On the top floor, the third one, he unlocked the door to a certain room. It was empty except for the computer humming quietly on a wooden crate, cables hooking it to the electrical outlet and phone jack. There was no printer.
The lights were programmed to go off and on at random times. The window was covered with shutters. Sometimes he came in the mornings and opened the shutters, then returned in the afternoon to shut them, so it looked as if someone was living there. He didn’t think anyone ever had; there was only the computer.
Per that morning’s instructions, he walked quickly over to the computer and tapped a few keys on the keyboard, entering the program called Norton Utilities. On that program was a feature called “government wipe.” He pressed a few keys, waited a moment, then pressed another one. He watched briefly as the computer performed as instructed.
He took his handkerchief and wiped off the computer keyboard, then the doorknob as he was leaving. He wouldn’t be back to this empty room with its electronic inhabitant.
No one saw him arrive or leave, but then, he was so very average looking.
Later that afternoon, a white van stopped down the street from the apartment building. Two men got out and walked up the narrow street; they were dressed as laborers, in paint-stained coveralls, though their van bore none of the accouterments of painters.
They went into the apartment building and took the stairs up to the third floor. Once in the narrow, dingy hallway, they each took heavy automatic pistols from inside their coveralls and quietly approached the closed door to one of the apartments. One positioned himself to the side of the door, his pistol held ready He nodded to his companion, who cautiously reached out and tried the knob. Surprise etched both their faces when the door swung open.
Quickly they peeked around the frame, automatically jerked back, then relaxed; the room was empty. Still, they held their pistols ready as they entered the room and quickly searched it. Nothing. Not only was the room uninhabited, it showed no signs that anyone had lived there in quite some time.
On the other hand, there was that computer. It sat on the crate, quietly humming. The screen was a pure blue.
The two men were professionals; they got down on their knees and inspected the computer, following the power and telephone cords to their outlets, looking for anything unusual. Not finding anything, one of them finally reached out and turned off the computer. The screen went blank and the quiet hum died.
They briskly unplugged the computer and carried it downstairs to their van. They didn’t bother closing the door behind them when they left.
Ville de Ronsard
Cara was swimming when Ronsard sent word the computer had arrived. She hauled herself out of the pool and bent over from the waist to wring the water from her hair. She knew Hossam was watching her, his dark eyes hot with excitement. She ignored him and wrapped a towel around her head and another around her torso.
Poor Hossam. All that jealous lust was getting tiresome. Hossam was getting tiresome. Cara was quickly bored with her lovers, because once they got her in bed they all seemed to get possessive and territorial. Why couldn’t they just be satisfied with good sex, the way she was? She didn’t like hurting them because she cared for them all, just not the way they wanted. On the other hand, she wasn’t going to spend her life with a man she didn’t want just because she felt sorry for him.
Extricating herself from the relationship with Hossam could be tricky. She was well aware of the cultural differences; in the beginning, they had even been exciting. Now she felt stifled whenever she was with him.
What she needed, she supposed, was a nice boy toy for her to keep, someone who knew she was the boss, at least of herself. She wasn’t into dominance, just independence.
The truth was, no man she had ever met, with the exception of Ronsard, was as interesting as her computers—and she was smart enough to know Ronsard wasn’t the settling-down type. Not ever. She liked him, but he wasn’t for her. Maybe no one was. Maybe she was going to end up one of those eccentric, world-traveling old ladies. She kinda liked the image that brought to mind.
Hossam approached and laid his hand on her arm. “You will come to my room tonight?”
“Not tonight,” she said, moving away as casually as possible. “Mr. Ronsard has brought in a computer he wants me to investigate, so I’ll be working all night.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“You know I can’t promise that when I don’t know what my schedule is.”
“Marry me, and you will not have to work.”
“I like working,” she said. “Good night” She hurried away before he could stop her again. Yes, this situation with Hossam was definitely getting tricky. Perhaps she would ask Ronsard to reassign Hossam, though she hated to do that; after all, Hossam was only being himself. He shouldn’t be punished for that.
She stopped in her room to get dressed and pin up her hair. In the States she would have hurried to the office in her bathing suit, but Ronsard was very European in his dress standards. She liked that, actually. It was nice to have standards.
He was waiting for her, his long dark hair pulled back in its usual style, giving his lean face a more exotic slant. He was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, which was as informal as he got. “Your gift,” he said, nodding to the unit that now occupied her desktop.
Quickly she hooked up the machine and sat down in front of it. She turned it on and waited for it to boot. Nothing happened. She tried it again. The screen still remained a blank blue.
“Uh-oh.”
“Is something wrong?” Ronsard asked as he approached.
“It’s been wiped.”
“Erased?”
“Yeah. Maybe he just used a C-prompt command. If he did, there should still be some information on the hard drive.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“If he used a government wipe, then there’s nothing left.”
“A government wipe . . .”
“It’s just what it sounds like. If there’s anything you don’t want the government to see, you use a government wipe. It’s in Norton Utilities—”
He held up a hand. “Details aren’t necessary. How long will it take you to find out which type of erasure he used?”
