Ice Cold (7 page)

“No shit,” Navarro muttered darkly, presumably in response to her statement that she didn’t believe in coincidences. “Hang on a sec…you create an entire life for your character disguises, like an alias, when you only play them for a nanosecond?”

“If I want them to be believable, yes, of course.”

“You have a very…interesting mind, Winston.”

“Bäcker?” Keeping up a conversation with him required a map for all the detours.

“He owns a small appliance repair shop on Kurtz Straße. A front for the most up-to-date, state-of-the-art, high-security Forensics Explosive Lab in Western Europe. He deals with all types of incidents involving explosives. In fact, he developed a system to sift through the debris from the site for further examination. Now it’s used by the police and Interpol when they have a bombing.”

“What do you mean ‘sift through’?” she asked, momentarily distracted from her distraction.

“Slavin will have already sent debris by the truckload to the facility. Before it’s dried on huge racks, sensors will pick up evaporating chemicals from the debris, for analysis, see if there’s a chemical signature. Once dried, the debris is sifted and separated into different grades, then the rubble fragments pass through to a forensic examining room where technicians scour it by hand.”

Fascinated in spite of a brain filled with other issues, Honey glanced his way. The long scar on his cheek shone white for just a second, and her internal organs contracted at how agonizing that tear through his flesh must’ve been. “And what? Magnets identify fragments of metal?”

“And/or any mechanical elements like timing devices or wires that can link someone to the crime. Anything happens in and around Germany, appearance to the contrary, Bäcker’s our man.”

There’d been a lot in Navarro’s personnel file, which she’d read on Jack’s behalf before meeting him. Now she needed to know more, trying to get a leg up on what to expect in Athens, then what to expect in Dresden. He’d spent months in the T-FLAC hospital right here in Germany. For his face? Some other debilitating injury? It hadn’t specified. His body looked strong; it was hard to believe anything could lay him up in a hospital for long. On the other hand, the man played with explosives every freaking day. Injuries were an occupational hazard.

None of her business, she told herself firmly. She wasn’t that interested. That one pulsed behind her eyeballs as a fib, but she gave herself a pass due to mitigating circumstances.

Honey let him continue talking, inserting a “Hmm” into the conversation occasionally to keep the ball rolling.

Catherine had trained her, and Honey always respected and admired the other operative. She didn’t know what led to Catherine’s imprisonment several years ago. At the time, speculation had been at fever pitch, but only a handful of T-FLAC higher ups knew the whole story. She suspected Navarro was one of them.

The two women had been friends of a sort. In the course of three ops, they had saved one another’s lives more than once. Honey didn’t give a damn what was whispered about Catherine; the older woman had stood at her back many times, and Honey never forgot that.

She was also by the book enough to know that no matter her own personal thoughts on her friend, it wasn’t up to her to do anything behind the Company’s back. T-FLAC was as close to family as Honey had. If Catherine was indeed still in prison and somehow managed to obtain access to a computer, then someone back at HQ must be notified. And if someone else was using her name and making contact, ditto.

Who
to contact?
That
was the question. Nielson was Control. She should be notified, Honey thought. But she was an unknown entity. Honey had never met or worked with her. She decided to wait. Play it by ear, see if Catherine made contact again. She’d tell Navarro and let him report to whomever.

“Coming?” Navarro handed money to the driver as he popped open the door of the cab. A blast of cold air bit at her exposed skin.

She hadn’t realized they’d finally reached their destination. Stupid of her. That kind of inattention could get a person killed. Further conjecture about Catherine would have to wait. Hoisting her tote over her shoulder, she slid out the opposite side, shutting the door. They were in an industrial area, and judging by the sound of a mournful horn and the smell of fish, close to the river.

When he almost blocked her way on the sidewalk, she sidled by, careful not to touch any part of him. Using a gloved finger, he rang a discreet bell outside a steel door marked
Gerät Reparieren
with an
offen
sign. He turned to look at her. “Expecting the paparazzi?”

She blinked tall, dark, and trying to be amusing into focus. “What?”

He gestured to her face. “The sunglasses. Are you incognito or are you someone else now?”

She removed the glasses, hooking them on her Berkin bag. Turning so she could see anyone approaching from the street brought them face-to-face. At six three, he only topped her by a few inches, thanks to her boots. Her eyes were level with his mouth, and she noticed a smaller scar beneath his lower lip. The wall was just a foot behind her but damned if she’d step back. In this light, his eyes were a hellish dark brown instead of black. No need to panic.

She tilted her head. “You don’t use disguises?”

“Not e—” His answer was cut short as the door opened, and a man in baggy brown cords and a thick, hand-knit, mud-colored sweater beckoned them inside. She felt a blast of warmth, laced with the odors of dust and WD40, as she stepped inside. He flipped the
Geschlossen
sign on the door behind them.

Fluorescent tubing brightly lit the shop crowded with a jumbled array of small appliances on shelves on either side of the entire length of the narrow space. The untidiness made Honey itch to straighten and dust, and she wasn’t domestic. A glass-fronted counter with an ancient and dusty cash register, piled with yellowing catalogues with coffee rings on them, stood just inside the door, making the entrance a bottleneck.

She managed to squeeze past Navarro, again without touching him. He, too, walked forward, giving Erik Bäcker room to close the door as he took off his gloves and shoved them into his coat pocket. He waited for the locks to engage automatically behind them, then held out a hand when the other man turned, clasping his forearm in a friendly greeting. The men knew each other well, then. Friends perhaps. “
Schön dich zu sehen
.”

Bäcker smiled. “
Und Sie, mein Freund
. And who is this pretty girl you have brought to visit an old man?”

Navarro removed his coat, hanging it on a nearby rack. “Winston, Erik Bäcker. Bäcker, operative Honey Winston.”

