The Black List (21 page)

“The embezzlement of your boss’s money.”

“I don’t know how to make this any clearer, Mr. Dalton. What you’re doing is dangerous. You have
no
idea what you’re getting into.”

“I find it exciting,” Tex said. “Don’t you?”

She exhaled, frustrated at trying to make him see reason. “Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you and your friends if you continue this? If they find you with that book? They’ll kill you.”

“And what makes you think I have any book?”

“It wasn’t in Marty’s briefcase. It’s why I was following him. It’s—It’s why I tried to contact Dorian the night they killed him.”

“Then it wasn’t suicide.”

“I sincerely doubt it. And in case you’re wondering, I didn’t kill Dorian, either.”

“With your track record? You care more about some
book
than a
life
. You
let
that man die right in front of me. Not a big stretch from there to think you might kill someone.”

“Because of what happened today?” Eve said. “Without a trauma team, my staying there another few seconds was
not
going to save that man. He was already dead.”

“And yet you had no problem stealing his briefcase and running off before the cops got there.”

No wonder she dreamed about being sucked down into some swirling vortex. It was that feeling of desperation. The desolate realization that no matter what she did, what she said,
nothing
was changing . . . Then again, maybe she needed to drag him down with her. Scare him into cooperating. She picked up the chilled glass and took a long sip. It was a second before she could actually talk, the vodka seizing her throat with its burn, making her eyes water. “Did you read the paper about the murder suicide in Queen’s Park?”

“What about it?”

“That was
them
.
They
were after Marty.
They’re
who killed him.
Not
me.” His expression never wavered, and she was lost. “How do I make you understand?”

“I guess you don’t.” He stood, and said, “Let me know when you want to talk about this book.” And then he turned and walked off.

She stared at his departing figure as he continued past the piano, then on into the Promenade. She followed, increasing her stride to catch up. She had to get that book, find out where he was keeping it. But how?

The answer came to her the moment he walked out of the hotel. She saw the doorman flagging a taxi, and she hurried after him, just as the vehicle pulled up. “At least give me the chance to explain,” she called out.

“Explain what?”

She walked up to him, waved off the doorman, who backed away, apparently realizing she wished to speak privately. When the man was out of earshot, she said, “That if you don’t turn over that book, more lives than just your own will be lost.”

“Your concern is touching, Eve. But I think I’ll pass.”

“One block.”

He looked at her in question.

“One circle around the block, and if I don’t convince you, drop me off here, and you go on your way.”

He glanced at the taxi, as though contemplating what the harm might be, then opened the back door for her, and she slid in. He closed the door, walked to the other side, and she took the moment to unlatch her purse, then reach in for her mirror, dropping the entire thing on the floorboard as he took a seat beside her, telling the driver to circle the block.

The purse contained nothing but her mirror, lipstick, room key, and cell phone, and she reached down to pick it up as he said, “Traffic’s light, Miss Sanders. You might want to start talking.”

“Good point. I can fix my lipstick later,” she said, dumping everything in her lap, not even bothering to return it to her purse. “How to put this . . .” She scooted closer to him, lowering her voice. “The copy you have is rare. In the right hands, it could be
extremely
lucrative.”

His brows rose slightly. “How lucrative?”

She leaned into him, put her hand on his shoulder and whispered, “More money than you could spend in a lifetime.”

She stayed where she was, his face inches from hers. To her, their proximity was unnerving, perhaps because he seemed . . . so unmoved, and he asked, “Who would the buyer be?”

“Someone who wouldn’t think twice about taking out the competition, as evidenced by what you saw this morning.”

“Which would make someone in possession of it in a position to deal?”

“Exactly.”

He stared at her for several seconds, and just when she began to think he was made of iron, his gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there. She had him, she thought. And then he said, “Maybe you should’ve fixed that lipstick after all, Miss Sanders. Time’s up.”

