by Justine Davis, Amy J. Fetzer, Katherine Garbera, Meredith Fletcher, Catherine Mann
Sam raised her voice. “Guard.” She didn’t know what else to call the agents who watched her. “I want Agent McLane out of here now.”
“Sam—”
“Don’t,” she whispered with cold neutrality, “don’t tell me that I’m stupid one more time, McLane, or they’re going to pull me off you when they get here. I swear I’ll put you right back in the hospital.”
Footsteps sounded out in the hall. “McLane. McLane, you’ve got to get out of there.”
Without a word Riley walked to the door.
Sam turned away, unable to watch him walk away from her. She thought she’d gotten over the pain that accompanied people walking away from her years ago. She was surprised and disappointed in herself to find that such a simple act could still hurt her.
She stood still until the door locked. She closed her eyes and felt the lonely emptiness of the cell. After a moment she made herself walk to the bed. Agents were going to be watching her. She didn’t want them to see any more of what she was going through than they had already seen.
Quietly, just as she had when she’d been a little girl in all those strange and unfriendly houses, she drew into herself and walled the world away.
“What do you think, Agent McLane?”
Riley kept his eyes locked on the image of Sam sitting quietly in her cell. From what he’d been told, she hadn’t moved since last night.
“McLane,” Stone Mitchell called from his desk.
“Sir,” Riley said, “she’s lying.”
“About being involved with the Cipher?”
“Yes, sir.” Reluctantly Riley faced the director.
Mitchell sat at his desk in a dark suit. His face was set, somber. In addition to seeing the digital footage of Sam’s “confession,” Riley knew Mitchell had also seen footage of her attempted seduction of him. They hadn’t talked about that yet, but Riley was certain they would.
“Do you know that she’s lying?” Mitchell asked.
“Yes.” Riley answered without hesitation.
Mitchell thought about that for a moment, then rephrased his question. “Can you prove that she’s lying?”
“No, sir.”
Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “Then we have a problem.”
“Sir, with all due respect, you can’t possibly believe Sam St. John has any kind of connection to the Cipher.”
“Why not?”
Riley drew in a deep breath. “Because, despite that damned footage MI-6 sent over, Sam is a good agent. An agent you can trust.”
“You were reluctant to add her to the Munich operation.”
“That wasn’t a trust issue. She’s green for that kind of op.”
“From the evidence suggested by the firefight she was involved in while in Suwan, I’d venture to say that she’s not as green as you believed. Or anyone believed. She took out the Kemenis without hesitation, and with skill that few agents would exhibit under similar circumstances. Not many of our people have been under fire like that.”
“If you believe her, sir, you’re making a mistake.”
“And if I don’t follow up on her confession, I’d be remiss in my duties.”
“Yes, sir. I understand that, sir. But there’s a greater problem here.”
Mitchell looked at him.
“St. John believes the Cipher was responsible for the death of her friend.”
Mitchell tapped the computer keyboard and glanced at the screen. “Lorraine Miller Carrington.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t think the Carrington woman was killed by the Cipher?”
“No, sir.”
“Why?”
“St. John is grieving, sir. I took her away from that funeral, and from her friends. She never even had the chance to speak to them. You’ve seen St. John’s background. She’s never known family. The women she went to school with at the academy are the closest thing she’s ever had to one.”
“So, in your opinion, if her friend hadn’t gotten killed in a car wreck, St. John wouldn’t have confessed?”
“No, sir.”
“That still doesn’t mean she’s not guilty.”
“No, sir.”
“In fact, based on the footage I’ve seen of St. John in action, I’d say she’s very guilty. Maybe she’s playing the sympathy card, angling for some kind of breakdown to use in her defense.”
“I don’t think so. I think she really believes—”
Mitchell tapped another key and the monitor flickered as new information filled the screen. “Would it surprise you to know that Police Lieutenant Kayla Ryan of the Youngstown, Arizona, PD has been requesting files regarding the Carrington woman’s accident? After the funeral?”
“I don’t think any of those women were prepared to lose one of their own.”
“Would it surprise you to know that Alex Forsythe, a forensics expert for the FBI—and also a graduate of the Athena Academy—has been investigating the Carrington woman’s death as well as medical practices at the academy?”
“Same answer,” Riley replied. “When a team loses an agent in the field, the people who live through it go through similar things. It’s survivor’s guilt. Nothing more.”
Mitchell folded his hands in front of him, and Riley knew he was in for hell.
“I’m glad you’re so sure of yourself, Agent McLane,” Mitchell said. “Because I’m not at all certain that it’s not true.”
“You think the Cipher killed the Carrington woman?”
“Let me walk you through a scenario.” Mitchell sipped his coffee. “We have a young CIA agent—we’ll call her St. John to keep things simple.”
Riley bit back a retort.
“St. John is young and ambitious. She gets to be a CIA agent, but she’s not advancing as quickly as she thinks she should. Or maybe the job isn’t as financially rewarding as she thinks it should be. Or maybe her interests haven’t been pro-American from the beginning.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe you didn’t read St. John’s background closely enough,” Mitchell suggested. “Did you know that her first language was Russian?”
