No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery)

by Julie Moffett

  At the mention of Al-Asan’s name, I gasped aloud. Slash looked at me strangely. “You know that name, then?”

  I nodded. “Yes. In fact, I just heard of him tonight. From a guy who works for CGM.”

  Slash looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind. “What? You’re talking openly to someone on the inside at CGM?”

  “Well, sort of,” I admitted. “He contacted me yesterday looking for Basia. He was the one who sent her the documents for translation in the first place. He thinks there is something fishy going on at Bright Horizons.”

  Slash looked at me incredulously. “And you believed him…just like that?”

  I started to feel defensive. “Hey, he came to me, and he was doing most of the talking. I learned lots of useful stuff about CGM.”

  Slash swore under his breath. “You didn’t tell him you still had the documents electronically, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t tell him about Acheron either, so quit acting like I did something illegal.”

  “Foolish is more like it.”

  “Hey,” I protested. “Now you’re getting personal.”

  “Well don’t you think it is coincidental that he happened to contact you the day after the documents are mysteriously stolen from you? How did he find you?”

  “He worked with Basia and I guess she talked about me. My connection to her is no secret. It was a logical extrapolation that I might know where she is.”

  Slash didn’t look pacified in the slightest. “Who is this man?”

  “His name is Finn Shaughnessy. He’s a lawyer for the company.”

  “A lawyer?” Slash exclaimed, followed by what I think were swear words in Italian.

  I held up my hands. “Hey, I know it sounds bad, but he’s a nice lawyer,” I explained and then couldn’t believe it myself that the words “nice” and “lawyer” had come from my mouth. “Look, Finn is convinced there’s a cover-up going on in the company. He’s genuinely worried about Basia and has been trying to get to the bottom of it, at great risk to himself I might add.”

  “You are unbelievable,” Slash muttered.

  “All right, that’s it!” I said in a huff. “I can handle this myself.” I was getting tired of everyone acting like I didn’t know what I was doing—even if it were true.

  Slash rolled his eyes, sighed and then patted the bed. “Sit down, cara. No need to consider this a big problem. Perhaps we can use this lawyer to our advantage.”

  “That was my plan all along.” I sniffed, sitting back down.

  Slash took a deep breath. “All right. What does he know about Al-Asan?”

  I told Slash everything Finn told me, including Basia’s flight to Berlin possibly to rescue her cousin Judyta Taszynski, the apparent connection of Al-Asan and Judyta to the Bright Horizons contract, and the fact that CGM had hired a private detective to find Judyta. Slash listened intently, and about halfway through my story, stood up and started to pace.

  He paced for another few minutes and I watched him walk back and forth across my bedroom floor, absently trampling my clothes, underwear and assorted junk. Finally he stopped and looked at me as if remembering I was there.

  “Do you think this Finn Shaughnessy would help us?” he asked.

  “Maybe. What did you have in mind?”

  “An encryption-breaking program. The twins and I could write it and he could load it onto the network via his computer at work.”

  “You want him to break into his own company files?”

  “Is he looking to protect himself or not?” Slash asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “I guess, but what we’re asking him to do is illegal. He is a lawyer after all. And if we get access to the network, the files we need may still be encrypted.”

  “Trust me, cara, the encrypted files will be the easy part. We’ve got to crack the network first. Will you ask him or not?”

  I hesitated. Somehow I was casting a wide net, dragging not only my friends, but people I barely knew into murky criminal waters. “I suppose I can ask,” I finally said. “If the twins agree it’s a good idea. However, I can’t guarantee he’ll do it.”

  Slash shrugged. “If he doesn’t, we are no worse off, and we must then determine why he refuses to help. If he does agree to do it, you mustn’t tell him where you got the disk.”

  “Because you don’t exist.”

  Slash smiled. “Exactly.”

  I suddenly felt vulnerable, scared and tired. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore, including the dark-haired man pacing my bedroom. Was he really who he said he was?

