Vortex

by Catherine Coulter

When the two dark shadows reached the front door, they tried to avoid the porch light but she saw both were dressed in black, their faces covered, and both carried guns with suppressors. Olivia slowly rose and shouted, “Drop your weapons. You know who I am, and you know I will shoot you.”

  The taller man dropped to his knees and fired until his magazine was empty, but she was already belly-flat against the ground again and the shots went well above her. She fired twice, watched him fall beside the front steps. The other man was backing up fast, firing, then he turned and ran back into the trees. She fired after him, but she didn’t hit him.

  7

  Savich and Sherlock

  Georgetown

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday evening

  Sherlock looked over at Sean, sprawled on his stomach on the living room rug, looking through the first book of the Magic Tree House series, a gift from his grandparents in San Francisco. “Mama, Papa, it’s not really a tree house, it’s a time machine!”

  Savich and Sherlock were sitting side by side on the sofa, enjoying the soft rustling of the flames in the fireplace when Sean shouted, “Dinosaurs!” Savich imagined time travel would be all his son would talk about with his friends in school tomorrow. Savich leaned down and ruffled his son’s dark hair, the same shade as his. No head of red curls like his mother’s, he’d tell her, and sometimes she punched him for it.

  Sherlock tucked her feet beneath her and leaned into Dillon, her curly hair tickling his nose. She tilted her head up, kissed his chin. “This is so nice, Dillon, like another dessert after the tiramisu.” She nipped his chin again and he closed his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. Though Sean was time-traveling back to the era of the Tyrannosaurus rex, Savich kept his voice low; Sean had bat ears and endless curiosity. “It’s going to be even more frigid in New York than here, so dress warm.”

  She settled in, sighed. “I can’t imagine it being any colder. What a March. You know I couldn’t say no, and Kelly wouldn’t ask me to come up if she weren’t in a jam, although what she thinks I can do baffles me.”

  He raised a dark brow. “Baffles you? Why?”

  “It’s not like there aren’t dozens of really smart agents in Manhattan. Why me?”

  He kissed her nose. “I’m not going to feed your ego. I expect you to go to New York and prove how brilliant you are.” Fact was Savich didn’t want her to leave, even for only a couple of days, but he knew she couldn’t turn down a fellow agent in the New York Field Office who’d been in the trenches with her, as Kelly Giusti had. “At least you’re helicoptering to New York, not fighting your way through the crowds at Dulles.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence and the pressure. I think Mr. Maitland pulled some strings to get me the helicopter and all because he set up an interview with the Guardian while I’m there, revisiting the JFK terrorist incident again.”

  “He knows you’ll make the FBI look good and so you deserve the helicopter.” She smiled, turned her face to rest against his, and her hair tickled his nose. He found himself inhaling her scent, a light rose, sweet, inviting, and it made him want to cart her off upstairs, but Sean was now dealing with baby dinosaurs, naming them aloud, telling them what to do, and so Savich said, “So Kelly’s the lead in investigating a triple murder they think might be the work of an unusual serial? That sounds interesting, right up your alley.”

  Sherlock shot Sean another look, heard him speaking to Cletus, a baby dinosaur, but still she kept her voice low. “She wants my fresh eyes on the crime scene—the kitchen in a spiffy home in Brickson, New York. She said the triple murder was made to look like a robbery, but they realized almost immediately it didn’t add up. It seems the murdered husband’s ex-girlfriend also had two former husbands, and both of them ended up dead soon after they left her. Both deaths were suspicious, one obviously a murder, but the proof wasn’t there so she skated. Both Kelly, her team, and local Homicide think the woman could have killed all of them.”

  Savich never liked it when they worked apart, but he sucked it up. “Don’t get a big head, but no one is better than you at reconstructing a crime scene, sweetheart. If there’s something there, you’ll see it.”

  Sherlock rested her face against his heart, smiled as she leaned up to kiss him. His heartbeat kicked up again, hers as well. She whispered against his neck, “Let’s get Sean to bed with his time machine and snuggle in under mounds of blankets, maybe discuss how to warm me up for my trip.”

