Vortex

by Catherine Coulter

  “You’re right about that. Did Mr. Grace tell you about our meeting with the FBI?”

  “What? You were all at the FBI? You’re kidding me. No, wait, of course they’d be involved with a shooting on American soil. Okay, walk me through it.”

  “Well, Mr. Grace and I were escorted to the third floor of the Hoover Building into an interview room, you know the kind, a long scarred table, uncomfortable chairs, plain white walls, and we met with Special Agent Savich, who’s in charge of the investigation. Mr. Lodner made a late entrance and he was obviously pissed at having to come to the enemy encampment. They were both tight-lipped, but Agent Savich got most everything he wanted out of Mr. Lodner, even got them both to leave so we could talk privately. He seems very smart, and I think I might even trust him. He promised he’s going to find out who the man I shot last night was, and that he’s going to find Mike. Of course he agrees all this is connected to our mission, and that flash drive Hashem gave Mike that disappeared with him.”

  Andi heaved out a breath. “Makes sense, obviously. This Agent Savich sounds interesting. I’ve never heard of anyone having his way with Lodner, Mr. Stiff Lip himself. But, Olivia, I don’t see how this FBI agent, however smart he is, could possibly find Mike when we can’t even identify a foreign agent.”

  “You might think I’m crazy, but I think he will.”

  “Of course I wish him well, finding Mike and that flash drive. I remember Higgs asked Mike on our flight to Balad if Hashem told him what was on the flash drive before he died, but Mike only shook his head and didn’t say anything. I’ll tell you, Olivia, the way it’s looking now, you can hardly say the mission was a success—Hashem died, you were hurt, Mike’s missing, and no flash drive. And now you were almost killed again. There’s got to be lots of stuff going on we don’t know about, Olivia, bad stuff.”

  Andi drew a deep breath. “I don’t know if you remember, but I tried to get over to help Mike when Hashem was shot, but Higgs shouted to me. He needed cover. I remember you were close to them. Did you hear Hashem tell Mike anything when he gave him the flash drive, something that could help us?”

  Olivia said, “I remember he spoke to Mike before he died, but if I heard what Hashem said to him, it didn’t register, or that RPG blew it out of my brain. The doctors don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fill in all the blanks from that day.

  “Andi, tell me again you’re tucked away where no one can find you.”

  “Yes, I am, and I was ordered not to tell anyone, even you. If things get dicey, I’ll call you if I want to come over, all right?”

  “I’d still prefer we were together. We could protect each other.” Olivia heard the tension, the fear, in Andi’s voice and made her own voice light. “Like we did those insane two days outside of Kirkuk, remember? Holding off a dozen insurgents? We had tea at the Baba Gurgur Hotel that day after the army showed up.”

  “Insane is right. That was a time, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, good times. I remember we were sitting behind this mud wall when you told me about the lawyer you nearly married until you realized he bored you brainless, and it was after that you joined the CIA.”

  Andi laughed. “Let’s say I didn’t want to disappoint my parents, so I let him cancel the wedding.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  Andi laughed again. “I went joyriding on his teenage brother’s motorcycle, nearly killed myself, and came out laughing, and he was well and truly shocked, called me crazy. My mom told me he married a paralegal. He has two kids and lives in the New Jersey burbs.”

  Olivia chuckled. It felt good, but it lasted only until Andi threw a bucket of cold water. “Listen, Olivia, we have to consider someone at Langley could have been involved in the attempt on your life, maybe Mr. Grace, maybe Mr. Lodner, maybe someone we don’t even know. And we have to face up to it, Mike could be dead. The possibilities are so endless, I’m nearly ready to believe Putin’s turned Christian.”

  Olivia said without hesitation, “No. I’d know if Mike were dead.” She believed her words, but Olivia wished she could take them back. It was too raw, too personal.

  Andi said matter-of-factly, “I know you and Mike have been involved the past several years. When the RPG hit close to you, you were slammed back against a boulder, unconscious, maybe dead, and Mike went nuts, cursed a blue streak. He was a wild man, throwing rocks off you, pulling you over his shoulder and running back toward the plateau. It was insane, the gunfire, the RPGs landing around us. He yelled to us to carry out Hashem. And we did.” She paused a moment. “I think that was the closest either of us has come to getting blown up. We were lucky, Olivia. We could all have been killed. Yeah, I’d say Mike really cares about you, as much as you care about him.”

