by Dee Davis
"And so you killed her." Madison kept her voice soft, non-condemning, almost as if she were consoling a friend.
He shot a look at the pipe again, and then buried his head in his hands. "I only meant to make her stop screaming." He looked up, nothing left of the confident man. "I just wanted to touch her. To show her what it was like to be with a man. I just wanted to make her feel good."
Madison refrained from voicing her real thoughts.
There was one more hurdle to jump first. "And Belinda Markham? Did you want to make her feel good, too?"
Jackson looked startled for a moment and then suddenly dead calm. "No. She was a whore. I just wanted to fuck her."
With a sigh, she stood up and, without looking at Jackson or Barton, walked out of the interrogation room.
"Good work in there." Walter Blythe turned from the two-way mirror. Blythe was the director of the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit and for all practical purposes he'd written the book on profiling. Furthermore, he had no business here, and her skin crawled with the premonition that something bad was about to happen. "You managed to solve a case that's been dangling over the NYPD for more than a year now."
"I did my job." It was a non-answer, but it was the best she could do. Graciously receiving compliments had never been her strong suit "Why are you here?"
Blythe smiled. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"
"Not much purpose in it." She leaned back against the desk, watching through the mirror as Barton placed handcuffs on Jackson.
"I got a call today from the director. And his call came from the White House. It seems your godfather's got a problem, and he needs you."
"Something's wrong with Cullen?" Madison frowned. Cullen Pulaski wasn't the type of man to need anyone's help.
"He's fine. But he believes several colleagues of his have been murdered."
"And the FBI is getting involved?" Curiosity tinged with worry surged through her, cresting on a note of resentment. Whatever her godfather wanted, she wasn't going to like it.
"No, Madison." Blythe's expression was forbidding. "You're going to be involved. He wants you to head up a task force he's forming. And he's got the backing to do it. As of now you're relieved of your normal duties."
"But my cases..."
Blythe waved a hand through the air, cutting her off. "Will be handed over to another profiler. As of now, you're off the job."
She opened her mouth to protest, but Barton chose that moment to bring Jackson out of the interrogation room. It was as if he were a different man. Instead of jovial and cocksure, his demeanor was hangdog and defeated.
She'd won and Jackson knew it.
They walked past, Detective Barton's gaze colliding with hers.
Resentful admiration.
She'd danced with the devil and made him pay his due, but still she was being punished. She shot a look at Blythe, who shrugged in answer.
Hell of a world.
*****
THE FLORIDA KEYS DINER was seedy at best, decrepit at worst, and nothing new in the long line of places he'd frequented of late. Decorated with gator heads, Formica and table jukeboxes in various states of disrepair, it was an odd fusion of swamp rat and Buddy Holly.
It suited his purpose. Hell, he blended right in. Which was more than he could say for the suits in the corner. Stoking his anger, Gabriel Roarke strode across the room, his movements calculated to go unnoticed. Odds were, his cover was blown, but old habits died hard.
A vague sense of unease mixed with his irritation as he recognized the men at the table. Something big was coming down if the director was here—something Gabe had the distinct feeling he wouldn't like.
Especially if it involved Cullen Pulaski.
The second man was recognizable if for no other reason than his face was plastered across the country's newspapers on an almost daily basis. It had been said on more than one occasion that the U.S. was run by the nouveau riche, and Cullen Pulaski was a card-carrying member. A renowned mathematician with a nose for business, Cullen had scored big during the tech revolution, placing him at the top of the industrial elite. His company, Dreamscape, was a permanent fixture on the Fortune 500, and that was just icing on the cake. Gabriel had worked with him years ago, and despite their differences, the two men had gotten along.
Grudgingly.
Gabe was a loner, and Cullen was as outgoing as they come, a politicians' politician. Only he preferred pulling the strings from a distance. And for the most part, what he wanted, he got. Which somehow only made Gabe angrier. To hell with the business of the CIA, when Cullen Pulaski called, everyone had damn well better come running.
