Double-Cross

by Meredith Fletcher

  “Do you know how calculated that sounds?” he asked.

  It had been calculated. Sam acknowledged that. But the results, her heated involvement and response, had been totally unexpected.

  Riley ran a hand through his hair. He cursed. A crooked, mirthless smile fitted itself to his lower face but never reached his eyes. “God, St. John, you’re some piece of work. Were you trying to throw my career away, too?”

  The accusation stung Sam on several levels. She tried to answer but her voice got stuck in her throat and wouldn’t come out.

  Exhaling, Riley pointed at the walls. “They’ve got cameras viewing your room 24/7, St. John. That little attempt at seduction you just threw was recorded. We’ll be lucky if it’s not plastered all over the Internet tomorrow.”

  Sam groaned inside. She’d forgotten all about the damn cameras once the fireworks had ignited inside her. “I wasn’t thinking—I didn’t think—about the cameras.”

  “That was pretty damn stupid, wasn’t it?”

  “I just wanted to get…get your attention.”

  “Damn straight you got my attention, St. John. How do you like my attention now?”

  Sam didn’t. Not one little bit. She was frustrated; how could he go from desirable one second and turn into a complete jerk in the next? A change that drastic could give someone whiplash.

  “I need help,” she repeated. “I want to help my friends. I can’t do that from in here.”

  “So you offer me sex?” Riley cursed, ran his hand through his hair again, and cursed some more. “You could have given me all the sex in the world and I still couldn’t get you through that door without Mitchell’s okay.”

  “Things…got out of hand,” Sam said.

  “Man, that’s the understatement of the year.”

  Sam felt the harsh burn of tears at the back of her eyes. She clamped down on her feelings, pushing them again and creating space so they wouldn’t touch her until she was ready.

  “I need help for my friends,” she insisted.

  Riley shook his head in disbelief. “Because you think some mythical assassin is after them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you told your friend the air force captain about the Cipher?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it would cause problems.”

  “What problems?”

  “They would want to know why I wasn’t there to help them. They would want to know why I couldn’t get more information for them. They would investigate, and they’d find out I’m not on a mission.” Sam took a deep breath, feeling a little more in control of herself now. “Besides, Mitchell’s cyberwatchdogs wouldn’t let a message like that go through to Josie.”

  Riley took his tie off and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “No. They wouldn’t.”

  Sam thought frantically. There had to be a way to turn the situation around. Seducing Riley had been a desperate move, but there was still another angle she could play.

  “Tell Mitchell that the Cipher is my contact in Berzhaan,” Sam said. A chill filled her as she made the statement. Once she’d spoken, she knew she couldn’t take the false confession back. Mitchell would use that against her, and if he could, he’d hang her with it.

  Riley looked at her. “Sam,” he said in a quiet voice, “don’t do this.”

  For a moment Sam reconsidered what she was doing. In the end, though, she knew there was nothing else she could do. She’d failed miserably at seducing Riley over to her side. Worse than that, she’d made a fool of herself. The camera’s digital recording had captured every moment of it.

  “It’s done,” she said. “Tell Mitchell.”

  “Sam, you don’t know the Cipher.”

  “No,” she agreed. “He contacted me through a blind drop. That’s why I’ll have to help the Agency find him. And to do that, I’ll need access to his records.”

  She knew the ploy was one born of desperation, but “desperate” was her zip code at the moment. After she’d learned of the mysterious blackouts, tied in to the fact that some kind of medical procedure had been performed on Rainy all those years ago, and that Kayla, Alex and Darcy were now following up on one lead they could find, Sam knew that she couldn’t sit idly by anymore.

  Her friends didn’t have the resources of the CIA, and only Sam was in a position to give them access to that information.

  “This is stupid,” Riley said.

  More stupid than trying to seduce you? Sam wondered. But she didn’t give voice to the question. She was afraid of the answer.

  “Mitchell’s not going to buy it.”

  “Tell him if he doesn’t, he’s going to be partly responsible for the problems that come up in Berzhaan,” Sam said in a flat voice.

  Riley glowered at her. “Damn you, Sam.”

  In control of her emotions once more, Sam looked at him. “I’d like you to leave, Agent McLane.”

  “You’re digging yourself in too deep.”

  “I’d like you to leave now,” she repeated.

  Riley stood still. He looked frustrated and worried and confused.

  Sam raised her voice. “Guard.” She didn’t know what else to call the agents who watched her. “I want Agent McLane out of here now.”

  “Sam—”

  “Don’t,” she whispered with cold neutrality, “don’t tell me that I’m stupid one more time, McLane, or they’re going to pull me off you when they get here. I swear I’ll put you right back in the hospital.”

  Footsteps sounded out in the hall. “McLane. McLane, you’ve got to get out of there.”

  Without a word Riley walked to the door.

  Sam turned away, unable to watch him walk away from her. She thought she’d gotten over the pain that accompanied people walking away from her years ago. She was surprised and disappointed in herself to find that such a simple act could still hurt her.

