by Susan Mann
“No offense, Quinn, but why would we scam you? You yourself implied you live paycheck to paycheck.”
“You could be trying to scam Mysterious Art Collector Guy.” She dragged a hand over her face. “And now I’m an accessory.”
“You’re not an accessory to anything.” He shook his head and huffed a mirthless laugh. “I’m afraid it might be impossible to convince you I’m telling you the truth no matter what I do. But I’m going to try one more thing.”
He rose from the couch and lifted out the false bottom of his briefcase to reveal a cache of currencies and passports from different countries. He picked up a black leather wallet and returned the briefcase to its normal state. He held the wallet toward her and said, “I hope this is enough to prove I’m not a scoundrel. If you’re still not convinced, I’ll get the agency director on video chat.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “The director of the entire Central Intelligence Agency? You can do that?”
“It’ll take some time, but yes, I can. And will.” The confidence on his face gave her the impression he really could make such a thing happen. “Like I said, you’re that important.”
She had no idea why. She took the proffered wallet and opened it. A gold badge with the words Central Intelligence Agency was clipped to one side. The heft of it told her it hadn’t been stamped out of an old pineapple tin. A rather run-of-the-mill picture ID with the name James Anderson was secured under clear plastic opposite the badge. It was no more interesting than a driver’s license. She had to really scrutinize it to see where it indicated that James worked for the “Directorate of Operations.” Neither the badge nor the ID screamed, “This man is a secret agent!” which, she supposed, was kind of the point.
There was still a part of her that was wary, but it was hard to argue with the evidence. She decided to sign. If it turned out to be a scam, she would claim she was as much a victim of it as Mysterious Art Collector Guy. She had nothing to lose.
She set the wallet on the table and picked up the tablet. She scrolled to the bottom of the document to the signature page. With the tip of her finger, she signed her name on the line. “There,” she said and handed the tablet back to James.
He took the device and said, “Just a couple more things.” He turned it toward her again. “Swipe your thumb over the scanner.” After she did, he said, “Hold still,” and aimed the small lens on the back of the tablet at her right eye. A blue light filled her vision. Then he touched the screen, presumably sending the document and accompanying biometrics to his superiors. When he finished, he looked at her and said, “All set.”
“That’s it? You don’t need me to pee in a cup, too? Pledge my firstborn to the agency?” An eyebrow rose. “Pinky swear?”
He smiled. “We save the pinky swears for the super top secret stuff.” The smile turned wistful when his gaze lingered on her face. He flicked a finger at a piece of lint on his jeans. “You still don’t trust me.”
“I’m sure you understand why.”
His head jerked in a halting nod. “I do.” With renewed vigor, he straightened and looked her dead in the eyes. “That’s why I’m going to make sure you speak directly with the director as soon as possible. Then you’ll know for sure I’m not playing you, Quinn.”
Her breath caught at the intensity in his eyes and the vehemence of his tone. In that moment, she almost believed him. Almost. She didn’t know what to say, so she picked up the bottle of water and took several long pulls.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you tired? It is the middle of the night. You should sleep. You can take the bedroom. Your stuff is already in there.” He pointed toward a short hallway.
“My stuff?”
“I grabbed some clothes and threw them in a bag I found in your closet. I’m not sure how long we’ll be up here, so . . .” He shrugged as his voice trailed off.
She blushed at the thought of him going through her underwear drawer. While most of her things were tame and utilitarian, she did own a few items Nicole had talked her into buying that were on the racier—and lacier—end of the spectrum. “Thanks.” All at once, a terrible thought hit her. She slapped her hand over her mouth and gasped, “Rasputin! Did they hurt—? Is he—?”
“No! No, they didn’t hurt him,” James said in a rush. “He’s fine. He was hiding under your bed the entire time. I coaxed him out and took him to your neighbor’s place.”
She heaved a huge sigh in relief. “Thank you. That poor cat. He must have been terrified.”
“I wish I could tell you he wasn’t, but he was pretty freaked out. His eyes were huge. I hope he’ll be okay.”
“I’m sure he will. He’s a pretty tough guy. What did you tell Rick?”
“I told him you were busy packing and asked me to bring Rasputin over. I said we got a lead on one of the items we’ve been researching and needed to go out of town for a few days to track it down.” A corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile. “I don’t think Rick believed me. When I handed over Rasputin, he said, ‘I’m happy for you two. I hope you and Quinn have a great time researching,’ and went like this.” James proceeded to demonstrate by bouncing his eyebrows up and down.
She chuckled. “I can imagine. He was already about to come out of his skin when we left for dinner.” It seemed like days had passed since they’d eaten at that little Italian place. “How did you explain the, um . . .” She pointed first to her lip and then her jaw, mirroring where James had been hurt.
“I told him we were walking around the Third Street Promenade and a rogue Santa tried to steal your purse. I protected you.” James sat up straight and puffed out his chest. “Rick was quite impressed with my bravery.”
“My hero,” she said drily.
He smiled and leaned against the back cushion again.
“Rick didn’t hear anything? Not even the gunshot when you hit me with the dart? No one called the police?”
