Читать книгу Pawn - Carla Cassidy - Страница 11

She made the call two hours after Nick walked out her front door. It had taken her that long to process everything he’d said and everything she’d felt at seeing him again.

She knew he was right. If they wanted her, somehow, someway, they would get her. They could make her life miserable and still sleep well at night.

At four o’clock that afternoon she got into her car to head to a meeting with the enigmatic Mr. Blake. The last thing she wanted to do was give the FBI another minute of her life. But she wasn’t stupid enough to think that she could fight them.

As she drove to the warehouse where they had taken her the night before, she tightened her hands on the steering wheel as she thought of the threat of imprisonment.

Breaking and entering, theft of artifacts, grand theft—there were a thousand charges they could use to see her in prison until she was a very old woman.

She’d been promised that the charges would be dropped if she helped get Jonas under arrest. She’d upheld her end of the bargain, but apparently she’d been the only one to do so.

Big surprise, a government agency had lied to her. Once again she tightened her fingers around the steering wheel as she thought of their broken promises.

She consciously kept her thoughts away from Nick. What point was there in indulging in what-might-have-beens? He’d been right. She had been the one to walk away and she couldn’t harbor bitterness about the fact that their relationship had died due to lack of nourishment and through long distance.

It pissed her off that he’d been the messenger of doom, that the FBI had guessed that, of all people, Nick would be the only one to convince her to do what they wanted.

It also upset her that seeing him again had sent all kinds of memories crashing through her head, memories she didn’t want to indulge.

It hadn’t been Nick who had convinced her to make the call. It had been the fact that she knew he was telling her the truth, that they would stop at nothing. They would follow through on their threats to destroy her professional life and to take away her personal life. They’d proven that by what they’d managed to do on her computer that morning.

She had no choice in the matter.

What she hoped was that she’d meet with Blake, hear the details of whatever they wanted her to do, then somehow talk her way out of it without any further repercussions.

As she drove through the desert landscape her thoughts momentarily drifted back in time to the lush flowers, bright colors and salt-scented air of Miami.

She’d lived a life of luxury in an oceanside mansion that belonged to her godfather, Jonas, but she’d experienced love in a small beach house that had belonged to Nick.

Two-fifteen Harbor Road. The address popped into her head unbidden. Did he still own that small white bungalow with the cheerful yellow trim? The place where she had fallen so helplessly, so hopelessly in love with him?

She unclenched her hands from the steering wheel. Love. As far as she was concerned it was vastly overrated. Jonas had professed to love her, but he’d thought nothing of lying to her and using her special gifts for his own means.

Nick had said he loved her, but she’d never been sure if that had merely been an illusion they had both shared for a brief period in time.

There had been a time in her life when she’d dreamed of a Prince Charming riding to her rescue, coming to take her away from the isolation and loneliness of her life with her godfather. In the past year Lynn had realized she didn’t need a Prince Charming. She didn’t need anyone riding to her rescue.

Her sisters and the women she now called friends had brought out in her an inner strength she’d never known she possessed. A strength she had a feeling she was going to need now more than ever.

She pulled up in front of the warehouse. Only a couple of cars were parked out front. Last night it had been too dark to notice much about the building, but now she saw an old wooden sign hanging from a large pole that announced the place had once been Carlos’s Cactus Jelly and Candy.

The bright colors of the sign had long faded, blasted by the desert sun, grit and wind. She wondered what had happened to Carlos? Had his life and his business been interrupted by a lack of tourists and poor business sense or had the FBI swooped in on him as they had on her?

Her stomach knotted as she shut off the car engine and stared at the large structure before her. Nobody would ever guess that there was an FBI operation going on inside.

Once again a sharp edge of apprehension stabbed her. She got out of the car, suddenly eager to put an end to the speculation and know the answers as to why they were after her this time.

A new face met her at the door, a tall, slender man with unsmiling eyes who didn’t ask her name or business, but obviously knew she was expected. Without a word he led her back to the office where she’d spoken with Richard Blake before.

