My Spy (27 page)

People. Noise and laughter. The glint of sunlight against silver. And through it all a sick stabbing in his stomach and a sense of betrayal.

He didn't have a clue what any of it meant.

“I can't remember anything else, sir. Sorry.”

“The memories will come. Until then we wait.” The admiral cleared his throat. “But we go by the book on this, understood? I'm the quarterback here and the play's in motion. You're to go by the book or we'll lose a whole lot more than yardage,” he added grimly.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Good. Now get back to work, Commander. No pain, no gain. Just stop short of putting yourself back into the hospital.”

A
DMIRAL HOWE
HUNG
UP
THE
PHONE,
THEN
STOOD
BY
THE
WINDOW, staring out at the Washington Monument in the distance.

He imagined Lincoln, grave and brooding in the twilight, with eyes that had seen the full pain of political betrayal and a country split in two. The image moved him, as it always did.

He turned away, studying the half dozen framed photos that were the only decoration on his oversize desk. He looked at
them often while he worked, for they were his lifeline in a world where trust was nonexistent and lying was an art form. Sometimes it bothered him to see how well he'd come to fit into that world.

But it never bothered him for long. Duty was duty, after all. And business was business. He hadn't gotten to the top by being weak or indecisive.

He frowned as he picked up the photos, one by one. His wife with their youngest daughter, skiing in Vermont. His two Great Danes rolling in the snow. His son with his friends at their raucous graduation from prep school.

Finally he came to the edge of the desk and a shot of him and his two sons playing down-and-dirty football with Sam McKade at the family's sprawling estate in McLean. As he studied the photos one by one, memories slipped through his fingers like sand.

A hell of a thing not to be able to remember your own past. It was almost inconceivable to him. No wonder Sam McKade was edgy.

The admiral watched the flow of evening traffic, an angry beast scrambling along the Beltway. He didn't want to think how big a problem he was facing, but he was paid to think so he pulled out the surveillance photos taken in Alexandria. The federal agents on site had verified that the apartment had been entered and the key they had planted had been taken. The trap was laid.

Now they were assembling a full file on the man in the delivery van. Ex-army, he had a list of aliases and questionable skills that he occasionally sold to the highest bidder.

But they still hadn't reeled in the big fish.

Howe knew that the key was supposed to accomplish that.

He didn't like playing in the dark, but they seemed to have no choice as long as Sam's memory was blocked. He wondered again what information the SEAL had unearthed in Mexico while he was undercover. His reports had been uncharacteristically
terse, deferring full details until their appointment in Washington.

An appointment that Sam had never kept, thanks to a runaway bus and a near-fatal act of heroism.

They had come so close to knowing everything about the network of greed and betrayal eating its way through the heart of the government and its armed services. But not close enough.

Not without Sam.

Howe picked up the phone and told his aide to call his driver. Staying here in this silent office to brood was pointless. He needed to relax, and he'd do that best at home in McLean. Being with his family always made him feel better, though he could never discuss the problems he carried home with him.

Later he'd contact Izzy and find out how things were
really
progressing out at the resort.

“H
OW
DO
YOU
LIKE
THE CLOTHES
?”

Annie tugged at the belt of her big terry robe. “Let's just say I can't believe people really wear this stuff.
Normal
people, that is.”

Taylor waved a hand in front of Annie's face. “Hello? Welcome to the twenty-first century. Donna Reed doesn't live here anymore.”

“Easy for you to say. You're not the one strapped in under here.”

“The thong?”

“No way. That was giving me rug burn in very uncomfortable places.”

“A minor drawback.” Taylor shrugged. “But men love the stupid things.”

“Then let the men wear them.” Annie yanked her robe open. “This is the best of the lot, and I
still
feel ridiculous.”

She held her robe stiffly, offering a glimpse of a red lace demibra with ultrasheer cups. The matching panties were held together by tiny strings at each hip.

“Not bad,” Taylor mused.

Annie shot her an angry look. “I'm more out than in with this bra. I can't figure what's keeping it up.”

“That's why they call it a miracle.” Taylor crossed her arms smugly. “And because of the miracle it can work in your sex life.”

“
What
sex life?”

“My point exactly.”

“Maybe I don't want a sex life,” Annie said glumly. “My life is already too complicated.”

“Honey,
no
one's life is that complicated. You're going to knock him out. Now go put on the leopard bodysuit.”

Annie returned to the dressing room, reluctance in every step. “If I catch pneumonia, you're footing my medical bill.”

“You never get sick. It's disgusting how healthy you are.” Taylor paced outside the door. “Did you know that some of the guests have a pool going on the identity of your visitor?”

“Maybe they should get a life,” Annie called grumpily.

