THE MIDDLE SIN

THE MIDDLE SIN Page 17

by Merline Lovelace

  A few de­sul­tory mur­murs ro­se from the cru­ise-ship crowd. They we­re get­ting res­t­less, Cleo no­ted. Mo­re than one hus­band lo­oked as if he was abo­ut to OD on mar­b­le slabs and me­di­eval mas­ter­pi­eces.

  Va­li­antly, the gu­ide for­ged on. "The Grand Mas­ter of the or­der, known by then as the Knights of Mal­ta, de­vi­sed a sche­me to out­wit Mon­si­e­ur Bo­na­par­te. He or­de­red the ga­tes co­ated with le­ad pa­int, and thus they es­ca­ped the lo­oting that cost the is­land so much of its he­ri­ta­ge. The ga­tes re­ma­ined pa­in­ted for qu­ite so­me ti­me, in­ci­den­tal­ly, long af­ter Bri­tish tro­ops re­to­ok Mal­ta. The Grand Mas­ter wasn't su­re he co­uld trust the Bri­tish any mo­re than the French."

  The sally ra­ised a po­li­te tit­ter among the pre­do­mi­nantly Ame­ri­can gro­up. Cleo be­gan ed­ging to­ward the exit.

  "Ta­ke a les­son from the ga­tes, Ms. North."

  The soft re­mark stop­ped her with one fo­ot on the tom­b­s­to­ne of a knight of Cas­ti­le. An­g­ling her he­ad, Cleo to­ok an in­s­tant men­tal snap­s­hot of the wo­man who eased out of the sha­dows be­yond the cha­pel. Mid to la­te for­ti­es. Dark ha­ir ar­ro­wing to a dra­ma­tic wi­dow's pe­ak. Ple­ated gray slacks, a cre­am-co­lo­red silk blo­use, and eyes hid­den be­hind chic rim­less sun­g­las­ses.

  "Mat­ters he­re aren't what they se­em," the bru­net­te mur­mu­red as the gro­up aro­und Cleo shuf­fled off to the next to­ur po­int. "You'd be wi­se to ha­ve a ca­re."

  The ac­cent was Bri­tish, the to­ne edu­ca­ted. The wo­man lo­oked oddly fa­mi­li­ar, but Cleo was dam­ned if she co­uld pla­ce tho­se high che­ek­bo­nes or that long, aqu­ili­ne no­se.

  "Who are you?"

  "My iden­tity ne­edn't con­cern you. It's qu­ite eno­ugh that I know yo­urs. I wo­uld ad­vi­se you to-"

  "Omi­god!"

  The star­t­led shri­ek ca­me from one of the to­urists who'd just am­b­led by.

  Ner­ves al­re­ady strung wi­re-tight, Cleo re­ac­ted on pu­re in­s­tinct. Lun­ging to one si­de, she whir­led. She had the ebu out of its she­ath be­fo­re anot­her shrill scre­ech fol­lo­wed the first.

  "That man's got a gun!"

  To­te bags and pam­p­h­lets flew li­ke chaff shot from a dis­pen­ser. Scre­ams ri­coc­he­ted off the cat­hed­ral walls. The to­urists stam­pe­ded.

  Only one man re­ma­ined un­mo­ving. The si­len­ced we­apon in his hand buc­ked at the sa­me in­s­tant Cleo sent the ebu sli­cing thro­ugh the air. A half a he­ar­t­be­at be­fo­re the wo­oden bla­de bu­ri­ed it­self in his thro­at, a se­cond shot ex­p­lo­ded right be­si­de Cleo's ear. A dark ro­se­bud blos­so­med in the sho­oter's fo­re­he­ad. He went down with a crash that sent the to­urists in­to mass hyste­ria.

  Cleo spun aro­und in ti­me to see the bru­net­te sli­de an auto­ma­tic in­to the poc­ket of her ple­ated slacks. She mo­ut­hed so­met­hing, but her words we­re lost amid the fren­zi­ed scre­ams. She flic­ked a glan­ce over Cleo's sho­ul­der, step­ped back and di­sap­pe­ared be­hind the mas­si­ve sil­ver ga­tes.

  Be­fo­re Cleo co­uld fol­low, se­ve­ral hun­d­red po­unds of to­urist slam­med in­to her back. She lan­ded hard, no­se to no­se with the en­g­ra­ved ef­figy of a long-de­ad knight.

  "I've got her! So­me­one call the cops!"