Blake greeted her at the office door, his pale blue eyes as cold as she remembered. “Ms. White, it’s nice to see you again,” he said as he ushered her inside and closed the door behind them. “Can I get you something cold to drink?”

“No, and you can cut the pleasantries. We both know I’m not here because I want to be but rather because you boys don’t play fair.” She sat in the chair in front of his desk, filled with a new sense of anger, of outrage.

“We play the cards we have in our hands,” he said smoothly and sank down at the desk. “You could have made this easier by speaking with me yesterday.”

“I didn’t know then that you were going to infect my computer with a bug, threaten to trash my professional life and see me in jail for charges that were supposed to have been dropped a year ago. Oh, and I’m just wondering, did you send me a weird e-mail, as well?”

He frowned. “I don’t know anything about an e-mail, but I do know that one of our techs sent a little bug to you this morning to make you understand that we weren’t just going to go away.”

“Okay, you have my attention. Now tell me what you want from me.” Make it something easy, she thought. Maybe whatever they wanted from her, whatever they needed from her would take an hour, maybe a day, and wouldn’t disrupt or destroy her life after all.

He leaned back in his chair, picked up a pencil and began to tap its eraser on the desktop. “As I’m sure you know, since 9-11 the top concern of this country has been national security, particularly securing borders, and the need to prevent another 9-11 from happening.”

His words were punctuated by the faint thunk, thunk, thunk of the eraser hitting the desk. “Our agency works closely with Homeland Security.”

“What does that have to do with me?” she asked impatiently.

“As I’m sure you know, we’ve managed to effectively tighten our airport security. Our borders are more heavily patrolled than ever in the history of our nation and the politicians have finally realized that funding is vital in our quest for national security.” Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The eraser tapped faster.

Lynn tamped down frustration, wondering when the hell he was going to get to the point? She fought the urge to reach across the desk and snatch the damned pencil from his hand. The tapping of the eraser threatened to make her crazy. And she was already feeling crazy enough without anything else making it worse.

“There’s only one place that our security measures are relatively weak, one place that could be far too easily breached, and that’s our international docks.” To her intense relief he threw the pencil down and leaned forward, his gaze cold and intently focused on her. “And that’s where you come in.”

She stared at him blankly. Was he completely mad? What could she possibly do to ensure safety at the country’s international docks? “I don’t understand.”

He sat back once again and drew a hand across his overly broad forehead, as if he might be suffering a headache. She hoped so. He was certainly giving her the beginnings of a head-banging ache.

“We have received some troubling chatter that indicates an al Qaeda terrorist attack is possibly going to take place around the end of this month or the beginning of next month,” he explained. “The chatter is coming from a reputable source and our intelligence tells us that the attack will come in the form of a dirty bomb in a shipping container. We believe that container is coming ashore at the Stingray Wharf in Miami. Unfortunately, we don’t have specifics on where exactly it will come from.”

Lynn frowned. She knew of Stingray Wharf. It was a small wharf near the bigger port of Miami. She still didn’t understand why she was here, what exactly they wanted from her. “If this is happening in Florida, then what are you doing here in Arizona?” she asked.

“We have other sensitive operations going on,” he replied.

Once again she wanted to demand he get to the point, but knew instinctively that this was a man who was going to do things his way and she needed to be patient.

“Many of the bigger ports of entry have obtained special equipment to scan containers for radioactive materials,” he continued. “Unfortunately the equipment is exorbitantly expensive and Stingray Wharf hasn’t gotten it yet.

“The way the system works there is, shipping containers are removed from incoming ships and placed in a holding area. They are inspected and cleared only as they leave the holding area on trucks. That’s what makes the system ripe for a breach. Many of those containers remain uninspected for months.”

“Certainly unsettling, but I still don’t see what you people want from me?”

Once again his gaze was intent as he stared at her.

“This is what we want from you. We want you to go to Stingray Wharf and get into those containers in the holding area and check the contents.”

Lynn sat back in the chair and stared at him in disbelief. “Is this some kind of a bad joke?”

