Читать книгу Exit Strategy - Kate Donovan - Страница 9

“T his is such an honor, Ms. Smith. Working with you and your team. You guys are legendary at Langley. Especially you.” Twenty-six-year-old Miranda Cutler took a deep breath to stop herself from gushing. Then she adopted a more businesslike tone. “May I ask why I was chosen for this assignment?”

“You have all the necessary qualifications,” Jane Smith explained, reaching across the kitchen table to finger a lock of Miranda’s hair. “You live in a building with security cameras, and you have red hair. Or at least, almost red. If there was more time I’d make you lighten it, but this will have to do.”

Miranda stared for a moment, certain that the older agent was joking. Then without pulling away she murmured, “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be misled. It’s a compliment that we’re trusting a rookie with something as sensitive as this. Of course, we had no choice. But still, you’re lucky. I would have killed for this kind of opportunity when I was starting out.”

The bitchiness underlying Smith’s attitude stung Miranda, but the younger CIA operative reminded herself that this woman was the best of the best. The mere whisper of her name in the espionage world evoked stories of daring exploits and black ops phenomena. And for reasons that were about to be revealed, this superspy was seated at Miranda’s kitchen table.

With that reminder in place, she used a respectful tone as she asked her guest, “What kind of opportunity is it, exactly? I mean, red hair and security cameras? There must be more to it than that.”

Smith nodded. “Less than five hours ago, a high-ranking government official was framed for murder. If the story reaches the public, that man’s reputation will be ruined for life, as will the reputation of the president. We’re going to prevent that from happening.”

Miranda leaned forward, impressed with the plan, and finally understanding the interest in the security cameras. “We’re going to provide him with an alibi? Make it look like he was here with me when the murder occurred?”

Smith glanced over her shoulder at the pair of male operatives who had been quietly pacing Miranda’s living room floor. “She’s quick, just like I predicted.”

“And built,” the blonder of the two men added. “Ortega’s gonna love her.”

“Ortega?” Miranda shook her head, certain that she had misunderstood. “You don’t mean Ray Ortega, do you? I mean, I know you and he used to work together—”

“And now he’s the director of the Strategic Profiling and Identification Network,” Smith confirmed. “More importantly, he’s the president’s choice for the next director of the FBI—a position with much more influence. Ortega’s going to kick ass in that job, and there are those who want to keep that from ever taking place.”

“So they framed him for murder? My God.” Miranda sat back in her chair, trying to absorb the information while marveling at her good luck in landing this high-level assignment. First, Jane Smith ringing her doorbell in the middle of the night. Now Ray Ortega—another legend. This one, an out-and-out hero. And if half of what she’d heard about him was true, a genius at reading people. Not to mention at killing them.

“Earlier this evening, Ortega arrived at a Southern California beach house for a meeting with one of the president’s advisors. He found the advisor dead on the floor under circumstances that were clearly arranged to incriminate Ortega himself. His first impulse was to call the police, but he knew it would create a scandal. He could clear his name eventually, of course. But it would ruin his chances of becoming the Bureau’s director. He wants that job—not for the glory, but because he wants to clean up this country. The scum that framed him fear him for that very reason. So…” Smith took a deep breath, then explained, “Ortega did the smart thing. The right thing. He called me.”

“For an alibi.”

“A temporary one. Until he can prove he was framed. Luckily I was in L.A. with most of my team, so we immediately started cleaning up the crime scene. Restaging it so that it looks like a simple break-in gone wrong. Once it was under control, I headed back here.

“Meanwhile, Ortega was smuggled out of town to a private landing strip where we had a plane waiting for him. He flew to Dallas and changed planes, using a fake identity to take a commercial flight home. It took precious extra time, but was necessary. Flight records will have to be doctored, of course. There are a million details,” Smith added, as though speaking to herself rather than Miranda.

Then she patted the younger agent’s hand. “When Ortega’s plane touches down, you’ll be there. You’ll ride back here with him and enter the building, pretending to be returning home from three dates. The cameras will record every move, then my team will splice the footage into existing tapes.”

“Three dates?”

Smith grinned. “One would seem too convenient. So you and Ortega are going to reenact a series of them. It’s all in the script we’ll provide for you. You’ll study it on your way to the airport. Be convincing. A great man’s reputation is riding on it.”

