Operation Sheba (4 page)

The eyes she loved, gone steel gray now, refused to offer her comfort. “Susan, would you give me a minute alone with Abigail, please?”

The CTC chief hesitated, and then laying the remote on Michael’s desk, she nodded and exited the room. Julia listened for the soft click of the door before gripping the arms of the chair and leaning forward. “Are you serious,
Director
? After everything I’ve done for this Agency and my country, you think a freaking polygraph is going to prove anything?”

He didn’t move, refused to back down. “The polygraph is to cover your ass. Ryan Smith was your friend as well as your immediate supervisor. You are suddenly a convenient solution to the identity of the CIA’s mole because of that. Everyone from the Director of Central Intelligence on down is looking for a scapegoat before this situation comes before Congress and the President. If we don’t immediately eliminate you as a suspect, you will be crucified.”

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks, how could
you
believe I was the mole? My car and my apartment are bugged, my phone is tapped.” Her voice was brittle with exasperation. “How could I secretly give out information when you keep me under your thumb day
and night
?”

The emphasis on the last two words weren’t lost on Michael, but her meaning was. “Who’s bugged your apartment and car?”

The corners of her eyes narrowed a millimeter. “You. The CIA. You’ve been listening to me for the past year and a half.”

“I’ve never given any directive to have your residence or car bugged.”

Sitting back in her chair, she was silent for a moment. “Who else besides the Agency would want to know what I was up to?”

“Ryan Smith possibly?” he asked, and then shook his head. “I don’t know, Ab, but we’ll find out. Why would you think it was me?”

“Come on, Michael, suspicion is part of your job. What you knew about me when I came out of the field was summarized in a couple of paragraphs in my Agency bio. I had to prove myself to you. I figured you were nervous about me so you had my place bugged. I left it all alone, hoping, I guess, that you would realize I was trustworthy.”

“Any idea who might have done it?”

“If it isn’t the Agency, I have no clue. I figured it was all part of your plan for Abigail Quinn…”

Michael frowned and pointed a finger at her. “I’ve never kept you under my thumb. Your work requires you to be in my department. You sleep in my bed because you want to.”

The words stung, but they were true. Pushing herself out of the chair, Julia walked over to the TV and stared at Ryan Smith’s frozen face again. His last warning resounded in her head. “Don’t let Stone get close to you. He’s a user, Julia. He’s dangerous. Watch your back around him.”

She’d held on to him, in essence clinging to her last link with Conrad. Smitty had pulled away and given her cheek a gentle pat. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, smiling his best lopsided grin. Then he was gone, disappearing into the menagerie of travelers in the crowded airport.

Julia heeded Smitty’s words for nearly a year. She hadn’t wanted a relationship with anyone, much less the Director of Operations. She had ignored his gazes that lingered a few seconds too long, turned away his casual offers of dinner or coffee, and kept herself in the background of the CTC office, doing her damnedest to imitate wallpaper.

But she had been so lonely after the grief had run its course. Michael had been the one to convince her that she wasn’t the cause of Conrad’s death. That she was no longer a target. That she could quit hiding in the shadows of her past. Piece by piece he worked his magic, putting the broken pieces of her world back together and making it solid again.

She started to believe him and found herself hungry for human touch. She looked forward to seeing him at work, began returning his gaze even when it sent a shiver down her spine. She sought him out to discuss information that came across her desk and he listened because he knew her time in the field with Conrad gave her an edge over the other analysts. She didn’t just analyze the terrorists. She had walked where they walked, slept where they slept, watched their every move.

But now he was accusing her of being one.

The wave of her past crushed her under its weight. Michael sat in silence, watching her.
Let it go,
she told herself.
Stop feeling.
Analyze, like Susan taught you to
.

Something was missing. Random pieces of the puzzle were there but nothing fit. Con was alive, Smitty had returned, and an unknown entity was eavesdropping on her. The picture wasn’t complete…

She looked Michael in the eye. “Can I see the rest of this tape?”

He nodded and she started the video rolling again. She scanned every face, watched every mannerism that could be picked up in the few seconds each passenger was on the screen.

Third from the last passenger, her breath caught in her throat. He was there and gone in an instant, his head tilted away from the camera. The disguise was good, but she had seen it before in Paris when he was recruiting a field asset. Just like then, his hair was dyed a rich black, his skin bronzed by tanning cream, and the beard and mustache were trimmed close to his jaw.

