by Lisa Hughey
Jordan leaned forward again. The little hairs on my arms and neck stood up in appreciation for the heat he was throwing off.
“We’d need to look at who was in the business then, and still is now, to find the connection between the people on that hit list.”
“All the descendants on the list receive money from the NSA, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“But were any of the victims from 1995 involved in the NSA?”
“Ah...no.” I frowned. At least not as far as I knew. God, this was going nowhere. “Did Carson seem evasive on the subject?”
“His job description is evasiveness,” Jordan said drily.
“Good point."
"He was awfully quick to dismiss the possibility.” Jordan said, “Just like you dismiss anything other than this file.”
“You’re right.” I made the admission grudgingly.
Jordan asked again, “Have you considered that your work for the CIA prompted the attack against you and caused your imprisonment in Afghanistan?”
Of course I’d examined the possibility when I’d first been captured. “Except why there and why now? I’ve been recruiting for about ten years.”
“Maybe information about your activities was released to the Afghans.”
“Even then, someone here would have had to give them that information. I was there strictly on a de-mining mission.”
“You really weren’t working for the CIA in Afghanistan?”
“No.” I hesitated. “I didn’t start having problems until I investigated 5491. It’s so classified, I’m pretty sure that it’s the reason why I’m suddenly under a death sentence.”
Even if I managed to come out of this situation intact, my career with the CIA was effectively over. Continuing with my recruitment work after my "profession" had been announced on national television was impossible.
He looked away from the screen. "There has to be something we're missing."
“I researched my grandparents all the way back until 1946,” I blurted out.
“And?”
“There is no historical information prior to 1946.”
He understood the implications as well as I did. “What about microfilm or microfiche? Maybe the information just isn’t computerized or online yet.”
That was a giant red flag for anyone, even someone who didn’t make their living investigating other people for possible recruitment for the U.S. Government. I looked at backgrounds, vetting potential recruits and their families all the time.
The information about my grandparents wasn’t just not online.
It didn’t exist.
When I looked at the census information, my grandfather and grandmother’s supposed Country of Origin was listed as Poland.
But they didn’t speak Polish.
And if my grandparents didn’t come from Poland...where did they come from?
Somehow my ancestors were an incomplete piece of a present day cover up. The recipients of money from Department 5491 were being targeted. Maybe there was some sort of conspiracy to eliminate those recipients.
Jordan had the thought at the same moment I did. “What about the others? Where did their family members come from?"
I could log on to my search program. All my internet accounts were registered under a false name with a black credit card. Completely untraceable. Except....
“Not here. If someone wanted to reverse trace the IP address from the targets I researched--it would be possible for them to backtrack to this house.”
“Okay. Later.”
Jamie Hunt and Zeke Hawthorne were potential sources. Katerina Wolfe too. Maybe they knew where their ancestors had been born.
I kept turning that number 5491 around in my head.
“So why is Department 5491 the connector?”
“The inverse of 5491 is 1945.” It couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it? Usually missions, cases, had no relevance or meaning. Their names remained purposefully obscure.
“Even if that were the case, what is the significance of 1945? Besides the obvious: the end of the Second World War.”
“Carson would know.”
“He knew 5491.” Jordan confirmed. “He also got upset when I indicated your problems had something to do with the file.”
Could Carson be in this mess up to his eyeballs? Was that why he’d put the ad in the paper?
Jordan cursed. “I should have pressed harder.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. He’s good.” I recalled a time or two when I’d pressed him for answers. And somehow he’d never quite given them to me.
I didn’t necessarily want to bring up my thoughts with Jordan, seeing as he objected rather strenuously to my profession. But just maybe we were onto something.
“It was through his efforts I became a recruiter. He’d said they’d had their eye on me for awhile.”
His lips tightened, but he managed to hold back the negatives. And he understood that I had more to reveal. “What?”
“The timing seemed so fast. He approached me, set me up and I was on my way to the Farm for training.”
“What about the life you left behind?”
“Easy to do,” I said.
“Boyfriend?”
“No one serious.”
“Friends?”
“Besides my college roommates, I was alone in the world.” Like now. “After I joined the CIA, even those relationships fell away.”
No matter what anyone says, the truth is that being a woman in the field of espionage is trickier.
The standards are different. If you mess up, you’re far more likely to be out. The physical requirements are brutal. I’d been in pretty good shape before I went through the training program, and then afterward I’d been even tougher.
I kept in peak physical condition now. Or I had. Until I’d been beaten and tortured in prison.
I thought about the trembling of my muscles and shuddered. God, I had to get back in shape. Too much was at stake here.
Jordan shifted closer, placing his hand on the back of the chair. His nearness, the heat rolling off of his body, enticed me, tantalized me, until I wanted to crawl in his lap.
“Another possibility is: your imprisonment was the result of something you did or saw in Afghanistan.”
I scooted my chair away from him.
“What about Major Vandenburg?” Jordan asked. “All we have is the information Katerina gave us.”
