Talons of the Falcon

by Rebecca York

  Eden bit her lip. She thought she knew what kind of sacrifice he was describing. It took an emotional toll—in fact, one that had been too high for her to pay over the long term.

  Gordon noted the young woman’s reaction and pressed on. “I think he came through for me this time, too. He had sent a coded message that he had identified the leak and was on his way back from Berlin with the evidence.” He paused for dramatic effect. “But his plane crashed in East Germany.”

  Even without knowing this engineer, Eden felt herself shudder at the price he’d apparently paid for his patriotism. When she thought back over the past year, however, she couldn’t remember an incident like that coming out in the press.

  Gordon answered her unspoken question. “It didn’t make the papers,” he said. “He was necessarily a loner with no family. And we didn’t want any publicity.”

  “But, if he died...”

  “That’s just it. Six months later, the other side notified our Secretary of State that he was safe in one of their medical facilities. It seems they’d pulled him from the wreckage of his plane and managed to save his life. He’d been pretty badly burned and had a dozen broken bones. But they’d patched him up, and as a `gesture of goodwill’ they were returning him to us.”

  The tea in front of Eden was growing cold, but she’d forgotten all about it. “If they had him for six months, God knows what they did to him,” she whispered.

  “Exactly.”

  Despite her professed lack of interest, Eden found herself asking, “Where is he now?”

  “For two months a special air force security unit has had him down at a facility called Pine Island off the Georgia coast. They’re trying to debrief him, but he’s not saying anything at all. I think he’s afraid the information he learned before the accident is going to get him into more trouble. But that’s not how air force security sees it. They’re convinced the other side has brainwashed him—and gotten the specs on the weapons project he was working on. So they’ve decided he’s expendable, and they’re going to extract what they can out of him, no matter what the cost.”

  “They don’t know he was actually working for us,” Constance interjected. “We can’t tell them without tipping our hand to whoever it was that sabotaged that plane in the first place.”

  Eden drew in a ragged breath. Sabotage. She had been thinking the East Germans had taken advantage of an unfortunate accident. Now the drama had become even more complex. But she still thought she understood why Gordon had sent for her. “You want me to go down to Pine Island and referee,” she stated.

  “Not exactly. There’s an opening on the staff for a psychologist. Evidently they’ve decided strong-arm tactics aren’t working, so they’re going to give the persuasive arts a try.”

  Gordon had effectively drawn her into his story, but Eden wasn’t going to let herself become personally involved. Pushing back her chair, she stood up. “I’m sorry. But you can count me out of the party.” Working with torture victims in the past had all but burned her out. Turning to a less demanding job had been a matter of preserving her own sanity.

  Connie looked from the agitated young woman to Amherst Gordon. At times like this she almost hated him. His face didn’t show it, but he was holding the ace of hearts and had no qualms about using it.

  “Would it make a difference,” he asked Eden slowly, “if I told you that the man in question is Lt. Col. Mark Bradley?”

  A sharp pain seemed to knife through Eden’s heart, and she sank back into the chair. The horrible things this man had described couldn’t have happened to Mark, not the Mark Bradley she remembered. But Amherst Gordon’s green eyes told her that it was all true.

  “Dear God, no!”

  Constance reached over and put an arm around her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “I’m not going to ask you to make a decision without more information,” Gordon was saying as he got up and walked stiffly across the room to transfer the parrot to a T-shaped perch. “Maybe I’ve made a mistake, and you really aren’t the right one for the case.”

  From a shelf near the window he picked up a manila folder. “Why don’t you look over Colonel Bradley’s file and then take some time to think the assignment over?”

  Constance stood up also. Without further comment, they left Eden alone in the sunlit room that now unaccountably seemed a bit chilly.

  Eden looked down at the cream-colored folder in the center of the table. Finally, with fingers that were far from steady, she flipped it open. The first thing she encountered was a large glossy photo of the man in question. In the picture he was smiling at her with that very masculine, slightly rakish grin that had captured her attention when they first met. Her gaze swept over the raven hair slanted across his forehead, the aquiline nose, the jaw that would have dominated his face had the other features not been so strong. The lines at the corners of his dark eyes had deepened slightly, but they only added a touch of maturity that hadn’t been so apparent five years ago. Mark’s dashing good looks had attracted her first. But she’d learned there was a toughness hidden by that devil-may-care exterior.

  She could see his broad shoulders below the twill fabric of his uniform, but the photo had been cropped so that only the first two buttons of his shirt were visible. Against her will, her imagination began to fill in the rest of the picture—the brawny strength of his arms, the crisp dark hair that spread across his chest and arrowed down his long torso to his trim abdomen, the narrow hips, the well-muscled thighs. The way his naked body had felt pressed to hers. The rough texture of his chest against her breasts. That last incredible night he had made love to her, she had been sure he was going to ask her to marry him. The morning after, he had walked out of her life.

