by Chris Goff
But he was gone.
Looking up, she saw the men climbing out of the damaged helicopter. Davis was the last one out. She watched him unfold his tall thin frame from the doorway and scan the crowd. When his eyes landed on her, he smiled. Thank God, he was okay.
Before anyone came near her, she checked the pockets of the dead man for the envelope. She found it in his inside pocket, the same pocket where McClasky had carried it. It was open, and she pulled out the paper inside. All that was written on it was a jumble of letters, numbers, and characters. pUrpl3*para5oL.
Was it a password? Maybe a code? Had this man shared it with anyone?
Davis jogged toward her. Standing up, she folded the letter and stuffed it into her back pocket, and then his arms were around her and he was hugging her tightly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She pressed her cheek to his chest and listened to his heartbeat. “Better now.”
Chapter 46
Jordan smiled as she set down the paper.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” she said to Davis. His AP story on the bombing in Gdánsk had been picked up on the wire, landing on the front page of newspapers all over the globe. “Has Lory seen it?”
Davis nodded. “I let him vet it. He didn’t want me linking the Russians’ gun to a weapons sale in China, but other than that . . .”
The exposé had covered the events of the ten days spent tracking the Russians. He started with Ping’s sale of the weapon to the Russian mafia and revealed that Zhen’s cousin, Eddie, who facilitated the sale, had arranged to take Zhen’s place on the doomed flight. He then detailed the downing of PR Flight 91, the chase through Ukraine and Poland, and the subsequent destruction of the gun. He hadn’t mentioned the theft of the plans from Quinn Industries, the CIA’s suspected involvement, or that the weapon used in the attacks was a state-of-the-art American-designed railgun. Lory should have been happy.
The rest of his article alluded to the possible motive for the bombing of Gdánsk and the damage. The port was a total loss, as were blocks of the adjacent commercial and residential properties. The explosions from the projectile striking the fuel tanks at the northern port had triggered a chain reaction, the explosions of the two tankers igniting a fire and triggering more explosions. The fires had spread to the cruise ship and ferry docked at the inner port. In all, the attack had claimed 419 lives.
Even though the agreement was ratified and the Western leaders spared, it somehow felt wrong to consider it a victory. Though not everyone felt that way. Chalk one up for the free world.
Jordan looked out at the Mediterranean. She and Davis were in Tel Aviv, sitting on the balcony of her apartment, watching the waves roll in. It was a beautiful day, and a number of surfers and swimmers were out on Dolphinarium Beach. She wondered how long it would take before Gdánskers once more frolicked in the sea.
“I hear Lory took credit for uncovering the plot,” Davis said, interrupting her thoughts.
Jordan smiled. That had been their deal. She cared more about the outcome than the glory. “He likes the attention.”
“And you don’t?”
“Not really.” She still hadn’t told him all the reasons—the biggest one being that, by all accounts, her father was a Russian spy. And according to Fedorov, he was complicit in creating a society where a few individuals felt they knew what was best for the world. Her fears of a second generation who saw it as their duty to affect some sort of coup would only make Davis laugh.
She looked over at the handsome man staring out at the sea and felt a surge of happiness that he had come to visit. He turned toward her, caught her gaze, and smiled. Jordan looked back at the view.
“Any idea what’s going to happen with Zhen?” Davis asked.
“He’ll likely walk. Lory’s inside man told him that neither the NSA, FBI, CIA, nor Homeland Security have any evidence of the hack, and Ellis Quinn is still denying the security breach. Zhen answered all their questions and gave them enough ammo to question the PO about his involvement with Eddie and how much he did or didn’t know about the weapons deals.”
“Do you think he’ll be fired?”
“More likely reassigned. He’s a spy. That’s what they do. But even though your article didn’t say anything about the CIA and the Chinese likely knew, the PO’s cover as chief of station has been publicly blown. He’ll be moved stateside and assigned to a desk.”
“And what about you?” he asked, moving back into her line of sight. “What are you planning to do?”
“Me? I’m back at work doing what I do.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Investigating a lot of passport fraud, looking for criminals and terrorist trying to forge documents to gain entry to the United States, hunting for fugitives who may have come into or out of Israel.” She didn’t mention her ongoing covert investigation into her father’s past.
“No more law enforcement duties?”
“Not until the next time an American gets into trouble, or causes trouble, or an American politician comes to visit.”
“Any free time to take a long weekend in Eilat?”
The invitation came out of nowhere and caught her off guard. This was a man who lived back in the States, while she lived in Israel. Theirs would be a long-distance relationship doomed to failure.
“This weekend?”
“Yeah, if you can take Monday off. Or you could always phone in sick.”
She had never played hooky a day in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now. But Daugherty had offered her a few days off, his way of rewarding her for a job well done.
“Yes, let’s,” she said, surprising herself. There were so many reasons to say no, and yet she found Davis hard to resist.
“Oh, before I forget.” He reached into his camera bag and pulled out the book Professor Fedorov had given her. “You left this behind in the rental car. It must have fallen out of your bag in the trunk. I meant to give it to you sooner.”
She took the small volume, remembering Alena’s admonition to let the dead sleep. As she rubbed her hand over the leather cover, she knew her father had just turned in his grave.
Acknowledgments
Like most writers, I couldn’t do what I do without my backup team!
My forever love and gratitude to my family, especially Wes, for his unflagging confidence and support, and our kids, Mike, Gin, Cherie, Mardee, Danielle, and Addie, for their continuous encouragement. You all make me feel pretty special, and a lot of times, it was your confidence in me that kept me going. Addie, thanks also for making the trip to Ukraine and Poland with me. Your voice of reason and your adventurous spirit made it a journey to remember.
A debt of gratitude goes to Laura Ware. Thank you for your support—and not just in book sales! I greatly appreciated your help brainstorming, being a sounding board for the good and the bad, and being my biggest cheerleader. It means the world to have you in my corner.
A giant thanks to my critique partners: Don Beckwith, Tom Farrell, Marlene Henderson, Tom Holliday, Chris Jorgensen, Jedeane Macdonald, Mike McClanahan, Bruce Most, Piers Peterson, Suzanne Proulx, and Laurie Walcott, who listened, advised, and dished out endless criticism of my work. You push me, and it’s helped me become the writer I am today. And thanks to my Think Tank pals, Kay Bergstrom, Carol Caverly, Chris J., and Leslie O’Kane, for their sage advice and (mostly) good humor about the publishing world.
I would be remiss not to mention the experts who helped along the way: my brother-in-law, Ran, who was a fountain of information on all things trucks; Chris J., for her expertise on China; Russ Mogler and Stacy Santman, for their insider knowledge of all things electrical; and the people of Ukraine and Poland, for their generous hospitality.
I owe a special debt to Peter Rubie, who is as much my friend as my agent; to Matt Martz, Maddie Caldwell, and Sarah Poppe, who edited my manuscript with great care—as always, the book takes better shape under their expert guidance; and to Heather Boak and Dana Kaye,
for their efforts in getting the books out to readers.
If I missed anyone, please know it wasn’t on purpose. Which reminds me, thanks to my fellow Rogue Women Writers. Together we’re making a splash.
