by Radclyffe
Slowly, Cam slid her left hand over until her fingers met Blair's. "I see you, Blair. Even when I'm working. I always see you."
"I'm sorry." Blair smiled wryly. "God, I can't believe I'm jealous of your job now."
"I think being together takes a little getting used to."
Blair laughed. "You think?" She slid her sketch pad into her portfolio and secured her drawing pencils. "I am completely new at this. I don't have a clue as to what I'm doing." She glanced at her lover, who regarded her seriously. "The only thing of which I'm entirely certain is that I want us to be together."
"Then we are in complete agreement." Cam stood, lifted her left hand, and advised her agents of their departure.
The service entrance opened into a warren of storage rooms, with a bank of elevators at the end of a long hallway. Next to the elevators, a sign marked the stairwell. The man in the electrician's uniform pushed the bar handle, and the stairwell door opened soundlessly. With steady steps, he began the climb to the roof.
In the main lobby of the building, two bored French security officers lounged behind the information desk, conversing with the receptionist who relayed calls to the various offices and provided directions to those visitors who might need them.
Francois Remy glanced at his watch. "Do you want to do the first walk-through or do you want me to take it?"
Henri Bouchard shrugged. "I'll take this one, and you can have the next."
"Good enough."
Henri set out to take the elevator to the fifteenth floor to commence the inspection of the building. His route would wend from one end of each hallway to the other and down the stairwell between floors. Most of the offices were occupied, and he would spot-check those, particularly the ones facing the Institut Gustave-Roussy. He sighed as he watched the numbers above the elevator doors count down to one. Such a lot of fuss for one woman. If she weren 't an American. ..
When the man with the toolbox reached the fifteenth-floor landing, he found a door to his left that led to the corridor and offices. To his right, a narrow staircase led up to a single gray steel door at roof level. He made his way up and paused a few steps below the door. A red sign warned that any attempt to open it would trigger a central alarm.
Unhurriedly, he set down his toolbox, opened it, and removed a set of screwdrivers, a wire stripper, and fine needle-nose pliers. Working quickly but coolly, he removed the faceplate from the alarm box, inspected the simplistic design to ensure that no backup alarms had been added, and rerouted the signal around the door connection. Then he replaced the faceplate, secured his tools, and pushed open the door. It had taken him exactly six minutes to reach the roof from the street.
1200 16Aug01
RedDog in position
CHAPTER SIX
A t precisely 1200, Bouchard stepped off the elevator at the east end of the fifteenth floor and headed down the corridor at a steady pace. From behind partially open doors came the low murmur of voices and the insistent hum of myriad electronic devices. He paid particular attention to the offices on the north side of the building, the ones that faced the wide boulevard below and the medical complex opposite. At that morning's briefing, he had been given a list of locations on each floor that posed particular security concerns, but a thorough check suggested nothing out of the ordinary. When he reached the west end of the hallway, he pushed open the fire door and stepped out onto the six-by-six-foot landing. To his left a steep, narrow staircase led upward, and he climbed several stairs to get a clear look at the door to the roof. As he knew from the building specs provided to his team by the captain, the door was alarmed. If the circuit was disrupted, a switch on the main board in the reception area in the lobby signaled an alert. His partner was at that moment watching those monitors. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he started down the stairwell to the fourteenth floor. He checked his watch as he reached the next level and nodded, pleased to note that he was right on schedule.
"We depart at 1530," Cam said as she walked Blair to the door of her suite. It was hard to leave her again so soon, but they both had jobs to do. "I'll be in the comm center until then if you require anything."
"That's fine," Blair replied softly, mindful of the other agents close behind. "I want to change and make some phone calls." Lowering her voice even further, she met Cam's eyes. "Thank you for last night, and for these last few hours."
Cam nodded. Briefly, she touched Blair's hand and then turned toward the room across the hall. By the time she reached the door, Blair had disappeared.
Inside, Cam walked directly to Mac, who was in his usual place in the center of the electronic activity. She pulled over a stool and sat beside him, ignoring the flickering monitors with their dizzying kaleidoscopes of shifting images. Her only interest was the stack of computer printouts by his left hand. "What do we hear from the media?"
"Well," Mac answered, leaning back in his swivel chair, "it's not above the fold, but the article made the front page in most major cities stateside."
"As expected," Cam noted grimly. "Have you heard anything from the White House?"
"Lucinda Washburn called and left a message for Egret to call her ASAP." Mac gave Cam a sideways glance- "I didn't think it was necessary to interrupt you in the field."
"Thanks. I think she needed a bit of a break." Cam gave him an appreciative smile. "I'll pass on the chief of staff's request."
Mac merely grunted. He had nothing against Lucinda Washburn, arguably the second most powerful person in the country, but his sole allegiance was to the team. And to Blair Powell. "I expect that the White House press secretary will make some kind of statement at the afternoon briefing."
