by Cherry Adair
“More than likely,” Hunt agreed.
Despite the UN-mandated embargo on stones mined in Sierra Leone and Liberia, the gems were currently openly smuggled into Antwerp, Belgium, and other diamond centers, where they melted into the anonymous diamond chain worldwide. Diamonds were an integral part of the finances of terrorists precisely because they were the one commodity that knew no boundaries and no allegiance to any government. A diamond sold in Amsterdam based on carat weight, not country of origin.
They were the perfect currency for criminals of all sorts and terrorists specifically. They were easy to smuggle, transport, and sell. And terrorists understood better than most legitimate brokers how to take advantage of the deregulation that had come with globalization, where international financial transfers were instantaneous and almost impossible to trace. In exchange for the diamonds, Morales would be paid—handsomely, Hunt assumed—in cash and weapons. Then the whole cycle began again.
“So Mano del Dios is laundering diamonds through Antwerp to purchase arms. Not a revelation.” Damn it. They needed something solid. Something concrete to go on. Right now they didn’t even know which bloody continent they should be looking at. Hunt leaned back in his chair and looked out to make sure Taylor was sitting quietly.
“Correspondence indicates Morales was looking to buy sophisticated surface-to-air missile systems and powerful rockets from half a world away,” Max reported. “The order from Morales went to Antwerp, then was relayed to Central America. Mejía Luis Godoy in the Nicaraguan army, with the aid of a South African arms dealer based in Panama and a Russian based in Guatemala, filled the orders.”
“Despite increases in diamond mining activity in Africa,” Wright added, “export figures show the numbers plummeting for the last six months. Our analysts have been keeping a close eye on it.”
“And?” Hunt asked. There had to be more.
“We don’t know where the hell the diamonds are going,” Wright told them flatly.
“Let me know when we figure it out,” Hunt told him.
“Will do.” The line went dead.
“So that’s it,” Hunt said to the others. “Conjecture is, the diamonds are going to Antwerp in exchange for the weapons.”
“A drop in the bucket, according to Wright,” Bishop pointed out. “We’re not sure that it is Morales taking those diamonds.” The frustration level rose.
“Let’s say we are sure,” Hunt offered, “and take it from there.” He walked over to the maps and flipped them to access a map of the world.
Bishop tapped a pen on the table. “Then he’s stockpiling them to purchase more ordnance.”
“Or stockpiling them to drive up the price.” Hunt placed colored pins on the map where they currently had intel or men on the ground. “Either way, where would he stash them?”
“Africa? Sierra Leone perhaps?” Max Aries answered, staring at the map.
Hunt wasn’t so sure. “Too volatile. Someplace easily bought, easily manipulated.”
“I agree with Neal,” Max said. “Africa. Sierra Leone is part of al Qaeda’s financial architecture. Morales would ship them out of the region. Fast. Before bin Laden’s people know they’re missing.” Max wrote notes on a tablet in front of him.
Bishop jumped in. “Wright sent this information via encryption.” He scanned it, then read out loud. “ ‘We intercepted an encrypted e-mail from Morales to his representative in Hong Kong about an order.’ ” He then paraphrased the message, which noted the usual rifles and ammo, fifty SA-8 missiles, a thousand rockets for BM-21 multirocket launchers, several thousand Dragunov sniper rifles, and untold smaller, portable munitions. “And an end-user certificate,” Bishop concluded. “The order was made sixty days ago and the ongoing discussion is about payment for the order. Or lack thereof.”
Hunt didn’t like the sound of that. “The asking price must be pretty bloody steep if Morales is stalling.”
Bishop cleared his throat.
Hunt sharpened his gaze. “What is it?”
“The payment? One point seven billion.” Bishop coughed out the last word.
The oxygen was all but sucked out of the room. Billion. Morales wasn’t playing.
“Jesus,” Hunt said.
Max took a long drink of soda. “What’s the bet that’s from the blood diamonds he’s been stockpiling?”
Bishop frowned. “But why hasn’t he retrieved them and paid up out of the thirty billion we estimate they have stashed?”
