Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (3 page)

Ragno continued, “Dixon believes she’s in grave danger and insists that you lead the protective detail. You saved his life once. He has the highest respect for your capabilities. No one else will do.”

Let me be wrong.

“She?”

“Morgan’s replacement is Dixon’s granddaughter. Samantha Dixon Fairfax.”

Fuck!

He’d given her the nickname Sam, and it had aggravated her to no end. To him, she was way more than a pretty woman with a nickname. To him, she was the one.

The one—though I’ve never told her that fact. How could I? I didn’t realize it myself, until it was too late.
It made sense that Dixon was making this request on behalf of his granddaughter, his only heir. Zeus knew from the first job he’d handled for Dixon that the man was more like an overbearing parent to her than a distant, adoring grandparent. He also knew from personal experience that not only did the man love his granddaughter, he was a Machiavellian meddler in her life.

Cunning and crafty, Dixon was capable of pulling strings from afar in order to assure that his granddaughter took the path of his choosing. Zeus had seen that dark, manipulative side of Dixon. He didn’t know whether Sam had. It hadn’t been his business then, and he didn’t see why it would be now. The man’s relationship with his granddaughter mattered not to Zeus. What did matter was that Dixon believed she was in danger and was willing to pay Black Raven a shitload of money to make sure she survived and was unharmed.

His gaze rolled over the fishpond, then bounced up to the clear-blue sky, coming back to rest on the trickling waterfall.

Dammit.

He tried to think of a way out. He couldn’t.

Of all the variations of hell Zeus had confronted in his life, this one would be the hardest to navigate. It was a hell that defied reason—a scorching, internal inferno that he’d created. He wasn’t a man who walked away from anything or anyone without closure. Except her, and now it was coming back to bite him in the ass.

Embrace the suck.

Over the years, the phrase had become a Black Raven mantra. When the going got tough, Black Raven agents powered through—any way, anyhow.

Embrace the suck and do the job. Get. The. Job. Done. Any way, any how.

This job, though, wasn’t going to be just a job. Walking through this fire-filled cauldron was going to test him in ways he didn’t want to think about, and that was even without worrying about the risks the job would present. While his thoughts raced with legitimate reasons he should refuse, adrenaline played tricks throughout his body. His dick had long ago sworn an oath of allegiance to her that produced a hard-on whenever he dwelled on what sex with her had been like. His dick rejoiced by hardening as his mind raced through the possibilities that lay in store. His palms became clammy. His heart pounded.

Hell. Hell. Hell. Hell.

“Zeus?”

“Dixon’s right. I’m in.”

“Maybe you should think about it.”

“Don’t sound so concerned. I can han—”

“If you say it’s just a job. That you’ll keep personal issues out of it,” Ragno retorted in a tone that was more worried than teasing, “I’ll strangle you next time I see you.”

“With you, I won’t even pretend.” He chuckled, though the sound came out more like a choke. “You’re damn straight it’s personal.”

The silky feel of Sam’s long blonde hair, the coolness in her ice-blue eyes, and the warmth of her ivory skin on his fingertips had been immediately imprinted into his psyche. On the outside, she was more ice than fire, but once he chipped away the icy coolness, the fire within burned so hot he’d never been able to get her out of his system. Memories of her urgent, demanding style of making love—a surprise at first, and positively addictive within seconds—had haunted him for years.

It’s well past time for those memories to die.

He’d do the job he was paid to do. She’d be safe. Personal issues wouldn’t interfere with that. Somehow, he’d make amends for what he’d done in their past. Not that she’d ever acted like she gave a damn, but his gut regretted what he’d done to her. His gut told him all kinds of things, and he had to figure out if he was right.

As his mind clicked into gear, he shook off the feeling that a freight train was bearing down on him. “Occurs to me this job could provide firsthand exposure to information for Jigsaw.”

Jigsaw was the code name for an intelligence gathering and assimilation program that Barrows designed, which Zeus and Sebastian had, in turn, marketed to the Department of Homeland Security and National Security Agency. In a rare move, DHS and NSA had acted together and hired Black Raven to use Jigsaw to assist them in their joint goal of defeating terrorism. The hiring decision—made just six months earlier—was top secret. With the off-the-record hiring decision made, Jigsaw was now more than a computer program; it was a highly lucrative, top-secret intelligence gathering job for Black Raven. Only a handful of people in the government—or even in Black Raven itself—knew the job existed.