Ray Ortega. He was a great man. And a noble one, if half the stories were true. The thought of someone ruining him, negating all the sacrifices he had made for his country, not to mention all the great deeds he was still destined to accomplish, angered Miranda, and she insisted quietly, “I won’t let you down.”

Smith surprised her with an actual smile. “Your file is impressive for a rookie. I’ll use you again soon if I’m satisfied with your performance.”

“You mean, if Ortega’s satisfied,” the blond man interrupted with a lascivious chuckle.

When Miranda shot him a disgusted glare, Smith chided her. “If you’re going to succeed in this business, you’ll need to develop a thicker skin. And a sense of humor.”

Not waiting for a response, the older agent stood up and walked into the bedroom. Miranda trailed after her, watching as she began pulling clothes out of the closet. “First date, this. With jeans. Sexy, but not overwhelming.” She shoved a white eyelet shirt that was styled like a bustier into Miranda’s hands. “Second date…let’s see.” She rejected a series of items, settling finally on a medium-length black skirt and a black leather jacket. “With boots. And some sort of camisole or tube top.”

Miranda nodded.

“And for the big night, this is perfect.” She pulled out a short, sassy dress made of shimmering dark green fabric. “Green eyes, green dress, right? With sandals. No stockings. No bra. A signal dress.”

“Signal? Oh…” Miranda struggled not to flush. “Gotcha.”

“Remember, you’re doing it for your country,” the fair-haired man said from the doorway.

“Shut up,” Miranda advised him, adding to Smith, “I guess you’re right. I’ve got no sense of humor where this pig is concerned.”

Smith nodded, then turned toward the blond man. “Enough with the needling, Mark. Do something useful. Check to see if Ortega’s plane is on time.”

“I just called. It’s ten minutes ahead of schedule.”

Smith nodded again, then told Miranda, “Get dressed. Mark will drive you to the airport. You’ll study the script on the way there. You and Ortega can spend the ride back getting acquainted. And by getting acquainted,” she added dryly, “I mean, having sex in the limo.”

“What?” Miranda grimaced. “Is that another joke?”

Ignoring Mark’s laughter, Smith explained. “I want the camera to record two people who have been dating for a week and are just about ready to explode from repressed lust. Professional agents will be watching this tape to verify Ortega’s alibi, and I want them to either be too embarrassed to study it intently, or so caught up in the erotic elements, they won’t notice tiny imperfections in our work. Which means you and Ortega have to put on a convincing show.”

Miranda’s thoughts flashed back to her father, who had reacted with disdain when she had first announced her plans to join the CIA. “You’re too pretty,” he had informed her bluntly. “They’ll use you like a whore.”

Stung, she had reminded him about the awards that covered the walls of her childhood bedroom. Marksmanship and archery—the girl with the perfect aim. But he had just shaken his head, muttering, “You’ll see,” and she had vowed never to discuss it with him again, a vow she kept until the day he died, six months later.

“Is this a problem?” Jane Smith asked her now, her tone every bit as disdainful as Roger Cutler’s had been. “Do I need to find someone else?”

“No, it’s fine.” Miranda took a deep breath, knowing it was useless—and unwise—to argue with Smith. Better to wait until she met Ortega. Surely he’d understand that they could be convincing for the camera without such extreme tactics. And if he agreed with Smith, well…

“I’ll do whatever it takes to help Director Ortega,” she announced finally.

The older agent flashed a triumphant smile. “Smart girl. This could make your career, you know. So get dressed. We’ll clear out of here.

“And remember. When you walk through your front door and into the hall, the show starts. Don’t look up at the camera, but be aware of it. You’re a single girl—one who hasn’t gotten laid in a while. You’re headed for O’Leary’s hoping to find the guy of your dreams. Keep the act up until you clear the front walkway. Then go around to the Baker Street side. Mark will be waiting for you with the file. Study it on the ride. Once you hook up with Ortega, follow his lead. He’s a pro.”

“So am I,” Miranda assured her quietly. “Don’t worry about Ortega. He’ll be in good hands.”

During the half-hour ride to the airport, Miranda ignored the suggestive jokes and lame double entendres of her escort, concentrating instead on the script and discovering that this was really a fairly simple assignment. All she had to do was act naturally while keeping in mind the location of the four video cameras—one on the front steps of the apartment building, one in the lobby, the elevator camera, and the one positioned over the exterior of the elevator doors at the end of the hall leading to her apartment.

