Читать книгу Face Of Deception - Ana Leigh - Страница 11

Purring like a contented black cat on a velvet cushion, the limo continued to move swiftly on the beltway. After a short ride, they passed through a gate with an armed guard and pulled up at the rear of a building.

Ann and Brandon were whisked up several floors in an elevator and led to an office. Bishop rapped lightly, opened the door and peered inside. Satisfied, he stepped aside for Ann and Brandon to enter and then followed them into the room. As irritating as the man could be, she felt relieved to have his commanding presence beside her.

The two men awaiting their arrival rose to their feet, and one stepped forward to greet her.

“Miss Hamilton, I’m Avery Waterman. I can’t tell you how relieved we are to see you’ve arrived safely.”

His clipped accent was clearly British. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. Everything about Waterman mirrored refined elegance, from a well-groomed mustache to the European cut of the charcoal-colored cashmere jacket tailored to fit his slim figure.

Waterman shook Ann’s hand, then leaned over and patted Brandon on the head. “And this chap must be our young Mr. Burroughs.”

The move was too aggressive for the confused six-year-old. He slipped his hand into Ann’s. She grasped it securely.

Waterman did not miss the gesture. He straightened up, and his gray eyes focused on Ann. “Please be seated, Miss Hamilton. May I introduce my associate, Jeffrey Baker?”

Baker nodded his head of salt-and-pepper hair closely cropped in a buzz cut. “Miss Hamilton.” The deep guttural greeting seemed to be dredged from the abyss of his barrel chest.

She observed that Baker appeared to be the antithesis of his colleague. Shorter than Waterman by several inches, Baker resembled a retired Marine gunny sergeant. Missing were the familiar string of hash marks running up his sleeve, or rows of combat ribbons lining his chest, but she was convinced the inscription Semper Fi was probably tattooed somewhere on the solid brawn concealed beneath his wrinkled, gray flannel suit.

Ann sat down on a nearby couch. When Brandon curled against her side, Waterman addressed the youngster. “Brandon, would you like something to eat?”

Brandon looked to Ann for approval. He grinned broadly when she nodded. Bishop led the boy to the door, and for several moments carried on a whispered conversation with the men in the hallway. Two of them departed with Brandon in tow.

“I hope I’m finally going to get some answers,” Ann declared after Bishop returned, crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

Avery Waterman sat down opposite Ann and settled back with a condescending smile. “Ask away, Miss Hamilton. We’re at your service.”

Yeah, right! She resented the cat-and-mouse game still being played. Within the past thirty some hours Clayton had been murdered, she and Brandon terrorized and virtually spirited out of South America. Now this man had the audacity to patronize her.

“Mr. Waterman, just who are you and whom do you represent?”

She didn’t fail to catch the hasty glance that Waterman exchanged with his associate. “I assure you, Miss Hamilton, you are in good hands.”

“That’s not what I asked, Mr. Waterman.”

“We are an antiterrorist rescue division, Miss Hamilton.”

“Of what? British Intelligence or the CIA?”

His mouth curled in a slight smile. “CIA, Miss Hamilton.”

“Do you know who killed Clayton Burroughs?”

“Not as yet. We were hoping you could tell us.”

Startled by the unexpected voice at her side, as much as by the astonishing remark, Ann turned her head to discover Jeffrey Baker had crossed the room and was now standing next to the couch. She had been unaware he had moved closer, for despite his bull-like physique, the man had moved quickly and quietly.

“Me? How would I know?” she asked, flabbergasted.

Waterman leaned forward. “Miss Hamilton, we are aware of your close association with Mr. Burroughs.”

“Close association? What do you… Clayton and I were close friends…nothing more…” Ann floundered helplessly. She took a deep breath. Why was she allowing these men to put her on the defensive? To intimidate her? Their implications smeared a beautiful friendship.

“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, Miss Hamilton,” Waterman added hastily. “But we also know you were seen with Burroughs the morning he was killed. Did he say anything that would offer a clue as to the identity of his assailants?”

Ann shook her head. “No. Nothing. He never mentioned he was in danger.”

“Think carefully, Miss Hamilton. Tell us exactly what transpired yesterday morning. Don’t spare the minutest detail.” His tone had lost its loftiness, and his clear gray eyes were bathed in kindness.

Ann allowed her mind to drift back to the dreadful morning. “Clayton telephoned me early and said the situation was urgent. I had never heard him sound so grave. He told me to pack an overnight bag and come over at once.”

Ann closed her eyes, recalling the desperation in Clayton’s voice. “When I arrived at his home, he shoved Brandon into his car and told me to drive to his villa in the north. He would join us there later.” She lifted her hands in despair. “That’s all I know.”

“He said nothing more to you?”

“Oh, there was one other thing.” Both men leaned forward attentively. “He said, ‘I know you’ll take good care of Brandon.’”

“He offered no explanation? And you didn’t ask for one?” Waterman asked skeptically.

“No. Everything happened so fast I just reacted automatically without questioning his motives. Why didn’t he come with us?”

“I suspect he knew whomever was found with him would be killed, too,” Baker said.

