Shes going shopping this morning, yes. But it will be the last time you go with her.
Son of a bitch. Walker knew something.
And he was looking forward to sharing it, or he would have just picked up the phone.
Guess Id better shave, then, too, Marcus said.
Walker scowled. It wont help. Jerry Baxter from DS called. He wants to see you in his office this afternoon at three oclock.
Whos Jerry Baxter?
Special Agent in Charge Baxter is coordinating the effort to protect Ambassador Barnes.
The boss, in other words. Walkers CO.
Marcus threw his dress pants on the bed. And he wants to see me because?
Cant you guess?
Well, yeah, he could. Obviously, his off-color comment had bothered Samantha Barnes more than shed let on.
He was oddly disappointed. First, because hed misjudged her. Hed thought she had the guts and the honesty to confront him herself. And second, because it seemed likely he wouldnt be seeing her after this morning.
There was a lot about this assignment Marcus wasnt crazy about. Samantha Barnes was so brainy she scared him. So determined, she was no picnic to protect. So out of his league in every way that his attraction to her made him uncomfortable. But he hated that hed screwed up. And he really hated that hed screwed up so badly he wasnt going to get another chance to prove himself.
Not to mention he was going to miss that body.
Did she say anything to you? The ambassador?
Walker snorted. She didnt have to. Its obvious to all of us you dont belong here.
Obvious, huh? Well, what did he expect? Wasnt that the story of his life? He didnt belong much of anywhere.
Except in the Teams. Whatever else happened, he was a U.S. Navy SEAL.
He reached for his uniform pants and began to dress.
She really needed to get out more, Samantha thought, studying her reflection in the boutiques dressing room mirror. Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes were bright. It was embarrassing.
There was no way any thinking thirty-six-year-old professional should be as excited over a simple shopping trip as a fifth-grade girl buying her first lipstick. Since Stans appointment, and even more since his death, the right clothes were simply part of her existence, as necessary to living as the food she put into her mouth, as essential to her work as multiple phone lines or the current tariff figures.
But there was no denying she was actually enjoying buying a dress for dinner at the White House on Friday night.
Well, it was the White House, she thought in excuse, turning to inspect her profile in the coffee-colored silk dress. Dinner with the president was a big deal. She would see her old school buddy Matt Tynan again, toowho, newly engaged or not, had always had an eye for a well-dressed woman.
She faced the mirror again. Maybe she could forgive herself a flutter of purely feminine excitement. She sucked in her breath and her stomach and stepped out of the dressing room.
Lieutenant Evans stood facing the racks of dresses, big and solid and about as out of place among the ladies after-five gowns as a tank in a tea shop. From this angle Samantha could look into the mirror behind him, one of those large three-fold mirrors that let you see how bad you really looked from all angles. The long silver panes captured his image and repeated it, throwing the light back on itself, throwing his reflection back on itself, the broad shoulders, the straight back duplicated a hundred hundred times until he made up an army, a one-man army all in white and pledged to her protection. Magic.
She must have made some sound, or maybe he saw her, too, because he turned. His gaze met hers. His eyes were hot.
The flutter of excitement she felt this time was almost certainly unforgivable.
Panic struck. The man was assigned to guard her, for goodness sake. She couldnt possibly be attracted to him. It was fraternization or sexual harassment or something.
Anyway, he was much too young. Standear, perfect-for-her Stanhad been a healthy, vigorous fifty-two. This boy couldnt be thirty.
He grinned at her and her insides turned to mush.
How come you always wear such dark colors?
It was so different from what she expected, so unlike what anyone else would say to her, that she blinked.
Its not dark, she protested.
Brown?
Coffee, she said firmly.
He shrugged. Looks brown to me. Theyre all dark.
She couldnt believe she was letting herself be drawn into a fashion argument with Captain America. I tried on a green dress, too.
Dark green.
He was right. Damn it. She raised her chin defensively. Celeste told me I looked nice.
Celeste was the boutique manager, pencil thin, pencil straight, with improbably black hair and a face that looked as if shed just stepped away from the Elizabeth Arden makeup counter.
Was she the skinny one? Evans asked. In black?
She was the woman helping me, yes.
He shrugged. Well, there you go. Shes female. And she doesnt like colors.
Samantha was not, absolutely not, going to ask him what being female had to do with it. It was too much like flirting. But she said, And what do you think I should wear? Red?
Why not?
Well, aside from the fact that it would be a disaster with my hair, the first lady is likely to be in red.