For the first “date,” she and Ortega were apparently just going to talk, and while the security system wouldn’t actually record their words, the script reminded them to get into their roles and stay in them. The date would end in the hallway, with Ortega kissing her respectfully.

The second date was also fairly mild. More talking for the cameras, but in an intimate fashion, with occasional nuzzling. A lingering kiss at the door, an invitation into the apartment, from which Ortega would be taped leaving after only a few minutes with a look of frustration on his face, as though he had been sure he was about to score.

Clever, she had to admit. Sounds like a real second date.

The third date was scripted as an inferno, complete with make-out sessions in the lobby, elevator and hall. Ortega would again be invited in, and this time he’d stay until early morning, when the cameras would catch him leaving, a satisfied expression on his face.

Most of the footage would be spliced into existing tapes, but this last bit—Ortega’s final exit—would be caught in real time, which meant he would actually spend the rest of the night with her.

It was already close to 4:00 a.m., and it would take at least an hour to get back to her place and film the three dates. They had to be finished long before 7:00 a.m., when the residents of her apartment building were first expected to venture into the hallways. Had it been a weekday morning, the timetable would have been almost impossible to plan, but this was Friday night—or more accurately, Saturday morning—and so they had a little more leeway.

“Time for your hot date,” Mark announced, slowing his black SUV to a stop on a dark stretch of road near the airport. “Ortega’s limo should be showing up any minute.”

She nodded. “I’m just going to leave this script with you if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Enjoy yourself. I know Ortega will.”

“Did I mention you’re a pig?” she grumbled.

“I’ll call you when this is all over. We’ll have a drink and laugh about it. No hard feelings.”

“I’d love to get together when we’re both off duty,” she said with a purr. “It’ll give me a chance to beat the crap out of you.” Jumping from the vehicle, she slammed the door, then rested her thumb and little finger against her cheek in imitation of a phone, mouthing the words “Call me.”

Her driver scowled, revved the engine and sped away, just as a limousine rolled into view. It pulled up until the right rear passenger door was within inches of where she stood. Then the door opened, and she had to remind herself to take a deep breath before peeking inside. “Director Ortega?”

“Agent Cutler?” A handsome, dark-haired man gave her a reassuring smile. “Get in. We’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to do it.”

She slid in next to him, still forcing herself to breathe normally, but it wasn’t easy. For one thing, he was better looking than she had imagined he’d be. High cheekbones; wavy blue-black hair; an infectious smile. And his eyes were amazing—dark brown with flecks of bronze. She was sure he was well-built, but for the moment, she couldn’t get past his arresting face to check out the rest of him.

Of course, she’d find out about the body soon enough….

“Jane really outdid herself,” he told her simply. “You’ve got just the right look. I assume she told you about my history with sexy redheads?”

Miranda flushed. “If there had been more time, I would have done something to bring out more red highlights—”

“It’s perfect the way it is. Auburn, right?”

She nodded.

Ortega touched her arm. “This is an unconventional assignment, especially for a rookie. It’s okay to be a little nervous.”

“I’m just excited,” she countered, then she flushed again, fearing he’d misinterpret her enthusiasm.

“Great. So? I assume you’ve read the script? How would you like to proceed?”

Miranda gave her shoulders a small shrug. “Jane Smith seemed to think we should…well…fool around a little—”

“Jane Smith is a freaking robot about this kind of thing,” he interrupted, his jaw muscles visibly clenching. “I apologize for her.”

Miranda closed her eyes and was able to breathe normally for the first time since she’d entered the vehicle. “That’s okay.”

“Do you need a drink?”

“No. Not at all.” She gave him a grateful smile. “It really is an honor to assist you, sir.”

“How much did she tell you about my predicament?”

“You’ve been framed for murder. It’s outrageous,” she added staunchly. “No one would believe you’re a killer—”

“I am a killer,” he corrected her. “But not a murderer. So? What do you say we get acquainted? The old-fashioned way. By talking,” he added, his warm smile returning.

He had read Miranda’s file—in fact, he seemed to have memorized it—and asked thoughtful questions about her life on the ranch both before and after the accident that put her father in a wheelchair. He remarked on her awards, complimented her performance during training and smoothly integrated some suggestions regarding their upcoming dates, mostly having to do with her comfort level as he repeatedly reminded her that as his date, she always had the right to say “no” to any move he made. If at any time his pace made her uncomfortable, she had only to say one word to make him back off.

