Читать книгу The Equalisers: A Soldier's Oath - Debra Webb - Страница 9

Tuesday, February 22

Spencer spread the map of Kuwait City over his desk and considered his strategy. The major streets ran in east-west rings starting with 1st Ring Road in the heart of the city all the way to 6th Ring near the airport. North-south streets intersected the rings. The al-Shimmari estate sprawled in the Suilhibikat area wedged between 2nd Ring Road and 3rd. This was where most of the wealthy Kuwaiti families resided.

The al-Shimmari residence was twenty thousand square feet protected by towering security walls as well as armed guards. According to his mother, the boy, Ata, was never out of sight of the grandmother, who was extremely possessive, or at least one personal-security guard.

The ex-husband, Khaled, had high-level government connections. Which meant Spencer couldn’t risk entering the country accompanied by Ms. Willow Harris. Before she would have time to clear customs Khaled would know she was in-country.

That one was a no-brainer.

Spencer had been surprised at the kind of connections Jim Colby himself had right here in Chicago. Fake papers for Willow Harris and her son had been as easy to get as filling a prescription at a local pharmacy. The quality of the passports and driver’s license was remarkable. He wasn’t the slightest bit worried about her papers being flagged, here or there.

What did worry the hell out of him was her. His mission would involve getting as close to the target as possible without being noticed by the enemy. He had no doubt that, if given a careful block of instruction, he could count on her full cooperation in whatever capacity he deemed operationally necessary. His primary concern, however, was whether or not she would be able to maintain any sort of objectivity, much less keep a handle on her emotions. Seeing her child again for the first time after so many months would take an immediate toll.

He didn’t know her, other than what he’d seen and heard so far, but there was no reason for him to believe that she would behave any differently than any other mother thrust into a situation such as this.

Human emotion had no place in a covert operation.

He had been trained to set aside all emotion and to focus on attaining the target. Willow had no training whatsoever other than in how to negotiate and maneuver stocks and bonds. She was ill-prepared for this operation and, unfortunately, he hadn’t come up with a legitimate reason to change her mind about full participation. He had spoken with Jim Colby regarding his reservations about her involvement. Jim had left the ball in his court.

If Spencer didn’t think he could accomplish the mission with her in tow, then he could pass with Jim’s blessings. Willow Harris would simply have to go elsewhere for help in retrieving her son.

That was the thing, though. Spencer was reasonably sure he could accomplish the mission either way. It was those pesky variables that troubled him. If his or someone else’s timing was off, if there were unexpected changes in location or the body count of the enemy… any one of a hundred different scenarios could alter a single reaction, resulting in devastating consequences.

He didn’t want to get this woman injured or killed. He’d watched his team members slaughtered on that mission five years ago and he had no desire to go through an encore performance.

Every time he’d thought about telling Willow Harris that he just couldn’t take the risk, he remembered the haunting pain in her eyes. The elemental need to hold her child in her arms again. No one should have to go through that kind of agony, especially not alone.

When it came to variables there were plenty, it seemed, in Willow’s personal life, the circumstances with her child aside. She appeared to be completely on her own with no support network. Yet her mother and father, according to his research, were still alive. She drifted from job to job, sticking mainly with temporary agencies for any kind of work for which she possessed the qualifications. She lived in the kind of apartments most people would consider barely a cut above the slums. Evidently most of what she’d earned and/or saved had gone into the pockets of one P.I. after the other. She’d forked over the firm’s required retainer fee without blinking an eye. Yet the motel she’d selected was one whose clientele rented more often by the hour than the night.

From all accounts she had sacrificed a great deal in hopes of getting her son back.

Spencer scrubbed his hand over his jaw. Man, he couldn’t allow feelings of sympathy to sneak up on him like that. He was real sorry for her troubles, but sympathy, no matter how well-placed, led to trouble. He’d learned that the hard way. He could not—would not—get personally involved on this case or any other.

