Smoke and Shadows (20 page)

He snuck a look at where he had left Marissa. She was gone.
 

Grovelling certainly looked to be in his future.

*****

His nephew had failed his mission and now he was dead. Strangely, Stuart Kwon didn’t feel any sadness when he received the news. He was disappointed. AGS not being out of commission presented a problem for his plans. But the distraction of the Al-Qaeda attacks and the AGS siege diverted all agencies toward the nation’s capital, leaving the port of Baltimore wide-open for his man, Owen Reed, to smuggle successfully in the components for the SK nerve gas.

But there was a pain in his chest that went deep. A betrayal that, although he had suspected, he had not wanted to believe. His long time major-domo was the leak in his organization. Ever since AGS found McCord, Kwon finally believed his security team that the traitor was someone close to him. So he allowed his major-domo’s belongings to be bugged and he was followed everywhere.

The traitor had been communicating with Jiro Matsuda—the man who gave up his father to the CIA.
 

Stuart lit up a cigar as he stared out the window. The man made one last plea for him to abandon his plans of unleashing the SK nerve gas on Washington DC.
 

“You are not your father,” the man who had raised him since he was ten, said. “There is good in you, Stuart. I have seen it.”

His major-domo was right. He was not his father. He had no desire to unite North and South Korea. He just used the NKUF as a facade, used their people to throw off the spooks. His dreams were not idealistic, they were realistic. Money was power.
 

And with emotion he had not felt since the death of his sister, he ordered the execution of the one man who wanted him to be good.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The advantage of working for the CIA was the ease of creating cover identities. Marissa Cole vanished the moment she walked out of AGS four days ago. Her relationship with Viktor was such a mind-fuck. He said he felt things for her, but he never said he loved her. The opposite in fact. But she would admit this much, her heart was broken. Not because she was in love with him, although she suspected she was more than halfway there, but because of the way he derided the thought of being in love with her. His tone had cut her. And how appalling was it that he scorned such feelings to Maia. Marissa congratulated herself for maintaining her composure when all she wanted to do was hide under something.

Marissa threw a piece of wood into the fireplace and stoked the flames. She was holed up in a CIA safe house that only a handful of people knew about—Viktor not included. She didn’t return to her home on Dupont Circle. She used her emergency kit. Granted that most of the items were utilitarian and in no way fashion forward. What would be more appropriate than to nurse a broken heart dressed in ugly sweats and sneakers?
 

She texted Allison that she was going dark for a couple of days and had her files of Stuart Kwon transferred on the separate sector of their database server where she could tunnel in without Viktor’s analyst tracking her. Then she destroyed her phone and anything electronic on her. It was time anyway. She didn’t keep cell phones or numbers for long.
 

The threat of
 
Rafiq Shadid was over, but Matsuda had divulged disturbing information; SK nerve gas may have reached the eastern shores of the United States. This was the last update she had from Allison.
 

Marissa had been tracking Stuart Kwon’s movements, mainly through the business and society sections of Russian newspapers, but she had not come up with any actionable information.

It was time to call Allison with her new alias, Olivia West.

Affixing a voice modifier to her phone, she waited patiently for her analyst to pick up.

“Olivia!” Allison greeted her a little too brightly. “How have you been, girl?”

“Traveling. Just came back from Moscow. Never going to Russia in the winter again,” Marissa replied.

“You got bored with those gorgeous Russian men?”
 

Translation: No new lead on Stuart Kwon?

“Yes. So, how have you been?” Marissa asked.

“Bored. Dead end job as a secretary.”

Translation: You better come back ASAP.

“Your forwarded mail is piling up. Dad said there’s an important package for you.”

Translation: Yeager said there’s a secure cable you really need to read.

“How’s your dad?”

“He’s fine. But he’s tired of holding your shit.”

What the fuck
, Allison? Marissa thought. “Um—”

“And your ex-boyfriend keeps hounding everyone about your whereabouts. Dad said it’s getting old, and he’s afraid your ex is turning into a psycho.”

Crap.