Just like a real date….

“According to your file, they’ve got you in some sort of language immersion program. What’s that about?”

“It’s something new they’re trying,” she explained. “Exposing me to twelve different languages at one time. Not so much to learn any of them, obviously, but to be able to recognize them, and identify key words, patterns, that sort of thing.”

“Have they said why?”

“No, but I’m dying to find out. Some assignment in an international hub, I’m guessing. Or—” she paused to smile “—maybe they just want to see what it does to my thought patterns.”

He nodded in agreement. “Has it affected your dreaming?”

“Not yet. But I’m supposed to keep a dream journal. Do you have a theory?”

“No. But it’s fascinating. You’ll have to tell me how it all works out.”

His mood was so calm, especially given his circumstances, the effect was almost eerie, and so relaxing that Miranda had to shake herself back to attention when the limousine drew to a halt on a side street two blocks from her apartment.

“We’ll walk from here,” Ortega explained, his tone suddenly brisk. “Remember, even though there’s no audio, we’ll stay in character—words as well as actions. You never know when someone might be a lip-reader.”

“I understand.”

The driver opened the door, and Miranda slid out of the vehicle, followed by Ortega. For the first time, she realized how tall he was, and definitely well-built in his black polo shirt and tan slacks. He was staring down at her, the bronze flecks in his eyes sparkling despite the dim lighting, and she barely noticed the limousine pull away.

“Ready?”

She nodded, moistening her lips.

He hesitated, then said quietly, “There’s something you should know, Miranda. I won’t be acting tonight. I’m extremely attracted to you.”

“It’s the hair,” she said, trying for a light tone.

“You’d be gorgeous even if you shaved it all off.” He cupped her chin in his rough hand. “Remember what I said. If I go too far, too fast, resist. I’ll slow it right down.”

“Okay. Thanks. And vice versa,” she added without thinking.

Ortega stared for a second, then chuckled warmly, and for the first time that night she felt as though she had surprised him. Maybe even impressed him.

It was a good feeling, and as she let him take her hand and escort her down the street, she reminded herself that she was more than a pliable rookie. She was a trained officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, with a lot more to offer than just auburn hair and video cameras.

She quickly learned that Ortega was a master at pretending. In fact, he turned their assignment into her best first date ever! He wanted to know everything—her favorite movie, favorite food, favorite book. He teased, bringing a smile to her lips again and again. And through it all, he was respectful and attentive.

And relaxed. She marveled at this above all. He had been framed for murder less than six hours earlier, yet here he was, bantering with her as if they were completely carefree. The alibi would succeed, she realized, not because of hot-and-heavy scenes, but because of this man’s attitude.

And the cameras had ample opportunity to memorialize that attitude, as Miranda and her date paused to chat on the doorstep, then again in the lobby. When the elevator arrived, she expected more of the same, and was surprised—and pleased—when he stepped up his attention just a bit, backing her into the corner and telling her in a husky voice how attractive she was.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers for an unscripted kiss so gentle, yet also so thorough, that she actually heard a small moan of delight emanate from her throat.

Ortega buried his face in her hair and murmured, “Nice touch,” sending a shudder of arousal right through her.

Conscious that her cheeks were flaming red, she darted through the elevator doors the instant they opened, then turned and motioned for him to join her as an afterthought. His eyes twinkled as he followed her to her door, and when she began fumbling for her keys, he reached for her again, his expression supremely confident.

But Miranda was ready, bracing her arms against his chest and pushing gently, her eyebrow arched in warning. And true to his word, he immediately backed off, a frustrated grin on his face.

“Let’s save something for next time, shall we?” she told him.

“Wednesday? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“It’s a date.”

Unlocking the door, she swung it open, then watched as he ambled back to the elevator. When he turned to give her one last, impish smile, she felt another surge of arousal, and had to dart into the apartment and slam the door shut.

Oh my God….

She leaned against the wall, enjoying the sensation for a moment, then reminded herself they were on the clock. The script allowed a scant two minutes for her to change clothes, sweep her long, loose hair into a braid and redo her makeup, exchanging the gray eyeshadow for a vibrant rust with lip gloss to match.