“I thought of that as well,” Ragno said. “The more puzzle pieces we have, the better off Jigsaw will be. Right now we have no links in the data that can pinpoint where the next terrorist attack will be, or who it will come from.”

Puzzle pieces was Ragno’s term for cyber data, which Jigsaw accumulated, dissected, and manipulated, until the program made order out of seeming chaos. Jigsaw collected data of U.S. intelligence agencies, and also analyzed European, Asian, South American, and African intelligence gathering efforts. It didn’t ask for permission. It simply scrolled through cyber-data and took. The program didn’t limit its cyber-assimilation to intelligence agencies, either. It scrolled through world-wide networks and assembled cyber data without being detected. Personal phone calls, banking records, emails, text messages—in short, anything was fodder for Jigsaw. The data became pieces to the largest jigsaw puzzle ever conceived, with the pieces cyber-enhanced and sorted through by the brilliance of Barrows and his ability to engineer computer code that assimilated raw data into meaningful information.

The puzzle pieces would one day fit together. Not one minute too soon, because the goddamn terrorists needed to be stopped.

Zeus turned towards the reception hall. “Ragno, on top of the business aspects of the ITT job, I need your help with a personal issue. Keep this between us. Help me figure Sam out. I really only know the things about her that she told me, or that Samuel told me. I want to know everything about her that makes her act the way she acts, like she’s encrypted code. This time, I’m damn well going to crack it.”

Chapter Two

Paris, France

Monday, January 31

“Samantha? President Cameron would like to speak to you.”

Samantha Dixon Fairfax’s finger hovered over the send button on her laptop as the words registered. She was sitting on the corner of the couch, papers spread to her side, with her right foot tucked under her left leg.

She glanced into the dark eyes of Charles Beller, who bent towards her with the cell phone that he used for the business of the Amicus team. Charles gave her an arched-eyebrow nod. “His secretary is holding for you to accept the call.” He silently mouthed,
Wow.

My thought, exactly.

The U.S. Amicus team of lawyers to the ITT consisted of Samantha as the newly appointed chief, with two lawyers—Eric Moss and Abe Smith. Samantha and her team were facilitators for the judges so that the trial proceedings ran smoothly. They were to make recommendations regarding questions that arose during the trial, and as the proceedings drew to a close they were to ultimately make a recommendation to the judges regarding what their ruling should be. Her recommendation to the judges of the U.S. needed to be persuasive enough that it won the vote of all the judges, not just those from the U.S.

With the first official day of ITT proceedings concluded, Samantha, Charles, Eric, and Abe were working together in the Hotel Grand Athens, where they were staying.

Sudden silence, heavy with the same expectation that accompanied the flash of time existing between lightning and thunder, filled the hotel suite’s living room. All eyes were trained on her.

Samantha had met President Cameron several times at social gatherings and fundraisers. This was her first official call from the White House. E-mail forgotten, she slid the laptop from her lap, deposited it on the couch, and stood out of habit. Her legal training had taught her that important conversations were best conducted on her feet.

She gripped the phone as she stepped forward in a slow pace. “Samantha Dixon Fairfax.”

“Ms. Fairfax, please hold for President Cameron,” a male voice said.

Heart quickening as she waited, she drew a deep breath.

Calm down.

Act like you’ve been here before.

She was determined her legal career would take her important places. If things went as planned, this was not going to be her last official call from the leader of the free world. She walked forward five steps, between the table and the couch, turned, retraced her steps, and turned again.

“Good evening, Ms. Fairfax.” President Cameron’s unmistakably deep voice held a hint of a Northeastern accent. “I know it’s late in Paris. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, Mr. President,” she said. Feet now glued to the floor, she glanced at the Eiffel Tower from the sixth floor of their hotel in the Seventh Arrondissement area of Paris. Floor to ceiling windows provided an unobstructed view of the tourist attraction. In the dark, winter night, lights turned the iconic structure into a soaring golden beacon. “Not at all.”