"So, what the hell's this all about?" Gabe barked, sliding into the booth, his jaw locked in anger. "You're compromising my operation."
"It couldn't be helped." Cullen shrugged, dismissing Gabe's anger as if it were of no accord. "I needed you."
"And that was worth blowing a two-year investigation?" Incredulity and outrage washed through Gabe as he glared at the older man.
Evan Jensen lifted a hand, demanding silence. Not more than forty-five, Jensen was the CIA's youngest deputy director. But what he didn't have in seniority, he more than made up for with sheer presence. "I wouldn't have called you in if it wasn't important."
Gabe looked first to Pulaski and then to Evan, an eyebrow raised in question. It was a calculated look he'd practiced as a child, and once learned had never abandoned. "When I got the word, I assumed I'd been made."
"The operation hasn't been jeopardized." Jensen's voice was soft, but it was tempered with steel. "It's just been handed over to another operative."
Gabe opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it again. There was no point in antagonizing Jensen. Whatever was happening was obviously beyond his control. To hell with the fact that he'd sweated blood over this one. His was not to question why or some such bullshit.
"All right then, beyond Cullen's needing me, why don't you tell me what this is about?" There was cynicism in his voice, the overlay part and parcel of his personality. In the fourteen years he'd been with the company, he'd seen just about everything.
A waitress stopped at the table, set a cup of coffee in front of Gabe, and pulled out a pad, but Evan waved her away. So much for breakfast. Gabe reached for the coffee, sipping the acidic brew, the action soothing in its familiarity.
"What do you know about the American Business Consortium?"
"Not much." Gabe frowned. "It was formed in the wake of 9/11. An attempt at communication and cooperation among leading industrial bigwigs. If I remember right, the FTC had a field day, until the president stepped in and gave the consortium a get-out-of-jail-free card. All's fair in the fight against terrorism, I guess. Even collusion."
"There is such a thing as the greater good, Gabriel. You of all people should recognize that fact." Cullen leaned forward, his eyes sharp with intelligence. "The idea behind the consortium is really twofold. First on a reactive front, it provides a communication base and a set of standard operating procedures, should something or someone try to bring down American commerce. And, on the proactive front, it allows for increased leverage in the international market. An opportunity to forge alliances that strengthens the United States' position worldwide, both economically and politically."
"A noble cause." Gabe said the words, but didn't for a moment believe them. As far as he was concerned, patriotism couched in economic gain was suspect from the get-go.
Evan frowned in warning, but Cullen only shrugged. "There are two sides to every coin. But in this case I honestly believe the primary beneficiary is the country."
"Gentlemen," Evan cut in, "we can discuss economic philosophy until we're blue in the face and never come to agreement. The fact of the matter is that the consortium exists, and if you're correct, Cullen, under possible attack."
It was Gabe's turn to frown. "From whom?"
"I don't know." Cullen shook his head, and took a sip of coffee. "I'm not even certain there's
really a threat. I don't have anything definitive. Just a pattern. But in my business patterns are everything, and I can't ignore this one." He studied them both for a moment, leaving Gabe feeling as if he'd been found wanting. "A close friend of mine passed away recently. He met with an accident in a subway tunnel."
"Inelegant way to go," Gabe mumbled. "Was there an investigation?"
Cullen nodded. "He fell onto the tracks in front of a train, so there was of course suspicion of foul play, but the autopsy indicated a massive heart attack."
"Which would explain the tumble onto the tracks."
"Yes, but, the more relevant fact is that he was in perfect health."
"People have heart attacks all the time, Cullen. So what makes you think this one is questionable?"
"Cullen's friend is Bingham Smith, and he was on his way to a meeting with the Chinese delegation," Evan said, his tone solemn, ominous. Bingham Smith made Cullen Pulaski look like chump change. The man was notorious for leveraging takeovers of even the most unavailable companies.
