Noble flicked on a light in the bathroom, ran the sink and splashed cold water on his face. His neck was tight from the crash. Tomorrow it would hurt like hell. Rubbing his aching muscles, he went back into the bedroom.
Alejandra was sprawled on the bed.
He went about inspecting her injuries. Every inch was covered in bruises. The cut on her face was the worst of it; the knife had gone right to the bone. Cordero and the nun had stitched it up as best they could. Two dozen jagged sutures ran in a sloppy line from her forehead to her jaw. The wound showed signs of infection, it was angry, swollen, and weeping puss. Noble gently replaced the bandage and laid a hand on her forehead. She was burning up.
He lifted the edge of the blanket, draped it over her naked body and sat down on the corner of the bed to think. He was holding onto the hope that Torres was still alive. Alejandra either knew where he was or what had happened to him. If she died, that information went to the grave with her. Besides, the CIA had a less than stellar reputation for taking care of assets. The espionage game leaves no room for sentimentality. If an asset gets captured or killed, you cut ties and move on. But Noble was a soldier at heart and taught to never leave a fallen comrade behind. Alejandra had put her life on the line for Torres. That made her a fellow soldier in Noble’s book.
He got up, stretched, and rummaged through drawers until he found a paperclip. He wedged the paper clip in the door jamb as he left, and walked until he found a taxi.
Twenty minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic put him in the heart of the financial district. It took another ten minutes to find a car rental. Noble walked in and saw a grainy video of himself on a television screen, jumping from the roof the Santa Ana Mission. Authorities considered him armed and extremely dangerous. A cold hand gripped his heart. His first instinct was to turn around and walk out, but that would be a dead giveaway. The clerk hadn’t seen the report yet. He was too absorbed in his smartphone. Thank God for social media.
Noble rapped the counter, flashed a friendly smile and asked for a car. He used one of his fake passports to rent a dark sedan under the name of Charles Parker.
The desk clerk put down his smartphone and keyed information into the computer. “Would you like the optional insurance, señor?”
“I’ll be extra careful,” Noble said.
The news broadcast switched to coverage of the heat wave, predicting temperatures in the upper nineties for the rest of the week, then a report about a ten-foot-long python in someone’s swimming pool. The clerk handed Noble a set of keys, bid him safe travels and went back to his smartphone.
With a clean set of wheels, Noble used his phone to pull up a list of animal hospitals in Mexico City. Alejandra would need antibiotics to fight off the infection and cat antibiotics are the same stuff they give humans, only in smaller doses. He thumbed through the results until he located a pet clinic in a quiet neighborhood.
He passed an electronics store on his way and pulled in. A bell chimed as he opened the door. The shelves were full of unlocked iPhones, secondhand laptops and pirated movies. A fat Mexican was perched on a stool, a video game controller clutched in his chubby hands, playing the latest Call of Duty. The sound of digital machine guns and explosions filled the shop. He paused his game when Noble entered. “You need something, gringo?”
“I’m looking for a signal amplifier that I can tether to my cell.”
The fat proprietor gave him a sidelong glance. “Whatchu you need that for?”
“I think my girlfriend is cheating on me,” Noble said. “I’m trying to catch her in the act.”
“Your face is all over the news, Americano. Wanted by the police. Armed and dangerous, they say.” His hand started to creep along the counter.
Noble gave him a hard stare. “Don’t.”
The fat man paled. His hand went back to his side. “You going to kill me?”
Noble took out a wad of cash.
“What do you want with a signal amplifier?”
“I have business with the cartel.”
“People who do business with the cartel usually end up dead, amigo.”
“The cartel never dealt with me before,” Noble told him.
He snorted and shook his head. “They eat white boys like you for breakfast. Take my advice and go home, gringo.”
“Do you have a signal amplifier?”
The fat man considered it for a moment. “Sure you aren’t going to kill me?”
Noble peeled a pair of hundred dollar bills off the wad. “Sure you aren’t going to call the police the second I walk out?”
He reached under the counter, came up with a small box about the size of a deck of playing cards and pushed it across the counter. “Good luck, Americano.”
Noble put the bills on the counter and took the amplifier. The fat man would probably call the cops as soon as the door closed. Noble would be long gone by the time they arrived. He went back to the rental sedan, turned south and cut over two blocks before turning north again.
The animal clinic had a large, red neon cross and a cartoon of a happy doggy out front. The parking lot was empty. Office hours were 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.
Noble turned on the radio, filling the car with the generic beats and clichéd lyrics synonymous with Spanish pop. He attached the signal amplifier to his cellphone and set it up to broadcast white noise. The music was replaced by hissing static.
Over the last decade, alarm companies have been moving to Wi-Fi-based signals. These are even easier to defeat than Shawn Hennessey’s home alarm. All a thief needs is a signal amplifier and a cellphone that can broadcast enough white noise to drown out the Wi-Fi signal. Right now, people in the apartments across the street were wondering what had gone wrong with their television sets.
Noble left the engine running, got out and took a set of lock picks from the lining of his wallet. The commercial-grade deadbolt on the front door gave him some trouble. Using the illumination from the car’s headlights, he worked slowly and methodically, setting one pin at a time until he felt the lock open.