  She co­uld ha­ve dis­lod­ged her at­tac­ker. A qu­ick twist, a knee to the gro­in, and he wo­uld ha­ve be­en we­eping. But a se­cond to­urist pi­led on top of the first, fol­lo­wed in short or­der by two mo­re. Ever­y­day, ave­ra­ge Ame­ri­cans had had eno­ugh of be­ing ter­ro­ri­zed.

  Cleo didn't mind be­ing han­d­cuf­fed and hus­t­led in­to the back of a po­li­ce van. She star­ted to get an­no­yed, ho­we­ver, when In­s­pec­tor Aruz­zo put her thro­ugh se­ve­ral ro­unds of qu­es­ti­oning. Per­c­hed on the ed­ge of the in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on-ro­om tab­le, the in­s­pec­tor pal­med his be­ard.

  "Des­c­ri­be yo­ur ac­com­p­li­ce to me on­ce aga­in."

  "Fi­ve-fi­ve or six. Dark ha­ir. Dark eyes. Bri­tish ac­cent. And I re­pe­at, she was not my ac­com­p­li­ce."

  "A num­ber of wit­nes­ses di­sag­ree. They se­em to be­li­eve the two of you ac­ted in con­cert."

  "They be­li­eve wrong. We both re­ac­ted to shots fi­red."

  "Yes, let us go back to that. You say you aren't su­re which of you was the tar­get."

  "That's cor­rect."

  "You al­so ma­in­ta­in you've ne­ver se­en this wo­man be­fo­re?"

  "Not that I re­call."

  The­re was so­met­hing abo­ut her, tho­ugh. A lo­ok. A man­ne­rism. She'd struck a chord. Cleo just co­uldn't fi­gu­re out which one. Frus­t­ra­ted, she de­ci­ded she'd had eno­ugh.

  "Lo­ok, In­s­pec­tor, yo­ur wit­nes­ses con­fir­med the sho­oter fi­red first, right?"

  "That is cor­rect."

  "You've al­so told me the we­apon he was car­rying mat­c­hed the one used to kill that wa­iter last night."

  "We won't be ab­so­lu­tely cer­ta­in un­til the tests are com­p­le­ted but, yes, it ap­pe­ars the bal­lis­tics match."

  "So what's the prob­lem he­re? Asi­de from tho­se two cor­p­ses, that is. How much lon­ger do you in­tend to hold me?"

  "Two cor­p­ses and the fact that you im­por­ted a let­hal de­vi­ce are suf­fi­ci­ent for me to hold you in­de­fi­ni­tely, if I was so in­c­li­ned."

  Her eyes nar­ro­wed. "Are you so in­c­li­ned?"

  "No, ma­da­me. I'm me­rely res­pon­ding to a re­qu­est from yo­ur go­ver­n­ment."

  "Co­me aga­in?"

  "We've re­ce­ived a sa­tel­li­te com­mu­ni­que re­qu­es­ting we de­ta­in you at po­li­ce he­ad­qu­ar­ters un­til a rep­re­sen­ta­ti­ve from the Uni­ted Sta­tes ar­ri­ves."

  "You're kid­ding!"

  "I as­su­re you, ma­da­me, I am not." Aruz­zo per­mit­ted him­self a small smi­le. "The com­mu­ni­que al­so sug­ges­ted wrist and leg irons. How for­tu­na­te for you we re­ti­red our last set to the po­li­ce mu­se­um so­me ye­ars ago."

  Cleo's bre­ath left on a hiss. "Do­no­van!"

  "Yes, I be­li­eve that was the na­me of the in­di­vi­du­al who for­war­ded the re­qu­est."

  "I'll kill him!"

  The in­s­pec­tor lo­oked pa­ined. "Ple­ase, Ms. North. Not on my watch."

  17

  1 he vi­ew thro­ugh the one-way mir­ror at Val­let­ta's po­li­ce sta­ti­on al­most ma­de up for the per­ma­nent dent the C-17's me­tal struts had put in Jack's sho­ul­der bla­des.

  Hands sho­ved in­to the back poc­kets of her je­ans, Cleo pa­ced the small in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on ro­om. An­ger ra­di­ated from her ta­ut body in wa­ves. She wasn't any hap­pi­er abo­ut be­ing de­ta­ined at po­li­ce he­ad­qu­ar­ters than Jack was abo­ut cha­sing her ac­ross a frig­ging oce­an.

  She was abo­ut to get a who­le lot un­hap­pi­er.

