Springboard (25 page)

The waiter materialized, holding the dessert tray. He smiled as he lowered the tray.

“Which one has the most fat, sugar, and calories in it?” Marissa asked.

“The triple-chocolate cream cheesecake.”

“We’ll have two of those,” she said. “And coffee, not decaf.”

The waiter smiled again and moved away.

“Seriously, Tommy.”

“The jury is still out. So far, it’s been hands off, but that’s because they really need us. The military has a different approach to life than civilians. We’ll see how it goes.”

She gave him a long, steady look. “Are you thinking about walking if things don’t go your way?”

She had a way of putting her finger right on things. More than once, she had looked at him and nailed down exactly what was going on in his mind.

“I didn’t sign on to be somebody’s lapdog. I’ve been around too many people who think that everybody who works for them needs to be micromanaged. If I’m hired for my skills and abilities, then I expect to be able to use them without somebody not as good telling me how to do my job.”

“Too rich to put up with that crap, huh?”

“In a word, yes. One of money’s biggest perks is, you don’t have to work with jerks and idiots if you don’t feel like it.”

The waiter returned, bearing coffee and chocolate cheesecake.

“Lord, that was fast,” Marissa said.

“The best people get the best service,” the waiter said. “Tony’s rule.” He smiled at Marissa.

“Lucky I’m with her,” Thorn said.

“Yes, sir, very lucky.”

The coffee, freshly brewed, and probably from beans roasted in the back and ground minutes ago, smelled wonderful. And the cheesecake looked as if it would make you gain five pounds before you touched it with your fork.

Marissa took a big bite of hers, and moaned. “Better than sex,” she said. “Mmmm.”

Thorn took a bite of his own cake. Way too rich. Thousand calories in the piece, easy.

“C’mon, Tommy, when I give you a straight line like that, you’re supposed to run with it.”

“Oh, sorry. What’s my line?”

“You’re no fun.”

They had another bite each. Thorn sipped at the hot coffee. Excellent brew.

“There are some smart folks in the service, contrary to the old claims about military intelligence being an oxy-moron,” she said.

He waited for her to take another big bite before saying, “Where’d a sweet young CIA op like you learn a word like that?”

Before she could swallow enough of the cake to slap him down, he continued, “I know they aren’t all third-grade dropout hawks. I just don’t do well with somebody looking over my shoulder. If they leave us alone, no problem.” He paused, then said, “Abe Kent is happy, though.”

“Oh, yeah, back in the Corps. How’s he doing?”

“He’s a good man, but he had a nasty experience recently.”

He told her about Kent’s trip to Nebraska, and the run-in with Natadze, the classical guitarist hit man. She knew who he was, of course, having been a part of the Cox investigation, and her clearance was at least as high as Thorn’s, probably higher.

“Interesting,” she said, when he was done. “Nobody likes a loose end after things are supposed to be wrapped up tight. I got the idea that the colonel was pretty methodical. I’d put money on him eventually running Natadze down.”

Thorn nodded. “Jay Gridley had a little scare, too. His baby son got sick. Boy is in the hospital, but it looks like he’ll be okay.”

“That’s good.”

There was a moment of silence, one gravid with . . . something.

“I’ll be buying dinner tonight,” she said, her voice quiet.

He started to smile and treat it as a joke—dinner would set them back maybe three hundred bucks, more with the wine—but he stopped. “Why would that be?” he said, his voice as quiet as hers.

“Because I don’t want you to think that buying me a nice dinner is why I’m going home with you tonight.”

Thorn’s mouth suddenly seemed very dry. He couldn’t find any words.

She smiled. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I hope,” he managed.

She laughed.

Thorn woke up to the smell of coffee brewing. A moment later, Marissa came into his bedroom, wearing a thick and fluffy bathrobe he’d gotten at the Tokyo Hilton years ago. She carried two mugs of steaming coffee.

“Hey,” she said.

“Yeah, hey, yourself.”