“Trust me. There is nothing funny about any of this. A dirty bomb would not only affect the immediate area around the wharf, but could have devastating consequences to the entire state.”

“I understand that,” she replied. “What I don’t understand is why you people can’t just go in and check the containers, find the dirty bomb.”

“There are several reasons we can’t do that,” Blake said. “First of all, the security at the dock is provided by a private agency. While the agency and its workers were given initial security clearances, we’d need to do a more thorough security investigation before bringing them in on this. We simply don’t have the time.”

He picked up his pencil and tapped the eraser on the desk. “Secondly, it’s imperative that the public doesn’t get word of the potential devastation that could take place. We can’t control the people who work for that agency. Equally as important is the potential for awkward diplomacy issues. The containers that come into the port come from all over the world. If we just go in and start ripping them open we could create all kinds of diplomatic nightmares.

He threw the pencil down, leaned back in his chair and eyed her intently “Trust me, we have considered all options for maximum success and minimal damage. We believe the best way to proceed for the least amount of collateral and diplomatic damage is for somebody to get in and out of those containers and check them with a handheld radiation detector.”

“Okay, but why me? Why not get somebody from Miami? I’m sure you have agents down there.”

For the first time since she’d arrived he smiled, a cold, bloodless gesture that did nothing to assure her. “We don’t have an agent on our payroll who is as good as you at breaking and entering, picking locks and evading capture. Nobody in our employ has your particular skills, your unnatural speed and agility, your acute sense of hearing and other talents.”

Although it shouldn’t surprise her, it did, that they knew so much about her. “So, the skills I used to commit the crimes that could see me in prison for years you now want to exploit in the name of national security,” she asked incredulously.

His smile broadened. “Exactly.”

“And if I’m still not interested?”

The smile dropped from his face as if it had only been a desert mirage. “Then we’ll pursue other means in order to make sure that you’re cooperative.”

Thoughts flew through her head. She could run. She could pack up and disappear, leave her life behind. She could take a new name and hide, but her life as she knew it would be over.

She’d have to leave her home, her business, leave behind the women who had become so important to her and never again contact the two sisters she had only recently discovered. What kind of a life would that be?

None at all. The only real option she had was to give them what they wanted.

“All we’re asking for is a week, two at the most. Our intelligence has been pretty specific as to the dates. Two weeks out of your life, then we’re out of yours,” he said. “I’ll even see to it that the pending charges against you are dropped and your record is expunged.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she said dryly. She sighed. She’d do it, only because they’d left her no real choice in the matter. “So, what are the details? How is this going to work?”

“You leave here day after tomorrow. If the chatter we’ve picked up on is true, then we think the bomb will come into the country within the next week in order for them to hit by the end of the month or the first of October.

“We’ll spend the next two days briefing you on the specifics and making sure you’re up to speed. An apartment near the docks has been rented for you—you’ll stay there during the day and work at night. You’ll have a contact working as closely with you as possible.”

Her head spun as he went through the details. “I want Special Agent Nick Barnes to be my contact.”

A frown etched across his large forehead. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“You make it possible,” she replied with a note of finality. If she had to do this, she wanted somebody she trusted in her corner.

Despite the fact that she’d been bitterly disappointed that Nick hadn’t shown up at her apartment because he’d wanted to see her, but rather because he’d been ordered to gain her cooperation, she trusted him as she trusted nobody else on the face of the earth.

“You’re obviously a man who makes things happen, Mr. Blake. You make this happen for me. If I’m going to do this for you, then I want Nick Barnes as my contact.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises.” He reached into the top desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. “Inside here are aerial maps of the Stingray Wharf area and the holding enclosure. Study them, memorize them. Your life might depend on knowing the information.”

“I’m hunting for a bomb, I’d say the least of my problem is knowing the area,” she said.

“On the contrary, getting into the holding area will be as dangerous as finding the bomb. There will be armed men and trained dogs guarding the area. Neither look kindly on trespassers.”

