Whirlpool
Page 12
Cruz was too stunned to speak. Then he saw her glance at his left hand again.
“Did that happen at the consulate?” she asked.
For an instant Cruz looked rather like he had in the photo.
“I’m sorry,” she said instantly. “That’s none of my business, is it?”
His expression softened. “I thought I’d heard all the questions and given all the answers about the consulate,” he said after a moment. “No one has ever asked me that one. If we had more time, I’d answer you. But we don’t.”
Puzzled, Laurel looked at Cruz. He seemed less intent now, less savage, but his expression was a long way from reassuring.
That didn’t keep her from asking another question.
“Are you still an FBI agent?”
“I take back what I said about you reading newspapers,” he said sardonically.
“What does that mean?”
“I resigned in the middle of the third congressional hearing. That was the one called by the Congressional Black Caucus after the press got wind of my so-called ‘sympathies for the South African government.’”
He spoke the last words as a single phrase, like a mindless political slogan. Yet for all its familiarity, it obviously still left a bad taste in his mouth.
“I must have missed that part,” she said.
“You were one of the few people in America who did. I tossed my badge on the witness table and handed my Bureau weapon to the director, still loaded.”
Laurel would have smiled, but she saw the brackets of remembered pain on either side of Cruz’s mouth.
“It was on all the networks that night,” he said. “Of course, they blipped my words. The truth is too harsh for politicians’ tender little ears.”
“So you’re not government.”
“No. I’m private. Just like I said. I work for a company called Risk Limited.”
She felt a sudden stirring of hope. “If you’re not an FBI agent, what are you doing here?”
“Like I said, I’m on an Easter egg hunt. Are you the bunny with the million-dollar egg?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said tightly.
His grin was wolflike. “Honey, you don’t lie worth a damn.”
“Then you should believe me when I say there’s not one lousy Easter egg in the whole place.”
His smile vanished.
“You signed for the package this afternoon,” he said in a clipped voice. “The shipping label is in your trash. You should have burned it, by the way.”
“I guess I’m not much of a crook,” she said quietly. “I can’t lie. I can’t shoot you. I can’t even destroy the evidence.”
Laurel put the gun on the worktable and waited for whatever came next.
16
Cambria
Monday night
Without looking away from Laurel’s unusual golden eyes, Cruz picked up her gun, popped a catch, and caught the fully loaded magazine as it dropped out of the butt.
She grimaced. She’d decided on an instinctive level to trust Cruz. If she’d made a mistake, she’d find out real soon.
Before he laid the magazine aside, he inspected the bright copper-headed rounds that filled it. With deft, automatic motions he worked the slide and caught a single cartridge as it arced out of the ejection port. He checked the chamber to be doubly sure it was empty and then sighted down the barrel.
“Nice piece,” he said. “Model Nineteen-eleven-A Colt. The action has been loosened, tuned to a woman’s hand. Good Day-Glo night sight. The magazine is loaded with jacketed rounds.”
She watched him put the gun on the table next to the magazine.
“Quite a piece of iron for a lady jeweler who doesn’t know how to lie,” he said casually. “Your boyfriend’s?”
Laurel felt a flash of irritation at the assumption that only a man would be at ease with her gun. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The instant she spoke, she recognized her mistake. Swann had warned her often how people, through indirection, could draw information about him from her.
“Whose gun, then?” Cruz asked casually. “You handle the piece well enough, but that gun was worked on by a professional who cared about you.”
“I’m good with my hands,” she said evenly.
He looked at the array of expensive tools laid out on the workbench. “You must be. There aren’t many women who could afford a setup like this for a hobby.”
“I’m so good I don’t have to resort to Easter egg hunts to pay my bills.”
“Did you already melt the egg down?”
She looked coldly at him and said nothing.
“I didn’t think so,” he said. “It wouldn’t be your style.”
With his left hand, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a photo of the Ruby Surprise.
“This is worth a lot more than the sum of its bullion and gemstone weight, isn’t it?” he asked gently.
She shrugged.
“You aren’t the kind to destroy a priceless artifact for a handful of Russian-cut diamonds and a lump of gold,” he said.
A faint chill moved over Laurel. Somehow Cruz Rowan knew more about her after a few minutes than her own father did after a lifetime.
“Do you think it’s real?” Cruz asked.
His question was so offhand that she started to reply before she realized what she was doing. The chill went down her spine again, redoubled.
Cruz is good at his work. Too good.
And the fact that she trusted him only made protecting her father harder.
Cruz smiled almost sadly as he watched Laurel’s expressive face.
“You really shouldn’t play this game,” he said. “You aren’t cut out for it. Just tell me where the egg is and we’ll forget you ever saw it.”
“I can’t.”
He didn’t like her response, but he didn’t doubt the truth of it. “Why?”