Her hair was damp, she must have showered. He’d slept through it. She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at him, handing him one of the cups as he sat up.

No surprise he hadn’t heard the shower running. After last night, he’d have slept through a bomb going off in the front yard.

He sipped the coffee. It was good.

“You a breakfast eater?”

He shook his head. “Mostly not.”

“Me, neither. Just as well. I’m not a domestic kind of girl,” she said. “I can make coffee and run the microwave oven, but I don’t cook to speak of. Lord knows my mama tried to teach me, but I was always more interested in climbing trees and fences and exploring the Two Acre Woods. I can burn a hamburger, and on a good day, make salad.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”

“And not bad for a white boy in the bedroom.”

They both smiled.

She said, “I need to get going, Tommy. Work.”

He nodded. “You need a change of clothes?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You have women’s clothes here? In my size?”

“I think maybe my aunt might have left some stuff here when she came to visit a while back.”

“Uh-huh, sure she did.” She grinned again. “I have a fresh outfit in my car, and a go bag.”

It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Oh, really? You mean you
planned
this all along?”

“Did I say that? I always keep a change of clothes and a go bag in the car. Never know but that you might be caught out on an all-night surveillance or something.”

“I thought the CIA wasn’t supposed to run ops inside the country.”

“Where on earth did you get that notion, sweetie? You need to come to town more often.”

She started to rise. He touched her shoulder with one hand. He needed to tell her how . . . great this was. And maybe see if she felt the same way. And maybe see where it might go. Definitely see where it might go. “Hey, Marissa . . . ?”

She read his mind. Shook her head. “Don’t go there yet, Tommy. Let’s let it sit for a while and see how it feels. But, yeah, it was a pretty special first date, wasn’t it?”

She padded away and into the hall bathroom. He sat in the bed, the sheet around his waist, and sipped at the coffee. She wasn’t anything like his usual type of woman—they tended to be intellectual, brainy, and Nordic—blue-eyed blondes with sharp wits and gym-toned bodies. Marissa pretended to be less smart than she was—he’d checked her out and her IQ was higher than his—but she was still more of a heart-person. And given her chocolate skin, brown eyes, and black curly hair, about as far away from “Nordic” as you could get.

He shook his head. And none of that mattered at all. Because what Thorn was feeling was something that hadn’t stirred in him for a long time—but not so long that he had forgotten what it was called.

He didn’t want this feeling. Couldn’t afford it, really, not at this time, but there it was.

Like it or not, he was falling in love with this woman.

Thorn sat staring at his computer’s holoproj, not really seeing it. This thing with Marissa was definitely throwing him for a loop. He had to acknowledge it, but it was still weird. She was so . . . different. . . .

He looked up and saw Colonel Kent standing in the doorway.

“Abe. Come in.”

Kent did so.

“So, what’s up?” Thorn said, shifting mental gears.

Kent said, “I’ve got a line on Natadze.”

Thorn blinked. “Really?”

Kent nodded at Thorn’s computer terminal. “Log in to his file, bring up the name Stansell.”

Thorn waved at the computer sensors, then said, “File: Natadze, sub-file, Stansell.”

A webpage blossomed in the air, a holoproj showing several guitars.

“Ask for La Tigra Blanca Tres,” Kent said.

Thorn did.

The image changed. A classical guitar appeared, rotating slowly. The instrument was a pale but rich color, somewhere between tan and off-white on the sides and back, and the color of an old manila folder on the front. The sides and back had patterns that looked like tiger stripes on them.

“Looks almost like it’s glowing,” Thorn said.

“That’s called chatoyancy. Same thing you get off a tiger’s eye gem, or a piece of fine silk. A characteristic of the wood used.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“The White Tiger,” Kent said. “And the third one with the name. Made by a guy named Les Stansell, in a little southern Oregon town just north of the California border.”

“Very nice.”

