She retrieved the coffee from her desk. She felt like she would need it. “You know, you could have led with ‘treasure chest of trackable data’ and skipped the rest.”
“But then you wouldn’t fully appreciate my genius. Anyway, pieces of the puzzle are falling into place every hour now. It’s incredible, unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”
He was too excited, skipping key parts of the story. Talia took a swig and cringed at the level of sugar. Luanne had been right. She’d gone a step too far. “Be specific, Eddie. What is unlike anything we’ve ever seen?”
“Boyd’s criminal network. Our British wunderkind has put together a global crime syndicate on a scale as yet unheard of.”
Eddie paused to blow his nose, leaving her hanging—and a little disgusted—for several seconds. He clicked his mouse, and the digital camera flew from city to city. Blue glowing labels popped up everywhere next to warehouses, coffee shops, and skyscrapers. Each was a code with two letters and a string of numbers—FM60915, JR2937, CO852.
“Those labels. What do they mean?”
“Members? Users? I’ve broken out portions of a few messages so far. Think of it like playing Wheel of Fortune. I think F-M is field mouse. C-O is cobra.”
Talia wrinkled her nose. “Why is Boyd using animal—” Talia stopped mid-sentence. What was she doing? She flipped Eddie’s monitors back to the screensaver. “I don’t care.” She said it to herself as much as to the geek. “And I don’t want to care. This is Tyler’s crusade, not mine.”
Eddie swiveled around to look up at her. “You have to care. We’re trying to find a traitor.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “We’re trying to find the person who ordered the hit on your father.”
“And I wish you the best. But don’t you get it?” Talia pulled the rolling chair over from her desk and sat beside her friend. “Holding on to my anger over Dad’s death crippled me—physically and spiritually. I can’t run back into that darkness.”
“So you’re just . . . moving on?”
She nodded.
“But the prime suspect is you-know-who.” Eddie inclined his head toward a wooden door at the far end of the Russian Ops section. “The Ice Queen.”
Talia wasn’t ready to face that idea. She let it pass unchallenged. “You can’t call your female boss the Ice Queen, Eddie. It’s offensive.”
“Don’t be such a snowflake.”
“I’m not a snowflake. You’re a snowflake.”
They locked eyes until their grim stares broke down into giggles, lightening the mood.
Eddie grinned. “If Jordan’s the Ice Queen, doesn’t that make her a snowflake?”
“Talia!” The wooden door was open. Jordan stood in the frame. “Get in here.”
Talia went rigid. She whispered through clenched teeth, “How long was she watching us?”
“I don’t know. But if you’re not back in ten, I’m calling the Marines.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
THE DOOR BANGED CLOSED the moment Talia walked through. Jordan stormed past her. “Just who do you think you are?”
Talia watched, dumbfounded, as her boss took up a post at the corner of her giant mahogany desk, arms crossed. She had no idea how to answer.
“You’re an officer of the Directorate of Operations. You’re part of a team, and I expect you to act like it.” Her arms dropped. “How do you think I feel? One of my people—my own recruit—is ambushed and disappears in Volgograd. The next day, she turns up at Minsk Station long enough to grab a fresh passport and vanishes again. For how long?”
On foolish instinct Talia moved to check the date and time on her phone. She went so far as to touch her back pocket before thinking the better of it.
“Two days!” Jordan pounded the desk so hard a steel stickman on a tightwire—one of those perpetual motion desk toys—teetered near to the point of falling.
“I’m . . . sorry?”
“Two full days, Talia. Without a word. And then I come out this morning to find you laughing and joking with Gupta as if you’d been here the whole time.”
“I checked in with Dulles Station. I turned in my IDs, my cash. I followed protocol.”
“Yes. The cash. One hundred thousand dollars, earmarked for Zverev. All there. I found that detail particularly interesting.”
“Interesting?” Why should returning all the Agency’s money upset her boss?
