by Lynn Ames
“Damn it, why should I care?” Vaughn punched the air and dropped onto the sofa in the living room area. “She’s a big girl. If she’s got her knickers in a knot, it’s not my concern.”
Even as she said it, Vaughn knew it was a lie. She did care. In fact, she cared a lot more than she wanted to, and that was what had her so agitated.
When her satellite cell phone vibrated itself off the coffee table, she lunged to catch it. It had to be Sage. She hadn’t given the number to another soul since her arrival, and she had no expectation of hearing from anybody else.
“Vaughn?”
“Justine?” Vaughn sat up ramrod straight, her body instantly tense, Sage temporarily forgotten.
“The one and only.”
“Do you have anything new?” Vaughn tried to clamp down on a surge of adrenaline.
“Now there’s a warm and fuzzy greeting. Long time no talk to, Vaughn.”
“Yeah, like eleven months.” Vaughn didn’t want to think about her stay at the Company clinic where she was taken after the explosion. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”
“I’m fine, thanks. How are you? How are the ribs? And the arm? Has the scar healed?”
Vaughn sighed. It was clear she wasn’t going to rush Justine. “I’m fit as a fiddle, thank you.”
“How are you doing otherwise?”
Justine’s voice was full of genuine concern, but this was not a discussion Vaughn was willing to have. “As I said, I’m fine.”
“So you did.” After an awkward pause, Justine continued, “I still miss her too.”
Vaughn clenched her jaw shut on a sob. The pain of losing Sara was as fresh as it was the day it happened. She squeezed her eyes closed. After several beats, she said, “Do you have a lead? I’m assuming that’s why you called.”
“Very well. Are you still nursing a grudge against Edgar Fairhaven?”
The name set Vaughn’s teeth on edge. She replayed in her mind the day Fairhaven walked into the college dorm room she and Sara shared and filled their heads with notions of patriotic service to their country. Bastard. If it hadn’t been for him, they might have had normal lives, and Sara would still be alive.
“If I could strangle Fairhaven myself, I would.”
“I’m not sure you’d get away with it.”
“Probably not, but I’d enjoy it.”
“You’re in Mali?”
The abrupt change of topic was jarring, and although Vaughn didn’t see the relevance, she was intrigued. “How’d you find that out?”
“I have ways.” Justine laughed evilly. “We know everything.”
“So you’d have people believe. You forget, I know better.”
“Okay, point taken. But we do know most of everything. And I’ve made it my business to keep a discreet eye out for you.”
“I don’t know whether I should say ‘thank you’ or ‘butt out.’”
“A simple ‘thank you’ will do. Seriously, Vaughn, I’m glad to see you out in the field again. It’s where you belong. Your talents were wasted behind a desk.”
“It’s only Diplomatic Security.”
“DS serves an important function. Don’t sell yourself short. Not only that, but this is a big assignment—the esteemed majority leader’s first big trip abroad since her elevation.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Hey, I’m not. Don’t get surly on me.”
“Sorry. I’ve had an unsettling day.” It was an admission Vaughn wouldn’t have made under normal circumstances, but she was tired and the interaction with Sage was too fresh in her mind.
“Let me ask you a question. Whose idea was it that you shift from the Company to DS?”
“It was a mutually agreed upon outcome for an untenable situation,” Vaughn said. Her words were devoid of any emotion.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I was told in no uncertain terms that moving to DS was the only way I was ever going to get out from behind a desk and finish out my career with the federal government. Otherwise, I would’ve been buried under mountains of paperwork for the rest of my working days.”
“Who told you that?”
“Conroy.” Vaughn spat the name. She made no secret of her disdain for her new section chief.
“Hmm. Do you have any idea who recommended you for this assignment?”
“Didn’t care enough to ask. The instruction came in the form of a secure letter from the secretary of state himself.”
“You didn’t find that odd?”
“It gave me a moment’s pause, but I honestly didn’t have any idea what the protocol was for doling out assignments. I figured it was a form letter created by some flunky and signed by the big guy.” Vaughn thought back to her earlier discussion with Sage. “My contact here questioned the deviation from form, but before that I had no inkling that it was anything unusual.”
“Who is this contact? Do you trust this person?”
“She’s a mid-level career diplomat.”
“Do you have any reason to doubt anything she’s told you?”
Vaughn considered. “No. She’s the genuine article.” Vaughn decided not to mention how much Sage reminded her of Sara. She didn’t see the point. “Why the twenty questions, and when the hell are you going to tell me what you’ve got?”
“Bear with me. It’s all related.”
“How so?”
“Fairhaven’s the one who pushed you for this particular assignment.”
“Fairhaven? Why?” Vaughn furrowed her brow.
“That’s what I can’t figure out.”
“I didn’t think he’d concern himself with a peon like me, now that he’s number two in the Company.”
“And I didn’t think he was all that cozy with State,” Justine said. “Obviously, he’s still got his eye on you.”
“I haven’t so much as put a paperclip out of order on my desk.”
