Читать книгу Lovers In Hiding - Susan Kearney - Страница 10

Clay Rogan had never before been ordered into the director of operation’s office of the CIA. Although he worked daily at the imposing building in McLean, Virginia, the prospect of meeting the director had him curious and edgy. The legendary director was responsible for all covert operations—far from Clay’s normal turf in cryptanalysis.

After the D.O. had left an urgent message in the Hot Inbox file on Clay’s computer, he’d hoped he wasn’t about to be transferred to another division. Clay loved his work, took enjoyment in eighteen-hour days. He loved solving puzzles and breaking codes and, while his six-foot-six frame made him seem more suited for active pursuits, nothing provided him with as much pleasure as giving his brain a good workout. A ride on his motorcycle came in only a close second. Although Clay had trained at the renowned Farm in Camp Peary with other CIA recruits, he led a relatively normal life. He worked in an office, in front of a computer screen, scrutinizing bursts of satellite transmissions in an attempt to decode messages sent by foreign agents’ transmitters.

As a master in his field, Clay had worked his way up from rookie and whiz kid to head of the cryptanalysis division. Early on, his superiors had recognized his linguistic abilities and intuitive knack for breaking code by spotting patterns where others could not. He’d earned the nickname Viper when he’d broken a Chinese code that had been composed of snakelike curves that had mystified other experts for years.

But to Clay, going into the field was as far-fetched an idea as dogs barking in Morse code. Sure, he’d taken the same basic courses required of all operatives—in detecting explosives, carrying out surveillance and countersurveillance operations, mastering a variety of weapons, and running counterintelligence, counternarcotics and paramilitary operations—but those activities were far outside his primary area of expertise.

So he had no idea why he’d been ordered to the D.O.’s office. Under normal circumstances he’d hesitate to venture onto the super-secret fifteenth floor, but the message in his Hot file this morning had left him no alternative.

He was to report to the D.O. himself. And tell no one.

Highly unusual. Highly irregular. Orders normally came down through channels.

The moment Clay arrived, the D.O.’s secretary ushered him into the opulent office. Although he’d never met the head of one of the most important departments in the government, he’d seen the director on television many times, reporting to Congress and briefing the Senate.

Up close, Lionel Tower’s pit bull face looked even more tenacious than on the little screen. The man leaned aggressively forward, making Clay think his bark could be as bad as his bite. Yet, the moment Clay entered, the director graciously rose and came around his desk to shake hands, his spit-shined shoes squeaking.

“Thank you for coming so promptly.”

Clay saw no reason to respond to the rhetorical comment. Both men knew he hadn’t been given a choice. When the director commanded, his agents obeyed with an extra snap in their step. Obeyed not just because the director was in charge; the man was famous for turning more foreign spies into double agents than any other operative in the agency’s long and convoluted history. He had earned their respect.

The hand that grasped Clay’s had short, ragged nails, bit low on the fingertips. The palm was hard, cool and powerful. The director gestured for Clay to sit and then, surprisingly, pulled up a chair alongside him instead of returning behind his desk—a friendly action that made Clay even more wary.

“I’m sure you’re curious about why you’re here, so I’ll get right to the point.” Tower peered at Clay with a hopeful expression. “I’d like your help in a little matter.”

Little? The D.O. didn’t involve himself in little matters. He left that for underlings. But Clay kept his expression neutral. “Yes, sir?”

“Almost thirty years ago, a married couple worked for the agency. Both of them were operatives. The woman was killed and a short time later, her husband died in a mysterious car accident that we think was a hit. Their three children survived, and the agency hired a lawyer to find homes for the kids. Those children are now adults. I believe they’re in danger.”

“Sir?” Was the D.O. asking Clay to protect them? That was so far from his area of expertise, he had trouble believing that someone who had access to his file would have chosen him for the job.

“The name of the eldest, their only son, is Jake Cochran. Ever heard of him?”

“Should I have, sir?”

“Jake grew up in foster homes. When he graduated from high school, he tracked down the attorney we hired decades ago and tried to find his sisters.”

“The kids were split up? I thought Family Services tries to keep them together.”

“Together they would have been easier to track. Since we feared for their safety, it was decided the kids would be separated.” Tower paused, no doubt regrouping his thoughts. “The parents were damn fine operatives, the best, so it’s not surprising that Jake Cochran established one of the premier detective agencies in Florida. All the while, he kept searching for his sisters.”

“Did he find them, sir?”

“He only just located them.”

Clay frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”

He didn’t like the idea of children being separated. Families should stick together, and he sincerely hoped the D.O. didn’t want him to have anything to do with keeping the siblings apart.

“Jake found adoption records with his sisters’ new names and addresses. He mailed them each a letter with old photographs and copies of his mother’s papers. He also hired bodyguards to protect both his sisters.”

Clay put the pieces together quickly. “The siblings are in danger because of the mother’s documents?”

“You catch on fast. Jake and one sister have already gone underground. I want you to befriend the third sister, get her to trust you.”

“Am I permitted to know why?”

Tower chuckled. “Absolutely. I need you to decode the documents.”

Clay finally understood why he’d been chosen for this mission. He currently worked with the newest state-of-the-art codes, but his hobby was deciphering old codes like the one the special agent might have used almost thirty years ago. Information on his hobby was most assuredly right in his file along with his favorite flavor of chewing gum, cherry; his preferences in women, model-thin blondes with small, high breasts and cool intelligence; and his favorite leather jacket size—extra large.

Still he was reluctant to take on the full assignment. Although he itched to try his luck with the old codes, protection wasn’t his specialty and he didn’t want to get someone killed. “Sir, surely there are people much more qualified than me to protect the sister—”

“Melinda Murphy.”

“To protect Ms. Murphy—”

“You’re the best qualified cryptanalyst for the job.” The D.O. gave him a significant look. Clay didn’t have to know the man well to understand that he was expected to keep his mouth shut and commit the instructions for this assignment to memory. But why hadn’t the D.O. assigned another, more qualified agent to protect the woman and allowed Clay to do what he did best—decode? Was he missing something? Or was Clay just annoyed because he didn’t yet have all the puzzle’s pieces to analyze? After a taut silence, the D.O. finally added, “We don’t want to alert anyone else to the situation.”

We? So now it was a team effort. But it would be Clay’s ass on the line, and the girl’s too if he screwed up. “May I ask why we are keeping this operation to just us, sir?”

His expertise wouldn’t come into play until later, after he’d gained the woman’s trust, and Clay hoped he wouldn’t be asked to betray her to bring the code to the agency. Despite his credentials as a fully trained covert operative, he didn’t like lies.

“Because I suspect someone inside the CIA is running his own secret operation against these siblings.”

Clay swallowed hard, suddenly understanding the covert nature of this extremely dangerous assignment. No wonder the D.O. wanted him to work alone—less chance of a leak. And a leak could be critical since his job was to ferret out a traitor within the CIA.

“Do I—”

“No backup. No partners. Just you with a direct phone line to me.”

“And my current assignments?”

“I’ll handle those. Viper, you take care of the woman. Melinda Murphy lives in Daytona Beach, Florida.” The director handed him a file. “Just find her, decode the papers and bring the results back to me. Only to me.”