"The consortium has been working on a trade deal with China for almost three years now. And we were close to success. But Bing was our lead man. He'd built a relationship with his Chinese counterpart that can't easily be replaced."
"And you think someone purposefully took him out to quash the deal?"
"I think it's a possibility."
"But surely this is something the police should be handling." Gabe looked from Cullen to Evan in confusion.
"There's more," Evan said, shooting a sideways look at Cullen.
"I mentioned a pattern. The fact is that two other consortium members have died recently."
"More subway problems?"
"No." Cullen's smile was terse at best. "Totally unrelated as far as cause. Jacob Dashal was electrocuted, and Robert Barnes was killed when one of his warehouses burned to the ground. Both deaths were ruled accidental."
"So what's the pattern, other than the fact that they were also members of the consortium?"
"Nothing concrete. It's more of a feeling I have. But each man was significant in the effort to reach economic accord with China. And their deaths caused setbacks that have been difficult to overcome."
"How many people are in this consortium?" Gabe asked, setting his now cold coffee on the table.
"There are about fifty member companies, headed by an eleven-member board, of which I'm now the acting chairman."
"Bingham served as chairman until his death. And both Barnes and Dashal were key players in the negotiations," Evan added for clarity..
Gabe nodded, trying to assimilate the information. "So you believe that someone out there wants the trade agreement to fail. And that your friends' deaths have been an attempt to stop things from moving forward."
"Yes. But I've had trouble convincing local authorities of the same. All three men died in different states, which means different jurisdictions and varying degrees of interest in pursuing anything more."
"What about the Feds?"
"Same reaction. They gave it cursory attention. I demanded that much, but the conclusion was that although it was an unfortunate coincidence, there was no evidence to support a conspiracy of any kind."
"So he's brought it to the CIA?" Gabe frowned at Evan.
"No, Gabriel," Cullen said, forcing Gabe's attention back to him. "I went to the president. And once I'd explained my concerns, he authorized a task force, a group of experts to investigate the situation and report directly back to me. I've got carte blanche to pull the members from wherever I see fit."
"Our tax dollars at work." Gabe tried but couldn't keep the cynicism from his voice.
"Cullen wants you to head up the task force, Gabe. That's why I called you in."
"You risked my operation to send me on a wild-goose chase, trying to find some illusive conspiracy dreamed up by an over moneyed, highly imaginative computer magnate?" Gabe glared at Evan, purposely ignoring Cullen.
"Your job, Roarke," Evan growled, "is to go where I tell you to go. And while your operative skills are unimpeachable, your attitude is not. The president gave the order, and wild-goose chase or no, you will head up the task force, or find a job in the private sector. Am I making myself clear?"
"Crystal." Gabe allowed his tone to border on subservient. If he hadn't been so tired, he'd never have let his anger show, but he'd been undercover for months now, and the strain was obviously taking its toll. "I didn't mean offense, Cullen."
"None taken." Cullen waved off the apology. "I realize this is out of the ordinary. And the only thing I can say to reassure you is that this accord, if successful, has the power to change the face of international commerce. Which means it's as important as whatever you're doing now."
"If there's a conspiracy."
Cullen's eyes narrowed to slits, all geniality vanishing. "There is. I'm certain of it. A good deal of successful business is based on intuition, Gabriel. And I can feel this in my gut. Something's afoot. And I need you to figure out what it is." He leaned forward, his hand gripping the edge of the table, adding a feeling of urgency to his words. "You'll of course have all the funding you need. And any personnel you desire."
"I can pull together my own team?" The idea had a certain appeal, and since the assignment was inevitable, he might as well enjoy it.
"More or less. I am asking someone from the FBI to work with you. And I suspect she'll have some ideas as to the makeup of the task force."
"She?" His eyebrow shot up again, this time of its own accord.
"Madison Harper. She's with the Investigative Support Unit."
"A profiler?" The other eyebrow rose to meet its partner, his voice breaking on his surprise.
