“Night and day. But he was allowed to pass.”
Sam ran through the possibilities. “Because you wanted to see where he might lead you.”
“That's the plan. Do you have any other clues that might help us in the meantime?”
Sam desperately wanted to say yes. He put one hand against the window, fighting to dredge up some detail out of his memory. As he stared at the gray water, he saw a flash of blurred images.
People. Noise and laughter. The glint of sunlight against silver. And through it all a sick stabbing in his stomach and a sense of betrayal.
He didn't have a clue what any of it meant.
“I can't remember anything else, sir. Sorry.”
“The memories will come. Until then we wait.” The admiral cleared his throat. “But we go by the book on this, understood? I'm the quarterback here and the play's in motion. You're to go by the book or we'll lose a whole lot more than yardage,” he added grimly.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Good. Now get back to work, Commander. No pain, no gain. Just stop short of putting yourself back into the hospital.”
ADMIRAL HOWE HUNG UP THE PHONE, THEN STOOD BY THE WINDOW, staring out at the Washington Monument in the distance.
He imagined Lincoln, grave and brooding in the twilight, with eyes that had seen the full pain of political betrayal and a country split in two. The image moved him, as it always did.
He turned away, studying the half dozen framed photos that were the only decoration on his oversize desk. He looked at them often while he worked, for they were his lifeline in a world where trust was nonexistent and lying was an art form. Sometimes it bothered him to see how well he'd come to fit into that world.
But it never bothered him for long. Duty was duty, after all. And business was business. He hadn't gotten to the top by being weak or indecisive.
He frowned as he picked up the photos, one by one. His wife with their youngest daughter, skiing in Vermont. His two Great Danes rolling in the snow. His son with his friends at their raucous graduation from prep school.
Finally he came to the edge of the desk and a shot of him and his two sons playing down-and-dirty football with Sam McKade at the family's sprawling estate in McLean. As he studied the photos one by one, memories slipped through his fingers like sand.
A hell of a thing not to be able to remember your own past. It was almost inconceivable to him. No wonder Sam McKade was edgy.
The admiral watched the flow of evening traffic, an angry beast scrambling along the Beltway. He didn't want to think how big a problem he was facing, but he was paid to think so he pulled out the surveillance photos taken in Alexandria. The federal agents on site had verified that the apartment had been entered and the key they had planted had been taken. The trap was laid.
Now they were assembling a full file on the man in the delivery van. Ex-army, he had a list of aliases and questionable skills that he occasionally sold to the highest bidder.
But they still hadn't reeled in the big fish.
Howe knew that the key was supposed to accomplish that.
He didn't like playing in the dark, but they seemed to have no choice as long as Sam's memory was blocked. He wondered again what information the SEAL had unearthed in Mexico while he was undercover. His reports had been uncharacteristically terse, deferring full details until their appointment in Washington.
An appointment that Sam had never kept, thanks to a runaway bus and a near-fatal act of heroism.
They had come so close to knowing everything about the network of greed and betrayal eating its way through the heart of the government and its armed services. But not close enough.
Not without Sam.
Howe picked up the phone and told his aide to call his driver. Staying here in this silent office to brood was pointless. He needed to relax, and he'd do that best at home in McLean. Being with his family always made him feel better, though he could never discuss the problems he carried home with him.
Later he'd contact Izzy and find out how things were really progressing out at the resort.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“HOW DO YOU LIKE THE CLOTHES?”
Annie tugged at the belt of her big terry robe. “Let's just say I can't believe people really wear this stuff. Normal people, that is.”
Taylor waved a hand in front of Annie's face. “Hello? Welcome to the twenty-first century. Donna Reed doesn't live here anymore.”
“Easy for you to say. You're not the one strapped in under here.”
“The thong?”
“No way. That was giving me rug burn in very uncomfortable places.”
“A minor drawback.” Taylor shrugged. “But men love the stupid things.”
