Rules of Revenge

by AJ Quinn

  Below her, Kabul and the Hindu Kush mountains receded in the darkness. Only then did she allow herself to relax.

  “Is everything all right? Is there anything I can get for you?”

  She turned toward the voice and gazed into the lovely smiling face of a flight attendant. Returning the smile reflexively, she shook her head. “Nothing, thanks.”

  Watching the gentle sway of the flight attendant’s hips as she walked away, she slipped her iPod out of her jacket pocket. What she needed was music, something aching and bluesy, and a moment later a sax softly wailed as she closed her eyes.

  She was tired and welcomed fatigue as it crept upon her. Allowed it to carry her toward sleep, where she hoped there was no room for worrying thoughts or regrets.

  Chapter Two

  Charles de Gaulle Airport

  Paris, France

  What now? The question ricocheted in Jesslyn Coltrane’s head on the heels of a sudden premonition. A tingle at the back of her neck—her version of a spider-sense—had sent out an unexpected warning. Moments later, she spotted a colleague walking into the departures lounge she was in.

  It could have been a coincidence. But it wasn’t. She knew that even before Garth Smith approached and pulled her from the line of passengers preparing to board Air France flight 324 to JFK.

  That her first instinct had been to tell him to go to hell and continue boarding her flight was a clear indication of just how tired she was. But then she’d just spent ten months with her team in Pakistan. Developing and working assets. Gathering intelligence. Endlessly reviewing data, video, and audio recordings. Considering possibilities, interpreting and discarding them.

  She must have eaten and slept at some point. Right now she was far too tired to recall when. But too many days fueled by coffee and adrenaline would do that to anyone.

  Closing her eyes, she could still hear them…angry voices shouting anti-US slogans in multiple languages. She could still see them…crowds comprised mostly of youths who took to the streets in violent protest. Clashing with embassy security forces, throwing rocks and bottles, smashing windows, and burning American flags.

  Jessie repressed a shudder as her composure threatened to abandon her. Swallowing, she took an extra moment. Concentrated on her breathing and tried to let the tension drain from her body. It helped that even with her eyes closed, she could feel her team—Elle, Rob, and Adam—form a protective circle around her, although she knew they had to be as tired as she was.

  Maybe if she counted to ten, by the time she opened her eyes again Smith would be gone.

  Right. Or she could click her heels together three times, find herself in Oz, and marry the scarecrow—or better yet, Dorothy.

  She opened her eyes, pushed back a flash of anger, ran a hand through hair at least three weeks past needing a cut, and sighed. She knew the score.

  Smith didn’t deserve her anger. He had no way of knowing he was the fifth thing gone wrong today. Or was it the sixth? No matter. He was simply doing his job. It wasn’t his fault he’d caught her on the slippery downward slope of an adrenaline crash. Just as it wasn’t his place to provide her with any kind of explanation.

  He did what he was supposed to do. What he’d been instructed to do, no doubt. He informed her that the Deputy Director of Operations was in Paris and had requested a face-to-face meeting with her. Preferably within the hour.

  Jessie was certain she’d misunderstood. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Smith shrugged, indicated it wasn’t a battle worth fighting, and repeated the message. But hearing it a second time didn’t make it any easier because the words remained the same.

  Terrific. She was tired, hungry, and not in the mood for a confrontation. She had also grown up in the shadows of the business, the daughter of two legendary agents, and knew better than most that any request to meet with the deputy director was a polite way of saying she had no choice in the matter and she’d better get moving.

  Because what Grace Lawson wanted, Grace Lawson got.

  It took Jessie several seconds to gather her thoughts and regain her equilibrium. Several more seconds to pull on the mask of professional detachment. Several final seconds to think things through.

  Given the lateness in the day and the rain which had been falling on and off since early morning, she could well imagine the traffic waiting to ensnare her beyond the self-contained chaos that was Europe’s second-busiest airport.

  “Just me or the whole team?”

  “She asked for you and Jackson.” Smith indicated Elle with his index finger. “The others are expected to go on to New York.”

  The team immediately separated. Rob and Adam took a step back, their expressions clearly indicating they were grateful for the reprieve they’d just been given. Elle, on the other hand, young and coming off her first field assignment as a tech analyst, moved closer to her and mumbled, “Boy howdy,” through her teeth.

  Unable to reassure Elle for the moment, she looked at Smith. “And where are we supposed to meet the DD?”

  Smith shrugged. “She said you’d know where.”

  Jessie swore under her breath and slowly rubbed the bridge of her nose, knowing that while no headache yet existed, one would likely start in short order. Doing a quick calculation, she realized it could take the better part of half the time she’d been given just to get through the concourse. But she’d already accepted this wasn’t going to be one of her better days and was equally determined not to let it show.

  Beside her, Elle picked up her small carry-on while Rob and Adam shifted uncertainly. A few feet away, she could also sense the gate attendants, hovering impatiently just beyond her peripheral vision, waiting for them to board their flight so the Jetway could be closed.

