It's a statement of fact. We do not work for the US government. We are a clandestine operation, accountable to no authority but a group of anonymous financial backers. It won't come from me and it may not come from Smith, but there are higher powers at work here. If the day comes when their patience runs out, neither of us will be able to do anything to stop it.”

M
organ pulled into the driveway of his two-story ranch-style home after 9
P.M.
The suburb of Andover, Massachusetts, was fast asleep. The full moon gave the snowy nighttime scene a sense of unreality, sharpened by the contrast with the carnage he'd witnessed not twenty-four hours before.

The search for Mr. White among the Acevedo employee records had yielded nothing. Kirby said he'd have the analysts look into it and sent him home.

Morgan shut off the engine of his red 1970 Oldsmobile 442 as the garage door ground shut. He squeezed past the boxes that read
ALEX
on the sides. From the kitchen door came the muffled barks of their German shepherd, Neika. He opened the door and she squirmed through, tail wagging, to sniff and lick at his hand.

“Hey, girl,” he said, running his hand through her soft fur. “Did you take care of your mother while I was away?”

She snorted and whined with delight.

Morgan called her in to the dark kitchen and locked the door, resetting the alarms and leaving his heavy coat on the rack. Everything was still, illuminated by moonlight filtering in through the window—the tan striped wallpaper, the white cabinets, the copper pots and pans hanging on the walls. On the black granite countertop, nothing was an inch out of place. He felt his muscles relaxing, knots unwinding, breath growing slower and deeper.

Home. He was home.

He wondered, as he trudged up the stairs, whether Jenny was out, or already asleep. When he reached the upstairs hall, he saw soft light peeking from under the door to his bedroom. He turned the knob and walked inside.

Jenny was on the bed. Not out, and definitely not asleep. She was reclining on the pillows propped up against the backboard, a black negligee and sheer stockings suggesting the outlines of her soft, well-toned body. Morgan's gaze followed the curve of her waist, the smooth lines of her legs, and the angle of her shoulders. Her light brown eyes were devouring him, heavy-lidded with desire.

“I stayed up,” she said, red lips curling into a teasing smile. “I couldn't wait to see you.”

Two weeks of heat and mosquitoes, of stink and sleaze. This was his reward. And worth every minute of it.

She crawled toward him on the bed. He bent down to give her a kiss, taking in her warmth, her fragrance, basking in the animal fire of being in her presence.

Without drawing her lips away from his, she stood up from the bed and pushed him against the wall, her body flush against his, her skin hot where they touched. She tugged at his buttons with desperate fingers.

“I missed you.” Her breath hot against his ear. “Damn it, I missed you.”

He pivoted, lifting her by the waist. She wrapped her legs around his powerful abdomen as he pinned her against the papered wall of their bedroom. They clawed at each other in a whirlwind of frantic desire, as if trying to pull each other closer than was possible to make up for the distance that they had endured.

Later, they lay in bed together, Morgan's exhausted muscles drained of tension. Jenny was curled up against him, her brown hair spread on his chest. He ran his fingers along her scalp.

“You,” she said, eyes closed, voice tinged with sleepiness, “are the best.”

They kissed. Morgan enjoyed the closeness, being off his feet, and the comfort of his bedroom.

“How have things been around here?”

“Mmmm, lonely,” she said without opening her eyes. “Better now that you're here. But I've been keeping busy. Work all day, party all night.”

“Hussy,” he said, tickling her ribs.

She squirmed and giggled. “Stop that, you ass.”

They kissed and Morgan lay back on the pillow. “How's Alex?” A dark cloud hung over the question. Neika, asleep on the floor, stirred and emitted a series of tiny yelps. Dreaming.

Jenny drew herself up so that she could face him, head resting on the pillow. “Still having a tough time.”

“Does she still hate me?”

“Your daughter doesn't hate you, Dan. Good grief.”

“She told me. In so many words.”

“Words are sometimes not about telling the truth,” she said, running a comforting hand over the hairs on his chest. “She wanted to hurt you. It was her dream to work with you at Zeta, and you thwarted it. You can't expect her not to be angry. And then with the accident, her leg, and the motorcycle being totaled . . . It hasn't been an easy time for her. She lashed out, that's all.”

“Do you think I should have let her join?”

Jenny raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Absolutely not.”

“I mean, she had the offer. And I can't stop her if some other agency wants her.”

