The Spy Who Loves Me (17 page)

“Working a lead,” Schnell said. “Doing her job.”

Brandon kept his mouth shut. Schnell and Monahan were the big dogs, and he wasn't about to piss in their puddle.

“I should have been told,” Monahan said. “She was in Chechnya under
my
orders.” The look he aimed at Schnell was pure ice. “I'm not retired yet.”

“You weren't available,” Schnell said. He moved behind the podium and punched a button, dimming the lights and dropping a projection screen. The intent was obvious—subject closed. Time to move on.

That was fine with Brandon. He'd give his right arm for James, but he'd give his life for Amber. And this petty power trip between Schnell and Monahan was wasting valuable time.

As it was, Brandon had already managed to waste enough time on his own.

It had taken a full hour and all of Brandon's energy to extricate himself from the overzealous security guard. His smart-ass comments probably hadn't helped, but the guy had decided to lecture Brandon on the ins and outs of polite society.

What a crock of shit.

By the time the guard sent Brandon on his merry way, Diana was truly lost. He'd expected that. What he hadn't anticipated was to find skid marks in the parking garage and the contents of Amber's purse on the walkway leading up to her building.

He'd done some asking around, and the little girl who lived above Finn had spotted a limo idling across the street. Not exactly par for the neighborhood.

Whoever had been driving that limo had taken his partner. And Brandon didn't know if they'd taken Finn as well, or if Finn was the one holding Amber.

And to make matters worse, Drake had managed to lose his tail. So they had absolutely no leads.

Too many questions and not enough answers.

“What equipment does she have on her?” James asked. His voice was tight and professional, but Brandon caught the hint of concern.

“Hard to say,” he said. “She doesn't have her purse, but she's not out much there. Standard issue lipstick scanner and comb/knife. The strap doubles as a garrote.”

“Useful tools,” Schnell said.

“But not essential,” Brandon said. “As for what she has on her, I don't know.”

“Homing beacon?” James asked.

“Not that I'm aware of,” Brandon said.

“Gun?” Schnell asked.

Brandon shook his head. “In the motorcycle. As far as we know, she's unarmed.”

“And this fellow you think is with her,” James added. “A Company man?”

“We don't know,” Brandon said honestly. “Either way, he seems to be green.”

“I've already put feelers out and got a negative all the way around,” Schnell said. “C.I.A., N.S.A., F.B.I. All the agencies deny knowing anything about Phineus Teague.”

“Shit,” Brandon said. “I hope she wasn't snatched along with a civilian. If Mackenzie's holding her, she's got enough to worry about without having to babysit a civie, too.”

“Either way,” Schnell said, “you've got your work cut out for you.” He met Brandon's eyes. “If Mackenzie's got a hold of Prometheus, we've got big problems. I need to know. And I want my agent back. That's your assignment, Agent Kline. Do us all a favor and ace this one.”

 

Albert Alcott watched as Monahan, Schnell, and Kline paced the situation room. Something was going on. Something big.

The door burst open, and Brandon Kline walked out, his face marked in shadows. Albert saved his work and pushed back from the computer desk. Natalie, the woman who worked in the cubicle next to him, lifted an eyebrow, but Albert ignored her. In his position breaks were strictly scheduled, but he had a feeling this was about Amber Robinson and he wanted to know the story.

As Brandon pushed through the double doors that led into the lobby, Albert followed.

The phone rang, and the receptionist snatched it up. “Machismo,” she said. “What kind of adventure can we take you on today?” After a pause, she spoke again, her tone only slightly altered. “Yes, sir. I'll transfer you now,” she said, and Albert saw her press a button on the phone's third row, thereby securing the line between the agent and his contact in-house.

The elevator doors were sliding open when Al caught up to Brandon. “Kline,” he said, gasping for breath.

Brandon turned, his expression blank.

“Was that about Amber?”

Brandon didn't say anything for what felt like a full minute, and Al began to wonder if the guy was just going to get on the elevator and head back out into the world. A world Al hadn't seen for well over a year now.

“You're Alcott,” he finally said.

Al nodded. “I saw”—he waved his hand in a circle—“all of that. Is Amber okay?”

“What's it to you?”

Al shrugged. “I like her, is all.” He could understand Brandon's hesitation. Amber had been the one who'd caught him. She'd single-handedly plucked a million bucks out of his fingers—figuratively, anyway. But Al didn't hold a grudge. Especially considering the other folks who'd been after him for the same money. Joey Malone would have just killed him. With Amber, he'd been able to strike a deal.

