"A bellman delivered this just as we were leaving our suite. Who is Lady Marston?"
Jack hooked a brow. "Someone with the resources to know you arrived in the middle of the night, apparently."
"What's her connection to our boy Moore?"
"I expect we'll find out at her villa." His glance slid to the woman at Sloan's side. "Until we do, I don't think it's smart to-"
"Marc and I have already had this discussion," Diane interrupted coolly. "I'm coming with you."
"Short of tying the woman to the bed, there wasn't any way of stopping her."
A wicked glint leapt into Jack's eyes, but Cleo cut him off before he could offer Marc suggestions or advice. "We're wasting time here. Let's talk to the concierge about transportation to this seaside villa."
"It's already arranged," Diane informed her. "I called before we left the suite. They're bringing a carriage around now."
A horse-drawn carriage with the Auberge St. Georges logo etched in gold on its side panels conveyed them to the gate of the walled city. A chauffeur stood at attention beside a limousine just outside the gates. He handed the ladies in and advised the men that the drive would require twenty minutes.
"Lady Marston's villa is in San Pawl il-Bahar- St. Paul by the Sea. It is a small resort on the north side of our island."
"Named for the Apostle Paul," Cleo added as the limo's engine purred to life. "He was shipwrecked here in 60 a.d. while being transported to Rome to answer to the emperor for spreading the doctrines of Christ."
Three surprised faces swung in her direction.
"Hey, I did some research. According to the record made by his fellow prisoner, St. Luke the Physician, Paul stayed in Malta for three months while recovering his strength. In the process, he converted the Roman governor to Christianity."
"I suspect that didn't win him any points with the authorities in Rome," Marc commented.
"Evidently not, since Nero had him beheaded."
Sincerely hoping the same fate didn't befall any of them, Cleo hit the button to raise the partition between the front seat and back.
"I never did get to see that picture of Lady Marston the Ops Center sent you," she reminded Donovan.
She recognized the thin, elegant face the minute she zoomed in on it. "That's her, Jack! That's the woman from the cathedral."
He squeezed against Cleo's shoulder to take a look. "Interesting that she's such an expert shot."
"Isn't it?"
Firing into a stampeding crowd at a crouched shooter required icy nerves and considerable training-not the kind of training an opera buff and widow of a British member of parliament would normally receive. Frowning, Cleo studied the brunette's features again.
"I know I know her. I just don't know from where."
"Let me see."
Sloan took a turn at the screen. He didn't have any more luck placing Lady Marston than Cleo had. Diane, on the other hand, made an instant connection. She took one look at the screen and gasped.
"Good Lord, Marc! She has your chin and eyes! You could be her brother."
21
The route from Valletta to Lady Marston's villa wound around the harbor basin, through the city of Sliema and out along the north shore. Waves crashed against rocky coastline and flung up tall white spumes. Small, protected coves sheltered brightly painted fishing boats. The villages were tiny gems set alongside a sea that was a palette of turquoise, azure and cobalt.
As they neared the village of St. Paul by the Sea, the limo driver pointed out the fount where the Apostle Paul was reputed to have quenched his thirst after dragging himself out of the sea. He also showed them the church marking the spot where Paul supposedly threw a viper into the flames and another where the Governor Publius was reported to have welcomed him.
At any other time, Cleo would have delighted in both the scenery and the history of this tiny island. She and her father had traveled to so many countries during his years with USAID that she made a habit of gathering interesting tidbits about people and places and squirreling them away to savor later.
This time she barely registered the passing view. Her mind was too busy with the tangled events that brought her to this sleepy resort town on Malta's north coast…and with the mysterious woman who resided in the house set on the far curve of St. Paul's Bay.
The villa looked modest when the driver first pointed it out. It was flat-roofed in the Mediterranean style, with a buttery tan exterior. Then a bend in the coast offered a view of the house's rear. Cleo took in a cascade of glass walls, rooms that stair-stepped down the rocky cliffs and garden terraces jutting right out over the sea.
The driver pulled up at a set of iron gates and buzzed for entry. A moment later the gates swung open. As the limo wound along a driveway that hugged the cliffs, Cleo detected a camera tucked into the branches of a gnarled olive tree and the tiny, unwinking red eye of a sensor planted amid mossy ferns.