  Mike already knows I’m crazy. The thought brought a fleeting smile, and then Olivia thought of what Mike had done and swallowed hard. “Thanks for telling me that, Andi. I still think we can find him, and so does Agent Savich. Check with me every day, and whenever you like, I’ll clear your joining us here at the safe house. Please come if you don’t feel safe where you are.”

  “Sure I will, but as I said, I’m well hidden. And unless Mr. Grace orders me to come in, I’d rather be out here than in a safe house. I have some sources and plan to use them. Hey, don’t worry, I’m CIA, I know how to take care of myself.”

  Olivia tapped end on her cell, saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. Too late to call Dillon Savich. She snuggled against Helmut, pressing her face against his soft fur.

  20

  Sherlock

  Agent Kelly Giusti and Agent Cal McLain’s apartment

  New York City

  Wednesday morning

  Sherlock perked up when Greeny’s “Give Me a Wet One” blasted out of her cell. “It’s Dillon,” she murmured to Kelly and Cal. She took a quick bite of Cal’s awesome strawberry crepe and excused herself from the breakfast table. She walked into the hallway with its bright prints of the Italian Riviera against a soft yellow wall. “It’s great to hear your voice. Tell me everything is peaceful, Sean ate his French toast, and Graciella took him to school?”

  Savich laughed. “Yes, to all of the above, only I wasn’t paying attention and accidentally poured Cheerios and milk in Astro’s bowl. He couldn’t scarf it up fast enough. He’s sleeping off his Cheerios high, snoring like a freight train. How are Cal and Kelly?”

  “Both of them are fine. Kelly says even though Cal is a pain in the butt, he’s a good boss. She doesn’t let him forget he wouldn’t have gotten the promotion if he hadn’t been assigned to be my bodyguard during those insane days before we brought down that terrorist on the steps of the Lincoln Monument. You caught us at the end of breakfast, only a few more bites of a strawberry crepe left. I wonder if Cal could teach you how to make those crepes. A little flavor of France to go with your amazing Italian? Oh yes, they’re planning on a June wedding.”

  “I would never horn in on another man’s territory. Would you believe Cal called me and I told him how to make crepes. Sounds like he did them right.” After she snorted out a laugh, Savich continued. “Congratulations to them and to you for figuring out what happened. Have you had any luck finding the gun range Storin’s been using?”

  “No, and I don’t know why. Kelly and I called most of the gun ranges within a three-hour drive of Brickson yesterday, texted them Storin’s photo, in case she used a fake name, asked the owners to show it around, but no luck. Today, we’ll be trying southern Connecticut.

  “I’ll tell you, Dillon, after watching Kelly’s two interviews with Storin, I agree with her. Storin’s a card-carrying psychopath. She’s smart, very articulate, but like Kelly said, there’s something very off about her.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m tired of hearing myself talk about her. What’s happening at your end? How are you managing the CIA? And the operative?”

  There was only a slight pause, but she knew something was going on but he didn’t want to tell her about it, didn’t want to split her focus; m
aybe it was dangerous and he didn’t want to worry her. “Come on, Dillon, spill it. I can multitask. What’s going on? Is it that bad?”

  He laughed. “Never miss a thing, do you? All right, two men tried to kill the CIA operative, Olivia Hildebrandt, at her home Monday night, that or kidnap her. Her golden retriever, Helmut, woke her up. She killed one of the two men, the other escaped. There’s more, of course, but this really is top secret, and our cells aren’t secure. Since the man she killed is a foreign national, the FBI is in charge. We’re talking international intrigue here. And no, I shouldn’t tell you any more.”

  Sherlock wanted to know every single detail, but she knew he’d shut off the spigot for now. She said, “I wish I could be there with you. You be careful, you hear me?”

  “Don’t worry.” Because he wanted to distract her, he said, “When do you have your interview at the Guardian?”

