Dangerous Liaisons (2 page)

Traffic oozed along New York’s Second Avenue like butter melting in a midsummer heat wave. In the backseat of a cab idling at a red light, Jesse scanned the street. Three blocks ahead loomed the Bank of America branch that housed a safe deposit box belonging to her alias, Joanne Anderson. The light changed and the cabbie merged into the right lane, then stopped at the sidewalk.

Jesse pulled a twenty from the open zipper of her small purse and handed it to him. “Keep the change.” She wanted to walk the last few blocks and get a look around.

She stepped from the car and breathed deep of the heavy city air. The next half hour was as crucial as had been the last three weeks dodging U.S. and foreign agents. Jesse headed south, noting every car, every person, on the avenue. If anyone followed, they were good—very good—but she expected nothing less.

Despite the inconceivability that Green Leader Robert Lanton could locate her safe deposit box, Colombia had taught her that earlier suspicions about the man hadn’t come close to revealing the depths of evil to which he was capable. Memory flashed of blood spurting from the Green Team member’s head when the mercenary shot him. Her step faltered. A passing man looked in her direction. She caught the concern in his eyes—felt the burn of tears—and hurried past without a word.

She had to get a grip on the memories. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself. Her jaw tensed at recollection of The Professor’s forwarded email: The Office of Internal Affairs reporting Green Team’s massacre.
No survivors. Mission compromised by Blue Team operative Jessica Evans.
Tom Montague, AKA The Professor, had included a copy of the transcript of her call warning Headquarters to pull Green Team out. The call had been altered to sound as if she had threatened Green Leader. And she had, but because of his inaction. Damn her temper. Lanton, the fucking puissant, made it sound like she had killed Martinez and threatened Lanton for trying to stop the massacre.

No team leader had authority to interfere in another cell’s mission—nor did they have the authority to order an agent’s access code denied.  So how had Green Leader intercepted her call to Blue Leader?

Robert Lanton was smarter than she’d given him credit for. Three years ago, Madrid gunrunners were waiting for The Professor when he slipped into their compound to crack their computer system. A year later, she scouted a Hong Kong warehouse and Chinese secret agents appeared minutes after her call to headquarters. Lanton had headed both missions.

After Hong Kong, she began a quiet investigation that uncovered his membership in an exclusive DC BDSM club. If word got out that one of OIA’s top handlers liked his sex with whips and chains, he would be ruined. Setting her up for killing his team meant he knew that she knew. But why not simply contract a hit on her? Because he needed someone to take the fall, if she survived the mission. That made the most sense, but why ally with Perez, and sabotage this particular mission? Something more was going on. Lanton had been waiting for her call, which confirmed what Martinez had been about to report; Lanton was the leak to Amadeo Perez.

Jesse glanced at the flashing neon sign on a deli window that read Pizza and Wedges. Perez had ruined thousands of kids’ lives by shipping cocaine into the U.S., but it had taken the kidnapping of a senator’s daughter to light a fire under government lawmakers. Now they wanted Perez’s head on a platter. Lanton wanted the silver platter. He’d made Martinez his first sacrificial lamb. His six team members had followed, and Jesse was the final sacrifice that ensured he got away with his crimes. No, there was one more possible sacrifice, Jesse’s sister Amanda.

A man flicked a glance at Jesse. She tensed, then relaxed when she realized his attention was aimed at her breasts. Choosing a disguise with blonde hair—even the dishwater-blonde wig—and blue eyes may have been a mistake. She had gotten a couple of stares in transit from the East side. She’d chosen the blonde hair as the opposite to her straight black hair.

She reached the corner and joined the crowd waiting to cross Second Avenue. Along with her false identity, a second identity for Amanda sat in the small Bank of America branch, one of hundreds of banks in a city close enough to Langley to be accessible in hours, but far enough away not to show up in a sweep of Washington, DC regional banks.

The light changed, and Jesse joined the others crossing the avenue. Two men in navy blue suits left the bank. Her heart rate accelerated. She’d seen FBI agents who were more relaxed. She kept pace with the moving crowd and, as the men angled toward the corner she approached, she looked right, causing the locks of the lush wig to fall across her face.

