THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  "I'm sorry. I ne­ed to ta­ke this call. Wo­uld you ca­re to wa­it in the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om? I'll ha­ve yo­ur cof­fee bro­ught the­re."

  The vis­ta from the se­venth flo­or had al­re­ady wor­ked its ma­gic on Cleo. Set­tling in­to one of the cha­irs li­ned up aro­und the mas­si­ve con­fe­ren­ce tab­le, she wa­ited whi­le Jack sho­ved his hands in his poc­kets and drank in the stun­ning vi­ew of the har­bor and the At­lan­tic be­yond.

  She drank in his pos­te­ri­or vi­ew. She co­uldn't help but no­te the way his sport co­at mol­ded a set of li­ne­bac­ker's sho­ul­ders. And the way the back vent par­ted to dis­p­lay his ni­ce, tight butt. Re­cal­ling how many we­eks had pas­sed sin­ce she'd skim­med her na­ils over tho­se iron buns, she cle­ared her thro­at.

  "So how's the deb­ri­ef go­ing?" The qu­es­ti­on bro­ught him aro­und. His ga­ze loc­ked with hers ac­ross the ac­re or so of ma­ho­gany. "We fi­nis­hed the deb­ri­ef three we­eks ago."

  She was dam­ned if she was go­ing to ask why he hadn't bot­he­red to call her. The qu­es­ti­on hung bet­we­en them, tho­ugh, li­ke a hot-air bal­lo­on ho­ve­ring right over the con­fe­ren­ce tab­le.

  "I was go­ing to hop a pla­ne to Dal­las," Jack sa­id slowly.

  She lif­ted a po­li­te brow. "But?"

  "But my ex-wi­fe cal­led. From the Cin­cin­na­ti PD drunk tank."

  The lit­tle knot of ir­ri­ta­ti­on Cleo had to­ted aro­und for the past se­ve­ral we­eks eased. She didn't know much abo­ut Jack's ex. He'd ne­ver tal­ked abo­ut the for­mer Mrs. Do­no­van.

  The OSI was li­ke one big frat ho­use, tho­ugh. Go­od news wor­ked its way slowly thro­ugh the ranks of agents, but dirt got pas­sed aro­und at the spe­ed of light. Well be­fo­re Cleo and Jack had wor­ked the­ir first op to­get­her, she'd he­ard that his mar­ri­age was on ice.

  Ru­mor had it the bust-up had be­en pa­in­ful and long in co­ming. Dit­to the re­con­ci­li­ati­on that had las­ted less than a ye­ar. From the so­und of it, Do­no­van's ex was still re­ac­hing out to him.

  "Bad sce­ne, huh?"

  "Ye­ah, bad sce­ne."

  Both the to­ne and the shrug sa­id "end of dis­cus­si­on." Cleo to­ok the hint and didn't pro­be. The ti­mely ar­ri­val of a fresh-fa­ced as­sis­tant with the­ir cof­fee ga­ve them both the chan­ce to fall back and reg­ro­up.

  "So what's up with you and Marc Slo­an?" she as­ked, re­ac­hing for the sle­ek sta­in­less-ste­el ca­ra­fe. "Or can you tell me?"

  "I'm he­re to talk to Slo­an abo­ut the oce­an­go­ing car­go ves­sels he ret­ro­fit­ted for the air for­ce."

  "Huh?" The ca­ra­fe stop­ped in mi­da­ir. "Sin­ce when do­es the air for­ce ha­ve oce­an-go­ing car­go ves­sels?"

  "Sin­ce it got he­avy in­to the APR The Af­lo­at Pre­po­si­ti­oning Prog­ram," he ad­ded at her blank lo­ok.

  Cleo va­gu­ely re­cal­led he­aring abo­ut the prog­ram du­ring her air for­ce ye­ars. She knew it in­vol­ved su­per­si­ze car­go ships pac­ked with mi­li­tary equ­ip­ment and pla­ced on sta­ti­on in the At­lan­tic, Pa­ci­fic and Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an. That was abo­ut it, tho­ugh.

  "I tho­ught the navy ran the APP"

  "The navy's Mi­li­tary Se­alift Com­mand acts as exe­cu­ti­ve agent. But we ma­na­ge the three ships de­di­ca­ted to air for­ce use. They're han­d­led by the Og­den Air Lo­gis­tics Cen­ter."

  Ho­oting, she thum­ped the ca­ra­fe back on­to the tray.

  "That's what I lo­ved abo­ut the mi­li­tary. Not­hing li­ke de­sig­na­ting a lo­gis­tics cen­ter smack in the mid­dle of lan­d­loc­ked Utah to ma­na­ge a fle­et of oce­an-go­ing car­go ves­sels."

