The Dark Hour (37 page)

“Thorndike and I both looked at the information Izzy culled from that computer,” McNiel said. “It’s pretty damning. If she is alive, Thorndike wants her brought in. He can’t depend on her for recovering the port security data from Luc Montel before he sells it. And that’s assuming she’s even on our side.”

Tex’s phone rang. He picked it up. “
Washington Recorder
.”

“Tex?”

“Griff. Glad to hear you’re okay,” Tex said, dreading the conversation he knew was to come. “McNiel’s here. I’m putting you on speakerphone.” Tex pressed the button, then dropped the phone in the cradle.

“Griffin,” McNiel said. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve had better nights. I’ll get right to the point. The CIA handler? He’s dead.” Griffin told them what they’d found, including the invitation. “It may have something to do with Becca.”

McNiel was silent for several seconds, then, “Look, Griffin. There’s no good way to tell you this. Thorndike gave the order to bring Becca in.”

“She’s alive then?”

“He has
no
idea. If she is, he wants her in custody. At all costs. There’s evidence that she stole the virus from Hilliard’s lab and sold it. We’re not sure to whom, but it’s pretty damning. I saw it myself.”

“How can you believe that? Who would she even sell it to?”

“Possibly the same buyer to whom Luc intends on selling that port security data. It needs to be recovered at all costs. Thorndike’s asked for our help on that.”

“When’s the sale supposed to take place?”

“Tonight. At Luc’s estate in France.”

“That would explain the invitation we found in the handler’s apartment.”

“Normally I wouldn’t ask this, but we’re out of options and time. I need you to run it. You’re the closest agent and you know all the particulars.”

There was a long pause on the other end.

And McNiel said, “It’ll be hard, but I can send another team, Griffin. It doesn’t have to be you.”

“No.”

“After last night, you have to consider this may be a setup.”

“Can we take a chance that it isn’t?”

“No.” McNiel visibly relaxed, probably thinking that Griffin was taking this extremely well. Tex wasn’t fooled. He knew Griffin. “How many men do you need? It may be tough to get anyone there, given the short time frame.”

“Two should suffice. Between them, Dumas, and Fitzpatrick, we can pull this off.”

“Fitzpatrick is out. Pearson wants her off the case and home.”

“I’ll let her know, but she tends to be stubborn about these sorts of things.”

“You let anything happen to her and we’ll be cleaning the latrines for Pearson over at HQ. You do
not
want to work for me if that happens. Are we clear?”

“Very.”

“Fine.” McNiel looked at his watch. “I’ll let Thorndike know about his handler. Keep me informed. And I want updates to Tex every hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tex picked up the phone after McNiel left, saying, “Griff. I’m sorry about Becca. I mean, if it turns out— It’s not like she knew you’d be going out on it, right?”

“What am I supposed to believe?”

“What I want to believe. That if she is alive, she’s still one of us.”

“I’ll let you know if that holds true,” he said, his voice terse. “Call you in an hour.”

Griffin disconnected, and Tex listened to the dial tone, thinking—hoping like hell—that if Becca was alive, she had not crossed over. Because if she had, if anything happened to Griffin because of her being a double agent, he’d fly over there and kill her himself.

Chapter 62

December 12

Washington, D.C.

O
livia tucked the tube of lip gloss into her clutch purse, heard it clink against the small bottle of perfume, then snapped it shut. She did not, however, immediately get up from the cushioned stool in front of the mirror, instead she remained there, staring at her reflection for several seconds, fingering her short locks of gray. She’d wanted to color it years ago, but her father insisted that gray hair on a woman of her stature and beauty would be translated as intelligence and wisdom. He’d been right, of course, but it didn’t stem the small streak of vanity running through her, thinking that had she colored it back then, she might have a list of lovers as long as her late husband’s had been. Then again, maybe not. She’d put the Network’s needs above her own for so long, she wasn’t sure she’d even know what to do if she had a strange man in her bed.

Though an hour away from the actual event, her father was downstairs, and insisted on remaining until after the FBI agent arrived. He hadn’t been happy about the arrangements, but then, there was really nothing they could do.