“No. He and the family had a movie playing pretty loud and wouldn’t have heard it. My guess is your other neighbors were out or if they did hear something, didn’t want to get involved.”
“What happened after you tranquilized me? What did you do with the two guys who broke in?”
“I put some of your book tape across their mouths to keep them quiet and used it to tape their wrists and ankles together. I called a couple associates who took them into custody. They’ll make sure your apartment gets cleaned up, too.”
“Ask if they can clean under the refrigerator while they’re at it.” She returned James’s smile before asking, “You think my two burglars have something to do with your mission?”
“Yes. After what happened at your apartment, the agency sent people to my hotel room. It’d been tossed, too.”
“Your cover’s been blown,” she stated.
“It looks that way, yeah. I don’t know how it happened since everything was okay until tonight. But now you’ve been compromised, too. Whoever it is knows where you live. I had to get you out of there to someplace safe. That’s why we’re here.”
“Thank you for that, even if you did shoot me with a tranquilizer,” she said, and rolled her sore shoulder.
He frowned. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”
“Yeah, about that. Why would you even go to a public library for help? You must have lots of researchers at the CIA who can help you.”
“I’m undercover. I can’t have any contact with the agency while I’m in L.A. I only did today because I needed backup. James Lockwood, British insurance guy, would absolutely go to a public library for help.”
“So my library was close and it was random when you came up to me?”
Her heart flopped like a fish out of water when he hesitated.
“It wasn’t random?”
“No.”
“What?” she yelped. “Why me?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I was told by my boss to go to you, specifically y
ou, for help.”
She slumped back against the couch, flabbergasted. “I don’t know anybody at the CIA. How am I even on their radar?”
James shrugged. “I have no idea. I did what I was directed to do and went to you for help.”
“That’s so weird.”
“We have a library at headquarters in Langley. Maybe there’s a librarian there who knows you.”
“You have a library? With librarians and everything?”
He nodded and smiled. “Cool job, right?”
“Okay, yeah, that’s a really cool job.” She scowled at him, but in a teasing way. “Don’t change the subject. You still haven’t told me anything about this op of yours. What’s the deal with Mysterious Art Collector Guy? It has something to do with the collection we’ve been researching, doesn’t it?” When he unsuccessfully stifled a yawn, she noticed the thin red veins in the whites of his eyes. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m okay,” he replied. “If you need to know about the op before you sleep, I’m ready to tell you. If you want to go get some sleep and talk in the morning, that’s okay, too. It’s up to you.”
“I hate to make you stay up, but I’ll never be able to sleep until I know.”
“That’s fine.”
“But I need a pit stop before we continue.”
“Yeah, sure. The bathroom is across the hall from the bedroom.”
It pleased her to know the cabin wasn’t so rustic that she’d be hiking to an outhouse. She padded across the floor and peeked into the tiny bedroom. It was sparsely furnished, with only a quilt-covered bed with a log headboard and a lamp on a small nightstand. Her overnight bag was at the foot of the bed.
She turned around, went into the cramped bathroom, and practically had to stand on the toilet seat to make enough room to swing the door closed.
As she washed her hands in ice-cold water, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink. She nearly shrieked in horror. The mascara Nicole had talked her into using may have made her lashes look longer and thicker, but the black smudges rimming her eyes proved it was not waterproof. She bent over the sink and caught the frigid water in her hands. The cold stung her cheeks as she splashed it onto her face and scrubbed her fingers over her eyes. She lifted her head and rechecked herself in the mirror. Much better. She turned off the water and patted her face dry with a small hand towel. The water had refreshed her and at 2:45 in the morning, she felt more alert than she did most days at 2:45 in the afternoon.
Quinn inhaled and expelled the air in a gust, bracing for what was to come. She opened the door and strode into the sitting room, ready to hear why she was currently squirreled away in a government safe house.
Chapter Twelve
Only a few hours earlier, Quinn and James sat hand in hand on a bluff above the beach. In that moment, she had felt like her life was on the verge of being perfect. Between then and the present, her life had taken a surreal turn. Now, she sat on a couch in a cabin in the San Bernardino Mountains at three o’clock in the morning with a handsome undercover CIA officer.
“I’m sorry about the rather deplorable snackage,” James said as Quinn took a Ritz cracker from the package he’d set out on the coffee table and picked up a can of Easy Cheese. “There’s not much to choose from. The cupboards are pretty bare.”
She shook the can, poised it upside down over the cracker, and depressed the nozzle with a finger. As the unnaturally bright orange viscous cheeselike substance was extruded, Quinn swirled a glob onto the cracker. “That’s okay. It’s not like you could call ahead to make sure there would be trays of appetizers ready for when we arrived.” She tossed the cheese-laden cracker in her mouth and crunched. The familiar cheesy tang transported her back to her undergrad days when she and her roommates would binge on it—and a variety of other less-than-healthy foods—during midterms, or when they had boyfriend problems, or when UCLA lost in football, or it was Thursday. “Besides, you had an unconscious librarian to deal with.”
“That’s true,” James said. “I considered stopping off at a convenience store on the way to pick up a few things, but I didn’t want to leave you alone in the car.”