  The ri­gid set to Jack's sho­ul­ders re­la­xed. An an­s­we­ring grin tug­ged at his lips. But be­fo­re he co­uld is­sue a de­fen­se of mi­li­tary lo­gic, the do­or to the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om ope­ned aga­in and Slo­an strol­led in.

  With a sin­g­le as­ses­sing glan­ce, Marc to­ok in the sight of Cleo tip­ped back in her cha­ir, la­ug­hing up at the man she'd tum­b­led in­to bed with in San­ta Fe.

  Marc didn't slow his stri­de. His smi­le re­ma­ined easy. But Cleo sus­pec­ted that the pri­mi­ti­ve in­s­tincts of a ma­le on the hunt we­re ra­zo­ring thro­ugh his gut.

  "Hel­lo, Do­no­van. Sorry I kept you wa­iting."

  After sha­king hands with Jack, he ga­ve Cleo a slow smi­le.

  "Hel­lo, Brown Eyes. How did yo­ur me­eting go? The one you told me abo­ut at bre­ak­fast?"

  It didn't ta­ke a Dr. Phil to in­ter­p­ret Jack's re­ac­ti­on to the cozy sha­red-bre­ak­fast bit. His fa­ci­al mus­c­les didn't so much as twitch, but the air in the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om sud­denly got he­avy.

  "The me­eting pro­du­ced so­me unex­pec­ted re­sults," Cleo rep­li­ed in­to the char­ged si­len­ce. "I'll bri­ef you af­ter you fi­nish yo­ur bu­si­ness with Jack."

  "Wha­te­ver that bu­si­ness is." Slo­an tur­ned to Do­no­van with a lo­ok of co­ol in­qu­iry. "I as­su­me it has to do with wha­te­ver in­for­ma­ti­on you've ma­na­ged to ex­t­ract from Alex's as­sa­ilant."

  "Ac­tu­al­ly, it has to do with the Af­lo­at Pre­po­si­ti­oning Prog­ram. I ne­ed to ve­rify when you last ac­ces­sed the APP da­ta­ba­se."

  The en­gi­ne­er's eyes nar­ro­wed. Cleo co­uld see he was trying to ma­ke the le­ap from the per­son who'd put a bul­let in­to his brot­her's skull to an oce­an-go­ing re­sup­ply system ma­na­ged by an air lo­gis­tics cen­ter in Utah.

  "Are you con­duc­ting an of­fi­ci­al in­qu­iry con­cer­ning the APP?"

  "It's still just a pre­li­mi­nary ve­ri­fi­ca­ti­on of facts at this po­int."

  The dis­tin­c­ti­on didn't ap­pe­ar to re­as­su­re Slo­an. He was a for­mer na­val of­fi­cer. He knew how the mi­li­tary in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve ser­vi­ces wor­ked. Pre­li­mi­nary fact-fin­ding was only a step away from the re­al thing.

  With so much of his com­pany's work de­fen­se-re­la­ted, Slo­an had to co­ope­ra­te or risk be­co­ming the su­bj­ect of a for­mal in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on-not a go­od mo­ve if he ho­ped to pull down ot­her luc­ra­ti­ve go­ver­n­ment con­t­racts.

  "I'll ha­ve to check my com­pu­ter log," he sa­id, all bu­si­ness now. "As best I can re­call, the last ti­me I ac­ces­sed the APP was a month or so ago, when the Navy Se­alift Com­mand re­qu­es­ted an up­da­ted set of sche­ma­tics for one of the car­go ships we ret­ro­fit­ted for them. May I ask why you ne­ed this in­for­ma­ti­on?"

  "Be­ca­use the DNA sig­na­tu­re on fi­le for you was used re­cently to ga­in ac­cess to a highly clas­si­fi­ed por­ti­on of the da­ta­ba­se."

  Slo­an's brows snap­ped to­get­her. "How re­cently?"

  "Yes­ter­day."

  "That's im­pos­sib­le. I didn't go in­to the APP yes­ter­day."

  "So­me­one did, and they used yo­ur DNA sig­na­tu­re to get in."

  "You'll ha­ve to gi­ve me a lit­tle mo­re to go on," the exe­cu­ti­ve bit out. "What por­ti­on of the da­ta­ba­se was ac­ces­sed, and at what spe­ci­fic ti­me?"

  Do­no­van co­un­te­red with a qu­es­ti­on. Anot­her stan­dard in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve tec­h­ni­que. Find out what the sus­pect knows, but tell him as lit­tle as pos­sib­le.