"I suppose once Aaron has officially addressed Blair's announcement, every major news outlet will pick it up." Cam sighed. "I don't expect we'll see much media response at the hospital today, but she has the meeting with the minister of health and the representatives from the WHO in the morning. That's going to get some coverage."
"You know," Mac commented, "Egret's status in the administration is closer to first lady than first daughter, since she fulfills so many of the obligations that would have been her mother's responsibility."
"Yes. And because of that, she is much more visible to the world at large." And much more vulnerable, both thought, but neither said. Cam's gaze hardened. "We have to consider her at high-alert status at all times."
"Roger that, Commander."
"Our advance teams are on-site?"
"Yes, ma'am. I should have the first reports soon."
"Good. Keep me advised. As soon as the lead team arrives, we'll brief."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, from any source—I want to know."
"Yes, Commander."
Paula Stark jerked awake and blinked furiously. Her first thought was bright. Very bright. She closed her eyes. She next recorded an unusual sensation beneath her cheek. Soft. Warm. She drew a breath. Smells good. Cinnamon? She opened one eye a slit. An image of a long-necked giraffe tilled her vision. Closing that eye again, she rolled onto her back, registering that she was indeed lying supine and that her head was propped on something yielding, but firm. Warily, she peered .upward, finally focusing on the blue eyes a couple of feet above her own that regarded her with gentle amusement.
Stark blinked. "Renee?"
"You were expecting perhaps someone else?"
Stark blinked again. The last thing she could clearly remember was the commander telling her to stand down until the afternoon briefing. Then she had called Renee, told her she had a few hours free, and they had agreed to have breakfast together. "Uh-oh. Breakfast?"
Renee shifted slightly and deposited the newspaper she'd been reading onto the coffee table beside her feet, which were propped on its tiled surface. "You fell asleep in the middle of toast."
Stark groaned. She curled on her side and pressed her face to the curve of Renee's abdomen, hoping to hide her acute humiliation. She registered at that p
oint that the material beneath her cheek was soft, brushed cotton and that a multitude of tiny animals danced on the edges of her field of vision. "You have a jungle on your boxers," she mumbled, her mind a mass of confused embarrassment and awakening arousal.
Chuckling, Renee insinuated her fingers through Stark's dark hair and massaged her neck softly. "You should see what I've got inside."
Stark's blood pressure shot through the roof, her stomach flipped, and her heart came to a complete standstill. Her breath whooshed out on a reflexive moan.
"However," Renee continued, her stomach tightening as she felt Stark tremble, "since it's 1300 hours and you're due at a briefing in an hour, I don't think you're going to get a chance to find out today."
I fell asleep on her. Literally on her. Jesus! Thoroughly mortified, Stark rolled back once again and looked up with imploring eyes. "I'm so sorry. I'm such a dud."
"A dud?" The corner of Renee's mouth lifted in a smile at once tender and seductive. "Let's see—you worked all day yesterday, you were up all night, and then you were ordered to take a few hours' downtime. The first thing you did at that point was call me." She curled downward and kissed Stark's forehead, then her mouth. "Believe me, sweetie, you have nothing to apologize for. But if you don't get your tail in gear, you'll be late for one of Roberts's briefings. Then we won't have to worry about the condition of your ass, because she will have chewed it off."
Sweetie. She called me sweetie. Stark curled one arm back, found the hand stroking her hair, and threaded her fingers through Renee's. "A week ago when we were back in New York, we were half a second away from tearing each other's clothes off. I want you just as much right now." She took a breath, took the plunge. "More. A lot more."
Renee's blue eyes widened, and her full lips parted in surprise. "One of the things I lo—find so enchanting about you is your absolute lack of pretense. You say what you mean." At least I hope you do, because that's why I'm falling in love with you.
"Why did you stop? Back then." Stark's question was soft, gentle.
Renee sighed and looked across the room, but her mind looked back over the last ten years of her life. Pensively, she replied, "I haven't had many relationships of consequence in my life, and none to speak of in the last few years. Most of them couldn't stand up to the demands of the training and then the work that we do." She shrugged and sighed again. "You know what I mean—the hours are terrible, we can't talk very much about the specifics, and even when we do, most people won't understand it. It was just easier not to get serious about anyone." She felt Stark grow still against her side, and she looked back down, finding dark, understanding eyes as she brushed her fingers through the hair on Stark's forehead. "You and I—we had something in common, right from the beginning, even if at first we didn't see eye to eye."
"The job," Stark replied, knowing that Renee knew what she knew-—that the job defined who they were as much as, or more than, what they did.
"Mmm. Yeah...but it's not just the job. You're special." Shyly, Renee added, "You make me feel special."
"I hope so," Stark murmured fervently. "I think you're the most wonderful woman I've ever met. I hope I make you feel that way." She flushed. "Except I don't know exactly how to do that."
"Maybe thinking about me first before anything else, even after twenty-four hours with no sleep doing one of the most stressful jobs in the world, is a good start."
"You didn't quite answer the question," Stark pressed carefully. Tell me if there's something wrong—if there's something you need that I can give you.