“For her to do that, she'll have to graduate college at least. Which at least gives me three years plus before I have to worry about her the way I worry about you.” She snuggled up against Morgan. “Just my luck that the two greatest loves of my life are reckless storm chasers.”

Morgan winced with guilt.

“Don't, Dan,” she said, sensing his tension. “You're living the life that you chose. But even then, chose isn't really the right word, because this is who you
are
. You can't help it.” She sat up and took his face in her delicate hands. “Just like I can't help loving you. It was a tough lesson to learn, but by God I learned it. My life is who I am. I'm an interior decorator, and a damn good one. And I'm your wife.”

“And a damn good one,” he said with a kiss.

“I love you, and that love means I worry and that I go without you sometimes for weeks on end.”

“Jen . . .”

She put a finger in his lips. “Shhh. I know one day you might not come back. That's why I want to relish every good moment I can with you. So let's not talk anymore and just enjoy this, all right?”

They lay together by the gentle light of the bedside lamps. Morgan let his eyes wander the familiar setting—the modern chandelier under the off-white ceiling, the arcs and straight lines of the molding, the hypnotic vine pattern of the wallpaper. The comfort of home was carrying him off to sleep when he was yanked to alertness by the ringing of his phone.

“You have
got
to be kidding me,” Jenny murmured.

“I don't have to pick that up.”

Jenny let the phone ring a few more times before surrendering. “No,” she said, exhaling. “The sky's falling and it's time for Dan Morgan to go back into the fray.”

He reached for the bedside table and picked up the call. It was Bloch.

“We need you.”

“Did you find White?”

“No. It's something else. I'll give you the details on the way.”

Jenny was already up and pulling on her comfortable bathrobe. The unsexy one.

“I'll make you some coffee.”

L
ily Randall pulled on her fresh black lace panties and dabbed Chanel No. 5 with a delicate brush of her index fingers behind her ears and along the upper line of her areola. She then picked up the sheer silk dress and let it spill over her, caressing her skin as it flowed down to hang delicately from her shoulders.

It was a pretty little number she'd put on the company card. It lay in stark contrast to her milk-white skin and her light red hair, matching the emerald green of her eyes. She took in the effect in the room's full-length mirror—the way it followed the contour of her waist and hips, the coquettish hint of cleavage, the straps with their precarious hold on her slender shoulders, looking like they might lose their purchase at the slightest shrug. Yes, it would do its job.

She walked to the window and pulled open the curtains of her suite at Le Parker Meridien, revealing an illuminated New York cityscape. She tidied up the room, collecting her running shoes from the mustard carpet and stowing them in the closet, and pulling on the red bedspread where she had rumpled it by sitting.

Next she picked up the tiny communicator, skin-colored and about the size of a pea, and pushed it into her right ear. The transmitter she placed in her plain black clutch emblazoned with the Gucci logo in gold, after pushing the button to turn it on.

“This is Agent Randall,” she said. “Come in, Zeta.”

“Shepard here,” came the response, boyish and a little nasal. “You're late.”

“Fashionably,” she said, striking one last pose in the mirror, giving her shoulder-length hair a slight tousle.

“Let's review the target one last time.”

“Roger Baxter, Vice President of Operations at Acevedo International. Fifty-three years old, silver fox type. Suspected of being chest deep in their illegal smuggling operations. Height, six-foot-one, weight—”

“That will do, Agent,” came Diana Bloch's imperious voice.

Lily stepped into her black Michael Kors stilettos and drew her keycard from the wall slot.

“Leaving the room and going silent,” she said, opening the door. “And Shepard? Try not to interrupt me while I'm working.”

She clicked her heels on the patterned floor of the hallway to the elevator, which she took up to the forty-second floor and into the Estrela Penthouse.

“Lily Harper.”

The bouncer checked his clipboard and waved her in. Nothing like having rich sponsors.

A waitress in a black dress shirt and white tie held out a tray of champagne. Lily took one, cool crystal against her fingers. Backing up against a pillar, she poured half of the contents into a vase.

Half-full champagne flute in hand, she walked past the coat check to the entrance of the ballroom proper.

Packed with tuxedoes, designer gowns, and tipsy conversation, the Estrela Penthouse had a slick modern design and a 360-degree view of the city. The guests were there pretending to support some sort of save-the-animals charity, although of course their real purpose was to show that they could afford a ten-thousand-dollars-a-plate event and to brush shoulders with others in the same tax bracket.