“Alone and unconscious,” she finished for him with a slight dig.
He moved a shoulder and said, “Yeah. That.”
“Don’t worry,” she said as she squirted another blob of cheese on a cracker. “I don’t have a particularly finicky palate. I’m sure whatever we find to eat around here will be fine.” She popped it in her mouth and washed it down with the last of the water from the bottle James had opened for her earlier. “I have loads of questions, James, but maybe you should just start at the beginning. Hopefully a lot of them will get answered.”
“Okay. Feel free to interrupt and ask me anything.”
“Good, because I was going to anyway.”
James went quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “This all started when I was in Moscow a few months ago,” he began in a soft voice. “I was reading a newspaper and saw a short article about the widow of a Soviet general who had just sold her deceased husband’s art collection to a wealthy British businessman.”
“Mysterious Art Collector Guy,” Quinn said.
James nodded. “His name is Roderick Fitzhugh.”
“Ah,” Quinn said, finding it satisfying to finally know. “A wealthy guy buying art doesn’t seem particularly noteworthy.”
“It wasn’t. That’s why it was such a short article. The general, Yevgeni Dobrynin, has been dead for about fifteen years. He was killed in a car accident.” When James said the last two words, he flexed two fingers on each hand to make air quotes.
“So, not a car accident.”
“We don’t think so.” He waved a dismissive hand. “How he died isn’t the issue. The fact that he amassed a fortune by selling Soviet weapons he took control of during the dissolution of the Soviet Union in the early nineties and the political crises that followed is.”
“‘Took control’ sounds like a euphemism for ‘stole.’”
“Basically, yeah. He was an arms dealer.”
Quinn wondered if the CIA had anything to do with Dobrynin’s “accident.” She wasn’t about to ask.
“Fast forward fifteen years after his death,” James said, plowing forward with the story. “His widow and children are strapped for cash—”
“—and a lot of Dobrynin’s wealth is tied up in his art collection, so the family decides to sell.”
“Exactly. They sold the entire lot to Roderick Fitzhugh for fifteen million pounds.”
Quinn blew out a low whistle. “That’s some serious dough.” She cocked her head and squinted at him. “I still don’t get why the CIA would be interested. The general is dead and not a threat. If his wife and kids are strapped for cash, they haven’t continued in the ‘family business.’ Otherwise, they’d have plenty of money.”
“You’re right. We don’t think the Dobrynin family has anything to do with this. The thing is, Fitzhugh is a weapons dealer, too.”
“Did they know each other? Friend or enemy?” She sat up straighter and exclaimed, “Oh, I know! Dobrynin screwed Fitzhugh over in some arms deal, so Fitzhugh had him offed. All these years later Fitzhugh’s able to exact his final revenge by buying Dobrynin’s cherished art collection.”
James grinned. “Excellent theory, Ms. Ellington. It’s wrong, but excellent.”
“What do you mean it’s wrong?” She huffed. “It makes complete sense.”
“It does if the two men knew each other. There’s no evidence they ever did business together or even met, for that matter.” His smile remained in place as he looked at her expectantly. “Care to come up with another hypothesis?”
She kept her face neutral. “I get the feeling I’ll never guess, so I think I’ll pass.”
“Fair enough.” He downed several gulps of water from his bottle before starting again. “I immediately recognized Fitzhugh’s name. He’s been on our radar for a while. It seemed rea
lly odd to me that one arms dealer would buy the art collection of another, so I did a little more digging on the dearly departed Yevgeni. I found out there’s a long-standing rumor he’d hidden away major weapons somewhere. The intel on what it is exactly is pretty murky. It might be a huge stash of conventional guns, suitcase nukes, or a biological or chemical weapon of some sort.” He blew out a breath and shook his head in frustration. “We have no idea what, and as far as we know no one else does either.”
She found herself leaning forward as if straining to hear the last bit of information that would make all of these seemingly random pieces fit together.
“The rumor also says Dobrynin put the whereabouts of these weapons, whatever they are, into some kind of code and hid them in his art collection.”
The “Hallelujah Chorus” played in her head when the final piece fell into place. “Fitzhugh heard the same rumor and bought the collection on the chance it was true,” she said.
“That was my feeling, too. I forwarded all the intel and the connections I’d made about it to my boss. He and a roomful of analysts concluded it was credible and to move on it. Since I was the one who brought it to them, they let me plan the op.”
Her head felt like it was about to explode as she began to comprehend it all. “You came up with a way to examine the collection and figure out the code before Fitzhugh could by going undercover as an employee of an insurance company.”
“The entire company is a CIA front,” he said, nodding. “Ben is my partner on the op. He’s undercover in England doing the same thing.”
“That’s why we spent so much time on pieces with writing and designs. You thought those might be the codes.” Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. “The first thing you brought in was the brooch with the runic writing. And that explains why Ben wanted more research on the words of that Schoenberg opera. That’s brilliant. The entire setup is brilliant.”
He smiled at the compliment, but it was short-lived. “Not brilliant enough, since obviously something went sideways. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be holed up in a safe house right now.”