The man on the left turned his head and said something to his companion. Jesse detected no wire in his ear. She stepped over the curb and peered down at the men’s shoes. One wore brown Forzieri dress shoes—too fancy for a federal agent. FBI and CIA clothing allowances didn’t cover four hundred dollar shoes, and in brown, no less.

The men passed without any indication they knew her. She stopped at the bank, pulled open the thick glass door, and plunged into the air-conditioned interior. A pink marble floor with gold inlay and fifteen-foot ceilings made the space feel even cooler. On the right, eight people stood in a roped line waiting for one of six glass-protected tellers seated behind a marble counter. Straight ahead were two freestanding counters with deposit slips and pens on chains. In the back, the vault’s massive door stood open, revealing rows of safety deposit boxes.

To the left sat mahogany desks for the managers, loan officers, and the assistant manager, Louise, who handled safe deposit boxes. A shiver traveled across Jesse’s shoulders as much from the room’s chill as the prospect of spiriting Amanda out of the country. It wouldn’t be easy traveling unnoticed with an autistic sister. Jesse strolled to Louise’s desk while pulling the safety deposit key and New York Driver’s license from the inside pocket of her purse.

Louise looked up from her terminal. “May I help you?”

Jesse extended the key and license. “I’d like to get into box 1271.”

Louise’s eyes widened, then her expression melted into the bland professional look a customer might expect. Jesse smiled as if unaware of the reaction.

“I’m afraid there’s a problem, Ms. Anderson.”

Jesse raised her brows in question. Louise didn’t know her by name.

“There’s a small administrative issue.” Louise returned her attention to her monitor and began typing.

Jesse studied her. “What sort of issue?”

“Just a new policy.” Louise’s eyes remained on the monitor.

Tiny hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck prickled. How would Louise know she hadn’t been there since this new policy had been instituted?

Jesse glanced at her watch. “My lunch break is short. I don’t have much time.”

Feigning frustration, she took a casual step back and peered past the iron barred door into the vault’s subdued, gray interior. Her eye caught the nearest box number in her row, 1011, and scanned the row. Her gaze sharpened on the gaping rectangular hole where her box should have been.

Gone—her passport,
Amanda’s new identity
, all gone. How? She knew how. When the Office of International Affairs wanted something, no one asked questions. She’d underestimated OIA—no, underestimated Robert Lanton—again. Suddenly, her six years in the world of black paled in comparison to his twenty years.

Jesse stepped back to Louise’s desk. “When did they clean me out?”

The woman’s eyes snapped up and locked with Jesse’s. Jesse read fear and a trace of anger. Louise licked her lips. Jesse didn’t think she would answer, but she said, “A week ago.”

Jesse spun and hurried toward the front door with a crushing emptiness in her chest. Nobody in line or behind the desks broke position. The guard didn’t shift at his post as she pushed open the door and stepped into the stifling heat. She scanned the sidewalk and the upper windows of the buildings across the street for evidence of surveillance as she headed south on Second at a fast clip. She didn’t spot anyone peering through the windows, which didn’t mean they weren’t there.

She hailed a cab, but it whizzed past. She lengthened her stride, waved at a second taxi. The cabbie swerved from the middle lane and halted at the curb ahead of her. She hurried forward. The driver leered with lusty black eyes as she hopped in the back. She gave him the address of an Ethiopian restaurant on the Upper West Side.

Jesse glanced back and memorized the cars, then slumped against the seat. The remainder of the afternoon would be spent taking random cab rides and subway lines to be sure no one was tailing her before she could make another move. Precious time she couldn’t afford to lose. She closed her eyes, picturing the hole that used to be her safe deposit box. Lost, all lost, the Anderson alias, Amanda’s papers, and—Jesse opened her eyes,
the disc containing the entire Green Team roster
.

Her fingers tightened convulsively on her purse. She should have destroyed the disc after finding it in Juanita Pinto’s purse the weekend they’d spent in Madrid, then told Tom that the Spanish agent he’d fallen hard for had stolen it from him.