  They’d been good friends for almost a year and lovers for nine months. But it wasn’t just the physical relationship. They’d both seemed to find something vital they needed in each other. Mark had taught her how to capture the unique joy of each moment together—like fine champagne bursting from an uncorked bottle. At the same time, he seemed to be reaching out to her in a deeper way, as if he were finding roots he’d never had time to put down before. She’d thought the two of them had had something very special together. Apparently she’d been wrong.

  She resented the way Amherst Gordon had carelessly ripped apart the scar tissue that had formed over her old wounds. Yet now, with Mark’s folder in front of her, Eden couldn’t help twisting the knife. As though under some sort of compulsion, she began to read on.

  The file was a summary of Mark’s service record, plus the special assignments he’d undertaken for Amherst Gordon. The language was bland, but the words gave her a sense of how much danger this man had lived with during the ten years he’d been an agent for the Peregrine Connection.

  It was hard to take in. But the part that really wrenched her heart was the medical report from the air force facility where Mark was being detained. Eden felt a wave of nausea sweep over her as she began to read the dispassionate accounts of the subject’s present mental and physical condition. He’d suffered everything from multiple fractures and internal injuries to major skin grafts. Only a man with an iron constitution could have survived.

  Apparently he was on his way to physical recovery. But his mental state was another matter. Withdrawn, depressed, uncooperative and quite possibly psychotic—the terms leapt out at her. And from the prescribed course of treatment so far, it looked as though he was going to stay that way. Gordon must be right. Someone down there was desperate to break Mark Bradley—at any cost.

  When Eden looked up from the folder, she knew that she had been manipulated by Amherst Gordon. But after what she’d learned, she really didn’t have a choice about her decision.

  She was staring off into space when the feeling of being watched made Eden look up toward the doorway, where her gaze collided with Gordon’s.

  “You bastard,” she whispered. The accusation was as much a release of her own tension as an epithet
directed at the man in the doorway.

  “I take it that means you’ve decided to accept the assignment,” Gordon observed dryly.

  “You knew I would.”

  The silver-haired man acknowledged her capitulation with a slight nod. “You’re right. I don’t play by the rules. But I didn’t have time for two weeks of gentle persuasion. You’ll be leaving for Pine Island tomorrow morning, and we have a lot to do between now and then.”

  Chapter Two

  As the motor launch picked up speed, the salty wind blowing off the bow whipped Eden’s shoulder-length hair back from her wide forehead. The spray felt good after the stifling humidity of the Savannah airport. The young woman sighed. In the space of thirty-six hours she’d gone from cool Vermont to muggy Virginia to the even muggier Deep South. But her final destination—Pine Island—was just ahead.

  Shading her eyes against the slight glare from the choppy water, she peered into the distance, trying to make out the distinguishing characteristics of the island. All she could see was a white sandy beach and beyond it occasional stands of trees and some low buildings. Amherst Gordon had told her the holdings had originally belonged to a millionaire industrialist who’d lost his fortune in the recessions of the early seventies. The heirs had deeded his white elephant to the government in exchange for settlement on the back taxes.

  The man behind her controlling the tiller coughed and she turned. “Best sit down,” he advised above the steady hum of the motor. “Bound to be a bit rough out here.”

  For emphasis the boat gave a little lurch, making the lone passenger almost tumble onto one of the padded bench seats. There was no more conversation. Instead, Eden pulled her navy cotton skirt around her knees and kept her blue eyes fixed on her destination. It wasn’t really a long ride, but too far for her to swim back to the Georgia mainland through the choppy water.

  She knew why that particular thought had crossed her mind. During his exhausting briefing at the Aviary, Gordon had warned her that once she arrived at this well-guarded outpost, she probably wouldn’t be allowed to leave until her job was finished. But what if she needed to get away quickly? What then? She simply didn’t have the answer.

  And there were other questions troubling her. Even though she’d held an Alpha clearance, she’d never been involved in undercover work. Was she going to be able to help Mark without letting his jailers know what she was doing? She felt like an actress thrown into an important role without time to study the script.

  Eden scanned the shoreline, trying to pierce the facade of rich-man’s playground that the island presented. Gordon had told her as much as he could about the frightening drama being enacted there. In order to play her part, she’d have to keep a lid on her own doubts and emotions.

  The launch was close enough now that she could make out more details—gnarled oaks heavy with Spanish moss and a rambling stucco house reminiscent of a squared-off sand castle, only it was pink. But the charm of the picture was marred by a number of large signs posted around the shoreline:

  Private Property

  Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted To The

  Full Extent Of The Law

  A young man with blond, close-clipped hair waited on the narrow private dock. Dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, he was obviously meant to be mistaken for a handyman. However, Eden noted that he walked with a definite military bearing. From reading Gordon’s briefing sheets, she knew he was Sergeant Blackwell.

  Even his weaponry was not standard military issue. She drew in her breath when she noticed the double-barreled shotgun leaning casually against a bench.

  As he saw her eyes flick to it and then quickly away, he grinned. It wasn’t a friendly gesture. Instead it was calculated to establish immediately who had the upper hand at this supersecret installation.

  “Come into the guard station,” he said as soon as she disembarked and her suitcases were deposited on the pier. The words were an order, not a request.