“Uh—I’ll be back soon. Hey, I gotta go. The bus is here,” Marissa lied.

“See you soon!” Allison replied in a sing-song voice.

When the call ended, she texted Allison.
 

Olivia: You’re fired as my bff.

Allison: Love you, too.

Later that day, Marissa opened the secure cable from one of her assets, Stan Morgan, a former transporter for a South Africa security company, SASTac. SASTac had stolen the research from Dr. Sophie Lockwood to build the zefinium bomb—a bomb that had the thermal blast of a nuclear weapon without its fallout effects. To escape prosecution, Morgan agreed to work for the CIA as an informant. His work as a transporter brought him in close contact with the underground network of organized crime and terrorists.
 

She sat back in anticipation as she decrypted the rest of the note:

“
I’m in DC. You sent a targeted bulletin to several of your sources to keep an eye open for a person of interest. I have information for you.
”

Morgan gave her his contact information in the U.S. Marissa logged into a chat room, which was another way for her to communicate with Morgan. He did not reply until the next morning. The meeting was set at 8:00 p.m.

She sent Allison an update.

Olivia: Received the package. Thanks, but returning to sender.
 

Allison: Good luck.

Olivia: Not following.

Allison: You will.

Marissa felt a riff of anxiety crawl up her spine. What the hell did Allison mean? She was tempted to call her, but she was going to be late for her meeting with Morgan if she delayed further. It was a forty-five minute drive to Silver Springs, Maryland and she had to allow for traffic. Asset meet-ups were precise, and tardiness of more than a few minutes could spook your informant, although Morgan was one tough son of a bitch.

She exited her sanctuary of the past few days. A farmhouse of some sort, out in the middle of nowhere. The internet connection had satellite backup, so she was never out of the loop in case some emergency came up. It was the end of February, and the winter was the harshest it had been in the past five years. Thankfully, she rented a sturdy SUV that managed some of the sleekest patches of ice on rural roads. As a force of habit, she checked her rear-view mirror. There was sparse traffic for miles and miles of road until she turned into Washington National Pike, and then finally, the Washington Beltway. The exit for Silver Springs came up quickly, and she started hunting for the Red-8 motel Morgan had checked into. Pulling into the parking lot, she could make out the shadow of Stan Morgan’s six and half feet bulk under the eaves of the building. Marissa tapped her brake lights twice and he started moving toward her.

He was lugging a huge duffle bag on his shoulder.

This unnerved her for a beat and a bristle of alarm tickled the hair on her nape. Her fingers hesitated to unlock the doors when Morgan tried the handle. His brows drew together as he stared at her through the panes of the vehicle.
 

Sighing, she unlocked the doors.

“What was that all about, Ms. Cole?” Morgan asked in irritation.

“What’s with the duffle bag?”

“I don’t like staying at the motel. I figured you have better accommodations.”

“The CIA pays you enough,” Marissa pointed out.

“True, but I reserve my options,” Morgan drawled. “Maybe you should start driving.”

“Look, Morgan, before I capitulate on your demands—whatever they are—shouldn’t you give me what I came for?”

He seemed more sinister in the dark interior of the car. “The SK nerve gas is in the United States.”

“When and how?” Marissa kept her voice steady even as her heart rate picked up.

“A few weeks ago, Stuart Kwon approached me to move some crates for him, no questions asked.”

“And?”

“I refused.”

“That hardly proves anything. How do you know it’s the nerve gas?”

“The crates were from his company, Petrech Labs.”

Marissa shrugged, determined to play devil’s advocate. “Still doesn’t prove anything. They manufacture additives for petroleum.”

“If that’s what you believe, then we have nothing more to discuss.” Morgan moved to exit the car.

“All right!” Marissa gave in. “What else can you tell me?”

“I know who moved them for him. He’s worked for Kwon for six years. Name’s Owen Reed. The ship with the crates left around the beginning of February. My contact at the Port of Baltimore tells me that ship docked five days ago. The Petrech Labs’ crates were not in the manifest of arrival.”

“Just when all hell broke loose in DC.”

“Exactly.”

