by Fiona Brand
Several years ago Thompson, who was ex-military, had been stationed in Panama and had become involved in an incident across the border in Colombia. A village suspected of harboring a terrorist camp had been raided; several civilians had died, including women and children. In the process a coca plant had been uncovered. There had been more deaths and a large shipment of cocaine ready for export had disappeared. Thompson and his men had been held on suspicion for a month. Without witnesses prepared to testify, they had been released and given the option of voluntary resignation or a dishonorable discharge. Nothing had been proved, but the military report was damning. In the eyes of his superiors, Thompson was a cold-blooded murderer and a thief.
As Lopez watched, the last of six containers were trucked out. Satisfied that Thompson had delivered on his promise to provide low-risk container space and a clean bill with customs, Lopez took his cell phone out of his pocket and placed a call. “The delivery system is in place.”
The voice that answered was dry and precise. Lopez had met the owner of the voice on two occasions in a business partnership that had spanned twenty-two years. In total, he had heard the man’s voice only a handful of times, because direct contact was deemed hazardous.
It was a matter of operational procedure that they dealt only through previously agreed third parties unless there was an emergency. The fact that they were speaking directly now emphasized the high risk involved with the delivery of this particular package. The agreed protocol was necessary to protect the interests of all parties involved and to hide the existence of a secret cabal that had its roots buried deep in the political and military structure of the U.S. government. If Lopez became compromised, he was on his own. If he broke the protocol, his life was forfeit.
The situation didn’t suit him, but twenty-two years ago, with his cash reserves gone and rival cartels baying, he’d been forced to sell out to the cabal to survive. The rescue package had come at a price. In return for financial backing Lopez had gotten his hands dirty brokering terrorism, transporting arms and, on occasion, personnel.
Unlike his father, Marco, he didn’t have access to the highest echelon of the cabal, although over the past twenty years he had made it his business to identify a number of cabal personnel. His father had been content with the cabal calling the shots, because the resulting wealth from the association had been immense.
Marco had been content; Lopez was not.
This shipment was a turning point, the first time they had made a mistake. Organizations came and went, they peaked and bottomed out as corruption and dissatisfaction crept in. As the Americans said, every dog had its day, and he took the madness of this latest shipment as a clear signal that the day of the cabal as it presently existed was over. Once his plans were in place, the ultimatum he planned to deliver was simple: either they accepted him into the highest echelon, with its rarefied wealth and power and political influence, or he would expose them.
It was ironic that Thompson, a man who had been used as a scapegoat by the cabal in one of their early, cruder forays into the cocaine business, had fallen into his hands now and would be one of the instruments of their downfall.
Lopez packed the scope in its case, locked the apartment and took the private lift to the ground floor. His bodyguard, Earl Slater, was waiting in the car park, pale gaze alert despite the fact that it was after three in the morning.
After a brief conversation, Lopez climbed into his own vehicle and headed for home. Slater’s Rodeo nosed in behind, following closely. In terms of security, traveling in separate vehicles wasn’t ideal, but it was a provision Lopez insisted upon with all of his security staff. Despite the added risk, he was meticulous about preserving his personal space.
Minutes later he turned into his driveway and acknowledged the security guard as he opened the gates and lifted a phone to his ear to advise house security that he was home.
Lights glowed softly as Lopez accelerated up a small incline, illuminating the pleasing curve of the formal gravel drive and the fountain that took center stage outside the portico of the main house. Slater peeled off in the direction of his private quarters, headlights sweeping across a smooth expanse of lawn.
Seconds later, as Lopez exited the car, a faint sound registered over the hum of the garage door closing. He reached for the handgun that was secured beneath the driver’s seat.
Cold metal touched the side of his neck. “Don’t.”
Lopez released his hold on the gun and slowly straightened. “Thompson.”
“Your security’s sloppy.”
His security was very good. But for Thompson to have breached his perimeter defenses and the house security in the few minutes’ head start he’d had meant it wasn’t good enough.
Lopez turned his head and met Thompson’s cool stare. If the younger man were going to shoot, he would have done it by now. “What do you want?”
Thompson stepped back from the car, methodically ejected the magazine from the handgun and placed both the gun and the magazine on the floor of the garage. His gaze was cold. “Promotion.”
Twelve
Rina registered the growing heat of the morning sun beaming through the French doors that opened off the sitting room and the sound of a pen moving rapidly across paper as her therapist, Diane Eady, made notes.
A click signaled she had set the pen down. “The fact that you recovered some kind of visual ability, whether real or imagined, is interesting.”
“Have you heard of that happening to anyone else?”
“No, but the mind is a powerful, complicated mechanism. People create all sorts of conditions that shouldn’t exist. It’s possible that because you want to see, your mind has created a ‘safe’ way for you to see.”
“Safe” meaning a way that didn’t include the risk of triggering the images and memories that were the cause of her psychosomatic blindness.
She settled back deeper into the armchair and pushed the dark glasses she habitually wore during the day a little higher on the bridge of her nose. “Just before I fell I can’t remember feeling that I wanted to see. That’s not something I consciously think about. I was hungry, I was on my way to the kitchen to get something to eat.”
