The Kill Shot (2 page)

Barrett and I didn't stay for the after-dinner dancing.

We went back to my place, a Federal-era townhouse in Old Town Alexandria.

Neither of us said much along the way. Or once we were inside. While he opened the chocolates, I sprung a bottle of Perrier-Jouët from the bottom rack of my refrigerator.

With a silver gilt tray bearing the champagne and a pair of crystal flutes in my trembling hands, I found Barrett on the balcony beyond my living room. The day's heat had lifted, leaving a chill that carried the promise of fall. A rising fog threatened to obscure the view from my place all the way along the Potomac.

“If you look along the river,” I told him, “you can see the Capitol and the Washington Monument.”

“Beautiful,” Barrett said, but he wasn't looking at the landscape.

My cheeks grew warm, so I got busy arranging the wineglasses.

That's when Barrett said, “I have to leave tomorrow. I can't tell you where I'm going. I don't know when I'm coming back.”

“It's okay.” I smiled. It was the one that said I'm-not-made-of-spun-glass-so-don't-you-dare-act-like-it. But I didn't feel that way. “I won't ask where you're headed.”

Barrett reached for me then. His strong, sure hand grasped my wrist. He tugged me to him.

His mouth met mine like he'd thought of kissing me all summer.

That first kiss led to a second one. The second led to a third. When that kiss led to more than that, Barrett whispered, “Maybe we should go inside.”

I nodded, but I wasn't sure I agreed with him. After all, where inside did he want to go? Into the living room?

Or into the bedroom?

I hadn't seen him in months. Had only met him days before that. Still, I took Barrett by the hand, led him from the balcony. His fingers twined through mine and my heart beat faster. When he veered toward the sofa, my heart pounded.

Barrett sank into the cushions, pulled me into his lap.

He kissed me again as his hand skimmed my stockinged calf. His fingertips found the bandage plastered over my knee. He froze.

“What's this?”

“Occupational hazard.”

Barrett frowned. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“No pain, no gain.”

It was a stupid thing to say. I knew it the second the words were out of my mouth. Barrett shook his head and got ready to tell me so. Before he could, I caught his face between my palms. I kissed him hard enough to give him something else to think about.

When we weren't vertical anymore, the intercom linked to my front door began to buzz like an angry bee.

It kept on buzzing.

“Maybe they'll go away,” Barrett murmured against my throat.

But the intercom complained again. It sounded in pattern. Bursts of sound in sets of six: short-short-long, short-short-long.

“
They
aren't going anywhere,” I grumbled. “
They
are my father.”

Like a kid caught necking on the couch, Barrett sat bolt upright. If my father had been anybody else, I might have laughed. Instead, I struggled out of the couch cushions, twitched my dress's silk taffeta into place, and sprinted downstairs.

By the time I made it to the front door, the buzzer had complained three more times. I checked the closed-circuit monitor pointed at my doorstep, more to kill time than verify the identity of my visitor. I knew who it was, all right. I just wished Barrett's kisses hadn't left my mouth red and swollen. My father would notice in a heartbeat—and he wouldn't hesitate to comment on it.

I opened the door to my father, still stately in his tuxedo despite the late hour. Roger stood at his shoulder. Behind them both, my father's long, black, chauffeur-driven Town Car gleamed at the stone curb.

“Sir,” I said, “I didn't expect—”

My father swept past me and into my house.

Normally when my father visits, he wouldn't be caught dead beyond my first-floor office. Tonight, though, he didn't even spare a glance for the brocade fireside chairs fronting my antique desk or the Sheraton sideboard loaded with crystal decanters of scotch and vodka. Without a word, the Senator turned to the sweeping staircase that led to the floors above.

And he began to climb.

Roger followed him. I bounded up the stairs behind them both, skidded to a halt on the top step. The half-empty bottle of champagne stood like a sentry on my coffee table. The forgotten box of chocolates remained beside it. Barrett's tuxedo jacket lay crumpled in the deep leather chair where I'd tossed it half an hour ago.

My father spotted all these things and more.

Barrett himself flanked my cold fireplace, his broad back to us. His hands were clasped behind him as he perused the titles on my built-in bookcases. Not that he'd shown a burning passion for the classics earlier in the evening.

“I see I'm interrupting,” my father said.

At the sound of his voice, Barrett turned. His face was blank, a cop's face. Ready for anything. Like an introduction to one of the most powerful men in Washington. Or to an opinionated father.