“He’s spent, or spending, the money on something else,” Hunt offered.
Bishop and Max clearly had no answer. If T-FLAC knew, they’d all be flying on a mission to retrieve or disassemble the weaponry.
Morales wasn’t simply collecting traditional munitions. No, he’d spent the last year acquiring chemicals and biological components as well. In massive quantities.
“Confirmation on the chemicals?” Hunt asked, still watching Taylor through the partially open door as he got up to grab a sandwich; old chicken salad, his favorite.
“Yeah. He’s got ’em up the yazoo now,” Max said, his tone grim as Hunt resumed his seat at the table. “The Pakistani shipped the nerve agents and paralytics three days ago. Japan’s EBINA supplied him with military-grade liquid explosives.”
He knew the EBINA didn’t mess around. They dealt in high-tech stuff. An epoxylike combination of agents that could be transported safely in separate containers, but mix them, and bang! Serious blow-up power.
“Holy crap,” Aries said, getting up to go to the small hidden fridge. “Merely having all that shit in the same place is enough to turn my hair white.” He returned to the conference table with several cans and set the sodas in the middle. They’d need caffeine, sugar, and sustenance before this briefing was over.
Their headsets buzzed—never good when Control called twice in the same thirty minutes. They hadn’t even finished reading the intel he’d sent.
“We’re listening,” Hunt said, giving the go-ahead.
“He’s done amassing.” Wright’s voice was grim. “We’ve deciphered the dummy shipping manifests. Everything’s been shipped, very quietly and efficiently to southern Africa via Mozambique.”
“What does he want in Africa?” Max said. “Doesn’t make sense. Sierra Leone I get, South Africa? What’s the attraction?” Max demanded.
The pieces began to fall into place. “They have AIDS in Africa,” he pointed out. “But he’s already bombed several clinics there in the last five years. Not that he wouldn’t keep destroying them as long as they have patients.” AIDS was a hot button to Morales because of its sexual connotation. “He’s going to kill them to save them. Makes sense in his fucked-up brain.”
“Yeah,” Wright agreed. “It does. But we haven’t tracked any unusual activity on that continent since he did the South African Embassy sarin gas episode in The Hague, in 2004.”
“Who’s inside?” Hunt asked.
Wright answered, “Coetzee’s been on red alert in Jo’burg for the past three months. He’s got a rock-solid contact on the inside of Mano, but there hasn’t been a whisper there about any impending activity in that region.”
“How in the bloody hell is he keeping something this big, this quiet?” Hunt frowned. Friday the thirteenth. New York? They’d checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. Nothing significant was scheduled for that date.
“We have a time,” Wright told the team. “Confirmed. Friday, October thirteenth. Eleven thirty-three GMT.”
“Eleven thirty-three? That’s pretty goddamned precise.” Hunt rubbed his jaw. “Is this from a reliable source?”
Wright’s chuckle was a bit rusty. “In our line of business? We’ve been contacted by our female informant on the inside. Who the hell knows what ax she has to grind, but it’s all we’ve got, so let’s go with it until we learn different.”
The mystery woman had been tipping them off for several months. Never enough, however. She was always extremely vague. And extremely frightened. The
y speculated that she worked in the Morales household in a trusted position.
“She didn’t give us a location?”
“Negative.”
“Then let’s hope to hell she contacts us again. Soon. In the meantime, let’s say not East Coast time,” Hunt suggested. “Central? Mountain? I doubt it, but check, would you? Pacific Time . . . that would make it 3:33. We’ve already looked at San Francisco. But look again. But if I were a betting man—”
“And a religious zealot,” Max added.
“Las Vegas,” Hunt finished, coming to the same conclusion at the same time as Wright and Max.
“I’m on it as we speak.” Through his headset, Hunt heard the computer keys clicking from Michael Wright’s end.
“My gut tells me Vegas is Mano’s Friday the thirteenth target,” Hunt repeated. He knew he was right. And so did the other members on the team. Las Vegas was exactly Morales’s twisted cup of tea. A large city filled with sinners. Perfect. Perfectly twisted. Hunt felt a familiar sensation in his gut.