Forcing herself to concentrate, she completed the transformation, then entered the hallway, doing her best impression of a female headed for a very, very promising second date. In the elevator she adjusted her bra and checked her makeup for the benefit of the camera, then she strode through the lobby and out onto the street. She knew Ortega would be waiting around the corner.

And she knew he’d be smiling that relaxed, confident smile that belied his dilemma. As she approached him, she again marveled that he could be so calm. And so handsome. He, too, had changed outfits in the limousine and was wearing jeans with a black turtleneck.

“Miss me?” he asked when she reached him.

“I just don’t get how you can stay so calm, Ortega.”

He took her arm and escorted her back toward her place. “I actually have an old relaxation technique—something I used to use a lot, then I slacked off. This seemed like a good time to resurrect it.”

“It’s amazing.”

“When all this is behind us, maybe I can teach it to you.”

“Thanks. I’d like that,” she murmured, surprised that he was again suggesting they’d see each other after the assignment was over. Did he see a future for them? Based on a couple of phony dates?

Phony dates that so far were admittedly better than the real thing….

“You’ll find it useful,” he assured her. “Especially if you keep working with Jane. Which I don’t recommend, by the way.”

“Why not? She’s the best, right?”

“Hardly.” He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close as they approached the front steps. “Ready? Showtime.”

Their second date was a lot like the first, with a heady kiss in the elevator that Miranda decided to enjoy to the hilt. To her delight, Ortega took the same approach, and by the time he hustled her out into the hall, there was an urgency that told the cameras this couple couldn’t wait to get inside the apartment. There would be no rebuffing him at the door this trip, and when she started fumbling for the keys, he commandeered them and had the door open before she could even pretend to react.

The script called for him to stay for five minutes, then leave without ceremony, looking frustrated. She had no idea what they’d actually do for those five minutes, although she knew what she wanted them to do….

But Ortega was all business the moment the door closed. “I’ll check in with Jane. You start changing for date number three. I’ll let myself out in a couple of minutes.”

“Okay.” She edged toward the bedroom, disappointed but reminding herself that this was a good sign. He was treating her like a professional. It was time she started returning the favor.

And she was glad to have the extra time to prepare for the big date—the one where they would be manhandling each other. Ortega was obviously attracted to her—either that or he really was the world’s best actor. But still, she wanted to drive him wild this time.

For the good of the mission, of course.

So she brushed her hair until it shone, then twisted it and fastened it behind her head with a rhinestone-studded butterfly clip. Now Ortega could nuzzle her without impediment, and if he wanted to be ultra-dramatic, he could pull the clip away and let her hair cascade down her back.

She was dousing herself with perfume when she heard the door open and close—or rather, slam, as the frustrated suitor left in a huff.

Laughing out loud, Miranda took a last glimpse in the mirror, then grabbed a black purse with a shoulder strap as her final accessory. She was almost giddy, and while she knew part of it was the prospect of making out with Ortega, she was mostly feeling proud. This assignment—a huge one—had gone perfectly. Ortega’s reputation would be safe and his appointment would go through without a glitch. Jane Smith would be so impressed, she’d invite Miranda to join her team permanently—

Except Ortega warned you against that, she reminded herself as she headed for the door. You’ll have to make him explain that when this is all over. Meanwhile, as he says, it’s showtime!

“How’re you holding up?” Ortega asked when she joined him on the side street.

His concerned tone surprised her, and for the first time, she wondered if she was really doing as well with this assignment as she thought she was. Then she decided he was just being a gentleman, so she smiled and assured him, “Piece of cake.”

He was wearing a strong, musky aftershave this time, and his hair was slightly damp, as though he’d been grooming it right up to the last moment.

Very convincing, she decided with admiration. He definitely seems like a guy intent on scoring tonight.

Intent on scoring, and also used to scoring. She had no doubt about that. He was more or less the sexiest man she had ever been this close to, and she figured he knew it. After all, he had worked undercover for years. Certainly in all that time he had seduced a female or two—for his country—and had probably found it surprisingly easy.

Speaking of easy, she warned herself, try not to be a total slut in the elevator. The script calls for you to enjoy him, not maul him.

Biting back a laugh, she let him rest his hand low on her back—so low it really wasn’t her back at all—as he propelled her toward her building. They flew through the doorway, clearly headed straight to bed. When the elevator didn’t come right away, Ortega began kissing her with greed and lust and several other of the very best sins.