It took her a moment to realize she was gaping at him in disbelief. Recovering, she slid back to her original seat as the taxi rounded the corner and pulled into the hotel. She gathered up her lipstick, mirror, and room key, returning the items to her purse. She started to slide out, hesitated, then looked right at him. “When you’ve come to your senses, give me a call.”

He gave a sardonic tip of his fingers to his forehead, and she got out, ignored the greeting from the doorman, then stalked into the hotel.

Trying to keep her temper in check, she approached the front desk, saying, “I need to make an outside call.”

The clerk directed her to the concierge station, which was unmanned at this hour. She picked up the phone, dialed the number, and listened to it ring. “Lou? Eve. How fast can you track my phone?”

“As soon as I move to my computer. Something wrong?”

“Couldn’t be better. If all goes according to plan, we should find out where he’s staying shortly. It’s time to find out exactly what he knows.”

35

The sound was so
slight, Tex almost missed it. A squeak of the floorboard, and then nothing. The total darkness made it difficult to pinpoint the location. The unfamiliar surroundings were also a handicap. He tried to even his breathing, tried to hear past the ambient noises of the house, the street outside.

And there it was again. The floorboard outside the door. The sound of a lock being picked . . .

He stilled.

The door opened just enough to let someone slide in, then shut with a soft click. One person. That made it easy.

He waited . . . waited . . . and then he flicked on the light.

Eve stood not ten feet away, frozen against the wall, dressed all in black, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“If you’re looking for your phone,” he said, his weapon pointed at her, “you left it in the taxi.”

“How careless of me.”

Her gaze flicked around the room, looking for an escape. She took one step toward the door.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Since when do reporters carry guns? Who are you?”

“Better question. Who are you?”

She didn’t answer, but he could see the sheen of sweat on her upper lip.

Donovan walked in the front door after her, locking it behind him, this time throwing the dead bolt. “She came alone.”

“You were
waiting
for me?”

“Welcoming committee,” Tex said. “Polite thing to do.”

He holstered his weapon, then pulled a plastic tie from his pocket. She swallowed, tried to pull away as Tex cuffed her hands behind her back. “Why?”

“Precautions,” he said, then gave her a thorough search before sitting her in a wooden chair facing them.

Her brow glistened and he saw her carotid beating fast. She was scared.

Good.

“Time to come clean, Miss Sanders. If that’s your real name?”

She said nothing.

“Donnie?”

Donovan opened a drawer in the side table and pulled out a book, its paper cover showing it to be Kipling’s selected works. A decoy. They had yet to find the real book, and this was the only plan they could come up with on such short notice. Her gaze locked onto it, a good sign, Tex thought, and he leaned toward her, so close he could smell the remnants of the perfume she’d been wearing earlier, her fear reviving it on her skin. A hint of jasmine filled his nostrils. “The book,” Tex said. “You told me it could be lucrative?”

She looked at him and then Donovan. “So you
are
in it for the money? I told you, I have a buyer.”

“What if we don’t want to sell?”

“Then— Why not?”

“You said yourself it was too dangerous. I’m thinking we destroy it. Save a life.”

Donovan pulled a lighter from his pocket, held it to the book.

She tried to stand, but Tex pushed her back into her seat.

She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “I’ll do anything. Just let me have it.”

“Tell us what it’s for. Why is it so important?”

She took a deep breath, glanced at the book, licking her suddenly dry lips. “I don’t exactly know.”

“But people are dying?”

“Please . . .”

Tex took the book from Donovan. Held it in front of her. “Tell us or we burn it.”

And Donovan flicked his thumb on the lighter, holding the flame so she could see it.

She eyed Donovan, then Tex, as though weighing her decision. It wasn’t until Tex dropped the book into the wastebasket and Donovan rolled a piece of paper, then actually lit it, that she said, “Fine. I’ll tell you.”

A knock at the door caused her to jump. She looked in that direction, then screamed. Tex clamped his hand over her mouth. She twisted her head, bit him.

