Operation Proof of Life (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Buzz, buzz, buzz
. The pulsing ring cut through Brigit’s sleep. She bolted upright into a sitting position, and her shoulder balked, sending her right back down to the bed. The slap of pain brought her fully awake, though, and she blinked at the soft light in the room, struggling to remember where she was. The ringing came again. A phone? An alarm clock?

She did a quick survey of her surroundings. As soon as her eyes lit on the pill bottle and rabbit’s foot on the bedside table, the previous night’s antics flooded her memory.

Michael.

She was in his house. No longer stupid from exhaustion, she stared at the pills and water, trying to reconcile the man who was blackmailing her with the man who had sealed up her wound, lent her his clothes and gently washed her hair.

The bright blue numbers on the alarm clock next to her rabbit’s foot read six-oh-five. Pongo trotted into the room and whined at her as the phone rang a second time. Throwing back the covers with her good hand, she shifted her weight, balancing carefully, to swing her feet over the side of the bed. She gauged the ringing was coming from the room next door.

Why wasn’t Michael answering his phone? She patted the dog and tiptoed into the hall.

His bedroom door was open and he was facedown on top of the bed’s comforter. A pillow was over his head but she didn’t need to see his shut eyes to know he was sleeping. His snores rumbled out of him, only slightly muffled by the pillow.

A BlackBerry in a black skin vibrated manically on the nightstand, the screen showing an unidentified number. Another ring emanated from it and after a heartbeat of internal debate, Brigit picked it up, more to stop it from waking up Michael than anything else.

She hit the green phone-receiver button and back-stepped out of the room. “Hello?”

There was a pause, long and guarded, from the caller. She frowned at Pongo, who plunked his butt down on the wooden floor and dropped his muzzle to look up at her with a
You’ve done it now
expression.

“May I help you?” she said, wondering if it was a wrong number or if she really had made a mistake answering it. She stepped into the guestroom and snatched up the rabbit’s foot on the table.
What was I thinking, answering his phone? Why don’t they say something?

A man’s gruff voice finally spoke. He sounded like he had pea gravel in his throat. “Well, well, Michael’s got himself a new playmate, I see. That’s good. About damn time, if you ask me. You just watch your pretty little ass and don’t rain on his parade, you hear me? My deputy director’s been through enough in the past six months. Now put him on the phone, honey.”

New playmate? Pretty little ass?
Honey
?
Brigit gritted her teeth, not sure which term irritated her more. “He’s indisposed at the moment. May I relay a message?”

The man barked out a laugh. “Indisposed? At six in the morning? He’s usually run ten miles, had a shower and stopped a dozen terrorists by this time. What the hell’s he doing?”

Brigit made a face again, this time at the messy bed.
Never,
ever
should have answered the phone
. “May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Titus,” the man growled at her. “His boss.”

Oh, God. Brigit took the phone away from her face and looked up at the ceiling, squeezing the rabbit’s foot in her left hand. A dull ache set up shop in her shoulder. She put the phone back to her ear. “Shall I take a message or have him call you back, Director Allen?”

The fact she used his title and last name seemed to placate the man. Some. “Tell him I’m doing the PDB today before the president heads to Iowa. Jeffries wants to talk to me in person. About him, Michael. I don’t know what he did to piss the man off, but I’ll catch him afterwards and fill him in.” He paused. “You got that?”

Brigit’s mind whirled with the implications of what Titus had just said. “Yes, I have it.”

The phone went dead.

Her legs didn’t want to work as she shuffled back to Michael’s bedroom. He was still snoring, so she sat in a chair near a set of patio doors which led outside to a deck. She shifted her eyes between him and the rising sun. When he wasn’t pinning her with his x-ray vision or blackmailing her, he had the ability to calm her.

Pongo sat beside the chair and dropped his head into her lap, his big dark eyes expectant. He probably needed to pee, needed to be fed. Should she wake Michael or let him sleep? Why hadn’t he set his alarm?

If Titus Allen was doing the president’s morning briefing, what would it hurt to let Michael sleep a little while longer? She rose and motioned for Pongo to follow her. On the way past the nightstand, she set the BlackBerry down. She’d take care of the dog and wake Michael at six thirty. It was the least she could do after he’d taken such good care of her.