“We’ll circle back around to the money. My point, Talia, is the Directorate—this Clandestine Service you claim to love—is more than procedure. We are a team.” The tightness in her features softened. “I’m your mentor, your friend. I would have thought you’d come to me the moment you set foot in the building.”
The stiff-necked division chief had never used the word mentor with Talia, let alone friend. But now that the offense had been laid before her, rare and raw, Talia couldn’t imagine it any other way. Maybe Tyler and Brennan were wrong about Jordan. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am.”
“I know. And I know I’m partly to blame. Listen, as a woman leading an intelligence division like REED, I must maintain a cold persona.” She raised an eyebrow. “I have to be the Ice Queen.”
“You heard us?”
“Yes, and I don’t mind. I play the Ice Queen to keep my edge, to stay ahead. You’ll have to do the same one day. But I’m not as calculating and heartless as I seem. The truth is, I was worried about you. I’m thrilled you made it home.” She gestured to a chair. “Please. Sit. Regale me with the tale of your daring escape.”
Talia did, hesitantly at first but with growing ease—until she came to the part where Oleg had betrayed her.
“Wait. Who knocked the gun away?”
“A . . . bystander. Someone trying to help. There were two in the bar.” It wasn’t a lie, but it sounded like one, even to Talia’s ears. The next part made it worse. “Their friend was waiting with a truck.”
“So, you’re in a bar full of Russian killers when two bystanders decide to fight them. And they’ve even got a buddy out in the parking lot keeping the truck warm?”
“Some guys don’t like smoky bars. The guy with the truck was very fit.” That part was true.
“And these men, they never asked for payment. I know this because”—Jordan shrugged—“if you recall, you turned in all that cash. Every red cent.”
The cash. Now she understood. She had been too honest for her own good. What was the alternative? Steal from the agency? Talia tried deflecting with humor. “Red cent. Russia. I see what you did there.”
“Mmm. And this third helper”—Jordan flopped a hand—“the one so cautious about breathing secondhand smoke. He captures Oleg outside the bar and holds him long enough for a pack of new Russians to drive up and shoot him?”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She hadn’t told Jordan about the shooting. “Uh . . . Correct.”
Jordan slapped a photo down between them. “This guy?” She pointed to a blurry form in the back of a Toyota HiLux. “Is he our health nut?”
There was Talia, in grainy glory, with Tyler and Finn holding Oleg up against the tailgate as a lifeless bullet sponge. The shot had come from an overhead traffic cam. Maybe they had run a red light. Maybe they had been speeding. Maybe both. Why hadn’t she expected there to be pictures? There were always pictures. This wasn’t a story shared between friends reunited. This was an interrogation. Jordan had played her. Like always.
Among the five in the truck, only Talia’s and Oleg’s faces were visible, and nowhere near recognizable with the blur. “No. Uh . . . The guy who caught Oleg is driving.” Talia coughed. Her throat had gone dry. “Where’d that photo come from?”
“Speed cam. You didn’t see it?”
“No.”
“Not great for a field operative.”
“I was getting shot at.” Talia tapped the picture. “Shouldn’t we be looking into the guys trying to kill
me instead of the guys helping me?”
“You tell me. I see five targets in that truck, yet all the bullets wound up in poor Oleg.” Jordan slid the picture away. “Talia. Is it possible these men who helped you are also the ones who sold you out? Is it possible the whole charade was just a way to make you trust them?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Have they attempted to contact you since that night in Volgograd?”
“No. No they haven’t.” That, at least, was true.
“Good.” Jordan walked around the desk to take Talia’s elbow and help her up. “Look. I’ve been running you ragged for six months. You missed some tricks in Volgograd, leading to a dangerous situation. You certainly missed the camera. You’re fatigued. Take some time off.”
“What?” Talia stepped back from the chair. “No, I’m fine.”