  Slash must have sensed the change in me because he walked over to me and put a light hand on my shoulder. “You’re still not sure of me.”

  I frowned, hating the fact that my thoughts were so transparent. It was time to work on my poker face.

  “Well, I think the twins trust you and that is in your favor,” I said. “I guess I’ve just developed an X-Files complex—you know, ‘Trust No One.’”

  He chuckled, apparently also a fan of the old television show. “I assure you, cara, there is no government conspiracy here. I came because you needed me. You still do. Now listen to what I have to say and perhaps it will reassure you.” Slash sat back down on the bed. “But you must understand that what I will say now is a matter of critical national security. You must promise to keep it confidential.”

  I looked at him intently. “Do you really work for the NSA?”

  “Si.”

  “Anyone else?”

  He smiled slightly. “Si.”

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “The good guys. Don’t ask any more, cara. I can’t tell you.”

  “But you’re sure it’s okay to bring me in on an NSA restricted operation?” The last thing I needed to do was add spying or obtaining classified information to my burgeoning criminal activity list. “Are you sure I don’t need to fill out some paperwork, have a more thorough background check or take another lie detector test? Even more importantly, are you sure I have the required psychological make-up to withstand torture and starvation if I fall into enemy hands?” I was really worried about the starvation part. The enemy would just have to withhold Diet Coke or donuts for a couple of days and I’d be ready to spill my guts.

  Slash rolled his eyes. “If you fall into enemy hands, I’ll open the cyanide capsule in your mouth myself.”

  I searched for a glimpse of humor but didn’t see one. “Gee, while that’s thoughtful of you and all, I’m not sure I want to go down this path. I really, really don’t want to be America’s weakest link in national security.”

  Now his lips twitched. “Come on, cara, don’t you want to know what’s happening with your friend?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Then understand that there are risks involved.”

  Hello? Like I didn’t already know that. Case in point, I had a strange man in my bedroom to prove it.

  “I’m well aware of that,” I said. “It’s just there’s a lot more risk than I expected.”

  “It’s up to you.”

  I sighed. “Okay.”

  “Good. Then I must start by telling you those two men who were bodyguards for Prince Al-Asan—they showed up dead about nine months ago in Genoa, Italy.”

  “Dead?” I squeaked and then hated myself for sounding like a scared teenager.

  “Murdered, actually. They had just delivered a package to the Bright Horizons fertility clinic and were on their way back to the hotel when they were ambushed and shot in their car.”

  “Ambushed? Why?”

  Slash shook his head. “Their murders have not been solved. But both the CIA and the FBI have taken an interest in the case.”

  “The FBI and the CIA? Why would they be interested in a case of two Saudi nationals in Italy?”

  “Terrorism. The FBI requested and obtained the ballistics report from the Italian police and reviewed the other evidence retrieved at the site. There is no conclusive evidence but the CIA is con
vinced it’s the work of the followers of Samir Al-Naddi.”

  I drew in my breath sharply. “Samir Al-Naddi? Not that terrorist nutcase from Yemen?”

  “The one and only.”

  I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t like where any of this was going. And I really didn’t like that it seemed to be going in my direction.

  Slash leaned down and picked up his briefcase, pulling it onto his lap. He punched in a code and the briefcase snapped open. I peered inside curiously and saw a precisely organized workstation complete with a sleek-looking laptop, a bunch of neatly rolled cables, computer tools and a sheaf of documents. The briefcase was deep, so I was sure there was more cool stuff in the bottom, including more expensive and top-of-the-line equipment.

  Slash pulled out his laptop and I looked with unabashed envy at his ultra slim machine, which looked to weigh about half a pound and was less than an inch thick.

  I whistled in appreciation. “Sleek set-up. Can you tell me who makes it?”

  “Sorry. That’s classified,” he said with a shrug.

  He probably changed computers as often as he changed clothes, I thought. Sheesh, if I made his paycheck, I’d probably do the same. To him, my laptop was likely a dinosaur.