Bäcker was a slight man in his mid-fifties and all of five feet tall with shoe lifts. His thinning, white hair slicked close to his shiny scalp; no-frame glasses magnified washed-out blue eyes, making them appear disproportionate to his small head. He was, Honey thought, shaking his flaccid hand, so inconspicuous as to be almost invisible. A fine trait in his line of work.

She did a lightning-fast analysis of how he moved, talked, what he wore, and how he held himself, already forming a new character for herself and storing it for later retrieval. Navarro could laugh all he wanted. Having her alter egos ready and waiting came in handy more than once in the past. With under five pounds of props in her go bag, she could be any one of twenty different characters in a matter of minutes.

Their host glanced from Navarro to herself, then back at Navarro with a small mocking frown. “A pretty female partner? Have they put the wolf in with the chickens?”

Honey shot the German a small smile. “The chicken is safe from me, I can assure you, Herr Bäcker.”

Wordlessly, Navarro put up both hands in a defensive stance, making the older man laugh a dry, rusty sound. “She’ll keep you young, this one. Come along. I have things to show you.”

“Did we gather enough to work with? What do we know?” Navarro asked, as they followed the other man through the claustrophobic shop.

“We’re processing the first ton of debris Slavin delivered.”

“You have a ton of debris from the site
here
?” Honey looked around. It didn’t look as if he could squeeze in one more toaster oven.

“We do. And more on the way. Come.” He pushed through strips of plastic making an opaque curtain at the back of the store, Navarro on his heels, Honey a step behind them. She observed more small, dusty appliances on various flat surfaces, all in various stages of repair, with their electronic entrails spread untidily on the already cluttered surface. Not very efficient.

She didn’t point out what Bäcker must know—that it was probably cheaper to replace an appliance than fix it. On the other hand, the entire shop and workspace looked to her trained eyes as though merely staged and not actually a functioning repair shop. It was an impressive front and would pass cursory scrutiny, but it was too dusty to be a real retail space. The place smelled musty and stale. The tin roof indicated the snow had turned to hail, the sound effectively drowning most of the small talk between the two men.

Honey figured she’d find a clear spot, dust it off, and go to work herself. Curiosity was killing her. Had Catherine sent her another message?

As soon as she passed through the curtain between the shop and the repair area, a metal door slid shut soundlessly behind her.

Now we’re talking.
Honey removed her hand from her weapon, where it had gone automatically the second she sensed movement behind her, and caught up to the men.

“Through here.” Bäcker used his thumb, coupled with a retinal scan, to open a metal door that needed sanding and a few coats of paint. This deceptively ordinary door, too, shut behind her, with a heavy
thud
, tumblers engaged. She was not fond of confinement, but she appreciated the need for such tight security. She and Jake Dolan had been playing with various security measures at her ranch in Montana for years.

“Oh.” Unlike the two areas they’d already seen, this large room was bright, spotlessly clean, and hummed faintly from all the high-powered, top-of-the-line electronics hugging the walls. A dozen people at various workstations, all outfitted in clean-room gear, glanced up as they walked in. Not introduced, the men barely noticed their arrival as they continued working.

Looking around gave Honey serious technology envy.

“There are ears and eyes everywhere.” Bäcker indicated a couple of chairs pulled up to several large monitors across the room.

Yes, there are. Even in a rundown shop on a side street in Germany. Honey grabbed a high back chair and swiveled it to face the German keying in data on a holographic keyboard.

Her mentor’s voice rang in her head.
THINGS ARE NOT AS THEY APPEAR.

SIX

 A 
strip of light shone beneath Winston’s door. They’d spent most of the afternoon at the lab, only checking into the hotel an hour ago. She’d booked them on separate floors. He thought that was a bad idea. Not that it was against protocol, but having his partner on the same floor made it easier to escape or attack if necessary.

After checking in, she waved an airy good night and left him in the lobby staring after her. Clearly used to giving orders, it apparently didn’t occur to her that she wasn’t the one in charge.

He didn’t expect to be attached at the hip, for God’s sake, but they were partners. What did she think he’d do if they were on the same floor? Sneak into her room in the dead of night and steal a kiss?

Screw that. He’d taken the room next to hers. There was a connecting door, but he didn’t hear anything from inside since she’d showered half an hour before. As he had when picturing her in the shower on the plane, he let his imagination take flight. She was so fair; her skin probably looked pearlescent when wet.

Slippery when wet. The chances of Winston ever allowing him to see her naked were slim to never-gonna-happen. Which he was perfectly fine with.

The woman might be drop-dead gorgeous, but she had the social skills of a hedgehog, not to mention the prickles. From another planet awkward. Ice princess to her core. Ice
queen
. Although, he definitely wasn’t the least interested in her, he couldn’t stop trying to figure her out. Another planet or fucking royalty, and everyone so far beneath her notice, they didn’t exist.

Rafael ordered room service then went to grab a quick shower before dinner. Toweling dry, he wished he’d listen to himself and save himself from a solid case of frostbite. He was intrigued
precisely
because she was so fucking hard to read, and the truth was, he found her absolutely fascinating. She wore the Frosty persona like a much-loved suit of armor.

What was beneath the permafrost? Now that he saw how easily she turned into someone else, what if the Ice Princess was just another persona she put on like green braces and a short dark wig?

The irony was that he suspected- based on fuckall- that her clarity, distance, and stillness were all a façade. As opaque as a winter cloud, what lay behind her icy demeanor? What? Why? And who was she really? He wanted to know what made her the way she was. What made her tick. He wanted to know, damn it, what would make her melt in his hands like an ice cream cone on a summer’s day and if her skin felt as silky as it looked.