  With a nod to the in­s­pec­tor who'd bri­efed him on the si­tu­ati­on, Jack strol­led thro­ugh the do­or se­pa­ra­ting the vi­ewing area from the in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on ro­om.

  "Ni­ce go­ing, North. Two DO­As in two days."

  Her slit-eyed sta­re told him she'd me­rely be­en wa­iting for his ar­ri­val to up the body co­unt.

  "To­ok you long eno­ugh to get he­re, Do­no­van. What the hell did you do? Swim ac­ross the pond?"

  "You want out of he­re or not?"

  Spots of co­lor jum­ped in­to her che­eks. She was pri­med for blo­od. Or at the very le­ast, a knoc­k­down, gd-for-the-th­ro­at tus­sle.

  So was Jack.

  "Sa­ve it un­til we get back to yo­ur ho­tel," he war­ned, his jaw set.

  His mo­od didn't im­p­ro­ve when he got an eye­ful of Cleo's opu­lent su­ite.

  "Slo­a
n pa­ying for this?"

  "That's the way it works in the re­al world, Do­no­van. The cli­ent co­vers ex­pen­ses."

  Jack dum­ped his bag on a cha­ir up­hol­s­te­red in stri­ped silk. "Did you con­duct a swe­ep?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I'll tell you what I think in a mi­nu­te. Did you con­duct a god­dam­ned swe­ep?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "And I fo­und a Lev Ter­men."

  Frow­ning, he sho­ok his he­ad. "I ro­de ac­ross the pond on a C-17. My ear­d­rums are still rev­ved up to full throt­tle. I co­uld ha­ve sworn you sa­id you fo­und a Ter­men."

  "I did." She un­bent eno­ugh to smirk. "The me­tal col­lar's all rus­ted and cor­ro­ded, but the di­ode was in­tact. I'm gu­es­sing the KGB pro­bably ca­ught se­ve­ral pre­si­dents, am­bas­sa­dors and/or kings with the­ir pants down in the fif­ti­es."

  Still sha­king his he­ad, Jack shrug­ged out of his rum­p­led sport co­at. As much as he'd lo­ve to see that re­lic of the Cold War spy days, he had a mo­re cur­rent si­tu­ati­on to worry abo­ut.

  "All right, North. You want to tell me why you to­ok off for Mal­ta wit­ho­ut wa­iting for me to get back to you?"

  "Whe­re is it writ­ten that I ha­ve to get per­mis­si­on from you to work a ca­se?"

  "We had an ag­re­ement, dam­mit!"

  "Which you nul­li­fi­ed when you ma­na­ged to squ­e­eze in a call to De­tec­ti­ve De­ve­re­a­ux but so­me­how co­uldn't find ti­me to zap me so much as an e-ma­il."

  "You co­uldn't just trust me?"

  Her chin jut­ted. "Li­ke you trus­ted me?"

  "I don't sup­po­se it oc­cur­red to you things might ha­ve be­en bre­aking so fast I didn't ha­ve ti­me to bri­ef you."

  "Su­re they we­re." Arms fol­ded, she tap­ped a toe. "You've got ti­me now, Do­no­van. What the hell's go­ing on?"

  He'd gi­ve her the ba­sics. He'd al­re­ady de­ci­ded that. And he'd ta­ke gre­at ple­asu­re in what wo­uld fol­low.

  "One, a per­son or per­sons un­k­nown tap­ped in­to the clas­si­fi­ed por­ti­on of the Af­lo­at Pre­po­si-ti­oning da­ta­ba­se…"

  "Tell me so­met­hing I don't know."

  Jack's jaw loc­ked so tight he tho­ught the bo­nes wo­uld pop out of the­ir soc­kets. "Two," he gro­und out, "the clas­si­fi­ed area that was bre­ac­hed de­ta­iled the exact mix of we­apons cur­rently lo­aded abo­ard the Pit­sen­bar­ger."

  Cleo's arms drop­ped. He had her at­ten­ti­on now.

  "Three, the CIA in­ter­cep­ted a sa­tel­li­te tran­s­mis­si­on they think ca­me from a Bri­tish agent in the fi­eld. It con­ta­ins a co­ded re­fe­ren­ce to the Pits."

  "Bri­tish in­tel­li­gen­ce is trac­king the Pits?"

  "Evi­dently. One of the analysts at Lan­g­ley for­war­ded the in­ter­cept to DIA."

  "Uh-oh." Cleo's gri­ma­ce in­di­ca­ted her opi­ni­on of the De­fen­se In­tel­li­gen­ce Agency. "How long did it ta­ke DIA to tell us abo­ut the tran­s­mis­si­on?"