Dogs. Lynn fought a shiver that threatened to walk up her spine. She was terrified of dogs, a fear that had found its birth when a friend of Jonas’s had come visiting with his poodle. The poodle had bitten Lynn on the ankle. She’d rather face a gun than deal with a dog.

It was only then that she realized exactly what they were asking her to do. “Trespassers? Then I’m guessing this search I’ll be conducting isn’t legal?”

Mr. Blake frowned again and leaned back in his chair as a deep furrow tracked across his broad forehead. “These are dangerous times and there are instances when red tape and the rights of the people interfere with what is best for the country. We are circumventing the first two in order to accomplish the last.”

“So, what I’m doing is illegal,” she said flatly. How ironic was that? That the government was asking her to do exactly what they threatened to put her in prison for. She was going to break the law with their blessing. The means justified the end.

His blue eyes were flat, without expression as he looked at her. “Not only that, but if you’re caught, we’ll deny all knowledge of you and your actions. We’ll remind the authorities of the current charges pending against you. We’ll imply that you went back to your old ways, breaking and entering in an effort to steal for personal gain. You’re on your own if you get caught.”

It was at that moment that Lynn recognized why they needed, why they wanted her. Her background made her an easy patsy should she be caught.

In the eyes of the FBI, she was completely expendable should she fail.

It was after six when she headed back to her apartment. Despite the evening hour the heat of the day shot water mirages across the highway.

She felt as if the life she had built for herself was nothing more than a mirage and in the blink of an eye could disappear.

She’d believed what she’d made for herself here in the Phoenix area was strong and safe and wonderfully normal, that it was a place, a life that nothing and nobody could take from her.

She’d been wrong.

In two days she’d be in Miami again, doing work that could get her shot by a guard, eaten by a dog or blown to smithereens by some terrorist bomb. One thing was for certain, during the next couple of weeks life certainly wouldn’t be dull.

Pulling into her apartment complex, she thought about Nick and those crazy moments when she’d first seen him, when her heart had filled so completely with him. The intensity of her reaction had surprised her. She’d thought that the passing of time, the living of life over the past year would have dulled the edges of her feelings for him.

She was disappointed that it hadn’t been desire that had driven him to find her, to see her again, but rather duty and perhaps some threat the bureau held over his head.

Certainly the bureau could find plenty in Nick’s background and family history to use against him. Nick’s father, Joey Barnes, had been a powerful member of an organized crime organization. He and Nick had become estranged when Nick had decided not to follow in his father’s footsteps.

As far as Nick’s family was concerned, he owned a security business that provided the latest technology in home protection systems. The last Lynn knew, none of his family was aware he worked for the FBI. As an operating undercover agent, only his superiors and Lynn had known what he really did for a living.

She shoved thoughts of him away as she got out of her car. She had more important things to think about than a lost love. Grabbing the manila folder Blake had given her, she left her car and hurried to her apartment door.

Monday night she’d be on a plane to Miami. Monday was Labor Day and once she arrived in Miami she’d certainly have her work cut out for her.

She placed the folder on the table, then went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. She’d like a beer, but her head was already spinning and the last thing she needed was alcohol to muddy her brain more.

She had no idea if her request for Nick as a contact would be granted. She’d certainly learned not to believe any promises that were made to her. But, all personal feelings aside, she knew Nick’s capabilities, she trusted his intelligence and would feel much better about everything if he was there.

With a sigh she opened the folder and began to study the aerial shots of Stingray Wharf. A year ago when she’d left Miami there had been rumors that the small port would be closed and ships would be routed through the bigger, more up-to-date port of Miami. Apparently that hadn’t happened.

Although international traffic was sparse at the small wharf, it was still there.

She sat there for over an hour, studying maps and reading the information that had been provided for her.

When she felt she’d had enough and couldn’t think another minute she closed the file and carried it with her to the spare room. She placed it in a locked file cabinet then sat down at her computer and booted it up.