  8

  Olivia and Savich

  CAU—Criminal Apprehension Unit

  Hoover Building

  Interview Room

  Tuesday morning

  Savich knew two things about CIA agent Olivia Hildebrandt, besides her name, from Detective Ben Raven in his early morning call. She’d been in Walter Reed Hospital until a short time ago recovering from wounds she’d suffered on a recent mission, and she was nearly killed by two men the night before, one of them Iranian. She looked exhausted, her face as pale as her white shirt, the dash of lipstick on her mouth not much help. Her thick chestnut hair was pulled back from her thin face in a fat French braid. She had expressive eyes, a deep blue, nearly navy, but the shadows beneath them were dark enough to hide in. Savich believed he saw strength in her eyes and hoped he was right.

  He smiled at her from the doorway of the interview room. “Good morning, Agent Hildebrandt, Detective Raven, and you must be Mr. Grace.”

  Grace stood, offered his hand. “Yes, I’m Carlton Grace, Agent Hildebrandt’s chief—in popular parlance, her handler. I direct and coordinate her assignments. A pleasure to meet you in person, Agent Savich. I’ve heard of you, naturally. I’m only sorry it’s under such trying circumstances.”

  Savich shook Grace’s hand, a slender hand with short buffed nails, but his grip was firm. He was a slight man with narrow shoulders, no taller than five feet eight, a long straight nose, a square jaw. He was comfortable to look at, his clothes sort of wrinkled, a guy you wouldn’t give a second look if he walked by on the street. Ben had warned Savich that CIA Operations Officer Grace had only grudgingly agreed the incident at Hildebrandt’s house was FBI purview, and he’d been even more reluctant to bring Olivia Hildebrandt and his own superior, Mr. Fulton Lodner, the CIA director of intelligence, to the Hoover Building, as if the FBI harbored a den of thieves. Lodner was late, perhaps to make an entrance? Savich had held firm, he wanted the CIA on his turf. Ben had said about Carlton Grace, “My take is Grace is reasonable enough, very worried about his agent, but he’ll follow his chain of command and they’ll fight tooth and nail to keep you from getting any information they want to keep classified, no matter how needful such information would be to you. My advice? Keep your boot on their necks or they’ll chop off your foot.”

  Carlton Grace said, “Agent Savich, as you already know, this is Agent Hildebrandt.”

  Savich gently took Hildebrandt’s hand. “I’m Special Agent Savich. No, don’t get up.”

  Olivia nodded. “Agent Savich.” He knows I’m on the edge, and he’s being careful with me. He was being kind and she hated it, hated that she looked as pathetic as she felt. She forced herself to straighten, to sit tall when all she really wanted to do was lean forward into the uncomfortable chair, put her face on the table. “Agent Savich. I’ve heard of your wife, Agent Sherlock, and her heroism. I was in Germany at the time, but it was all over the news.”

  Savich felt the jolt of pride he always felt when someone spoke of Sherlock. He nodded, pointed to the coffeepot and cups. “Thank you both for coming. Help yourselves to coffee.” He paused a moment. “Agent Hildebrandt, you need some orange juice. All right?”

  Her eyes brightened, she nodded, and he excused himself. He was back quickly and handed her a large glass of orange juice. “Our unit secretary, Shirley, keeps juice in a small fridge near her desk for mornings like this.”

  Olivia drank down the whole glass, closed her eyes a moment, then smiled at Savich. “Thank you.” She turned to
Mr. Grace. “Sir, keeping juice around at Langley might be a good idea.”

  Savich looked down at his watch, waited until Grace set his coffee cup down. “While we’re waiting for Mr. Lodner, why don’t you go over what happened to you, Agent Hildebrandt. I know very little. Please walk me through it.”

  A bit of a smile appeared, disappeared. “You mean last night.”

  She had a lovely smooth voice, with a hint of southern, maybe Georgia origins.

  “Yes. I’m sure there’s much more, but tell me about last night for a start.”

