And why not? That is what I am.
He’d sold his soul to the Nazi devils who were waiting for him.
He had to produce.
Getting out of there with the laptop was out of the question. Stuffing the notepad in his pants was only a marginally more credible option, but the old bat downstairs would never let him out the door. For all he knew, Quinn could have used the notepad to scribble down a speech to the Rotary Club.
If he didn’t bring something to his goons, they’d be pressing buttons on their computer by tonight, sending pictures of him and the congressman’s underage daughter, and he’d be Washington’s next jaw-dropping scandal.
All the Nazis needed was confirmation that Quinn was, indeed, digging into their business and an idea of how far she’d gotten.
Do the dumb shits think she’s some kind of undercover federal agent?
He glanced at her hen-scratching on the top page of the notepad.
Venezuela. Emerald smuggling. Oliver Crawford, Dominican Republic.
Tortures. Executions.
Steve shuddered. Who the hell were these guys? He wondered what would happen if they decided Quinn knew too much.
Not my problem.
He quickly tore off the top three sheets in the notepad, making sure he didn’t leave behind any threads of paper from the spiral holes, and folded the sheets, tucking them into his suit-coat inner pocket. With a little luck, Quinn wouldn’t notice anything was missing until it was way too late.
“Mr. Eisenhardt?” It was the receptionist, calling him sternly from the staircase. “Mr. Eisenhardt, I’d like for you to wait for Ms. Harlowe downstairs.”
A man came out of another second-floor office down the hall and spoke to her, but Steve couldn’t make out what the guy was saying. He returned the notebook to its spot on Quinn’s cluttered desk. He hadn’t broken into her office—he’d walked in. The Nazis had assured him they’d distract Quinn and give him a window of time in which to operate.
The old-bat receptionist would tell Quinn that he’d been there. If either of them suspected he’d been up to anything underhanded, they’d be on the phone with the cops in a heartbeat. Alicia’s death had put everyone he knew in Washington on edge.
He went to Quinn’s door. “Is that you, Miss Worthington?”
He could see her marching down the hall toward him. She inhaled deeply through her nose. “Mr. Eisenhardt, didn’t you hear me?”
“No, I didn’t. I mean, I heard you, but I couldn’t make out what you were saying. What’s up? Quinn back?”
She glared at him, not nearly as winded as he would have expected for a woman her age. “Quinn isn’t back yet, no. I asked you to wait downstairs.”
“You did? Sorry. I’m not used to the routine around here.” He could see that charm wasn’t going to work on her. “I was one of her friend Alicia’s colleagues at Justice—we were in and out of each others offices all the time. Cubicles, actually.” He gestured at the elegant Octagon Room behind him. “This is much nicer. Really swank.”
“She needs to get used to locking her door.”
He’d gambled that Quinn’s office wouldn’t be locked. A risk, but he was right. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he’d been wrong—what he’d have had to force himself to do. Somehow, some way, he had to bring the Nazis what they wanted.
“Hey, I don’t want to get you into any trouble,” Steve said. “I can’t wait around here, anyway. I was hoping to catch her. What’s she doing, taking a walk in the park?” The Nazis had told him they had a guy distracting her, but Steve didn’t know any details. He didn’t want to know. “We’ve all had a rough time since Alicia’s death.”
Thelma toned down the sourpuss expression. “I imagine so. Miss Miller was your friend, too?”
He felt a prick of real sadness. “I didn’t know her as well as Quinn did. I’ve only been at Justice a couple months. But, yes, I considered her a friend.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Eisenhardt.” But, refocusing on why she was there, Thelma stood to one side of the door and motioned him toward the stairs. “I’ll follow you downstairs.”
Don’t do me any favors. As he started past her, he noticed her give Quinn’s office a suspicious scan. Steve wondered if he looked shifty, or if she just didn’t trust lawyers. Stealing stuff off a purported friend’s desk wasn’t the kind of risk he preferred to take. Sexual indiscretions were one thing, but he didn’t like breaking the law. If he’d known the congressman’s daughter was underage, he’d never have touched her.