He didn’t know how he was this sure, but God help them all, he was positive. “He’s going to do a long-range, soft-target launch from somewhere in southern Africa.”
“Christ.” Wright was typing furiously in the background, sending the intel to relevant operatives to confirm or deny. “Inputting the data . . . sounds far-fetched as hell. But my educated guess is, you’re right . . . Sending it to . . .” He spoke away from his mic. “Yeah. Okay. Done. We’re on it.” Then, back with the team, he continued, “I’ve put in to take inventory of guidance chips and hardware.”
Mano del Dios had a long-launch guidance missile hidden, and hidden bloody well. Somewhere in Africa.
“Bloody hell,” Hunt said, more to himself than the others. “The son of a bitch is just crazy enough to try it. But a seven-thousand-nautical mile air strike? Who has the necessary tech knowledge to make that happen?”
“We’ll find out,” Wright told him, not a shred of doubt in his voice.
Sixteen
Hunt watched Taylor through the partially open door, not distracted at all by the length of her pale, smooth legs as she propped her crossed ankles on the seat opposite and stared out of the large porthole.
“We’re ready to move at a moment’s notice,” he told Wright as she lay her head back and closed her eyes. “Have the rest of my team deployed to Zurich. As soon as we have the disks, we’ll transmit.”
“Forty-eight hours,” Wright reminded them unnecessarily. “Aries, I need you in Poland ASAP. Let me know when you’re clear.”
Max gave Hunt a shrug. “Will do.”
“What are you going to do with the woman once you have the disks?” Bishop wanted to know.
“Hand her over to Interpol when I—we’re done with her,” Hunt told him flatly. “Or whoever else wants her. I’m sure the list is a mile long.”
“And on that list,” Max reminded him without inflection, “are Mano del Dios and possibly Black Rose. She’d better hope Interpol gets to her first.”
“Interpol,” Bishop inserted as he rose. “At least she’d have a fighting chance with them.” He walked into the head and closed the door.
“If that tango connection has been cleaned up,” Hunt remembered, feeling a distinct chill. Another T-FLAC group was following leads on an Interpol/terrorist connection. Releasing her would be certain death—but he doubted she’d want their “protection” anyway. Too damned independent for her own good, Taylor Kincaid wouldn’t thank anyone for trying to save her.
Not his bloody problem, Hunt cautioned himself. But the thought of her in the hands of either the Black Rose or Mano del Dios bothered him a great deal. “We could send her to Montana, I suppose,” he said reluctantly, annoyed that what happened to her—one way or the other—impinged on him at all. By suggesting she be sent to HQ in Montana, he was taking tacit responsibility for her safety. Hell. When had he started to feel responsible?
“I’ll start the ball rolling,” Wright offered. “Control out.”
“She’s going to be trouble,” Max told Hunt blandly, removing his earpiece. Trouble, Max’s eyes told him, for both him and T-FLAC.
“Going to be?” Hunt said dryly, tossing his headset onto the table as he stood. “She’s a pain in the ass now.”
“Remember the Curse,” Max said quietly.
Right, Hunt thought grimly. The fucking, always there, not to be bucked, Curse. Let’s never forget that. “Not applicable,” he assured Max.
“Always applicable,” Max shot back.
Hunt shook his head. Max was way off. “Are you nuts? I’ve known the woman for all of five seconds. Love isn’t even close to the emotions I feel when I’m around her. Pissed, frustrated, hell—homicidal—would all be more appropriate.”
“Horny.” Max smirked.
Hunt wouldn’t deny the obvious. He wasn’t a monk. “That too. And perfectly controllable.”
“It’s a lot easier to control a hard-on than it is your emotions.”
“Is that a fact?” Hunt responded, forcing a lightness into his tone he didn’t feel. For the last several months “easy” wasn’t what he’d call his control over his irrational lust for Taylor Kincaid. Since the moment he’d met her he’d wanted her.
He had only eight more hours of this sheer physical torture to endure, and then she’d be gone. He could do it. He would do it. Lust was eminently controllable. He knew he was very good at compartmentalizing his emotions.