Riley stayed silent. How the hell had he missed that?
“Whatever the case,” Mitchell continued, “St. John decided that she could get financially more secure or complete her real mission, however you want to play it out. So she hooked up with the Cipher to—”
“She only gave that confession because she thinks she’s protecting her friends.”
“Maybe she is protecting her friends. Have you even considered that? She could have betrayed the Cipher. Maybe killing one of her friends was his way of getting back at her. Or chasing her out into the open.”
“You think the Carrington woman was murdered?”
“The seat belt failed,” Mitchell said. “It happens. But how often does a driver fall asleep at the wheel and have a seat belt fail?”
“It could happen.”
“Again, I’ve got St. John’s confession that she’s been working with the Cipher.”
“She’s lying.”
“Which time, Agent McLane? When she told us that wasn’t her in the MI-6 footage? Or when she told us it was her?”
Riley stared at the director. “You’re going to try to railroad St. John on this, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t lay the tracks for this pileup. I’m just following what’s there.” Mitchell stared up at him without expression. “I’m going to do my job. I suggest you do the same. You’ve already stepped way over the line in this operation.”
Chapter 11
“Knock, knock,” Howie Dunn called from the other side of the security door to Sam’s personal prison. As he had for the past four days, he sounded cheerful.
Sam stopped her morning tai chi exercises and turned toward the door. “Come in.”
The electronic locks snapped in their housings. A moment later Howie stepped through the doorway with a bag of coffee and bagels in one hand, a notebook comp
uter and a briefcase tucked under his arm. If he hadn’t been so large, he would have looked overburdened. He wore a jacket over a dark-green turtleneck.
“Breakfast.” Howie shook the bag gently. “Hope you haven’t eaten the sawdust they usually try to pawn off on you.”
“No,” Sam said. “I was hoping you’d bring breakfast.”
He took a look at her and shook his head. “Man, have you tried sleeping?”
Despite the seriousness of her situation and the very real danger she thought existed for her friends, Sam couldn’t help being slightly cheered by the CIA agent’s concern. Howie Dunn was one guy who wore his heart on his sleeve.
Rainy would have said, One of the keepers. Locked up as she was in the cell, Sam often found Rainy in her thoughts. She’d wished time and again that she could have talked to her friend. If anyone could have made sense of the emotions rolling loose inside her, it would have been Rainy.
“I tried sleeping,” Sam said. She rolled her head and tried to loosen stiff neck muscles. “It’s overrated.”
Howie put the bagels and coffee down carefully, then did the same with the notebook computer. The smile left his face and he pushed his glasses farther up his nose.
“Hey,” he offered quietly, “in all seriousness, I can talk to Mitchell. See if we can’t get some slack cut and get you something that will help you rest at night.”
“No. Any kind of medication leaves me groggy.” She noticed the concern in Howie’s eyes. “I’ll be all right.” God, but that was stupid. You’re an admitted traitor to the United States. So you’ll be healthy for the lethal injection or the firing squad.
“What about warm milk? My mom used to swear by it. I could maybe arrange a glass of warm milk for you before bedtime. Nothing there to leave you groggy.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Howie didn’t look happy.
Sam stood her ground and crossed her arms. For the last two days, she’d felt convinced that having an agent other than Howie would have been in her best interests. Howie just came across too…honest, like he tried too hard to get along. His behavior was bringing out a guilt in her for her own subterfuge that she hadn’t expected and could ill afford.
“Maybe we should get to work,” Sam suggested.
Howie handed her the coffee and bagels. “Divvy. I’ll get us set up.” He ambled to the door and knocked. Immediately, a rolling cart and two folding chairs were passed through by guards outside.
The bag contained four lattes and a dozen bagels. Sam matched Howie when it came to caffeine, but she only kept two of the bagels. The fact that Howie could eat so much and not show it offered mute testimony to his size and dedication to fitness. The fact that he was built like a small mountain helped.
Working with obvious familiarity, Howie set up the computer, plugged in the encrypted wireless networking card that gave them access to the Agency’s computers and brought the unit online.
Sam opened the briefcase and took out the discouragingly thin files regarding the master assassin known only as the Cipher. For the past four days, she’d scanned through the files looking for some clue that she and previous criminal profilers had missed before. The task was daunting. She’d only remembered the Cipher because of the unusual method of killing that he’d evidently perfected. No one had been able to advance a theory as to how the killer was able to make so many executions look accidental.
The computer peeped as the Internet service came online.
“I’m really starting to get some pressure from Director Mitchell.” Howie spoke without looking at her.
“What kind of pressure?”
“He wants results.”
Sam peeled the top from her first coffee. Howie always brought the best, and even stopped to microwave it before bringing it to her cell. She still felt guilty that she wasn’t able to repay him or at least kick in toward the cost. She didn’t like charity; she never had.
“We’re working on it,” she said defensively.
“I know.” Howie sat in front of the computer. “I think the director is starting to come to the conclusion that maybe you’re leading him on a wild-goose chase. That you weren’t telling him the truth about your connection to the Cipher.”