  “I spoke on the phone to the reporter, told her I’d stop by when I have time. Tell Mr. Maitland not to worry. She’s gung ho, so it will be a positive piece, as advertised.

  “Dillon, I gave MAX a kiss before I left, told him I was counting on him finding out where Storin is always traveling to in Washington. Has he found anything at all? Maybe some kind of property?”

  She could practically see his smile over the phone at the image of Sherlock kissing his laptop.

  “Come on, spill it. What, Dillon?”

  “MAX has come through like gangbusters. You’re going to like this.”

  21

  Mia

  Beacon Hill

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Wednesday morning

  On her cab ride from the Constitution Inn to Boston’s Beacon Hill’s famed Louisburg Square, Mia read a comment to her blog from a reader who wrote that reducing the time to appeal the death penalty to three years before the fatal injection would certainly reduce the murder rate. He didn’t understand why everyone didn’t realize this. Idiots, all who didn’t agree. Mia grinned, posted her reply thanking the reader, and sat back. She was content to let the readers take over, which they always did. In Milo’s opinion, her lack of making pronouncements was why her blog was so popular.

  She opened Kali’s landing page and studied a photo of the woman she was about to interview, Pamela Raines Barrett, Alex Harrington’s fiancée. She was standing beside her desk in her office, her arms crossed over her Armani jacket, looking elegantly thin. Her fine-boned face, while not beautiful, was compelling. Mia scrolled to the Facebook page of Belinda Raines Barrett, Pamela’s younger sister, only nineteen, obviously a latecomer to the family. Bless her gregarious teenage heart, she’d posted a good dozen photos of Alex Harrington. Only one of them was of Alex with her big sister Pamela, but there were at least a dozen recent photos of herself with him, at dances, sailing, at a clambake in Nantucket. Was there infatuation in her pretty brown eyes when they focused on Alex? And she had posted some photos of Alex and Kent together, golfing, swimming, sailing. Whatever Alex did, the young Belinda seemed to want a picture of it. One photo showed Alex and Kent gaming, both absorbed, unaware anyone was taking their picture.

  Mia closed down Kali’s landing site and wondered if Kali liked meatloaf.

  Her taxi pulled up in front of a town house set in a long row of town houses, all of them much the same, red brick with white trim, all very old. Even in the tail end of winter, on a frigid overcast Wednesday, the neighborhood looked locked in time, a revered row of monuments announcing to the world the social standing of the occupants. For the Bostonian elite, Louisburg Square was the address. Mia paid her Roxbury driver who’d entertained her with nonstop commentary on the fate of the Red Sox this upcoming season.

  Pamela had asked to meet Mia here rather than at her office on Newbury Street, and of course Mia knew why. Ms. Pamela wanted to impress her, intimidate her, make her understand she was dealing with power—and she’d best tread carefully, respectfully. Fine by Mia; she’d always wanted to see the inside of one of these testaments to old Boston wealth and, naturally, good breeding.

  She was met at the front door not by a butler or a maid, but by Pamela Raines Barrett herself. Alex Harrington had obviously called his fiancée, told her this was an important interview, and Pam didn’t want to appear a snob. She looked very stylish in another black Armani suit, a white-as-snow turtleneck sweater under the jacket, three-inch Louboutin heels on her narrow feet. Her dark hair was loose, worn around her shoulders, lovely really, pulled back from her face by two golden barrettes.

  Mia knew Pam was examining her thoroughly as well, all in a split second, a skill all women seemed to share. Then she smiled, a lovely welcoming smile, showing perfect white teeth.

  “Ms. Briscoe? I’m Pamela Barrett. Please come in.”

  They shook hands and Mia stepped into a rather small entrance hall displaying an antique table with gorgeous winter mums in a blue colonial vase, an equally old mirror above it, and a single ladder-back chair. For those waiting for an audience? Pamela laid Mia’s coat and scarf neatly on the chair and showed her into a living room that made Mia catch her breath, as it was meant to. The walls were painted a vivid dark red, the intricate moldings a stark white. The room wasn’t large, but neither was it overloaded with antiques. It was sparsely furnished, minimalist even, reflecting Pamela’s decorating style. Artful splashes of color brightened the room, making it warm and welcoming. Mia wondered how deep the town house went, with how many livable floors. She would like to see the kitchen and bathrooms. She wondered how many times they’d been redesigned and updated, certainly a few since the town house was built back in the time of the Colonial Ark, or thereabouts.