  Without uttering another word, she grabbed the leather satchel at her feet. Shrugged and muttered a brief farewell to Rob and Adam, then silently indicated for Elle to follow her. Leaving Smith to deal with the airline people, she slung the satchel diagonally across her body, walked out of the departures lounge, and waded into the fast-moving stream of people intent on making their connections.

  Excuse me. Pardon me.

  She winced as an elbow connected and wearily acknowledged she’d have bruises before she got out of the airport. But she was on the clock now. Cursing softly in three different languages, she kept her head down and persevered through the noise and bedlam. Aware Elle was silently keeping up, she didn’t bother to check her momentum until she felt the first faint breeze ruffle her hair.

  It was immediately obvious the weather hadn’t improved. But it matched her mood, so that was all right. As she pushed the rest of the way through the doors, Jessie glanced toward the brooding sky, blinking a couple of times to clear the rain from her eyes. Shivering, she pulled her leather jacket closer and inhaled cool, damp air laced with aviation fuel and vehicle exhaust fumes.

  Elle spoke for the first time. “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “Yes.”

  Over the next few minutes, providence intervened. The line for a taxi proved blessedly short and moved swiftly. And in less time than Jessie could have possibly hoped, she and Elle were tucked comfortably in the back of a Mercedes, only slightly damp. She gave the driver the address she wanted on Boulevard Saint-Germain—a café once known to be the haunt of Hemingway, Picasso, and John-Paul Sartre.

  “I don’t know if it will make a difference to you,” the driver responded, “but you should know it will take a miracle to get a table there at this time of day.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have much choice. We’re supposed to meet my boss there.” Jessie paused and tried to imagine the deputy director being told no table was available. The image was almost enough to make her smile. “I’m not worried, though. My boss is as formidable as they come, so I’m confident she’ll have managed to find us a table by the time we get there.”

  The driver glanced in the rear view mirror and for an instant Jessie met his eyes. “And does ma
demoiselle wish to be late or on time for this meeting with her boss?”

  Jessie choked back a laugh. “All I can tell you is we have a little over thirty-five minutes to get to our meeting, and unfortunately, being on time is the only option we have. So if there’s anything you can do…”

  She got a quick grin back from the driver as he nodded and merged aggressively into traffic. “Then I shall see what I can do to get you there on time.”

  As the car accelerated, Jessie realized the driver meant business. Almost immediately, he began to weave in and out of the rain-clogged lanes of traffic in the seemingly random fashion perfected by Parisian drivers. Ignoring horns and curses and the occasional red light, he dodged motorbikes, trucks, and other cars with finesse.

  Releasing a sigh, she leaned back and watched Paris life blur by.

  She’d learned over the years that attempting to guess what was on the deputy director’s mind would be a colossal waste of time, so she didn’t bother. She simply listened to the discordant notes playing in her head—the flats and sharps that made up the overture—and wondered what it all meant.

  *

  Forty-three minutes after leaving the airport, Jessie paid their fare, tipping the driver generously. Pushing her hair back from her face and pulling up the collar of her jacket, she joined Elle on a crowded sidewalk where music, voices, and the tantalizing aroma of food drifted on the evening air.

  The café was just ahead, and with the rain having stopped, the street corner was filled to overflowing with artists, students, and business people. But in spite of the crowd, she had no trouble spotting Deputy Director Grace Lawson—an attractive woman in her late-fifties, dressed in a business suit that fit in with the chic Parisian crowd.

  As expected, she was sitting alone at a corner table, having chosen a vantage point screened by the crowds that also afforded a perfect view of the café and the surrounding area. She might not have been in the field for a number of years, but her instincts were clearly still sharp from more than twenty years of fieldcraft. The deputy director didn’t like surprises, and no one would be able to approach her position without her knowledge.

  Jessie led the way as she and Elle reached the table. “Sorry if we kept you waiting,” she said as a greeting. She pulled off the satchel and let it drop to the ground before taking an empty seat across from Grace while Elle slid silently into the third chair. “As you can imagine, traffic coming back into the city at this time of day was a bitch.”

  She could feel sharp hazel eyes appraising her. No doubt taking in the rain-damp hair, the pale face, and shadowed eyes. But whatever Grace noticed, she refrained from making any comment.

  She simply offered a faint smile and said, “You made better time than I had any right to expect. I hope you don’t mind, but I anticipated your arrival and ordered drinks for you.” With that, she raised her hand.

  Almost immediately, a waiter approached, poured a German beer into a glass and put it in front of Elle, then placed a wine glass on the table in front of Jessie. “Kir,” he said. “With crème de cassis.”

  “Thank you.” Jessie looked at the glass and allowed a small smile to show. “You know, I’m not sure what astonishes me more. The fact you always remember what to order, no matter who you’re with, or that you manage to get this level of service in Paris.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I know fifty is rapidly becoming a distant image in my rearview mirror, but should I not remember Elle likes German beer? Or that you always preferred Kir with black-currant liqueur rather than blackberry?” Grace paused and a first, rare smile appeared. “Or that we were sitting here the first time you tried it? And as for the service—”

  “The waiter’s one of yours, isn’t he?” Jessie tried unsuccessfully to hold back a quick laugh.

  Grace nodded and seemed almost pleased.