I cleared my throat. “Sir, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Adam Barrett, United States Army?”

My father didn't shake the hand Barrett offered, but he did speak to him. “I'm afraid I'm putting an end to your evening, soldier. Unfortunately, it can't be helped. Good night.”

Barrett didn't move. He didn't even blink. He opened his mouth to reply to my father—but I couldn't let him do it.

“Thank you,” I interposed, “for the chocolates.”

Barrett's stony face turned my way.

I made sure he saw dismissal on mine.

“I'll call you,” he promised and, right in front of my father, he touched a hand to my waist, pressed a kiss to my cheek.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until he disappeared down the staircase.

“How long,” my father said, “has
that
been going on?”

I glanced at Roger, but got no help in coming up with an answer. He stood at the head of the stairs, squinting down the flight and ensuring Barrett indeed left my house.

“Not long.” My voice sounded weak and childish to my own ears. I hated it.

“Then it's not serious,” my father decided.

I didn't reply. His opinion didn't matter to me. But that was a lie I often told myself.

In any case, my father didn't hear my lack of response. Or anything else, really. His knees buckled and he slumped down on the sofa Barrett and I had just vacated.

“Sir,” I asked, “are you all right?”

Roger crossed to my balcony, shut the French doors against the night. My father laced his fingers together. His hands were shaking.

“Jamie,” he said, “I need you to do a favor for me.”

In all the years of my life, I'd never heard my father request a favor from anyone. Not from his brothers-in-arms, not from the politicos who walked Washington's halls of power, and certainly not from me. The idea that my father needed a favor—and was reduced to asking me for one—had the champagne I'd drunk churning in my stomach.

My father didn't look like he felt much better, but he forced his shaking hands into fists, shoved himself to his feet. He put one foot in front of the other and crossed my Savonerie rug as if he'd just dropped in to check the time on the antique grandfather clock ticking away in my stair hall. Like the exacting parent I'd always known, he peered into its antique face, consulted the Patek Phillipe on his wrist, and found my timepiece wanting.

“No doubt,” he said, lifting the clock's bonnet and poking at the minute hand, “you're aware I serve on several congressional committees.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, one of my committees has been presented with an opportunity.”

“What kind of opportunity?”

My father's hand began to tremble again. “An invaluable one.”

From his reaction, I didn't doubt that for a second. And a sneaking suspicion told me he wasn't the only one who thought so. That suspicion made me ask, “Which committee are we talking about?”

My father cleared his throat. “The Armed Services Committee.”

Now it was my turn to sink into a seat. The twenty-six-member Armed Services Committee was Congress's be-all and end-all when it came to the nation's military. Every aspect of the country's defenses fell within its purview. The committee kept tabs on the condition of our battleships, tanks, and aircraft. It judged the readiness of military housing, hospitals, and the troops themselves. A decree from the committee could reinstate Selective Service. And it was the committee who knew all the secrets of our nuclear stockpiles.

As a seasoned senator and a former two-star general, my father was the ranking member on this committee. The others didn't dare make a decision without consulting him. If he needed a favor, the entire country needed it.

And if he needed that favor from me, how could I refuse to help?

“In a few hours,” my father said, “a State Department courier named Katie deMarco is leaving for London. I want you to go with her.”

But there had to be more to the favor than that. I looked to Roger for confirmation. He didn't say a word, but he tucked a finger into his collar, ran it around his throat as if his bow tie were suddenly too tight.

Meanwhile, my father read my mind. “I want you to protect this courier, Jamie. I want you to see her safely back to Washington.”

“So this Katie deMarco is in some danger?”

My father let loose with his slick, politician's smile. “Probably not.”

He crooked his finger and Roger slipped a fat envelope from the inner breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He handed the envelope to me. It didn't have my name on it. It bore no return address, either. I broke the seal, flipped through its contents.

I found a First Class plane ticket for the last evening flight from Reagan National Airport, £2,000 in slightly worn notes, and a platinum credit card—already embossed with my name.

I didn't like the looks of all that loose cash. It suggested bribery would be expected of me. I didn't like that the cash had probably come from some super-secret government slush fund, either. I really didn't like that no one's name could be linked to this little endeavor, but mine was stamped in big, bold letters on the credit card. Most of all, I hated that my involvement had clearly been a foregone conclusion. After all, my father hadn't asked Roger to stick my name on that card during the ride to my house.

When I opened my mouth to say all this, my father's hand closed over mine.