Tears began to streak her cheeks. “I feel as if I deserted him…abandoned him. If only I had known he was in danger.”

Waterman patted her hand. “There’s nothing you could have done to prevent what happened.”

She jerked up her head and glared at him. “I could have called the police. They would have protected him.”

“Who knows, Miss Hamilton, the police may be the very ones responsible for his death.”

“You’re wrong,” she lashed out. “French Guiana is a beautiful country—a Shangri-la. There is no corruption there. The people there have an innocence like none other I’ve seen anywhere.”

Waterman stood up. “Well, apparently not all are innocent. Mr. Burroughs’s death testified to that.”

“Clayton was not killed by one of the local citizens,” she declared adamantly. “You must have some idea why he was murdered. The CIA wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of bringing me here if you thought his death was just a…random killing.”

Waterman moved away and sat down behind a desk. “Miss Hamilton, I must have your promise that whatever I tell you will not go beyond this room.” Ann nodded. “As Burroughs’s aide you must have been familiar with the satellite the Israeli government intended to launch.”

“I assume you’re referring to the launch aborted last month because of a mechanical malfunction.”

Baker nodded. “But there was no mechanical malfunction. We have reason to suspect the satellite had been sabotaged. Burroughs was conducting an undercover investigation in an attempt to find out who was behind that destruction.”

Sabotage! Undercover investigation! Ann could not believe what she heard. “Are you saying Clayton was an agent…with the CIA?”

“Let’s say that Mr. Burroughs was engaged in undercover work for the government, but he was neither a trained agent nor an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. He contacted us because of his suspicions.”

Ann shook her head to try and clear her befuddled thoughts. “Why would he contact the United States? The satellite was Israeli. Why wouldn’t he contact the Israeli government? It was their problem, not the United States’.”

“Whatever he was pursuing was linked to the United States. He had found out that much.”

“And died because of it,” Ann said bitterly. “Clayton Burroughs was the kindest, gentlest man I’ve ever known. How dare you encourage him in this investigation?” Appalled, her voice rose to near hysteria. “If what you say is true, why didn’t you let your own operators investigate this…sabotage?” She glared at Bishop, who had not said a word throughout the whole conversation. “Lord knows you’ve got enough of them.”

Cradling her head in her hand, she refused to give in to further tears. Particularly with three sets of eyes watching her every move.

“You’re tired now, Miss Hamilton,” Waterman said. “This has been a terrible strain on you. I think you should get some rest.”

Ann lifted her head. “Your Mr. Bishop rushed us away so hurriedly that I don’t have any money, not even a change of clothing. And, as you saw, Brandon is in his pajamas.”

Waterman’s smile bordered on a simper. “Agent Bishop’s propensity for expediency is what makes him so effective in the field.” He assisted her to her feet, put a hand on her back and steered her toward the door. “We’ll see that you get whatever you need. And we’ve made arrangements for you at the Watergate.”

Ann stopped at the doorway. “What about Clayton’s body?”

“The British government is handling the arrangements. Mr. Burroughs’s remains will be returned to England for burial.”

“I would like to attend the funeral and then return to Kourou as quickly as possible. Everything I own is there.”

“Of course, Miss Hamilton. You’ll be free to move about as soon as we are certain you’ll be safe. The important thing now is for you and the lad to get a good night’s rest.” The patronizing attitude had returned.

When Bishop opened the door, Ann saw Brandon curled up asleep in a chair. Her gaze sought Bishop and locked with that of the hazel-eyed squad leader.

“Agent Bishop, come in here a moment,” Baker called to him.

Mike Bishop broke their fixed stare and stepped back inside. As the door was closing, Ann heard Baker say, “The woman’s no fool. Do you think she’s telling us everything she knows?”

The door clicked shut before Ann could hear Waterman’s reply. She glanced at Cassidy and offered a nervous smile.

Cassidy grinned and winked in understanding.

Within minutes Bishop rejoined them. Cassidy picked up Brandon and they headed for the elevator.

“We’re moving,” Bishop said into the radio clutched in his hand. The voices of Bolen, then Williams, acknowledged the message through the transmitter.

“I thought you agents talked into your lapels,” she joked lightly.

“Not since I sent my suit to the cleaners,” Bishop replied.

“Bishop, you actually made a joke!”

Bolen and Fraser were waiting when the elevator doors opened.

“Tell me, Bishop, are we all checking into the hotel together?” Ann asked when they stepped outside, and Bledsoe and Williams joined them. “I’m beginning to feel like Snow White.” The six men exchanged startled glances.

“Only thing is one of the seven dwarfs appears to be missing. Which one of the little darlings are you, Bishop— Grumpy or Dopey?”

Bishop’s face hardened into a grim frown. “Did anyone ever tell you, Hamilton, what a pain in the ass you are?”

“Oh, lighten up, Bishop, I was only joking.”

Yeah, she was right, he had to lighten up, Mike told himself. But Violet Eyes was unaware of how close her quip had hit home. Or maybe she did. Maybe she knew more than she was admitting. Maybe she knew why Tony Sardino, the seventh member of the Dwarf Squad—code name Bashful—had been killed the month before in Beirut.