The reception area was dark except for the light from an emergency exit sign. Posters warned of heartworms and the importance of regular checkups. Faded pet magazines cluttered a coffee table.
Noble let himself into the examining offices. A wall of cages housed sick cats and dogs. They raised an alarm of their own. The overpowering stench of cat urine brought tears to his eyes. Noble stopped and poked a finger into the cage of one forlorn kitty with a name tag that read Cali. He scratched between her ears and then rifled cabinets for antibiotics. He pocketed bottles of doxycycline and ciprofloxacin before loading up on bandages and medical tape.
Robbing clinics was getting to be a habit. It wasn’t too long ago he had been raiding another medical clinic, this one in Hong Kong. Noble wondered if it was just bad luck or if it said something about his life choices. With an armful of medical supplies, he was headed for the front door when he heard movement behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Burke had Kowalski’s file open and a mug of cold coffee on his desk. A crumpled potato chip bag winked under the stark fluorescents. The hands on the clock pointed to 7:25. With a few phone calls he had learned Hunt was scheduled to fly out of Dulles on a direct flight to Mexico City first thing in the morning. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when Noble and Hunt crossed paths. And they were bound to cross paths. Burke pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. The die had been cast, for better or worse. Now all he could do was wait and see how it all played out.
He returned his attention to Kowalski’s file. A high-ranking spymaster in the Kiddon—called the Rabbi—was laying in the pipeline for the defection of an Iranian nuclear physicist. Burke paged through the briefing and scrawled notes. There was a split over how to handle it. President Sotoro, a Columbia grad who had changed his name from Barry Palmer to Barat Sotoro, was sympathetic to the Palestinians. He had given Iran the green light to develop nuclear centrifuges an
d enrich uranium. In exchange, they promised not to use the technology to build weapons, a promise worth about as much as the paper it was written on.
While no one in the CIA wanted to see the Iranians get the bomb, they also didn’t want to directly oppose the President of the United States. It put the Clandestine Service in a tricky spot. With the election only months away, Burke was holding his breath. If Helen Rhodes got the nomination, Israel would be on its own, surrounded by hostile Muslim nations that wanted to see it wiped off the map.
Burke wondered if he would even have a job by the time the election rolled around. He and Foster rarely saw eye to eye. Their relationship had always been one of polite hostility. With the current Director ready to retire and Foster in line to take over, Burke’s days were numbered. He had a choice: He could slip quietly into retirement ahead of the DCI, or go out with a bang.
As he closed the Kowalski file and locked it in his safe, his thoughts turned to Dana. Their flirtatious banter had started out innocently enough. He had made a few off-the-cuff remarks about what he would do if he was twenty years younger. She made quips about older men. Over the last several months, as Burke’s marriage continued to self-destruct, innocent flirtation had turned into something more.
He checked his watch. It was 7:30. Plenty of time to make it across the river into the city.
Going home was like walking through a minefield. He and Madeline rarely talked and when they did, they argued. Acid comments flew from their lips, like poison darts. It was a bitter war with no clear beginning and no end.
Burke took out his cellphone and keyed in a text message, saying he would be late. He hesitated before hitting send. Lust and loyalty battled for possession of his soul. With his career circling the drain and only the promise of a spiteful shouting match waiting for him at home, he pressed send.
He locked his office and rode the elevator down to the parking garage with a tight knot of fear and anticipation forming in his gut. The sun was slouching toward the horizon. Burke turned the air conditioner on full as he crossed the Francis Scott Key bridge toward Georgetown. He kept telling himself to turn around. In an hour or two she would get tired of waiting and go home, and that would be the end of their office romance. But he didn’t turn around.
The Smoke & Barrel is a cozy bar advertising beer, bbq & bourbon, nestled in a strip of trendy night spots. It was a few doors down from a blazing electric marquee that read, appropriately enough, Tryst. The Smoke & Barrel’s only signage is a barrel lid with the name burned into the wood. It was an anonymous saloon in a city famous for clandestine meetings.
Burke silenced the voice of reason, parked the car and jogged across the boulevard. A cabbie blared his horn. Burke made the safety of the sidewalk and pushed past a group of college kids clogging up the entrance. A short flight of steps led down to a handsomely furnished bar. Beltway insiders gathered around high top tables, laughing at their own jokes, whisky in hand.
Dana was at a corner booth. She caught his eye and smiled. She wore a raincoat cinched tight around her narrow waist, despite the heat. A glass of bourbon was on the table in front of her.
Burke slipped into the booth.
“I didn’t think you would come,” Dana said.
“I didn’t think I would either.” Burke flagged a server and ordered scotch over ice.
“Should I ask how it went with Foster?” Dana asked.
“He’s looking for an excuse to fire me.”
“That bad?”
Burke shrugged.
She reached across the table and took his hand. “Anything I can do?”
“I wouldn’t have laid in riptide and nautilus if I wasn’t prepared for the fallout.”
The server came back with his drink. Their hands parted.
Dana lifted her glass. “To rebels.”