“I’d like to thank you for accepting the appointment. I know that you have, for several years, worked closely with Stanley Morgan. Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“You were highly recommended by the ITT judges. In particular, Judge Theodore O’Connor. I’m calling to underscore the importance of your position. Our country needs to be the leader in this trial, and the judges will depend on you to assist them in making this proceeding a success. I trust you will hold your own when you advocate to the other judges for France, Columbia, and the U.K. I have every confidence you will succeed. The world is watching,” he said. “I’m watching. If you need any assistance from me, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. President. I assure you I will not disappoint you.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Fairfax.”

He clicked off the call. She drew a deep breath as she returned the business phone to Charles and lifted her laptop from the couch. She sat down again with the computer on her lap.

“Well?” Charles asked, his dark brown eyes questioning. He had a neat, cardigan-wearing look that reminded Samantha of an old-time librarian. His conservative clothing and calm demeanor gave him a knack for blending into his surroundings.

She reminded herself that she was leading a team and their reaction would feed off of hers. Though her insides were shaky with the impact of the official call, she kept her voice calm as she repeated the substance of the short conversation to Charles, Eric, and Abe.

“Now…” she paused. “Back to the briefing memo.”

Eric, who became second chair attorney of the Amicus team when she became first chair, Abe, now third chair attorney, and Charles, who multitasked as her paralegal, secretary, and personal aide, had been waiting for her to press send on the email that would deliver the memo to the judges. Their work wasn’t over for the day until the daily memo went through. Their security detail, a team of U.S. Marshals, stood in the hallway, outside the closed door.

Whether Stanley Morgan’s death the evening before had been a heart attack caused by an accidental overdose of insulin, whether he had intentionally overdosed himself, or whether someone had forced an overdose upon him were open questions. Samantha’s job didn’t include figuring out the answers, because the ITT proceedings wouldn’t pause, and she had no time to take a side bar to investigate.

Her name had been on prior nightly briefing memos, but safely tucked beneath Morgan’s. Position in the signature block meant everything in the legal world. In ITT proceedings it meant ask the guy on top the hard questions.

Now, I’m the guy on top
.

As President Cameron had just reminded her, the world was watching. Instead of pressing send, she pressed print, giving herself an extra few seconds. The last protection from the antacid she’d eaten an hour earlier—in the bathroom, away from the watchful eyes of her team—had worn off with the phone call. With one month to conduct proceedings and reach a verdict, a twisted knot of trepidation had formed in her belly and wouldn’t loosen. President Cameron’s call torqued the knot even tighter, yet she kept a calm expression on her face.

“Charles, would you get the memo for me? I’d like to proofread it one more time.”

Charles stood, crossed the room, lifted the document off the printer, returned to her side, and handed it to her. She flipped the pages and scanned it, searching for errors that she knew were nonexistent.

The judges would reach a verdict on March first. One short month away. Her stomach knew the task was mission impossible, despite her assurance to President Cameron that she wouldn’t disappoint him. Like everyone else, she pretended everything was under control.

I can handle this. I can.

In keeping with protocol, the nightly briefing memo went to the U.S. judges, the three sitting on the panel and the one alternate. It was sent directly from the email account of the chief Amicus Curiae counsel, with a personal note. Her personal note of the evening thanked the judges for offering her the position.

In the memo, the Amicus team provided a short summary of what had been accomplished in Monday’s trial proceedings. Forensic investigators from France had testified, explaining the minute details of the metro bombings. One issue that had been avoided by the French investigators was an analysis of how the bombings compared to known attacks by the Maximov-in-Exile organization. The answer to that was simple and direct, and one that Samantha and her team could sum up in a few short words. The metro bombing wasn’t similar to prior attacks, which had been linked to obvious political motives. The Amicus team also took the official trial plan for the next day and provided the American judges updates on what should be accomplished with each witness, based upon proceedings thus far.

Samantha also provided the position of the Amicus team on the latest discovery issue—the French investigative teams had drawn their discovery requests narrowly and the evidence they had produced to support their conclusions seemed scant. When the French forensic investigators testified earlier that day, they concluded that there was a link between the metro bombing and the Maximov organization, but Samantha didn’t see it. Neither did the defense lawyers, who went to town attacking the conclusions.

Essentially, the French team wanted the teams from the other countries to accept their conclusions, without providing evidence. The lack of direct evidence had been a concern that bothered Morgan. It was now her worry, and the first order of business of the court on Tuesday morning was going to be argument regarding whether the French had to produce the full contents of their files.