“This isn’t an offer. It’s an order. I don’t want to see your face for two weeks.” Jordan narrowed her eyes, studying her subordinate. “Better yet, three. Now get out of here. I have to prepare for a lunch with Senator Ramirez, the chair of the intelligence committee.” She walked Talia to the door. “We’ll keep on this. For my money, your good Samaritans and your attackers are more connected than you think. I’ll have Gupta and Sue Lin work on tracing both groups.”
“Without me?”
“I think we can handle it. The Directorate was, after all, the world’s premier intelligence division long before you arrived.”
By the time she finished the statement, Jordan had pushed Talia over the threshold. The door fell shut, and Talia heard her muted voice from the other side. “Don’t just stand there. Go home.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
STATE ROUTE 123
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
JORDAN HAD PLAYED HER. Talia’s mind spun as her Civic clanked over the flattened hydraulic barriers of Langley’s southern gate. How foolish she’d been. No conversation with Jordan was ever just a conversation.
“Leave them wondering how much you know,” Jordan had told her moments before Talia walked into her first mock interrogation back at the Farm. “That’s the key.”
The Art of Interrogation—one of Talia’s worst memories from her training despite a syllabus that included Arctic Survival and Sewer Navigation. The memory filled her with regret. “But how?” she had asked Jordan. “Scott won the toss and played interrogator first. He has the advantage.” Talia watched him twiddle his thumbs on the other side of a two-way mirror. “The information is new, but the format is the same. The game favors Player One.”
All Farm students spent time on both sides of the table in a two-player game. Each had to extract a set of unique, fictional information from the other. The more information extracted, the higher the score. Talia held up well under Scott’s shouting, but he had gained enough points to take the lead in the class.
“Then think outside the game.” Jordan laid a hand on her shoulder. “Find a pressure point. Don’t dig. Poke it and let him stew for a while. Scott has a pressure point somewhere, right?”
Talia had seen Scott leaving a bar downtown a few nights earlier, and she had her suspicions about what he’d been doing there. “Yeah. I think so.”
As Talia took the interrogator’s seat, Scott gave her a wink. “Let me guess. You made me sit here alone for half an hour to soften me up. Good technique. I’m ready to talk just to hear my own voice.”
“You’re always ready to hear your own voice.” Talia opened a manila folder in her lap. “Name?”
He grinned. “Klaus.”
“Right. Klaus Karlson. But we both know that’s incorrect.”
“We do?”
“Mmm-hmm.” The folder was a prop. Talia had Scott’s file locked in her eidetic memory. Klaus Karlson was the sad alliteration name of a fictional Dutch-born American caught on the wrong side of a fence in the nonexistent state of Slapkovia—details created for the game. But she knew Scott. He wouldn’t talk unless she moved the conversation outside the game.
“So . . . Klaus. You’re married, right?”
The grin vanished. Scott looked past her to the mirrored glass.
“Don’t look over there. And don’t worry about answering. The tan line on your ring finger is enough for me.”
He covered the mark with his other hand. “What are you doing?”
“My job.” Talia lifted the folder into view, tapping its edge on her knee to make him wonder what else might be in there. The Farm was known for its tricks, not its fairness. She capitalized on the paranoia all of them felt. “You’re a young man. Right out of college, I’d guess. Young man. Young bride. Must be difficult to be apart so early in the marriage.”
“Where is this going, Talia?”
“Don’t use that name. You don’t know me.” Point one. She’d opened the door and let Scott lead them outside the scenario. Now she’d run with it. “Tell me, how often do you visit the Ninth Street Lounge and”—she thumped her ring finger on the table, making a guess from what she knew of his preferences—“that blonde.” Talia met his eyes. “What’s her name?”
The color drained from Scott’s cheeks. He leaned across the table. “Please. The cameras. They’re recording this. The instructors are listening.”
“You don’t look well, Klaus. Why don’t I step out and let you take a breather?” Talia walked to the door, waving at the glass. “The subject needs a break. Can we get a bottle of water in here?”