He had a fresh start here, he wasn’t about to let anything or anyone screw it up. He had a job to do, end of story. Feeling sorry for a client wouldn’t get the job done. He had to remember that. Allowing emotions to slip in would lead him straight back to his old buddy… booze. No vulnerabilities. If he permitted a single chink in his armor of determination he’d live to regret it.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, followed by the receptionist’s voice. “Spencer, your two o’clock is here.”

Willow Harris.

He’d told her to come in around two. He’d known it would take most of the morning to pull together the necessary documentation. Next he would lay out his plan for her approval. Moving forward with actual travel plans would be foolhardy prior to getting her on board with his change of identity strategy.

“Thanks, Connie. Send her on back.”

“Fine,” the receptionist huffed before disconnecting.

Spencer shook his head. He didn’t quite get this one. Connie Gardener was extremely intelligent and intensely focused. She was a definite asset when it came to research and planning. But the lady had no people skills. None whatsoever. She’d just as soon tell you to drop dead as to say good morning, depending upon her mood. And that predilection extended to the boss as well as to Spencer or the mailman or anyone else who stuck his or her head through the door. Somehow, Connie just didn’t get that she was a receptionist at this firm. Being receptive and polite was part of her job.

Spencer supposed Jim Colby saw beyond her prickly personality to the definite asset beneath. As long as she didn’t actually run off any clients, Spencer didn’t have a problem with her. Considering most of their clients would likely be as desperate for help as Willow Harris, he doubted even a snarky receptionist would keep those in need away. He had to assume Colby had some reason Spencer didn’t know about for hiring and keeping the woman in spite of her lack of tact.

Willow Harris appeared at his open door just then, dragging his attention back to the more pressing problem at hand. She wore another skirt today, this one pink. The hem brushed her knees the same as yesterday’s navy one had. Despite the conservative length of the skirt, the straight, slightly narrow fit flattered her petite figure. A pink sweater and sensible brown flats completed her wardrobe. She looked nice if not trendy.

“Good morning, Ms. Harris.”

Her lips tilted in the expected expression of politeness, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Mr. Anders.”

“Have a seat.” He indicated the chair in front of his desk. “I was about to get a refill.” He picked up his coffee cup. “Would you like a cup? Or maybe a soft drink?”

“Coffee would be nice. Thank you.” She took a seat, careful to tug her skirt down as far as it would go before primly crossing her legs.

“I’ll be right back.” He paused at his door and studied her a moment. With her back to him, he could do so without rousing her suspicion or her questions.

She shifted in her seat a couple of times before she appeared to get comfortable. Her hands trembled once, twice, as she attempted to figure out what to do with them.

As calm as she wanted to appear, she was nervous.

About whether or not he could get the job done? he wondered, doubt creeping in despite his best efforts.

Or was her apprehension related to returning to Kuwait and possibly having to face her former husband?

Spencer turned, his movements soundless, and headed for the small employee lounge. Her apprehension would have to be addressed before they moved forward. He would need to know exactly how she felt and why she felt that way. She needed to think long and hard about whether or not she could really handle the coming emotional storm. Nothing about this mission was going to be easy.

“Anders, do you have a moment?”

Spencer turned from the coffeepot at the sound of Jim Colby’s voice. His new boss and partner came into the lounge accompanied by a female. Thirty-two, thirty-three. Elegant business suit. Dark hair pulled away from her face, not a single strand out of place.

The prosecutor. What was her name? Oh, yeah. Renee Vaughn. From Atlanta. Colby had mentioned her. She’d come by for an interview yesterday, but Spencer had missed her.

“Sure.” Spencer sat his coffee cup aside.

“This is Renee Vaughn from Atlanta. She’s joining our team.” To the lady, he said, “Anders is former military—Special Forces.”

Vaughn thrust out her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Anders.”

Spencer gave her hand a shake. She had a firm grip and a definite no-nonsense air about her. “Good to have you on board, Ms. Vaughn.”