  Aware Elle was nervously watching, Jessie flashed a tight smile. “Well, as lovely as this is, I’m sure you have more pressing matters to deal with than to sit in a café in Paris reminiscing while having a drink with Elle and me. So why don’t we take care of business. What can we do for you? What do you need that has you in Paris and warranted pulling us from our flight back to New York?”

  Grace’s smile faded and her features suddenly tightened. “Believe it or not, I came to ask for your help on a matter of some urgency.” Grace paused, studied Jessie, then gave a faint shrug. “Now I’m not so sure it’s the right decision. You look tired, Jesslyn.”

  More fatigued than Jessie cared to admit, the faintly maternal-sounding concern produced nearly the same physiological effect as hearing Grace Lawson admit she needed help from anyone. Jessie stiffened. It was an instantaneous reaction, even if it was unintentional. She simply couldn’t help it.

  Just as across the table, Grace clearly couldn’t help but notice. She reached out with one hand and brushed Jessie’s fingers. “I’m sorry, Jessie. But old habits are the hardest to break.”

  Half a dozen sarcastic replies immediately sprang to mind, but Jessie cut herself off, kept her comments to herself. “It’s all right.” She sipped her drink, using the time to regroup. “How about we put family history aside for the time being while you explain what kind of help you need? Can we do that, Mother?”

  Her comment caused an eyebrow to rise. “So you do remember from time to time?”

  “Remember that you’re my mother?” Jessie blinked, shook her head. Elle momentarily forgotten, she knew the frustration in her voice was unmistakable but couldn’t help it. “The last time I checked, I still work for the CIA. And even if I wanted to deny my DNA, there’s no escaping the reality both my parents are legends in the Agency, so no one’s likely to let me forget.”

  “Did we make things so difficult for you?”

  Jessie smiled thinly. “I joined the CIA for a lot of reasons. Maybe not all of them were good ones. Mostly, I think I wanted a chance to prove myself.” She pushed aside the messy motives and emotions attached to the past and moved her shoulders in a faint, restless shrug that was a match for her mother’s. “But the truth is I could have just as easily gone to work somewhere else. It’s not as if I didn’t have other options. Both the NSA and NRO were interested in recruiting me before I finished school.”

  “Well, of course they were. They’d have been fools not to be.”

  She didn’t bother trying to suppress her laughter this time. “Spoken like a mother.”

  “I’m not sure I would go that far,” Grace responded dryly.

  The humor might have been unintended, but it broke the tension. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we get whatever business we need to discuss on the table. After that, perhaps we can take a few minutes to sit back and enjoy an evening in Paris before you have to leave.” She watched and waited for Grace to nod. “I assume we’re here about the three jets that were brought down. Tell me how you think Elle and I can help.”

  “All right. Those three planes—all those lives lost. They didn’t just fall out of the sky. And there was no warning. What happened was instantaneous, catastrophic, synchronized, and highly sophisticated. Someone went to a lot of trouble to plan and carry out what can only be described as an act of terrorism. And my every instinct tells me this is only the beginning,” Grace said.

  “Of what?”

  “There’s chatter, as always, but there’s certainly more than the usual. In particular, a listening station monitoring mobile communications in Eastern Europe intercepted a cellular transmission between Prague and Paris.”

  “What was the gist of the conversation?”

  “The transfer of funds. All our analysis indicates they’re arranging for something bigger. Something truly large scale. Everything points to a planned terrorist attack on US soil. That’s why I’d like you working on this here.”

  Jessie took a sip of her drink, gazed at the people and the street scene surrounding her—such a beautiful spot and totally incongruent with the conversation they were having.

  There was no
question, of course. She would do whatever was being asked of her. As she’d already made clear, it was in her DNA. And it was her duty. Swallowing, she found her throat dry and reached for her drink once again while Grace continued to speak.

  “We’re running this on two separate fronts. We’ve already got a team in place on the ground ready to follow the money. As soon as the transfer takes place, their sole focus will be to follow the money to whoever is orchestrating the purchase. But we also want to identify the salesman. Replace him with one of our own and filter the shipment. That’s where you come in. After your time in Islamabad, you’re already familiar with a lot of the players. That’s why I need you and Elle working on this end with MI6.”

  Grace watched her for a moment with a level of scrutiny that unnerved most people. But Jessie didn’t blink. “All right. Who’s running the team here? Who are Elle and I going to be working with?”

  “Actually, it’s someone I worked with quite closely when I was still a field operative. An old friend by the name of Ben Takahashi. That’s the best possible scenario since Ben’s been out there for a very long time, and you’ll be operating in a world he’s quite familiar with. Smartest thing you can do is follow his lead. Your survival may well depend on it. And if luck holds—and I’m hoping it does—he’ll have already arranged another old contact to work as the fourth member of the team.” Grace paused. “No comment?”

  Jessie’s breath caught in her throat and the murmur of voices around her faded. “I’m sorry. Is one required?” she asked mildly.

  A dark chuckle said it all. “Smart girl. Just keep your eyes open and your head down and you’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Grace cautioned. “This isn’t going to be easy.”