  "How fa­mi­li­ar are you with the APP ope­ra­ti­on at the Og­den Air Lo­gis­tics Cen­ter?"

  "I know it ma­na­ges the three car­go ships de­di­ca­ted to the air for­ce. The­ir com­pu­ters track every we­apon-fi­ve-hun­d­red-po­und bombs, air-to-sur­fa­ce mis­si­les, clus­ter bom­bs-ship­ped to the lo­ading fa­ci­lity just north of he­re."

  Sur­p­ri­se had Cleo pop­ping out a qu­es­ti­on. "The ships are lo­aded he­re in Char­les­ton?"

  "Abo­ut a hun­d­red mi­les north, in North Ca­ro­li­na. At the
Sunny Po­int Mi­li­tary Oce­an Ter­mi­nal."

  Slo­an's mind was ob­vi­o­usly ra­cing ahe­ad of his words. Frow­ning, he drum­med his fin­gers on the con­fe­ren­ce tab­le.

  "The exact bre­ak­down of the mu­ni­ti­ons pac­ka­ges lo­aded on­to each ship is clas­si­fi­ed. As you might ex­pect, the mi­li­tary do­esn't par­ti­cu­larly want out­si­ders to know what mix of ar­ma­ments they ha­ve flo­ating aro­und on the high se­as."

  Par­ti­cu­larly, Cleo tho­ught on a swift bre­ath, if that mix had be­en spe­ci­al­ly pac­ka­ged to sup­port an up­co­ming ope­ra­ti­on or in­cur­si­on.

  She be­gan to ap­pre­ci­ate the sco­pe of the prob­lem. She al­so un­der­s­to­od why the air for­ce had dis­pat­c­hed one of its top agents to in­ves­ti­ga­te a pos­sib­le bre­ach of the APP da­ta­ba­se.

  "Was that what was ac­ces­sed?" Slo­an as­ked. "The cur­rent air for­ce pac­ka­ging?"

  "Pos­sibly."

  The non­com­mit­tal res­pon­se tig­h­te­ned Slo­an's jaw "When, spe­ci­fi­cal­ly, did this una­ut­ho­ri­zed in­cur­si­on ta­ke pla­ce?"

  That Jack an­s­we­red. "Last night, at 6:12 Og­den ti­me."

  "Which wo­uld be 8:12 eas­tern ti­me. It wasn't me, Do­no­van. I was ot­her­wi­se oc­cu­pi­ed at the ti­me."

  "You ha­ve a wit­ness who can con­firm that?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "And that wo­uld be?"

  Uh-oh. Cleo bra­ced her­self. She sus­pec­ted Do­no­van wo­uldn't ap­pre­ci­ate the can­d­le­lig­ht-and-sh­rimp sce­na­rio any mo­re than he had the cozy bre­ak­fast bit.

  To her sur­p­ri­se, Slo­an didn't jump on the op­por­tu­nity to sco­re mo­re po­ints. In­s­te­ad, he to­ok con­t­rol of the in­ter­vi­ew. Or tri­ed to.

  "I'll supply the wit­ness if and when it be­co­mes ne­ces­sary. At the mo­ment, I'm mo­re con­cer­ned with how so­me­one ob­ta­ined the DNA sig­na­tu­re I fi­led for ac­cess to the APP."

  "Right," Jack draw­led. "Let's talk abo­ut that. You and yo­ur brot­her are iden­ti­cal twins, which me­ans yo­ur DNA pro­fi­le is al­so iden­ti­cal. The­re­fo­re you co­uldn't use yo­ur own DNA when you ap­pli­ed for ac­cess to the APP. The system re­qu­ires a strand that can't be mat­c­hed or dup­li­ca­ted by anot­her li­ving hu­man."

  "You've do­ne yo­ur ho­me­work."

  "Yes, I ha­ve. What I co­uldn't de­ter­mi­ne from the re­cords, tho­ugh, is exactly who­se DNA you sup­pli­ed when you es­tab­lis­hed yo­ur sig­na­tu­re."

  "I used the ge­ne­ral's. Ge­ne­ral Slo­an's."

  "Let me ma­ke su­re I ha­ve this right. The DNA you sup­pli­ed Og­den in yo­ur ini­ti­al re­qu­est for ac­cess to the Af­lo­at Pre­po­si­ti­oning da­ta­ba­se be­lon­ged to yo­ur de­ad fat­her?"

  "It be­lon­ged to the man who adop­ted Alex and me," Marc cor­rec­ted. "Ne­it­her of us has any idea who our re­al fat­her was."