He might not have his freedom, but he had his life. And, he had to admit, the work was interesting, even if he did have to live in a tiny room in the basement.

After what seemed like forever, Brandon nodded, jerking his head sideways to indicate the conference room just off the lobby.

“What's your assignment, Alcott?” he asked, closing the door behind them.

Al wasn't supposed to share that information with anyone. “Data entry,” he said. “Intelligence. The watch list.”

“Mackenzie?” Brandon asked.

Al nodded, realizing they were getting to the meat of it.

“What about Prometheus?” Brandon asked.

Al frowned. “Never heard of it.” The answer was the God's honest truth, but Brandon looked skeptical. And Al made a mental note to find out everything he could about something called Prometh—Promethi-
what?

“I'm putting my ass on the line telling you this.”

Al nodded, solemn. He didn't doubt that what Brandon said was true. But he wasn't too sympathetic. Al knew perfectly well that Brandon wasn't going to confide out of the goodness of his heart. He'd only share information if he thought Al might be useful.

“Amber was watching Diana Traynor,” Brandon said.

Al nodded; that much he already knew.

“And now she's disappeared.”

“She found something out?”

“Maybe,” Brandon said. He paused again, taking a long, hard look at Al. Al stood up straighter. “Prometheus is a weapons system,” Brandon finally said. “You work on the computer. Poke around. See if you can find anything about who designed it. And see if there's any connection to a fellow named Bernie Waterman or if there's anyone with a code name of Poindexter.”

Al nodded, knowing better than to ask why Brandon wanted the information. “I'll give it a whirl.” It was dangerous. If he got caught, the Unit could toss him out and he'd have to take his chances with the district attorney. Or, worse, Joey Malone. But for Amber's sake, he'd try.

Besides, he intended to be very, very careful.

They left the conference room, and Al headed back to the double doors while Brandon waited for the elevator. He tugged the door open, then stopped, turning back to Brandon.

“When you see her…I mean, when you find her, tell her I liked the book.” Amber had lent him Clancy's
The Hunt for Red October.
He'd never read Clancy and already he was hooked. He met Brandon's eyes. “She promised I could borrow some more.”

Something flickered in Brandon's eyes. “Don't worry, Alcott,” he said. “I'll find her.”

T
hey were in a long expanse of hallway when an underling Amber hadn't seen before rushed forward, stopping in front of Drake and whipping off a tight salute.

“A communiqué, sir,” he said. “Mr. Black requests that you contact him posthaste.”

A muscle in Drake's cheek twitched, but he seemed otherwise unaffected by the news. He took a step forward, his hand held out to Diana. “Come along, my dear.” He faced Amber and Finn in turn. “You'll pardon my leaving you for a moment, but I must run ahead and make a quick call to the mainland. I'll leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Beltzer.”

“Oh, joy,” said Amber.

Drake didn't reply, and Beltzer jabbed her in the lower back with the butt end of his gun. Clearly the man hadn't warmed to her.

He kept the gun at her back during the rest of their journey through the complex. Amber spent the time memorizing their path and wondering who in the hell Mr. Black was. A true alias? Or a twist on another name. Blackman, Blackstone…? Useless. She had no clue, and running through names was a waste of time.

They'd reached a set of steel double doors, and Beltzer activated the panel to open them. Then he jammed the gun in Amber's back and shoved. She stumbled forward, Finn at her side, and found herself in a computer-filled room that appeared to be solid concrete, as if someone had turned the Hollywood Bowl upside down over Houston's mission control.

Banks of computers filled the room, running in arcs that mimicked the curve of the room. About every fifth terminal was manned by a young man wearing a white lab coat. Whether the coats were another of Drake's weird affectations or simply designed to hide a weapon, Amber didn't know. All she knew, in fact, was that the exits seemed quite well protected. And considering the number of people in the room, the odds of winning a fight were pretty damn slim.

She was still attached to Finn, and now he brushed her fingers. She looked up at him, and he smiled, his eyes reassuring. Despite the circumstances, she found herself smiling back.

“Mr. Teague, Miss Robinson. Glad you caught up. Come in, come in.” Mackenzie stood up, appearing to materialize from behind a bank of computer consoles. He looked Amber in the eye. “Apparently I misjudged the caliber of my guests. After the beating Mr. Beltzer took, I should have known whom I was dealing with.”

Amber pressed her lips together, remaining silent.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Finn asked.

“Don't you know?” Drake asked. “I find that so very hard to believe.” He stepped forward. “So tell me, just how long have you two been working together?”

