by Hunt, Angela
I was born—and my mother died—on July 3.
My father, who had to have been distracted with grief and worry, went to Valencia on July 5, but didn’t check in with his handler after the meet. Neither, apparently, did he plant the tracking device on his contact.
On March 7 Kevin Sims’s car was discovered nose-down in a gorge outside Valencia, his body sprawled across the shattered windshield. After learning of my mother’s death, local police investigators ruled my father’s death a suicide.
Though the investigation into my father’s death has been closed, Saluda is still under investigation and Adolfo Rios remains at the head of the firm.
My mind shifts abruptly to Judson, whose scarred body lies in the next room. He was investigating Saluda when he was tortured and left for dead. Hightower is only the latest in a string of officers who have sacrificed their lives in our efforts to stop this drug lord. Who will be next?
I glance out the window, where a faint glow on the horizon signals the sun’s approach. Jud will wake soon, and Dr. Mewton, and my aunt. Do any of them know the truth about what happened to my father?
I shut down my connection to the server farm and cross to my dresser. I slip my speech processor behind my ear and power on the device, then creep to the door, half expecting to hear the sound of breathing from the other side. All is silent…until I hear the groan of aging plumbing in the walls. Judson’s awake.
I give him a minute to finish whatever he was doing in the bathroom, then step into the hall and rap on his door. “Jud?”
“Sarah?” His voice is muffled.
“Can I speak to you?”
I hear the creak of the leather in his wheelchair and the click of the latch. The door opens and he leans toward me. “You’re up early.”
I bend to whisper in his ear. “We have to talk. But not here.”
He lifts a brow and grins. “Meet you outside, then. In twenty minutes.”
A loud wind howls in my earpiece as I stride across the graveyard. Judson is already waiting by the wall. He lifts his head as I approach, and I know he recognizes me by the sound of my steps on the gravel.
“Is this about the choppers last night?” he says.
I stop and shove my hands into my pockets. “I know about the medical emergency. I heard the team arrive.”
“Choppers coming and going all night,” Jud says, scrubbing his head with his knuckles. “Last one arrived at four and woke me up. I’m betting it was Traut.”
My stomach drops. “Traut’s here?”
“I thought that’s why you wanted to talk.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s something else. Did you know my father was working on the Saluda case when he was killed?”
Judson releases a low whistle. “What was that—twenty years ago?”
“Twenty-one. I’d like you to fill me in. Everything you know about the organization.”
“Wait.” His brows flicker above his closed eyes. “Why do you want to know?”
“Doesn’t a girl have a right to know about her father?”
“I suppose she does.” He draws a deep breath and opens his hands. “I don’t know that any of this is going to help you understand what happened to your dad. Okay…we know Adolfo Rios is manufacturing illegal drugs and using Saluda as a cover, but no one’s been able to find his manufacturing plants or uncover any proof of his operation. Twenty years ago, his black market op focused on heroin, but these days he’s into other chemical concoctions—powerful drugs that are far more dangerous.”
I sit on the stone bench. “Dangerous…how?”
“Dangerous enough to fry your brain. Think about Hightower. We don’t know what happened, but I’d say Adolfo Rios got wind of what he was up to.”
“Who were his contacts? Besides Espinosa, I mean.”
The corner of Jud’s mouth pulls downward. What kind of expression is that?
“Mewton would kill me if she knew I was telling you this.”
“Why? It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone.”
“It’s classified.”
“But we’re partners. Besides, I’ve been involved in the Saluda investigation. The more I know, the more I can help.”
Jud blows out his cheeks. “Remember the op where Hightower first met Espinosa? For over a year the bookkeeper fed us paperwork—details about Rios’s income, production profits, shipments and destinations. We were expecting great things, but none of it was useful. Saluda was moving a lot of poppy products, but all of it was legit.”
“Hightower must have been ready to strangle the little twerp.”