  Silently Eden followed him along the rough gray boards to what looked like a shed meant to hold fishing tackle and other paraphernalia. Inside, however, it was equipped with a computer terminal and a telephone. There was no attempt to hide the closed-circuit TV camera mounted in one corner. The red light under the lens was on.

  Without offering his visitor a seat, the guard picked up the receiver and dialed. “Sir, Dr. Sommers has arrived,” he announced.

  Eden couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but it was punctuated on her end by frequent Yes, sirs. When the guard finally hung up, his face was impassive.

  “I’ll have to get your fingerprints and search your luggage,” Blackwell relayed. “But Major Downing is busy now, anyway, so the delay won’t make much difference.”

  Eden had been warned about security precautions, but not something like this. “My luggage...” she began.

  “Could inadvertently contain materials that are off-limits here. I’m sorry, Doctor.” The clipped cadence of his words told Eden that he wasn’t.

  Trying to appear unconcerned, she watched as he opened a suitcase and began to feel through the contents, unfolding blouses and skirts at random. He even sifted through the contents of the small jewelry bag tucked in the corner. One piece seemed to be of particular interest: an antique pin Connie had said would look nice with Eden’s good dress. Blackwell held up the ornate piece, inspecting the amethyst and gold design curiously.

  “Not much chance to wear something like this down here,” he muttered.

  Eden remained impassive. But when he pulled out a lacy bra and held it up for special scrutiny, she had to bite back a protest. There was no use calling attention to her clothing. Although supplied by the Peregrine Connection, the wardrobe fit her slender, five-foot-seven frame as though she had bought it herself. Constance McGuire had assured her that everything had been washed so that it would look broken in. Would the ploy work? Eden’s reception committee of one made no comment.

  Mindful of the camera and trying to appear serene, she gazed out the window. It was already well past dinner, and the setting sun had painted the western sky a rich shade of pink tinged with orange.

  Finished with Eden’s luggage, Blackwell brought out an old-fashioned fingerprint record card and opened a black stamp pad. Taking her right hand, he rolled each finger in turn across the spongy surface and then pressed it to the form. He didn’t comment on the coldness of her skin. The procedure made her feel like a criminal being booked, not a well-trained professional on a sensitive assignment. She suspected it was supposed to have that effect. Major Downing obviously wanted to create a certain impression at her reception. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had unnerved her.

  Just as she was wiping her hand on a paper towel, another blue-jeaned young man arrived with a luggage cart. Small and compact with an olive complexion and coarse dark hair and brown eyes, he fit the description of Airman, Third Class Ramirez. But, as with Blackwell, she’d better not use his name until she’d been officially introduced.

  “I’m to take you to your quarters,” Ramirez announced laconically, as he began to load her belongings. No one here was making an effort to be friendly.

  “If Major Downing is going to be tied up for a while, perhaps I could speak to Dr. Hubbard,” she ventured.

  “That won’t be possible until after you’ve talked to our chief of station.”

  The cart’s wheels crunched against the gravel path as she and Ramirez made their way between moss-hung live oaks toward the main compound. Besides the pink stucco house there were tennis courts, a pool that might have been designed for a Hollywood celebrity, and lush gardens in obvious need of attention. In fact, as she drew closer, Eden could see that the whole estate was somewhat neglected. The net on the tennis court was little more than a few sagging strings, and several of the statues around the pool were crumbling.

  They were almost at the main house. Glancing up toward the red-tiled roof, she noted that the upper windows w
ere covered completely by black, intricate grillwork that looked as effective as prison bars. Further to the right and left were several other buildings that might have been enlisted-men’s quarters or offices. Heavy curtains blocked any view of the interiors.

  As her guide opened the wide front door, Eden was hit by an inviting gust of air-conditioning, but it was one of the house’s few modern improvements. The furniture had obviously come with the total package. While it must have been luxurious in its time, it was now showing the ravages of the wet climate. A faint mustiness tinged the air. Eden could imagine there was an enlisted man assigned to scraping the mildew off the overstuffed chintz-covered furniture and carefully oiling the old oak tables and chairs so they wouldn’t crack.

  Her room was upstairs on the front. Once Ramirez had left, Eden quietly closed the door. Now that she no longer had to maintain a controlled demeanor, her hands trembled slightly as she looked around at the sparse surroundings. Upstairs, the fading antiques had been replaced by standard government issue. The only furnishings besides the narrow bunk were a tall chest of drawers, a night table and a desk—all of olive drab metal. Not very cheery—and a far cry from the colonial elegance of the Aviary, where she had spent the night before.

  Reaching up with long fingers, she massaged her temples and forehead. She hadn’t realized what a strain it would be trying to act as though this were just another job. After the brusque reception her insides were churning like a rotary mixer.

  Her first inclination was to pace back and forth until she was summoned, but by allowing her tension to build like that, she’d be playing right into Downing’s hands. From his file, she knew that he was good at his job. And that included finding any weakness in an opponent and exploiting it. Apparently he wanted her off-balance during their first interview.