“That he knows of, anyway.”
“True,” Vaughn conceded. She hadn’t done anything overt to follow up on Sara’s death. She’d left that to Justine and her contacts. But Fairhaven knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t let Sara’s death go without finding out who was responsible and bringing them to justice.
“Anyway, my point is that Fairhaven’s fingerprints are on your marching orders, and that can’t be good. You need to be careful.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.” Vaughn’s tone was dismissive.
“Still could care less what happens to you, I see.”
“You’re wrong. I do care.” At least until we find Sara’s killers.
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Suit yourself.” Vaughn shrugged. “What else do you have?”
“What, that isn’t enough?”
“No.”
“You’re right, but it’s all I have at the moment.”
“Okay. Let me know if you get anything else.”
“Of course. Take good care of yourself, Vaughn.”
“I’ll do my best. Justine?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Vaughn shut the phone and threw it on the sofa. So, Fairhaven was still pulling her strings. She drummed her fingers on the coffee table. Maybe he just wanted her as far away from D.C. as possible. She shook her head. It smelled, and she knew it.
Five strides took her to the room safe in the closet. She punched in the number sequence and the door swung open. Inside was an accordion-style file folder. Vaughn removed it, kicked the door shut, and retreated to the sofa.
She spread several documents and news clippings on the coffee table. The headlines screamed at her from the yellowed newspapers: Al Qaeda Strikes at Andrews, One Dead. President Promises Action; President Declares Terrorist Attack Won’t Demoralize the American People.
Vaughn fingered the article. “The President labeled the death of Andrews Air Force Base mechanic Sara McFarland a tragic loss. He vow
s to go to Congress for additional funding for the war on terror.”
Angrily, Vaughn shoved the article aside. It fluttered to the floor. She picked up a sheaf of papers. On top was a document marked “Confidential” and titled “Transcript of Interview with Field Agent Vaughn Elliott, conducted by Section Chief Edgar Fairhaven.”
Vaughn’s eyes skimmed over the page. She noted that Fairhaven had edited out the beginning of their conversation. She had no trouble recalling the exchange, though.
“Elliott, I’ve seen you do a lot of stupid things over the years, but this one tops them all.”
“What do you want, sir?”
“I want to know what the hell you and McFarland were playing at.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vaughn said.
“Bullshit, Elliott. You’ve put me in a hell of a position, you know that? Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull and how many favors I had to call in to make this go away?”
“I need some rest.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for that, believe me. You’re going to be on desk duty for the rest of your life. But right now, I want answers.”
“I have none to give.”
“God damn it, Elliott!”
The interrogation—“interview” was too genteel a word for what Vaughn had been put through—lasted hours. Vaughn ran her finger over the top page and flicked to the next. There were twenty pages in all. Twenty pages of nothingness.
She’d told Fairhaven nothing beyond what he could have verified on his own. Sara had phoned her. They met at a coffee shop. Sara claimed to be on assignment. Vaughn was worried that she lacked backup and showed up to provide same. No, she had no idea what Sara was working on. A friend needed her assistance, and she answered the call. Period.
No matter how many ways he asked the question, no matter how deep he dug, he could come up with nothing more specific than that. Vaughn wasn’t sure why she didn’t trust Fairhaven enough to tell him the whole truth, but she learned over the years to listen to her gut. Her gut screamed at her to tell him nothing.
Toward the end of the grilling, she felt her strength and will slipping. It had only been one day since the explosion, and her grief and the seriousness of her injuries were overwhelming.
That’s when Justine Coulter came to her rescue. Dressed as a trauma nurse, she kicked Fairhaven out of Vaughn’s room. The patient, she insisted, had reached her limits. At the time, Vaughn was too grateful for the reprieve to wonder just who this angel was who brought her salvation.
It was only later she discovered that Justine had been planted at the clinic at Sara’s request in case anything went wrong with the operation.
Vaughn shuffled the transcript aside and picked up a second document. It was a very unofficial lab report prepared by one of Justine’s contacts.
The residue from the explosive is orange in color, which, upon initial inspection, would indicate Semtex.
However, further testing indicates that the orange color is dye. The explosive was C-4 disguised to look like Semtex.
Conclusion: While the explosive presents as Semtex, the plastic explosive of choice for terrorist cells like Al Qaeda, the substance is, in reality, C-4, commonly used by intelligence organizations and the military. In addition, items taken from the person of one Anthony Sturges have been positively identified as military-grade blasting caps.
Vaughn smiled wolfishly. “Gotcha.” She had taken the blasting caps out of the pocket of the agent she knocked unconscious in the hangar. She turned the page again to reveal a document titled, “Report of Unusual Death: CIA Agent Anthony Sturges.” This was an internal Company document.
Vaughn took in the details. Sturges had been with the Company for thirty-one years, since the Vietnam era. His body was found by a jogger along a path near the Potomac less than a week after the incident at Andrews. He had eaten a bullet through the roof of his mouth. His death was ruled a suicide, and the case was closed.