"No, I didn't." Renee smiled wanly, "I want you today just as much...more...than I did that night. I think about it; I dream about it. I'm just..afraid."
That wasn't what Stark expected. Her brows furrowed in concern. "Why? Is it something I've done? Something I've said?"
"No, just the opposite. You're a little bit too good to be true." Renee blushed and twirled a lock of Stark's hair around her fingertips. "I'm afraid if I sleep with you, and it doesn't work out, it's really going to hurt."
Stark pushed up on the sofa until she was sitting beside Renee. She slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled the other woman close. With her lips lightly brushing Renee's hair, she whispered, "I think you're special, too. I don't know how to tell when the time is right, but that's what I want. For it to be right."
Sighing with contentment and not a small degree of frustration, Renee threaded her arm around Stark's waist. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being patient."
Laughing, Stark dipped her head and captured Renee's mouth. She slipped her tongue between Renee's lips, danced over the surface of her tongue, and slid out again. "I'm not patient. In fact, I'm pretty sure something's going to explode before long. But I'm not taking any chances on messing this up."
With a small cry, Renee pushed her hands into Stark's hair and shifted until she was lying half in her lap. Her mouth on Stark's was hungry, needy, demanding. In another second they were lying stretched out on the sofa, Renee's thigh tight between Stark's, Stark's hands beneath Renee's blouse, their hips moving in perfect synchrony, thrusting hard. Someone groaned.
Stark wrenched her mouth away. "Oh man. Man...I want you so bad."
"Oh yeah." Gasping, Renee pressed her forehead to Stark's chest. "Oh yeah. I think maybe I'm done waiting."
"You gotta wait..." Stark's voice was a desperate plea. "Just a little longer. I gotta go."
Groaning, Renee could only nod.
"I'm gonna think about you all—"
"Shh," Renee murmured, pressing tightly to her. "Once you walk out of here, I don't want you to think about anything except the job. I want you totally focused on Egret, just like you always are. Then, when you're off shift, I want you to come back to me. Safe and sound."
"I don't know how I got so lucky," Stark whispered, tilting Renee's chin up and kissing her with a series of tender, gentle caresses.
"We got lucky," Renee sighed against her mouth.
The thin man knelt by the three-foot wall that rimmed the fiat expanse of the rooftop, shielded from view by the oversized air-conditioning units and heating ducts. If anyone opened the rooftop door, he would hear them, and he had the advantage of surprise.
He did not, however, expect visitors. The first security check was over, and the second was likely to be cursory. After assessing the sightline to the hospital entrance, he once again opened the toolbox, this time lifting out the upper compartment. Beneath that lay the barrel of a Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifle. From various pockets in his gray coveralls, he removed the remaining components of the weapon, which he had fleldstripped just that morning before departing the rooming house he had inhabited for the last fourteen months. Quickly and efficiently, he assembled the 3.6 kilogram weapon and loaded it with a standard magazine carrying thirty rounds. In the lower compartment of the tool chest were additional magazines. The German assault rifle was capable of firing 750 rounds of 5.56 x 45mm bullets per minute. He did not expect to need more than one.
Seated on the sofa in the high-ceilinged palatial suite, Blair drew out her sketch pad and opened it on her lap. Critically, she appraised that morning's work, thinking about the upcoming show scheduled in Manhattan in three weeks. It wasn't her first gallery exhibition, but it was her first solo showing. She was nervous and excited and just a little resentful that she couldn't concentrate completely on the work that mattered the most to her. Her other responsibilities—her official duties—so often interfered. Although she was proud to represent her country and happy to assist her father in any way possible, his dream had never been her dream. Nevertheless, she had embraced it as much as she possibly could. She flipped through the pages until she came to the last drawing she had done. Cam had not been aware of Blair sketching her, or if she had been, she had not shown any sign of it.
Cam was Blair's favorite subject. Not only was she beautiful, with the coloring and bone structure that any artist loves to draw, but Blair revele
d in the opportunity to study her. Even knowing it was impossible, she still tried to capture the essence of Cam's unique nobility and strength through her art. Lightly, she traced her fingers over the drawing, feeling Cam's flesh beneath her own.
I love you.
Carefully, she closed the pad and secured it away. Then she leaned over and drew the phone from the table beside the sofa and punched in a series of numbers from memory. After less than a moment, her call was answered.
"Johnny? It's Blair. I don't suppose there's any chance... You're sure?...Of course." A minute passed, and then she sat up straighter. "Dad?"
"Blair. Everything all right?"
"Yes, fine."
"Still in Paris?"
"For another two days. Everything is going well on that front."
"Have you been to the hospital yet?"
The question startled her. She hadn't realized he had any idea of her itinerary. She swallowed and kept her voice even. "Just about to go in an hour or so."
"Doing okay?"
"Yes. Fine." She took a deep breath. "I guess you've seen the newspapers?"
A dry chuckle came through the line. "I haven't actually read any of the articles, since I already know from you what the interview entailed. But I gather someone jumped the gun."