We did a search on the internet and came up with thousands of hits. I clicked on a few articles about commendations for bravery. There were a whole slew of articles regarding the Civil Affairs Division project, Operation: Rebuild.
I couldn't for the life of me figure out any connection. “I saw firsthand the progress and positive outcomes of this project.”
“We need more personal information than what we’ll get from press releases.” Jordan’s knee brushed mine.
“Katerina would know,” I said.
“She won’t want to talk to you again.”
“True.” I rubbed my stomach. I knew ways to make her comply. “But we’ve got the leverage.”
“Her son,” Jordan said flatly.
“You saw her response. It will work.” I was defensive.
“I know.”
Jesus, I could hear the reprimand. I should want to protect the child. Of course I didn’t want to threaten the boy. But I had to protect my own child, didn’t I?
My baby. The thought was so frightening, so huge, I couldn’t even imagine it. How could I be a mother?
The emotion unfurling through me right now wasn’t regret or fear. I recognized it now. It was hope.
Hope showered over me, through my head and stomach, twirling gently along my arms and legs. Possibility floated in my heart.
And for a moment I let myself imagine a baby, a child. Someone who was all mine. To love me for me.
Unconditionally.
This baby was going to be the most loved baby on the planet a
nd we were going to have the best relationship in the universe.
Assuming I lived past today.
“Mi sobrino,” his aunt’s voice was soft.
“Yes.” Jordan’s face reddened, and I knew he must be thinking about squeaking bed. This house was old and the construction solid. Chances are his aunt had heard us anyway.
Aunt Lupe said, “You need to go.”
I raised my eyebrows. Huh, a little unmarried sex, and we were out the door.
The grimace on Jordan’s face pierced my heart. Already I was shifting his relationship with his family. It would likely get worse before it got better.
I wanted to protect him from this disapproval. If he’d let me.
“Your Mama called.”
Jordan yanked open the door, his broad shoulders blocked my view of his aunt. “What’s wrong?”
I moved so I could see her face, draw her censure if need be.
“There were people asking after you.” Aunt Lupe twisted her hands together. “They could come here next.”
Shit. That wasn’t good.
She held up a brown bag with the scents of the food simmering in the kitchen when we’d arrived. “I made you a care package.”
He accepted the bag and kissed his aunt on the cheek. “Don’t tell anyone she was here.”
Lupe nodded. Her gaze never even shifted to me, her concern, her worry was all for Jordan. I saw the worry, concern I had brought down on this family.
Jordan grabbed a green and black camouflage duffel from the closet.
“What’s that?”
“Supplies.” Jordan reached for my hand. “Time to go.”
THIRTY-SIX
October 19
5:30 pm
Suburban Washington D.C.
They were closing in on me, us.
We’d tried unsuccessfully to contact Jamie Hunt or Zeke to find out what they knew about their ancestors’ past.
Katerina Wolfe was the only other person on the list in the Washington D.C. area.
In addition to information about her grandparents, she had knowledge regarding Major Vandenburg. Assuming we could convince her to talk.
I didn’t want to approach her in her home, so we waited outside her house, and watched.
Finally she left her house in a Yellow cab. Something was definitely up. She could have driven her own car, but she was taking a cab.
We followed a few car lengths behind. I kept glancing in the side mirror. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I’d seen that blue American sedan more than once.
“You see that dark Chevy Impala?”
“Noted,” he replied tersely.
The cab dropped Katerina off at the Giant.
I wondered if she was planning on catching another cab, instead she headed toward the grocery store.
The dark car sped off as we pulled into the parking lot.
“Gone.”
“Yeah.” But, a worry line creased his forehead. He had the same hinky feeling I did. “Keep your eyes open.”
Jordan parked close to the front, giving us a clear view of the automatic door.
At the entrance/exit, Katerina pulled a hot pink flyer and mini-stapler out of a tiny purse and attached the paper to a message board.
Then she went inside.
We agreed Jordan would be the one to follow her into the store. She would freak if she saw me miles from our initial rendezvous point and hours later. As far as we knew, she hadn’t seen Jordan in the museum.
“You’ll be okay?” Jordan twisted, his hazel eyes serious. His broad shoulders and hard arms enveloped me in a cage of protection and heat.
I freaking hated the vulnerability his question evoked. I’d be fine. I had to be. But the simple question made me want to cling.
“Go.”
His gaze intense, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine. “Be safe.”
The contact lasted mere seconds, but my lips buzzed and my pulse jumped as he left the car. He strode toward the store, the shift and play of his deltoids rippling against his tight cotton polo. Those shoulders could bear a lot of weight.
And the temptation to lean on him was strong.
Jordan stopped at the bulletin board and with his cell phone snapped a quick picture of the flyer, then sent it to me while he followed her inside.
“Can you hear me?” He touched a finger to the small transmitter in his ear. I didn’t remember this fascination with gadgets when we’d been dating. I guess that just proved that we didn’t know each other as well as I’d thought.