  Olivia told him about her nightly routine, Helmut’s waking her, and seeing a brief flash of light. Her voice was emotionless, her recounting clear, no digressions. “I was hunkered down beside the front of my house when I heard the two men whispering. One of the men spoke Farsi, the other English, but they spoke very quietly and I couldn’t make out their words. When they approached my front door, they were illuminated under my porch light; I saw they were both wearing black, and black masks. I yelled for them to drop their weapons. The taller man was fast, he got off seven rounds before I shot him. The second man was backing up and firing, then he turned and ran. I missed him.”

  Ben Raven smiled. She sounded pissed.

  Savich said, “It makes sense these two men were pros. Why do you think the first man missed you?”

  “I was lying on my stomach so both men shot well above me.”

  Savich said, “Well done. Did you search the man you shot?”

  Olivia said, “I waited until I heard a car start up half a block away, called 911 and Mr. Grace. Then, yes, I searched him. Nothing in his pockets, not even change or a matchbook, a motel key, not a thing. He had a suppressor on his weapon. It was a Smith & Wesson 9 mm semiautomatic and it was on the ground beside him. I checked the magazine, saw I was wrong, he’d fired off eight rounds before I shot him, not seven. Given his features, I’d say he was Iranian, the one who was speaking Farsi.”

  Savich said, “Can you describe the other man?”

  “As I said, they both wore black masks, but when he fired at me, I saw his wrist—he was light-skinned, probably Caucasian. He wasn’t tall, but he moved well, looked fit from what I could see. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Do you have any idea why those two men were there to kill you?”

  Carlton Grace’s fingers began to tap on the tabletop, but he said nothing.

  If it was a signal to keep quiet, Olivia ignored it. “It seems likely they were there because of my last mission.”

  “You were in Iran?”

  Grace said, his voice firm as a judge, “We’ll leave off discussing anything concerning that mission until Mr. Lodner arrives.”

  Savich nodded, said easily, “Tell me why you were in Walter Reed Hospital.”

  “An RPG—rocket-propelled grenade—landed near me and the blast knocked me out. I woke up in Balad Military Hospital in Iraq.” She stopped cold when there was a knock on the interview room door and Agent Davis Sullivan stuck his head in.

  “Savich, a Mr. Fulton Lodner is here from the CIA.”

  Savich saw Olivia stiffen, but she said nothing, stared down at her clasped hands. He expected Carlton Grace would look relieved, like the cavalry had arrived, but instead he looked stoic, as if he knew there was going to be blood spilled.

  After stiff introductions, Fulton Lodner sat beside Grace, clasped his hands in front of him on the table, and stared at Savich. He did not look happy, shook his head at the offer of coffee. He sat squarely in his fifties, his light hair thinning, mostly gray, and worn short. He looked like he didn’t compromise often, or wanted to. He was on the tall side, fairly fit, his slight paunch well disguised in a dark blue conservative suit. Savich saw calm intelligence in his eyes, felt Lodner sizing him up as well, imagined Lodner would rather shoot him than have to be in the same room with him and pretend to cooperate. He nodded to Grace, gave Olivia a stingy smile. He said in a calm, stiff voice, “Olivia, I trust you are recovered from your disturbance last night?”

  That’s what that was? A fricking disturbance? Olivia nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

  Lodner continued in a sharp impatient voice to Savich, “I was unable to be here earlier because I wanted to discuss this unusual situation with CIA Director Hendricks. Agent Savich, you know as well as I do that any investigation you conduct into this situation is unlikely to bear fruit. We have resources in place, we know the players. It is very doubtful you’ll be able to find the identity of the foreign national Agent Hildebrandt was forced to kill last night. There is even less chance you will find the second shooter. In short, you face failure, which makes it more obvious that the only intelligent solution is for the CIA to continue working on this case ourselves, even without domestic police power, while keeping you informed, naturally.”

  9

  Olivia

  So it was gloves off right out of the gate. Lodner’s whopping lie to keep him informed if he took over the case made Savich want to smile. Time for his boot on Lodner’s neck. Savich sat back in his chair, crossed his arms. “Mr. Lodner, as you very well know, it’s our responsibility, in our charter, not yours, to investigate domestic violence that violates federal law whether it involves a mail clerk in the post office or a CIA agent. Since you were perfectly clear, let me return the favor. If you do not cooperate with me today, provide me all the information I need to proceed, our own director will be told. Let me assure you, he will not take this lightly.”

