Match Play (2 page)

Lightning's temporary executive assistant sat behind her elegant Louis XV desk. Gillian Ridgeway, daughter of two of OMEGA's former superstars, played a mean game of golf herself. Amusement and sympathy lit her blue eyes.

“You won't need any of those aids.”

“Damn straight, I won't.”

Jilly continued to make sympathetic noises until Dayna worked through her snit.

“Sorry,” the agent said with a wry smile. “I just needed to let off a little steam.”

“That's what I'm here for.”

Actually, Gillian Ridgeway was there to fill in for Elizabeth Wells, longtime executive assistant to several of OMEGA's directors. Elizabeth had undergone hip-replacement surgery the week after Jilly returned from a State Department assignment in Beijing. On leave from State and unsure whether she wanted to become a career bureaucrat, Jilly had offered to fill in for Elizabeth.

Black-haired, blue-eyed and as stunning as she was vivacious, she soon wrapped OMEGA's male agents around her little finger. The female agents liked her, too, which said even more for her sparkling personality.

She and Dayna had grown especially close. The two women were almost the same age and both enjoyed sports. They teamed up for golf or tennis whenever Rogue was in D.C. and routinely skunked their opponents. They'd also shared a few locker-room secrets. So Dayna wasn't surprised when Gillian made a too-casual observation.

“I understand Hawkeye is working this op with you.”

“That's right. He's flying in from Algiers. We meet up in Scotland.”

“Say hi for me, will you?”

“I will, but only if you promise to stop torturing the poor man.”

“Torturing him?” Gillian assumed an expression of wide-eyed innocence.
“Moi?”

“Come off it, Jilly. You know you lay on a double dose of sultry whenever Hawk's around. Despite that, he still thinks of you as the gawky teenager he taught to shoot.”

“Maybe,” she replied with a small smirk, “and maybe not. Just tell him hello for me.”

 

When Dayna hooked up with Hawk in her suite at one of St. Andrews' venerable old hotels, she dutifully relayed the message.

“Gillian said to say hi. And you look like hell.”

Hawk shot her a surprised look from sunken, redrimmed eyes. “Jilly said that?”

“The last bit came from me. What happened in Algiers?”

“Sand, sand and more sand.” A smile slipped through the bristly beard sprouting on his cheeks and chin. “But we got Mustafa.”

Whooping, Dayna leaned across the coffee table to punch her fellow agent in the shoulder.

“Score one for our side!”

His smile took over the rest of his face. No one would classify Hawk as handsome. His features were too rugged and his tough, don't-mess-with-me demeanor too intimidating. But when he relaxed and let the real Mike Callahan show through, Dayna could understand why Gillian was so determined to make the man see her as something other than a gangly teen.

“It took a little longer than expected,” he admitted ruefully. “I had to leave the bastard hanging across the saddle of a camel to get here in time for this tournament. Speaking of which…”

Scraping a palm across his bristly chin, he made the abrupt mental shift so necessary for survival in their business.

“Any more definitive word on whether the Wus really intend to defect?”

“None. All we have to go on is that cryptic message from Kim Li.” Dayna shuffled through the folder of material she'd prepared for him. “Here's your registration packet and a detailed agenda.”

The International Pro-Am Charity Tournament had grown into one of the biggest events in women's golf. Spread over an entire week, the schedule was crammed with money-raising activities. The public could watch the practice round, first two preliminary rounds and final championship rounds—all for a fee, of course. Fans and participants alike could also take part in the slew of silent auctions, continental breakfasts, autographing sessions, high teas and photo ops salted into the schedule.

“Our first official function is the kickoff banquet tonight,” Dayna informed Mike. “That's when they'll draw for the initial pairings and course assignments.”

She'd registered him as her personal guest, which would give him access to VIP seating at all events and, subsequently, to Dr. Wu. Along with the banquet ticket and laminated pass, she'd also prepared a thick binder.