“Mr. Colby!” Connie shouted unceremoniously. “You’ve got a call on line one!”

Jim Colby excused himself, leaving Spencer and the newest associate to fill the abrupt silence.

Vaughn jerked her head toward the door. “What’s your take on the receptionist?” The humor sparkling in her eyes tipped Spencer off to her amusement with Connie’s unrestrained brashness.

“She’s one of kind, that’s for sure.”

“Definitely,” Vaughn agreed. “But I hear she’s a former computer security analyst. Spent time in federal prison for hacking.”

That certainly explained a few things. “Really?” Spencer filled his coffee cup. “I hadn’t heard the prison part.” Maybe he and Connie had more in common than he’d first imagined.

“She mentioned it to me as soon as I arrived for my interview yesterday. Maybe because I’m a former district attorney. I’m not sure if she thought I should be impressed or was simply warning me.” Vaughn shrugged her designer-clad shoulders. “I’ll assume both for the moment.” Her gaze settled fully on Spencer then. “What about you, Anders?” she asked. “Got any skeletons in your closet?”

“I’ll tell you what I do have, Ms. Vaughn,” he offered as he reached for a second cup and filled it. “A client waiting in my office. Help yourself to the coffee.”

“I’d tell you to call me Renee,” she said, reaching for a cup of her own, “but I haven’t been called by my first name since law school. You can drop the Ms. though. Vaughn is fine.”

“I’ll remember that.” He didn’t wait around for her to ask any more questions. He told himself that he wasn’t ashamed of his past; he just didn’t want to talk about it with a virtual stranger. But that was probably more lie than truth.

Back in his office, he pushed the door closed with his foot, then passed the cup in his right hand to his client. “Watch out, it’s hot.” His oversight hit him then. “Will you need cream or sugar?”

“Black is fine.” She took the cup, cradled it in both hands as if she needed the warmth more than the caffeine. “Thanks.”

Spencer took his seat and prepared to launch into the details of the mission strategy he’d developed.

“When do we leave?” she asked before he’d even begun. “I don’t want to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. I’ve wasted too much time already.”

“I understand.” He gulped a mouthful of coffee, ignored the burn, and braced for an argument. “I’ve had to make a few adjustments to our travel plans in order to avoid tipping off the enemy as to our arrival.”

Those wide green eyes searched his, too much recent disappointment setting her on instant edge. “What kind of adjustments?”

“Your ex-husband is well-connected. I don’t want to risk his being tipped off about our arrival.” He picked up the passports he’d had made and passed them across the desk for her perusal. “In order to head off that possibility, I thought we could travel as a couple.”

“Lana Anders?” She looked from the passports to him. “How did you get these pictures?”

The underlying suspicion in her voice wasn’t unexpected. “You left a copy of your driver’s license and the most recent photo you had of your son for your file.” The guy who’d made the new passports was a true artist. The absolute best Spencer had seen. Not that he’d associated with that many forgers in the past, but a man couldn’t work covert operations without rubbing shoulders with the underbelly from time to time. “The pictures were altered subtly, that’s why you didn’t immediately recognize them.”

She stared at the passports and new driver’s license for a moment or two longer. “They look authentic.”

“I don’t think we’ll have a problem getting through the checkpoints.”

Her continued hesitation had just about convinced him that she would balk at crossing this particular legal line, but then she surprised him.

“I’m glad you had the foresight to take this step.” She placed the passports and license back on his desk. “You’re right. He probably has me on some sort of watch list to ensure he gets a call if I show up in his country again. I should have thought of that.”

He contemplated explaining to her that it was his job to weigh all the possibilities, that he’d been trained for that very purpose, but that wasn’t necessary. When she’d had time to think about it, she would realize that rationale without him having to tell her. Right now he very much needed her to believe he regarded her as capable. Destroying her self-confidence any further would not be conducive to a good working relationship, a relationship he hoped wouldn’t prove to be a fatal mistake for one or both of them.