While Talia watched from the observation room, Scott fidgeted with the edge of the table, paced, sat again, and dropped his head into his hands. For nearly an hour, he looked everywhere but the mirror. When he finally did, with pleading eyes, Talia knew he was ready.
The instant she walked into the room, Scott started talking. He revealed line after line of the fake information he’d been tasked with protecting, anything to keep her from rehashing his visit to the Ninth Street Lounge. She stopped him before he gave up enough to get himself booted from the program.
Every word Scott spoke to Talia from then on was tainted with bitterness. In the end, the Agency washed him out of the program.
Pulling up to a stoplight behind an old hatchback more than a year later, Talia had no illusions as to whether Jordan had known about Scott and the blonde. She’d looked so proud when Talia left the interrogation room.
Leave them wondering how much you know.
Jordan was still the master.
How much did she know? If Jordan was on to Tyler and his merry band of thieves, she could have Talia drummed out of the Agency for working with them.
The worry as she waited for the red light to change left her so distracted she didn’t see the man approaching from behind until her passenger door opened.
Finn, with something akin to a blunderbuss under his arm, slid into the seat beside her. “G’day, princess.”
Her Glock came out before his shoulders had settled into the seatback. “What are you doing here?”
Setting the blunderbuss in his lap, the Aussie pulled a short-bladed tool from his belt. He cupped one hand behind the other and started pounding the blade into her windshield.
Talia shook the Glock. “Stop that.”
“Can’t.”
“You know this is loaded, right?”
“I’m doing this for your own good.” The tool bounced repeatedly off the glass. “Tough windshield.”
“It’s Lexan.”
“True blue? I thought they only gave that to important people.”
“The special activities guys installed it after they hijacked my car last year, along with an armored hood.”
Finn inclined his head toward the passenger window. “What about that one?”
“Standard auto glass.”
“Right.” He smashed it out with the back of the tool.
“Hey! You could have rolled that down!”
“Takes too long.” Finn tossed the tool on the floor and snatched up the blunderbuss. “We’re out of time. Look.”
The light had turned green, but the car in front hadn’t moved. A big guy with stark white hair climbed out of the driver’s side, raised a cheap MAC-11 machine pistol, and opened fire.
Rounds pelted the hood. Talia threw the car into reverse and stepped on the gas. “What is happening?”
“Assassination attempt.” Finn stuck half his body through the open window and blew the rear window of the hatchback to scattered bits. “Can’t get the angle on our man. Little help?”
With a frustrated grunt, she switched into drive and gunned the engine. She hit the rear corner of the killer’s car full force.
The hatchback skidded sideways and knocked the man down. He tried to rise as Talia continued past, but Finn dropped him with the blunderbuss.
“Did you just kill him?”
“Boss wouldn’t like it.” Finn pulled himself back into the car. One of his arms was bleeding, caked with chunks of broken glass. “But I’ll wager that rubber ball Matilda planted in his chest shattered his sternum.”
Talia could only assume Matilda was the blunderbuss. She checked the rearview mirror. The attacker had dragged himself back into the vehicle. Two more cars drove through the intersection as if nothing had happened. Standard Washington, DC.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
GREAT FALLS DRIVE
NEAR WOLF TRAP, VIRGINIA
FINN DIRECTED TALIA and her bullet-ridden Civic onto the Dulles Toll Road. She set the cruise control, thankful it still worked, and shot him a glare. She had to raise her voice over the wind blowing in through the broken window. “What’s going on?”
“That guy had a scope fixed on Langley’s southern gate all morning. He picked you up on your way out and pulled into traffic ahead of you. So I moved in.”
There had to be more to the story. Talia waited for the rest. He didn’t offer it. She ground her teeth. “I need more details. Who was the assassin? Better yet, why were you watching for him in the first place?”
He pointed to a sign over the highway. “Take exit 117. Two miles.”
“I asked you a question.”
Chasing the White Lion Page 5