“Mackenzie digitized the layouts for all five St. Andrews' courses. You can call up a three-dimensional topography of any hole, anytime, on your cell phone.”

“Yeah, I took a look at the layouts during the flight from Algiers. They're pretty slick.”

“They are, but I thought you might also want hard copies to study. They're easier on the eyes.”

Particularly eyes showing a whole lot more red than white. Hawk accepted the thick binder with heartfelt relief.

“Bless you, my child. I'll go through the schematics this afternoon. What's on your agenda until the banquet?”

“Wu Kim Li reserved a bay at the driving range at three o'clock. I snagged the one next to her at three-thirty. I figure it's as good a place as any to make the initial contact.”

“Sounds like a plan. Do we need to do a comm check?”

“We should be good to go. Mac synchronized our emergency signals.”

To demonstrate, Dayna pushed one of the knobs on the stainless steel chronometer banding her lift wrist and sent a silent jolt through the identical watch on Hawk's tanned wrist. Other knobs allowed the sophisticated devices to provide two-way communications or send data transmissions.

Assured their signals were in sync, Hawk hefted the binder and shoved out of his chair.

“I'll see you later. Good luck with Wu.”

 

She'd need it, Dayna thought as she pulled on a butterscotch-colored windbreaker. Although late-May sunshine illuminated the wavy glass windows of her suite, she knew from previous experience that the breeze off St. Andrews Bay could slice like a barnacle. It could also wreak havoc with an otherwise perfect golf shot.

Zipping up the jacket, she collected her accessories. Field Dress had designed the slim, ultra-chic fanny pack studded with Austrian crystals that clipped snuggly around her hip. One compartment holstered the sleek little Kahr PM40 micro-compact double-action pistol she'd cleared through British security. Others housed a spare ammo clip, her ID and credit cards and a tube of lip-gloss. A matching ball cap also studded with crystals shaded her face and contained her hair in a loose ponytail.

With her golf bag slung over her shoulder, Dayna left her two-room suite and walked to the elevators. After today she'd leave her equipment at the clubhouse storage facility for cleaning and repair. For now, its weight settled over her shoulder like an old familiar harness.

Although the hotel was a local landmark and one of the oldest in St. Andrews, it had been well maintained and modernized over the years. The elevator that ferried Dayna down four floors did so with quiet efficiency.

The lobby was a masterpiece of Victorian grandeur. High ceilings and dark paneling provided the perfect backdrop for red-tufted settees and antique sporting prints. A smoking room, book-lined library and glassed-in conservatory allowed guests to mix and mingle in the public rooms.

And mingle they did. Women dominated the milling crowd. Female corporate execs, commercial airline pilots, TV personalities, even a member of the Danish parliament—all had jumped at the chance to play with the great women golfers from around the world.

A good number of sportscasters and TV crews were also present, conducting impromptu interviews prior to tomorrow's official media day. They'd come armed with the printed list of participants and pounced on the Olympic gold medalist the moment she appeared.

“Dayna! Dayna! Over here!”

She gave two interviews, greeted a number of friends and acquaintances and autographed a program for one of the bellmen before finally making it to the hotel entrance.

The view through the revolving glass door was enough to take any golfer's breath away. Directly across the cobbled street lay the undulating fairways, man-eating gorse and killer sand traps of the fabled Old Course, known throughout the world as the Home of Golf. The gray granite bulk of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club ruled over the first tee with majestic splendor. Both course and clubhouse were framed by the salt marshes and sparkling waters of St. Andrews Bay.

Her gaze fixed on the panoramic vista, Dayna pushed through the revolving door and inadvertently plowed into a group of passersby.

“Excuse me. I wasn't looking…”

The rest of the apology stuck in her throat.

Well, hell! Her first day in St. Andrews and she had to run smack into the one man she'd hoped to avoid.

“Dayna! I'll be damned.”

An all-too-familiar grin hiked up the corners of his mouth. Before she realized his intent, he hooked an arm around her waist and swooped in for a kiss.

