Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  Warlock looked at him as if he’d asked the stupidest question ever. “This is not my first time in the field, Mr. Jones. No, he won’t notice.”

  “But if he does?” Deuce persisted.

  Before Warlock could answer, Alex said, “If he does, he’ll likely think it’s Valac’s men. He’s already suspicious of them.”

  Deuce grunted. “He’s suspicious of everyone, including you. You’d better watch your back around that toad.”

  “It’s the front I’m most worried about.”

  “That, too. Did I mention he wears tighty whities?”

  Alex groaned. “Just kill me now.”

  CHAPTER 20

  FAVREAU’S HEAD HURT.

  It was nothing too painful, just one of those underground headaches he sometimes woke up with when he hadn’t slept all that well. Yet, oddly enough, he felt as if he’d gone down hard last night and stayed there.

  The last thing he remembered was making a move on Alexandra Barnes on her living room sofa. But the champagne, along with the scotch he drank at dinner, had done a number on him, and he could barely even visualize the moment, like it was some crazy dream that was already slipping away from him.

  What he did remember was the robe she was wearing, and the way her breasts had moved around beneath it as she walked, and that face of hers with those exotic brown eyes. She was the complete package, that one, coming from a whole different planetary system than the strippers in that club yesterday, and he couldn’t quite believe a woman of her breeding would pay any attention to him without having a wad of cash dangled in her face.

  When he returned to his suite after their encounter on the beach, he had checked into her and she seemed legitimate, but he couldn’t shake the feeling she wanted something from him. That maybe she had decided to hunt for a sugar daddy in her spare time while she was here in St. Cajetan, and he had seemed like an easy mark.

  Or maybe she worked for Valac. Some whore hired to spy on him. Try to steal the merchandise while Valac pretended to mull over Favreau’s latest counter offer.

  Favreau trusted that son of a bitch about as far as he could throw him.

  The thing was, Alexandra Barnes didn’t strike him as a whore. At least not the kind someone like Valac would be associated with. She was a class act, top to bottom—no pun intended. He couldn’t imagine Reinhard Beck going to all the trouble of hiring some call girl just to save a few million bucks.

  Whatever the case, Favreau wished to hell he knew where the night had gone. He remembered pushing her against the sofa cushions and going in for the kill…

  But after that? Nothing.

  And now here he was, naked in his own bed and—

  Wait a minute.

  Was this his bed?

  He looked down at the tangled sheets then scanned the room. While it looked a lot like his, the artwork on the walls was different. The one above the dresser was a reprint of Vuillard’s Le Corsage Rayé, and if he remembered correctly—and who could tell at this point?—the one in his room was a Marval.

  So this definitely wasn’t his bed.

  He looked toward the closet and saw a handful of dresses and beachwear on hangers, including the dress Alexandra had worn to dinner last night. Then his eyes caught the infamous robe in a pile on the floor, and close by a lacy thong, carelessly discarded.

  Holy shit. They’d done the deed, all right. His move had been successful and then some.

  But why the hell couldn’t he remember it?

  He turned and looked at the spot beside him and saw that the sheets had been thrown back. He squinted at the clock and saw it was just after seven a.m.

  Yawning, he ran his fingers through his hair, then swung his legs around and sat up on the side of the bed.

  Jeez, he felt a little nauseated, and his head was really starting to pound now. Hung over, for sure.

  Had he had more to drink than he thought?

  Taking it slowly, he got to his feet and resisted the urge to upchuck all over the carpet, convincing himself that the nausea was more psychological than physical. He shuffled into the bathroom and stared at his booze-battered face in the mirror as he took a long, much-needed pee. Then he went back into the bedroom, searched the floor for his own clothes, and found them strewn along the foot of the bed. They looked as if they’d been flung there in a hurry. Being that close to jumping Alexandra’s bones, he’d undoubtedly wanted to make sure he got the deed done before she changed her mind.

  He just wished he could remember it.