A uniformed maid answered the doorbell and escorted them through a living room done in soothing cream tones that showcased a stunning collection of modern art. Sliding glass doors gave onto an upper balcony. A short flight of stairs wound down to the terrace. It was there, against a backdrop of bright red geraniums and glorious turquoise sea, that their hostess greeted them.
Floating across the terrace on a cloud of amber chiffon, she held out her hand. "Well, Ms. North, we meet again."
"So we do," Cleo replied. "Let's hope we don't have to dodge any bullets this time."
"I rather think we won't."
Her cool smile stayed in place as Cleo made the introductions.
"This is Jack Donovan, an associate of mine. Diane Walker, also an associate. And this is…"
"Marcus Sloan. Yes, I know."
When the woman offered Marc her hand, Cleo could have kicked herself for not making the connection sooner. Diane had hit the nail smack on the head. Johanna Marston was a female version of Marc. Her eyes were more slate-blue than gray and her chin lacked the dimple that characterized his. But they shared the same high, chiseled cheekbones and firm lips, as well as a distinctly aristocratic nose.
"How do you do, Mr. Sloan?"
Marc shook hands politely, but his feelings were anything but gracious as he stared into a face that rolled back the years and stirred turbulent memories.
He could still recall the morning the general had summoned his six-year-old sons into his study and informed them they'd been adopted at birth. He'd assured the twins it made no difference, none whatsoever, in how he and their mother felt about them. He simply wanted them to understand that medical issues might arise someday they couldn't deal with unless they knew the truth.
That was the general. Blunt. S
traightforward. Fully aware he'd rocked his sons' world right off its foundation. Fully expecting them to adjust.
Alex had, and far more quickly than Marc. He'd always been the smart, agile twin. The straight-A student. The star center on the basketball team. The hotshot air force pilot destined for greatness, like his illustrious father.
Marc had tried to fit into the good-son mold. More or less. He'd aced those classes that interested him, copied Alex's homework in those that didn't. He'd played sports more to work off energy than anything else. He'd accepted an appointment to the Naval Academy, fully intending to make a career of the military, but opted out after serving his tour to swim with the financial sharks.
As a consequence, he'd never quite measured up to the general's exacting standards. There had always been that distance, that degree of separation, as well as unanswered questions about his biological parents.
The general disclaimed all knowledge of his sons' birth parents, but Marc knew damned well he wouldn't have taken in two babies without checking their bloodlines. By the time Marc had the resources to hire investigators to trace his real parents, though, the lawyer who'd arranged the adoption was dead. Marc petitioned the court to unseal the records, only to find the birth certificates and affidavits supplied by the attorney were clever forgeries.
The trail dead-ended in that courthouse, but Marc's determined attempt to trace his roots had driven another wedge between him and the man who'd adopted him. They'd rarely seen each other in the general's later years, and then only when Alex had arranged a family gathering.
Now, as he looked down into this woman's face, Marc had to fight to keep the old hurts and a sharp, new anger from seeping into his reply. "You have the advantage of me, Lady Marston. You obviously know who I am. I don't have a clue who you are."
Her smile took a mocking slant. "Mother referred to me as the middle sin."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm your sister, Mr. Sloan. According to our mother, I entered the world red-faced and howling some eight minutes after Alexander and twelve before you."
"The hell you say!"
He'd figured cousin. Or half sister, maybe. A daughter born later and not given up for adoption, as the inconvenient twin boys had been. He sure as hell hadn't expected to hear this tall, elegant woman say she'd shared a womb with him and Alex.
"A bit of a shocker, isn't it, Mr. Sloan?"
"A bit," he ground out.
He wasn't the only one stunned by the news, he saw. Diane's incredulous glance kept swinging from Marc to their hostess. Cleo eyed the woman with intense speculation. Donovan cut right to issue of most concern to him.
"Sloan and his brother are identical twins. That means they share one hundred percent of their DNA. Just where do you fit into that DNA equation?"
The brunette pulled her gaze from Marc. "You're very direct, Special Agent Donovan. I've heard that about you."
Donovan stiffened, but before he could ask just how the heck he'd popped up on this woman's radar screen, she responded to his question.