His mouth covered hers, and for an instant, for one searing instant, the years rolled back. She was in college again. So hungry for this man she couldn't get enough of him, in or out of bed. So much in love she wanted the whole world to share her joy.

Reality returned with a crash. Remembering the bitterness that had followed her joy, Dayna jerked out of Luke Harper's arms.

S
he was even more vibrant than he remembered.

The realization slammed into Luke as the woman he'd once thought he'd spend the rest of his life with backed away from him.

Her face was thinner than in their college days, her honey-colored hair lighter than he remembered. But her skin still had that healthy glow that came from regular exercise and hours spent outdoors while her eyes…

Christ, those eyes! How many times had Luke lost himself in their shimmering green depths? They'd been filled with such love and laughter then.

They weren't now. Flashing from fury to disdain in a single heartbeat, they raked him from head to toe.

“Harper.”

That was it. No “Hey, Luke. Been a long time. Hope you finally got your head screwed on semistraight.”

“Hello, Pud.”

The pet name sent red flags into her cheeks, but before she could slice into him for using it, one of his buddies jabbed him in the ribs.

“Jeez, Harper, introduce us. Not that you need any introduction, Ms. Duncan.” Elbowing Luke aside, the lanky American thrust out his hand. “I was on leave in Athens during the last Olympics and saw you paddle across the finish line for gold. The name's Alan. Alan Parks.”

She shook his hand and relaxed into a smile, looking so much like the woman Luke had fallen for that his stomach pitched into a ninety-degree roll.

“These clowns,” Parks said, “are Gabe, Tucker and Dweeb.”

“Dweeb?”

“His call sign. Short for dumb-ass dweeber, after he missed a direct approach to a well-lit runway at a location that shall remain nameless.”

“So you're all flyboys?”

“We are,” Parks confirmed. “We're on an exchange tour, attached to RAF Leuchars.”

By now the response was so automatic that it sounded authentic even to their ears.

“We saw some of the advance PR on TV about the women's Pro-Am International,” Parks said, eyeing her golf bag. “I didn't know you were competing in it, though.”

“I'm a last-minute entrant. And I'd better hustle over to the driving range if I want to make it past the qualifying round. Nice meeting you all.”

When she turned to Luke, all he got was a cool nod. He should have let it go with that. Like a fool, he didn't.

“Good to see you, Dayna.”

“Sorry I can't say the same.”

She walked off without a backward glance, leaving a stone-cold silence in her wake. Dweeb broke it with a low whistle.

“Damn, Harper. What did you do to the woman?”

Parks jumped in with a reply. “You haven't heard the story? Dayna Duncan and our boy here used to get all hot and heavy.”

“No kidding?” Eyes wide, Dweeb followed her progress as she crossed the cobbled street. “What happened?”

“Woman got smart and dumped him. Best I recall, it happened a few months before the 2004 Olympics. That right, Harper?”

Parks had the year right but the rest of it wrong. Luke didn't bother to correct him.

Like a radar lock, his gaze stayed fixed on Dayna's hip-swinging stride, trim rear and long legs. All the while his mind churned up memories of how those legs used to hook around his.

They'd met during the last half of his senior year at the University of Colorado. Luke was in air force ROTC and had been selected for pilot training. Dayna was a junior. A star athlete in both golf and kayaking, she was already a prime contender for the Olympic kayaking team.

They'd dated throughout the spring and into the summer, while Luke waited for an undergraduate pilot training slot to open up. Just the memory of those long, hot days and even hotter nights had him sweating under his leather bomber jacket.

Dayna began her senior year about the time Luke left for pilot training at Columbus AFB, Mississippi. They continued a long-distance love affair throughout the fall and into the winter—until Dayna's coach contacted Luke and bluntly informed him that she stood to lose both her scholarships and her spot on the Olympic team if she didn't cut out the cross-country commuting and focus.

