by AJ Quinn
“That’s all right, because Darien’s not easy to explain. But I can tell you I’ve known her since she was five and quite possibly know her better than she knows herself. I can say that with confidence because I’ve been the only parental figure she’s had in her life for a very long time. Since her early teens.”
Jessie listened patiently to what was being said, paying particular attention to anything that wasn’t. She watched Ben closely and saw his mouth relax a little before he continued.
“Darien was off the charts in all our tests when she was first brought into MI6, and I played a key role in training her. I was the first, last, and only case officer she ever had, and I helped shape her into what she is today.”
“I get that you know her. What you’re not telling me is why you want Darien on this.”
“Because I’ve always believed when a job’s critical and failure’s not an option, you want the best. This job—finding out who brought down those planes and stopping them before they commit another act of terrorism—is critical. We need someone with connections. Someone who knows the territory and can open doors. Someone who can get things done with no blowback. And Darien’s the best.”
“And I should just believe you?”
“Yes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Having that kind of talent running loose without a handler seems inconceivable. And she appears young for such a paragon.”
Ben laughed. “Don’t let her age fool you. She’s really quite lethal and can kill you seven different ways before you even know she’s moved.” His smile faded as he studied her face. “Trust is rare in our world, Jessie, but your mother trusts me, and I would ask you to do the same. Especially when it comes to Darien.”
Jessie weighed what he was saying and wondered if she had any choice. Did it actually matter if she trusted him? Yes, she supposed it did. What the hell. “All right—for now. Can you at least tell me what her role is in all of this? What’s Darien going to be doing for us?”
“Whatever we need.” Ben gave her one of his quick, rare smiles. “She’s one of the best. Bloody brilliant, quick, and cool under pressure. You won’t be sorry.”
“I hope to God you’re right because we really can’t afford it if you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
*
Leaving Ben in the kitchen to grind coffee beans and make a fresh pot of coffee, Jessie wandered up the stairs and joined Elle, her head spinning with thoughts and possibilities.
For a couple of minutes, she watched Elle’s hands fly over the keyboard on one of the laptops they’d set up as she searched for and located the files she wanted—the ones they’d shortly be sharing with Darien. The task apparently completed, Elle turned and looked at her, unspoken questions in her eyes.
Jessie hesitated for just a fraction of a second. “I need you to do something for me.”
“I already tried,” Elle responded with a cheeky grin.
“Tried what?”
“Tried to run a deep background check on the scary yet sexy Darien Troy. That’s what you were going to ask me to do, wasn’t it?”
Jessie stared at Elle. Young and relatively inexperienced, and sometimes a little hotheaded, she more than made up for it by being bright and intuitive—and a technical wizard with a computer. “I should have known you’d get a jump start.” She paused, cleared her throat, and released a small strangled laugh. “You think she’s sexy?”
“Well, duh. She’s smoking hot. And from what I could see of her body in those jeans and that leather jacket—well, let’s just say if it wasn’t for the fact she scared the hell out of me and she’s so far out of my league, I’d jump her. Are you saying you wouldn’t?”
Unable to help herself, Jessie grinned. There was no sense in denying Darien Troy brought forth thoughts of hot mouths, entwined bodies, and tangled sheets. “Well, there is that. Why does she scare you?”
Elle’s eyes widened. “How about she was ready to kill us? No questions asked. No begging your pardon. And in case you didn’t notice, she doesn’t make a sound when she walks. If she doesn’t scare you, she should.”
Jessie thought about that. “Well, she doesn’t. But I’ll grant you that she’s not easy to read. And since I’m shaking with anticipation, please don’t leave me in suspense. You know you want to tell me. What did you find out?”
“Nothing. Nada. Zip. She doesn’t have one—a background, that is.” Elle shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “Whoever she is, she’s not in the agency database…which is, of course, impossible. Someone did a really good job of wiping her records, and I’m talking exceptional if I can’t find anything. She’s a ghost.”
“No, no, no. Don’t tell me that. What do you mean she’s not in the database? That’s not possible. She’s been brought in by MI6. She’s got to be in there.”
“Well, she’s not. But I’m afraid it gets worse.”
Jessie frowned as she rocked back on her heels. “How can it get worse? Do I even want to know?”
Elle looked away, embarrassed or nervous guessing by her body language. It was hard to tell. “I tripped an embedded alarm someone set up when I tried to run Darien’s name through classified files. And it wasn’t my accessing the system that set off the alarm—it was specifically Darien’s name.”
Jessie closed her eyes. “Oh, Jesus, that can’t be good.”
“No shit. Anything that deeply encrypted is never good news. Whoever set it up was good because I didn’t spot anything until it was much too late. I couldn’t break the encryption, and before I could abort, an alert regarding my extracurricular activities had already been sent.”
“Do I want to know where?”
“It went a couple of places. One I couldn’t trace, but the other…I’m sorry, Jess, but it went to the Deputy Director of Operations.”
“My mother?” Jessie winced.
“Your mother,” Elle agreed mournfully.
