Smoked

by Slade, Heather

  He led me into a conference room and closed the door behind us. “I guess it’s a good sign that I don’t have an office here anymore.”

  After reviewing most of what was in the initial brief and answering the questions I had, Cope and I discussed my cover, which really wasn’t much of one. I was headed to France under my own identity, taking on a job for his mole at Interpol—a woman currently working in Secretary-General Kim’s office.

  20

  Siren

  After three days, I was bored out of my feckin’ mind and I was driving Hughes mad.

  “It takes time, Siren,” he said. “I understand you were used to being able to see a doctor in the States at a moment’s notice, but this is Ireland.”

  “It shouldn’t take a fortnight to see a physician.”

  “Contrary to what you may believe, IMI has no control over the public health-care system. Find something to do, Siren. Read a book, go for walks in the park. Just leave me alone!”

  “He didn’t need to hang up on me,” I muttered to my mobile.

  It wasn’t so much my own company I was getting sick of. It was more that I spent every waking moment thinking about Smoke. When I slept, he appeared in my dreams. Twenty-four hours a day with nothing but the Smoke channel playing in my brain, and I had to get out of the house.

  I made the trek from Dublin down to Waterford, the place where I was born, just to see if being there stirred any memories of my mother.

  I spent the afternoon visiting the cemetery where she was buried and sitting in my car in front of the house I grew up in. I was dismayed when neither brought back a single recollection.

  The file Mansfield gave me had something in it about where my mother had spent most of her life working. The shop was located nearby the Waterford Clock Tower that sat on the banks of the River Suir.

  After taking a break for a cup of tea, I decided to stay the night. There were several hotels in this part of the city, and given how reasonably priced they were, I went with the swankiest.

  While I shouldn’t bother, I sent Hughes a text, informing him of my whereabouts. In Waterford for a few days.

  Good, he answered a few seconds later. While you’re there, see if you can find the Irish Crown Jewels.

  I knew Rory was making a joke, but in doing so, I was reminded of the story of their disappearance. I searched it up on my mobile and read the account of the jewels that had gone missing in 1907 and had yet to be recovered.

  The star and badge regalia, officially known as the Jewels Belonging to the Most Illustrious Order of Saint Patrick, were last worn by the seventh Earl of Aberdeen on the fifteenth of March at a function to mark Saint Patrick’s Day.

  After the ceremony, the jewels were given to Sir Arthur Vicars, the Ulster King of Arms, for safekeeping.

  It was unclear why Vicars was entrusted with them, but four months later, when the jewels were to be displayed at an Irish International Exhibition in honor of a visit by King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra, the jewels were discovered to be missing.

  There were several theories as to who may have stolen them, but no one was more suspect than Vicars.

  The stories that surfaced at the time were beyond salacious, including accusing Vicars of hosting drunken—some said homosexual—orgies at Dublin Castle.

  One account read: “The police charged with collecting evidence in connection with the disappearance of the Crown Jewels from Dublin Castle in 1907 collected evidence inseparable from it of criminal debauchery and sodomy being committed in the castle by officials, Army officers, and a couple of nondescripts of such position that their conviction and exposure would have led to an upheaval from which the Chief Secretary shrank. To prevent that, he suspended the operation of the Criminal Law, and appointed a whitewashing commission with the result for which it was appointed.”

  What in the feckin’ hell? They just gave up the search?

  Waterford’s connection to the theft, though, came about several years later, in 1920, when James Mallory, a former employee of Arthur Vicars, confessed on his deathbed that Vicars had paid him to transport and hide the jewels in the town’s famous clock tower.

  An extensive search was conducted, but of course, the jewels weren’t found there either.

  After spending an inordinate amount of time and money in the Waterford bookstore, I retired to my room, from where I had a picturesque view of the clock tower.

  That night, instead of my dreams being filled with images of Smoke, I saw diamonds and emeralds and rubies.

  * * *

  The next morning, I left the hotel in search of James Mallory, the grandson of the man who’d worked for Vicars and claimed the jewels were hidden in the tower. According to the owner of the bookstore, he stilled lived in Waterford and not far from my hotel.

  21

  Smoke

  “You damn traitor,” said Decker when I answered his call.

  I laughed. “You, of all people, should know what it’s like being independent. Not to mention, I know all about your history with Doc Butler’s family.”

  “Burns Butler is the best man I know, and I know a lot of ’em.” It was well-known through the intelligence community that Doc Butler’s father, code name Burns, had mentored Decker in intelligence technology from the time he was a teenager. In fact, many were surprised that when Ashford finally joined a team, he went with the Invincibles over Doc’s firm.

  “Doc made a joke about why K19 doesn’t just merge with you guys, but we both decided that was a train wreck in the making.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “There must be a reason you called other than to give me shit about taking an assignment from K19.”

  “It’s about Siren.”

  I took a deep breath. “What you’re about to tell me better be fucking good news, Deck. Otherwise, if you’ve just wasted precious time on small talk, your days on earth are numbered.”