Jesse stared through the windshield at the slowing traffic. Lanton had been looking for evidence he believed would incriminate himself but, instead, hit the real jackpot. If her encryption scheme wasn’t good enough, he would crack the code, then take down Tom, the infamous Professor, and use the roster as proof she was a traitor. Dammit, she had played fast and loose with sensitive information…and had been careless with Amanda’s future.

OIA knew about Amanda and the fact Jesse had been her legal guardian these last twelve years. Four months shy of Jesse’s eighteenth birthday, their mother had died. Those months until Jesse became of age had been sheer hell. But the morning she turned eighteen, before the doors to Berkline Hall for Autistic Children opened, Jesse stood at the entrance, waiting to bring her sister home.

Berkline Hall for Autistic Children
. Jesse mentally sneered. Their mother never minded telling people her daughter lived at Berkline. The title leant respectability to the fact she had abandoned Amanda in an institution. When Jesse joined the military, she found a home, not an institution, for Amanda. Jesse had purposely neglected to inform her bosses the last few times she had moved Amanda. Where Amanda lived was none of their business.

Fear unlike any she’d known since her father’s death settled in Jesse’s gut. Lanton had torn down all but a narrow rope between her and Amanda. Now, with her sister's only identification gone, Jesse would have to perform a balancing act unlike any she’d ever imagined in order to get Amanda to safety. Even then, how easy would falling off the radar really be? Robert Lanton wouldn’t give up looking for Jesse as long as he believed she could hurt him, which meant Amanda would never be safe.

Jesse flipped open her cell phone and dialed her attorney’s number.

“Ms. Evans,” Jason Barrett said once his secretary put her through. Having a four million dollar trust that needed management had its perks. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “We’ve got a problem.”

She tensed. “What problem?”

“A federal district judge froze your assets.”

Amanda’s trust fund.
Jesse choked back a cry. “When?”

“Day before yesterday. They also served a subpoena for the records.”

“Can you file an injunction?”

“Already tried,” he replied. “No go. The records are sealed for reasons of national security. What have you gotten yourself into?”

Jesse cast a glance at the cabbie. His eyes were fixed on the road. “I can’t say right now. What else can we do?”

“I’ve filed an appeal, but it’ll take time.”

“Can they seize the assets?”

“Not while appeals are pending. We can keep this tied up in court for years, but you can’t access the funds either.”

Years! Amanda’s ninety-thousand dollar annual bill at Houghton House came due in three months. What if she couldn’t prove Lanton’s guilt before then, or worse, he permanently silenced her? Without the trust fund, the state would stick Amanda in another institution.

“Do what you can,” she said.

“How do I get a hold of you?”

“You can’t. Call Harris.”

“All right.”

She heard the understanding in his voice. Harris was her inside man at Houghton House and had power of attorney if anything happened to her.

“I’ll need you in court to get the order lifted,” he said. “Oh, and keep in mind, don’t touch any of the funds.”

Her heart rate increased. He wasn’t talking about the trust fund, but was covertly warning her away from the four-year-old endowment she’d set up to fund research for autistic kids. Barrett had insisted he not be put in charge of the grant in case he was compromised as her attorney. Seems he’d been right.

“You don’t want to lose control,” he said.

So Lanton hadn’t found the endowment fund—yet.

Jesse recalled the two hundred thousand dollar Cayman account under her name—an account that wasn’t hers. She’d discovered the account while digging through Lanton’s financials, along with a two million dollar Swiss account in his name. She had yet to connect the two accounts, but there was no doubt he had set up the Cayman account to make it look like she’d taken a payoff.

“Understood,” she said into the phone.

“Keep in touch,” Barrett said.

“Thanks.” She closed the phone.

Jesse stared out the window as if deep in thought, her attention on the nearby motorists. She had known her covert lifestyle would catch up with her, but hadn’t expected it to be so soon,
or so violent
. At thirty, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. That’s what she got for watching all those old spy movies.

“Thank you, Mrs. Peel,” she whispered, remembering night after night of late TV with The Avengers. “And how do you propose I get out of this?”

Ah, yes, The Professor. If he couldn’t help, no one could.