“That’s not good. Not good at all.”
Chapter Four
She’d kill for some aspirin and a strong cup of coffee.
Darien sighed as she leaned on her palms against the tile wall, closed her eyes, and let the thunder of water beat down on her back. The water was scalding hot, but it felt like heaven. Already, she could feel heat wrap its arms around her, soothing her weary muscles, easing away her tension, and, for the moment, clearing her head of ghosts.
Except there were still too many things on her mind, too many unanswered questions preventing her from lingering in the shower for too long. Starting with the people downstairs. People who clearly expected her to work with them.
Didn’t they know she didn’t mix well with people? Hadn’t Ben explained she was better off—they’d all be better off—with her working on her own? She needed space, but something told her the need for space was not going to be high on anyone else’s agenda. Least of all the CIA agents’ downstairs.
She rubbed her hands over her face before reaching for the shampoo that smelled appealingly of oranges. As she lathered her hair, she hoped someone would be able to quickly explain why she was here. She knew in time it would all become clear. She just needed it to happen now.
She felt better about things when she stepped out of the shower. After she toweled dry, she grabbed a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt from the antique armoire in the corner of her bedroom. About to walk away, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and hesitated. Stared.
With her face scrubbed clean and tendrils of wet hair hanging loose down to her shoulders, she looked younger than she was. But that didn’t matter, because she knew people would only see what they wanted to see, going no deeper than what lay on the surface.
A long, lean body. An angular face. Dark hair. Gray eyes. Symmetry created by nothing more than the chance meeting of chromosomes. A genetic roll of the dice that was part her mother and part who knows.
But still. One of the earliest lessons she remembered being taught was that nothing was ever really as it
seemed. It had been a difficult lesson to learn. But it was one which, over time, helped her understand why most people looked at her and never glimpsed the shark swimming silently beneath the calm surface of the water. Not until it was too late.
It was part of what made her good at what she did. But it had been a long time since she’d been forced to work closely with anyone other than Ben, and it made her wonder what the two CIA agents saw when they looked at her. She paused as she thought of them. Elle, the wary tech expert, clearly still green and probably less than a year from the CIA training facility. And Grace’s daughter, Jesslyn, whose eyes glowed with the same fierce intelligence as her mother.
It would be interesting to find out.
No time like the present. She shrugged at her reflection, slipped from the room, and headed down the stairs.
Just before she arrived at the second floor room they’d set up—the as yet unfinished dining room with the anatomically correct David all over the wallpaper—voices spilled into the hallway. Voices and the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Thank God for that, because she would need her wits about her until everything made sense.
Jessie was pouring coffee as she entered the room. She glanced up, lifted the carafe she was holding, and raised her eyebrows. “Want some? I seem to be incapable of making good coffee, but Ben made this, so it should be slightly more drinkable.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Darien sent Ben a baleful look. “But thanks, I’ll take some anyway. Black’s fine.”
Passing her one of the heavy mugs she’d just filled, Jessie added cream and sugar to another and brought it to Elle before going back and filling two more. Ben reached for one while Jessie brought the other to her lips.
Darien took a cautious sip, waited for the jolt of caffeine to race through her system, and instead worked hard not to grimace. Ben still couldn’t make a cup of coffee worth a damn. No matter how many times she’d shown him. Releasing a sigh, she put the mug down on the table. “So what have you got?”
Elle responded with a quick tap on the keyboard, and almost immediately, an image was projected on the opposite wall.
It took Darien a moment to process what she was seeing. A photograph and, as she focused, the remains of a burned-out aircraft slowly took shape. The initial photograph was followed by others.
Pieces of charred fuselage. Fragments of luggage. Markers to indicate locations of body parts. As Elle projected new images, the locations changed, but the outcomes were undeniably the same.
“As of earlier today, there’s no longer any question,” Jessie said. “Explosives residue found at all three sites indicate missiles were used to bring down the three aircraft. But even without it, we’ve been inundated with reports from people on the ground near all three debris fields and passengers in nearby planes. They’ve all described seeing missiles rising from the ground. What we’ve got is a well-planned, highly synchronized assault.”
“And what’s been the response?”
“Counterterrorism command is reconstructing the movements of known terrorists who could pull off this kind of assault. Local law enforcement agencies in all three countries are working cooperatively on the ground. Following up on tips and checking any available CCTV and security video in the vicinity of the three crashes. So far, no one has claimed responsibility, but we’re noting an increase in chatter.”
“And where would the intelligence communities be without chatter,” Darien murmured.
Jessie took no offense. “True enough. But as you undoubtedly know, chatter is a measure of collective behavior and there’s been a noticeable spike in volume from several known and suspected terrorist networks. By itself, that isn’t necessarily meaningful. But whenever we notice volume spikes on several networks and compare them with the content of recent communications intercepts and satellite observations, patterns begin to emerge.”
Elle looked up from her computer. “And pattern analysis is always more reliable than individual pieces of human intelligence gathered on the ground.”
She stiffened noticeably when Darien turned cool eyes in her direction.