  She stood still until the door locked. She closed her eyes and felt the lonely emptiness of the cell. After a moment she made herself walk to the bed. Agents were going to be watching her. She didn’t want them to see any more of what she was going through than they had already seen.

  Quietly, just as she had when she’d been a little girl in all those strange and unfriendly houses, she drew into herself and walled the world away.

  “What do you think, Agent McLane?”

  Riley kept his eyes locked on the image of Sam sitting quietly in her cell. From what he’d been told, she hadn’t moved since last night.

  “McLane,” Stone Mitchell called from his desk.

  “Sir,” Riley said, “she’s lying.”

  “About being involved with the Cipher?”

  “Yes, sir.” Reluctantly Riley faced the director.

  Mitchell sat at his desk in a dark suit. His face was set, somber. In addition to seeing the digital footage of Sam’s “confession,” Riley knew Mitchell had also seen footage of her attempted seduction of him. They hadn’t talked about that yet, but Riley was certain they would.

  “Do you know that she’s lying?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yes.” Riley answered without hesitation.

  Mitchell thought about that for a moment, then rephrased his question. “Can you prove that she’s lying?”

  “No, sir.”

  Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “Then we have a problem.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, you can’t possibly believe Sam St. John has any kind of connection to the Cipher.”

  “Why not?”

  Riley drew in a deep breath. “Because, despite that damned footage MI-6 sent over, Sam is a good agent. An agent you can trust.”

  “You were reluctant to add her to the Munich operation.”

  “That wasn’t a trust issue. She’s green for that kind of op.”

  “From the evidence suggested by the firefight she was involved in while in Suwan, I’d venture to say that she’s not as green as you believed. Or anyone believed. She took out the Kemenis withou
t hesitation, and with skill that few agents would exhibit under similar circumstances. Not many of our people have been under fire like that.”

  “If you believe her, sir, you’re making a mistake.”

  “And if I don’t follow up on her confession, I’d be remiss in my duties.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that, sir. But there’s a greater problem here.”

  Mitchell looked at him.

  “St. John believes the Cipher was responsible for the death of her friend.”

  Mitchell tapped the computer keyboard and glanced at the screen. “Lorraine Miller Carrington.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t think the Carrington woman was killed by the Cipher?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “St. John is grieving, sir. I took her away from that funeral, and from her friends. She never even had the chance to speak to them. You’ve seen St. John’s background. She’s never known family. The women she went to school with at the academy are the closest thing she’s ever had to one.”

  “So, in your opinion, if her friend hadn’t gotten killed in a car wreck, St. John wouldn’t have confessed?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That still doesn’t mean she’s not guilty.”

  “No, sir.”

  “In fact, based on the footage I’ve seen of St. John in action, I’d say she’s very guilty. Maybe she’s playing the sympathy card, angling for some kind of breakdown to use in her defense.”

  “I don’t think so. I think she really believes—”

  Mitchell tapped another key and the monitor flickered as new information filled the screen. “Would it surprise you to know that Police Lieutenant Kayla Ryan of the Youngstown, Arizona, PD has been requesting files regarding the Carrington woman’s accident? After the funeral?”

  “I don’t think any of those women were prepared to lose one of their own.”

  “Would it surprise you to know that Alex Forsythe, a forensics expert for the FBI—and also a graduate of the Athena Academy—has been investigating the Carrington woman’s death as well as medical practices at the academy?”

  “Same answer,” Riley replied. “When a team loses an agent in the field, the people who live through it go through similar things. It’s survivor’s guilt. Nothing more.”

  Mitchell folded his hands in front of him, and Riley knew he was in for hell.

  “I’m glad you’re so sure of yourself, Agent McLane,” Mitchell said. “Because I’m not at all certain that it’s not true.”

  “You think the Cipher killed the Carrington woman?”

  “Let me walk you through a scenario.” Mitchell sipped his coffee. “We have a young CIA agent—we’ll call her St. John to keep things simple.”

  Riley bit back a retort.

  “St. John is young and ambitious. She gets to be a CIA agent, but she’s not advancing as quickly as she thinks she should. Or maybe the job isn’t as financially rewarding as she thinks it should be. Or maybe her interests haven’t been pro-American from the beginning.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe you didn’t read St. John’s background closely enough,” Mitchell suggested. “Did you know that her first language was Russian?”

  Riley stayed silent. How the hell had he missed that?

  “Whatever the case,” Mitchell continued, “St. John decided that she could get financially more secure or complete her real mission, however you want to play it out. So she hooked up with the Cipher to—”

  “She only gave that confession because she thinks she’s protecting her friends.”

  “Maybe she is protecting her friends. Have you even considered that? She could have betrayed the Cipher. Maybe killing one of her friends was his way of getting back at her. Or chasing her out into the open.”

  “You think the Carrington woman was murdered?”

  “The seat belt failed,” Mitchell said. “It happens. But how often does a driver fall asleep at the wheel and have a seat belt fail?”

  “It could happen.”

  “Again, I’ve got St. John’s confession that she’s been working with the Cipher.”

  “She’s lying.”

  “Which time, Agent McLane? When she told us that wasn’t her in the MI-6 footage? Or when she told us it was her?”