They clinked glasses and drank. She had her hair down and a warm flush in her cheeks. One hand kept toying with the collar of her raincoat. “If Noble fails?”
Burke took a long swallow. He didn’t want to think about that.
She waved the question away and changed the subject. “So are we colleagues having a drink after work, or something more?”
“You tell me.”
She sipped her bourbon and said, “Maybe I’m a sleeper agent trying to seduce you.”
“In that case I would be forced to go to bed with you,” Burke said, “in an effort to flip you.”
They shared a laugh. The conversation wandered onto more pleasant topics. Talking with Dana was easy. Their glasses emptied and they ordered more. It was close to ten when she said, “I’d better go. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. Care to walk me home?”
“Where do you live?”
“Around the corner on Calvert,” she told him.
They finished their drinks and he walked her three blocks to the door of a two-story row house painted yellow. She threaded her arm through his as they climbed the steps to the front door. The smell of her shampoo toyed with his imagination.
“Nice place,” Burke told her.
She dug a set of keys out of her pocket and unlocked the door. “Can I give you the tour?”
Burke made one last desperate attempt to save himself. “We both know what will happen if I come inside.”
She turned to face him and opened her raincoat. Underneath, she had on thigh-high nylons and nothing else. Her face turned up to his. Their lips met. Her body pressed against him. It was all the convincing Burke needed. The last of his defenses crumbled as she took his hand and pulled him inside.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sam paced around her rented flat with a burner phone pressed against her ear. The digital clock on her dresser said 8:15 p.m. A sodden towel was draped over a chair. She was shirtless, in dark denims and hiking boots. Her hair hung in damp tangles around her naked shoulders. Over the past six months, she had packed on fifteen pounds of muscle. Rather than making her look bigger, as she had feared, she was now sleeker and more angular.
She listened to the phone ringing and said, “Come on, Burke. Pick up.”
It went to voicemail. She hung up and stashed the burner phone in a slip behind the bathroom door. She was already running late. There was nothing left to do but forge ahead. She picked up a black bra from the bed, one of several fitted with tiny recording devices. The microphones were voice-activated and operated on a seventy-two hour battery. Each bra could record up to 750 MB. It wasn’t a whole lot of memory, but only so much information could be stored in the space where underwire would normally cup a woman’s breast.
There was a honk from outside. Sam shrugged into the bra, chose a black button-down from the closet and pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail. It would have to air dry, and she’d have tangles tomorrow. After clipping her sidearm into her belt, she scooped up her house keys and cellphone and hurried downstairs.
She was living on the second floor of a Georgetown apartment that butted up to the C&O Canal. A black Lincoln Town Car idled at the curb, blocking traffic. Sam slid into the backseat.
Taggart was dressed in a somber grey suit. There was a plastic shaker cup full of vile-looking green sludge in the cup holder next to him.
“You’re late,” she said and showed Taggart her wristwatch.
He waved it away. “I had a meeting.”
“Standish is due home at nine,” Sam reminded him.
The driver swung out into traffic.
“Relax,” Taggart said. “All you have to do is slip in, plant the files on his laptop, and get out.”
“You realize what will happen if we’re caught,” Sam said.
“If you are caught,” Taggart corrected.
Sam turned in the seat to face him. “You aren’t going in with me?”
He snorted. “Clandestine entries are not my line of work.”
“Me neither,” Sam said. “I’m paid to protect people. Not break into houses.”
“You’ll do fine,” Taggart assured her. He held up the flash drive.
The idea was to plant child porn on Standish’s computer. When it was discovered that the FBI director had a hard drive full of kiddie porn, his career would be over. It would be enough to make John Q Public forget all about his allegations against Secretary Rhodes.
Sam said, “So I take all the risks and Rhodes gets all the rewards?”
Taggart smiled, but his reptile eyes were flat and emotionless. “That’s no way to look at it, Vanessa. Do this for Secretary Rhodes and she’ll make sure you get a spot on the Presidential Detail. Screw it up and she’ll make sure you get assigned to a foreign diplomat in a third world hellhole. We clear?”
Sam nodded, secretly relieved Taggart would not be tagging along. She could take the flash drive, break into the house, come back out a few minutes later and claim she had done as she was told. Who could say otherwise?
“Did you just shower?” Taggart asked.
The question rattled her. “Um… Yes.”
“You smell nice,” he said.
From anyone else it would be a compliment. Coming from Taggart, the comment made her want to crawl out of her skin. She muttered thanks and turned to look out the window.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled to a stop in a suburban neighborhood across the street from a park with a baseball diamond. Arc sodium lamps bathed the empty field in artificial daylight. Even at 8:35 p.m. the temperature hovered close to ninety degrees. A jogger made her way around the park, slick with sweat. They heard the soft tread of her sneakers and heavy breathing as she passed the car.
Taggart said, “You’re up, kid. Standish’s house is two blocks up on the corner. Big house surrounded by a brick wall. Can’t miss it.”
“I know which house it is.” She had used back channels inside the Secret Service to dig up the floor plans and security measures. The idea was to get in and out without anyone knowing she had ever been there. She tucked the thumb drive into her pocket and climbed out of the car.
Noble Vengeance Page 10