“The feeling was mutual. Espinosa kept demanding cash and a visa; Hightower wouldn’t give him anything more than pin money until he got something worthwhile. So last May, Espinosa promised details on the development of a new drug. I had Hightower wired—everything went according to plan. Espinosa gave Hightower an envelope, Hightower gave him a package with ten thousand U.S. dollars and the promise of another ten thousand if the information paid off. Espinosa walked away and Hightower went to his apartment. But on the way, he’s talking to me on coms and he suddenly cuts out. I send an officer to check on him. Ten minutes later, he finds Hightower curled up and hiding behind a garbage can, shivering like a baby and scared spitless.”
“And that’s when Hightower arrived here.”
“Yeah, you saw him. He never recovered. And we haven’t been able to figure out how Saluda got to our man.”
“Wait a minute—we went upstairs together. You were surprised to see Hightower in room 335.”
He shakes his head. “I was hoping to find him in a bed, not in a padded room.”
“So you know—you knew—what happened to him?”
“Some of it.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Sorry, kid, but you didn’t need to know. Besides, you had other things on your mind.”
I snort softly, but I don’t argue. This place is rife with secrets, even between friends.
I rub the rough patch of skin between my mouth and my nose. “The envelope Espinosa gave Hightower—did you retrieve it?”
“It was gone when our agent arrived.”
“Do you have video of the meet?”
“We do. Dr. Mewton and I have been over it a dozen times.”
“Any contact between the two men? Any touch at all?”
“None.”
“Any way Hightower could have been hit with an airborne toxin? Something he inhaled?”
“Someone else would have been affected. The exchange took place on a public street corner.”
“Maybe the toxin was on the envelope.” I blink as a scenario forms in my head. “On your surveillance tape, what was the accountant wearing when he met Hightower?”
Judson snorts. “You forget, kid—I can’t see.”
“Can you show me?”
“What are you getting at?”
“If the toxin was on the envelope and Espinosa knew it, he might have been wearing gloves.”
Judson shakes his head and leans forward in his chair. “You’re bright, kid, but so is Dr. Mewton. If Espinosa had been wearing gloves, don’t you think Mewton would have noticed and said something?”
I press my hand to my temple, where a headache is beginning to pound. He’s right, of course. He and Dr. M always are.
Chapter Forty-Three
Renee
“Dr. Carey?”
Glenda Mewton’s voice on the intercom startles me so completely that I nearly drop my glass of water. “Yes?”
“Could you attend a meeting in the conference room in half an hour? I’d like your professional evaluation of a newcomer we’ll be introducing.”
I smother a snort of surprise. “I’m supposed to evaluate someone on the spot?”
“I need a summary opinion, that’s all.”
I sigh. “All right, I’ll be there.”
I wait until the hum of the intercom stops, then roll my eyes and return to my reading. Until no
w, Glenda Mewton has seemed intent upon ignoring my status as a CIA employee, so either she’s run up against something she can’t handle or she’s been instructed to make use of me.
Probably the latter. I heard helicopters last night, which means officers and/or assets were coming and/or going. For all I know, the President of the U.S. of A. could be having an emergency face-lift upstairs.
I check my watch, finish the article I was reading, and step into the bathroom to brush my teeth. After popping two pain relievers for an incipient headache, I pick up my notepad and stroll to the conference room.
Judson is sitting alone at the table. He acknowledges me before I speak a word. “Morning, Renee,” he says, continuing to tap on his laptop.
“Morning, Jud.” I slide into an empty seat. “Is Sarah coming?”
“I don’t think she was invited to this little parley. We got a bigwig in residence, though.”
“How big a wig? Should I be nervous?”
He chuffs. “Not hardly. It’s Jack Traut, our boss. I smelled his pipe when I came through the hallway.”
Despite his assurances, my nerves tense when I hear footsteps in the hallway. I look up in time to see Glenda Mewton enter, followed by a man carrying a cup of coffee. “Sorry to hear about Hightower,” the man was saying. “A terrible thing.”