“We’ll be traveling on business,” he went on, laying out the rest of the plan for her. “Real estate. We have a client who hired us to scout out office space in Kuwait. I’ve booked a hotel already. I opted for something outside the main tourist areas in order to keep our profile as low as possible.”

“How soon can we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. There’s a short layover in Amsterdam, but that’s actually going to tie in nicely with our cover profile. I’ve arranged an appointment in Amsterdam to view a commercial property. We’ll need all the credibility we can manage since we don’t have time to set the profiles as fully as I’d prefer.”

Willow wasn’t sure she understood exactly what he meant when he said “set” the profiles, but since he was the expert on this kind of thing, she’d let him make the rules. The idea of pretending to be his wife had initially put her off, then she’d realized he was right. Definitely. That he was thinking two or more steps ahead inspired her confidence. Since this might very well be her last hope, at least until she could save up more money, she wanted the effort to be worthy.

No, what she wanted was for the effort to be successful. She wanted to escape Kuwait with her son. Once they were back in this country her attorney would take the appropriate measures to protect her and Ata from her ex-husband. Unfortunately, no matter that the American courts had ruled in her favor from the beginning, if she didn’t have Ata in her custody there was nothing she could do. Extradition didn’t apply to stolen children. This was the only way.

“Do you have any packing instructions?” She knew how to dress for life in Kuwait, but she didn’t have any idea the fashion essentials for covert maneuvers.

“You’ll need rubber-soled shoes. Sneakers will do. Dark clothing for night wear and something along the lines of khakis for daytime. Modest attire, as I’m sure you know. Our main objective is to blend in wherever we are, whatever the hour.”

She got it. And he was right about the modesty thing, not that the concept would ever be a problem for her, she’d been raised far too strictly even to consider otherwise. Still, a woman in Kuwait was expected to be covered. The less skin revealed the better. Long sleeves, long hemlines, high necklines. Even though the western influence had changed the way some women opted to dress, many, especially the male hierarchy, did not approve of this choice. The only way to ensure she drew no unnecessary attention was to follow the old-school rules.

What she really wanted to know more about was this man’s plan for stealing her son away from her ex and his obsessed mother. “What’s your game plan once we’ve arrived? I mean…” She didn’t want to sound dumb or impatient. The investigators she’d hired previously had kept their methods to themselves. Not asking enough questions might or might not have been a mistake, either way she didn’t intend to take the risk this time. She needed to stay on top of every move. “Do you already have an idea of how you want to approach my son?”

Those gray eyes studied her for what felt like half a lifetime before he spoke. She couldn’t decide if he was weighing just how much to tell her or if he simply wanted to gauge her readiness for moving forward.

“The first day we’ll acclimate and do the tourist gig to make ourselves look legit. Then we’ll set up surveillance and wait for the right opportunity.” He lifted those massive shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Or we’ll create an opportunity of our own.”

He sounded so confident, so casual, as if he did this sort of thing every day. She wanted desperately to believe it would be so easy. But a part of her was scared to death that she would gamble on this last-ditch effort and fail, leaving her with nothing.

Not even hope.

This was the moment. Dread knotted in her chest. She’d wrestled all night with the question of whether she should tell him about the last P.I.’s investigator. She’d intended to tell Jim Colby on their first meeting and she’d actually hinted at it, but she hadn’t come right out with what she knew. Part of her was scared to death this man would opt not to go through with his plan if he understood the full risk. He might see this as information he had needed before agreeing to move forward with her case and use her omission as grounds to pull out.

Anxiety tightened like a noose around her throat.

No matter how she weighed it, justified it or pretended the truth away, he deserved to know that truth. As desperately as she wanted her son home with her, she could not bring herself to allow him to go forward blind.