“The wood on the front is Port Orford cedar, that on the sides and back Oregon myrtlewood. Neck is Spanish cedar, the fretboard is ebony, if it makes any difference. Runs about five grand and change for Stansell’s basic models—he’s made a specialty out of these kinds of woods, and the guitars are apparently well thought of by serious players. I checked it out, they go on about tone and sustain and the top opening up fast.”

Thorn nodded.

“This particular one wound up in a specialty shop in San Francisco, and the asking price is ten thousand dollars.”

Thorn waited. “And . . . ?” he said after a moment.

“Not a lot of people walk in off the street and buy ten-thousand-dollar guitars. I sent a bulletin to every luthier and high-end shop I could find via the Net, asking to be informed of sales where the buyer of a classical instrument costing more than five thousand dollars wasn’t somebody known to the seller. I get six or eight hits a day, and I usually am able to run them down and eliminate them—with help from one of Gridley’s guys.”

“And you haven’t been able to run this one down.”

“No. The backwalk runs into a dead end.”

“Could be a lot of things,” Thorn said. “Somebody trying to keep it from his wife, maybe looking to dodge taxes, like that.”

“That’s true. I ran across that once before—some guy bought a spendy guitar and didn’t want his wife to know. But I was able to find him and figure that out pretty quick.”

“You think this is our guy.”

Kent nodded. “I do. More hunch than anything else. The shop owner was contacted via e-mail, the money was transferred from an account in the Bahamas, and the buyer is supposed to drop by and pick the guitar up tomorrow.”

“And you don’t want to have the local FBI team check it out.”

“No. This is . . . personal. I’d like to be there myself.”

Thorn nodded. “Go.”

“Thank you.”

“Natadze is a bad mark on my record, too, Abe. You need any help?”

Colonel Kent shook his head. “I don’t think so. This time, surprise will be on my side, not his.”

“Keep me posted.”

“I will, Commander.” He paused. “How’s Jay’s son doing?”

“Okay now, so I hear. Not ready to come home yet, but doing better.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes.”

 

Kent went to the shooting range and put in an hour, burning a hundred rounds through his sidearm. He was going after a professional killer who would be armed and extremely dangerous. The least he could do was make sure his weapon was working properly and he was able to shoot it straight.

He cleaned the piece at the range, reloaded it, and headed home to pack a bag.

The smart thing to do would be to get to San Francisco, assemble a team of FBI ops, plus a squad of the local police SWAT team, set it up, and if Natadze showed and blinked crooked, take him down fast.

But: Natadze hadn’t crept into somebody else’s motel room and swiped a guitar from under their sleeping noses. The man had made Kent look stupid too many times to let it pass into somebody else’s hands.

Besides, Natadze hadn’t killed him. Could have, no question about it, but didn’t, and Kent knew it didn’t have anything to do with Natadze being worried about what one more death would do to his jail time if he was ever caught. The man was a professional hit man, and yet he’d let Kent live.

That had to count for something.

No way was Kent going to respond with a posse of sharpshooters.

No, he was going to be on a plane this afternoon, and scoping out the guitar shop as soon as he could get there. Natadze might decide to come a day early—or a day late. One thing for sure: Whoever picked up that handmade ten-thousand-dollar instrument was going to have Abraham Kent on his tail when he walked out of the store. No question about that at all.

Money could only buy you so much, Locke reflected as he considered the situation. Here he was in a so-so motel in Virginia, in a tiny town that wouldn’t exist were it not for Marines and government workers. He had established that Net Force was indeed linked with CyberNation and actively trying to deal with Shing’s machinations, and when it came right down to it, that was just about all he could expect to do, wasn’t it?

Locke didn’t like trusting people in general, and less so those who did things he himself could not do. Shing was a one-trick pony, but it was a clever trick. Locke—and Wu— had to hope that Shing was sufficiently skilled at it to go against the best security in the world and win. Living on hope was dangerous.

Locke mentally shrugged. His part of this operation was going as he had planned—so far, at least. It would not fail due to mistakes he made. That might not mean much against the loss of the fortune destined for his pocket if it went sideways, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.