“Do you want to be blind?”
Rina’s stomach contracted against the emotions the question evoked. The night she had hit her head she hadn’t slept. Aside from worrying about a concussion, for those few hours she had lived on a knife’s edge of hope and expectation, waiting to see if her vision would return. She had wanted to see with a fierceness that had shaken her. “No one wants to be blind.”
And Rina knew she wasn’t…entirely.
She couldn’t see Diane, but she could make out a dim smudge of light where she was sitting. The predominant color was a cool, indistinct gray-blue, with tinges of green. After a visit to the local surgery for a checkup last week on the morning after her fall, she had noticed similar colors around the practice nurse and the doctor. “So what am I seeing?”
“Scientifically, I don’t know. At a guess, what’s popularly known as auric colors. Although don’t quote me on that.”
Rina noticed that an additional color, orange, flashed through the blue-gray, the flare as brief as Diane’s spurt of amusement.
Over the past few days, the colors had sharpened and become stronger. She didn’t know how it worked, but she was “seeing” more and more clearly.
Grasping Baby’s harness, Rina rose to her feet, signaling the end of the session. Diane had a flight to catch and appointments in San Francisco that afternoon. In her busy schedule, this had been an unplanned consultation, fitted in because Diane had become increasingly concerned about the oddball results of Rina’s head injury. “I figured it had to be something off-center.”
“And how do you feel about it?”
The question was typically Diane, dry and no-nonsense, belying the affection that had spilled over the bounds of professionalism and formed the basis of a friendship that had long outlasted—in
Rina’s opinion—her need for therapy. “The way I see it—” her mouth twitched “—excuse the pun, no one can sneak up on me again. I just wish the furniture glowed in the dark.”
“You know, it is possible the accident could spark memories about the car crash. Sometimes there’s a delayed reaction, so be prepared. The injury doesn’t seem to have affected you unduly, but it is a head injury and you are vulnerable. The colors you’re seeing could be an indication of change. Sometimes even a small trauma can stimulate a reaction and shake things loose that we would rather not handle.”
The statement ended on a subtle questioning note. Rina smiled and ignored the bait. She’d had years of therapy with a number of specialists. Most of it had been aimed at releasing her memories of the accident. In theory, if she remembered, the psychosomatic block would go and she would get her sight back, although there were no guarantees.
The chair scraped as Diane got to her feet. “Any more problems with the house?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Rina’s fingers tightened on Baby’s harness. She’d had a couple more unnerving experiences after her fall, all owing to workmen leaving equipment in unexpected places. Baby had kept her safe, but that didn’t change the fact that she was quietly, furiously angry.
“I can have a word with Alex if you like.”
“And expect to get through?” The past week Alex had been away more than he was home. When he was in he spent most of his time on the phone or in meetings. Rina had never known him to be this busy, or this unapproachable. But, whether they discussed the situation or not, Rina’s decision was made: the marriage was over.
“Don’t say I didn’t tell you. He’s a cold fish. Charming, but cold.”
Rina controlled her expression as she negotiated the coffee table and directed Baby toward the door. She had made the decision to marry Alex for a number of reasons she had considered valid at the time. At the top of the list was the fact that she had been thirty and lonely, and there hadn’t been anyone on her personal scope for more than three years. She had wanted the company and security of a committed relationship, and she had wanted to start a family. The fact that her father had supported the relationship had been an added bonus.
Big mistake.
The door popped open before she reached it.
“What’s the prognosis?” a gravelly voice demanded.
Rina’s surprise at her father’s unexpected visit was buried in the brief bear hug Cesar Morell gave her, although the reason for his visit was self-evident. The stiffness of the jacket he was wearing on such a warm day meant he was here for a business meeting with Alex. “You didn’t ring to say you were coming.”
“I didn’t know myself until a couple of hours ago. What’s this I hear about you walking into walls?”
Rina hid her surprise at the question. She hadn’t broadcast the fact that she’d had a fall, so the only person who could have told him was Alex, which, lately, was out of character. The fact that Cesar had walked in on her therapy session, however, was typical. Ever since she had been discharged from the hospital after the accident, he had smothered her with attention. In all that time he had never once questioned his right to check up on almost every detail of her life.
“Is that why she’s having therapy?” The question was directed at Diane. “What’s wrong with her?”
Rina’s knee-jerk irritation at Cesar’s habit of talking about her as if she wasn’t there was canceled out by the sense of wonder that for the first time in twenty-two years she could see her father, even if it was only in shades of mahogany-brown tinged with touches of yellow and red.
The colors, Rina decided, matched his personality. Cesar was a forceful man, used to having his way. Among his business associates, his lack of tact and volcanic temper were legendary.
The snap as Diane closed her briefcase was louder than normal. “There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with Rina. This was just a routine session.”
Cesar’s reply bordered on sarcastic; Diane’s riposte was equally sharp.