“I don’t know where it is. Even if I did…I wouldn’t.”
“Funny. You don’t look like a lady with a yen to see the inside of a federal prison.”
Her breath came in sharply. She wanted to tell Cruz that he might be privately employed, but her father was a government contract worker. She wouldn’t go to prison for helping him.
If Swann was working for the government this time. And if the government could afford to acknowledge it.
If.
“It won’t happen,” she said tightly.
“You keep saying it often enough, you might believe it.”
She turned her back, shielding herself from his penetrating eyes and even more penetrating intelligence.
“When the freight company figures out that the egg is missing, they’ll start hollering for the feds,” Cruz said calmly. “Then the search warrants and arrest warrants will start raining down. Theft from international shipments. Receiving stolen property. Conspiracy. Those are just the beginning.”
He left the table and went to stand behind her, staring over her shoulder at the dark ocean beyond the window.
“I can afford to be a bit more understanding,” he said. “Unlike the shipping company, I don’t have any reputation to protect. Unlike the feds, I don’t care about prosecuting anybody. I just want the egg back.”
Laurel discovered she was holding her breath. He was standing close to her, so close that she could feel his warmth through the silk nightshirt. It sent shivers coursing through her that had nothing to do with fear.
What a hell of a time to be attracted to a man, she thought bitterly. What a hell of a man too. Is this what happened to mother? Did she get in over her head so fast she didn’t know she was in trouble until it was too late?
“I’m a sucker for an innocent girl in trouble,” he said gently. “Tell me what you know, honey. Let me help you.”
Without warning she spun around. In the shadowed light of the room, Cruz’s expression was both weary and intent.
He’d done this before. Too many times.
He didn’t reply. He was surprised to find himself wanting to kiss the lovely crook with honey eyes and a voice to match.
“You’re the one who’s good,” he said. “Dynamite, in fact. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“What?”
“Who’s your partner? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Protecting the son of a bitch who left you holding the bag?”
“Do you really mean what you say about recovering the egg? If I helped you get it back, would you be satisfied?”
“Yes.”
“No criminal charges? No publicity?”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Cruz said. “After that, you’re on your own. Rather, your partner is. He deserves it. A man who puts a woman like you in the line of fire isn’t worth protecting.”
She closed her eyes for an instant. What he’d promised wasn’t enough, but it was all she was going to get.
Both of them knew it.
“At least you didn’t lie to me,” she said huskily.
Eyes open again, she walked past him and picked up the phone. Without glancing at the board behind her, she punched in her father’s pager number. When the signal came, she entered her own callback number.
Then Laurel hung up and looked at Cruz Rowan, the man her instincts told her to trust. He looked confident. Intelligent. Strong. And as remote as the moon.
“It must be useful,” she said.
“What?”
“To be able to make people trust you, even when they know they’re being manipulated. God, you must think we’re stupid.”
Without another glance at him, she headed for the stairway.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To put some clothes on.”
“Don’t bother on my account.”
“Go to hell.”
“Already been, thanks.”
“You must have liked it. You never really came back.”
17
Los Angeles
Monday night
West Los Angeles was full of discreet hotels that catered to the international elite of the arts and business worlds. Jamie Swann belonged to neither. But years of operating in the international underworld had taught him to use the haute monde as camouflage.
He was checked into the Century Plaza as an international representative of a Swiss chemical firm, just one more traveling salesman with a big expense account. If anyone cared to investigate, his cover would hold up. He actually had been on the payroll of the company at one time. Its personnel department still believed that he worked for the firm.
Swann had ordered a suite on the north side of the building. From his window he could look out through the glare of Century City to the grounds of what had once been a wealthy Santa Monica Boulevard synagogue. Recently, Damon Hudson had acquired the land, bulldozed the house of worship, and erected in its place a monument to his own power.
When Swann’s pager went off, he was examining the walls of the museum building with a pair of high-powered binoculars, trying to trace the wiring pattern of the alarm system. Alarms were a hobby of his. He wanted to see what was the best that money could buy in the private sector.
He pulled the compact pager off his belt and squinted at the return call number in the plastic window. The light in the room was too dim for him to read the numbers. With an impatient curse he moved to the pool of light beneath the lamp on the dresser.
His daughter’s number appeared in the window.
“Come on, Laurie,” he muttered. “You should know better than to bother me.”
Despite his irritation he went to the room phone, got an outside line, and called the number.
She answered the phone on the first ring. “Swann residence.”
“What’s the problem?” he asked curtly.
“There’s a man downstairs. He’s on an Easter egg hunt.”
Swann’s gut twisted. His heart beat too fast in his chest. It was the first time in a long time that he’d felt anything close to real fear.
It was for his daughter.
“Shit,” he hissed. Then, “Damn it, Laurie. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“He says he won’t prosecute. He just wants the egg back.”
