Talons of the Falcon (3 page)

She was staring off into space when the feeling of being watched made Eden look up toward the doorway, where her gaze collided with Gordon’s.

“You bastard,” she whispered. The accusation was as much a release of her own tension as an epithet directed at the man in the doorway.

“I take it that means you’ve decided to accept the assignment,” Gordon observed dryly.

“You knew I would.”

The silver-haired man acknowledged her capitulation with a slight nod. “You’re right. I don’t play by the rules. But I didn’t have time for two weeks of gentle persuasion. You’ll be leaving for Pine Island tomorrow morning, and we have a lot to do between now and then.”

Chapter Two

A
s the motor launch picked up speed, the salty wind blowing off the bow whipped Eden’s shoulder-length hair back from her wide forehead. The spray felt good after the stifling humidity of the Savannah airport. The young woman sighed. In the space of thirty-six hours she’d gone from cool Vermont to muggy Virginia to the even muggier Deep South. But her final destination—Pine Island—was just ahead.

Shading her eyes against the slight glare from the choppy water, she peered into the distance, trying to make out the distinguishing characteristics of the island. All she could see was a white sandy beach and beyond it occasional stands of trees and some low buildings. Amherst Gordon had told her the holdings had originally belonged to a millionaire industrialist who’d lost his fortune in the recessions of the early seventies. The heirs had deeded his white elephant to the government in exchange for settlement on the back taxes.

The man behind her controlling the tiller coughed and she turned. “Best sit down,” he advised above the steady hum of the motor. “Bound to be a bit rough out here.”

For emphasis the boat gave a little lurch, making the lone passenger almost tumble onto one of the padded bench seats. There was no more conversation. Instead, Eden pulled her navy cotton skirt around her knees and kept her blue eyes fixed on her destination. It wasn’t really a long ride, but too far for her to swim back to the Georgia mainland through the choppy water.

She knew why that particular thought had crossed her mind. During his exhausting briefing at the Aviary, Gordon had warned her that once she arrived at this well-guarded outpost, she probably wouldn’t be allowed to leave until her job was finished. But what if she needed to get away quickly? What then? She simply didn’t have the answer.

And there were other questions troubling her. Even though she’d held an Alpha clearance, she’d never been involved in undercover work. Was she going to be able to help Mark without letting his jailers know what she was doing? She felt like an actress thrown into an important role without time to study the script.

Eden scanned the shoreline, trying to pierce the facade of rich-man’s playground that the island presented. Gordon had told her as much as he could about the frightening drama being enacted there. In order to play her part, she’d have to keep a lid on her own doubts and emotions.

The launch was close enough now that she could make out more details—gnarled oaks heavy with Spanish moss and a rambling stucco house reminiscent of a squared-off sand castle, only it was pink. But the charm of the picture was marred by a number of large signs posted around the shoreline:

Private Property

Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted To The

Full Extent Of The Law

A young man with blond, close-clipped hair waited on the narrow private dock. Dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, he was obviously meant to be mistaken for a handyman. However, Eden noted that he walked with a definite military bearing. From reading Gordon’s briefing sheets, she knew he was Sergeant Blackwell.

Even his weaponry was not standard military issue. She drew in her breath when she noticed the double-barreled shotgun leaning casually against a bench.

As he saw her eyes flick to it and then quickly away, he grinned. It wasn’t a friendly gesture. Instead it was calculated to establish immediately who had the upper hand at this supersecret installation.

“Come into the guard station,” he said as soon as she disembarked and her suitcases were deposited on the pier. The words were an order, not a request.

Silently Eden followed him along the rough gray boards to what looked like a shed meant to hold fishing tackle and other paraphernalia. Inside, however, it was equipped with a computer terminal and a telephone. There was no attempt to hide the closed-circuit TV camera mounted in one corner. The red light under the lens was on.

Without offering his visitor a seat, the guard picked up the receiver and dialed. “Sir, Dr. Sommers has arrived,” he announced.