“Affirmative.”
I stayed in the car and watched the flyer and the exit.
The picture of the flyer didn’t give me any clues. Found Dog, a picture of a German shepherd and tag with no name, just a phone number. That was it.
A young staffer hustled into the market, his pinstripe suit impeccable, hair combed perfectly, but with no requisite laptop carrying case hanging from his shoulder, just a small leather case. Something about the guy bothered me.
I straightened, flipping through other scenarios. An FBI agent carrying his weapon in the man purse. A husband picking up dinner. A guy getting snacks for a late night meeting or even a date.
“Watch the pinstripe.” I couldn’t help but caution, my senses were tingling.
Jordan’s cell phone beeped as he dialed a number. I’d given Katerina my cell number, so I couldn’t call the phone number listed on the flyer, in case she recognized my number. “You checking out the dog angle?”
“Yeah. Disconnected. No forwarding phone number.”
“Huh.” I pondered that while I watched the market.
This particular store did a brisk business as it was mostly a quick stop, ‘pick up a few things for dinner and head on home’ place.
Full plate glass windows displayed brightly lit checkout lanes; three Express ‘15 items or less’ lanes were always busy while one full service lane remained conspicuously empty. The patrons seemed to be young staffers from the Hill, ethnic service sector workers still in their uniforms, a few obviously working second shift and on their way to work, or college students grabbing a quick sandwich or a microwave-able frozen entree.
The clientele trended between twenties and fifties, the older generation clearly already at home for the night.
In the twenty minutes since I started watching, ten cars had pulled into the lot. The shoppers bustled inside, wasting no time, and within a few minutes were back out and driving away.
Katerina, Jordan and the pinstripe were the only ones who hadn’t come back out. Dammit.
“You see pinstripe?”
I waited.
News radio murmured in the background, the volume set low, as talking heads discussed the latest political snafu over the escalating number of heroin busts and record amount of heroin coming into the United States and Mexico.
“Heroin production worldwide is at an all time high,” the reporter said somberly. “Even with the anti-drug programs the U.S. has in place, heroin distribution is increasing at an alarming rate.”
I thought of Fariya’s village and how her husband had disappeared after being forced to be a mule and carry opium across the border.
Sadly their plight was common.
Remorse prodded me. I hadn’t thought of Fariya or her plea all day. I had yet to work out a way to honor her memory and bring justice for her sacrifice.
Jordan still hadn’t answered. My heart quickened. A band wrapped around my chest, and the breath snagged in my throat, as worry built with every second of silence.
I couldn’t see any of the three people I was trying to track. This waiting behind sucked. How had Jordan worked HRT and spent days on a stakeout?
“How the hell did you stand this?” I muttered, hoping I wasn’t distracting him. “I could really use some reassurance right now.”
“Looks good,” he said in my ear.
A little of my tension eased.
Someone replied, too softly for me to make out the wor
ds. What the hell?
“Have you had that kind before?” Jordan said.
Again the reply was indistinct but feminine. The cadence of her voice struck me. He had approached the surveillance subject? What was he thinking?
One professional woman in the plate glass window caught my eye. She had a frozen macaroni and cheese dinner in her hand. My stomach turned. All of the sudden, I knew what I wanted.
“Hey. Are you near the bakery aisle?” I was desperate. “I need a cinnamon roll.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
I still couldn’t get a visual on any of the three people I needed to see, and the giant pit that was my stomach suddenly threatened to swallow me whole.
“Cinnamon rolls,” I snarled softly. It baffled me how my body could go from ripping my intestines out through my diaphragm to needing to eat so badly I wanted to gnaw off my own hand. “You owe me.”
“Excuse me,” Jordan said.
His clothing rustled and his shoe squeaked against the floor, and I prayed Katerina was heading toward the bakery so he could follow.
An older model, dark blue Ford Taurus pulled into the parking lot. The guy behind the wheel was the first shopper clearly in the elderly column. Best guess, he was in his eighties.
Could that be the car I’d seen earlier? Maybe it hadn’t been a Chevy. Or was I just being paranoid?
And what about the pinstripe suit--who still hadn’t come out of the damn store?
“Getting crowded here,” I said to Jordan.
The old man didn’t go inside. Instead he went straight to the message board, spent a few minutes scanning all of the papers–ads for used skateboards, skis, and bicycles; an advertisement for Battle of the Bands at the local dive; flyers with lost pets and cell phones--before he ripped down the hot pink flyer.
“We’ve got contact.”
Using my cell phone, I took a picture of the license plate on his car and then another picture of the old man as he sauntered back toward the Taurus. The resolution on the cell would be next to worthless, and I didn’t have access to any sort of recognition software, but evidence was evidence.
He got back into the sedan, slunk down in the seat, and pulled out a cell phone. I did a visual quick check of the hand holding the phone. Looked to be as old as his face. Unless he had a fantastic makeup artist, chances were excellent he really was an older gentleman. I wished I had a zoom lens.