“Shit.” The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

Susan Richmond picked up the telephone receiver at Abigail’s desk and punched in a seven-digit code. She remembered the rage she’d seen in her top analyst’s stiff posture. In a way it was difficult for her to push Abigail. She had once held strong feelings for her fledgling pupil and Susan knew she was innocent of betraying the Agency. But there was too much at stake these days. Any misguided feelings for Abigail could ruin her own position in the Agency and all that she had worked for. Abby was a pawn, just like a handful of others. Nothing more, nothing less.

When she heard the dial tone signaling she had reached an outside line, Susan carefully entered the number of a pager. Once connected to the paging service, she entered another seven-digit code comprised only of successive number threes, a simple signal to another pawn in her game: Operation Sheba was in motion.

A decoy. Con had used Smitty to take away any scrutiny of himself from those doing surveillance of the international flights. Julia felt like slapping her forehead. It was just the kind of thing he would do.
Insurance
, he would have said,
just in case the disguise isn’t quite enough.

The insurance policy had worked. Someone was on their toes enough to pick out Smitty and pass the tape along to Susan and Michael. With everyone’s attention focused on Ryan, Conrad had passed right under their noses.

“What is it, Abby?”

Michael’s voice made her jump.
Not
what
, Michael. Who.
She took a breath and forced her fingers to release their grip on the edge of his desk. Should she give Conrad up? After the hell he had put her through, it would serve him right…but what about Smitty? By giving Con up, would she somehow endanger Smitty too? She couldn’t take the chance. At this point, she didn’t know who was holding the cards.

And no matter what the two agents were up to, she still cared about both of them. She couldn’t give them up.

“It’s nothing.” She refused to meet Michael’s gaze. “I was hoping the tape might offer something more, some explanation for this, but it doesn’t.”

“Do you have any idea what Smith is up to?”

Julia paced the floor of Michael’s office for a minute, buying herself time, buying them all a little time. “All of the operators and agents who were compromised in the past couple of years were in the European directorate, right?”

Michael nodded and began doodling on a piece of paper in front of him.

“So, counting Flynn, Ryan Smith lost five human assets in less than two years, probably all due to the Agency’s mole.” Hands on her hips, she paced back to the office door where she paused. “Honestly, Michael, Smitty is one of the most dedicated operators I’ve ever known. Dedicated to the cause and dedicated to his people. I’m sure he would take every loss as a personal hit against him. And I know he would never do anything to compromise his assets in the field. In fact he’d do just the opposite.” She turned back to face Michael.

He raised his gaze to her. “Best guess?”

“Ryan Smith is tracking down your mole.”

Chapter Five

“I don’t know, Conman. Do you really think this is going to work?” Smitty eyed Flynn with a mixture of humor and apprehension as they stood together in the hallway studying their handiwork. Artfully arranging flowers in a vase was more difficult than either man had imagined.

“Hell no,” Conrad said, plucking at the drooping head of a tulip. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to her, but maybe flowers and dinner will take the edge off her anger so she’ll at least listen to us tonight.”

“She loves us, and besides, Julia doesn’t hold grudges.”

“Are we talking about the same woman? About five-four.” Conrad held his hand up to his chin. “Hardheaded, fanatical about right and wrong. Thinks Martha Stewart should run for President?”

“It’s Oprah for President. And, politics aside, she does love us.”

Conrad patted Smitty’s back. “You go with that. But I got a bottle of Glenlivet that says she’ll hold this one against us until we die.”

Julia’s one-bedroom apartment was on the ground floor of the building complex. The rooms were small and tidy. Nothing in the sink besides her “I’d rather be in Paris” coffee mug. No dust on the furniture. A couple of power suits in the closet next to an array of brightly colored T-shirts and skirts, a collection of jeans. There was a flat-screen TV in the living room, but only one framed picture on her nightstand by the bed of her and her younger brother. There were cans of diet Pepsi in the refrigerator alongside a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio and a selection of expensive cheeses.

To Flynn the small apartment exuded Julia: a bottle of
Le Jardin
lotion in the bathroom and a collection of lipsticks from all over Europe lined up like army soldiers on the vanity, a book of Rumi poetry beside her bed, her red duffel bag—a survival kit of sorts—packed and ready to go in the bottom of her closet next to an assortment of Prada high heels and Puma sneakers.

“I’ll be glad to see her. What time do you think she’ll get here?” Smitty glanced at his watch. It was nearing five o’clock.

Flynn gave up on the flowers and shrugged. “She may not show at all, but she isn’t expecting me until after midnight.” He started down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“She’ll show.” Smitty followed him. “If for no other reason than to kick your ass.”