Eden couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but it was punctuated on her end by frequent
Yes, sir
s. When the guard finally hung up, his face was impassive.

“I’ll have to get your fingerprints and search your luggage,” Blackwell relayed. “But Major Downing is busy now, anyway, so the delay won’t make much difference.”

Eden had been warned about security precautions, but not something like this. “My luggage...” she began.

“Could inadvertently contain materials that are off-limits here. I’m sorry, Doctor.” The clipped cadence of his words told Eden that he wasn’t.

Trying to appear unconcerned, she watched as he opened a suitcase and began to feel through the contents, unfolding blouses and skirts at random. He even sifted through the contents of the small jewelry bag tucked in the corner. One piece seemed to be of particular interest: an antique pin Connie had said would look nice with Eden’s good dress. Blackwell held up the ornate piece, inspecting the amethyst and gold design curiously.

“Not much chance to wear something like this down here,” he muttered.

Eden remained impassive. But when he pulled out a lacy bra and held it up for special scrutiny, she had to bite back a protest. There was no use calling attention to her clothing. Although supplied by the Peregrine Connection, the wardrobe fit her slender, five-foot-seven frame as though she had bought it herself. Constance McGuire had assured her that everything had been washed so that it would look broken in. Would the ploy work? Eden’s reception committee of one made no comment.

Mindful of the camera and trying to appear serene, she gazed out the window. It was already well past dinner, and the setting sun had painted the western sky a rich shade of pink tinged with orange.

Finished with Eden’s luggage, Blackwell brought out an old-fashioned fingerprint record card and opened a black stamp pad. Taking her right hand, he rolled each finger in turn across the spongy surface and then pressed it to the form. He didn’t comment on the coldness of her skin. The procedure made her feel like a criminal being booked, not a well-trained professional on a sensitive assignment. She suspected it was supposed to have that effect. Major Downing obviously wanted to create a certain impression at her reception. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had unnerved her.

Just as she was wiping her hand on a paper towel, another blue-jeaned young man arrived with a luggage cart. Small and compact with an olive complexion and coarse dark hair and brown eyes, he fit the description of Airman, Third Class Ramirez. But, as with Blackwell, she’d better not use his name until she’d been officially introduced.

“I’m to take you to your quarters,” Ramirez announced laconically, as he began to load her belongings. No one here was making an effort to be friendly.

“If Major Downing is going to be tied up for a while, perhaps I could speak to Dr. Hubbard,” she ventured.

“That won’t be possible until after you’ve talked to our chief of station.”

The cart’s wheels crunched against the gravel path as she and Ramirez made their way between moss-hung live oaks toward the main compound. Besides the pink stucco house there were tennis courts, a pool that might have been designed for a Hollywood celebrity, and lush gardens in obvious need of attention. In fact, as she drew closer, Eden could see that the whole estate was somewhat neglected. The net on the tennis court was little more than a few sagging strings, and several of the statues around the pool were crumbling.

They were almost at the main house. Glancing up toward the red-tiled roof, she noted that the upper windows were covered completely by black, intricate grillwork that looked as effective as prison bars. Further to the right and left were several other buildings that might have been enlisted-men’s quarters or offices. Heavy curtains blocked any view of the interiors.

As her guide opened the wide front door, Eden was hit by an inviting gust of air-conditioning, but it was one of the house’s few modern improvements. The furniture had obviously come with the total package. While it must have been luxurious in its time, it was now showing the ravages of the wet climate. A faint mustiness tinged the air. Eden could imagine there was an enlisted man assigned to scraping the mildew off the overstuffed chintz-covered furniture and carefully oiling the old oak tables and chairs so they wouldn’t crack.