She put the paper down, drank from a bottle of lukewarm water that she’d opened hours earlier, and hit send.

“Done.”

“Congratulations on officially concluding your first day as our chief,” said Eric, combing his fingers through his perpetually unruly red hair, his serious green eyes showing the strain of the day.

“Bittersweet, but thank you.” She glanced past Eric through the large window into the dark Paris night. As her gaze took in the beauty of the Eiffel Tower and the crystal-clear night, strobe lights erupted into a glittering and blinking show, prompting her to glance at her watch.

10:30.

Perfect timing for the end of day memo from the Amicus team, which was expected to be delivered to the judges between 8:00 and 11:00 p.m. Not bad timing at all, considering that Morgan had died less than thirty-six hours earlier. She felt a lingering twinge of sadness at his death, accompanied with a moment of trepidation over the responsibility that had fallen into her lap.

Shortly after Morgan’s death on Sunday evening, the judges from the United States decided to offer Samantha the lead position. When Judge Theodore O’Connor made the call, she’d accepted immediately. Now, with the whirlwind of the first day of ITT proceedings behind her and the nightly briefing memo on its way, she finally had a moment to ask herself whether she was up to the task of taking his place.

“The system is slow.” With a frown, Charles straightened his navy blue wool cardigan, bent forward, and clicked at his laptop’s keyboard. “You cc’d me, right?”

“Yes. I cc’d all of us.” As she waited for the email sent notification, her moment of self-doubt dwindled away.
Am I up for the task of being chief?
Absolutely. She’d been born for opportunities like this and had worked hard to ensure that when chances for advancement came her way, she could capitalize on them. Law school had been grueling, but she’d finished number one in her class.

Obtaining her masters in international law had also been tough, but she’d excelled in that program as well. She’d been with Morgan and Associates for five years and she’d become Stanley Morgan’s right hand, the associate he went to with the tough assignments. He’d been respected throughout the world as a brilliant jurist, and the opportunity to learn from him was something that many of her contemporaries coveted. Her next move would be a federal judgeship.

Being the chief—rather than simply Stanley Morgan’s second chair—would put her in a better position before a judicial review committee. President Cameron’s call underscored that fact. But, as ambitious as she was, she’d gladly give up the lead position if relinquishing it would mean that her friend and mentor was alive to take the reins. Capitalizing upon the death of someone she had respected, admired, and grown to love was not how she had planned to achieve her career goals.

“The email isn’t in my inbox yet,” Charles said with a frown.

Samantha glanced up. “Even something as simple as email delivery can’t be left to chance. Let’s make sure it goes through before we shut down.”

“I’m starving.” Eric stood and stretched. He walked from the conference table to the wet bar, grabbed a handful of nuts from a silver bowl, and munched on them.

She’d looked forward to the French fries and roasted chicken she’d ordered. Plus, she wanted her nightly glass of crisp sauvignon blanc. She was trying to keep with the civilized tradition that Morgan implemented for ending the day. When traveling for work, the team sat down for dinner and discussed something other than the projects that had consumed their day.

It gave perspective, he’d said.

“I know this isn’t the way you anticipated becoming first chair, but I can’t think of anyone better qualified to lead the team.” Abe Smith, seated at the table, glanced at the screen of his open laptop and shook his head. “Damn, but this email is slow. I don’t have it yet.”

Previously, Abe had been in charge of their stateside team. He’d arrived in Paris only an hour earlier, called in to deal with the manpower shift necessitated by Morgan’s death. Abe had blue eyes, brown hair, and tortoise-shell glasses that made him look almost as smart as he was. While Eric had the look of an L.L. Bean model, Abe was all Brooks Brothers-style polish. His clothes were crisp, his hair smooth, even after a transatlantic flight.

“That Morgan isn’t here still seems surreal,” Abe added. “I’m sorry for the circumstances, but I’m thrilled to be here.”

“You’ll be great,” she said, glancing into his brown eyes. “Thanks for mobilizing so quickly.” Samantha’s attention returned to her laptop. Until the email was actually delivered to the judges, her job wasn’t done. Servers failed. It had inexplicably happened once over the weekend while they’d been in France, and twice the week before when they were using the ITT email system in the U.S., in preparation for the trial.