Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (12 page)

Vanessa kept her breath shallow because her head was pounding again.

Displaying almost no expression or disappointment, Aisha turned to attract the bartender’s attention, leaving some euros on the bar. Oddly, she patted Vanessa on the knee. “Let’s go.”

Vanessa had to steady herself to stand. She’d put up with the vile drinks, and they had nothing to show for it. “What the hell was that drink?”

“Won’t kill you, but it’ll give you a memorable hangover,” Aisha said over her shoulder. “Don’t be such a Girl Scout.”

Outside, they were halfway up the alley, walking in the drizzling rain, when footsteps sounded behind them. They turned in unison.

A child ran toward them: a boy, no older than six, Vanessa thought.

Aisha smiled, squatting down instantly to greet him. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and offered Vanessa a shy smile. His somber eyes were a mirror of Tanya’s.

He pushed a piece of paper into Aisha’s hands and then he turned and ran back toward the club.

Both Vanessa and Aisha watched until he disappeared.

Aisha glanced quickly at the note. “We got the name we need.” Her voice sounded hard. She turned, already walking quickly toward the street. “Now we just have to find the asshole.”

Before they reached the end of the alley, Vanessa saw what looked like fresh paint on the side of the warehouse. The scrolling writing was Arabic.

Aisha reached to touch the graffiti. “It’s wet—so we just missed the artist.”

“What’s it say?” Vanessa asked. Her mouth tasted like cheap Tussin cough syrup.

Aisha translated. “True Jihad will crush the infidels—we see your every move, we hear your every thought. Be very afraid.”

“A bit windy,” Vanessa joked weakly. But a sharp gust ran through her body.

Before sunrise, Vanessa stood at the safe-house door, cold and still a little bit drunk. She swore under her breath as she fumbled with the punch-code keys of the lock. Good thing it was still yesterday’s code; when Hays arrived at about 0600 hours, he would change and activate the new one for the day.

Finally, after several tries, the state-of-the-art locking mechanism released with a smooth click.

She pushed the door open and immediately tripped over the threshold and into the darkened foyer. A couple of deep breaths helped her regain balance. She stood listening for a moment. No voices, just the sigh and tick of radiators and the hum of computers.

She tried to sling her jacket over the coat rack, missed, and didn’t bother to try again when it fell to the floor.

Ever since the weird blue-tinted drinks, her head ached; this time a little guy with a sledgehammer was thumping on the middle of her frontal cortex.

Thank you, Aisha.

Bracing against the bedroom doorway, she kicked off her stiletto
boots, shimmied awkwardly out of her tight leather pants, and fell into bed—and onto something hard.

What the hell?

She dug under herself and pulled out her cell phone. Okay, there are moments when the stars align. Always good at numbers, Vanessa dialed one from memory, starting with the international code for the UK. Her headache had leveled off to a dull, rhythmic throbbing. The number began ringing to a private cell phone that belonged to Alexandra Hall, the director-general of MI5.

Sometimes, when you save someone’s life, they feel they owe you a favor.

She reached Hall’s voice mail, a simple
Leave me a message.

All of a sudden Vanessa realized how early it was. She briefly left her name, her cell number, and an urgent request for a few minutes of Madame Director’s time.

She hung up and rolled over, landing again on top of her phone. But this time she didn’t feel a thing.

—

AT SOME POINT
she came halfway to consciousness and stumbled to the bathroom to be sick.

Avoiding the mirror—it wouldn’t be a pretty picture—she limped back to bed, only then remembering the vague shadows of a dream: a deserted alley, a man in dark silhouette stepping out of a doorway, whispering her name as she approached.
Bhoot.

She pulled the covers over her head and disappeared into the fog of sleep once more.

—

ANOTHER DREAM:
hushed and familiar voices just outside her door, a man and a woman in deep discussion . . . Vanessa told them to go away, leave her alone . . .

“Good morning, Sunshine. You look like shit!”

She sighed and opened one eye just enough to confirm it was Chris standing in the doorway.

Not a dream, because she still heard a woman say something about the striking view from the living room. Voice familiar, but it didn’t make sense, it couldn’t be . . .

She opened both eyes wide and pushed herself to sitting.

Chris read her question and nodded. “It’s exactly who you think it is.”

Dr. Peyton Wright, the Agency psychologist.
“What’s
she
doing here?”

“She’s here to talk to you.”

Vanessa groaned.

He continued, “I heard last night was a success.”

Vanessa tried to nod, but the throbbing pain in her head prevented her from moving too quickly.