But he’d suspected. He just hadn’t asked her or bothered to find out on his own, which he could have done just by going to her father’s Web site. He’d wanted what he got from her, and he didn’t let anything stand in the way of his obsession.
When he reached the first floor, he smiled at the receptionist. “You’ll tell Quinn I stopped by?”
“I certainly will.”
Steve thanked her and pushed through the heavy front door, then trotted down the steps, fresh waves of heat and perspiration breaking out from his brow to his feet. He cut up the street to an intersection, turning right, walking fast until he came to the black SUV.
The Nazi Youth stepped out, and Steve handed him the sheets from the notepad. “This should satisfy you. She’s on your asses.”
No reaction. “Mr. Lubec wants to speak with you.”
“Asshole—no names. Okay? I don’t want to know who you are.”
The kid smirked. “You know we work for Oliver Crawford. You could give our description to the police, and in a matter of hours, they’d have our names and our pictures posted all over the media.”
Steve felt his stomach drop. On the one hand, he didn’t know anything. On the other hand, he knew too much—and that was what the kid was telling him. “I’m not going to do that.”
“We know you’re not.” The kid stepped backward, motioning for Steve to get into the car. “Have a seat.”
Not a chance. He stuck his head in the open door, Lubec—the SS guard—behind the wheel. “The Nazi Youth here says you want to talk to me. Talk. I’m not getting in here with you. If you try to shove my ass in, I’ll scream bloody murder. Plus, I left a message on my cell phone. If I’m not back at my desk in forty-five minutes, the feds will know to come looking for me.”
Lubec cast him a stone-cold look. He didn’t like the feds. Steve had already figured that one out. In the same dead tone as always, Lubec said, “On Monday at 5:00 p.m., we will send the link to the pictures to the attorney general and the director of the FBI.” He let his gaze bore into Steve for a couple seconds. “You have until then to get us the names we want. No more stalling.”
“I can’t…” But Steve knew he wouldn’t get anywhere by trying to appeal to their common sense about his limitations. “I’m serious, okay? I don’t have that kind of access. Lattimore doesn’t have that kind of access—”
“We also want the names of any undercover agents trying to penetrate our network.”
Our network. No more fooling around with semantics. Steve wasn’t reassured—they weren’t making him an ally. They didn’t trust him. They didn’t believe he was one of them. They had him by the balls, pure and simple.
“Come on.” He tried to keep his desperation out of his tone. “Nobody’s going to give me that kind of information.”
“We want to know if Alicia Miller and Quinn Harlowe were using the Yorkville cottage as a cover to infiltrate us on behalf of the federal government.”
Steve held his hands to his ears. “I don’t want to know details. La-la-la. I can’t hear you.”
Lubec rolled his eyes. “Monday at five.”
The kid tapped Steve on the shoulder. “Move away from the car.”
He complied, dropping his hands from his ears. The Nazi Youth got into the SUV. As it pulled away, Steve sank against a light pole, his bowels loosening. His only smart move of the day was telling everyone at work he was going home early. Now, he
didn’t have to go back to the office and instead could go home and be sick in peace.
Home?
If Quinn figured out he had swiped her notes, she’d be all over him. And the Nazis—they’d never be satisfied. They wanted what he couldn’t give. He’d done too much for them as it was. He knew too much about them.
Lubec.
Steve shuddered. He had a name now, not just a description. Obviously, they’d helped out with that Tatro escape last fall.
They weren’t going to leave him to his own devices. They’d have his office and apartment watched. For all he knew, someone was on his ass right now.
He couldn’t go home.
Just go back to Quinn’s office and tell her everything.
If anyone could put the pieces together of what these goons were up to, Steve knew it was Quinn Harlowe. She’d help him sort through his options. Telling her everything had to be better than throwing his lot in with Lubec and the rest of his Nazis.
