Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (7 page)

“What the hell,” Chris said, “I’ll have one, too.”

Ignoring Chris’s request, she leaned close to whisper to him.
“Bhoot contacted me.” She mimed putting a phone to her ear. “Three hours ago.”

“I can’t believe this, Vanessa!” Chris slapped the wrought-iron railing with both palms. “I expect the unexpected from you, but Christ . . . how the hell?”

“At the site after I went back with Fournier.” She kept her voice quiet. “I was leaving and a kid handed me that phone, said it was for me.”

“And you didn’t run like the devil?”

She stared at Chris, her head tipped, waiting for him to catch up to her reasoning. She’d known he would react strongly to this news. For CPD’s primary target to contact an ops officer directly for a chat was unheard of. Not to mention very dangerous.

Chris’s fingers tightened around the iron railing. “What did he want?”

“He says he is
not
responsible for today’s events—”

“And you believe him?”

“I didn’t say that—I don’t believe anything he says—
but I don’t know
. Just listen for a minute. He referenced that our government damaged his interests. But then he said that someone else has taken what belongs to him, that he’s been betrayed. And he said True Jihad—their bombing—is a diversion.” She sucked in a breath, a stolen moment to reorient. “So, Chris, my takeaway is this—the nuclear prototype we believe Bhoot smuggled out of Iran before the bombing?
Someone stole it from Bhoot.
”

“Holy shit,” Chris whispered.

“Uh-huh.” She tapped her cigarette against the balcony railing and ashes fell into darkness.

They both stood in silence, considering the possibilities, the what-ifs—none of them good.

After a long minute, Chris said, “Let’s go back to the phone call. What did he want from you?”

“Okay . . .” Beginning a different conversation, Vanessa knew, about Bhoot’s motivations—and possibly her own. “He wanted to enlist me,” she said, slowing down to move with her thoughts. “Under the guise of giving, he wants something in return.”

“He wants your help—and what else?”

“My help and . . .” She shook her head, closing her eyes against the flash of recall, the sense of violation at Bhoot’s questions, his prying . . .

Already she felt herself censoring what she could reveal to Chris—it was always that way in her work, having to think about what she could say to whom, never quite relaxing, but this was worse.

“Goddamn it, Vanessa, in front of my own eyes, I can see you fall into his trap. He singled you out, you feel special, and it’s all pure manipulation.”

Chris looked at her, but really he was lost in thought—registering what some sort of alliance with Bhoot might gain for the investigation. “What else did you get from the call? What proof it was him? What did he sound like? Could you record him?”

“No, not quick enough.” Still on her feet, she closed her eyes, pulling nicotine deep into her lungs. It felt extravagant to smoke again. “Maybe he used a Skype link or something like it and the effect was whispery. He had a British accent. I’ll bet a hundred euros it’s real. But, then again, the precise way he pronounced the words makes me wonder if he’s ESL.” Her words flowed out with the stream of exhaled smoke.

“Listen, Chris. I’ll transcribe my notes so you can read them. The last thing he says is a bit cryptic.” She checked herself, returning to a whisper. “But I’m sure it’s a reference to Dieter Schoeman. He wants me to make contact—maybe Dieter knows about True Jihad . . . maybe he knows who stole the device.”

“If it was even stolen,” Chris said, almost spitting out the words.
He calmed himself, speaking quietly again. “All of this could just be
Bhoot’s
diversion, a way to throw us off track as he brokers some deal.”

“Maybe you’re right. But what if Bhoot is telling the truth?” Vanessa’s fingers closed around Chris’s arm, and she whispered to him: “
Someone betrayed us both—
he used those exact words. So what if the mole has moved on from selling secrets to Bhoot? What if he’s selling them to True Jihad? What if that’s how they got their hands on Bhoot’s prototype?”

“Whoa. A big what-if,” Chris said. “You’re running away with this based on no hard facts.”

Vanessa moved restlessly around in the small space. “No, listen, the mole
has
to be involved—whether he betrayed me to Bhoot again or to True Jihad, my meeting with Farid was top-secret, so it’s just like last fall, the mole targeting me and my assets . . . except it’s not exactly the same.” She turned to Chris but barely saw him, she was so caught up in trying to track her way through the mental maze. “Okay, the mole exposed me, but if Bhoot isn’t lying—and my gut tells me Bhoot might be telling the truth about this one thing, about both of us being betrayed today—then the game has changed. I thought it was Bhoot’s mole, but—” She broke off.

“If you’re right about the mole changing the game,” Chris said quietly, “and you better hope you’re not, then you’re caught between these two men, you’re right in the middle.”

“Cat and mouse,” Vanessa murmured.

“And you’re the cheese,” Chris finished. “But, Vanessa, this is all pure speculation,” he cautioned. “Until we prove what’s true and what isn’t, we are guessing.”