“Okay, take your time, but not too much time. Grab a shower,” Chris said.

“Okay . . .” Her voice was more of a croak.

“And brush your teeth.”

Twenty minutes later, barefoot but otherwise dressed, she followed the sound of voices to the living room. The French doors to the balcony were wide open, the rain had stopped, and Chris and Peyton both leaned against the iron railing, staring across the street toward Saint Thomas d’Aquin church.

From her first glimpse of the psychologist in Paris, Vanessa noted she was maintaining her reputation for great style and presentation: her pale blue sweater and gray slacks were cashmere, perfectly matched with soft leather boots and a Louis Vuitton print scarf. She might have stepped out of
The New York Times Style Magazine
.

“Where’s everybody?” Vanessa asked when she reached the open doors.

Dr. Wright turned and took in Vanessa, a long, assessing look. “Hello, Vanessa. Glad to see you looking so well after all that’s happened.”

“Thanks.” Under the circumstances, Vanessa didn’t know what else to add.

“I hear you’ve had some interesting encounters,” Peyton said.

Vanessa looked over to Chris. She still wasn’t sure if she forgave him for calling in Peyton. And she was concerned about secrecy—could Peyton actually keep information from Headquarters about something that put it at risk? She wasn’t sure how much she could trust Peyton. The CIA shrink was smart, intuitive, and very close to the head of the NOCdom. At the same time, Vanessa felt oddly relieved to see the woman who signed off on her return to duty after everything that had happened.

Chris returned her look with a small nod. Vanessa took a deep breath—
Do I really have another option at the moment?
She would trust Chris and his call.

“I think you need some air,” Peyton said. “And I could use a walk.”

“Coffee?” Vanessa said, hearing the slight whine in her voice.

Chris smiled, pointing toward the kitchen. “There’s a fresh pot, but drink fast,” he said. “Let’s take advantage of the clear weather.”

Outside, at this hour, only a few people were on the boulevard. A white-haired man passed them carrying a satchel filled with fragrant loaves of fresh bread.

Vanessa hesitated, and it was Peyton who guided them. “If my memory serves me, the Cluny is just a fifteen-minute walk in this direction.”

“You know Paris well?” Vanessa asked, walking between Chris and the psychologist.

“I went to school here—my junior year of college. The Sorbonne.” She smiled. “I certainly know this neighborhood. I lived off of Rue du Bac.” She looked over at Vanessa and said, “I always welcome any opportunity to visit, whether pleasure or business.”

“I doubt you will find much of the former on this trip.” Vanessa zipped her jacket up to the top.

Chris frowned. “I’ve asked Peyton to assist Team Viper.”

“And I’m here and eager to get going,” she said. “So let’s not waste time. You’ve had a highly unusual week, Vanessa. I’m sorry, I know it’s been tough.”

Vanessa shot a dark look at Chris—she couldn’t help it. “I need to know this conversation is going to stay between the three of us . . . somehow.”

Peyton took her time responding. “Here’s what I can say for now: Because of the extremely sensitive nature of this operation and the absolute need for secrecy—and because we have an ongoing internal investigation for a probable security breach—news of this meeting and its focus will not go beyond the three of us.” She tipped her head thoughtfully. “If anything changes, I will let you both know ASAP. Does that help?”

By now they had reached the corner of Saint-Germain and Boulevard Saint-Michel. The Cluny was tucked away at the end of the next block. When they had crossed the intersection, Vanessa said, “For now, yes.”

“Good,” Peyton said. “As I understand it, there has been no additional contact—or attempt at contact—since the afternoon of the bombing.”

“That’s right,” Vanessa said.

“Given that even your
highly trained memory will be fallible, let’s say for the sake of brevity that you transcribed your conversation with Bhoot accurately. It has been an invaluable addition to the ongoing data I’ve been gathering as part of his psychological profile. When he makes his next move and reaches out to you again, it is vital that you have some means to actually record the conversation, Vanessa. Both for your own safety and for the data we can collect from such a recording.”

When Vanessa didn’t respond, Chris said, “We can see what Hays can provide very discreetly.”

“Good, because it’s imperative.” Peyton gestured to the low wall that ran parallel with the boulevard. “We’ve reached the garden, one of my favorites in the city, and it seems we have it all to ourselves for the moment.”

They turned in unison into the open gate to follow a now deserted walkway where animal tracks had been imprinted into the stones.