  Lodner’s voice became frigid. “You fail to realize how serious the diplomatic damage would be if Agent Hildebrandt’s mission becomes public. You have no understanding of the possible consequences or retaliation, nor should you, because your charter hasn’t equipped you to. There are lives at stake as well, lives that are our responsibility, not yours.”

  “All the more reason for you to tell me what I need to know. There will be no leaks from the FBI. Now, can we stop the pissing contest? Tell me about the mission to Iran that resulted in the serious injury of Agent Hildebrandt and the subsequent attempt on her life last night.”

  Lodner’s fist hit the tabletop. “There is no definitive proof the attempted shooting last night has anything to do with Iran.”

  Olivia’s eyebrow shot up. She opened her mouth, closed it.

  Lodner ground his teeth, turned to Olivia. “Agent Hildebrandt, what did you tell him about Iran?”

  “Nothing, sir. Only that one of the men last night was probably Iranian. I heard him speak Farsi.”

  Grace said quietly, “I believe, sir, you should tell Agent Savich about our mission to Iran.”

  Lodner looked back at Savich. “Very well. I am prepared to give you an overview of the mission, but certainly not the classified details.”

  “You may begin with the broad strokes, Mr. Lodner, then we’ll see.”

  “What I will tell you is sensitive enough. Therefore, I ask that you, Detective Raven, leave now. What I will say is for Agent Savich’s ears only.”

  Savich nodded to Ben. He rose, grinned. “Thank you for the show then, gentlemen. What I’ve already heard will be a cherished memory.” He turned dead serious. “Agent Hildebrandt, you can trust Agent Savich to keep you safe and find out how and why this happened.” He turned and quietly closed the door behind him. Savich thought he heard whistling.

  Lodner’s lips were seamed as he stared at the door. He turned back to Savich. “I will remind you, Agent Savich, you will be held accountable for any leak of this information. Do you understand?” At Savich’s patient nod, he continued. “Very well. We had an undercover operative embedded at Iranian military headquarters. He was in Tehran for thirteen months when he discovered he’d been identified and was about to be arrested. He contacted Mr. Grace, who arranged for Agent Hildebrandt and her team to pick him up near the Iraqi border.” He paused. “It came as a shock to us to find him actually running from the Iranian military. We do not as yet know how the government found out so quickly where he was headed.

&n
bsp; “Our operative was killed but the information he was carrying on a flash drive was saved. There was sustained gunfire and the team was hit by an RPG that rendered Agent Hildebrandt unconscious. She was airlifted to Balad Military Hospital, then flown back later to the States for evaluation at Walter Reed.

  “The details of the mission, the name of our undercover operative, how we embedded him, the critical information we hoped to obtain from the flash drive one of the team members managed to bring out—that is all highly classified. That’s as much information as I can give you.”

  “Where is the flash drive?”

  Lodner shook his head. “We don’t as yet have it.”

  “Why don’t you have it?”

  “That is classified, Agent Savich.”

  Savich looked thoughtful. “I see. So the attack on Agent Hildebrandt last night could be an attempt to find the flash drive?”

  Mr. Lodner said again, this time his teeth gritted, “That is classified, Agent Savich.”

  Savich said easily, “It appears that flash drive, with the critical information on it your operative was bringing out, may well be the key, indeed the reason for the attack on Agent Hildebrandt. Who has the flash drive?”

  Lodner said, annoyance radiating off him in waves, “Very well, our operative was scheduled to arrive at Langley to debrief with Mr. Grace and give him the flash drive, but he did not. We don’t know where he is or why he hasn’t come in. We are searching for him.

  “Until we have verified information to the contrary, we will assume the attack on Agent Hildebrandt last night was a retaliatory action against the team we sent to exfiltrate our undercover operative in Iran.”

  Carlton Grace frowned. “But, Fulton, that would be entirely new, something they’ve never attempted before. Also, who would possibly even know the names of the agents involved? As far as I can see, there’s simply no other obvious connection between Olivia’s mission to Iran and the attack on her last night, no obvious cause and effect.” He nodded to Savich. “I agree with Agent Savich. It has to be the flash drive.”