  Do­no­van pul­led out a pen and no­te­bo­ok. "What was the exact sam­p­le so­ur­ce? Ha­ir? Te­eth? Fin­ger­na­il clip­pings?"

  "In ac­cor­dan­ce with the ge­ne­ral's ex­p­ress wish, his re­ma­ins we­re cre­ma­ted im­me­di­ately af­ter his de­ath. Ne­it­her Alex nor I sa­ved any body parts as per­so­nal me­men­tos."

  "You sa­ved so­met­hing." The pen clic­ked. On­ce. Twi­ce. "What was it?"

  When the si­len­ce stret­c­hed, the tra­ined in­ves­ti­ga­tor in Cleo zo­omed in­to high ge­ar. The­re had to be a re­ason for Slo­an's re­luc­tan­ce to ad­mit to the so­ur­ce of the DNA. Her first tho­ught was he'd col­lec­ted a vi­al of his fat­her's blo­od, vo­lun­ta­rily or ot­her­wi­se. Her se­cond, that he'd pre­ser­ved a uri­ne sam­p­le. Or pos­sibly ex­c­re­ment.

  She co­uld think of a do­zen re­asons why he wo­uld sa­ve a DNA sam­p­le, be­si­des the one pre­sently un­der dis­cus­si­on. May­be the Slo­an brot­hers had an­ti­ci­pa­ted a le­gal bat­tle over the ge­ne­ral's es­ta­te, if he'd left one. May­be they tho­ught the vo­lu­mes he'd pub­lis­hed on an­ci­ent war­fa­re wo­uld put him in the sa­me ca­te­gory as Thuc­y­di­des or Mac­hi­avel­li one of the­se days, the­reby ma­king his DNA a scho­larly tre­asu­re.

  Or may­be Slo­an's re­asons we­re mo­re ma­cab­re. His few re­fe­ren­ces to his fat­her had sug­ges­ted an­y­t­hing but a lo­ving re­la­ti­on­s­hip.

  Cleo's fer­ti­le mind was co­nj­uring up all kinds of po­ten­ti­al uses for a de­ad fat­her's DNA, not ex­c­lu­ding high-tech vo­odoo dolls de­sig­ned to ke­ep a so­ul writ­hing in hell for all eter­nity, when Slo­an ab­ruptly in­vi­ted them in­to his of­fi­ce. "I ke­ep the DNA so­ur­ce in my sa­fe." Ugh! The me­re pos­si­bi­lity he might sto­re fif­te­en-ye­ar-old ex­c­re­ment in his of­fi­ce sa­fe put the su­ave exe­cu­ti­ve in a who­le dif­fe­rent light.

  7

  Z?in­ce Do­no­van didn't in­vi­te her to butt out, Cleo tag­ged along when the two men adj­o­ur­ned to the in­ner san­c­tum. Her pu­pils to­ok a mo­ment to adj­ust to the daz­zling af­ter­no­on sun­light stre­aming thro­ugh the an­g­led glass pa­nels.

  Her mind to­ok a mo­ment lon­ger to ma­ke sen­se of Slo­an's ac­ti­ons when he cros­sed his of­fi­ce and slap­ped a palm aga­inst one of the flo­or-to-ce­iling pa­nels. To Cleo's as­to­nis­h­ment, the win­dow ret­rac­ted to re­ve­al anot­her ro­om be­yond.

  "What the heck…?"

  "I had the win­dows in this in­ner of­fi­ce spe­ci­al­ly ma­nu­fac­tu­red to ref­ract the light," Slo­an ex­p­la­ined. "They we­re al­so pla­ced at an­g­les to pro­du­ce a one-way, mir­ror-ty­pe ef­fect. Es­sen­ti­al­ly, this ro­om is in­vi­sib­le from both the in­te­ri­or of my of­fi­ce and the out­si­de of the bu­il­ding."

  He had that right. Squ­in­ting thro­ugh one of the ot­her win­dows, Cleo saw not­hing but sun­light and glass ref­lec­ted back at her.

  "What is it?" she as­ked. "So­me sort of cor­po­ra­te sa­fe ro­om?"

  "Exactly."

  Ca­uti­o­usly, she slid a fo­ot over the thres­hold. With glass on eit­her si­de of her, she co­uldn't sha­ke the eerie sen­sa­ti­on of step­ping in­to a cham­ber sus­pen­ded in mi­da­ir. The bo­ats chug­ging along in the har­bor di­rectly be­low only ad­ded to the sen­sa­ti­on.