  He opened the computer, booted up quickly and then opened a file. Looking over his shoulder I saw several computer-generated photographs.

  “Can you look through these and tell me if you see anyone you recognize?” he asked.

  My lip trembled. I wasn’t sure I was up to all of this. In my heart of hearts, I knew the unabashed truth—I was a coward. A coward with a degree in math and computer science who liked chocolate éclairs, doing the Sunday crossword puzzle in The Washington Post and leading a really boring, tedious life. I wasn’t at all equipped to deal with the fact that my best friend had vanished, people were pulling guns on me and talking about superterrorists. I felt like crying.

  I closed my eyes and suddenly had the absurd realization that Slash and I had never left my bedroom.

  I abruptly stood. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” I said.

  He put a gentle hand on my arm. “I know you’re afraid,” he said quietly. “You can back out if you want to, cara. No one will blame you.”

  I pulled away from his touch. “Then what happens to Basia?”

  “Perhaps nothing.”

  “Or maybe she ends up dead.”

  He didn’t disagree, and I could see sympathy in his eyes. “You didn’t ask for this, cara. It’s your decision.”

  I gritted my teeth and tried to screw up the courage to tell him to get out of my apartment. Instead I exhaled. “Okay, set the laptop up on the kitchen table while I brew some coffee.”

  For a moment it seemed like he might urge me to change my mind and back out. But then he looked down at his briefcase.

  “I think perhaps the occasion calls for something stronger,” he said. To my astonishment, he pulled a bottle of red wine from the bottom of the briefcase and handed it to me. I wondered if all Italian men carried wine in their briefcases.

  I glanced at the wine label. Red, Italian and old. Most likely the most expensive wine I’d ever drink in my life. If my life lasted all that much longer.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked.

  “Italians don’t need an occasion to drink wine, but if you insist I’ll say it’s the start of what is likely to be a fruitful partnership.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I nodded. I seriously needed a drink.

  Slash followed me into the kitchen. As I pulled out two wine glasses from the cabinet, he set up the laptop on the kitchen table. I dug out a corkscrew from one of my drawers and handed it to him. He popped the cork and poured the wine. I took a sip. It was light, fruity and full-flavored. Excellent.

  “Superb wine,” I said, like I was some kind of connoisseur.

  He seemed pleased. “I thought you would like it.”

  He was right and that made me nervous. I sat at the table, clutching my wine glass, and avoided looking directly at the computer. Slash sensed my reluctance because he patted me on the back.

  “Courage, cara. Come take a look.”

  I chewed on my lower lip, still refusing to look at them. “Who are they?”

  “You tell me,” he said.

  I steeled myself and stared at the photos. They were all men—different ages and races. I let out a small gasp and pointed to the middle of the third row.

  “That’s Mr. Middle Eastern Guy! That was the man in my apartment. Who is he?”

  Slash looked at me for a long time without saying anything. Then he looked back and forth between the photo and me.

  “Look again, cara,” he said. “It’s very important. It was dark in your apartment. How sure are you that this is the man you saw?”

  I looked back at the picture. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the same guy. “It’s him,” I said. “I’m positive. Who is he?”

  Slash rested his chin in his hand. He definitely did not look happy. His finger rested on the corner of the picture and he tapped it slowly.

  “His name is Rashid Bouker,” he finally said. “He’s the military attaché at the Yemeni Embassy in Washington.”

  Chapter 8

  “Yemen?” I choked, nearly spewing the expensive Italian wine all over him. “You’re joking, right?” Like he’d joke about this.

  Even Slash looked worried. “Those papers, cara. Think. What was in them that would have everyone, including a high-ranking official of the Embassy of Yemen chasing after them?”

  “You’ve seen them for yourself, haven’t you?” I asked.

  “I have, but you and Basia are the only ones who saw the original.”

