Tell Me No Lies

by Elizabeth Lowell

  There were four. They were quick, professional and operated like a close-order drill team. It had become an open tail, the kind designed to let the mark know that someone was keeping him on a very short leash. Open or closed, it didn't matter to Catlin. He had sensed the presence of a follower two blocks before the other three team members had fallen in to place. It wasn't that the first man had been careless, but rather that Catlin had lived too long in enemy territory ever to forget his vulnerable back.

  Without seeming to, Catlin picked up the pace. His stride was long, powerful, difficult for a less fit man to equal. Because his life had depended on reflexes or strength too often in the past, Catlin had honed himself into an efficient fighting machine. Although he no longer lived in enemy territory, the habits he had learned there were too deeply ingrained to be discarded. Today he was as hard and potentially as dangerous as he had been long ago and half a world away.

  The men behind him were fit enough for most purposes, but they hadn't been through the kind of wars Catlin had. Within a mile they were sweating heavily in Washington's smothering humidity. Within two miles they were dragging. By the time Catlin took pity on them and turned back to his apartment, a new team had been called in. Catlin watched the handoff, gave everyone involved high marks for professionalism, and vanished into his apartment for a shower. He had learned all he needed to know.

  The FBI computer had finally caught up with Catlin, Jacob MacArthur. The shit had well and truly hit the fan.

  Catlin assumed that Lindsay Danner had an honor guard, too. The thought made him smile as he lathered himself beneath the pulsing needles of water that all but filled the steamy shower enclosure. At least the men following Lindsay would have something good to look at. Her walk was clean, resilient, subtly provocative, the kind of movement that made a man want to pull her close around him while he found other ways for that sleek body to move.

  Idly Catlin wondered if Lindsay would bring half the skill and intensity to bed that she had shown with the bronzes. She had touched that incense burner with an unconscious sensuality that had intrigued him at the time. But when O'Donnel had tested by crowding her gently, she had eased away. No fuss, no sidelong glances, no protests of dismay or disinterest. Just the discreet withdrawal of a woman who didn't rub up against men on a casual basis.

  That, too, intrigued Catlin. Beneath her social polish and gentle smile, Lindsay Danner was a rather private person. That could be a real problem. For the charade he had in mind, he would have much preferred a woman who had the casual sexuality of a singles bar on Saturday night. Lindsay didn't come across like that, either on the surface or at the level of reflex, as O'Donnel had discovered. Which meant that Yi's shanghaied dragon was going to get a workout trying to stay close enough to Lindsay to keep her from getting killed.

  With a muttered curse Catlin shut off the water and reached for an oversize towel. Beyond that cryptic statement, Yi had refused to say anything about himself in relation to Lindsay Danner. Nor would he say anything more about Lindsay herself, no matter how Catlin had pressed. He had been forced to seek information in other ways. Sooner or later, Lindsay's file would arrive at his apartment. He hoped that it was sooner rather than later. He didn't doubt that her file would arrive, though. He knew too many powerful people in Washington and Langley for such a simple request to be disregarded.

  A buzzer rang just as Catlin was buttoning up the conservative white shirt that he trotted out of his wardrobe for Washington visits. With quick movements of his hands he tucked in his shirt, fastened his slacks and pulled a gun from the holster lying on top of the bed.

  The sound of knuckles meeting wood substituted for the sound of the doorbell.

  Catlin crossed the living room silently and stood to one side of the door. He didn't put his eye to the little spy hole installed by building security. That would have been like standing in the center of a target and begging someone to shoot.

  "Who is it?" asked Catlin.

  "Bradford Stone, FBI."

  "Who else?"

  "No one."

  Catlin opened the door. "Come in, Stone. You're late."

  Stone walked through. With a glance he took in the apartment and the barefoot man standing in front of him with a 9 mm pistol in his hand. "Late? Did we have an appointment?"

  "Yeah," Catlin said dryly. "The second my file hit your desk." He gestured toward a chair with his free hand. "Sit down," he called over his shoulder as he went back to the bedroom. "I'll be right with you."