  He found his briefs, pulled them on, then felt a sudden stab of panic as he stared at his slacks lying on the floor.

  His wallet. Had she lifted his wallet?

  Snatching up the pants, he dipped a hand inside the pocket, relieved to find the wallet still there. He pulled it out, checked that everything was where it should be, including the money, then returned it to his pocket, stepped into the slacks, and buckled his belt. Next he grabbed his polo shirt and pulled it on.

  He heard a laugh from the other side of the door and thought he smelled coffee. Forgetting about his shoes for now, he went into the living room to find a couple of Alexandra’s crew members in the kitchen. A big guy in a green Hawaiian shirt, and a soldier type in T-shirt and jeans, both sipping from hotel coffee mugs.

  Favreau wondered if they were both gay or only one of them was. Probably the one in the T-shirt. The other, not so sure.

  “Well, well,” T-shirt said to his buddy, “check it out. The man of the hour is awake.”

  Favreau rubbed his face. “Yeah, and I feel like a dog’s ass. You think I could get a cup of that coffee?”

  “How do you like it?”

  “The blacker the better.”

  T-shirt nodded, went to a coffee maker, and poured some into a mug as Hawaiian shirt silently checked out Favreau.

  “Where’s Alexandra?” Favreau asked.

  “She’s in the spare bathroom,” T-shirt said. “Getting ready for the shoot.”

  “Shoot?”

  “We’re filming a bunch of segments today.”

  Favreau bobbed his head but immediately regretted it. “She feels anything like I do, good luck with that.”

  “Believe me, I already read her the riot act.” T-shirt pointed at the coffee table. “You guys had quite a party last night.”

  For the first time, Favreau noticed the overturned champagne bottle and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting next to the two glasses.

  Did they actually drink all that?

  No wonder he’d had a blackout.

  “Jesus,” Favreau murmured.

  T-shirt handed him his coffee. “I don’t think Jesus had much to do with it, but I guess somebody up there likes you. Otherwise you wouldn’t be crawling out of my correspondent’s bed at seven in the morning.”

  Favreau sipped. Maybe he wasn’t the gay one after all. “Is that a problem for you?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is. I like her to be alert and ready to work. Instead she’s been dragging her ass around here ever since I woke her up. I won’t even get into all the racket you two made.”

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Hawaiian shirt said with a grin. “Sound familiar?”

  As he and T-shirt laughed, Favreau wished it did sound familiar. What was the point of bedding a stunner like Alexandra if you couldn’t remember a thing about it?

  Not that he’d admit it to these guys.

  “What can I say?” he told them. “I guess I have a gift.”

  “That was the sound coming out of you,” Hawaiian shirt said, and he and his friend laughed again, this time louder and harder.

  Favreau didn’t normally blush, but he felt heat in his cheeks and suddenly wanted to punch both of these bastards. Not that he had the energy. Instead, he laughed along with them, and was about to tell the big one how hilarious he was when Alexandra emerged from a hallway and said, “What’s so funny?”

  That sobered them up fast.

  T-shirt said, “Your friend
just told us a…” He paused. Frowned. “What the hell are you wearing?”

  She looked down at her clothes, a pastel green V-neck and a pair of white shorts. She had a tan, toned body Favreau couldn’t get enough of.

  “You don’t like it?” she asked.

  “I told you to wear the yellow bikini top. It looks good on camera.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Come on, Alex, we didn’t hire you for your opinion. Bikini tops get page views, okay? That’s what it’s all about. Now go change before we head out.”

  Favreau understood what T-shirt was saying—any moron would—but he didn’t like the way the guy was talking to Alexandra, and could clearly see she didn’t, either.

  “Hey, pal, jump back a little, all right?”

  T-shirt shot him a look. “Excuse me? I didn’t realize you were the producer on this shoot.”

  “I’m just saying there’s no need to—”

  “To what? Are you her manager now? Her agent? You bang her one time and think you can come in here and tell me how to do my job?”