Lily emerged like a tigress on the prowl. This was a delicate dance, but one in which she was well practiced. If she came to Baxter directly, he would know she had an ulterior motive. No, she had to make him believe he was the predator. What he would want was a woman who could be counted as a conquest, whose face and body he could mount in the trophy room in his mind.

Catching his attention, at least, would not be all that difficult. Unattached young women were thin on the ground here. Baxter, though married with children, would not resist the siren call she was putting out. That much she knew about him.

She walked as if with purpose around the round tables with their overflowing centerpieces and the conversing groups of very fancy people, most of whom were still standing, drinking, and eating canapés. That was fine by her. With free range of the ballroom, she could spot Baxter at her leisure.

She found him about three-quarters of the way to the far window. She caught his eye and maintained contact for just a couple of seconds longer than a proper woman would. He held her gaze, mid-conversation with a white-haired man, before turning back to him with a light chuckle.

Yes, he had noticed. He'd come look for her later. Now, it was just a matter of making herself available.

Finding a spot where she could keep an eye on her quarry, she leaned against the bar near a corner, making lazy circles with her champagne flute, then bringing it to her nose for a whiff. She stole a glance at him the next time his eyes surveyed the room. He noticed. His hair was graying, but still boasted more black than she would've thought for a man on the other side of fifty. He was handsome enough, too, and she could see how a woman who went for older men would like him—a strong, aquiline nose and a discreet but well-defined jawline on a clean-shaven face, aristocratic and carrying the supreme confidence of the fabulously wealthy.

She cornered a waiter carrying a tray of red wine and flashed five hundred-dollar bills in her open clutch.

“I want a little accident to happen with that man. Just a splash on his suit jacket will do.”

He nodded and slipped the money in his pants pocket.

Lily watched the little drama she had set up unfold. The waiter, one glass left on his tray, feigned a stumble. The glass flew against Baxter's sleeve. He had some harsh words for the waiter Lily couldn't make out and then excused himself. The waiter looked her way. She tipped her head. He had done well.

Once Baxter disappeared in the direction of the bathroom, she followed. She had already scouted her location—a small nook, half-hidden behind a bamboo palm, within view of the door to the men's room, where someone walking out could not miss her.

She slumped against the rough wallpaper and pinched her inner thigh. Nothing. Coldplay's “The Scientist.” Still nothing. This needed more drastic measures.

She closed her eyes and conjured up her parents. The few images she had of them, when her age was in the low single digits, so old and worn that she wondered how much she had filled in the gaps over the years with photographs from around that time, and what other details had accrued from random sources.

Still, they did their job. She pictured her mother, smiling, picking her up, sitting at the dinner table in their London town house. Her father, consoling her while he treated her skinned knee with antiseptic. And then the funeral, being cradled by her gram, or standing alone at their house the day she had cut school to go visit them.

Tears welled up in her eyes, turning the world into an impressionistic light show.

“Miss? Can I help you?”

She knew before she turned to look that it was the wrong man. The voice was too young. There was something smooth about it that didn't fit Baxter's grizzled look.

“I'm fine,” she said, turning just enough so that she could see his face. He was even younger than she had imagined, maybe even under thirty, putting him at the category of toddler compared with the average age at this event—at least in the male cohort. His shaggy blond hair covered his ears and framed an unhandsome but still boyishly attractive face, soft-featured and blue-eyed, made alluring through sheer confidence.

“Are you sure?” He offered an inviting smile. “I know this cocktail recipe that's guaranteed to get rid of the blues.”

She did not have time for this. “Please go away.”

“All right,” he said, backing away. “Girl wants to be alone with her sadness. I can relate.”

Her irritation almost ruined her hard-won sadness. She fast-forwarded through her routine again to get her back in the zone. The tears returned to her eyes, her lips pouting, her body drooping, forming an image of picturesque sorrow just in time for Roger Baxter to emerge from the men's room, dabbing a paper towel at the sleeve of his suit jacket.

She caught his double take out of the corner of her eye and then felt his looming presence coming closer.

“I'd like to say that your beauty is incompatible with such sadness, but somehow it only makes you more stunning.”

Yeah. I know
. She turned her head but did not raise her gaze to meet his. Not yet.

“Tell me who caused you to feel this way. I have the resources to have him shot. Drawn and quartered, if you prefer.”