Flynn stopped and placed a hand over the crotch of his button-fly jeans. “It’s not my ass I’m worried about.”

The two men exchanged a grin.

Julia pulled the pearl white Audi into the parking lot of the Borderline Bar and Grill and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She’d been toying with the idea ever since she’d left Michael’s office that morning.

There was little doubt that even if Susan and Michael believed that she wasn’t conspiring with Ryan Smith, they were having her followed and watched by the CIA’s Office of Security. If Smitty or Conrad attempted to contact her tonight, they would be arrested. She didn’t want that. Not before she knew why Con had faked his death only to show up again on her doorstep and why Smitty was helping him.

Then there was the issue of the other guys, the ones who had bugged her apartment. She had yet to tip her hand where they were concerned. For the time being she wanted to leave the bugs alone, so it would not be wise for her and Con to discuss anything inside her apartment.

Julia watched her rearview mirror for signs she was being followed. Checking over her shoulder had been second nature for years, but she had become less vigilant about it since returning to America. In the Land of the Free, she’d become one of the brave, or careless, as Con would say, again.

Assured no one was following her, Julia stepped out of the car and locked it before entering the bar.

Smoke hung lazily above the patrons’ heads as their voices buzzed over the voice of Kenny Chesney crooning from a jukebox in the corner. The after-five crowd, wearing faded jeans, ratty T-shirts and leather boots, was off to a good start on the evening’s drunkfest. Julia scanned the male faces that turned her way as she walked to the back of the bar. No one looked familiar and, outside of a few who ogled her, none appeared particularly threatening. She stuck her hand inside her purse looking for coins and felt the cool handle of her SIG Sauer P229R. Lighter than the Beretta, it was easier to carry and it could still do significant damage to anyone who got too close wanting to do her harm.

Of course, Conrad was right, she’d never killed anyone and she prayed she never had to. But she was CIA trained and still completed five hours of firearm training every week out of diligence to her previous life. She was more likely to shoot to injure but she could kill if necessary.

Two pay phones hung on the wall near the restroom doors. A stained and tattered piece of paper was taped to one of the phones, announcing it was out of order. No doubt had been for years. She would have used her cell phone, but couldn’t take the chance anyone might pick up her conversation. Standing off to the side of the working phone, Julia glanced again at the men at the bar. Most had gone back to their glasses of beer, complaining about their wives or discussing sports. Dropping two coins in the phone, Julia dialed a number she had last used a lifetime ago.

Two rings and she was connected. “Ace’s Mortuary,” answered one of Conrad’s favorite access agents. “You stab ’em, we’ll slab ’em.”

“Did you know he was alive?” she asked over the background noise. Her pulse was pounding viciously as she waited for the answer she didn’t actually want to hear. There was a long pause and she knew Ace was trying to place her voice and put what she was asking in context.

“I take it you’ve seen him?” His question answering hers.

She grazed a finger over the buttons of the phone and tried to keep her voice from giving away the ecstatic relief and unbelievable hurt swirling around inside her heart. “He paid me a casual visit this morning.”

“Casual?” Ace chuckled in her ear. “You ask me, wasn’t ever anything casual between Solomon and his queen.”

Julia turned slightly and partially covered her mouth with a hand, keeping the bar patrons in her peripheral vision while blocking any spying eyes from reading her lips. “Can you get a message to him?”

“No guarantees, but for you, Sheba, I’ll give it my best shot.”

Julia knew Ace would dial Conrad’s number the moment she hung up. If there was anything about Ace that Conrad loved more than his ability to land Knicks tickets on a moment’s notice, it was his unquestioning loyalty. “The Queen of Sheba is being guarded closely. He should not, I repeat
not
, pay her a visit tonight.”

A long pause. “Nothing else?”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Oh yes, there was so much else.
Tell him I hate him for his lie. That I’ll never forgive him. That I…that I missed him. That, God help me, I’m so glad he’s still alive…

“No. Nothing else.” She surveyed the room again. A different man had slipped into the room and bellied up to the bar, his silver hair and crisp blue jeans looking oddly out of place with the rest of the patrons. Julia felt a twitch of fear in her gut. “Take care, Ace,” she said into the phone.

“Ditto, Queen.”

She hung up and stood for a moment watching the silver-haired man. He didn’t look her way, but she could sense his hyperawareness. Was he a tail? Only one way to find out.

Several men at the bar leered at her as she walked past, offering a beer or a pinch on her ass. The silver-haired man continued to ignore her. Pushing through the bar’s door, Julia fought the urge to run. Even if he was a tail from the Office of Security, he presented no real danger to her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. All she had to do was act normal.

