Smoke and Mirrors (19 page)

“How could you possibly do that?”

“Schedule a conference call, and I’ll make it clear.”

Twenty minutes later, De Torres’s mobile rang. IT busied itself chasing the call’s route as it bounced crazily around the globe. I had a prickly sensation that Raul was quite close by. His voice was clear and oddly confident, despite Jones’s assertion otherwise.

“De Torres?”

Brad switched from his Italian conversation with me to Spanish. “Señor Fernandez, como esta usted?”

“Bien. Gracias, y tu?”

“Bien. Jones?”

The now-familiar sound of Stephen Jones’s throat being cleared snagged its way through the connection. He was flustered and spoke hesitant Spanish.

Brad switched over to English, using the Italian-accented version. “Thank you both for agreeing to this meeting. For finding you a buyer, and I know you’ve hit a dead end or you wouldn’t have brought it to my attention, I want fifty percent of the profit.”

Fernandez interrupted. “You’re fucking crazy –”

Brad plowed on with, “I’m the man who can take a dirty bomb off your hands and give you some nice pocket money to spend decorating your fresh slate.”

Stillness filled the air.

The offer. “New name, new life, a pardon for past sins if we sign on the dotted line never to engage in such ‘trading’ again. They’ll even let you go back to Colombia if you promise to keep peace with BP.”

Raul laughed in disbelief. “How can you promise me that?”

“I’ve been in the business longer than you and have my share of enemies. I want a family and I don’t want chips in my children’s teeth. My buyer is going to give me pardon if I promise to stop importing certain non-coffee products to Europe.”

Suspicion crept into Raul’s voice. “Jones said you intended on keeping your previous business deal with Alberto intact if I agreed to use you as a middleman. Now you’re telling me that you and I are just going to say goodbye to all that? You’re a lying fucker, De Torres.”

“My buyer is the British government.”

That had been C’s idea and it stopped Raul cold.

“They are more than willing to pay us the going price to keep the uranium off the street in exchange for our complete absolution. My business dealings are under suspicion. It’s only a matter of time before something incriminating surfaces. I plan to accept their offer with your blessing, put the proceeds in my bank account and begin living life on the up and up. If you choose not to, I’ll turn over the maps showing where Alberto’s crops are hidden and collect another way.”

“You’re a blackmailing son of a bitch, De Torres. And I’m not bowing because you’ve suddenly developed a conscience. So take your fucking deal and shove –”

Giovanni cut him off. “You can kiss goodbye the poppy fields seven miles south of the Quonset hut in which you kept your prisoners. Then you can watch on the news as the huge coca fields twenty-five miles northwest of there burn. And you’ll lose the tax money from BP, because your land won’t be worth EPIC’s time. I’ll line my accounts while becoming a hero. And you, you’ll still be hiding in –”

IT had traced Raul to the southwest coast of Portugal. I flashed the info at Brad.

“I’m not stupid, De Torres.”

“Which is why I haven’t hung up on you yet. But, Portugal isn’t as far as you might think.”

Raul had composure enough to whistle softly. “Well done, Signor. I have misjudged you. Perhaps your idea needs to be considered with less haste on my part. I will discuss the matter with Stephen and get back to you. Agreed?”

“You have six hours. One minute later, and I’m calling my new friends. Your fields will be gone before the sun rises on the Portuguese coastline.”

A
fter being wired € 50,000 as a taste of his cut, Raul agreed to send De Torres proof of his claim. Our analysts took the well-contained sample to the portable lab and reported back positive results. C was more pleased than usual, given that the uranium had been stolen from a Scottish power plant – a heist even Brad and I had heard nothing about. Stipulations ricocheted back and forth, until Raul finally signed off on SIS’s promise to give him absolution for terrorist dealings if he sold them the stolen uranium and swore off drug exportation.

The exchange was to take place in a cliff-side restaurant at the heel of Italy’s boot. Raul was given his choice of venues and didn’t disappoint with the easily defendable location. Crowded with A-list guests, it was located on a peninsula that had no other buildings, rocky open territory and only one entry road. He planned on arriving by armed helicopter, and, in a truly unexpected turn of events, he demanded De Torres bring me.