Her room was upstairs on the front. Once Ramirez had left, Eden quietly closed the door. Now that she no longer had to maintain a controlled demeanor, her hands trembled slightly as she looked around at the sparse surroundings. Upstairs, the fading antiques had been replaced by standard government issue. The only furnishings besides the narrow bunk were a tall chest of drawers, a night table and a desk—all of olive drab metal. Not very cheery—and a far cry from the colonial elegance of the Aviary, where she had spent the night before.

Reaching up with long fingers, she massaged her temples and forehead. She hadn’t realized what a strain it would be trying to act as though this were just another job. After the brusque reception her insides were churning like a rotary mixer.

Her first inclination was to pace back and forth until she was summoned, but by allowing her tension to build like that, she’d be playing right into Downing’s hands. From his file, she knew that he was good at his job. And that included finding any weakness in an opponent and exploiting it. Apparently he wanted her off-balance during their first interview.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Ramirez knocked on the door again about twenty minutes later. He was holding a covered tray.

“I’m sorry, the chief of station sends his apologies. He’s too busy to see you tonight. But he has asked me to bring you up dinner, since you missed the officers’ mess this evening.”

Eden silently took the tray. She was smart enough to recognize she’d just been very effectively snubbed by Maj. Ross Downing.

“Thank the major for his consideration,” she told Ramirez.

He remained in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“I’m directed to tell you that breakfast is between 0700 and 0800 hours. It’s an informal buffet.”

Eden acknowledged the information and closed the door. Crossing to the desk, she set the tray down and lifted the white cloth napkin. The plate contained a slice of baked ham, speckled butter bean, and corn bread. Very Southern, she thought, taking a bite of the warm bread. Everything was good. But with her stomach still tied in knots, she could barely force down a few mouthfuls.

Why couldn’t Downing have spared a few minutes to see her tonight? She had been primed for the confrontation. But he must have known that.

She wished he’d sent up Mark’s classified case history along with dinner. Deception had never been her strong suit. Sooner or later she was going to slip up and mention something that she wasn’t supposed to know.

Sighing, she pushed back her chair and looked over at the pile of luggage Ramirez had stacked in the corner. Somehow she just didn’t have the energy to cope with unpacking now. Probably her best strategy was to go to bed early. That way she’d be rested and ready for whatever Downing decided to hit her with in the morning.

Rummaging in her overnight case, she found her toiletries and carried them into the private bathroom—the one luxury her room afforded. Though the plumbing was antiquated, she’d never appreciated a shower more, she mused, as she shampooed her hair and then let the lukewarm water wash away some of her mental and physical fatigue. But running water couldn’t completely ease her tension.

After she dried her hair she slipped into one of the sleeveless satin nightgowns from Constance’s instant wardrobe. Her own tastes ran to more practical cotton, and the new acquisition felt sensuous against her skin.

Reaching out, she turned off the lamp on the bedside table. Dim light filtered through the translucent shade, casting lacy patterns from the grillwork over the window. The darkness didn’t help to soothe her inner restlessness. In the space of a day and a half, her entire universe had been turned upside down. But her training had taught her that the human mind needed time to adjust to a massive shock. It was only now that she was beginning to realize the full implications of what Amherst Gordon’s revelations meant to her personally.

Her thoughts spun back to the personnel folder he’d shown her in the comfortable solarium at the Aviary. It had contained more than a simple account of Mark’s double career. When she’d come across her own name in the log from five years ago, she’d blanched. She hadn’t realized that outside observers were taking notes on her personal relationship with Mark. But as she read further, she drew an even sharper breath.

The note Mark had left her after their last incredible night of lovemaking hadn’t explained where he was going, nor had it held out any hope that she’d ever see him again. At first she’d been hurt, then angry.

Now she knew that he had left her bed to be smuggled into a turbulent Middle Eastern country where he’d spent months negotiating the return of three American military officers being held by an antigovernment terrorist group. At the time, she’d assumed that her lover had simply walked out on their personal relationship because he hadn’t wanted to make a commitment. After reading his dossier she had a completely different perspective. Mark Bradley had chosen duty over personal happiness.