“One of the challenges in what we’re doing,” Jessie continued quickly, “is that the people we’re tracking tend to use the same communications circuits that regular citizens use. And between burner phones and Internet cafés, they’re also able to use different networks when they communicate. It makes them harder to track.”
“Harder but not impossible,” Elle added.
Jessie nodded. “For the past few days, we’ve concentrated our efforts on tracking the movements of known arms dealers. Someone knew who could supply the missiles and had the ability to make it all happen. We just need to find out who that was. And we need to do it fast.”
“What makes you say that?”
“One of our listening stations intercepted a message. More funds are about to be transferred, and all indications are there’ll be another major buy. And it’s going to happen soon. We’re not going to be given a lot of time to find out who’s behind it and stop them before they strike again.”
“Is that all?” Darien asked dryly.
Ben spoke for the first time. “Grace and I have conferred at length with our counterpart in the DGSE, and for once, it appears all the experts are in agreement. Another strike is imminent. I’m hoping that’s where you come in.”
Darien noted both Jessie and Elle had turned to look at Ben. But for the moment she was only interested in what Ben had to say because hopefully here was the answer to her question. “And why is that?”
“You have the contacts,” Ben answered. “Assets you’ve developed over the years who will only talk to you, give you information. And legends you’ve spent time building that will let you slip into places the rest of us can’t, with remarkable ease. Places where we’re most likely to find whoever arranged for delivery of those Stingers. You can hit the ground running. If you can locate and replace the broker, we’ll be that much closer to finding the buyer. And that much closer to neutralizing this threat.”
*
“I guess that explains why you’re here,” Jessie murmured softly. “Ben never actually said, and not knowing any different, I confess I rather hoped we might be able to use you.”
She felt as much as saw Darien stiffen and as she turned to meet her gaze, Jessie realized, too late, that she’d managed to insult her.
“Nobody uses me.”
Darien’s voice was cool and controlled even as something hot and dangerous seemed to flash in her eyes. But then it was gone, and Jessie was forced to wonder if she’d imagined it. No, probably not. But she also could see the fatigue etched on Darien’s face and, in the interest of détente, thought it was probably best that she make amends.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything negative by my comment.”
Darien said nothing.
Jessie tried again.
It took a long moment, but Darien’s expression finally began to relax and she gave a halfhearted shrug. “It’s all right. No hard feelings.”
Her careless shrug seemed to indicate she really didn’t care, but Jessie suspected that wasn’t entirely true. Nobody uses me. She cared, but it didn’t appear she was willing to admit it or engage in any further discussion.
For now, the only thing Jessie could do was nod as she thought about how to channel the conversation in a different direction. And vowed to try and avoid words that could be triggers.
“Okay, let’s show you what we’ve got so far.” She signaled Elle, who had been staring intently at her computer to the exclusion of everything around her, and heard her tap quickly on the keyboard.
The images of the three crashed airliners on the wall faded to black, replaced by a photograph of a Caucasian man shown exiting a vehicle, a cell phone pressed to his ear. The image was grainy and had been taken from a distance. But it was still discernible and captured a creased weathered face, close-cropped hair, and dark eyes. No visible scars, no tattoos or any other distinguish
ing features.
“He looks familiar. I know his face from somewhere,” Darien muttered, seemingly to herself as she stared at the photograph. An instant later, she raised her head. “Jovan Stankovic.”
Jessie studied Darien thoughtfully. “I’m starting to get the feeling you’re more than just a pretty face.”
Darien scowled. “If you’re just figuring that out, you’re not as bright as I thought you’d be.”
Ignoring the comment, Jessie turned back to the photograph. “But you’re right. He was a lieutenant colonel in the Serbian military, cut his teeth under Miloševic. He disappeared after the war. When he resurfaced, he was surrounded by former soldiers and had transformed himself into a top-notch weapons broker.”
With a quick tap of several more keys, Elle sent the image to print, and then projected a second, clearer shot—a different man this time—while Jessie collected the photograph from the printer and placed it on the table.
The process continued for a couple of minutes, the silence disturbed only by the sound of Elle’s fingers on the keyboard and the humming of the printer as each image was produced. In the end, the rogues’ gallery consisted of five faces staring back from the center of the table.
“One of our biggest challenges in trying to identify terrorist groups is that the members know each other, can vouch for each other. That makes it extremely difficult to insert covert agents into a cell,” Jessie explained. “Where we’ve had success is on the fringes of terrorist organizations, tracking groups that support or supply terrorist cells.”
Annoyance apparently forgotten, Darien nodded slowly, considering. “And someone had to supply the Stingers used to take down those planes.”
“Exactly. Arms dealers have a strong supporting cast—negotiators, financiers, exporters, importers, transport agents—and use them to arrange every aspect of an arms deal. That’s where we’re hoping to find a trail we can follow. And these five”—Jessie indicated the faces on the table—“are the dealers we’ve identified as most likely to have been involved in this instance. The Serb we just spoke about, three Russians, and a German-born dealer who’s currently living in Florida.”