  Favreau glanced at Alexandra, who had averted her eyes in embarrassment. “No, but—”

  “Then get the hell out of here. You’ve already done enough.”

  Favreau felt his blood pressure rise. He put his coffee mug on the counter. “You’d better watch your mouth, pal.”

  “I better watch my mouth?” T-shirt glared at him for a second. “You’ve got a helluva nerve. You show up here, get my talent stinking drunk, you keep her up all hours of the night making enough noise to wake up the rest of us, and now she looks like crap. If the way I’m talking upsets you, I’m sorry, pal, but I’ve got a living to make, and at the moment it unfortunately depends on her.”

  Favreau struggled to keep from launching himself at the prick, but knew that was probably suicidal, considering his current condition and the size of the guy standing next to T-shirt.

  “Just so you understand,” he said. “I know people who would happily cut you up into tiny little pieces on my say so.”

  “Ooooh, you’re scaring the hell out of me.” T-shirt turned to his partner. “Is he scaring you, too, Sticks?”

  Hawaiian shirt grunted. “Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

  That did it. Unable to help himself, Favreau shot forward—

  —but it was Alexandra who intervened. She jumped between them and put a hand on Favreau’s chest, holding him back with more power than he’d expected.

  “He’s right, Frederic. Stop.”

  “He’s right?” Favreau wanted to tear these guys apart.

  “People are paying me good money to represent TPL, and I blew it last night by partying too hard. Believe it or not, the camera sees a lot more than we think it does.” She paused. “Look, I’m sorry you got in the middle of this. But we have work to do, so why don’t you go get your shoes, and I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Favreau glared at the two men, struggling to regain his calm, then returned his gaze to Alexandra. “You’re sure?”

  “You look like you could use some more sleep.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “All right, then.”

  He sucked in a deep breath and let it flow back out as he gave them all one last look before heading into the bedroom for his shoes.

  A couple minutes later, Alexandra met him in the foyer. She was wearing the yellow bikini top now, and damn if soon-to-be-fish-bait hadn’t gotten it right. She looked amazing in the thing.

  He wished more than ever he could remember what was underneath it.

  “I’m sorry about this,” she said. “But I want you to know I don’t regret anything. In fact, I’m hoping we can have dinner tonight.”

  “Tell me when and where.”

  “We should be done shooting around six. Meet me in the restaurant at seven?”

  “I’m expecting a call, and may have some business to take care of at some point, but I’ll be there.”

  She opened the door, took hold of his hand, and squeezed it. “I’d kiss you, but I just finished my makeup and I don’t want Atilla the Hun to get upset with me again.”

  Favreau chuckled. “At least you got a sense of humor about it. If I were you, I’d brain the guy the minute he’s not looking.” He squeezed back, wanting more than anything to crawl all over her. “See you tonight, baby.”

  He pecked her on the cheek and went back to his suite, intending to spend the rest of the morning in bed.

  Maybe sleep would help him remember.

  When Alex came back into the living room, Cooper said, “If I didn’t know what a scumbag Favreau is, I’d almost feel sorry for him. He’s on the hook bad.”

  Deuce nodded. “Just goes to show that if you try hard enough, you can convince anyone of anything.”

  But Alex wasn’t so sure Favreau was convinced. She had a hard time reading the man. For all she knew, he was conning them, and this spy vs. spy nonsense was starting to grate on her nerves. They weren’t even a full day into this op and she just wanted to smash and grab and be done with it already.

  “He told me he’s expecting a phone call.”

  Deuce grunted. “Then we’d better stay on him like a fly on rice. We can’t let him get to Valac before you’ve had a chance to switch out the codes.”

  “Assuming I ever get access to them.”

  “We also have to consider our next move,” Cooper said. “If Favreau goes to Latham’s place to close the deal, Valac won’t be easy to get to.”

  Deuce raised his hand like a kid in high school. “I think I might have a way in.”

  “How?”