“There’s one other thing I should probably tell you.” She drew in a much-needed breath and reminded herself that she had no choice. “The last P.I. I hired, Mr. Davenport, sent a man to find my son and bring him back home to me.” Willow moistened her lips and prayed that she wasn’t about to make a major mistake. “He got very close. Close enough to take pictures of my baby in a number of settings and situations. I can’t believe just how close he managed to get.”

Those gray eyes continued to peer right through hers, as if he could see into her deepest, darkest thoughts. He asked, “Did this man learn anything that might be useful to our operation? I was under the impression none of the other investigators had accomplished anything of real value.”

The realization that his deep voice contained an edge that hadn’t been there before filled her with dread. If he changed his mind or decided he couldn’t trust her… she just didn’t know what she would do then.

“None of the others were able even to get close… except for the last one. If he discovered anything useful, Mr. Davenport didn’t pass the information along to me.” Don’t stop now. Just do it. Say what had to be said. “Davenport did say that he had lost contact with the man he sent in—the one who got the pictures. He believes the man may have been taken prisoner or murdered by my ex-husband or a member of his personal security.”

There, she’d said it.

She waited for Anders’s response, her heart flailing behind her sternum so she could scarcely draw in enough air. Please don’t let him back out now. Not now. They had to do this. She had to get to her baby, had to bring him home.

“This operation comes with major risks, Ms. Harris. Risks are a part of my job. But what you’ve just told me is all the more reason for you to stay right here while I go do what has to be done.”

Relief rushed along her nerve endings, making her feel unsteady. He hadn’t changed his mind about moving forward. Thank God. “I can’t do that, Mr. Anders. I have to go with you. I have to help get my baby back.” No risk was too great to her. She had to make him understand that.

He didn’t argue the point, which surprised her. Instead, with the help of the receptionist, Connie, he took care of the necessary travel reservations. He went over a few more details with her, and then she left to return to her motel and pack. She would meet him at his office the next morning at seven for one final briefing with Mr. Colby before they headed to the airport.

Then they would get started.

She couldn’t wait.

No matter what happened, she had to do all within her power to get her son back. Some part of her had the almost overwhelming feeling that if she didn’t get him back now she might never see him again.

The feeling ate at her a little more each day.

She surveyed the single suitcase she’d finished packing. Several changes of clothes and the essential toiletries, nothing frivolous. She didn’t dare take a picture of her son, other than the one hidden in her wallet. Even if her purse had to be searched, she felt comfortable that the picture wouldn’t be discovered the way she had it hidden. Anders would carry her son’s passport.

Exhausted, she plopped down on the bed next to her suitcase. She really should get some sleep. It wasn’t that late. She glanced at the clock radio on the table by the bed. Nine-fifteen. But she hadn’t slept well the night before and she needed to be fresh in the morning. Starting tomorrow she had to be in tip-top condition. No distractions, fatigue included. She thought about the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed, but the hangover and dulled senses the morning after weren’t worth it. She’d just have to try getting some sleep the old-fashioned way.

Shouting in the room next door made her jump. She pressed her hand to her chest and stared at the wall that separated her room from the one next door. A man’s voice sounded angry, a woman’s pleading. Whatever was going on, nothing about it conveyed pleasantness.

Maybe she should call the desk and complain. Like that would do any good. The desk clerks she’d encountered so far looked about as interested in their work as fence posts.

A loud crash accompanied by the sound of breaking pottery, the table lamp, she surmised, launched her into action. She’d just reached for the phone when a rap on her door paralyzed her.

It wouldn’t be the people next door since she could still hear them shouting. It was too late for someone from the Equalizers to be dropping by… wasn’t it?

Standing there in the middle of the room wouldn’t answer the question. She moved quietly to the door and checked the peephole.

Spencer Anders waited on the other side.

She had to admit, considering the ruckus next door, she was relieved to see him. After sliding the chain free of its catch, she opened the door.