“How’s he doing on thinking I’m totally innocent of everything I’ve been accused of?”
“Now that is a different matter. Even before MI-6 came up with digital records of you—er, someone that looked like you—the Agency had lost people over in Berzhaan. Our position there is tenuous at best because of the Kemenis and the terrorists.”
Sam pinched a small piece from her bagel and raised it to her lips. “And what do you think, Howie? Do you think I’m wasting your time?”
Howie shook his head and grinned. “I love catching bad guys.” He tapped the notebook computer. “And this is my weapon of choice. Bloodless and devastating, all rolled into one convenient package for the spy-on-the-go.” He paused and continued staring at the screen. “However this arrangement goes, Sam, we’re going to make a difference with what we’re finding out. Believe me. We’ve already added to some of the profile that the Agency had on the Cipher.”
The strange thing was, Sam did believe the big man. Now that he was working with her rather than coming after her and taking her into custody, she couldn’t help responding to the positive atmosphere he constantly exuded. Howie Dunn was an immensely likeable guy.
“I do believe you.” Sam popped the piece of bagel into her mouth, chewed and washed the bite down with her latte. “So you never have said what you think.” As soon as she had the words out of her mouth, she regretted having asked the question. It put both of them on the spot.
“About whether or not you cut a deal with the Cipher?”
Sam hesitated, but now that she’d invested this much, she couldn’t not ask the real question. “Do you think I’m a traitor?”
Howie was quiet for a short time. He studied her. “Answering that question either way might compromise my presence here,” he said. “I hope you understand.”
Sam nodded. “I do.” Understanding dawned in her. If he said he didn’t believe she was a traitor, Mitchell might pull him so that sympathy wouldn’t result. If he said he believed she was a traitor, maybe the working relationship they had found wouldn’t come so natural.
“I can’t do my job properly if I start looking at that,” Howie said. “I have to remain outside your problem and work on the one I’ve been given.”
“I know. I appreciate that.” The bite of bagel was almost tasteless in Sam’s mouth. Under other circumstances, she didn’t know if she’d be able to remain as neutral as Howie was. She tried to make light of the situation. “I suppose Riley McLane is the only one still holding out for my innocence. At least, where the Cipher is concerned.”
“He does do that.”
“I haven’t seen him lately.” Actually, she hadn’t seen Riley in four days. Not since her awkward attempt to seduce him. She hated remembering how she’d practically thrown herself at him. But sometimes, in the night, she half dreamed and half fantasized about that encounter, and sometimes—when she felt she could safely deny control over her thoughts—things progressed much further than they had in real life.
Unfortunately, dreams like that provided a lot of discomfort later. On mornings after those dreams she’d felt the pangs of loneliness close around her like the steel jaws of a bear trap.
“Riley’s not here,” Howie said as he opened files they’d earmarked the previous day.
That surprised Sam and yet it didn’t. She had noticed Riley’s absence and wondered how he’d been able to stay away so long. Not that she believed he was so attracted to her, but he would have come by to put more pressure on her. Riley McLane wasn’t the kind of man to leave a situation alone.
“Riley’s not here at the Agency,” Sam repeated. “Today?”
“For the past four days.”
“What happened?”
“Director Mitchell gave Riley some
time off.”
“Because of me?” Although Howie hadn’t brought it up, Sam felt certain the agent knew about her attempted seduction. She felt embarrassed and vulnerable, and she hurried on. “What happened four days ago wasn’t Riley’s fault. He was a…an innocent bystander. I was just trying to get him to…”
“Sam,” Howie interrupted gently. “Sam.”
She quieted and looked at him.
“Riley took some time off for medical reasons.”
“Oh.” Sam felt her face burn. She hated that. As fair complexioned as she was, her face always showed red. “Is he all right?”
“Medical cleared him. He chose to take time off.”
“Why?”
“He said his shoulder was still bothering him.”
That didn’t make any sense. Riley had been chafing to get back into the field.
Or maybe what I did got back to whoever left the lipstick on Riley’s shirt collar. If she’s in the business, and she probably is, then she probably heard about it. Maybe he’s off trying to save that relationship. Sam felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Guilt over possibly interfering with a personal relationship assailed her. The image of Riley in the arms of other woman, someone dark and sultry and exotic, filled her mind.
“You okay?” Howie asked.
“Sure,” she replied. “Why?”
“You look like you ate something that disagreed with you.”
“Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Yeah.” Howie tapped the keyboard. A pleasant ding sounded. “I’ve got some pictures I want you to see.”
Capturing her latte, Sam walked over to stand behind Howie. She peered at the notebook computer’s monitor over his shoulder.
A series of picture icons popped up on the screen with metallic pings. Howie put the cursor over one of them and double-clicked to open the .bmp file.
The picture opened, filling the screen and revealing a man’s image. The man was obviously Middle Eastern, judging from the hooded eyes and large nose, but his complexion was more buttery than coffee. His beard was short, a ruffle of tight curls.
“Know him?” Howie asked.