  When two well-mus­c­led ma­les fol­lo­wed her in­to the ro­om, Cleo fo­ught the im­pul­se to throw out both palms and bra­ce her­self aga­inst the glass wall. Her ra­ti­onal mind told her an en­gi­ne­er of Slo­an's ob­vi­o­us abi­li­ti­es wo­uldn't de­sign a sa­fe ro­om that wo­uld plun­ge ear­t­h­ward with the ad­di­ti­on of anot­her fo­ur hun­d­red or so po­unds. Her not-so-ra­ti­onal mind scre­amed for a pa­rac­hu­te.

  "The­re's an ele­va­tor be­hind that pa­nel," Slo­an in­di­ca­ted with a nod to a si­de wall.

  "Let me gu­ess," Jack sa­id. "The shaft do­esn't ap­pe­ar on any ar­c­hi­tec­tu­ral plans or bu­il­ding specs."

  "Cor­rect."

  Con­si­de­ring the num­ber of dis­g­run­t­led em­p­lo­ye­es who bro­ught Uzis to work the­se days, Cleo fi­gu­red an es­ca­pe hatch was pro­bably smart of Slo­an.

  Then aga­in, a hi­dey-ho­le li­ke this wo­uld co­me in handy if a man wan­ted to dally with the hi­red help. Or slip out of the bu­il­ding un­se­en by sa­id help. "How many folks know abo­ut this sa­fe ro­om?" she as­ked.

  "Only a han­d­ful of my top se­cu­rity per­son­nel. And Di­ane, of co­ur­se. Her in­f­ra­red-he­at sig­na­tu­re will al­so ac­ti­va­te the re­le­ase. It won't, ho­we­ver, get her in­to the sa­fe. Ex­cu­se me a mo­ment."

  Anot­her palm slap, anot­her pa­nel, anot­her hid­den ro­om. This one was a me­re clo­set and li­ned flo­or to ce­iling with ste­el-en­ca­sed stron­g­bo­xes. The se­cond glass pa­nel slid shut be­hind Slo­an.

  He re
­ap­pe­ared so­me mo­ments la­ter with a small, pod-sha­ped ca­se. To Cleo's re­li­ef, he car­ri­ed it on­to ter­ra fir­ma. Do­no­van fol­lo­wed, and she sort of crab­bed her way out. With a si­lent gli­de, the glass slid in­to pla­ce be­hind her.

  "I ga­ve this to the ge­ne­ral for Chris­t­mas one ye­ar," Slo­an sa­id. "It's the only pos­ses­si­on of his I re­ta­ined af­ter his de­ath."

  Slo­an's vo­ice was even and his ex­p­res­si­on flat. He flic­ked the small brass latch on the le­at­her ca­se, re­ve­aling a pi­pe with an ivory bowl car­ved to re­sem­b­le the he­ad of so­me Gre­ek god.

  "He fi­red it up twi­ce, but it didn't draw as well as his old Bri­ar. So he ga­ve it back to me and told me to re­turn it and try to re­co­up my mo­ney."

  Cleo won­de­red how old Marc had be­en when his fat­her had be­en so cal­lo­us.

  "The DNA ca­me from the sa­li­va re­si­due in the stem," he in­for­med Do­no­van. "I'm su­re you'll find plenty left to run it aga­inst the sig­na­tu­re used to ac­cess the da­ta­ba­se."

  Cleo's mind sped off in anot­her di­rec­ti­on. "Just out of cu­ri­osity, how long do­es old sa­li­va hang aro­und in a pi­pe stem?"

  "Fo­re­ver, I wo­uld as­su­me."

  Her glan­ce zin­ged to Jack. He res­pon­ded with a wry grin that told her he was thin­king the sa­me thing she was. His cur­rent boss-the sa­me ge­ne­ral who had strongly sug­ges­ted Cleo turn in her OSI shi­eld ye­ars ago-col­lec­ted pi­pes. So­me of them we­re cen­tu­ri­es old. The Old Man smo­ked 'em, too.

  Lord, she'd lo­ve to be a fly on the wall when Jack told Ge­ne­ral Bar­nes he might be suc­king in DNA from so­me scur­vy-rid­den eig­h­te­en­th-cen­tury sa­ilor or pox-rid­den Lon­don mer­c­hant!

  To her de­light, it tur­ned out she wo­uld be the­re, in print if not in per­son. Be­fo­re Jack to­ok pos­ses­si­on of the pi­pe nes­t­led in the felt-li­ned ca­se, he pro­du­ced a plas­tic evi­den­ce bag, a pro­perty re­ce­ipt and a cha­in-of-cus­tody log.