It wasn’t until she came face-to-face with him that the possibility that he’d arrived bearing bad news formulated in her sleep-deprived head.

“Have our plans changed?” She tried to steel herself for what might be coming, but there wasn’t any way to adequately prepare. She wasn’t sure she could handle bad news. Not now, after she’d gotten this close. She was packed, the tickets had been purchased.

“May I come in?”

In her experience when a person avoided answering a direct question then there was a problem. Her heart started to pound in anticipation of the worst.

“Sure.” She managed to back up and open the door wider. “Is there a problem?”

He closed the door behind him, leaving her with nothing to hold onto. Whether it was the look on her face or the trembling that had started along her limbs, he appeared to comprehend her mounting hysteria.

“There’s no problem. We’re right on schedule.”

She might have exhaled some of the tension just then if the ranting in the other room hadn’t chosen that exact moment to explode all over again.

“Excuse me.”

Spencer Anders pivoted, opened the door and walked back outside.

Confused, Willow followed as far as the door.

He turned and held up a hand for her to stop. “Stay there.”

As ordered, she didn’t move. Several seconds passed before she realized that she didn’t have to stand here like this just because he said so. By then his banging on the door next to hers had silenced the shouting in the other room and startled her so that she couldn’t think to move anyway.

What was he doing?

The neighboring door burst open. “What the hell do you want?” the man towering in the open doorway demanded.

“I’d like to speak with the lady in the room,” Anders said, his tone utterly calm and oddly genial.

“She’s busy right now,” the lanky, mean-looking guy glaring at Anders snapped. “Unless you’re a cop, I’d advise you to get lost.”

Sobbing from inside the room made Willow’s chest tighten.

“I’d like to do that, buddy,” Anders offered, “but you see, I have a problem with jerks like you.”

His next move happened so fast Willow would have missed it entirely if she hadn’t been watching so closely. He slammed the guy square in the jaw with his fist. The jerk dropped to the floor without so much as a grunt. “You okay, ma’am?”

Willow blinked, and in that fraction of a second, Anders was attending to the woman who’d rushed past the fallen jerk and straight into her savior’s arms. By the time the cops had arrived, Anders had ordered Willow back into the room and closed the door.

She peeked past the curtains and watched him comfort the woman as the police took away her boyfriend or John or whatever he was. Nearly a half hour later the cops, as well as the jerk and the woman were gone.

Willow jumped away from the window when Anders knocked on her door even though she’d watched him walk right up and rap his knuckles there.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said as soon as he’d stepped back into her room.

Her brain kept telling her to say that she understood, but her lips wouldn’t form the words.

That intense gray gaze settled on hers once more. “I wanted to give you one last chance to change your mind about going with me to Kuwait. I’m not sure you fully comprehend the magnitude of the danger we may very well encounter.”

She should have anticipated that he would attempt to dissuade her again, but somehow she hadn’t.

“I’m going, Mr. Anders. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

She stared right back at him with all the defiance she could muster in her current state of teetering between total exhaustion and absolute confusion as to what she’d just witnessed with the couple next door. Unfortunately, her body betrayed her and attempted to tremble beneath his continued visual assessment. Dammit, she should be stronger than that.

“In that case, I won’t waste my time or yours.” He reached for the door once more. “I’ll see you in the morning, Ms. Harris. Try to get some sleep.”

Then he left. No more questions or warnings, nothing. He just walked right out as if her answer had been all he needed to move forward.

Willow locked the door and slid the chain back into place. She measured how he’d stepped in to rescue the woman next door against how easily he’d accepted her answer and gone on his way.

A paradox, she decided. One she wasn’t sure she possessed the wherewithal to decipher.

Whatever he was or wasn’t, she sincerely hoped he could follow through with his promise to get her son back. She needed him to be able to do that.

Right or wrong, her son was all that mattered to her just now.

Call it mother’s intuition, but every instinct was screaming at her that time was running out fast. Very fast.