  “Your home is lovely.”

  “Thank you. My grandmother deeded this house to me because she knew I’d tend it, keep it fresh and loved.” Pam waved a graceful hand, her seven-carat engagement ring shimmering even in the soft light. “Please sit down. You like your coffee black, I know.” She poured, without waiting for an answer, from a silver Georgian pot Paul Revere himself might have fashioned, into impossibly fragile-looking porcelain cups Queen Charlotte herself might have used more than two centuries before.

  Mia merely raised an eyebrow.

  Pamela laughed. “Alex told me you like your coffee straight. He’s very observant. He was pleased you wanted to come to Boston to meet with me but he did warn me you’d probably try to pry all sorts of secrets about him out of me.” She laughed again as she passed Mia her coffee. “Of course I’ve read your blogs, Ms. Briscoe. I find you—” She paused.

  “Too far to the left? Too far to the right? Too conventional?”

  Pamela smiled, waved Mia’s words away. “No, I think you’re courageous, actually. You take on some topics most people avoid, topics that reflect how polarized the country’s become, and you offer compromises you obviously know won’t please either side. That’s brave.”

  “Believe it or not,” Mia said, sipping her sinfully rich coffee, “there are many more people in the center than you might think. It’s only they never say much, and that’s a pity. I try to give them a forum where they can be comfortable saying what they think. It’s a pity more centrists don’t take part; it’s usually those to the far left or the far right to chime in with their opinions they believe are solid gold.”

  “Alex agrees with you about that,” Pam said smoothly, an excellent segue. Again, Mia was impressed.

  “He wants to remind New Yorkers they have common goals—the city’s welfare, its education and job opportunities, and finding the golden compromise between public safety and personal freedom.”

  Mia nodded, pretended to type silently on her iPad.

  Canned, but Pam spoke fluently. “Tell me, Ms. Barrett, how did you and Alex meet?”

  “Please, call me Pamela, and I’ll call you Mia, is that all right?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How we met—now there’s a story. I was six years old, Alex was eight, I think, and we both wanted to play quarterback on the same team in a neig
hborhood pickup football game. I recall he picked me up and threw me like a football at his friend Kent, who dropped me. I sprained my wrist. Things didn’t improve between us for a very long time.” She laughed.

  “That’s a good one. Readers will like that story. It shows, too, that Kent and Alex have been friends since childhood. They’re still close. I assume you forgave his throwing you when you were six?”

  “Yes, I did, but not until we were teenagers. I even forgave Kent for dropping me. He’s smart, fun, and a better gamer than Alex, although Alex hates to admit it, claims before he got out of practice because he has to work so hard, he could beat Kent with only one good eye.” She grinned, shook her head. “As you know, they went to school together from Bennington Prep through Harvard. I respect what Kent’s doing, expanding his family’s legacy. He’s as committed as Alex to what he does. As I’m sure you’ve seen for yourself, Alex is an outstanding leader, always thoughtful in his decisions, always praises his staff for a job well done, freely gives credit when it’s due. His people are loyal to him for that, they respect him.”

  “I suppose your families vacationed together? Perhaps at the Harrington cottage on Nantucket?”

  “Oh yes. I have wonderful memories of those warm summers, swimming, sunning, clamming. For the kids, it was magical, only of course, kids take the magic for granted.”

  “And the memories become even more magical when we’re older and looking back, right?”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

  Mia said without pause, “I understand Alex was engaged to the concert pianist Juliet Ash Calley two years ago? I assume they decided they weren’t suited, or was it your coming onto the scene that made Alex realize he’d made a mistake?”

  She watched a myriad of emotions flash across Pamela’s face—anger, distaste, and a final dash of triumph. All there, if you were looking closely, which Mia was.