“Then let the men wear them.” Annie yanked her robe open. “This is the best of the lot, and I still feel ridiculous.”
She held her robe stiffly, offering a glimpse of a red lace demibra with ultrasheer cups. The matching panties were held together by tiny strings at each hip.
“Not bad,” Taylor mused.
Annie shot her an angry look. “I'm more out than in with this bra. I can't figure what's keeping it up.”
“That's why they call it a miracle.” Taylor crossed her arms smugly. “And because of the miracle it can work in your sex life.”
“What sex life?”
“My point exactly.”
“Maybe I don't want a sex life,” Annie said glumly. “My life is already too complicated.”
“Honey, no one's life is that complicated. You're going to knock him out. Now go put on the leopard bodysuit.”
Annie returned to the dressing room, reluctance in every step. “If I catch pneumonia, you're footing my medical bill.”
“You never get sick. It's disgusting how healthy you are.” Taylor paced outside the door. “Did you know that some of the guests have a pool going on the identity of your visitor?”
“Maybe they should get a life,” Annie called grumpily.
“For your information, the bets are currently running neck and neck. Half say you've smuggled Harrison Ford inside. The other half are putting their money on Brad Pitt.”
A feather went flying over the dressing room door. “Aaaargh.”
“Actually, your mystery man has a cuter butt than either of them. Hard eyes, but a cute butt,” Taylor mused. “How's the leopardskin doing?”
The door opened, and Annie emerged in skintight spandex. One strap was twisted over her shoulder, the other was locked around her neck.
“Help.”
“Stop wiggling.” Taylor tugged the straps—which were actually formfitting sleeves—into place low on Annie's shoulders, then stood back to survey the effect. “Impressive. Or it would be if you'd stop twitching.”
Annie peered at her image in the mirror. “I don't know, Taylor. It's incredibly revealing.” She turned to one side and then the other, frowning.
“It doesn't show much skin.”
“It doesn't need to. You can see everything else, because of the way it clings. I can't even wear any underwear.”
“Better and better. Just sit back and watch him drool.”
“He won't drool.”
Taylor lowered the sleeves again and smiled lazily. “Wanna bet?”
Annie took another look at herself in the mirror. “I feel like a complete fool.”
“You don't look like one. That's what matters.” Taylor pushed her back toward the dressing room. “Go change. Next stop, a massage with those lovely hot stones. Then it's straight into the saltwater pool.”
SAM WAS HALFWAY TO THE SHOWER WHEN IT HIT HIM.
Easy, pal. It's here, right in front of you.
He didn't move, afraid any distraction would scatter the gossamer web of memory drifting at the edge of his mind.
A number?
A number that felt damned important to him?
The patterns started to unravel, and Sam cursed, afraid he couldn't hold them together. Looking up, he saw the sports jer
sey tossed over a chair in Annie's bedroom. He could make out the folded hem and the edge of the number.
He felt sweat brush his brow as he searched for a memory. He had a sudden flash of a man racing down the gridiron, arms outstretched.
Red and white. It had to be Joe Montana, Sam thought. No one else came close. After four Super Bowls, the man was a legend.
Then he saw a number, white on red, so clear he could touch it.
16.
Montana's winning number for the 49ers. What was it supposed to mean?
Sam's hands were unsteady and his mouth was dry, but he didn't let go of that precious thread. Maybe the number would mean something to the people back in D.C. Or maybe it was the colors that were important.
He pulled out the secure phone Izzy had given him and dialed grimly, cursing all the things he still couldn't remember.
“MMMMM. ”
“You say something?”
“Not me.”
Steam billowed over the granite tiles. Annie's head rested against a towel as hot salt water swirled over her while the ocean shimmered beneath her in a forty-mile expanse of blue glory.
They were outside steaming away their toxins in 102 degree water. According to Taylor, every ten minutes made their bodies one year younger. Annie figured she was just about to start elementary school. Her face was swathed in a chamomileyogurt mask, cucumbers covered her eyes, and her muscular system was the consistency of hot tapioca.