“What—”

But Drake waved a hand, cutting off Finn's question. “It doesn't matter. At any rate, I'm delighted that you both can join me for this little demonstration.”

“Damn,” Amber said. “And here I thought we'd been invited to dinner.”

Drake's smile never faltered. “I'm so sorry, but I don't eat during my heavy work weeks.” He raised a glass filled with a thick, green liquid. “Reoxygenates the blood.” He pressed a button on the console. “Diana, dear, our guests are famished.”

“I'm sure we'll survive,” Finn said, casting a sideways glance toward Amber. She just shrugged, too distracted by her attempts to figure a way out of this mess to bother with coming clean.

Drake flashed Finn a winning smile. “I wouldn't be so certain. But I assure you your death won't be the result of starvation.” He clapped his hands. “Now, Prado, show our guests to their places of honor.”

Amber almost rolled her eyes. Mackenzie was rumored to be a pompous ass. Now he was proving that the reports were right.

Prado came over from the far side of the room and steered them to two theater seats bolted to the ground in the center of the room.

“Oh, good,” Finn said. “I hope it's something I haven't seen.”

“I assure you,” Drake said, “you've seen nothing like this before.”

“Perhaps we should skip dinner and just have popcorn,” Amber added.

Drake didn't respond, and Prado fastened their shared handcuff to their adjoining armrest with a heavy-duty lock. Then he pocketed the key. Amber frowned, wishing she had her purse. At least Finn hadn't been stripped naked. If she was lucky, his agency issued the same standard tools and he could pick the lock. Hell, even if he was a civilian, maybe he had a paper clip.

“Thanks,” Amber said. “We'll just stay here awhile.”

The metal door slid open, and Diana walked through, holding a large cardboard bucket filled with popcorn. The butter scent wafted toward them, and Amber's stomach growled.

Amber met Finn's eyes, and she saw her own amusement reflected there. Drake might be a murderous son of a bitch, but he definitely had a sense of humor.

“This is just to tide you over until what comes later,” he said, as Diana handed them the popcorn.

“I can hardly wait,” Finn said.

Drake cocked his head, an oily smile easing across his face. “Anticipation,” he said. “One of life's true pleasures.” He glanced at Finn as if expecting a snappy comeback, and when none was forthcoming, he continued on. “Actually, I owe you two an apology.”

“After treating us so well?” Amber cut in. “I find that hard to believe.”

Drake ignored her, continuing to address his remarks to Finn. “I had intended to spend today, shall we say, getting to know you better. Trading state secrets, as it were.” He moved closer, stopping in front of Amber to stroke her cheek. She jerked her head away, both in defiance and revulsion at the icy chill of his palm.

Drake's smile was cold and cruel as he twisted a lock of Amber's hair around his finger. “Using a different kind of feminine persuasion if you weren't inclined to share.”

He dropped her hair, his mood visibly shifting. “But, things change. I'm so sorry, but we won't be having our little meeting. Recent information has made it…unnecessary.”

“Pity,” said Finn.

“Yes, I knew you'd see it that way,” Drake said. “But my compatriot was quite insistent that I skip such pleasantries and simply dispose of you. And with billions of dollars on the table, who am I to argue?”

“Darling,” Diana said, tapping her watch, “it's time.”

“Of course.” Drake nodded to Amber, then Finn. “If you'll excuse me, I have a few matters to attend to before my other guests arrive.”

“Witnesses at our execution?” Amber said.

At that, Drake actually laughed. “Oh, no, no, no, my dear. We'll do that in private. This, I'm afraid, is strictly business. You can consider yourselves lucky to get to sit in on the negotiations.”

“We're honored, of course,” Finn said.

Amber caught Finn's eyes, but despite his smooth response, she got the impression he was as clueless as she. Not good news in the saving-their-butts department, but at least she wasn't behind in the game.

Beside her, Finn reached into the tub and popped a handful of popcorn into his mouth. She raised an eyebrow.

Finn shrugged. “Somehow death by popcorn doesn't seem this guy's speed.”

“You seem to know him rather well,” she said, agreeing wholeheartedly with his assessment.

“I know the type,” he said, grabbing some more popcorn. “When the end does come, it's going to be more dramatic than poison.”

“Oh?” It was the best she could come up with. She'd been hoping for some clue as to how much Finn knew about Drake. Instead, she got common sense.

“I'm thinking shark food, actually.” He drew in a deep breath. “Sorry about that.”

Amber sank back against her chair. From Drake's little spiel, it seemed clear that he was on to Amber. Whether he'd discovered Finn's true identity was anybody's guess, but it appeared that he had, and Amber was willing to give him brownie points. He'd accomplished a hell of a lot more than she had on that score.