“I believe this is the Unicorn Garden . . .” Peyton said, her voice fading for a moment as she seemed to follow a memory. Then, with a quick intake of breath, she refocused. “Let’s review what we know. The first obvious and very frightening conclusion we can draw is: He knew exactly where to find you.” She stared at Vanessa. “Given the necessary assumption that he has eyes everywhere, every possible precaution must be taken to protect you.”

Chris kept quiet, but his jaw tightened.

Vanessa tried to ignore a sudden and desperate craving to smoke.

“Next, we have his claim that he is
not
behind the actions and threats of True Jihad. He took the risk of contacting you, betting that you would take the bait, so to speak. Very few operations officers would go off official radar on this, for obvious reasons: the danger from Bhoot, the danger from Headquarters. You, Vanessa, are the exception. And Bhoot bet correctly that he could hook you. He believes that he
knows
you.”

“He’s crazy,” Vanessa snapped. The conceit was repellent to her, but it also stirred deeply buried doubts.

“No, he’s actually quite sane.” Peyton spoke very quietly. “And he’s managed to get his teeth in you. That’s a bite you don’t want.”

“It makes me incredibly uncomfortable that you’re still involved in this, Vanessa,” Chris said.

“Like it or not, I’m the one he contacted,” she said, surprised by the conflicting emotions she felt—frustration, defensiveness, anger, determination, and others that she didn’t want to acknowledge even to herself.

Perhaps to calm them both, Peyton let the silence lengthen before she said, “He enjoys the contact with you, as long as he can feel challenged and yet dominate every exchange you have. But I don’t believe he initiated contact solely for the purpose of toying with you and the
Agency. Vanessa, in your transcript, Bhoot says, ‘I want what is
mine
.’ And you make note of his rising rage. He goes on to refer angrily to the U.S. government damaging his interests—that seems a clear reference to our bombers destroying the Iranian facility last year—and following that statement, he adds that someone has set him up, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

They had reached a new section of the garden, the terrace that was arranged in geometric shapes marking both a kitchen garden and a patch reserved for medicinal herbs. Vanessa liked the soothing quality of the garden’s symmetry.

“Echinacea,” Peyton said quietly, pausing to gently touch the leaves of a tall shrub.

“He sounded truthful when . . .” Vanessa’s voice trailed off, and for several moments she felt light-headed. But after a few slow breaths, her equilibrium returned. Pulling Bhoot’s words from memory, she spoke softly: “‘. . . if I tell you I’ve been betrayed and what is mine has been stolen, think what might be set loose in the world.’”

Again there was silence among them before Peyton finally spoke. “CPD is not questioning the existence of a miniaturized nuclear prototype, am I correct about that?”

“Unfortunately we can’t yet unequivocally confirm its existence,” Chris said. “We have corroborating intel from other sources, but it isn’t absolute proof. Instead, we are treating the prototypes’ existence as highly likely, but not absolute fact.”

“In addition to being an extremely terrifying new device,” Peyton said softly, “it would fetch a lot of money on the black market if it’s indeed out there.”

Chris kicked at a rough stone on the path, the action of a boy—perhaps an unconscious effort to push away his unease. “That kind of weapon—if it is truly viable—would also afford whoever had it great power to terrify, negotiate, you name it.” He let out a long whistle.
Vanessa thought this really was a moment when the tension was palpable.

She pulled out her cigarettes. “Sorry,” she murmured, flicking one from the pack.

With a scowl, Chris held out his hand and said, “Me, too.”

To Vanessa’s surprise, Peyton eyed the red pack hungrily.

“Help yourself,” Vanessa offered.

But after a second’s hesitation, the psychologist shook her head. “I managed to quit and I’m not putting myself through that torture ever again.” She sighed—a sound of longing that Vanessa could definitely relate to; she also loved to note a tiny chink in Peyton’s formidable armor. The women exchanged quick smiles.

Vanessa clicked her father’s Zippo, holding it out as Chris lit his Dunhill; she brought the flame to her own cigarette, quickly sucking in smoke.

“None of this rules out True Jihad as Bhoot’s own diversion,” Peyton said. “He could be the master of his own game of manipulation . . .”

“To what end?” Chris asked.

“Ramping up the stakes? Creating chaos, confusion, and intimidation? Pick your prize,” Peyton said.

Vanessa shook her head. “He’s achieved dominance over the black-market proliferation of nukes and WMDs, but terrorism? It doesn’t make sense. Why shift from his primary business, which is proliferation, to actual terrorist acts?”