Smothering a grin, Rina sidestepped Cesar, who was building up a full head of steam, and directed Baby out into the hall and toward the front door. Cesar and Diane had been dueling for years. Rina was certain they both secretly enjoyed the encounters.
The brisk tap of Diane’s heels sounded behind her. “I see your father hasn’t gained any charm with age.” She paused at the door, the hug redolent of Chanel No.5. “I wish I could have stayed for a real visit. If you need to talk about anything, call me. I’m always willing to listen.”
When the quiet purr of Diane’s car receded, Rina turned in the direction of her studio. As she strolled around the house, the crunch of tires on gravel signaled that yet another business associate of Alex and her father’s had arrived. Normally, aside from the inevitable phone calls, Alex didn’t bring work home. He had an office in Winton and another in Vegas. If a meeting was required it usually happened on his business premises.
Frowning, Rina stepped into her studio, the frustration of trying to end a marriage to a man she had to make an appointment to see dissolving as she ran her fingers over her latest work. The table-size sculpture was the clay prototype for a bronze she’d been commissioned to produce through a gallery in San Francisco. The demand for the tactile sculpture she specialized in had grown, until she was now in the comfortable position of being able to pick and choose commissions. This one was destined to be the centerpiece of a water feature in the courtyard of a hotel in the Embarcadero district in San Francisco, where the changing shapes and textures could be highlighted by both water and sunlight. Once the clay work was complete, the piece would be carefully packed and trucked to the small specialist foundry she used just outside of Oakland. There a mold would be made and the casting done.
Sliding her fingers over the delicately ridged clay, Rina settled to work, but achieving any kind of flow was difficult. Now that she’d made up her mind to leave, she was itching to put her plans in motion. But first, she needed to have a conversation with Alex.
Cesar Morell sat back in his chair and surveyed the occupants of his son-in-law’s study, uncomfortable with the exposure when anonymity was usually preserved. He knew Slater, but the rest of the men he’d been introduced to were strangers.
McDonnell and Johnson were cold fish. Santos looked like muscle, pure and simple. James Thompson was laid back, yet watchful. He hadn’t said much, which made him even more of an unknown quantity than the other three.
Santos shrugged out of his jacket. As he hooked the jacket over the back of his seat, Cesar glimpsed a tattoo visible on one bicep just beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. An Army Ranger’s insignia.
That was what was wrong. They weren’t businessmen, they were soldiers.
The cold sense of unease increased. He was tied to Lopez, but normally, he was excluded from the illegitimate side of the cartel business. In effect, he did what he had always done, made money through developing properties and trading stocks, shares and companies. The fact that in doing so he had become the largest cog in Lopez’s money-laundering operation and that a large percentage of the profits he made flowed back to Lopez was a fact that he didn’t dwell on any more than necessary. He had made his choice and struck a bargain. As long as Rina’s safety was assured, he would do what he had to do.
McDonnell poured a glass of water, the tinkle of ice cubes breaking the silence. “I think we need to slow this down. We’re biting off too much, too fast. We need more time.”
Alex’s expression didn’t change. “We either bite big, or we don’t bite at all.”
“McDonnell has a good point.” The hint of Southern in Thompson’s voice relaxed the tension. “But if we don’t pull this off, I’m going to lose my shirt.”
Alex lifted a brow. “And the Ferrari.”
Soft laughter rippled around the room. The moment was further defused when a knock at the door signaled afternoon tea was about to be served.
Cesar accepted a cup of coffee, his mind runnin
g over a conversation that should have been mundane, but wasn’t. Heavy trucks, a storage facility, shipping…they were discussing storage and delivery options, but the items concerned didn’t sound like electrical products or furniture or even cocaine.
When the maid wheeled the trolley out and closed the door, he set his cup and saucer down on the coffee table and made direct eye contact with Lopez. “Just what is it that’s being delivered?”
“Missile components. Let me complete the introductions. Johnson is an engineer and an expert on nuclear armaments, McDonnell is a chemist, Santos is in charge of security, and Thompson is taking care of the transport.”
Missiles. The unease he always felt in Lopez’s presence tightened into a pressurized band across Cesar’s chest. His heart was pounding; he could feel his blood pressure rocketing. Now he knew Lopez was insane. “What do I have to do with all this?”
Lopez settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You’re going to store them for me.”
Rina closed the door of her studio and lifted her face to the sun, enjoying the warmth, her mind still pleasantly disengaged by the soothing ritual of turning clay into movement and form.
Baby waited patiently for her to give the command to walk on, more than happy to rest, his rapid pants signaling that he was feeling the heat despite sleeping beneath her workbench for most of the afternoon. Absently, she rubbed at his head, enjoying the rough texture of his fur after the damp smoothness of the clay.
For a Seeing Eye dog, Baby was a little on the large side. When Rina’s name had finally come up as a guide dog recipient, she had had a choice of two dogs. But Baby hadn’t allowed her a choice. He had staked his claim, planted himself at her side, and stayed there. In the monthlong training course the institute had provided, the usual growing pains of fitting a human with a guide dog hadn’t happened; she and Baby had been a team from the first.