A glance at her wristwatch let her know it was just after eight. She fought against a wave of exhaustion. Her head felt mired in directions and specs. But, it was too early to go to bed. She’d work for a couple of hours then call it a night.

Thankfully her computer booted up without a problem. Now that she’d agreed to work with the FBI she assumed the little bug they’d planted had been removed.

She thought about running some tests, trying to discern how they had gotten in and what kind of virus they’d planted, but quickly dismissed the idea. Whatever they had done, she knew there would be no trace of it now.

The first thing she did was check her e-mail. There had been a time in her life, when she’d been living with Jonas, when e-mail had been her link to the outside world.

Jonas had raised her to be afraid, to believe that because of his wealth and her special gifts, she could easily become a target of a kidnapper. He’d discouraged her having friends, had been overly protective to a fault. During those years Lynn had found her social time with e-mail and chat rooms.

She frowned as she saw the familiar address of Delphi@orcl.org.

What now? She opened it and read the message.

Lynn,

Oracle is waiting for you. The Cassandras need you. For more information contact Kim Valenti at NSA.

There was a phone number included.

The Cassandras. Any trace of sleepiness vanished as she reread the e-mail. Cassandra, daughter of Priam and Hecuba, king and queen of Troy in Greek poetry. The piece of trivia popped into her head, the result of years of surfing the Internet for entertainment and education.

But, the Cassandras held a more personal meaning to Lynn. Her mother, Rainy Miller Carrington, and the friends she’d made when she’d been a student at Athena Academy years ago had called themselves the Cassandras. Rainy, a senior student then, had mentored the group of new students, as was the practice at Athena Academy. Eventually the motley crew had become best of friends.

Those friends had been responsible for solving the mystery of Rainy’s tragic death in a car accident. They were also the women Lynn now called friends.

She couldn’t leave for Florida without addressing this new kink. If the Cassandras needed her, then she’d do whatever she could to help them. Those same women had gone out of their way to help Lynn find out about her history. They had risked their careers, their lives to find out the truth about the conspiracy and secrets surrounding Lynn’s birth. And they had embraced her as one of their own.

Even though it was Labor Day weekend she picked up her phone and dialed the number listed. It was a Maryland area code.

“Hello?” A woman answered on the first ring.

“I’d like to speak to Kim Valenti,” Lynn said. “This is Lynnette White.”

“Lynn, I’ve been waiting for your call. We need to talk. Can we meet?”

“Just tell me where and when,” Lynn replied.

“You’ll be contacted.”

There was a click and Lynn realized she was listening to the faint hum of an empty line. On impulse, she tried to dial back and it rang twice before she got a recording that the number had been disconnected.

She set the phone back in the receiver. What was this, National Conspiracy Week in the United States? First the FBI and now this. Why the need for such subterfuge?

Apparently there was nothing she could do but wait to find out what that was about. She quickly scanned through the rest of her e-mail then shut off the computer. She was still seated at her computer staring at the blank screen thoughtfully when someone knocked.

She cracked the door open an inch to peer outside. Standing there was a delivery guy, a pleasant smile on his youthful face. “Pizza delivery,” he said and pulled a flat box from its red insulated carrier.

“But, I didn’t…” She bit off her protest that she hadn’t ordered a pizza. “What do I owe you?” She opened the door wider.

“It’s already taken care of, tip and all.” He handed her the warm box. “Enjoy.” He turned and hurried back to the car illegally parked against the curb.

Lynn locked the front door, then took the box into the kitchen where she set it on the table and opened it. A pepperoni and mushroom pizza stared back at her and tucked beneath one edge of the crust was a small envelope that was already drawing grease.

She pulled it free and opened it.

Tomorrow night. Six o’clock at Cactus Grill on Scottsdale Road.

The woman she’d spoken to on the phone had said she’d be contacted.

Contact made.

Lynn sank down at the table and pulled a piece of the cheese-laden pizza free. As she took a bite of the pizza she tried to still the feeling that she was in way over her head and this might be her symbolic last supper before her life exploded into something she no longer recognized.