“Jamie, you're the only one I trust to do this.”

I wanted to laugh at him. I wanted to cry. My father had never entrusted anything to me in his life. Until now. I felt like a kid chosen to carry the king's crown to the coronation.

“I won't fail,” I said.

“I know you won't.” The Senator spared another glance for his wristwatch. “My car will return for you in forty-three minutes.”

With that, he rose, drew Roger in his wake, and sailed from the room.

Once I'd shut the front door behind my father's retreating back, I wasted no time packing. It didn't take long. I traveled to Great Britain often, so I knew just what to take for a September visit. I knew what I couldn't take, too. The British authorities weren't fans of handguns, and even if I packed mine in their airline-approved cases and checked them as baggage, I'd never get them through Customs.

Of course, why would I need weapons? Escorting a State Department courier wasn't difficult, regardless of what my father said. We were going to twenty-first-century London, not Cold War–era Leningrad. Besides, according to the return date on my airline ticket, I'd only be on the ground two days before we had to fly back. We were in danger of jet lag and catching colds, and that was it.

No sooner had I reached this conclusion than the Senator's Town Car arrived to collect me—and ready or not, I was on my way.

Once I'd checked in and had run the gauntlet of Reagan National's security, I debated calling Barrett. I could've told him I missed him, that I was sorry my father interrupted our evening, and that I had to leave the country rather unexpectedly. But he himself would be leaving in the morning. I had no idea where he was headed or when he'd be back. I didn't know what his absences meant for our relationship—or if we even
had
a relationship. Sure, I had feelings for the man. But I wasn't sure how deep those feelings could go.

In the end, I reminded myself Barrett had my cell phone number. If he really wanted to contact me, he could. And with that decision made, I found my gate, got ready to board my flight.

My fellow late-night travelers were the usual mix of British business folk on their way home and American tourists hoping to get a jump on their London sightseeing by taking the red-eye. Tweed and tennis shoes predominated. One young woman, though, wore gray gabardine slacks, a gray silk sweater, and black pearls. She'd tossed her matching suit coat over her rolling gray carry-on. I immediately pegged her as my State Department courier, figuring if Mattel had made a life-sized State Department Barbie, she would be it. But it wasn't her blond chignon, sensible shoes, or chic ensemble that gave her away.

It was the flat, navy-blue canvas bag she held in her lap.

From its rolled leather handles to its heavy-duty brass zipper and the small, steel padlock that sealed it shut, I knew it for what it was: a diplomatic pouch.

Diplomats the world over carried items from their capitals to their consulates in these pouches. And under the terms of the Second Vienna Convention, penned after the First World War, these bags were exempt from search and seizure. If a Customs or other foreign official so much as sneezed on one, it became an international incident.

With my eye on the bag, I slid into the molded plastic seat beside her. She stopped fiddling with her smartphone and looked up, well aware that she wasn't alone anymore. As far as staying safe went, awareness of her surroundings was a good first step, and I was glad to see her make it.

Her teeth glistened like white pearls in contrast to the black ones at her throat. “You're Jamie Sinclair.”

When I didn't deny it, she thrust out her hand and we shook.

“I'd know you anywhere,” she told me. “You probably hear this all the time, but you look just like your father.”

Well, thankfully, I didn't look
exactly
like him. After all, he was a man. But I did have his dark locks and eyes the color of an approaching thunderstorm.

“You should ask me for ID,” I warned her. “I could be anyone.”

She laughed, and if happiness had a sound, that would've been it.

“I'm Katie deMarco.” She flashed me her passport photo. “Roger says you're going to look out for me.”

“Will you need someone to look out for you?”

“You bet. Don't let me spend too much at Harrods.”

This time, when she laughed, I found myself laughing with her.

We boarded the plane, settled into the First Class seats Roger had booked for us. Wistfully, Katie powered down her cell phone. If she were like most government grunts, she'd need to have it surgically removed from her hand.

She managed to tuck the device into her carry-on, though, and the flight attendant stowed the bag along with mine. We were more than happy to have the stewardess hang our jackets, too. Katie, though, didn't let her touch the diplomatic pouch. Instead, she slipped it between her feet for takeoff and dinner. And when the cabin lights dimmed and our seats converted to little beds, she slept with the pouch under her pillow.