She frowned. This tiptoeing around the subject was driving her nuts. She opened her mouth to simply ask him who the hell he worked for, but right then the room dimmed, metal panels in the walls curving up to cover the light fixtures even while revealing flat panel monitors.

Six static-filled screens surrounded the large projection screen, three on each side. One by one, the static faded, replaced with a close-up of a face. Six faces, each of which Amber recognized. Her mark from Chechnya, General Orlov, was in the top left. Right below him was Libyan Colonel Buton, a known arms dealer with serious anger-management issues. The rest were of the same ilk. Terrorists and arms dealers the government had been watching for months. No one who'd yet made the cover of
Newsweek,
but unless Amber—and Finn—did their jobs, she had a feeling they were heading that way.

She curled her toes, the pressure a counterpoint to her rising frustration. What the hell was Drake up to, and how did it involve Project Prometheus?

She turned to face Finn, trying to read his expression. His brow was slightly furrowed, his eyes slightly narrowed. She had to hand it to the guy. Not only was he displaying not even a hint of recognition, but he looked positively confused.

Saudi Prince Mujabi was the first to speak. “Well?” he said, the Oxford-educated lilt in his voice remaining despite the shift in frequency. Drake, apparently, didn't want his six video guests to recognize the others. The voices were severely altered and, she assumed, they saw only Drake and not the other men that she and Finn could see.

“I arranged my schedule to accommodate this meeting,” Mujabi continued. “Shall we get on with it, then? My time, Mr. Mackenzie, is valuable.”

“Of course,” Drake said. “Gentlemen, if you will please direct your browsers to our secure site, then punch in the password oh, niner, seven, Q, five.” Drake did the same as he spoke, and the projection screen came to life, displaying an image of Los Angeles.

“Gentlemen,” Drake said, “the bidding starts at two billion.”

Amber swallowed. She didn't know exactly what Drake was up to, but it had to be big.

General Lao from China laughed, the harsh sound reverbing off the stone walls. “I have heard from many sources that your sanity hangs by a thread, Mackenzie. Now, I see it is so.”

Drake nodded. “It appears, then, that we have something in common. I've heard the same about you.”

The man chuckled, not the least bit perturbed by Drake's response.

“The gentleman is right,” said Anthony Cornwallis, an American expatriate operating as an arms dealer out of North Korea. “You've told us nothing about this so-called service you intend to provide. Only that it is remarkable. You piqued our curiosity and here we are. Now it's time to shit or get off the pot.”

Drake spread his arms wide. “Gentlemen, you're absolutely right.” He turned to Diana. “My darling, if you please.”

Diana moved to the console and began to tap on the keyboard. As she did, the image of the Los Angeles skyline sharpened and clarified. The camera seemed to move forward until the famous Hollywood sign filled the screen.

Amber closed her eyes as the realization of Drake's plan hit her—Prometheus was not only operational, but it lived up to its rumors. And somehow, Drake had actually managed to get his hands on it.

“Behold, our target.” Drake's voice boomed.

“The Hollywood sign?” Finn whispered. “What the hell is this guy up to?”

Amber could only shake her head and silently pray that she was wrong.

Drake's six guests expressed much the same comment as Finn, each talking over the other, the clamor of their voices rising to fill the room.

“Gentlemen,” Drake said, “please.” He waited, drumming his fingers on the lectern until the voices died down. “I have picked the test site as a tribute. A demonstration, if you will, to the world that shunned a brilliant actress.” He flashed a smile filled with genuine warmth toward Diana, whose cheeks bloomed pink. “Truly brilliant,” he repeated. “In fact, my dear, you deserve an Oscar for your command performance last night for the benefit of our friend in the West Wing.”

She blew him a kiss.

“Of course,” he continued, “Hollywood's loss is science's gain. Ms. Traynor enrolled at MIT after certain shortsighted Hollywood producers failed to see her potential. I, of course, am forever grateful for their foolishness.”

“Cut the crap, Mackenzie,” Cornwallis said. “Just get on with it.”

“I see you are all anxious to begin,” Drake said, ignoring Cornwallis's outburst. “Diana, if you please…”

At Drake's command, Diana tapped at a keypad. Finn's brow was furrowed in concentration, Amber's own in frustration. She tugged uselessly against her restraint, but Beltzer had fastened the cuffs securely to the seats and she wasn't going anywhere.

“We've taken access,” Diana said.

“Excellent.” Drake actually rubbed his hands together. “Paint the target.”