Glenda moves to an empty chair and shakes her head. “I don’t know what those fiends hit him with, but he didn’t stand a chance. Even if he’d pulled through the surgery, his brain was gone.”
“Did he have family?”
“A wife and daughter in Portugal. They think he’s been on an extended business trip.”
“Make the arrangements. Full burial with honors, the whole nine yards.”
The man takes a sip of his coffee, then looks at me for the first time. His brow shoots skyward. “You must be Dr. Carey.”
I stand and offer my hand. “I am.”
“Jack Traut. Nice to have you on the team, Doctor.” He shakes my hand, then lifts his coffee cup. “Can I get you something before we begin?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
I sink back into my seat as he sits next to Judson. I glance around the table, acutely aware of the two empty places. Glenda wanted my impressions of a newcomer. Did she mean Traut?
The boss wastes no time. He settles in his chair and glances at Glenda. “I’m assuming we’ve had no success with the Mona Lisa. No one from Saluda took the bait?”
Judson shakes his head. “I checked first thing this morning. Even though we mailed over two dozen copies to employees, no one’s activated the program. My guess is that Saluda’s people have been threatened with dire consequences if they install any nonapproved software on the company system.”
Glenda sighs. “If only government employees were as conscientious. I’ll never forget what happened when that ‘I Love You’ virus was unleashed. Langley had computers down all over the network.”
“People have learned a lot since then,” Jud answers. “And people who have a lot to lose are naturally suspicious.”
I find myself wishing I’d accepted Traut’s offer of coffee when a tanned, mustached stranger enters, a steaming mug in his hand. His eyes rove around the room without so much as a flicker of interest.
“Hola,” he says, moving to an empty seat. “Good morning.”
“About time,” Traut says, nodding at the man. “Glenda, Judson, Dr. Carey, I’d like you to meet Oscar Espinosa. Since no one picked up the Mona Lisa, I thought it’d be a good time to call on one of our assets. Espinosa is a bookkeeper at Saluda, and he’s provided information over the past several months. He’s willing to help us again.”
Judson, Glenda, and I murmur polite “nice to meet yous,” but I can’t help noticing Glenda glancing at Judson as if she’d send him a message if she could. What’s that about?
Espinosa nods at me and Glenda and stares for a moment at Holmes. Though the man’s gaze darts from face to face, his mouth never moves—likely a sign of anxiety. But who wouldn’t be nervous in this situation?
“Oscar’s been at Saluda three years,” Traut continues, pulling a pipe from his pocket, “so Adolfo Rios and his men are accustomed to seeing him. Espinosa has also developed a friendship with Rios’s secretary, a woman named Felicia Vargas.”
“I’m assuming this is a romantic relationship.” Glenda meets Espinosa’s gaze without smiling. “Those relationships can be…unpredictable.”
Espinosa gives her a smile as thin as rice water. “I have everything under control.”
Of course he does. He’s oozing machismo.
“Espinosa’s computer is monitored, of course,” Traut continues, “so our plan is to send him out on his lunch break. He’ll talk to Ms. Vargas and distract her long enough to plant the Mona Lisa on her computer.”
“Why her computer?” Judson asks. “Why not use someone a little lower down the food chain?”
Espinosa’s mouth shifts just enough to wriggle the mustache on his upper lip. “Felicia must have constant contact with the boss, no? She will have access to files that are off-limits to other departments.”
Traut nods. “With any luck, we’ll have copied and uploaded all the files on Saluda’s servers by the time they close their offices for the day.” He glances around the table. “Comments? Let me have them.”
Holmes twiddles his fingers over the keys of his laptop. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this approach. Saluda’s henchmen don’t stop at warning those who are caught betraying the organization. Your computer is monitored, Señor Espinosa, so you don’t want to risk your neck. What makes you willing to risk Señora Vargas’s?”
Espinosa’s mouth curls in a one-sided smile. “She is a woman. No one will believe her capable of planting a sophisticated program.”