Luke knew how desperately she wanted to make the team. He also knew he was about to enter the most intensive phase of pilot training. Following his head instead of his heart, he suggested they take a break. Hurt and angry, Dayna suggested
he
take a flying leap.

Judging by the acid dripping from her voice a few moments ago, she obviously thought he hadn't fallen far enough or hit anywhere near hard enough.

With a spear of regret for what they might have had, Luke thrust his hands in the pockets of his jacket and turned away.

“I need to head back to the base,” he told his buddies. “I've got mission prebrief in a couple hours.”

 

More rattled than she wanted to admit by the encounter, Dayna stalked past the Old Course's eighteenth green. Workmen were busy erecting bleachers and scaffolding for camera crews, but she barely noticed these modern scars on the face of the ancient course.

She'd known Luke Harper was stationed at the RAF base, dammit. She should have been more prepared for a chance meeting with her old flame.

That was as good a description as any for him, Dayna thought with a stab of self-disgust. She'd gone off the deep end, but Luke Harper had never loved her. Lusted for her, yes. Driven her half out of her mind with his muscular body and his busy, busy hands, certainly. Yet he'd cut the cord fast enough when their romance began to interfere with their respective training regimens.

Something to remember, she told herself fiercely as she hailed a shuttle. The gaily decorated carts ferried golfers between the five courses, two clubhouses, modern golf academy and state-of-the-art practice center that comprised the St. Andrews Links complex.

“G'day to ye, Ms. Duncan.” The trolley driver greeted her with the rolling Scots burr that required careful attention by the listener or the services of an interpreter. “Are ye gaein' oot for a bit o' practice?”

“Yes, I am. Would you take me to the driving range, please.”

“I wud indeed.” Relieving her of her bag, he stowed it on the rack at the rear of the cart. “Off we go, then.”

Dayna used the short drive and the stiff breeze coming in off the bay to blow Luke Harper out of her head. The man was history. For the next week her sole focus would be Wu Kim Li.

Kim Li
and
this course, she thought, eyeing the rolling fairways and deep sand traps. It was the oldest course in Scotland, the playground of kings and commoners, covering a stretch of land beside the sea like an old, crumpled carpet. Unlike the manicured fairways and lushly landscaped grounds of most U.S. courses, St. Andrews pitted man against the elements. There were no stands of pine or oak to blunt the often gale-force winds that blew in from the bay, no banks of colorful azalea or rhododendrons to separate the holes.

The fairways had been planted centuries ago in a stubby, scruffy native grass that put its roots deep into the sandy soil and sent shock waves through wrists and arms when hit with a club at the wrong angle. Worse, there wasn't a level patch anywhere on the course. The burns, sways, gorse-topped hummocks and treacherous sand traps required intense concentration on every shot. Dayna would have a real challenge to keep her ball in play and Wu Kim Li in her sights.

 

She found the North Korean holding court at the practice center.

A modern facility devoted to the art and science of golf, the center's driving range boasted sixty bays with air-cushioned mats and automated power tees. Wu Kim Li occupied the center bay—in full view of television crews crammed into the glassed-in viewing area, naturally.

By shamelessly playing on her name and former Olympic glory, Dayna had snagged the bay next to the teenaged megastar. She waited patiently until the golfer who had it before her finished, then walked out to the open-sided booth. Removing the head cover from her driver, Dayna hooked the club at the small of her back and did a few stretching exercises.

The movement snagged the attention of a woman two stalls down. Obviously an amateur, the observer violated range etiquette by calling an excited greeting.

“Hi, Dayna! I'm Ann Foster. I saw you were registered for this tournament. Hope we get to play together.”

Reluctant to disturb the others' concentration, Dayna merely smiled and tipped her club in response. The golfer in the next bay, however, wasn't nearly as restrained.

“Tak-cho!”
Wu Kim Li followed her disgusted exclamation with an immediate translation. “That mean be quiet. We practice here.”