  The asshole laughed. “I got a hit in Waterford.”

  That wasn’t a surprise, given that’s where she was born and raised.

  “I did some other checking and don’t know what to make of what I found.”

  “Get to the point, Deck.”

  “She ran up a pretty big tab at the local bookstore. The subject matter is what I found most intriguing.”

  “You know what books she bought?”

  That shouldn’t come as a surprise, given I’d been in France less than twenty-four hours and Deck knew about my current mission.

  “Several about the missing Irish Crown Jewels.”

  “Several?”

  “Ten.”

  I had to admit that was odd. “I thought it was well known that the two pieces were taken apart and sold as individual gems.”

  “It’s one theory.”

  “All right, you’ve got me interested. What do you make of it?”

  “If I had to guess, she’s discovered something that led her to believe she can find them.”

  I was at a loss as to what to say. Sure, I wanted to know everything about Siren’s life, but I wanted to know it firsthand, not from Decker. I wanted her in my arms, in my bed, and in my life—permanently, but that wasn’t possible. Even before her memory came back, it hadn’t been.

  “There’s something else you need to know.”

  “Get on with it, Decker.”

  “I’m not the only one tracking her.”

  “Fuck,” I muttered. “Who else?”

  “Someone at Interpol headquarters. I haven’t been able to determine exactly who yet.”

  I knew from my meeting with Cope that the Interpol Executive Committee was convening this week; it was the primary reason why he was so anxious for me to get started. It would be the only time his three primary suspects would be in the same place at the same time this quarter. My next opportunity to surveil the three men together wouldn’t be until October.

  “Do you have any idea why someone from Interpol would have their eyes on Siren?”

  “Negative, b
ut I sure as hell intend to find out.”

  “Thanks, Decker.”

  “I have a couple more updates for you.”

  “About?”

  “Siren’s nurse turned up in London. Seems she’s taken on another private nursing gig.”

  I’d wired the remaining funds I owed her before I left the States and headed for France. “Good to know,” I said, not really caring other than to know the woman was accounted for. “What was the other update?”

  “Your security system at the Blazing T is fully operational. For the time being, I’m receiving the same alerts Zeke gets, and I have mirror monitoring set up. I’ll keep an eye on things while you’re off playin’.”

  “You meant while I’m off saving the world. Seriously, thanks, Decker.”

  “You’re welcome. Maybe after this, you’ll agree to step away from the dark side.”

  “Ah, that’s gonna hurt ol’ Burns’ feelings when I tell him what you said about his number one son.”

  I could hear Decker’s laughter as he ended the call.

  I didn’t like the connection between my mission and Siren one bit. Why would anyone from Interpol be keeping an eye on her? I thought about calling Decker back, but if someone had been watching her while she was at my ranch, he sure as hell would’ve said so.

  * * *

  The operative Cope had undercover at Interpol was someone who’d worked the same op Siren and I had for Rile. Calla “Casper” Rey had been one hell of an agent, and thankfully, after she walked out of the CIA, the Invincibles team had managed to keep her busy.

  I’d known her late husband, Beau Rey, since the early days when we were both green recruits at the Farm. Beau had been killed during a mission in Venezuela, and rumors soon started circulating that the shot that ended his life was from friendly fire. Shortly after the chatter began about the circumstances of his death, the entire mission was burned. No trace of it anywhere.

  If I were Casper, I would’ve done the same thing she did. I probably would’ve taken it a step further, though, and walked away from the intelligence community entirely.

  Like Siren, Casper loved what she did. If she couldn’t do the work she’d been trained to do, what might’ve become of her life? At least by working freelance, those of us who knew her, and who had known Beau, could keep an eye on her. I was surprised when Cope told me she had taken on the assignment, but he wasn’t officially CIA anymore either.

  “Secretary-General Kim’s office,” Casper answered with a perfect French accent. “How may I assist you?”

  “Smoke Torcher, reporting for duty, ma’am.”

  “Oui, Monsieur Torcher, I am happy to confirm your reservation at the Lyon Metropolis, this evening at nineteen hundred hours.”

  “See ya then, Casper.”

  * * *

  When we met at the bar later, Casper kept up her French accent when we exchanged hellos, along with her cover name, Angelique Bonet.

  “How’s Siren?” she whispered after looking around us to see if anyone was close enough to eavesdrop.

  “Better.” I waited until the bartender, the only person in the room with us, went into the back. “Someone from Interpol has their eyes on her. Do you know who?”

  Casper nodded. “Byrne ordered it, but it was above my head.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I listened in on a conversation between Byrne and Hughes. Rory was updating Daniel on Siren’s condition and made a joke about sending her off to look for the Irish Crown Jewels while she was on administrative leave.”

  “What did Byrne say?”

  “He asked where she was, specifically, and Hughes told him she was in Waterford.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, but as soon as he ended the call, he asked me to set up a meeting between him and one of the intel guys.”