“For your information, the bets are currently running neck and neck. Half say you've smuggled Harrison Ford inside. The other half are putting their money on Brad Pitt.”

A feather went flying over the dressing room door. “Aaaargh.”

“Actually, your mystery man has a cuter butt than either of them. Hard eyes, but a cute butt,” Taylor mused. “How's the leopardskin doing?”

The door opened, and Annie emerged in skintight spandex. One strap was twisted over her shoulder, the other was locked around her neck.

“Help.”

“Stop wiggling.” Taylor tugged the straps—which were actually formfitting sleeves—into place low on Annie's shoulders, then stood back to survey the effect. “Impressive. Or it would be if you'd stop twitching.”

Annie peered at her image in the mirror. “I don't know, Taylor. It's incredibly revealing.” She turned to one side and then the other, frowning.

“It doesn't show much skin.”

“It doesn't need to. You can see everything else, because of the way it clings. I can't even wear any underwear.”

“Better and better. Just sit back and watch him drool.”

“He won't drool.”

Taylor lowered the sleeves again and smiled lazily. “Wanna bet?”

Annie took another look at herself in the mirror. “I feel like a complete fool.”

“You don't look like one. That's what matters.” Taylor pushed her back toward the dressing room. “Go change. Next stop, a massage with those lovely hot stones. Then it's straight into the saltwater pool.”

S
AM
WAS
HALFWAY
TO
THE
SHOWER
WHEN
IT
HIT
HIM.

Easy, pal. It's here, right in front of you.

He didn't move, afraid any distraction would scatter the gossamer web of memory drifting at the edge of his mind.

A number?

A number that felt damned important to him?

The patterns started to unravel, and Sam cursed, afraid he couldn't hold them together. Looking up, he saw the sports jersey tossed over a chair in Annie's bedroom. He could make out the folded hem and the edge of the number.

He felt sweat brush his brow as he searched for a memory. He had a sudden flash of a man racing down the gridiron, arms outstretched.

Red and white. It had to be Joe Montana, Sam thought. No one else came close. After four Super Bowls, the man was a legend.

Then he saw a number, white on red, so clear he could touch it.

16.

Montana's winning number for the 49ers. What was it supposed to mean?

Sam's hands were unsteady and his mouth was dry, but he didn't let go of that precious thread. Maybe the number would mean something to the people back in D.C. Or maybe it was the colors that were important.

He pulled out the secure phone Izzy had given him and dialed grimly, cursing all the things he still couldn't remember.

“M
MMMM.
”

“You say something?”

“Not me.”

Steam billowed over the granite tiles. Annie's head rested against a towel as hot salt water swirled over her while the ocean shimmered beneath her in a forty-mile expanse of blue glory.

They were outside steaming away their toxins in 102 degree water. According to Taylor, every ten minutes made their bodies one year younger. Annie figured she was just about to start elementary school. Her face was swathed in a chamomileyogurt mask, cucumbers covered her eyes, and her muscular system was the consistency of hot tapioca.

Taylor gave a long sigh. “This is the life. Tell me again why we don't do this every day.”

“Because we can't afford it.”

“Says who? You can afford it because you're the owner. I can afford it because I'm a major shareholder and you'll give me deep discounts to stifle any shareholder dissent.” Taylor pushed away a slice of cucumber and opened one eye hopefully. “Right?”

“Not if you keep pushing that trashy lingerie at me.”

“It's for your own good. Wear it just once, and you'll see what I mean.” Taylor's lips curved. “I'll expect a complete report afterward, of course.”

“You're impossible.”

“Thank you.” Taylor raised one arm and stretched languorously, watching steam spiral around her. “If my life came with a sound track, I'd be humming along to Yanni right now.”

“Better than listening to William Shatner sing ‘Rocketman.’ ”

“ ‘I'm not the man I used to be-e-e-e.’ ” Taylor rolled her eyes and made a gagging sound, which made them both laugh
wildly. “What would your sound track be?” Taylor demanded abruptly.

“I'm too tired to think.” Annie brushed at the water. “Maybe Enya. No, Eric Clapton. ‘If I could change the world.’ ”

Taylor gave another sigh, studying the water with regret. “It's almost four. Too bad I have to go.”

“Same here,” Annie murmured. “Too bad.”

The steam shimmered.

Neither of them moved.

“Do you ever wish you could start over?” Taylor asked gravely.

“As in wear diapers again?”

“Not that far back. Just a decade or so, when life started to get interesting.” Taylor turned her hand and watched water slide down her fingers. “Back to, say, high school. Fall 1980s Early Metallica.”

“Not me. I hated high school. You were the one with all the dates and the boys who watched your every move.”