She slid behind the wheel of the Audi, locked her doors and started the engine. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly to calm her nerves and tried to recall the way the parking lot had looked before she went into the bar. Which car or truck was new? The red Honda? The Chevy Bronco? She scanned the area, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember.
Your apprentice has lost her edge, Con. Slipping big time
.

Shaking her head, she put the car in drive and bumped her way out of the parking lot, watching her rearview mirror. It wasn’t until she was on the highway that she noticed the Audi’s hood bobbing slightly. Julia slapped the steering wheel. The Audi was nearing 180,000 miles and the metal release latch hidden in the grill had been loose for several months. An errant pothole or train track sometimes shook the latch enough to spring the hood.

Julia took the first off-ramp and pulled into the parking lot of a gas station. She sat for several minutes scanning the traffic passing by. When there was no sign of a tail, she got out of the car and raised the hood, keeping one eye on the cars entering the parking lot. There was no such thing as being a little paranoid and all of Julia’s senses were on alert. She did a thorough check of the engine, and once she deemed it was clean, she slammed the lid and dropped to her hands and knees to examine the underbelly of the car. Again, nothing unusual. Standing up, she walked around the car, running her hands in the wheel wells and the undersides of the bumpers looking for tracking devices. All she came up with was a dirty hand. Sinking back into the Audi’s driver seat, she found her antiseptic hand gel and cleaned up as best she could. Then she let out a deep sigh.
What a way to live
, she thought. And then,
This is all Con’s fault, the dirty rotten sneak.

The message light was blinking. Conrad pushed the play button.

“An old and dear friend of yours asked me to give you a message,” Ace’s voice said. “It goes like this: The Queen of Sheba is being guarded closely. You should not, repeat
not
, pay her a visit tonight. End of message.” There was a slight pause. “Man, she’s pissed. I wish you luck, bro.”

The line went dead and Flynn stood staring at the phone with his hands on his hips.

Nice try, Jules.
Like the Great Conrad Flynn couldn’t outsmart whatever surveillance and security the Agency could throw at him.

He left his apartment, locking the door, and sauntered down the hall to Julia’s place.

Hell, he smiled to himself, he already had.

She couldn’t believe she was standing here. Keys out, poised to unlock the door. What the devil was she thinking?

Oh, come on,
Julia,
her inner voice cajoled.
You loved him, still love him, why wouldn’t you stay at your apartment tonight and wait for him just in case he does show up?

She leaned her forehead against the door.
Because by faking his own death, he nearly killed me too. Because if he could do that to me, I don’t want to be with him
. She racked her brain for more.
Because now there’s Michael.

Michael. Conrad. Two very different men, and yet, on some level, the same. Both were puzzles she couldn’t completely figure out. Both were men she loved, respected.

Just not the same way.

Julia slid the key into the lock and let herself into the apartment.

She stopped short at the sight of her favorite flowers, red and white tulips, overflowing from a glass vase on the diminutive entryway table. She was confused and alert at the same time. Assassins and terrorists rarely announced their presence with flowers, but then again some were very resourceful…

Ex-lovers, even more.

Considering her options, she brought out the SIG. It wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt to scare the heck out of whomever it was—
the
dirty rotten sneak—
just for good measure.

Slipping her heels off, she dropped her purse quietly to the floor. Standing motionless, her back against the wall, she slowed her uneven breathing and listened. The unobtrusive clink of silverware met her ears. The aroma of sautéing onions wafted past her nose.

Yep, ex-lover.

Gun at her side, she walked soundlessly down the hall feeling pissed off and relieved at the same time. She passed the living room and bedroom. It didn’t surprise her Con had gotten in—he’d gotten into Michael’s house without so much as breaking a sweat and she had to find out how he did that—but she hoped he’d been diligent enough to scan the apartment for bugs before he’d announced his presence.

She stopped in the kitchen doorway, scanning the room. Place settings for three had been squeezed onto her small dinette table. A single red tulip sat spotlighted under the low-hanging lamp. Con was at the stove, pushing chopped onion and mushrooms around in a frying pan. The blood red color of his Iowa State University sweatshirt matched the New York strips lying on the counter nearby.

Ryan Smith, in his standard polo shirt and chinos, was standing across from the sink, pouring wine into glasses. He looked up when she took a hesitant step forward and flashed her a big smile. “Welcome home, Sheba.” He walked toward her, offering one of the glasses. “How was your day at work? Kick any terrorist butt?”

And just like that, Julia Torrison was back.