“So all these assassinations were to ease the entry of the chemical weapons at our ports,” she concluded. “Has Kwon allied himself with Al-Qaeda?”

“From what I’ve gathered, their agreement ended with the attack on the Hudson Building.”

Marissa put the truck in reverse and backed out of the parking lot. “You’re coming with me.” She suddenly saw the benefit of taking him along with her as well as the flash of his grin. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not,” Morgan replied. “Prefer to spend the night with a beautiful woman instead of the TV.”

“And no flirting,” Marissa said sharply, but she smiled inwardly. Her ego could use a boost, but she never entangled herself with her assets. She’d rather go the knuckle-scraping route than sleep her way for information, but there were some spooks who had no problem with that method.

“That’s a bit harsh,” Stan Morgan said.

It was time to change the subject. “So what were you doing in Russia?”

*****

“Hell, no. This isn’t happening,” Marissa groaned as her SUV’s headlights shined over a familiar, black Ford Explorer. She knew her luck would run out, but did it have to happen tonight?

Viktor slammed out of his vehicle and waited patiently for her to park in front of the farmhouse. His arms were crossed in front of him, and though she could not make out his expression, she could see his whole body tensing in alert when he realized she was not alone in the car.

“Boyfriend?” Morgan asked curiously.

“Ex,” Marissa said under her breath. “Keep your mouth shut. Let me do the talking.”

“Did he cause the bruises on your face?”

“You think he’d be standing in front of us right now if he did?”

Morgan chuckled. “Want me to get rid of him?”
 

“Morgan, that’s Viktor Baran.” Marissa felt the need to inform him of who he thought he could “get rid off.”
 

Her asset gave a low whistle. He got out of the car before Marissa could stop him. “You’re a brave woman.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”
 

Morgan closed the door firmly and leaned against it, looking at Viktor steadily though he was addressing her. “Babe, I didn’t know you wanted a threesome tonight, but hell, I’m game.”

Marissa swore she heard a savage growl before Viktor’s body flew across the small yard and had Morgan in a strangle hold.

“Viktor! That’s my informant!” Marissa screeched. “Do not hurt him.”
 

Viktor glared at her. “You sleep with your assets now?”

“No!” Marissa yelled.

“Babe, I thought we had a moment in the car,” Morgan managed to choke out.

Another growl vibrated deep within Viktor’s chest. His hand tightened around Morgan’s thick neck, but the idiot had to taunt the beast further even as he was turning purple under the faint light of the moon.

“Shut up, Stan. Viktor, let him go.”

Viktor’s hand released Morgan, but before Marissa could blink, his hand clamped around her wrist and dragged her a few feet away.

“You scrape me off and have my replacement in less than a week!” Viktor’s voice was a near roar.

“Hey, man, back off,” Morgan said angrily. “I was messing with you.”

Viktor turned to face the other man, the planes of his face cast harshly like clay fired in a kiln. “Stay out of this or I—will—gut—you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Morgan, damn it, here are the keys. Go inside. Stay there. Oh, and the key card disables the alarm.” She felt like a teacher having to referee between two children. Unfortunately, these were two lethal, very adult men having a pissing contest. Thankfully, Morgan decided that he was causing more damage than good, and accepted the keys after exchanging hostile looks with Viktor.

Viktor’s eyes tracked Stan Morgan into the house. His eyes sliced back to her, deep pools of ink, and even in the darkness Marissa could feel them drilling into her.

“How did you find me?”

“Chat room,” Viktor said. “You really pissed me off this time, Marissa.”
 

“Me, piss you off?” she said incredulously. “Did you have a lobotomy or something? Have you forgotten how you told someone else how you felt about me?” She broke off and snorted. “Or should I say
not felt
about me instead of having the courtesy of telling me first? The woman you’re fucking?”

“Maia caught me off guard.”

“It was the way you said it that killed me. You made it sound like it was a joke to be in love with me.”

“You’re making it such a big deal!” Viktor yelled. “Judge my actions, not my words, Marissa. I’ve never said those words, even to Maia.”