This time, she looked at him and let a weak smile break through the sad façade.

“Just say the word,” he said with a sly grin. His voice was deep, like a lion's purr.

“Assassination won't be necessary,” she said. “But perhaps a drink?”

“Queen's English?” he remarked, catching her accent.

“Drilled into me in public school at the point of a whip.”

He offered her his elbow, and they walked together into the main ballroom. “Champagne?” He signaled a waiter.

“
Merci
,” she said as the waiter handed her a flute. Baxter took one for himself. She ended up with her back to a window as he stood closer than decorum would allow.

“Now what could have put you in such a state? No man could have dared upset you like this.”

“Not worth talking about,” she said with a bashful smile. “In fact, it's becoming less and less clear why it even bothered me so much in the first place.”

“Oh?”

She put her hand on his arm, feeling his muscles underneath. “In fact, I find that I can't recall why I was crying at all.”

Recognition glimmered on his face. “I could have sworn I've seen you at the Palatine Casino in Monte Carlo.”

“I'm certain I would have remembered you. Are you a gambling man, Mr.—”

“Roger Baxter.”

“Lily Harper.”

“
Enchanté
.” He kissed her hand and held out his champagne flute. “To us.”

“Oh, there's an ‘us' already?” She clinked her flute against his and then tipped it against her mouth so that the sparkling fluid only tickled her smiling lips without flowing in.

“Does the idea intrigue you?”

An older man and his wife approached Baxter, who raised a finger to excuse himself and then turned away to greet them. Lily took the opportunity to switch her full champagne flute for one that was half-full, resting on an empty table.

Baxter dispatched the couple. “I apologize for the interruption. It's a bore, but half my job is keeping these fatuous bags of wind happy.”

She extended her hand and touched the tips of her fingers to his face, feeling the prickles of his emerging stubble. He closed his eyes and inhaled with desire. His hand shot out and grabbed hers. The strength of his grip made her gasp.

“Not here.” He rolled his eyes right and left, checking that no one was watching.

“Then where?”

He produced a keycard and put it into her palm. She tucked it into her clutch. “Diplomatic Suite. I'm going to say my good-byes. Watch for my exit. Stay for another five minutes and then follow. I'll be waiting.”

She watched as he walked away to make his rounds before leaving, then retreated to the corner bar. Out of the corner of her eye, she made out a male figure approaching—a round face, a shock of blond hair. He sidled up to her at the bar.
Here we go.

“Feeling better, I see,” said the now-familiar boyish voice of the guy who had come up to her by the men's room.

She turned and shot him a look of practiced indifference. “That,” she said, “is none of your concern.”

“No, I suppose not.” He flicked his hair away from his eyes. “Just like it isn't my concern that you were poised to lure a very particular man coming out of the bathroom. And it isn't my concern that you watered a ficus with Cristal.”

The little twerp had been watching her. “A woman has her ways of having fun. Not that you'd know anything about that.”

“I know about fun.”

“I meant women.”

“Touché.” He called over the bartender and ordered a whiskey on the rocks. “But you're not here for fun.”

“Oh really?”

He stood with his back against the bar and grinned. “In that dress? No, you're all business.”

The bartender set the glass of whiskey down on a napkin.

“Which, I might add, is none of yours.”

Ice clinked in his glass as he took a sip.

She looked out the window to the sea of darkness that was Central Park. “I'm curious about what you're doing here at all. Tell me, did you have to borrow your daddy's tux?”

He smiled wide. “Why, would you like to meet him? He might be a little more of your target demographic.”

“Maybe he is.” She cast her gaze around for Baxter. She found him glowering at her from the exit to the ballroom. Jealous. Good. The boy had his uses.

She let the conversation fall into a lull, which he then tried to break. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a lovely accent?”

“You yanks love your accents,” she said. “Tell me, does it make me sound smart and sophisticated?”

He chuckled. “No, you manage that all on your own, Miss—”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “Lily.”

“A pleasure,” he said. “I'm Scott. Scott Renard.”

“Of the Poughkeepsie Renards?” she deadpanned.

He laughed, a hearty, wholesome laugh. “I can't figure you out. You're not here for the politics. You're not here with someone who's here for the politics. But I'm not getting the gold-digger vibe, despite your little show. What is your deal?”

“Maybe I'm just tired of men who tell me I have a lovely accent.”