  “Why would he care that Siren was in a turd hunt for jewels that would never be found?” I didn’t expect Casper to answer; I was thinking out loud. “Any leads on a connection to the former CIA director?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but there’s an off-site meeting scheduled tomorrow between Byrne, Kim, and Antonov.”

  “No one else?”

  “Not that I’ve been able to find.”

  “Will you have ears on it?”

  She nodded. “And eyes.”

  “How?”

  Casper cocked her head. “How do you think?”

  “I thought this was a K19 mission.”

  “As if Decker could keep his nose out of it.”

  Under different circumstances, I might’ve given the man shit about it, but Decker had been in on taking down the director since the very beginning when Cope and another operative, Irish Warrick, grew suspicious about the deaths of some of the CIA’s best agents. I couldn’t fault him for wanting to see this through to the end.

  “What have you got for me to work on while we wait for them to act?”

  Casper pulled three files out of her bag. “Three CIA-related cold cases. Make yourself look useful.” She looked over her shoulder when the bartender came back in. “Au revoir, Monsieur Torcher.”

  After Casper left, I went up to my room, opened the first envelope, and reviewed the documents. The case, now ten years old, was known as the La Chapelle-Saint-Maurice killings, named for the town in which the murders occurred. It involved the deaths of three members of a French family, one Brit, and one American citizen. There were two survivors.

  While the local French authorities weren’t made aware of it, of the five people killed, the Brit was actually an IMI agent, and two others were CIA operatives—the American and one member of the French family, Pierre Martin. Martin’s wife and son were also killed in the attack. His two daughters, then aged eight and six, survived with minor injuries.

  After five years of investigation, French police said they had “no working theory” to explain the murders and no suspects. Given there was no known link between the three operatives killed, the CIA had no working theory either.

  The other two cases Casper gave to me also related to murders of CIA agents that had taken place in France. The first was of a Russian-American double-agent; the second case involved an undercover agent on a mission for South Korea.

  There were countless other cases of murdered CIA agents that had gone unsolved, but each of these three could ultimately lead to a connection with Byrne, Kim, and/or Antonov—the very men Cope believed the former director had been working either with or for.

  22

  Siren

  After more than a feckin’ week, I still hadn’t tracked down James Mallory. I began to think the gobshite was hiding from me.

  I’d spent the last several days learning all I could about my dearly departed mother. She was a right saint from the way people talked about her. I began having my own memories of her after the family who lived in the house I grew up in got wind that I was in town and invited me to pop over for a visit.

  As I walked through the front gate and up to the door, it was as though I’d traveled back in time. I suddenly felt like a young lass coming home from school.

  As I sat in their kitchen, I could see myself having breakfast as my mother fussed about, getting both of us ready for our day. And then doing my homework at the same table while I waited for her to get home from work.

  I didn’t remember my mother being particularly angelic or mean-spirited. My ma was just my ma.

  It was when the woman invited me to look around upstairs that my memories hit the hardest. As I rounded the corner into the room where I somehow knew my mother slept, even without closing my eyes, I could see her lying in the bed where she’d breathed her last breath.

  “I’m so sorry,” said the woman. “I know your ma was sick for a long time.”

  “Cancer,” I murmured, walking farther down the hallway to the room that had been mine. “Do you have a daughter?” I asked, after opening the door and seeing the same pink-flowered wallpaper that had always been there.

 
; “We did have,” the woman said, wiping away her own tears.

  “Oh,” I said, startled. “My apologies.”

  “Cancer like your ma. Her name was Siobhan too.”

  I was overcome by discomfort and wanted to race back down the stairs and out of the house, but the woman had been so kind, I stopped myself.

  “Thank you for allowing me a look about.”

  “You’re welcome to come back around anytime.”

  I nodded, making a beeline for the front door. “Thank you, and goodbye.” I was about to close the door when she hollered for me to wait.

  “I have something that belongs to you.” She came to where I stood in the doorway, carrying a small metal box.

  “What’s in it?” I asked.

  “I’ve no idea.” She pointed to the padlock on the latch. “I couldn’t find a key.”

  “Um, I’ve walked here from my hotel. Would it be all right if I swung by and picked it up later?”

  “Of course. It’s been here as long as we’ve lived here; another few hours won’t matter.”

  I went straight from there back to the cemetery where my mother, along with her parents, whom I’d never met, were buried. I sat down in front of her tombstone, pulled my legs up tight to my body, and wrapped my arms around them.

  “Did we ever talk?” I asked out loud, staring at her name etched into the stone. “Why can’t I remember us having conversations?”

  What no one seemed to know, or was willing to talk about, was who had gotten my mother pregnant. Was it another memory unwilling to reveal itself to me, or had it always been kept from me?

  “Who was he, Ma?” I looked up at a man who could be about her age, walking down the sidewalk. He kept going without looking in my direction. “Was it him?” I asked, pointing toward the road. I lowered my head and cried, feeling the pain of missing her for the first time since I set foot in Waterford several days ago.