At no point did I ask her what she carried in the pouch. Chances were she didn't know. If she did, her superiors probably wouldn't thank her for telling me. I wondered how its contents could be linked to my father and Congress's Armed Services Committee, but knowing wouldn't change my job. My father had asked me to see Katie to London and safely home again, and that's what I intended to do.

At Heathrow, we grabbed our carry-ons and breezed through Customs. Katie wasted no time firing up her cell phone. Immediately, the thing chimed with an incoming message.

The corners of her mouth creased when she read it.

“Bad news?” I asked.

She jerked as if I'd poked her with a pin. But her delightful smile wasn't far behind. “No, not at all. I've just got to send a text.”

Her thumbs flew across her phone's keys as we joined the queue for taxicabs. Waiting one's turn is sacrosanct to the Brits, but thanks to an airport employee wearing an official Heathrow windbreaker and a whistle around his neck, we didn't have to wait long. In a matter of minutes, he'd shoehorned two tired American parents and their four squalling kids into a black cab, secured a car for an Italian businessman who delivered a tip with a slick handshake, and wrestled enough camping gear to house Barnum and Bailey's Circus into the taxi of the two Australian co-eds who'd dragged it all the way from their homeland.

When the attendant turned his back to work his magic for Katie and me, a man emerged from a Plexiglas bus shelter on the other side of the median. Head down, hands stuffed in his windbreaker pockets, and with a groove between his eyebrows that could crack walnuts, he looked like a long-armed gorilla making his way through London's September mist.

Instead of hustling into the airport proper, though, or embracing a loved one at the curb, he made a beeline for us.

At first, I thought he intended to cut in front of us to try to nab our cab. But when he closed in on Katie, I realized he had something else on his mind.

Like a Canadian hockey player, Gorilla hip-checked my traveling companion. The slam knocked her off balance. I grabbed for her but only got a handful of air as the sole of Katie's shoe slipped from the curb. Her phone clattered to the pavement—and her ankle twisted in the gutter. With a cry, she fell against the open door of the cab and slid down the panel.

She ended up on her rear.

And the diplomatic pouch ended up in her lap.

Her assailant didn't let it stay there. Gorilla's thick fingers snatched it up. And he turned to run.

“Hey!” I shouted.

The attendant blasted his whistle. Security personnel, decked out in riot gear, burst from the terminal. A motorcycle roared past the cab line. It was a sleek street bike of red and black. Its rider wore a red and black helmet. The visor obscured his face.

The bike rocketed past us, screeched to a halt beside the Gorilla. Gorilla threw his leg over the saddle. Helmet Head revved the bike's engine.

And I latched hold of the diplomat's pouch.

Gorilla snarled at me. An angry rictus twisted his face. He jerked the bag, tried to rip it from my hands.

My fingers ached and my shoulders burned, but I held on. My father had entrusted Katie to me and Katie needed this pouch. I planted my Cole Haan flat on the side of Gorilla's knee, rallied all my strength, and tore the pouch away from him.

Down I went, sucking exhaust as Helmet Head and the Gorilla roared away. But I had the pouch, and that was all that mattered. I scrambled to my feet, shouted to Katie.

“Get in the cab!”

I didn't have to tell her twice. Katie grabbed her phone, crawled across the taxi's floorboards. I piled into the vehicle behind her and slammed the door.

“Go!” I told the driver. When he hesitated, I pulled the wad of pound notes Roger had given me from my trouser pocket. I peeled off quite a few, stuffed them through the Plexiglas divider between us. “The Marriott at Piccadilly and Regent Street.”

The cash decided him.

His foot pounded the gas pedal.

Katie grasped her left ankle, winced, and struggled into the seat beside me. “Do you have the pouch?”

“Oh, I've got it.”

But the pouch wasn't all I had. Where Gorilla had gripped it, a leather handle had torn loose from the dark canvas. The steel lock and thick, brass zipper were still intact, but the stitching alongside them had given way. As a result, the bag gaped open like a fabric envelope. And I could see what lay inside.

Two maroon booklets, each the size of a party invitation, shone against the interior of the bag like two new, sweet peas in a pod. Both had the coat of arms of Great Britain stamped into their covers. The sight made the spot between my shoulder blades crawl. Because these were British passports. And they had no business arriving in London in the hands of a U.S. State Department courier.

Katie tried to pluck them from my hand. “Here. I—”

I blocked her with my elbow, flipped open the first booklet, and found the bearer's information page. The passport had been issued to someone named Ikaat Oujdad. But where this Oujdad's photo should've been, I found an empty square.