  A few minutes later Catlin came back wearing moccasins, a belt and a 9 mm bolstered in the small of his back. "Coffee or something stronger?"

  "Coffee."

  "An official visit, then."

  Stone smiled unwillingly. "Have any beer?"

  "Coming up."

  Catlin pulled two beers out of the refrigerator, opened the long-necked bottles and returned to the living room. "To teamwork," he said ironically, saluting Stone with the beer.

  Stone took a long drink and then asked, "Where were you between 1975 and 1982?"

  "Around."

  "Around where?"

  "India. I spent a lot of time in various ashrams. Meditating."

  "Bullshit," snapped Stone, slamming his beer bottle onto the coffee table. "You were in covert operations after Saigon fell."

  "Really?" Catlin paused to enjoy the intimate bite of the beer as it curled across his tongue and caressed the back of his mouth. "That's going to surprise the hell out of the good guru Rajeenanda – not to mention the CIA and the IRS."

  "Look, I was hoping we could work together on this," said Stone, turning away, reaching for his beer again.

  "There's not a doubt in my mind that we will."

  Stone's head snapped around. There was no mockery in Catlin's expression or voice.

  "But we're faced with the problem of the lesbian lovers," continued Catlin. "Who does what and with which and to whom?"

  There was a short bark of laughter, followed by a silence as Stone drank from the icy bottle of beer once more. "You know, Catlin," Stone said as he lowered the beer, "under other circumstances I think I could enjoy working with you."

  "I doubt it. I don't take orders worth a damn. You're used to giving them."

  "What about Yi?" Stone asked smoothly. "He gives you orders."

  "Does he?"

  "How did you hook up with him?"

  "I didn't."

  Stone made an angry gesture. "Is this what you call cooperation?"

  "You read my file. You should have a rather exact appreciation of just how cooperative I am."

  Catlin waited while Stone decided whether a show of anger would be useful. The FBI agent went up in Catlin's estimation when he decided to abandon physical intimidation and go straight for blackmail.

  "You know," Stone said quietly, "if someone tipped a senator from Massachusetts or a Washington Post reporter that the CIA was conducting operations on home ground, you could be in a world of hurt."

  "I could. If I were with the CIA."

  "You are. And I'm going to dig until I prove it." Stone paused, drank and added, "Unless I get some cooperation from you."

  Catlin smiled faintly. "You can dig until hell freezes solid. I don't belong to anyone anymore. Ask around. They'll tell you the same thing you're going to learn the hard way. I'm as free as any man ever born."

  Stone had heard enough truth to recognize it in Catlin's voice. Stone had also heard enough lies never to give up short of absolute certainty. He would keep digging, but he would no longer expect to hit gold. He lit a cigarette, examined his remaining options and sighed.

  "Do you trust Yi?" asked Stone.

  "I don't have to. I know what he wants. That beats the hell out of trust."

  "What does he want?"

  "From you? I imagine he'll be happy if you stop crowding him."

  Stone grunted. "What does he want from you?"

  "A stalking horse that will l
et him get close to the bronzes without being spotted as a representative of the PRC," Catlin said in the matter-of-fact tone of someone stating an obvious fact.

  It was a reasonable lie and might even be part of the truth. In any case, there was no point in telling Stone that Yi wanted a full-time bodyguard for Lindsay Danner, the woman he had manipulated the FBI into using. Then Stone would want to know why Lindsay was in danger. It was a question that had occurred to Catlin at least once a minute since he had seen Yi's sad smile.

  I above all, dragon. I above all.

  None of the possible answers that had occurred to Catlin had been comforting.

  "Why did he choose you?" asked Stone.

  "I've done some consulting for mainland Chinese businessmen. He could have heard of me through them."

  That, at least, was true. It just didn't happen to be a truth that applied to the specific question Stone had asked.