“Not long.”
He waited patiently while she got into the hard drive and began searching for bits of data. There was nothing. The drive was as pristine as the day it came off the assembly line.
“Nothing,” she said in disgust.
Ronsard put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “That is what I expected, really.”
“Then why get the computer?”
“Because I want to know Mr. Temple. If he were careless enough to leave data on the computer, then perhaps I shouldn’t deal with him. As it is—” Ronsard hesitated and gave a thin smile. “I’ve learned that he is almost as careful as I.”
“Almost.”
“I’m not going to him,” Ronsard said gently. “He is coming to me.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Your name is Niema Jamieson,” Medina said, handing over a passport, driver’s license, and social security card.
She looked down at them in both interest and disbelief. “Niema?” she questioned.
“Your name is so unusual you’d probably slip up if you had to answer to anything else. It’s always best to stay close to your real name.”
“Is that so, Mr. Darrell Tucker?” she murmured.
He gave a faint smile in acknowledgment of the hit. “I’ve used so many names, I ran out of similars.”
She opened the passport. Her photo was there, as well as several pages of stamps. According to her passport, within just the past year she had been to Great Britain twice, once to Italy, once to Switzerland, and once to Australia. Niema Jamieson was certainly well-traveled.
The driver’s license looked just as authentic. She was a resident of New Hampshire, evidently. Niema Price Jamieson.
“My middle name
is Price?” she asked in disbelief.
“That’s your maiden name. Your family is old friends with the ambassador’s wife’s family.”
“So I’m married?”
“Widowed.” He gave her a steady, unyielding look, as if expecting her to object to a cover line so close to her own life. “Your husband, Craig, was killed in a boating accident two years ago. The ambassador’s wife—her name is Eleanor, by the way—persuaded you to join them in Paris for a vacation.”
She was silent. Of course so many of the details paralleled her own life; that way the story was easy to remember.
“And if Ronsard does invite me to his home and does a background check on me, he’ll find . . . what?”
“He’ll find that you’re exactly who you say you are. He’ll find society page articles mentioning you. He’ll find an article on Craig Jamieson’s death that mentions his grief-stricken widow, Niema. Don’t worry; your cover will stand up to any scrutiny.”
“But what about the ambassador and his wife? They obviously know I’m not an old family friend.”
“Yes, but they’re accustomed to covers. You know how many Agency personnel are in our embassies. It’s standard.”
“Then why won’t Ronsard suspect me?”
“Because you aren’t staff. Believe me, they know, or have a good idea, who is Agency and who isn’t.”
She took a deep breath. “When do I leave?”
He pulled a ticket folder from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Tomorrow, on the Concord.”
“Cool.” Her eyes lit. She had always wanted to fly on the supersonic jet. “When will you get there?”
“You won’t see me until we’re both at Ronsard’s villa. If he doesn’t invite you—” He broke off and shrugged.
“Then I won’t see you again.” She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact, but inside she didn’t feel that way. In just a few days he seemed to have become the central element of the excitement she felt. But she had known from the beginning how things would be, known that he would leave as abruptly as he had appeared.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but I’ve worked with you before, remember? When the job’s finished, you disappear. And now that I know who you are, I know why.”
“Niema . . .” He put his hands in his pockets, looking oddly ill at ease. Medina was always in such control of himself that his expression diverted her. “I’ll be back. That’s all I can say now.”
She was immediately intrigued, and alarmed. Did he mean he wanted to use her on another job? Part of her wanted to shout “Hell, no!” but deep inside was a yearning, a craving for more.
Common sense took the upper hand. “This is a one-time deal, Medina; don’t bank on sucking me into another job. I don’t get hazardous-duty pay, you know.”
“Of course you do.”
Taken aback, she warily eyed him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you get a hefty bonus for this.”
“Oh, great! That means anyone in payroll—”
“Nope. This is black ops, remember? Everything comes out of an off-books account. And try to call me John, instead of Medina. John’s a fairly common name, but there are a lot of people in this town who would perk up their ears if they heard you call me Medina.”
Reluctantly she said, “John.” She preferred thinking of him and referring to him as Medina; that kept him at a certain distance, at least in her mind. She was having a difficult enough time battling her attraction to him as it was. “Back to my original statement: This is a one-time deal. It has to be.”
Hands still in his pockets, he wandered over to the kitchen window and absently fingered the hook and eye latches she had installed. For the past two mornings he had been reduced to wriggling through a damn small bathroom window, and the fit was so tight he had to do some major contortions to get in. She was so pleased with those little latches that he didn’t tell her he’d figured out a way to unlatch them. The average burglar wouldn’t have the means of doing it, and anyone who really, really wanted to get into the house would simply break a window anyway. The ordinary citizen usually couldn’t afford the safety measures that would make a house truly burglar-proof, but then the ordinary citizen didn’t need to go to that effort and expense.
“Don’t think you can ignore me,” she warned.