But Vanessa didn’t hear him because she was still following threads. “So True Jihad . . . the mole is selling top-secret intel directly to these terrorists?”

Chris shook his head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself—”

“I need to talk to Dieter, ASAP.”

“You’re not going anywhere until we arrange your entry into Belmarsh through channels with the Brits, Vanessa. And here’s how we play it beyond that: You tell no one that Bhoot contacted you. We monitor you at all times. We get you a micro-recorder; it will at least catch half of the conversation.”

He ran his hand across his bristled hair again. “This is unbelievable. It’s against every rule in the book, and, frankly, it’s totally insane that I’m even considering letting it ride . . . and only because you’ve proven to me before that your instincts are good . . . Christ, I need time to think . . .”

He stepped to the French doors. “As for your notes, handwrite them, this time legibly,
katalava?
Nothing on the computer. Keep one copy and give the other copy to me.”

He pushed the doors open. “I have someone I want to read in on this.”

Vanessa followed him inside again. “Not the DDO—”

Chris slashed his finger across his mouth:
Shut up!

Vanessa nodded. But she frowned her question again,
Who?

“A mind reader,” Chris said, taking his turn at being cryptic.

He kept moving toward the foyer. “I’ve got a room at the Hôtel Cayré if you need me before tomorrow 0700.

“One more thing.” He pulled his overcoat from the rack and then turned to face Vanessa. “We both know Khoury’s in Paris.” He’d lowered his voice to a whisper. “Have you seen him?”

“No.”

Chris kept staring at her.

She said, “I swear I have not seen him.” And she held up her right palm. Loaded question and answer.

“I expect you to keep me apprised of any developments.
Any
developments . . .”

He was referring to the fact a CIA counterterrorism ops officer
was her not-so-secret lover until last fall, when inside security began taking an uncomfortably close, and unfounded, look at Khoury because of his Lebanese heritage. Their relationship—and varying covers, him “inside” and her “outside”—put them both at serious risk.

“I mean it, Vanessa.”

“I know.” She nodded.

She did, she knew what it would cost if she ever lied to Chris again about her relationship with David Khoury.

Never mind that she’d lied to him through omission minutes ago when she failed to mention that Bhoot had turned the conversation to her father. She was certain Chris would ban more contact if he knew Bhoot was delving into her personal history.

Chris stepped into the shadowy hallway, but Vanessa heard his voice soften as he said, “Get some sleep.”

Vanessa blinked up at the water stain on the bedroom ceiling. Her mouth felt unbearably dry. She rolled off the bed, up for the third time in ten minutes.

At the ornate bathroom sink, she filled a glass with tap water. She gulped most of it. In the half-light she splashed water on her face, then she leaned in to the mirror, her weight pressing down through her arms to the sink.

Shrouded in shadow, the reflection in the antiqued glass belonged to a stranger—a woman just months shy of her thirtieth birthday, dark blond hair hanging loose to her shoulders; mouth a little too wide for her face; blue eyes beneath well-defined eyebrows bloodshot from smoke, chemicals, and exhaustion; her usual sleep uniform of faded T-shirt and boxers.

She frowned at her image, her dark brows drawing together in a deep crease. She ran her fingertips along the rash of small abrasions scattered across her neck and cheeks. Still red and tender. Most of the marks would disappear completely within a week. She pushed herself
away from the sink, pivoting out of the small bathroom. She needed to move because sleep just wasn’t happening.

Hours ago, she’d finished translating her shorthand transcript of her conversation with Bhoot.

She’d e-mailed her mother in the States that she was fine. Her mom knew she was in Paris on “business,” and she knew enough not to ask about it anymore. Usually. But today she’d seen the news of the bombing and Vanessa didn’t want her to worry more than she would anyway.

Vanessa’s father had been military to the core, and he’d spent years in military intelligence. A fact Vanessa had only recently learned. So, yes, her mother knew when and what
not
to ask.

A second e-mail to her best friend and college roommate, Marie, the only person outside her immediate family who knew her true employer. Marie was a true-blue friend. If necessary, Vanessa knew she could trust her with her life.

It wasn’t just the desire to let close family and friends know she was safe, it was also the need to connect with people she loved. Her career with the CIA had a way of pushing all that aside . . . the constant travel, the need for secrecy, and admittedly the strangeness of it all.

Of course her instinct had been to get word to David Khoury, but in the end she decided to leave it alone for the night. He was Agency, so he would have known just minutes after the bombing that she was safe. She gave herself a halfhearted mental pat on the back for showing some willpower—but the truth was she missed him deeply.

Saving her brother for last, Vanessa had e-mailed Marshall, who was serving with the Marines’ 3rd Recon Battalion in Afghanistan:

Alive here Big Bro—miss you love you V

She was alone in the safe house for the first time in more than twenty-four hours, and she tried to take comfort in the sounds of
life—the moan and rattle of rusted pipes, the hissing breath of radiators, the hum of computers breathing data twenty-four/seven. At this point, she couldn’t sort out if solitude was a good thing or not.