Taylor gave a long sigh. “This is the life. Tell me again why we don't do this every day.”
“Because we can't afford it.”
“Says who? You can afford it because you're the owner. I can afford it because I'm a major shareholder and you'll give me deep discounts to stifle any shareholder dissent.” Taylor pushed away a slice of cucumber and opened one eye hopefully. “Right?”
“Not if you keep pushing that trashy lingerie at me.”
“It's for your own good. Wear it just once, and you'll see what I mean.” Taylor's lips curved. “I'll expect a complete report afterward, of course.”
“You're impossible.”
“Thank you.” Taylor raised one arm and stretched languorously, watching steam spiral around her. “If my life came with a sound track, I'd be humming along to Yanni right now.”
“Better than listening to William Shatner sing ‘Rocketman.’ ”
“ ‘I'm not the man I used to be-e-e-e.’ ” Taylor rolled her eyes and made a gagging sound, which made them both laugh wildly. “What would your sound track be?” Taylor demanded abruptly.
“I'm too tired to think.” Annie brushed at the water. “Maybe Enya. No, Eric Clapton. ‘If I could change the world.’ ”
Taylor gave another sigh, studying the water with regret. “It's almost four. Too bad I have to go.”
“Same here,” Annie murmured. “Too bad.”
The steam shimmered.
Neither of them moved.
“Do you ever wish you could start over?” Taylor asked gravely.
“As in wear diapers again?”
“Not that far back. Just a decade or so, when life started to get interesting.” Taylor turned her hand and watched water slide down her fingers. “Back to, say, high school. Fall 1980s Early Metallica.”
“Not me. I hated high school. You were the one with all the dates and the boys who watched your every move.”
“They were watching yours, too. You just didn't notice.”
Annie sniffed. “No way.” She shifted one of the cucumber slices.
“You always had your head in a book so you never saw.” Taylor's eyes narrowed. “I, on the other hand, was the first one to stay out all night, the first one to sneak into the drive-in. I was always looking for the next big experience, even if it was a bad one.”
“You really wish you could go back?”
Taylor shrugged. “I wish I'd slowed down and enjoyed things. If you charge headlong at the stream of life, you end up with windburn. Or shin splints. Or something.” She shook her head. “On that obscure note, I'm leaving. I've got to go kill someone.”
Smiling, Annie tossed her a towel. “Who gets it today?”
“A lawyer who's been two-timing his wife and his mistress. He's also been skimming from his oh-so-proper Boston law firm.”
“I like it.” Annie thought about Tucker Marsh and his threats. “Just don't make it quick. Draw it out. Make him suffer.”
“Is there something you need to tell me?”
Annie pulled on her terry robe. “Nothing that I can't handle.”
“Remember, I'm here if you need me. Any and all details welcomed. Moral support dispensed as required.” Taylor slid the towel over her shoulder. “There's always a chance I can work you into a book somewhere.”
“Quote me and you're a dead woman.”
“Hmmm.”
Annie shook her head, well aware that warnings made no impression on Taylor, who was busy digging in her Vuitton bag. “Catch.”
Something flew toward Annie. She caught it, frowning at a small foil square.
“Keep it. Use it,” Taylor said.
“I don't—”
“You might. New century, new rules, love. A woman doesn't leave it to the man.”
Annie blew out an irritated breath, then pocketed the foil square in her robe. She had an uncomfortable suspicion that Taylor had the mature approach, but Annie wasn't about to carry around a condom.
On the other hand, she wasn't going to leave it here for a guest to discover.
She watched Taylor toss beauty items into her designer bag. “Do you really need a pair of fake leather capri pants and three tubes of mascara with you at all times?”
“Faux, not fake. And the answer is yes. Absolutely. A woman's got to be prepared for all eventualities.” She turned to give Annie a searching look. “Wear the red lace. He'll be crawling in five seconds.”