  Jack lif­ted a sar­do­nic brow, but ref­ra­ined from po­in­ting out that she was no lon­ger "us." She'd get that mes­sa­ge so­on eno­ugh.

  "The Old Man pas­sed me the in­ter­cept when I got back from Utah. Along with strict in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons to sit on my in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on un­til the CIA ve­ri­fi­es the so­ur­ce and sig­ni­fi­can­ce of the tran­s­mis­si­on."

  "Sit on it? You can't be se­ri­o­us!"

  "Yes," Jack grow­led, not li­king this any bet­ter that she did. "I am. Evi­dently Was­hin­g­ton isn't re­ady to ad­mit we're spying on one of our sta­un­c­hest al­li­es. Un­til the Old Man gets fe­ed­back from the CIA, we're on ice."

  "You're on ice," she be­gan.

  Jack cut her off be­fo­re she co­uld la­unch in­to a full-blown pro­test. "The­re's mo­re."

  The ter­se com­ment to­ok so­me of the bel­li­ge­ren­ce from her stan­ce.

  "This may be big­ger than the Pits. Af­ter Bar­nes told me abo­ut the in­ter­cept, I spent a so­lid thir­ty-six ho­urs with the thre­at-anal­y­sis folks. We se­ar­c­hed every in­tel­li­gen­ce so­ur­ce."

  He didn't ha­ve to ex­p­la­in the ex­c­ru­ci­ating pro­cess of in­tel­li­gen­ce-gat­he­ring to her. She knew the drill, un­der­s­to­od the ac­ronyms.

  SI­GINT, for sig­nals in­tel­li­gen­ce pluc­ked from elec­t­ro­nic and com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons so­ur­ces. IMINT, for ima­gery in­tel­li­gen­ce de­ri­ved from vi­su­al pho­tog­raphy, ra­dar sen­sors, la­sers and elec­t­ro-op­tics. MA­SINT, for me­asu­re­ments in­tel­li­gen­ce and sig­na­tu­res spe­ci­fic to the che­mi­cal and physi­cal pro­per­ti­es of va­ri­o­us we­apons systems. HU­MINT, the hu­man in­tel­li­gen­ce in­for­ma­ti­on col­lec­ted overtly by dip­lo­mats and mi­li­tary at­tac­hes, co­vertly by spi­es and un­der­co­ver agents. Then the­re was ever­y­t­hing el­se, lum­ped un­der the bro­ad ca­te­gory of OSINT, or open-so­ur­ce in­tel­li­gen­ce. The In­ter­net fell in­to this ca­te­gory. So did TV com­mer­ci­als, new­s­pa­pers and com­mer­ci­al da­ta­ba­ses.

  U.S. in­tel­li­gen­ce agen­ci­es har­ves­ted mil­li­ons upon mil­li­ons of bits of in­for­ma­ti­on from all the­se so­ur­ces da­ily. Each item had to be ve­ri­fi­ed, anal­y­zed and synthe­si­zed to se­arch for trends. Jack had no idea how many su­per­com­pu­ters we­re em­p­lo­yed in the task. All he knew was that it wasn't a job for the fa­int of he­art.

  "What did you find?" Cleo as­ked.

  He scrub­bed a hand over his chin. Two days' growth bris­t­led un­der his palm. Col­lec­ting his tho­ughts, he we­ig­hed her ne­ed to know aga­inst the Old Man's ter­se in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons.

  "I fo­und se­ve­ral re­fe­ren­ces to a so­ur­ce iden­ti­fi­ed only as Do­mi­no. Se­ems he-or she-is in­te­res­ted in pur­c­ha­sing mas­si­ve amo­unts of fi­re­po­wer."

  "How mas­si­ve?"

  "Eno­ugh to fill the hold of a su­per­si­ze car­go ship."

  Cleo let out a low whis­t­le. "What are you sa­ying, Jack? That we may be de­aling with an agent for a ter­ro­rist or­ga­ni­za­ti­on?"

  "That's what it felt li­ke at first," he ad­mit­ted. "But no­ne of the hits trac­ked to any known ter­ro­rist gro­up. My gu­ess at this po­int is that Do­mi­no may be a re­ne­ga­de arms de­aler."