If either of them wanted this plan to succeed, they had no choice but to cooperate.

Standing, she turned in front of the mirror, deciding that the knee-length black velvet gown with its white collar lent the right amount of sophistication and conservatism to someone who had only recently lost her husband, all without detracting from her looks. Satisfied, she left her dressing room and went downstairs to where her father waited.

He was smoking a cigar on the patio. She opened the French doors, the pungent scent of smoke wafting in with the cold air. “You seem calm.”

“I am,” he said. “I have every confidence you’ll be able to pull this off.”

“Even with an FBI agent trailing my every move?”

“That’s what makes this plan so beautiful. She’ll be so busy looking out for who might be trying to kill you, by the time she realizes what’s going on, it’ll be too late.”

Chapter 63

December 12

Paris, France

S
ydney occupied herself watching TV after Dumas left to get intel on the dead CIA agent, even though what she wanted to do was talk to Griffin about his wife. Not that she dared broach the subject as he sat at the desk, working at the computer, trying to find something on the found invitation that might help them. And so she flicked through the TV channels, unable to understand a word of the rapid French, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible for Griffin’s sake. He might not be showing any outward signs of turmoil, but this entire operation had to be tearing him up, as evidenced by last night when he’d stormed from the room on hearing of his wife’s activities. And that was when Becca was only
suspected
of espionage. Now they’d moved beyond mere suspicion and wanted her brought in.

Emotional involvement was never a good mix with any sort of operation, and were she in charge of this, she would have removed Griffin from the team.

But Syd wasn’t in charge. And all she could do was be here for him, much as he’d been there for her in Rome when she’d been trying to find out who’d killed her friend.

Besides, there was more to this case than met the eye, the most important fact being that no one they knew had actually
seen
Becca, and the one man who allegedly had was now dead. So who killed him? Becca to cover her tracks? Or someone else to cover that Becca was never present to begin with? Sydney turned on the bed, propping her head up on her hand, noting the determined look on Griffin’s face as he concentrated on the computer screen. “I can’t help thinking this is a setup. That she’s not really going to be there.”

He looked at her in the mirror over the desk. “I intend to find out.”

She waited. He offered nothing further, and though she wanted to ask him what he’d do when—if—he saw her, she didn’t have the guts. What did one say to the spouse you thought had been dead the past couple years?
You’re looking good . . . by the way, you still want that divorce?

And that brought up another thought, one she didn’t want to look at too closely. Was Griffin still in love with Becca?

A selfish question, she knew, and one she was saved from examining when Griffin said, “I think we can stop wondering if this invitation is legit.”

Sydney sat up as he turned the computer screen her way, reading the text.

“ ‘Luc Montel, head of Hilliard and Sons Laboratories, Paris Division, will be present tonight at the Château d’Montel winery.’ Apparently Luc owns the winery and is sponsoring the dinner. A gesture of goodwill among the movers and shakers who make viruses and vaccines. And with them, according to this list, will be a number of foreign and national dignitaries.”

“We have one invitation and four agents. They’re bound to check IDs at the door, Griffin.”

“I’m sure they will, which means the invitation is useless, other than it confirms where we’re going. With the dignitaries listed here, they’ll undoubtedly be screening for weapons. But if a couple inept socialites can crash the White House, two spies have an equally good chance of crashing a ball.”

“You realize I’m not a spy?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “We’ll make one out of you yet.”

“Before you start converting me, we’ve got to hit the stores if we’re going to blend in with the haute couture.”

Dumas returned right about the same time they did from their shopping trip. “I’ve checked with some of my sources about the dead CIA handler,” he told Griffin as Sydney hung up her dress. “No one knew he was here, in an official capacity or otherwise, though his lease shows he’d been living in the flat for the last two years.”

“Which fits with when my wife allegedly arrived in France.”

“Perhaps,” Dumas said. “But forgive me for voicing my concern in that he met his demise right after this article in the American papers came out about the double agent.”

Several heartbeats passed while Sydney waited to hear Griffin’s response.