  “There’s an access road that leads to the back of the house. That’s where the guards almost caught me.”

  “The operative word being ‘guards,’” Alex said. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere.”

  “Just hear me out. Before I got close, I was almost run down by a delivery van. I figure a place that size, and him being the king of St. Cajetan and all, there must be a lot of vans coming and going. All we have to do is be in one of them. If we time this right, we’ll be on Valac before he even realizes it.”

  “Might work,” Cooper said. “We can check Latham’s charge accounts to see who he regularly takes deliveries from. If we can go in as a known entity, there’s less chance they’ll be paying close attention.”

  Alex said, “It would be easier to grab him when he’s out in the open.”

  “Sure it would,” Cooper said. “But who knows if we’ll ever get that opportunity? Besides, it would present us with a whole other set of variables to deal with. Unfortunately, we have no choice but to keep this a stealth attack. We can use the photographs Deuce took to get the lay of the land, check out some satellite shots—and blueprints, if we’re lucky.”

  “That’s not a lot to work with,” Deuce said.

  “No, it’s not. For the most part we’ll be flying blind.”

  “It’s like the streets of Baghdad all over again,” Alex said.

  “Doesn’t hurt to look at it that way,” Cooper told her.

  “Yeah, but how many times did we go into the Red Zone wondering if we’d ever come out? And some of us didn’t.”

  “So what are you saying? You want to back out?”

  She shook her head. “I’m just making an observation. I’ve already compromised too much of my integrity to back out now.”

  “What about you, Deuce?”

  He shrugged. “Seems like we’re trying to put this op together with duct tape and spit, but considering the complete lack of lead time, what real choice do we have? Besides, as you both know, I need the money. And if it all goes south, I guess they can always give it to my goldfish.”

  “Since when do you have a goldfish?” Alex asked.

  “I picked one up after we got back from Istanbul. I was feeling a little pissed about the way things went down, and some brainiac on the Web said that fish are soothing for the soul. I named my guy The Dude.”

  “And who’s feeding The Du
de while you’re in St. Cajetan?”

  Deuce’s face fell. “Shit. I didn’t think about that.”

  A door flew open and Warlock stepped out of his room. “Cooper, you might want to take a peek at this.”

  “What is it?” Cooper asked.

  He pointed to his glasses. “I finally got a hit on one of the photos Deuce took and I think you’ll find it illuminating.”

  “All right, show us.”

  Alex and Deuce followed Cooper into the bedroom, where Warlock’s computer cart was shoved up against the closet doors. The screens showed the interior of Favreau’s suite, the center one featuring Favreau himself, sitting on the edge of his bed. He looked as if he might fall asleep before he had a chance to lie down. Whatever was in that pill had done a number on him.

  “So what’ve you got?” Cooper asked.

  “Turns out the gray-haired man—the one you saw meeting with Favreau—is no longer with us.”

  “You mean he left the island?”

  “No,” Warlock said. “He’s dead. Been dead for over ten years, as a matter of fact.”

  Deuce snorted. “Have you been smoking something?”

  Warlock dismissed him with a wave. “What I’m trying to tell you is that he’s former CIA, reportedly assassinated in Yemen shortly before 9/11.”

  Alex’s heart went still.

  Had she heard him right?

  “According to his file,” Warlock continued, “he was in Sana’a on an assignment when two gunmen shot him down in the street. They were never found and no one ever took credit for the kill, because apparently it was all staged.”

  “You’re sure about this?” Cooper asked.

  “The match is a hundred percent. It’s him, and he’s very much alive.”

  Alex couldn’t breathe. Felt the room tilting sideways.

  Warlock touched the side of his glasses, and two head shots filled the computer cart’s center screen: one current, the other showing a much younger version of the same curly-haired man.

  “The photo on the right is from the official records,” he said. “His body, or rather someone’s body, was brought back to the States and buried at Arlington with full honors. It took a bit of hacking to pull up his known-associates file, but this is where it gets really wonky.”