Kim Li turned her back on the now thoroughly embarrassed amateur. Eyes narrow, she raked Dayna from the brim of her ball cap to her soft-spike shoes. She was sizing up the competition obviously, or trying to pysch her out.

No stranger to the guerilla warfare of sports, Dayna teed up a ball and swung. Her driver connected with a solid whap. The ball soared in a high, smooth arc. With another loud crack, it bounced off the metal sign designating the two-hundred-and-fifty-yards mark.

Not bad for a first practice shot. Not bad at all—unless, of course, you were trying to worm your way into the good graces of a rival sports star like Wu Kim Li.

Dayna could feel the competitive vibes eddying across the stall as the North Korean addressed her ball. With a whoosh, Wu's driver sliced through the air.

Two seventy.

Dayna teed up, swung again.

Two seventy-five.

Wu's driver descended, connected.

Three hundred, or close enough to generate an outburst of spontaneous applause from the women who'd interrupted their practice to watch the impromptu competition. Wu accepted the ovation as her due and unbent enough to offer Dayna a grudging compliment.

“Your swing very good.”

“Not as good as yours.”

“I young,” Wu said with a careless shrug. “Have more strength.”

Yeah, right. Dayna would love to plunk the little twerp into a kayak, drop her in Alberta's Castle River during the spring runoff and let her see what kind of strength it took to finish the course.

Trying her damnedest to sound friendly, she teed up another ball. “They draw for the initial pairings at the banquet tonight. Maybe we'll play together.”

Wu turned away with another shrug.

 

The kickoff banquet was held at the venerable Royal and Ancient Golf Clubhouse.

Showered, shaved and looking ruggedly handsome in tan slacks and a navy blazer with an embroidered Military Marksmanship Association patch on its pocket, Mike escorted Dayna into a banquet hall lavish with eighteenth-century crown moldings and intricately patterned parquet floors. Tables laden with glowing candles and sparkling crystal added to the elegant atmosphere. The waiters wore tuxedos, the women were in cocktail dresses and many of the Scottish tournament officials sported kilts. The talk, however, was all sports.

Dayna introduced Mike to some of the greats in women's golf, many of whom said graciously that they hoped to draw her for a partner. She also met a number of the amateurs who, like her, had interrupted busy professional lives to play in this charity tournament. All the while she and Mike kept steering toward their targets.

“There they are,” Dayna murmured, indicating the Wus with a small nod.

The Koreans stood in the middle of a swarm of TV execs and tournament officials. The group also included Kim Li's support team—her manager, her trainer, her agent, her PR rep, her bodyguards. Every one of them, Dayna knew, charged with ensuring that North Korea's darling and her father returned home after the tournament.

Kim Li spotted their approach and summoned them into her royal presence with a lift of her chin. Her dark eyes were all over Mike as Dayna made the intros.

“This is my friend, Mike Callahan.”

“This my father, Dr. Wu Xia-Dong.”

Both Mike and Dayna shook the scientist's hand. She didn't need more than a touch of Wu's clammy palm to sense his nervousness.

“You must be very proud of your daughter.”

The flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes told Dayna he'd understood the compliment, but he waited to respond until a North Korean with a badge that identified him as an official interpreter had murmured in his ear.

“So sorry. My English very bad.” Wu turned a smile on his daughter. “Kim Li make all Korea proud.”

The girl returned it with the first genuine warmth Dayna had seen on her face. Whatever else the teen had going on in her life, she obviously loved her dad.

They couldn't have spent much time together. The detailed dossier OMEGA had assembled on the Wus indicated Kim Li had lived at a government-sponsored athletic training center for thirteen of her eighteen years. Dr. Wu's work had kept him isolated at the center of a small, highly select cadre of scientists. Kim Li's mother was the one who'd made periodic visits to the training center until her death a few years ago. Yet the bond between father and daughter seemed as strong and unshakable as the report had suggested.