As soon as the doors opened, he pushed her into the back corner and before the doors closed fully, he was devouring her, sliding his mouth down from her neck to her breasts, then lower and lower, until he was pushing her dress up to reveal her lace panties. Shocked, Miranda tried to think. Should she protest? Did he expect her to stop him? Was this part of the charade?

Then his teeth were tugging at the wisp of black silk, and she laced her fingers in his wavy hair. The script called for “mindless enjoyment,” and this was the very definition of the phrase.

“Ortega…” Her moan was slow and husky.

He seemed to take it as a complaint, and stood up quickly. Then he cupped her chin in his hand and murmured, “You’re just so goddammed sexy.”

The elevator opened and he whisked her down the hall, taking the keys and working the lock with one hand while holding her close with the other. Then he pushed the door open, half carried her inside, and closed it.

And then it was over.

Miranda leaned against the wall for a second, just to catch her breath. Then she straightened and gave him a smile she hoped was steady. “That went well, don’t you think?”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he murmured, “Yeah. You did well. Nice job.”

“Thanks.” She bit her lip, wondering if they were just going to stare at one another until dawn. “Would you like a drink? Or coffee? Anything like that?”

He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about an hour. At some point, coffee will be good. But for the moment, you’re off duty. Do whatever you want. Sleep. Shower. Watch TV. I’ll check in with Jane, then just…well, I’ll find something to do.”

Miranda stepped up to him, concerned. His confidence, his calm, seemed to have abandoned him, and she wondered if he knew something she didn’t. Maybe they hadn’t done as good a job as she thought. She was a rookie, after all. There were subtleties she might miss that an experienced operative would note.

“What’s wrong?” she asked finally.

“Nothing. Everything’s great. I just have something I want to say.”

She flushed. “You don’t have to thank me, Ortega. It’s my job—and my privilege—to help a patriot like you.”

“You don’t understand.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Promise me you won’t take this the wrong way?”

She winced but nodded. “I promise.”

Ortega cleared his throat, but his voice was still husky when he told her, “I thought this part of my life was over. This feeling. This amazing, out-of-control, mind-numbing buzz. My God, Miranda, I swear I thought I was past this. But tonight, with you—”

He held up one hand to stop her from interrupting. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just thanking you. For making me feel this way. So foolishly optimistic. So completely inspired. I thought this part of me was dead. But tonight…with you…it’s the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever felt.”

She stared up at him, speechless for what seemed like forever. Then she whispered, “Thank God, Ortega. I thought it was just me.”

His dark eyes widened, then a grin spread slowly over his face.

And then to her shocked delight, he scooped her up in his arms—like some sort of brawny epic hero!—and carried her into the bedroom.

Settling down at a table in the middle of a bustling coffeehouse on the edge of campus, Miranda opened her laptop and pretended to study the screen, while actually listening intently to the conversations of nearby students. She was dressed the part of a graduate student herself in her green-and-white University of Hawaii T-shirt, faded jeans and flat leather sandals.

This was a new phase of her language immersion program. Her assignment? Tracking the discussions she overheard, whether she understood them or not. This particular café was the perfect spot since it catered to international students.

After a weekend of recovering from the Ortega alibi assignment, she had been glad to find distraction in this new adventure. As expected, she hadn’t heard from Jane Smith or Ortega at all, but she had read the newspapers, so she knew that at this point at least Ortega was not considered a suspect in the killing of the president’s advisor. In fact, his agency, SPIN, was leading the investigation. And from all reports, Jane Smith had succeeded in making it appear to be a simple break-in gone wrong.

But Miranda knew better, and she took great pleasure in imagining Ortega and Smith working behind the scenes to catch the bastards who had tried to frame him. The world might never know what really happened, but justice would be done. And with any luck, Ortega would share the top secret details with her on their fourth date.

She was pretty sure there would be a fourth date. He had as much as told her so. It would make the alibi even more believable, for one thing, if they kept seeing each other. And as added incentive, there was the simple matter of the bonfire in her bedroom during that last hour together.

Yes, she was sure she’d hear from him. And maybe from Jane Smith, too, inviting her to join the team permanently. She’d jump at that chance, Ortega’s warning notwithstanding.