The pictures…
He thought of his mother, no prize herself, home in New Jersey, so proud of her son the Justice Department lawyer.
Narrowly stopping himself from puking on the sidewalk, Steve clasped a hand to his lower abdomen and started to run.
“Are you sure you know who your friends are?”
Seated in the back of a government car, Gerard Lattimore couldn’t read Oliver’s tone over his cell phone. He was on his way to a meeting at FBI headquarters and almost hadn’t answered the call. “Do any of us?”
His old friend chuckled softly. “Good answer. I don’t mean to make you paranoid. You have an important position in the government. Of course, I’m not privy to the details of anything you’re responsible for, but I imagine none of it’s trivial. I don’t envy you, I must say.”
“You’ve never envied anyone, Ollie. You wouldn’t waste your time.”
“Time is valuable.”
“Speaking of which—I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be brief. It’s been brought to my attention that your Quinn Harlowe has been asking questions about you. She’s very bright, isn’t she? And suspicious, if not by nature, after working for you for three years. Her friend’s death can’t have helped.”
“What kind of questions is she asking? Of whom? You, Ollie?”
“I don’t have the details. I’m working on getting them. Are you by any chance under investigation?”
Gerard kept himself from shooting up out of his seat. “Of course not.”
“Would you know if you were?”
“Ollie, I don’t play those games. I’m as straightforward as they come. If people want to maneuver and plot behind my back, fine. I’ll just keep doing my job.”
“Spoken like a true patriot,” his friend said.
“Are you suggesting Quinn is part of some kind of conspiracy to undermine me?”
“Oh, no. I’m suggesting no such thing. I’m not trying to make you paranoid. Just watch your back.” Oliver paused, taking a sharp, audible breath. “I didn’t, and I almost lost my life. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”
So that was it. A touch of post-trauma paranoia. “Ollie—I’m sorry. I wish I had more time to talk.”
“You’re coming out to Yorkville this weekend, aren’t you? My people tell me your boat’s been cleaned and is ready to go. I’m in Washington at the moment, but I expect to be back at Breakwater tonight. I’m having an open house there tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tomorrow? At Breakwater?” Gerard didn’t hide his surprise.
“Yes. It’s Sharon’s idea, but I think it’s a good one. We’re still meeting resistance here in Yorkville, which we need to confront, especially with a dozen trainees arriving in the next couple of weeks.”
“I understand, but it’s so soon after Alicia Miller’s death—”
“We had nothing to do with her death. We don’t have the luxury of time, Gerry. When we’re fully operational, Breakwater Security will provide a necessary, legitimate service. Everything we’ve done or plan to do not only complies with the law but exceeds industry standards. Once people see for themselves, I think we’ll allay any community concerns. We’re trying to be as open and as sensitive as possible.”
Gerard couldn’t help but chuckle. “Damn, Ollie, you should be working in a government public information office. You can spin with the best of them.”
“I’m just telling the truth.” He seemed offended. “Will you come tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Invite Quinn Harlowe to join you.”
“Ollie—”
“You need to know who your friends are, Gerry. And your enemies. I can help.”
“Quinn’s a friend,” Gerard said. “I have no doubts.”
“Good. Then you’ll bring her tomorrow.”
His car had arrived at the restaurant where his meeting was being held. Gerard had to hang up, but when he said goodbye, he felt a crawling sensation that he couldn’t quite describe or understand. The kidnapping in December had been a brutal ordeal for his old college buddy, and Alicia’s accidental drowning almost two weeks ago, coupled with her bizarre behavior, had been an unexpected blow for everyone. For Oliver Crawford, a multimillionaire businessman who liked control, Alicia’s death alone would have been cause for him to retrench. Add in an intense, inquisitive Quinn Harlowe, the events of the past few months had to have rubbed raw every fear and insecurity he had.
A spring-weekend afternoon party at beautiful Breakwater could just be what the doctor ordered—for all of us, Gerard thought.
“One moment,” he told his driver, dialing Quinn’s cell phone.