“I know,” was all Griffin said, and she actually breathed a sigh of relief. No storming from the room, no outward sign of anger.

Even so, as Sydney readied herself for the operation, she hoped this entire thing
had
been an elaborate setup to make Griffin think his wife was still alive. For all his calmness, she wasn’t sure what he might do if he actually ran into her tonight and confirmed that she was a double agent.

They’d soon find out, she thought, as someone knocked on the hotel room door.

Dumas got up to answer it. “That should be the support team that Tex was able to round up.” He slid back his chair, stood, then walked to the door, peering out the peephole before opening it. “Come in, gentlemen.”

Giustino, an Italian
carabinieri
agent who often worked with ATLAS, and Donovan Archer, an American agent, walked in, both dressed in tuxedos. “Heard you might need a little assistance,” Donovan said, slapping Griffin on the shoulder.

“They scrape the bottom of the barrel to bring you two here?” Griffin asked.

Donovan grinned. “I just finished an operation in Germany with Giustino when the call came in that you needed help.” He looked over at Sydney. “Ah, the prodigal Sydney Fitzpatrick that Giustino has told me about,” Donovan said, holding out his hand to her. “Donovan Archer.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sydney said, shaking hands. She turned her attention to Giustino. “It’s good to see you again, Giustino. How are you?”

“Molto bene, grazie
,” he said, walking up and giving her a kiss on both cheeks. “And you are even more beautiful than the last time. You must come back to Italy, yes?”

She smiled. “One day.”

Griffin eyed the two men. “Aren’t you a bit overdressed for being the support team?”

Giustino shrugged. “You were going to crack the safe yourself?”

“Good point.” Griffin had cracked a few in his time, but Giustino was the expert. “If this is a setup of some sort, the faster we’re in and out, the better. Right now, the biggest problem I foresee will be getting in with four weapons. The newspaper mentioned enhanced security because of the stature of some of the guests—though I have a feeling Luc may have invited them just to beef up security and not have it noticed. Especially if he’d always intended to make the sale there.”

“So what do you suggest?” Giustino asked.

It was Dumas who came up with the answer. “The bakery supplying the dessert is right here in Paris. One of the oldest and most respected, and it closes very early, so there will be no one on the premises.”

“And how will that help us?” Griffin said.

“A baker with access to the château’s kitchen has a better chance of smuggling in weapons than gate crashers through the front door. And this bakery has several vans. They won’t be using all of them tonight.”

“What happened to ‘Thou shalt not steal’?”

“Since you will be borrowing it for the greater good, when you have finished, an offering in the proper amount to the proper charity will help.”

S
tealing the van appeared to be the easy part. Dumas dropped them off at the back of the bakery, then waited just up the alley as a lookout. There were four parking spaces and three delivery vans. Griffin wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad that maybe the fourth spot belonged to the van delivering the dessert to the winery. He only hoped it didn’t return while they were still in the lot.

“Wait here,” Griffin said. Sydney stood by the back door while he broke into the bakery, found a set of keys, one of three, hanging on a rack on the wall in the office. He started out, when his eye caught on the laundry room off the rear entrance. Just inside, he saw two bins, one filled with dirty towels, the other with white jackets and pants, all waiting for the laundry service. Griffin dug through the bin, found four fairly clean sets, then left.

Outside, he tossed Sydney the clothes, fumbled with the keys, hoping it was for the van on the far side, since that would be less obvious to anyone walking into the lot. Fate intervened. The keys belonged to the van closest to the door. He unlocked it, they got in, and he was just about to turn the key in the ignition when the fourth delivery van turned in.

“Duck,” he said, reaching over, pulling her down.

From just over the top of the dash, he saw the van park, and the driver, dressed in the white uniform like those in the laundry room, got out. He walked up to the back door, using his key to get in. Griffin hoped he wasn’t planning on staying long, because the last thing Griffin wanted to do was start up the van while the guy was inside. Thankfully, he was only inside about two minutes before he came out, pulling the door shut behind him. He did not, however, leave, but stood there on the back stoop, smoking a cigarette.