“That way, you’ll be less likely to try something stupid,” he said, knowing exactly how protective De Torres had been of me during the abduction.

Brad kept his thoughts to himself, but I gathered from his closed-door meeting with C, that he wasn’t happy.

In the end, Raul got his way.

The Villa’s dinner guests needed reservations and SIS made certain that everyone on the list, including the wait staff, was there for one reason only, to eat. The forested land around the exclusive restaurant had been swept, and at long last, Brad and I were driven up to the restaurant with three goals in mind.

1. Get the uranium
   

2. Tag Raul for future observation
   

3. Find out more about the ‘Russian’
   

Window-dressed to kill, I wore a white pair of skinny jeans and a Dolce and Gabbana psychedelic silk halter. Manolo Blahaik heels pushed my 5’ 8” frame to nearly six feet. Brad, dressed in a Salvatore Ferragamo cut to fit his
every
curve and muscle, had tucked my arm through his and seemed, from outward appearance, untroubled.

Only an intermittent tremor of coiled strength through our connected bodies and the fact he’d gone over my role, my equipment and every conceivable complication ad infinitum, led me to know differently.

Minutes later, we were seated outdoors, beside a rose-laden, whitewashed wall at a table set for four, awaiting drinks, Jones and Raul. Fifteen minutes later, Jones entered the inner courtyard through the same entrance we had. Feeling like I was caught in a rerun of our meeting in Rome, I allowed Jones to kiss my hand a second time before he sat beside us and ordered a margarita with salt on the side.

I heard the whirring of rotor blades a few minutes later and steeled myself for our meeting with Raul. A few heads turned at the sound of the private helicopter, but given the crowd’s heady lifestyle, they lost interest before the newest diner had even entered.

Briefcase cuffed to his wrist, Raul walked through the ocean-side entrance with a woman who could well have been the world’s first bodyguard/Ms. Universe winner. If she had a gun hidden on her scantily clad body,
I
couldn’t see it.

Raul pointed to our table, addressing the nearest waiter. “Bring another chair.”

The man did as he was told, reaching the table at the same time Raul and his lady friend arrived. Brad was already on his feet, casually ignorant of the overtly raw stare Raul’s date was shooting him.

“Just as I thought, not Ms. Lauretti,” Raul said, turning his reptilian eyes on me as he lowered his head to my hand.

His date smiled like an alligator before sitting in the chair De Torres had pulled out for her.

It was an odd dinner, ending with tiramisu and an exchange of radioactive materials for Euros. I tagged Raul with an edible microchip that went down with a swish of wine. It gave us twenty-four hours to locate and retag him. We didn’t bother with Jones, for his quiet demeanor only backed up our initial suspicions that he was in way over his head. He allowed Raul to do most of the talking, and agreed readily to forgo taking over Alberto’s position as long as Raul and De Torres compensated him appropriately. He picked at his food and pushed his dessert around like a deprived model.

And so it ended, with Raul’s helicopter lifting off the white cliffs and soaring out into the wild blue yonder.

Or so it seemed, until we noticed Jones pale pallor.

De Torres lowered his empty glass. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Jones squirmed like a second grader with a full bladder. “I guess I just have a bad feeling now that Raul’s given you the case.”

Brad struck like a snake, reaching across the table and snapping a cuff to Jones’s pudgy wrist. The other end of the manacles went directly onto the suitcase.

Jones was paler than the salt Brad had bumped with his hand.

“You’ve worked with Raul much longer than I have. If he’s arranged for someone to steal it back, he’ll need to take it from you. Are you sure you don’t know anything about a retrieval attempt? I’d hate to see your hand chopped off.”

“You don’t understand,” Jones whined, “The people Raul stole this from have been searching for him all over Europe. I’m not worried about
him
trying to retake it; I’m worried that your new friends won’t be able to protect us from
them
.”

Brad flipped open his mobile and dialed Alasdair. “The area’s been swept and the guest list thoroughly sifted. As long as you can last five minutes, SIS’ll arrive and take the case off your hand.”

Jones was not to be put off. “What if they use a less obvious way?”

“Like what?” I asked, my eyes panning every seemingly insignificant detail of the world around my dessert dish. The businessman cheating on his wife. The disgruntled waiter placing a used fork into the blond bitch’s Lobster Thermador. My partner adjusting his hostler.