Ollie’s warning was pure drama and post-trauma edginess, Gerard decided, dismissing it from his mind.
He trusted no one more than he did Quinn Harlowe.
26
W hen Lubec, Rochester and Glover picked Huck up near the quirky American Society for the Study of Plants and Animals, he told them he was taking the afternoon off and would find his own way back to Breakwater. He didn’t offer any explanations. Lubec didn’t like it, but he had a helicopter waiting—no time to argue with a low-level employee like Huck Boone.
Diego Clemente, who, as Huck had expected, had just arrived in Washington, picked him up in front of the White House and took him out to Arlington and the historic northern Virginia house where Nate Winter lived with his wife and the ghosts of Abraham Lincoln and Robert E. Lee.
“Find another ride back to the Neck,” Diego said. “I’m going to check on Harlowe.”
“You’re still ticked off at her because she made you.”
Diego had made his opinion plain about Quinn Harlowe turning her research and analysis talents onto the two of them. He scowled. “Ever think she could have hooked up with these vigilante pukes and be playing us?”
“No.”
“Historians,” he said, as if that explained everything.
The second Huck shut the truck door, Clemente backed out, as if he’d seen ghosts coming out of the old house’s chimney. Most likely, he just didn’t want anyone making him stick around for a high-level meeting. Diego hated meetings. Huck had called Nate Winter an hour ago and said he was on the way. He didn’t know who Winter had managed to get out to the house in the meantime.
He walked around to the back of the pre–Civil War house. Sarah Dunnemore, Winter’s wife, was in charge of getting it ready to open to the public. They’d bought their own place. Huck noticed the boxes on the back porch and wondered what it was like to be that settled, moving into a home of his own.
Winter stood at the top of the porch steps. A tall, rangy, naturally impatient man with an unusual family background, he was fast becoming a legend in the Marshals Service. Last spring, he had survived a sniper-style shooting in Central Park. The incident had, however, led him to Sarah Dunnemore of Night’s Landing, Tennessee, surrogate daughter to John Wesley Poe, former Tennessee governor and now the U.S. president. That had to complicate Nate’s life, Huck thoug
ht.
As he mounted the steps and shook Winter’s hand, Huck considered how much his own life had just been complicated by Quinn Harlowe.
“Where’s Clemente?” Winter asked.
“On his way back to Yorkville.”
Winter didn’t seem surprised. “No point in risking anyone from town seeing the two of you together. Juliet Longstreet and Ethan Brooker are here.”
“I don’t mean to disturb you at home. Your wife—”
“She’s out with my sister and brother-in-law.” Winter’s voice had tightened slightly. “It was my suggestion we meet here. It’s safer for you. The U.S. attorney working with us wanted to be here but couldn’t make it on such short notice.”
“FBI?”
“No.”
Nothing had been said, but Huck didn’t doubt the FBI would have preferred to have one of their own working undercover with the vigilantes, not some deputy marshal from California who’d pretty much stumbled on them. He shrugged. “Good.”
Juliet Longstreet—it had to be her, since she was the only woman on the porch—got up from the porch rail and introduced herself, then introduced a man in a dark suit, Ethan Brooker, a Special Forces officer who was now a presidential adviser. Diego’s pal from his own Special Forces days.
Huck could feel their misgivings about him. He understood.
At least they didn’t ask him if he’d been followed, a minor nod to his abilities.
“Have a seat,” Winter said.
Huck shook his head. “That’s okay.”
A small table was set with a stainless-steel urn of coffee, white mugs, a matching sugar pot and creamer, a stack of pansy-decorated cocktail napkins and a plate of quartered pimiento-cheese sandwiches. Not Winter’s doing, for sure, Huck thought, helping himself to a couple of the pimiento-cheese triangles. No one else was eating. Longstreet watched him with the kind of frank skepticism he could appreciate. Brooker was harder to read. The two of them supposedly were an item, but Huck hadn’t heard anything about wedding bells.
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