  "Or part of a con­sor­ti­um of ro­gue arms de­alers," she mur­mu­red, fol­lo­wing his le­ad with the uner­ring in­s­tinct that ma­de her so dam­ned go­od in the fi­eld. "Hard to be­li­eve one in­di­vi­du­al co­uld put to­get­her eno­ugh cash or cre­dit to pur­c­ha­se a who­le ship­lo­ad of ar­ma­ments wit­ho­ut le­aving a mo­ney tra­il."

  "The CIA is wor­king that tra­il now."

  "What do you want to bet it le­ads to our fri­end Frank Helms, aka Ad­ri­an Mus­ta­fa Mo­ore?"

  "It might."

  "C'mon, Jack! Mo­ore had to ha­ve be­en snif­fing aro­und Trish Jac­k­son and Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering for a re­ason. It's lo­oking mo­re and mo­re li­ke that re­ason was the Pits."

  "Yes, it is. But un­til I get con­fir­ma­ti­on…"

  "Ye­ah, I know. You're on ice."

  "We're on ice."

  "I don't think so. You didn't see what Trish's cor­p­se lo­oked li­ke af­ter the sand crabs had be­en fe­eding on it for a we­ek. Or what that bas­tard sho­ved down her thro­at. No way I'm go­ing to sit on my ass whi­le Mo­ore is still unac­co­un­ted for."

  Jack clen­c­hed his fists in­si­de his poc­kets. They we­re back to squ­are one, and he was he­re to ke­ep her from jum­ping right to squ­are two.

  "I'm too wi­ped to ar­gue with you," he war­ned.

  "So don't." She ges­tu­red to­ward the opu­lent fo­ur-pos­ter do­mi­na­ting the ot­her ro­om. "Rack out and grab a few ho­urs' sle­ep, big guy. I'm go­ing to-"
/>
  "Rack out with me," he sa­id flatly.

  "In yo­ur dre­ams, Do­no­van. As pis­sed as I am at you right now, you can co­unt yo­ur­self lucky if I don't stran­g­le you in yo­ur sle­ep."

  "That's what I fi­gu­red."

  Sli­ding his hand out of his poc­ket, he thum­bed up the lid of a small plas­tic ato­mi­zer.

  "What's that?"

  When he aimed it her way, sud­den sus­pi­ci­on le­apt in­to her eyes.

  "J­ack! You wo­uldn't da­re!"

  She flung up an arm, but the vi­olent ges­tu­re ca­me too la­te to block the spray. The cle­ar, co­lor­less puff had al­re­ady hit her nos­t­rils. One bre­ath la­ter, she stag­ge­red back.

  Her eyes bla­zing with fury, she went down on one knee. "You're a…de­ad man…Do­no­van."

  Jack snag­ged her arm just in ti­me to ke­ep her from pit­c­hing on­to her fa­ce. Ha­uling her up over his sho­ul­der, he tran­s­por­ted her to the ot­her ro­om and dum­ped her on the bed.

  18

  Cleo ca­me awa­ke with no­ne of her usu­al fuzzy grog­gi­ness. Her bra­in clic­king in­to ge­ar, she re­gis­te­red se­ve­ral in­s­tant im­p­res­si­ons. The ro­om was smot­he­red in inky dar­k­ness. A lig­h­t­we­ight cot­ton she­et co­ve­red her. The pat­ter co­ming thro­ugh the clo­sed do­or just off to her left was the sho­wer.

  She knew im­me­di­ately who oc­cu­pi­ed the glas­sed-in stall. Her ar­gu­ment with Jack sprang in­to her he­ad-along with the sud­den, vi­vid ima­ge of his hand aiming a noz­zle at her fa­ce.

  "So­nu­va­bitch!"

  With a sur­ge of fury, she lun­ged for the ed­ge of the bed. She was hal­f­way off the mat­tress when so­met­hing cut in­to her an­k­le and jer­ked her to a vi­ci­o­us halt. Yel­ping, Cleo tum­b­led on­to the car­pet.

  At that po­int she dis­co­ve­red she was we­aring only her la­ce-trim­med silk bo­xers. She al­so dis­co­ve­red she was tet­he­red to the bed by a thin strip of plas­tic. One end was ban­ded aro­und her an­k­le. The ot­her end was lo­oped aro­und the bed­post.

  Tra­ining and re­ason told Cleo she co­uldn't bre­ak the bond. Tac­ti­cal res­t­ra­ints ma­de of plas­tic li­ke this tes­ted to mo­re than three hun­d­red and fifty po­unds of ten­si­le strength. She­er fury had her kic­king and yan­king and cla­wing at the an­k­le cuff, an­y­way.

 

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