He gave her a brief, warm smile as he turned away from the window. “I’ve never thought that.”
Both the smile and the statement rattled her. Deciding to change the subject, she took a deep breath. “Let’s get back to the plan. What happens when—if—I wrangle an invitation to Ronsard’s home? What if you aren’t invited for the same time?”
“I’ve already received an invitation. Ronsard is hosting a formal party in ten days. He does it annually, as sort of a repayment to all the people who look the other way when delicate situations arise concerning his occupation. The security is extremely tight, even tighter than normal, because of so many people in the house. He would consider the meeting with me more controlled. If Ronsard invites you to the party, accept. If he merely invites you to his house for a visit, decline. That will only whet his interest.”
“What I know about whetting interest would rattle around in a peanut shell,” she muttered.
He grinned. “Don’t worry, Mother Nature took care of that. We men are easy. We don’t require much more than that a woman be breathing, and we’re interested.”
She tried to take umbrage, but instead found herself laughing. “That simple, huh?”
“Compared to women, we’re amoebas. Our brains only have one cell, but it’s dedicated.”
So said the most complicated man she’d ever met. She shook her head. “I think we need to get to work, before your one cell goes completely haywire. What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Get some rest, pack, brush up on your French. I just came by to give you your papers.”
She had become so accustomed to working out with him that the prospect of a day without that challenge seemed flat. “So this is it, huh? If I don’t get that invitation, I won’t see you again.”
He hesitated, then reached out and lightly touched her cheek with his fingertips. He started to say something and stopped. Something like regret, only more complex, flickered briefly in his blue eyes. Without a word he turned and left, letting himself out the back door, his movements so silent she wouldn’t have known he was there if she hadn’t been looking at him.
She stood in the kitchen, fighting the chill that raced over her at his touch. No, she wasn’t cold. She was shivering, but she wasn’t cold. Just that light touch of his fingertips had set her nerve endings to tingling. Holy cow. What would it be like to actually—“No,” she ordered herself aloud. “Don’t go there.” Don’t imagine what it would be like to make love with him. Men like John Medina didn’t make love, they had sex; they didn’t have relationships, just encounters.
Though one couldn’t tell it from the way she had lived her life for the past five years, she had sometimes thought, in a vague way, of remarrying and having children. That was always in the nebulous future, and even though there hadn’t been any candidates for the position of husband, still she had expected her life to eventually take that route. If she became involved with John, though, she could kiss that dream good-bye. She wouldn’t be able to settle for an ordinary Joe if she ever let herself indulge in an affair with him.
He might pass himself off as a sheep to most of the world, but she knew him for the wolf he was. And she knew her own nature, knew her craving for excitement. She’d never be able to get herself back, because sleeping with John would be going one step too far. That was the ultimate kick, and nothing else would ever equal it. But if she didn’t let herself taste him, she would never know what she missed. She might suspect, but she wouldn’t know, and she would still be capable of happiness with that ordinary Joe who had to be somewhere in her future.
What difference did it make? she wondered, pre
ssing a fist to the pit of her stomach in an effort to squash the butterflies that were fluttering there. He was gone. If this plan didn’t work, she probably wouldn’t see him again. Though he’d said he would be back, she didn’t quite believe him. She couldn’t let herself believe him, because if she did, she might start dreaming he was coming back for her, and that was the most dangerous fantasy of all.
Niema packed in the battered Vuitton luggage that had been delivered the day before. The luggage was a nice touch, she thought; it was expensive and fit with her supposedly well-heeled background, but still looked far from new. It looked, in fact, as if it had been around the world several times. The name tags carried her fictitious name and address.
She dressed in a stylish linen and cotton blend sage green dress for travel, a simple chemise style that she topped with a lightweight cardigan. On her feet were sensible taupe flats. For all its simplicity, or perhaps because of it, the ensemble shrieked “money.” Old money, at that.
The day was bright and sunny, there wouldn’t be any bad weather delays. She felt jittery and couldn’t tell if it was due to anticipation or dread. But she felt ready, she wanted to be in Paris right now. She wanted to meet this Louis Ronsard and see if breathing was, indeed, all she had to do to be comehitherish. John needed her inside Ronsard’s villa; he would continue on his own, but the job was less risky if he had backup. She had to get that invitation.
Uneasily she thought of a precaution John had insisted she take: birth control pills. It was standard for female operatives, he’d told her. Did he expect her to sleep with Ronsard? She knew that sex was often the route women used to get to the men they targeted, in real life as well as in espionage. Well, her devotion to the job didn’t go that deep; she would not, could not, sleep with the arms dealer, no matter how good-looking he supposedly was.
The cab arrived on time, and the driver came to the door to carry her bags. As he went back down the sidewalk she looked around at her comfortable home, wondering at the weird sense of disconnection, as if she would never see it again. This wasn’t much different from going on vacation. A week, two weeks at the most, and she would be home again, once more settled into the routine of work and chores. This episode wouldn’t be repeated.