But it was none of these that cocked that intuitive part of me.

It was the salt. The harmless white substance that sat before us, old as the earth. Reused as the fork with which the bitch was eating. Natural as my chemistry with Brad.

Brad, mobile still in hand, looked at me, his eyebrow raised the way it did when I removed my shirt at unexpected moments.

What is it?
His eyes asked, but before I could answer, he turned away, finger in his outer ear to better hear Alasdair.

The Asset ordered a margarita with extra-salt, but I couldn’t remember if he’d had any.

The low tones of Brad speaking with Alasdair blended with my unclear thoughts. What would ‘they’ gain from poisoning Jones? Possibly they’d be able to take back the suitcase from Jones after he arrived in hospital. But that was a long shot. Without their henchmen in our difficult to reach location, SIS would be able to prevent any heist attempt.

Just then, Brad turned, mobile pressed to his ear with his shoulder, his fists together at the thumbs, pinkies extended downward. The Italian sign used to prevent bad luck. I smiled knowing Alasdair had been notified of our trade and would be sending the specially equipped van to pick up our dangerous package. Everything was working seamlessly. Or so I thought, until I noticed something odd. A sheen of sweat coated Brad’s tanned skin. Seductive in its ability to make his white shirt cling to the flesh beneath it, it nearly went unnoticed in its rarity. After all, it
was
bloody hot in the courtyard.

But Brad didn’t sweat. Hell, he’d stayed dry in the Colombian rainforests.

I spy with my little eye...

Mind whirling, bullets flying, blood everywhere. Asset down, but not hit. Eyes scanning, straining to find my partner.

Heels kicked off, I crossed the space between us, ducking the spray of non-committal ammunition, heading for a heart that needed to keep beating. For my sake, for
his
sake, I amended prayerfully.

My bared heel hit the linen draped table with vehemence, shielding the Asset for now and giving me unsanctioned moments to reach the prone figure of …

“Agent Milton, Bradley Milton.”

I had laughed when we were first introduced. Laughed unabashedly for the first time since the Year of the Pig – the year I was raped by a two-legged version of the same animal.

And yet…not
such
a bad year after all, for with one evil, came an unquestionable good.

Brad was on his back, blood from a bullet wound to his shoulder pooling in the hollow of his throat. “Giovanni?” My voice was thick with apprehension and adrenaline.

No response.

The Glock in my left hand scanned the shadowy undergrowth behind the restaurant walls, punching off shots triangulated toward the sniper. Right hand inside the crimson stained size 17 collar, I searched for a pulse. Fast and weak, but there.
Thank you, God.

A second table, this one pulled over our heads, shielded us first with the tablecloth, then with hard wood of some tropical variety. Shots screamed again through the still air, reminding me that sometimes we all miss, reminding me that red sectors are red for a reason.

Look at him. Talk to him.

I apologized silently, not for forgetting, but for refusing. If I looked, I wouldn’t get back up and aid the Asset. If I looked, I’d never get out of the red sector, not alive anyway. I kissed my hand and covered his heart once, then released my tentative grip and tensed to dive between the upturned tables.

Feeling like a rabbit, I decided Jones resembled one more closely. Shaking with fear, nose wriggling at the acrid scent of the gunfight, he sat undignified in a Helmut Lang suit.

“I thought you said it was safe!” Fear laced his voice. Anger too.

“I was wrong,” I said, squeezing off a few rounds before mimicking the rolling of our table toward the kitchen. When he understood, we began progress toward better protection. Thirty seconds later, table shed, I dragged him through the debris littered kitchen.

Two chefs hunched fearfully behind a stainless steel preparation station.
Nothing there
. We moved further through the red sector, each reflective surface leering potentially deadly faces. Quick checks said; ‘
Only you, only the Asset’.
Glock panning the room, I paused momentarily to nudge my retrieved earpiece in further. Silently cursing the improper fit, I heard the static coated voice of our Handler.

“…Gunfire heard. Agents Board and Game, do you copy?”

It had been a joke. Who would have believed that two such-named people would actually meet? Meet and work along side one another? Meet and –?