  For a moment Stone stared into Catlin's nearly yellow eyes and wondered if the man owed allegiance to anyone or anything. Even himself. People who lived in deep cover for much of their lives changed. That was why the FBI had resisted having undercover agents at all until a few years back, when circumstances had forced the Bureau into it. Stone wasn't comfortable with the type of man who could vanish without a ripple into another, usually crooked, culture. To survive with his true identity intact, such a man would have to be very strong.

  Or very weak. A moral chameleon able to fade into anyone's background, no matter how degraded or vicious.

  Stone shifted uneasily and looked away from Catlin's eyes, wondering which category he fell into. Then Stone shrugged and accepted what he could not change: he had been ordered to work in close, to get all the counterintelligence information he could from both Catlin and Chen Yi. The true state of Catlin's morality didn't have a damn thing to do with Stone's job.

  "What if I told you that Chen is a spy?" asked Stone.

  Catlin smiled. "Are you telling me that he is?"

  "We have to assume it."

  "So?"

  Stone's color heightened. "You don't mind working for a spy?"

  "Do you?" Catlin asked smoothly.

  Red washed Stone's cheekbones. "I didn't volunteer," he snarled.

  "Neither did I." Catlin set his empty beer bottle down on the table with a distinct snap. "Look, Stone. I'll save you the trouble of hinting around that if I don't play your game, the U.S. government will shut down the Pacific Rim Foundation. It won't happen."

  Stone didn't argue. It was the first ploy he had tried with his boss. It had been shot down without a prayer. The Pacific Rim Foundation was one very sacred cow, in and out of the intelligence community.

  "You're a smart man," continued Catlin, settling back into his chair, watching the older man with eyes that gave away nothing. "You've figured out by now that you're not going to intimidate, blackmail or insult me into going along with your program, whatever your program might be."

  "Would flattery have worked?" Stone asked curiously.

  Catlin laughed, enjoying the agent's determination. "We'll never know, will we?" Then all humor faded from Catlin's face. "But we do know this: Yi is an important man in China. America very badly wants China opened to trade. If the question of the Qin bronzes isn't cleared up, U.S.-Chinese relations are in the toilet. And so are you."

  "Maybe. And maybe the bronzes never were missing." Stone leaned forward. His light blue eyes were intent and his voice was hard. "Maybe this is all just an elaborate lie so that the Chinese can get a guided tour of the internal security apparatus of the CIA overseas and the FBI's counterintelligence operation in America."

  Catlin nodded. That kind of intelligence gambit was the first thing that had occurred to him when he had heard Chen Yi's stated reason for being in the U.S. There was no way to prove or disprove Chen's honesty. There was simply trust. And lack of it.

  "Christ," Stone continued in a disgusted voice. "I'm being ordered – goddam ordered – to tell Chen anything that our informants in and out of the Asian communities turn up. The same goes for overseas operations, from what the guys at Langley said when we screwed pieces of your file out of them. They're as pissed as we are."

  Catlin nodded again, understanding the dilemma of Stone and Stone's counterpart in the CIA. If the Chinese wanted to know how deeply American intelligence had penetrated Asian communities at home and abroad, it would be a simple matter to leak "confidential" information about Qin bronzes in China and see where and how quickly the information surfaced elsewhere. Like dye markers tracing otherwise invisible river currents, the leaked rumors of Qin bronzes would outline the American intelligence network as informants and agents brought the information to the CIA or to the FBI – and thence directly to Chen Yi himself.

  "A Chinese sting," said Catlin flatly.

  "Yes." Stone's light blue eyes pinned Catlin. "Does that change your mind about cooperating with us?"

  "I am cooperating."

  "Yeah?" challenged Stone. "How?"

  "I agreed to work for Chen Yi."

  "You mean you were ordered to work for Chen?" asked Stone.

  "Another beer?" Catlin asked, coming to his feet in a single smooth movement.

  "No." Stone stood up quickly, knowing that his last question, like nearly all the others he had asked, wasn't going to be answered. He looked up at the man across the table from him. "I hope I get a chance to bust your ass, Catlin," said Stone matter-of-factly.