But for now, she needed to do a good job on this new assignment. So far, after two days of posing as a student in the coffee house, she had been able to identify most of the languages she overheard, but couldn’t distinguish any words beyond simple greetings and pleasantries.

Unimpressive, she decided with a sigh. Two weeks of training, and nothing to show for it.

Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes and sifted her fingers through her hair as though lost in thought, concentrating on the two young men seated across from her.

She couldn’t discern their nationality or language but it was clear they were arguing. Not that their voices were raised. It was more subtle than that—inflection, cadence, the use of very short words.

Maybe this is part of the deal, she told herself, leaning forward and making a note of the observation on her laptop. Maybe that’s what they’re teaching you—to pick up on those sorts of things.

“Miranda Cutler?”

She turned, surprised to hear her name, then surprised again by the sight of a man in a conservative gray suit, so out of place in this venue. Even before he flashed his badge, she knew he was FBI, and her pulse began to race.

This was it. They were going to ask about Ortega. Or better still, they weren’t here about the alibi at all, but had been directed to bring her to Ortega on some pretext. Maybe he even wanted her help on the investigation!

“Yes, I’m Miranda Cutler.” She pretended to be confused, not wanting to blow her cover completely. “Is something wrong?”

“Why don’t we step outside?” he suggested.

She hesitated, then shrugged, closed her laptop and packed it into the knapsack she had slung on the back of her chair.

“Can’t you tell me what this is about?” she asked as she stood and stared into the man’s blue eyes, challenging him, but only slightly.

“Outside,” he repeated.

He was good at his job, she decided, making a note to practice being so completely nondescript and robotic.

She followed him without further protest, and as soon as they were outside, she murmured teasingly, “You didn’t exactly fit in, you know.”

“This way.” He strode to a black sedan parked in a no-parking zone and opened the front passenger door. “Get in.”

It was impossible to engage the gray-suited man in conversation, so Miranda finally stopped trying. Either she was going to be questioned about the alibi or she was being taken to Smith or Ortega. And luckily, she was prepared for either occurrence, so she just leaned back in her seat and forced herself to relax.

She had guessed they were headed for FBI headquarters in D.C., and was relieved when they went to Langley, Virginia, instead. This was Jane Smith territory, although she couldn’t imagine why the CIA hadn’t sent one of their own to pick her up. Apparently the two agencies were working together, but she was still surprised when the guards waved them through without bothering to glance at the IDs they both produced. Not only that, they allowed the FBI agent to proceed without any additional escort as he led Miranda to a small conference room dominated by a forty-two-inch plasma TV.

They were immediately joined by two men, one of whom identified himself as Bob Runyon, CIA. The other was FBI, and he and Miranda’s gray-suited escort faded into the background, leaving Runyon in charge.

“What’s this about?” she demanded for the umpteenth time.

“Sit down,” Runyon advised. When she had complied, he pushed a button on a remote control and a video began to play.

Miranda stared at the screen, confused. It was the alibi video, specifically Date Three, just as she and Ortega were dragging one another into the elevator.

Of all parts of that stupid tape to play, they have to pick this one? she complained to herself as she watched Ortega trail his mouth down her body, then up between her thighs. It was mortifying, but she had prepared herself for this moment, so she was able to watch without cringing.

Runyon hit the Pause button at the most humiliating moment possible, then gestured toward the image on the screen. “Care to comment?”

Indignation replaced embarrassment, and Miranda gave him a haughty glare. “How dare you invade my privacy like this. Turn that off. Immediately!”

“Can you identify the man kissing you?”

“Of course I can! It’s Ray Ortega, director of SPIN. I’ve been dating him for a while. Not that it’s any of your business.” She gulped a breath of air, then insisted, “I demand to know what this is about.”

“Drop the act, Cutler. We know all about it. Ortega confessed last night.”

Miranda drew back, suspecting a trap. “Confessed to what? Having sex in an elevator? I’ll admit it’s not our most admirable moment, but since when is it a crime? We were off duty—”

“I said, drop it.” Runyon eyed her with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy. “We know he killed Payton. We know you and Smith cooked up this alibi for him. Like I said, he confessed. Take a look.” He slid a piece of paper across the table, but when Miranda reached for it, he anchored it to the table with his palm. “Look. Don’t touch.”

It was a signed declaration, and the signature was purportedly Ortega’s. Before Miranda could read more than a few sentences of the text, Runyon pulled the paper back and shoved it into a file.