“Suicide my ass,” Vaughn hissed. She dropped the pile of papers on the coffee table with a thud and balled her fists in frustration. The Fairhaven development was interesting and added grist for the mill but got them no closer to finding the scum responsible for Sara’s death. Vaughn couldn’t even be sure they were connected.
The sense of hopelessness that was Vaughn’s constant companion for the past year settled in the pit of her stomach. She went to the minibar and pulled out a bottle of scotch. It was what she always did when the memories became too much to bear.
Sage sliced through the water, her body a guided missile on a mission. The churned-up wake she left behind matched her mood perfectly. Damn you, Vaughn Elliott. Why should I care if you’re a jerk?
She executed a perfect flip turn and headed in the opposite direction. I mean, it’s not as if we need to like each other to work together.
Sage took two more strokes and a breath. Arrogant daughter-of-a-warthog. One more stroke and Sage’s head hit the wall with a thud. “Ouch! Damn it all to hell.” The oath came out as one word. She stood up in the shallow end, rubbed her head where a knot was already forming, and whipped off her swim goggles. “That’s just great. Perfect end to a perfect day.”
She rolled her shoulders and experimentally turned her head from left to right. The movement jarred her head and she uttered another oath. With a sigh, she looked up at the stars twinkling overhead. “What’re you looking at?” She pushed herself out of the pool, grabbed her towel, and headed into the house to find some Ibuprofen. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with Vaughn in the morning.
CHAPTER THREE
Sage stared at the dispatch in her hands, trying to make sense of the words on the page. She read aloud: “The camels are in place and ready to spit. Your job is to give the shrew an education at recess on the 23rd. She’ll need some fresh air between classes. Confirm receipt and destroy immediately.”
Sage shook her head. “What the hell does that mean?” She shifted papers around on the desk until she unearthed the envelope that went with the message. “No wonder.”
With a pen she scribbled on the back of the envelope, “Re-deliver to Ambassador Dumont.” Sage initialed the note and placed it in her outbox.
She shuffled more papers, but her mind kept wandering. She hadn’t heard a word from Vaughn all morning. Although she’d tried to convince herself that she didn’t care if she ever heard from Vaughn again, she checked her voicemail one more time. “Damn you.”
Since she wasn’t getting any work done, Sage decided to walk down to the mailroom. It was housed in the basement of the embassy building, two floors below her office. She snatched up the wrongly-delivered communiqué and headed for the stairs.
The clerks with clearance to handle classified communications were housed in a separate area of the basement, around the corner from the main mailroom.
Sage stopped in front of the desk of the harried head clerk. “Excuse me…”
“I see you. I see you. Just give me a minute.”
Sage looked around for a visitor’s chair but found none. Instead, she wandered over to a bulletin board.
“What part of ‘classified’ don’t you understand, young lady?”
Sage whirled around. The clerk hadn’t even looked up. “I-I’m sorry. I was just…”
“Never mind. What do you want?”
Sage didn’t appreciate being taken to task by a level-three clerk, but more than that, she objected to being treated like some errant schoolgirl. She stormed back to his desk. “One of your clerks made a mistake. I thought I would help you out by giving you a chance to correct the error, as it was rather egregious, but if you’d rather deal directly with the ambassador, I’ll just take it to him.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The clerk was out of his chair in an instant. “Let me see…” He took the envelope from Sage and examined it carefully. Finally, he looked up. “You opened this?”
“It was delivered to me,” Sage said drolly.
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have opened it, now would I?” Sage was beginning to regret the decision to leave her desk.
“This is not good. Not good at all.” The clerk was shaking his head. He flipped the envelope over again, then consulted a clipboard hanging on the wall behind his desk. “Richard!”
Sage took a step back, wondering if her hearing would ever recover.
“Get over here!”
A young man with glasses and an owlish face appeared at the head clerk’s elbow. “Yes?” He pushed the glasses up on his face.
“You handled this message?”
Richard examined the envelope. “Yes, sir. It came in this morning’s pouch from Washington.”
“Can you read, Richard?”
Sage almost felt sorry for the hapless clerk.
“Of course, sir.”
“What does it say on the bottom of the envelope?”
Richard squinted at the small printing. “The printing’s smeared.”
“Can you read the words or not?” the head clerk snapped.
Richard furrowed his brow and refocused on the words. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Ambassador’s eyes only,” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Come again?”
“Ambassador’s eyes only,” Richard repeated, marginally louder this time.
“What part of that instruction didn’t you understand?”
“I—”
“Do you realize that I’m going to have to personally explain this to the ambassador?”
“Um, I guess, sir.”
“Do you have any idea how displeased he’s going to be?”
“I can imagine, sir.”
“Would you like to tell me how you made a mistake this big?”
“The envelope was in the pouch marked ‘Congressional Visit,’ sir. I knew that Sage was handling the event, and I just thought…”
“That was your first mistake. You thought,” the head clerk spat. “Congratulations, Richard. You just got yourself busted back to non-classified. Get out of my sight.”