CLEANSED, GLISTENING, AND EXFOLIATED, ANNIE CROSSED the courtyard toward the kitchen, feeling like a new woman. The wind was picking up and her hair flew into her eyes. To the north she saw the sharp outline of lightning.
There was a sense of unreality about the unnatural darkness. Or maybe it was just her body, weightless and sleek from two incredible hours of pampering.
Only one unpleasant sight spoiled her rosy mood.
A workman was crouched near the new whirlpool, checking chemical readings in a test kit. Annie scowled at the familiar logo on his khaki uniform.
This was the fifth workman this week. If he told her there was another problem, she was going to rip the whirlpool out of the ground and send it back in little pieces. Nothing was worth this much aggravation.
Squinting into the wind, she stalked toward her unsuspecting target.
“Don't tell me it's overflowing again,” she snapped.
The man jumped, nearly dropping his test kit. “Jeez, I didn't hear you back there.”
“Sorry.” Annie held out a hand. “I'm Ms. O'Toole, the manager. I hope you haven't found any more problems.”
“Not so far.” He squinted up at her behind his dark glasses. “Your chemistry looks fine. PH is normal and chlorine reads just in zone.” He pulled a wrench from a big aluminum toolbox. “Your intake filters look cloudy, though. I thought I'd clean them out before I finished. Dirty pipes can be a bitch.” He cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon.”
Annie noticed a line of foam at the top of the pipe. “Could that be what's causing these maintenance problems?”
He scratched his neck slowly. “Might be. You get a fair amount of leaves and debris up here, and that can be a killer. Your staff needs to skim everything at least twice a day, and be sure to cover the tub at night as a precaution, as well as before any major storm.” He glanced up at the sky and shook his head. “Starting right now. Those clouds could rip any second.”
Sand and dry leaves danced along the path as he spoke and he clutched at his cap to keep it from blowing away.
“I'll get one of the mainte
nance people right away.”
“Sooner the better.” He tightened his wrench, then went to work on the filter. “I'd better get moving, too. No sense staying around water when the lightning starts. I got hit once and it's not something you forget.” He rubbed his wrist unconsciously as he spoke, and Annie wondered if that was where he'd been struck.
“Thanks for all your help.”
“Don't worry.” He patted the top of the filter. “When I'm done, this baby's gonna purr.”
Halfway up the path, Annie had another thought. “Do you have a card?” she called. “If I have another problem with the filters, I'd like to call you directly.”
“Can do, ma'am.” Squinting, he fumbled in his toolbox, producing a folded and soggy set of business cards. “Doused them at my last service call.” He pulled one out for Annie, tapping the number at the bottom of the card. “The name's Dooley. I'm usually in the field, but you can always reach my pager. You got a problem with the pumps or the filters, give me a shout, 24/7.”
He gave Annie a little two-finger wave, checked the sky again, then went back to work on the filter, muttering about the dangers of silt impaction.
A drop of rain hit Annie's shoulder. She knew she had to find Reynaldo and make certain he understood the new maintenance requirements. The quickest way would be to use the phone in her office.
Rain splattered over the flagstones as she reached the main courtyard. One of the maintenance staff was walking toward her office, and Annie ran to cut him off.
“Reynaldo?”
He didn't turn. Annie couldn't see his face with his hat pulled low against the wind.
Frowning, she crossed around in front of him. “Enrique?”
“Sí.” He turned as she did, keeping his side to her.
“I need some help up at the new whirlpool. The cover needs to be put down before the storm hits.”
“Big winds, sí.” He turned up his collar, pointing toward the covered walkway. “We go this way.”
“Yes, but—”
He moved ahead of her, his voice muffled by the whine of the wind while Annie followed in growing irritation.
She stopped near the therapy rooms, just outside a walled terrace. “Can you turn around, please? I need to talk with you.”
My Spy Page 19