  Riley stared at the director. “You’re going to try to railroad St. John on this, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t lay the tracks for this pileup. I’m just following what’s there.” Mitchell stared up at him without expression. “I’m going to do my job. I suggest you do the same. You’ve already stepped way over the line in this operation.”

  Chapter 11

  “K nock, knock,” Howie Dunn called from the other side of the security door to Sam’s personal prison. As he had for the past four days, he sounded cheerful.

  Sam stopped her morning tai chi exercises and turned toward the door. “Come in.”

  The electronic locks snapped in their housings. A moment later Howie stepped through the doorway with a bag of coffee and bagels in one hand, a notebook computer and a briefcase tucked under his arm. If he hadn’t been so large, he would have looked overburdened. He wore a jacket over a dark-green turtleneck.

  “Breakfast.” Howie shook the bag gently. “Hope you haven’t eaten the sawdust they usually try to pawn off on you.”

  “No,” Sam said. “I was hoping you’d bring breakfast.”

  He took a look at her and shook his head. “Man, have you tried sleeping?”

  Despite the seriousness of her situation and the very real danger she thought existed for her friends, Sam couldn’t help being slightly cheered by the CIA agent’s concern. Howie Dunn was one guy who wore his heart on his sleeve.

  Rainy would have said, One of the keepers. Locked up as she was in the cell, Sam often found Rainy in her thoughts. She’d wished time and again that she could have talked to her friend. If anyone could have made sense of the emotions rolling loose inside her, it would have been Rainy.

  “I tried sleeping,” Sam said. She rolled her head and tried to loosen stiff neck muscles. “It’s overrated.”

  Howie put the bagels and coffee down carefully, then did the same with the notebook computer. The smile left his face and he pushed his glasses farther up his nose.

  “Hey,” he offered quietly, “in all seriousness, I can talk to Mitchell. See if we can’t get some slack cut and get you something that will help you rest at night.”

  “No. Any kind of medication leaves me groggy.” She noticed the concern in Howie’s eyes. “I’ll be all right.” God, but that was stupid. You’re an admitted traitor to the United States. So you’ll be healthy for the lethal injection or the firing squad.

  “What about warm milk? My mom used to swear by it. I could maybe arrange a glass of warm milk for you before bedtime. Nothing there to leave you groggy.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Howie didn’t look happy.

  Sam stood her ground and crossed her arms. For the last two days, she’d felt convinced that having an agent other than Howie would have been in her best interests. Howie just came across too…honest, like he tried too hard to get along. His behavior was bringing out a guilt in her for her own subterfuge that she hadn’t expected and could ill afford.

  “Maybe we should get to work,” Sam suggested.

  Howie handed her the coffee and bagels. “Divvy. I’ll get us set up.” He ambled to the door and knocked. Immediately, a rolling cart and two folding chairs were passed through by guards outside.

  The bag contained four lattes and a dozen bagels. Sam matched Howie when it came to caffeine, but she only kept two of the bagels. The fact that Howie could eat so much and not show it offered mute testimony to his size and dedication to fitness. The fact that he was built like a small mountain helped.

  Working with obvious familiarity, Howie set up the computer, plugged in the encrypted wireless networking card that gave them acces
s to the Agency’s computers and brought the unit online.

  Sam opened the briefcase and took out the discouragingly thin files regarding the master assassin known only as the Cipher. For the past four days, she’d scanned through the files looking for some clue that she and previous criminal profilers had missed before. The task was daunting. She’d only remembered the Cipher because of the unusual method of killing that he’d evidently perfected. No one had been able to advance a theory as to how the killer was able to make so many executions look accidental.

  The computer peeped as the Internet service came online.

  “I’m really starting to get some pressure from Director Mitchell.” Howie spoke without looking at her.

  “What kind of pressure?”

  “He wants results.”

  Sam peeled the top from her first coffee. Howie always brought the best, and even stopped to microwave it before bringing it to her cell. She still felt guilty that she wasn’t able to repay him or at least kick in toward the cost. She didn’t like charity; she never had.

  “We’re working on it,” she said defensively.

  “I know.” Howie sat in front of the computer. “I think the director is starting to come to the conclusion that maybe you’re leading him on a wild-goose chase. That you weren’t telling him the truth about your connection to the Cipher.”

  “How’s he doing on thinking I’m totally innocent of everything I’ve been accused of?”

  “Now that is a different matter. Even before MI-6 came up with digital records of you—er, someone that looked like you—the Agency had lost people over in Berzhaan. Our position there is tenuous at best because of the Kemenis and the terrorists.”

  Sam pinched a small piece from her bagel and raised it to her lips. “And what do you think, Howie? Do you think I’m wasting your time?”

  Howie shook his head and grinned. “I love catching bad guys.” He tapped the notebook computer. “And this is my weapon of choice. Bloodless and devastating, all rolled into one convenient package for the spy-on-the-go.” He paused and continued staring at the screen. “However this arrangement goes, Sam, we’re going to make a difference with what we’re finding out. Believe me. We’ve already added to some of the profile that the Agency had on the Cipher.”