“Why not?” The words zip out of Glenda’s mouth. “She’s obviously bright enough to be the big man’s secretary.”
The newcomer’s hand rises to tweak the end of his thin mustache. “Maybe it is different here, but the women at Saluda are not clever. Felicia is, however, a feast for the eyes.”
A disgruntled sound rises from Judson’s throat. “What if you’re seen at her desk?”
“I will improvise. Don’t worry, I am good at it. Your people have trained me well.”
I glance around the table and study my companions’ expressions. Traut seems content, but something about the plan doesn’t agree with Glenda.
She turns to face Espinosa. “How can you be sure this woman isn’t setting you up? She may not be as thickheaded as you think. I’d bet my last euro that she isn’t.”
Traut shuts her down with a stern glance. “If Espinosa trusts this woman, we’ll trust her, too. When he’s ready to proceed, I want to bring Sarah in to provide satellite surveillance.”
Judson clears his throat. “Isn’t that overkill? If it’s as simple a matter as Señor Espinosa proposes….”
Glenda shakes her head. “It won’t be simple. Even if he succeeds in loading the Mona Lisa onto Saluda’s network, the files we want will certainly be encrypted.”
Espinosa lifts a hand. “I need to know—what exactly does this Mona Lisa do? If they find the program on Felicia’s computer, it might be helpful if I could deflect their suspicion—”
“They won’t find it,” Judson interrupts. “The Mona Lisa plants a half-dozen innocent files, all of them with random creation dates and .doc, .jpeg, or .pdf extensions. Only by breaking the files apart and analyzing every string would anyone find the code that’s siphoning off information.”
Espinosa leans back and whistles. “Genius. Did you write the program?”
“It’s one of Sarah’s,” Jud answers, grinning. “A little ditty our steganography whiz kid whipped up in an afternoon. And if you think that’s impressive—”
“If there’s nothing else—” Glenda cuts him off, her voice dry “—we should get back to work.”
I exhale in relief when Traut grips the arms of his chair.
<
br /> “I think that takes care of it,” he says. “Espinosa, we’ll give you a flash drive loaded with the Mona Lisa before you go.”
Traut and Espinosa stand. They pause to exchange smiles and claps on the shoulder before moving into the hallway. When they’ve gone, Glenda turns to me. “And your impression of Señor Espinosa is…?”
I blink. “Based on a ten-minute encounter?”
“I’m not asking for a case history, only an impression.”
“Okay…chauvinistic and strong-willed, but anxious. And at least partially deceptive.”
“Based on what?”
“His mustache. He kept grooming it.”
One of Judson’s brows rises. “He was lying to us?”
“Or he was thinking about the lies he’d have to tell in order to pull off his assignment. He seems capable and willing…but I can’t be more definite than that.”
Apparently my professional opinion counts for less than nothing, because Judson shuts his laptop and turns to Glenda, his closed eyes holding her as firmly as if he’d been a sighted man. “Do you feel good about this one, Dr. M?”
“No.” She peers into the hallway. “No, I don’t.”
“Me, either,” Jud admits. “But I can’t put my finger on why.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Sarah
Aunt Renee knocks on my apartment door and asks if I want to have a session while Judson and Dr. Mewton have their meeting. I don’t open the door, but beg off by telling her I have stomach cramps. I’m stretching the truth only a little because my gut has been tied up in knots all day.
While Judson and Dr. Mewton meet with Mr. Traut, I hunker at my desk and consider the new information I’ve learned this morning. My father was killed while trying to expose Saluda. Judson was maimed while following the same case. Hightower was—what, poisoned?—while trying to get the goods on Adolfo Rios.
I have no way of knowing how many people have lost their lives while trying to expose Rios and his henchmen, but I don’t think I’ll be able to rest until I know who killed my father. The CIA knows he was murdered, but Aunt Renee says everyone back home thinks he committed suicide.