"An excellent one." Cullen nodded, ignoring Gabe's reaction. "She's also a friend. I trust her implicitly. And more importantly, I think she'll be the perfect complement to your more tumultuous style."
Gabe decided to let it pass. There was enough to deal with without further antagonizing the man who was apparently his new boss. "How soon do you want to get started?"
"As soon as possible. Evan has agreed to let you have anyone you need, and I have similar permission from other agencies. I want the best. And I trust that you can get them for me. Of course you'll probably want to meet Madison first."
Actually, she was the last person he wanted to meet. He wasn't a share-command kind of guy, and quite frankly the prospect of sharing it with some quasi-cerebral FBI guru made the idea that much more loathsome.
Especially when said guru was a woman.
CHAPTER TWO
NIGEL FERRIS LISTENED to the hum of the 747's engine, his ear catching the subtle whine as the pilot adjusted the flaps. Everything was fine. The fact that he was suspended in a tin can thirty thousand feet above the earth was non-negotiable.
Gabe called, and Nigel answered.
Even if it meant flying commercial.
It was ridiculous, really. He'd spent the better part of his career taking risks that no sane human would even contemplate, and here he was afraid of a bloody aeroplane.
"Can I get you something to drink, sir?" The flight attendant was a middle-aged woman, from La Paz by the sound of it. Not exactly the nubile nymphet one associated with the word stewardess.
Nigel contained a sigh. "I'll have a whiskey, neat, please." Might as well numb the discomfort churning in his gut. It wasn't just the plane. It was the whole damn thing. He smiled blankly as the woman handed him his drink, then took a sip, the accompanying burn doing little to assuage his worry.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, he'd been deep in the jungle, immersed in a world far removed from the quasi-luxury of whiskey in a plastic cup. Not that he was enjoying the fact. Truth was, he'd rather be back in camp.
He'd been close to accomplishing his goal, and now all that was blown to bloody hell.
Because of Gabriel Roarke.
Nigel leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes, the past tumbling through his mind, cushioned by the Maker's Mark.
He'd first met Gabe in Saudi Arabia, part of a mission into Iraq so classified he still wasn't allowed to talk about it.
But he remembered. Dear God, he remembered. It was the stuff of his nightmares.
Taking another sip of his drink, he opened his eyes again to stare down at the open dossier on his lap. It might have been Gabe's message that pulled him out of the jungle, but it was another man that had clinched the deal, at least as far as Nigel's superiors were concerned.
Cullen Pulaski.
A man would have to be dead not to know who he was. His name was plastered across the headlines enough. Every news rag in the free world covered Cullen Pulaski. But Nigel wasn't interested in magazine articles. His connection with Pulaski was much more personal. And the idea of working with the bastard again wasn't exactly the thrill of a lifetime.
Still, it was bound to be interesting. Nothing about the man was ever boring. And if Gabriel and Payton were involved, he wasn't one to be left on the outside. Not that it had been an option.
His orders had come from the very top. The prime minister's directive. The objective abundantly clear.
And he supposed that, as much as anything, was causing his queasiness. Gabriel Roarke wasn't a man one wanted to cross, and certainly not betray.
And yet, if Nigel was to be true to his directive—that's exactly what he was about to do.
*****
"I REALLY SHOULDN'T BE doing this, you know." Harrison Blake looked up from the FBI computer terminal, his hair sticking up every which way. He was the epitome of the boy next door, and one of the best computer forensic men in the country.
He was also Madison Harper's friend. They'd trained together at Quantico, and even when Harrison had left the Bureau for the private sector, they'd remained close. He was the first person she'd called after she'd received the news about the task force.
In the past twenty-four hours she'd managed to finalize the paperwork on Paul Jackson, update her replacement concerning ongoing cases, and meet with Cullen for a rundown on what he expected. All that was left was to assemble the team. But before that, she needed an ally, and Harrison fit the bill to a tee.