  “They’re identical, other than the penciled code on the bottom of page three that we decided meant Acheron. I have no idea what an official from Yemen would want with the documents. From what I could tell, it was a contract between unnamed clients generated by Bright Horizons and written in Polish. Living arrangements, including the rent of an apartment in Warsaw, a car, medical services, a bank account and a generous stipend were all provided to an unnamed recipient. Finn thinks it may have been a contract drawn up to provide for a surrogate pregnancy. But he said to his knowledge, the company did not involve itself in such contracts.”

  “To the best of his knowledge?” Slash asked.

  “Yes,” I said, irritated that his voice held a note of disdain every time we talked about Finn. “He told me tonight that he found out whose names were part of that contract—Al-Asan and Basia’s cousin, Judyta Taszynski.”

  “Who translated the contract for you?”

  I hesitated, not wanting to bring Paul into this. “A friend of mine,” I said. “I don’t want to involve him.”

  “You already have,” Slash said, but he didn’t press further. He shoved his hand through his dark hair in frustration and I felt envious of his fingers. “We need to get more information.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve already sent a copy of the electronic version of the contract to another expert to have them translated again for us,” Slash said. “But it isn’t likely we’ll learn much more than you’ve already told me. Maybe your meeting with the lawyer is a good thing after all. He may be the key that breaks this for us.”

  My anxiety level was ratcheting into the stratosphere. “Look, if this whole thing is now a matter of national security, I should probably tell my boss. At first I thought I was just protecting my best friend. If there is some kind of international intrigue going on, possibly involving terrorists, I could get fired for keeping this to myself. Not to mention I might also get myself killed.”

  To my surprise, Slash touched my arm in what I think was a gesture of comfort, but instead, I felt a streak of heat race from his fingertips through my skin and directly into my veins. Jeez, guys needed to stop touching me or I was going to die of heart failure at twenty-four.

  “You have told someone at the NSA, cara. Me. I have informed tho
se persons who need to know. Rest assured that you have completed your duty.”

  “But I’m not even sure you work at the NSA,” I said in frustration. “Not to mention the fact that I don’t even know your real name. I mean you could just be some guy who broke into my home and is pumping me for information about this situation. You could even be working for Mr. Middle Eastern Guy or Beefy.” I knew I sounded scared and desperate, because I was. This situation was spiraling way out of my control.

  Slash exhaled a deep breath. “You want me to prove that I work for the NSA? Then I shall visit you tomorrow at work. I shall stroll past your workspace and say hello. But you must not call me by name or tell anyone how you know me. Would that make you feel better?”

  “It might,” I said. Actually the suggestion both intrigued and relieved me. If Slash didn’t work for the NSA there was no way he could get to me. You have to be pretty high up to just stroll wherever you want. The complex has a slew of buildings, some adjoining and some not, and is twice the size of the CIA. At the NSA we are strictly compartmentalized and each of us only has authorization to be in certain parts of the building. And that was after a series of exhausting security checks including holographic IDs, hand prints and retina scans. I had been working at the NSA for two years and I had never seen him on my side of the building. It would be a true test to see if he could actually get to me.

  “Eccellente,” he said with smile. “Then we shall have no more secrets between us, si?”

  “I guess,” I said uncertainly.

  I drained the rest of my glass, feeling a slight bit better. If Slash really was who he said he was, then his help could be invaluable. Moreover, I would fulfill my duty to both my boss and my country. Slash refilled both of our glasses and I felt some of the tension go out of my neck and shoulders. But I still didn’t understand something.

  “The Yemen connection is still bugging me,” I said.

  “It bothers me, too, cara. I have been unable to determine why the FBI and CIA think terrorists under the control of Samir Al-Naddi would kill Al-Asan’s two bodyguards in Genoa. Al-Naddi and Al-Asan have no obvious connection to each other, no known animosity or political differences. Now you say an embassy official from Yemen broke into your apartment and threatened you with a gun while trying to get his hands on this contract. It does not make sense to me either.”