“I agree there are psychological incongruities . . . anomalies . . . It’s tempting to rule that shift out.” Peyton nodded. “But it’s not impossible to find justifications—for example, rage because his Iranian business venture was destroyed and he felt humiliated on the world’s stage.”

“Maybe,” Vanessa said, but she didn’t believe it. “He operates on the long view. He had the Chechen eliminating his opponents all over the world and he did it like a chess game.” She ticked the victims off
on her fingers: a judge, intelligence targets, officials, anyone who might stand in his way. She took a deep breath because it was hard to talk about his other victims—but she moved forward. “He could even justify killing my assets for pragmatic reasons . . .”

“He was willing to set his Chechen loose on the director-general of MI5,” Peyton said. “From this vantage point, that seems an act of retribution for her effectiveness against funding terrorists and proliferators.”

“I think that was different,” Vanessa said, not able to articulate her thoughts any further at the moment. She admired Peyton’s expertise—and she was still absorbing her psychoanalytical view of Bhoot.

Chris tossed his half-smoked cigarette on the wet stones and ground it to dust with his foot. “Here’s something that bothers me,” he said, blowing the last drag out through his nostrils, like the smoking pro he once was. “If Bhoot
is
behind the True Jihad attacks, if he was humiliated by our bombing of the facility, if he must dominate—then why send a kid with a pipe bomb and why leave a dud RDD next to a park bench?”

“I admit that doesn’t make sense to me,” Peyton said slowly. “In Freudian terms, that’s a failure to ejaculate, it’s erectile dysfunction.”

Vanessa’s eyes widened and Chris bit back a snort. “Interesting comparison,” he said.

“So where does that leave us?” Vanessa asked, drawing deeply on the Dunhill.

“Again,” Peyton said. “I keep leaning in his favor that he’s telling a partial truth: He wants to recover something that belongs to him. His goal is transactional, but you, Vanessa, are the icing on the cake. You are linked together—hunter and hunted—and I believe that at this moment you are part of his obsession. He won’t hesitate to kill you if he decides you’ve outlived your usefulness to him. Ultimately, you are expendable.”

During the silence that followed the psychologist’s words, Vanessa
tried to process the conversation and its implications at the same time she tried to keep some level of detachment. But her hands were trembling when she dabbed her cigarette in a puddle on a public trash receptacle and dropped it into the container; she felt oddly separate from her body.

“Vanessa, you’ve spoken of your father’s death.” Peyton was now speaking very softly, almost a verbal tiptoe. “The possibility that his cancer might have been caused by exposure to Agent Orange when he served in Vietnam, or later, when his work with military intelligence exposed him to toxins.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Vanessa asked, unable to keep the tension out of her voice. She still hadn’t told Chris or anyone else the whole truth—that Bhoot had brought up her father and his patriotism. “Where are you going with this?”

“Nowhere mysterious,” Peyton said. “His death was connected to service to country, to his duty, and, ultimately, to his belief that he could save some—not all, but at least some—innocent lives . . . even if that ultimately was not enough for him.”

Vanessa felt confused and almost feverish. “I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I think you carry that part of your father with you, Vanessa. Some psychologists call it a ‘complex’ . . .”

“You think I have a superhero complex or something.” Vanessa scoffed, relieved she’d regained a bit of her usual certainty and confidence.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Peyton said slowly.

Vanessa hated that she saw sympathy—or was it pity?—in the psychologist’s eyes. “I’m just doing my job,” she said, ready to turn around and hightail it back to the safe house.

“Peyton?” It was Chris asking in shorthand for an explanation.

“Bhoot expects Vanessa to play his game all the way to the end. He will use the fact that she is driven—to go to extreme lengths to do
what she believes is right, to do what she believes will protect innocents and keep evil at bay. He understands that her drive to protect is her Achilles’ heel, and he will use it to bring her down.” Peyton shook her head, a gesture of frustration that conveyed the complexity of what she was trying to communicate.

“Just say it plain without the psychological bullshit,” Vanessa said.

“Bhoot will exploit everything he learns about you.” Peyton gripped Vanessa’s arm with surprising strength. “You are playing with fire. You killed his agent. Not only did you take something from Bhoot, you won that round. He won’t forget. He
will
seek his revenge. For the moment, you amuse him, give him company in his world, and he needs you to track down True Jihad and maybe the prototype nuke—but in the end he will need to kill you.” Peyton’s voice had darkened to a timbre Vanessa hadn’t heard her use before.

She felt suddenly cold—gone abruptly from fever to chill—and she recognized that what she felt was fear.