But a few sentences had been more than enough for Miranda to learn the truth, and it sent a chill through her. Falsifying evidence, killing in self-defense, kidnapping—Ortega had confessed to all of these!

“The good news is, Ortega cleared you of anything but gullibility,” Runyon was saying. “He says you were just a dupe. And even if that’s not true, you’ve been pardoned—”

“What?”

“President Standish pardoned you. Pardoned Ortega, too. Jane Smith isn’t so lucky. She’ll do time for this once she gets out of the hospital. And at least two of her guys are dead. So consider yourself lucky.”

Miranda stared in dismay. “I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” The CIA officer’s voice lost its edge. “It took me a while to understand it, too. Apparently Ortega killed Payton in self-defense, then Smith cooked up an alibi for him, using you—in more ways than one. Unfortunately, Smith went too far. She kidnapped an FBI agent and a SPIN employee who had figured out what was going on, and she would’ve killed them both if they hadn’t been smart enough to get away. Ortega wasn’t part of that. Once he figured out what Smith was really up to, he went after her and her crew and apprehended the ones he didn’t shoot. A real bloodbath.”

Runyon laughed darkly before adding, “President Standish decided Ortega redeemed himself at the last minute and pardoned him. Unbelievable if you ask me, but no one asked. The good news is, you got pardoned, too. Otherwise you’d be part of the conspiracy and the charges would apply to you too.”

“I don’t need a pardon,” Miranda insisted, angry and just a little desperate. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I want to make a statement. To clear myself—”

“Not necessary. Ortega cleared you—”

“By calling me a dupe? You think that clears me?”

“Settle down.” Runyon held up a hand to silence her. Then he said with quiet authority, “The only reason for this meeting is to close the loop. Unless you want to press charges against Ortega, in which case, your career is over.”

“I don’t want to press charges. But I want to make a statement. For the file. Like he did.”

“There is no file. This never happened.” He arched an eyebrow in warning. “This will be classified. Top secret. Only a handful of people will ever know about it. And like I said, it won’t affect your career. Unless you let it,” he added, his meaning clear.

Miranda’s heart sank. Her career—she had worked so hard for it. Now Jane Smith and Ortega had ruined it. Ruined her. She had no doubt about that.

Her gaze was drawn to the despicable image on the plasma screen and her gut tightened with disgust. He had seemed so attracted to her. So smitten. But it had all been an act. A way to doubly ensure her loyalty.

She was a dupe…

“Cutler?” Runyon switched off the monitor. “Are you okay?”

She glanced at him, amazed by the question. Then she asked, “You said two of Smith’s agents were dead. Was one named Mark?”

He nodded. “Friend of yours?”

“No. Just the opposite.” She bit her lip. “What about the FBI agent and the SPIN employee? Were they hurt?”

“Yeah, both sustained injuries. One or both are still in the hospital I think.” He smiled. “The spinner saved the day according to the report. Some sort of genius or something. Too bad you’ll never meet her. You owe her, big-time.”

Miranda studied her hands, wondering if he knew how stupid he sounded.

“Any other questions? We need to wrap this up.”

“I’d like to read the file.”

“Sorry. The less you know the better for you.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need counseling? We can arrange it.”

“No.”

“Good answer.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re cleared for duty. Just like it never happened. Tomorrow morning you’re going to request time off. As a reason, you’ll say you never really came to grips with your dad’s death and you need to go home for a few weeks, to grieve. Delayed reaction or whatever. It will be approved, no questions asked.”

He walked to the door and opened it, then gestured for Miranda to join him. When she had done so, he led her into the hall and closed the door behind them. “It’s over, Miranda. Try not to let it get to you. Go home. Hang out with family and friends. Get past this—that’s an order—and then come back. Your career will be waiting for you. And Miranda?”

“Yes?” she asked, barely listening to his words.

“When you get back into town, maybe we could have a drink some night after work. Just for fun.”

She blinked, sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. Then she looked into his eyes and saw interest so stark—so degrading—that she knew he was replaying the images from the alibi tape. That scene in the elevator—

Her stomach knotted violently and she shoved past him, sprinting for the ladies room at the far end of the hall. Bursting into a stall, she fell to her knees in front of a gleaming white toilet.

Just in time to vomit her guts out.