Back in her room, she went to slip his sweatpants on when she realized she wasn’t wearing underwear. Damn, after everything last night, she’d gone and left them in his bathroom with the rest of her clothes she’d washed in the sink.

The panties were still hanging over the shower door. Brigit chastised herself like a good Catholic should even though she no longer practiced any faith. Some childhood things were hard to cast off.

Once dressed and the arm sling in place, she tucked the rabbit’s foot into the pocket of the sweats and headed downstairs.

She let Pongo out and discovered the dog food container in the mudroom. Two scoops filled the bowl and she retrieved his half-empty water dish to refill it in the kitchen, absently aware of a pulsing beep as she passed the security panel. Just as she got to the sink, a loud buzz made her jump.

“Deputy Director?” a voice called through the intercom of the security panel. “Pongo’s tripped the motion detectors in quadrant 2A. You might want to shut that section off.”

Crap, she’d forgotten about the security system. Finding the wall panel, she pushed the talk button. “Er, sorry. The director is still sleeping and Pongo needed to go out, and, I, um…”

Another man, another voice, cut in. “He’s still sleeping? But his car is waiting.”

His car? Ah, crud. “He’s going to the office later than usual today, so how about he calls you when he’s ready for the car?”

There was another of those long, pregnant pauses. Apparently Michael adhered to a strict daily schedule. His oversleeping threw off everyone. Brigit tried to lighten the moment. “You gentlemen know where the coffee maker is?”

She got no reply. O-
kay
. “So how do I turn off the motion detector for the dog’s area?”

The male voice on the other end was stern. “Yellow button, bottom right. Marked 2A.”

“Right-o. Thanks.”

She clicked off the speaker and slouched against the wall. She was really screwing things up for Michael. First with the president, then Titus, now even his security guards.

Tough
. There was no reason for her to feel guilty about making him look bad. Her mind flashed back to their midnight talk on the couch. He was messing up her life as well, blackmailing her to find Peter and putting Tory’s life in the balance. Little did he know she would have helped him hunt down her mother’s true killer without any threat at all.

Brigit sank her right hand into the pocket of the sweatpants and rubbed the rabbit’s foot. Suddenly, she didn’t care if she got Michael in a little trouble. It would be interesting to see how he reacted, and it seemed to her he could stand to loosen up a bit.

She made her way to the study, picked up the landline and dialed Truman’s number. “Gunn,” he answered on the first ring. He always answered on the first ring.

“Tru, it’s me. What’s happening?”

“Gidget? Where are you? Still at Stone’s house?”

“Yes. He’s sort of holding me prisoner, but since I haven’t got anywhere else to go right now, it seems like a deal.”

“How’s the gunshot wound?”

“Better. Listen, have you found Peter yet?”

“You on a secure line?”

“Would I call you otherwise?”

“No Peter, but I found Moira. I finally deciphered the call that put us on Tory’s ass from the other night. Peter paid the ransom for Moira to walk free.”

“Damn it, I should have known. Peter and the notorious Moira Raphael.”

“Poster child for beautiful deadly women everywhere.”

Dropping into Michael’s office chair, she closed her eyes and tried to ignore the shiver running down her spine. “Peter put up the ransom money and made Moira pay him back in blood.”

“You got it, Gidge.”

“Where is she now?”

“No clue. She and Peter were bedfellows once. Maybe they are again. Wouldn’t be the first time they escaped together. Either way, he rescued her, and her job was to assassinate O’Bern. O’Bern disappeared on her, but you took his place. Since you’ve been trailing her almost as long as Peter, she must have seen it as divine intervention. An even trade.”

Peter might have viewed it the same way. “Remember the last time they worked together? In Italy?”

“They escaped on a cruise ship dressed as an elderly couple.”

“Better make sure all your resources are playing their A game. Peter’s a master of disguise. I’ll be in touch.”

She returned the handset to its cradle. Her mind whirled with a dozen to-dos, but she knew it was all up to the FBI, Customs and other agents watching the airports, bus terminals and boat docks to find Peter, Tory and Moira. The problem was, had always been, finding three people out of thousands, who could use a dozen different means of escape.