Okay. He jerked his thumb toward the racks. How about that?
She looked and felt a purely acquisitive catch in her chest. That was a shimmering confection of ice-blue silk sewn all over with seed pearls and tiny crystals, bias cut, form fitting and strapless. A dress for a queen. A dress for a goddess. At the very least, a dress for a woman who spent her spare time doing toning exercises at the gym, not reading environmental impact studies on lead production along the Tangris River.
Samantha exhaled. I dont think so.
Why not? he asked again, his blue eyes wide. Its pretty.
Could he honestly be that complimentary? That clueless?
She sighed. Ultimately, she supposed, it was less humiliating to agree than to explain to her hunky young bodyguard that she could not possibly dine at the White House in a spangled sausage casing.
She unhooked it from the rack. It wont fit.
But it did.
Alone in her dressing room, Samantha turned slowly in front of the mirror. The style was quite modest, really. Even flattering. As long as she didnt eat too much, which wasnt a problem these days. Or breathe too deeply. She was surprised to see her lips curve in the mirror.
Well, smiling or not, she wasnt going out there to model. Lieutenant Evans was a bodyguard, not a fashion consultant. Shed already involved him more than was appropriate. Worse, shed enjoyed it.
She stripped off the dress with penitential roughness and went in search of Celeste.
You didnt like it, Evans said as she approached.
Samantha was surprised he even saw her. While she conferred with Celeste, he had moved closer to the stores entrance, scannin
g the doors and aisles, watching forwhat?
No, I did like it, she said honestly. I bought it.
He turned his head, a question in his eyes. Then why arent you wearing it? Why not let me see you?
But he didnt ask, and that was good, because she didnt have an answer for him.
It was simply too embarrassing to say, I wanted you to see me in that dress. I wanted to see myself in your eyes, and thats why I didnt wear it out here.
He was too young for her.
Or she was too old. Too old and too aware of her position and still grieving for her husband.
But shed bought the dress, anyway.
She held it out to him, a plastic bag on a padded hanger with the store name emblazoned in silver across the front. She wasnt sure if she was putting him in his place or offering him a kind of consolation prize.
Would you mind carrying it for me?
He shook his head briefly. Not what Im here for.
And that, she thought, put her in her place.
Of course, she said stiffly. I understand.
He grinned. I dont think so. I mean, its really not what Im here for. Ive been watching Walker. He always keeps both hands free when hes on duty. So he can react to protect you.
She blinked. Oh. Well, thats very
Scary, she thought.
professional of you, she said.
He smiled again, but his blue eyes were watchful. Thanks. Does that mean Im not in trouble anymore?
In trouble? What kind of trouble?
With you. With DS. When she continued to stare at him blankly, he prompted her. This afternoons little visit to see Baxter?
I dont know what youre talking about.
He raised his dark eyebrows. You didnt complain about the grab-ass comment?
I Her cheeks heated. No, I told you, I can take care of that kind of thing myself.
Interesting.
She frowned. Is there a problem? Can I help?
Marcus felt some of the stiffness leave his shoulders, some of the resentment leave his gut. She looked so cute, her full lips pouted and her eyes dark with concern.
Politicians made good liars, he reminded himself.
Still, he was inclined to believe her when she said she hadnt complained. Which made his summons to DS even more of a puzzle. What the hell was going on?
Special Agent in Charge Jerry Baxter was a sharp-eyed, middle-aged man in a dark suit with a white shirt and narrow tie, like one of the bad guys in The Matrix. He had a big office in the same block as the Federal Building and a wide smile. Maybe the office accounted for the smile. Maybe it was the other way around. Either way, he was pretty damn chummy for a guy who had called Marcus in to chew him out.
Baxter settled back in his chair. Im sure youve been wondering whats going on.
Hell, yeah.
Yes, sir, Marcus said politely.
You know, of course, that this administration credits Samantha Barnes with negotiating the Delmonico Accord after her husbands death.
She was a widow. He remembered that. He wondered how long ago her husband had died.
Yes, sir.
General DeBruzkya in Rebelia wants the accord set aside. Hes been laundering money and running terrorist operations through Delmonico for years. And there are factions here and in Delmonico itself who have profited from his activities. They dont want pro-Europe, pro-U.S. policies in place any more than he does.
Marcus nodded.
Baxter leaned across his desk. Weve received reports that Ambassador Barnes is a target of both the Rebelian Secret Service and this criminal element within Delmonico.