Death had brushed past her today, leaving scratches, bruises, aches—adding another notch to a disturbing straight of near misses.

But in the end leaving her alive. She’d survived again.

What happened to the young girl she’d tried to help? Had she lost her leg today? What hospital was she in? Was her family with her?

Tomorrow, Vanessa told herself, she would find out what she could about the girl and the other victims. Tonight—make that today, because it was past midnight—she needed rest. Only a few hours until Team Viper’s first meeting.

But sleep eluded her the way it so often did.

The Agency shrink, Dr. Peyton Wright at Headquarters, hounded her about sleep deprivation: “You can’t function forever on three or four hours a night, Vanessa. If not eight hours, you need to try at least for six.”

“My dad was this way, I’ve always been this way,” Vanessa had reported, shrugging at the psychologist. “You want to give me pills, be my guest, but I’ll flush them.”

“I don’t want you to depend upon pills,” Peyton had said, sighing stoically. “I want to get at the heart of why you don’t sleep. Is it the nightmares?”

“I’ll try counting sheep, Doc.” Skipping past the question about her nightmares, Vanessa masked her discomfort with a flip grin. “One bah, two bah, three bah . . .” Her evasion didn’t fool either of them.

Vanessa counted crunches now. Beginning the regimen she’d put her body through two times a day for the past six weeks.

After she killed the Chechen, her reward had been doled out in twenty hours of Agency-mandated counseling (she hated every
minute) and a refresher course in personal safety at the Farm (which she actually kind of liked). She had paid special attention to the firearms portion and the hand-to-hand combat training. She moved up to take a level 4 belt in Krav Maga. All of it an effort to make herself feel safe in the world again, as the Agency shrink had pointed out—“How’s that working out for you?”

A hundred crunches, roll-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, kicking and punching drills—all of it a kind of physical and mental detox to keep old ghosts at bay.

Midway through the push-ups, sweat gleamed on her forehead and dripped down her neck, dampening her T-shirt. Eyes closed, she worked to exhaust her muscles until they were shaky and strained, until her mind finally pulled back from the worst images.

She finished the push-ups and bounced quietly to her feet, waiting for the dizziness that had plagued her all day. But she stayed steady—almost.

From the room’s two outside windows came the muted pitch of a car horn, standing out tonight because it was unusually quiet. She startled at the loud and sudden clang of the ancient pipes of the ornate radiators.

She heard the echo of a question from Dr. P:
Are you happy with the life you’ve chosen, Vanessa?

No time to debate the answer with herself.

The soft complaint of old wood put her body on alert. Had Hays come back for something? A follow-up noise—the barely audible weight of feet on the floor—confirmed that she wasn’t alone. She’d left the bedroom door ajar, lights off, and now she shifted toward the door just as it opened. She’d already assumed a ready stance when a shadowy form filled the frame.

“You going to kill me?” He stood, arms by his sides, voice low and familiar.

“Damn it!” Surprise punched out the first word. She breathed, “Khoury.” And softer now. “
Damn
you.”

“I’m glad to see you, too.”

David Khoury stepped into the light and the sight of him softened her, leaving her startled by the depth of longing she felt.

Three months had passed since the last time they’d been together. And then it had been only for minutes as they said good-bye, not knowing when they’d see each other again.

He moved toward her, reaching for her hand almost the way she’d reached for him those months ago. But he waited, leaving the space until she reached out, too.

When she did, her fingers curled under the collar of his blue shirt, pulling roughly so his body pressed hers back and they both toppled to the bed.

“I was so afraid when I heard about the bomb,” he said.

“But you heard I was okay,” she whispered, knowing how agonizing minutes—even seconds—of uncertainty could be.

He took a deep breath. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said, mirroring her thoughts. He nuzzled her, breathing in her scent, and she felt the ground giving way—giving in to the warmth and the sensuality and the chance to lose herself.

She dug her fingers into his back ribs. He was already pulling her T-shirt up over her head, and he stopped and caught her, her wrists trapped in her shirt and in the grip of his hand. His mouth already on one of her breasts, his lips gentle on her nipple. The warmth and heaviness of desire coursed through her and she felt the heat deep in her belly and the wetness between her legs.

When he relaxed his grip on her wrists she shifted—moaning even as she made a halfhearted attempt to distance herself. But he wouldn’t release her and he slid his mouth to her other breast, biting her nipple a little harder this time.

She cried out, wrapping her legs around him so it felt as if they were bound together.

A rough, feral growl rose from deep in his throat. His tongue parted her lips, while his fingers slid between her thighs. Touching her tenderly, but she could feel the driving intensity.

And when she guided him inside her, they let go—fucking because they were alive and together.