Lust was controllable. Love wasn’t.
Which he’d learned the hard way, and to his eternal detriment.
Twenty-nine-year-old Sylvie had been tall, blonde, sophisticated, and five years older than Hunt when they’d met at a boring fund-raiser in D.C. He’d just obtained his law degree from the University of London and returned home to D.C. to visit his father. He’d had a month’s vacation due before reporting to T-FLAC headquarters in Montana for briefing.
It hadn’t taken the entire month for Hunt to fall in love with the beautiful young law clerk. He’d been crazy in love with her halfway through their first week together. He and Sylvie had been inseparable—
“You’ve already tried bucking the Curse,” Max reminded him, reading his mind as only a good friend could. “It almost killed you.”
“Almost being the operative word,” he replied. “The experience inoculated me. I’ve been completely immune ever since. Besides, in a few hours the situation will resolve itself.” The plane would land in Zurich, she’d hand off the disks, and he’d never see her again.
Max gave him a steady look. “Only fools and the terminally arrogant think they can beat it.”
“Those words are permanently engraved in my DNA,” Hunt assured him.
“What curse?” Bishop asked, coming out of the head.
“The L-O-V-E Curse,” Max spelled out for the younger man, still looking at Hunt. “The most deadly curse of all. One of the reasons we do our frikking job so well is because we’re all alike. We have a need to control our environment. And we do that with the work we do. Until we—”
“Until we’re fool enough to bring a woman into the equation,” Hunt inserted. “Then we’re screwed. There’s not a bloody thing a man can control about love. It’s messy, painful, traitorous, and unstable.”
“Love is the Curse,” Max said. “It’s a no-win situation, and the sooner you wrap your brain around that one, kid, the better off you’ll be.”
Bishop frowned, glancing from Hunt to Max and back again. “There are exceptions . . .”
They both shook their head at his näiveté. “Famous last words,” Hunt said. “Famous bloody last words. We said and believed them ourselves—once.” Hunt mock-saluted Max and strode out of the aft cabin.
He had eight hours to kill.
Taylor was curled up, fast asleep in her seat. Obviously she hadn’t been the least bit bothered by his scrutiny during the briefing. Skirting a low table, Hunt swiveled the chair opposite so it faced hers, then sat down.
&n
bsp; He stretched out his long legs and rested his clasped hands on his flat belly, allowing himself a few quiet uninterrupted moments to study her when she didn’t have all her defenses up.
One could learn a surprising amount from observing someone as they slept. A person who had nothing to hide, who felt safe, might sleep spread out. Open. Vulnerable.
She lay curled like a child, a hand beneath her cheek, the red dress hiked high on her hip, exposing miles of creamy leg. She looked innocent lying there. The girl next door. Only better. More like the centerfold next door.
Why the bloody hell did he have to keep reminding himself that she wasn’t the innocent? When she was captured—as she most assuredly would be one day—she’d be thrown into jail for a good twenty or thirty years.
Innocent she wasn’t.
Why would a woman like this—an exquisite sophisticate, who must have men slavering at her feet like whipped dogs, men who would give her anything she could possibly want or need—steal? What drove her? What motivated her? He guessed the answer lay in Zurich. His gut told him she was still hiding something.
The steady drone of the engines relaxed him. In a while he’d get up and read through her file again. In the meantime he could look his fill. She was a dangerous woman, Taylor Kincaid. He’d do well to remember that, instead of . . . other things.
Seventeen
LONDON
“What did you say your name was?” José Morales asked the woman who’d shown up unannounced at his office an hour ago.
She gave him a cool look from black eyes. “May I sit down?”
He waved an open palm toward the too-soft, too-low, leather chair opposite his desk.
The woman sat, ankles crossed, hands in her lap. She looked to be a well-preserved forty, with dyke-short black hair and an understated, man-tailored navy business suit. “My name, Mr. Morales, is Theresa Smallwood. I believe I have some information that could prove to be of value to you.”
José doubted it. He didn’t know what she was up to, but a man as busy as he had little time to waste playing games.