Why? Marcus asked. The accord has been ratified. Killing Barnes isnt going to change the Delmonican governments foreign policy.
It could. Ambassador Barnes secured that treaty on the basis of her personal relationships with the president of Delmonico and his cabinet. Her death would certainly impact their commitment to the process. It could scare them into revisiting certain provisions in the treaty. And it would eliminate an effective symbol of U.S.-Delmonico cooperation.
Marcus sat very still. Baxter meant Samantha. She was his symbol. There were very real bad guys out there who wanted Samantha seriously dead.
Whats your office doing to stop them? Marcus asked.
We have, of course, stepped up embassy security in Delmonico. And weve assigned you and Agent Walker to the ambassadors protection while shes here in Washington. However Baxter paused significantly recent intelligence suggests those measures are not enough.
Marcuss gut cramped hard. Why not?
Why the hell werent they doing everything they possibly could to protect her?
Baxters eyes fell to his desk blotter. He moved a paper clip a fraction of an inch to the right. Because along with those reports, we have received evidence of a security leak in our own office.
Marcus inhaled. What kind of a leak? Sir, he added respectfully. He didnt want to risk pissing off the DS man and shutting him up.
A big leak. A human leak. Baxter looked up, his gaze straight and his voice regretful. A mole.
Walker?
If Walker was working for the other side, it would certainly explain his antagonism.
Baxter shook his head. We dont know.
Why not arrest him and find out?
Because we dont know, Baxter said. We cant risk any moves until we understand the scope of their operation. We need to leave Walker in place while we investigate.
Anger flared, quick and hot. Even if it means putting the ambassadors life at risk?
No. Plans are being made to safeguard the ambassador while we proceed with our investigation.
Okay. Just because Baxter buffed his nails and styled his hair was not a reason to mistrust him. But something about this didnt feel right.
What kind of plans?
Samantha Barnes will be extracted to a safe house by a trusted operative. No one will know her location but the operative and myself until the agents involved in the plot against her have been identified and apprehended.
Extracted? Marcus repeated.
For her own safety. Yes.
And the operative?
But Marcus already knew. He knew. Why else assign him to her detail in the first place? What else was he doing here?
You, Baxter confirmed. Your affiliation outside the bureau makes you the only one I can trust.
You could say the same thing about any man on the Teams. Why not assign a squad to protect her? Shed be safer.
Maybe. Maybe not. We dont know how widespread our problem is. Or how high up it goes.
So how do you find out?
You dont need to know that. Its my job to coordinate the investigation, Lieutenant. Its yours to protect the ambassador. He smiled thinly. We could say you are her Hector.
Who the hell was this Hector du
de?
Like the nursery rhyme, Baxter said, apparently responding to Marcuss blank face. Hector Protector. Do you know it?
No.
Baxter cleared his throat and recited softly, Hector Protector was dressed all in green. Hector Protector was sent to the queen. The queen did not like him, no more did the king; so Hector Protector was sent back again.
Whoa. Marcus had a brief moment of total disorientation. Was he nuts? Or was Baxter out of his mind? Somebody was trying to kill Samantha Barnes, and this guy was quoting Mother Goose. He was saying something else, too, about complete secrecy and utmost trust, yada yada, et cetera et cetera, the usual administrative bull.
Marcus tried to concentrate, but Baxter had momentarily lost him with that little side trip down Muffin Lane.
imperative that we maintain secure communication, Baxter said.
Okay. He was making sense again. Marcus straightened in his chair.
So how will I get in touch with you? he asked.
Baxter looked pleased. Why, Marcus had no idea.
You dont, the security officer said. Its too risky. Well be using this. He set a slim laptop on the desk between them. Each day youll turn on this computer and log on to a secure Web site. Your user identity is Hector. Protector is your password. Quite simple.
Quite stupid, Marcus thought, but at least Baxters Mother Goose moment made sense now. Sort of.
And what will I do after I log on to this Web site?
Nothing. Watch. It will look like a childrens game. If the activity on your screen hasnt changed from the previous day, that means theres no change, no progress, in the investigation. Once our perpetrators are caught, however, the childrens game will vanish and youll be directed to return with the ambassador to Washington.
And she agreed to this?
She doesnt know about this. It will be your job to tell her. Baxter put his finger on the paper clip and slid it another inch to the right. After the two of you are away.
Family Secrets: Books 5-8 Page 3