"Identical siblings occur when an egg is fertilized by a single sperm and the embryo subsequently splits. Fraternal siblings result when the mother releases two or more eggs which become fertilized. It's extremely rare for both to occur simultaneously, but that's evidently what happened here. Thus Marc and Alex share one hundred percent of their DNA, but only fifty percent with me-the same ratio as any other set of siblings. I must admit," she added with a lift of one perfectly shaped brow, "that made it difficult for me to use his DNA signature to access your Afloat Prepositioning database."
The cool admission elicited a curse from Marc and a swift, indrawn hiss from Jack.
Cleo's hand slipped inside the zipper of her purse. Her instincts told her this woman posed no immediate threat, but the mere fact she knew about the APP upped the ante considerably. Lady Marston observed the movement with another lift of her brow but addressed herself to Donovan.
"Then, of course, I realized Marc couldn't have used his own DNA because he and Alex are identical. Nor could he supply DNA belonging to another living person to establish access, as that would violate your security requirements."
"You seem to know a lot about our system requirements."
"Yes, I do."
"Care to tell me just how you came by that knowledge?"
The brunette's glance slid to Diane before returning to Donovan. "I couldn't contact you until I notified my superiors of your arrival. I had just received clearance to speak with you when Marc and Ms. Walker showed up. Her presence required additional coordination."
"You had to get the green light from C?"
Her laughter rippled out, light and amused. "A clever pun, Mr. Donovan. And spot on."
Cleo caught the reference immediately, but Marc was obviously still struggling with the fact that he and this woman sprang from the same mother. He didn't understand the oblique reference and made it clear he didn't like being left behind in the conversation.
"What the hell are you two talking about?"
"Your sister is with the British government," Donovan informed him. "MI6, unless I miss my guess."
"Jesus!"
Marc shoved a hand through his hair. Cleo felt a distinct sympathy for the executive. This meeting was delivering one punch after another. While her client tried to unscramble his thoughts, she regarded their hostess with new approval.
"So you're SIS. That explains that bullet you put between the shooter's eyes in the cathedral."
"Not to me." It was Diane's turn to demand clarification. "C. SIS. MI6. Will someone please clue me in?"
"SIS is the British Secret Intelligence Service," Cleo explained. "MI6 is its foreign-intelligence division, the counterpart to our CIA. It's the successor to the Secret Service Bureau founded by Sir Mansfield Curnming in 1909."
"Very good," Lady Marston murmured. "You paid attention when you went through your air force intelligence training, Ms. North."
"Yes, I did. Sir Mansfield signed himself as 'C and used only green ink," Cleo continued for Diane's benefit. "Supposedly, all SIS chiefs since have continued the tradition."
"They have," the brunette confirmed. "A silly practice, one must admit, but the stuff of legends."
"Okay," Diane said, "I get it. Green ink, green light. I still don't understand how you gained access to a classified database using the DNA signature Marc had established, though."
Marc's gaze bore into the woman. "There are a few things I don't understand, either. Like how you knew about Alex and me. And why we never knew about you."
"It's rather a complicated tale." She gestu
red toward the table set with a massive silver tea service. "Shall we have a spot of tea or coffee while I explain?"
"Do you have anything stronger?" Marc muttered as he hooked a hand under Diane's elbow. "This is turning out to be one hell of a morning." Marston's laughter spilled out again, light and silvery. "As it happens, I do."
Lady Marston wielded the heavy silver pot with an expertise that suggested she'd performed this ritual at any number of afternoon teas and garden parties. Coffee and tea poured, she passed a three-tiered plate of puff pastries. Cleo was more than happy to sneak two flaky tidbits onto her plate as her hostess reached for a crystal decanter almost hidden behind the teapot.
"You prefer single malt Scotch, don't you?" "Yes, I do. How did you know?" She poured a stiff shot and met Sloan's eyes. "You owe that to the general, I would guess. Mum indicated he developed a taste for it during his tour in England."
Sloan froze with his hand stretched halfway across the table. "Wait a minute. Are you saying your mother…" He broke off, took a breath and started again. "Are you saying our mother was acquainted with the man who adopted Alex and me?"
Sympathy softened the high, clean lines of Marston's face. "Yes, she knew him. In the biblical sense, as it turned out. Major General Harrison Sloan was my biological father."
"But that would make him Marc's…!"
Cleo's startled exclamation was lost in the crash as Sloan exploded out of his chair and sent it crashing to the tiles.
"My biological father, too," he finished on a snarl.
THE MIDDLE SIN Page 21