Her stomach growled. Since she couldn’t face the day and what it might bring on an empty stomach, she ventured back to the kitchen.

Her breakfast usually consisted of a cup of tea, but this morning she needed something stronger. She was starving and tea just wasn’t gonna cut it.

In one of the cabinets, she found a fancy espresso machine that probably cost more than her entire set of kitchen appliances. Before the fire anyway. She checked the pantry and found a bag of beans and a coffee grinder. It would make a lot of noise, but if that didn’t wake Michael up, he needed sleep far worse than anything else.

As the mill ground the beans into powder, Brigit brought Pongo in from his outside run. She even remembered to punch the yellow button and reactivate the backyard’s motion detector.

Ten minutes later, one espresso and one cappuccino were ready. And still there was no Michael.

She carried the drinks upstairs, sipping the foam of her cappuccino.

Michael was still in the throes of deep sleep. His massive body covered the king-size bed with complete abandon. It was funny to see him so relaxed. In that moment, he was perfectly at peace. Brigit felt her own body mellow in response.

Unable to bring herself to wake him, she set the espresso on the nightstand and resumed her seat in the chair to drink her cap. She might as well return the favor of observing him while he slept.

Michael woke with a start, his heart jackhammering at his rib cage as the realization he’d overslept hit him.
Over
slept? The very idea he’d slept period shocked him.

Brigit’s voice, perky and smug, came to him from the corner. “Morning,” she said. “Sleep well?”

He jerked upright, glanced at her and then at his bedside clock. Why hadn’t he set the alarm? “Jesus, it’s seven o’clock. I’m late.”

Hopping out of bed, he shot a hand through his hair and turned his back to her as he adjusted his pants around a morning erection. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough to know you talk in your sleep.”

“Jesus,” he said again, snatching up his phone.

“I already spoke to Director Allen, and he’s handled the President’s Daily Brief. I took care of Pongo and called Irene to let her know you’d be late. I think she might have stroked out.”

He stopped dialing, hit the disconnect button and turned to face her, his erection much less full. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

She was wearing her nylon exercise pants and top again. For some reason, he was disappointed. “What, and miss the chance to snoop through your house?” She grinned as he scowled. “By the way, there’s something I want to ask you.”

He slapped the phone down and picked up the white cup of nearly black liquid. “I can hardly wait.”

“Do you like your job?”

The sip of liquid choked him. It was cold and much too strong. “What?”

“I know you feel a duty and a huge responsibility as Deputy Director, but do you enjoy your position as such?”

Before his life had gone to hell six months earlier, Michael would have answered yes in a heartbeat. He’d been a good Director of Operations. Every day when he’d walked into the office, he welcomed the buzz of adrenaline in his veins. His group of spies had met the challenges of international intelligence with cunning and flexibility that had outlasted several administrations.

Since being promoted to Deputy Director of the CIA, he’d continued to be outstandingly good at his job. What he didn’t experience anymore was the buzz of excitement, the thrill of meeting the endless challenges.

Nowadays, the challenges seemed like overwhelming problems. When he thought of the future, it was a black abyss. Lately, he’d caught himself daydreaming a lot. Most of them involved moving to Greece or Italy and living on a boat. Last night, he’d journeyed into sexual fantasies about Brigit.

His cock jumped and he mentally smacked himself with a dose of logic. Psych 101: everybody enjoyed escapism, especially when they had a high-stress job or had recently survived a trauma. He didn’t need Brigit, or any psychiatrist, crawling around in his head to point out the obvious.

“Thanks, but no thanks to the armchair analysis. I see an agency shrink once a month as required by my position.” He pointed to his head. “Cogs are all working fine.”

She had the decency to blush. “I wasn’t asking as a psychiatrist. I was just curious if you liked always being the responsible one, the one everybody counts on. You have a lot of pressure to be perfect, in your family and in your career. Always on time, always in control, always living up to the ideal brother, ideal leader.” She shook her head. “Don’t you ever want to take a break from it all? Or just be late to work once in awhile?”