  "You've read my file. You've read Yi's." Catlin glanced at his watch. "Pick your devil, Stone. I've got a date."

  Suddenly Catlin looked up from his watch. The bleakness in those amber eyes made Stone remember all the years missing from Catlin's file.

  "I'll tell you this," Catlin added softly. "If someone helps me, I never forget it."

  He didn't need to add that if someone hurt him, he never forgot that, either.

  There was a moment of electric stillness. Slowly Stone nodded. He headed for the door, not waiting for Catlin to show him out.

  "Tell your boys to be more discreet," Catlin called after him, "or I'll take them out at night and lose them. There's no point in scaring the Danner woman before she's agreed to help us. If she agrees."

  "She will," Stone said grimly.

  Catlin raised one black eyebrow. "Flattery, blackmail, intimidation or bribery?"

  "Would you believe patriotism?" Stone asked, his tone sarcastic.

  "Would you?" Catlin asked curiously.

  Without a word Stone shut the apartment door behind him.

  Catlin finished dressing, shrugged into the specially tailored suit coat that fell without a wrinkle over gun and holster, and left the apartment. He was followed by two men who were discreet and a third who was very nearly invisible. Curious about the third man, Catlin maneuvered until he was close enough to identify him. O'Donnel.

  Only one of the men followed him into the Museum of the Asias. It wasn't O'Donnel. Catlin stood in the door of the secretary-receptionist's office. The sign on the desk said Sherry. Her face said available. She looked at him the way a cat looks at fresh cream. Catlin smiled and silently wished that Lindsay reacted to men in the same way. It would have made things so much cleaner, less complicated.

  Safer.

  "Jacob Catlin," he said. "I have an appointment with Lindsay Danner.''

  When Lindsay heard Sherry's light laughter and the click of her high heels as she crossed the margin between two hall rugs, Lindsay knew that her afterhours appointment was a man who fell into that broad category called "interesting." Other men, and all women, who checked in at Sherry's office on their way to finding Lindsay were given verbal directions rather than a smiling close-up of Sherry's personal charms.

  "Lindsay, this is Mr. Jacob Catlin," said Sherry, stepping over the threshold.

  Lindsay smiled professionally at the man who was being led into her office by Sherry's crimson-tipped fingers, which were buried in the sleeve of a custo
m-made silk suit coat that L. Stephen himself might have envied.

  "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Catlin," Lindsay said, rising and extending her hand. The name was familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. She decided that Catlin must be one of the many collectors she had heard of but never met.

  "Just Catlin, Miss Danner," he said, smiling and holding out his hand in return. "My father was Jake, I refused to answer to Jacob or Junior, so that left Catlin."

  Her smile changed, becoming more personal, less professional. "I wish I'd been that stubborn. I hated my name," she confessed. "I've learned to live with it, though. Please call me Lindsay."

  The handshake surprised Lindsay. Catlin's hand was hard, with a distinct ridge of callus along the outer edge of the palm. He was powerful underneath the tailored silk. Even as she registered the unusual strength of him, she realized that he had eyes that were the exact golden brown of an amber and bronze pendant she had just purchased for the museum.

  "You don't like the name Lindsay?" he asked. "Why? It's like you, restrained and elegant." His glance moved around the office. "No bronzes?" he asked, giving her no chance to either react to or retreat from his personal comment.

  Lindsay blinked and caught herself just before she looked around the office, too. "Er, no. Mr. White wasn't very specific as to which period of Chinese bronzes interested you."

  She retrieved her hand from her visitor's hard yet gentle grasp. He didn't try to hold the contact, but he let go of her hand in such a way that his fingertips caressed her from her palm all the way to her bronze-tinted nails. She gave him a swift, sideways glance, but he was absorbed in his study of the office, apparently unaware of the almost intimate way he had touched her. The paradox of the man intrigued her, particularly the civilized exterior on what she suspected was a very uncivilized interior. The best of the bronzes she dealt with were like that – three dimensional embodiments of human paradox.