“Lots of people want that egg. You can’t trust a single one of them. Did he give you a name?”
“Cruz Rowan.”
“I know that name….”
“He was the FBI agent who shot the terrorists in front of the South African consulate five years ago.”
“Is he still a fed?”
“No.”
Swann thought quickly. “Who does he work for now, or is he an independent?”
“He works for something called Risk Limited.”
Swann’s mind raced, making connections with a speed that had saved his life more than once. He remembered Cruz Rowan. He also remembered Risk Ltd. The firm had built an intimidating reputation in the tight, bleak little world of international spies and spy chasers, terrorists and freedom fighters.
“That outfit is bad news,” Swann said bluntly. “How did Rowan get on to me?”
“He doesn’t know it was you. He just knows about me. It must have been through the air freight company. He was interested in the shipping labels he found in my trash can.”
Swann whistled soundlessly. The best scams were always the simple ones. His diversion scheme had been direct and nearly foolproof. A hundred bucks to a clerk and a new domestic waybill got pasted over the old international one.
Yet Cruz Rowan had traced the package almost immediately, which meant he must have been able to tap directly into the shipping company’s computer tracking system.
Swann muttered an unhappy curse. His plan had been as close to perfect as they came, but it was unraveling now.
And Laurel was getting tangled up in the mess.
Rubbing his forehead, he tried to see a way out. Only the most brutally direct ones—bribery or murder—came immediately to mind.
“Where is Rowan now?” Swann asked.
“Downstairs.”
“Listening in?”
“Not unless he has a way to do it without lifting the receiver. The sound quality changes drastically when you have more than one connection open in this house.”
Swann grunted. “Good. Get rid of him.”
“How? I can hardly call the police, can I?” she said acidly. “He isn’t leaving without the egg. But we made a deal. He gets the egg and we get off free.”
“No.”
“It’s the best deal you’re going to get from him. It’s a lot better than you’ll get from the feds, unless you’re working for them and they’re willing to back you openly.”
Swann laughed. It wasn’t a reassuring sound. “You’ve got to stop thinking like a good little civilian.”
“What does that mean?”
“The law is for little old ladies who worry about burglars or for salary slaves whose flashy cars get stolen. You’re in a different world now, a world where it’s power against power, and law has got sweet fuck all to do with it.”
There was a long silence on the line. Swann could hear his daughter’s disapproval humming through the silence.
“Look, Laurie. I’m doing this for you, and for me, and for a few other sorry schmucks who thought loyalty went two ways.”
“But it’s not—”
“So just stay out of the way and let me do what I’m good at,” he said over her objections. “I’ll call you later, after this is all over.”
“Wait! What am I supposed to tell Cruz?”
“Don’t tell him anything. The trail ends with you. He won’t be able to find me unless you lead him to me. And you won’t. Promise me, Laurie.”
“Don’t do this to me,” she said, her voice edged with desperation. “I’m not used to your world. I don’t like it. I can’t promise I’ll do wh
at you think I should.”
“Listen and listen good,” her father said harshly. “You may not like my world but you’re in it now, and you can’t get out by clicking your heels and wishing for Kansas. You can help me or you can pretend you’re above it all and blow things straight to hell. Which will it be?”
The line hummed again.
“I’ll do as well in your world as you do in mine,” she said finally.
Pain shot through Swann at the emotions vibrating in his daughter’s voice. Ariel had sounded like that the last time he’d said goodbye, regret and disappointment and love, all mixed together. At the time, he hadn’t known which hurt most, the regret or the disappointment or the love.
He still didn’t know.
Without another word he hung up.
“Goodbye, baby,” he whispered to the empty room. “If it matters, I love you.”
18
Cambria
Monday night
Moving as though underwater, Laurel pulled a loose cream-colored cotton tunic over her dark turtleneck and jeans. Socks and athletic shoes completed her outfit. As she tied the laces, she realized that her shoes were the same brand as Cruz Rowan’s, and the same color. She hated the silly pastels that were forced on women, so she bought her shoes in the men’s department.
With a sour smile she wondered if Cruz would notice.
Of course he will. He’d notice new fly specks in a barn the size of California.
With the same unnaturally slow movements she’d used to dress, she picked up her hairbrush and ran it through her hair until she lost count of the slow strokes. She was stalling and she knew it. She suspected Cruz knew it, too.
Finally she left her bedroom and went downstairs. She found Cruz inspecting several wax-working designs she’d left on one of the shelves beneath the window. He seemed to be fascinated by the carved shapes. Delicately, he traced one fluted flower with the middle finger of his left hand. If he was aware of her return, he didn’t show it.
“Be careful,” she said stiffly. “The figures haven’t been cast yet, and I’m supposed to deliver the piece next week.”
He put the mold down carefully. “This really isn’t a hobby, is it?”