“Damn it,” he said, pulling his hand away from her teeth, only to have her try to scream again. “You gonna get that?” he asked Donovan.

“If you manage to keep her quiet, yes.” Donovan dropped the burning paper into the trash, and she struggled even more. Her eyes, wide with fright, locked on the book and the burning paper atop it as Donovan walked across the room, put his eye to the peephole.

“Finally,” he said, unlocking and opening the door. “You were supposed to be here four hours ago.”

“Sorry. Cornwall isn’t exactly a Tube stop away, is it? And for your information, we found them. They’re safe.” Lisette Perrault, their Paris-based agent, entered, then stopped short at the sight of Tex struggling with Eve.

“
Not
quite the welcome I was expecting,” Lisette said to Tex, an amused expression on her face as she glanced at the woman, then did a double take. Her amusement turned to confusion. “Why do you have a CIA agent in custody?”

“CIA?” Tex said. “You’re sure?”

“Very.”

A whoosh from the trash caught everyone’s attention as the flames engulfed the book.

Donovan grabbed a
bottled water from the table, then dumped it on the trash can, dousing the flames. Tex was still trying to wrap his mind around Lisette’s news, and Eve slumped back in her chair as though weak with relief.

“You
know
her?” Donovan asked Lisette.

“We worked an op in Berlin about eight months ago. Don’t think she’s changed that much. Genevieve Sanderson. CIA.”

Tex stared at the woman, going over every contact with her, feeling as though now, finally, things were starting to make sense. She, however, was more concerned with the book. “Are you sure it’s out?” she asked.

He kicked the trash can. “It was never in there.”

She leaned forward, staring at the charred cover. “Then what’s that?”

“Something we picked up at the bookstore,” Tex said. “We never had it.”

“What do you mean you never had it? Then who does?”

“How the hell should we know?” Tex said. “We’re not the ones who stole the briefcase, are we?”

“Who
are
these people?” she asked Lisette.

“It’s . . . complicated,” Lisette told her. “For God’s sake, Tex. Cut her loose and tell her what’s going on.”

Tex dug a knife from his pocket, flipped it open, and sliced the plastic tie, saying, “We belong to a covert agency called ATLAS.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It wouldn’t be very covert if you had, would it?”

Eve glared at him, then turned to Donovan, asking, “Assuming you’re for real, ATLAS stands for what?”

“Alliance for Threat Level Assessment and Security.”

“So you’re in more than one country,” she said, rubbing the circulation back into her wrists.

“Sorry about that,” Tex said. “Precautions.”

“So you said,” Eve replied. “About the book . . .”

Donovan countered, “Why don’t you start with you and your mission.”

“You think I’m just going to sit down and talk because you throw some fancy acronym at me? I don’t even know you.”

Lisette drew a chair over and sat down next to her. “You can trust them.”

“Sorry, Lisette,” Eve said. “As much as I respect your word, until I get clearance, I can’t talk.”

“You want clearance?” Donovan said, taking out his phone. “Who would you like to receive that clearance from?”

“My handler, Lou. He’s here in London.”

“And his number would be . . . ?”

“If whoever you have on that end is anyone with connections, they shouldn’t have a problem discovering his number. Have him call my cell phone.”

“The cell phone you left in the taxi?” Tex said.

“They were kind enough to return it to me when I called and told them I
accidentally
left it in the cab.”

Donovan explained the situation to McNiel, saying, “We’ve run into a slight . . . road bump. Micah’s assistant is, according to Lisette, a CIA agent named Genevieve Sanderson, who refuses to talk until she receives clearance. She’d like her handler, Lou, to call her cell.”

Lisette picked up her overnight bag, telling Tex, “As much as I’d love to be a part of this, I’m beat.”

Tex stood. “I’ll take you up.”

Lisette started for the stairs. “I know the way. It looks like you’ll be busy for a while sorting this out.” She glanced at Eve. “Good to see you . . .”

“You, too, Lisette.”

Tex returned to his seat, hoping it wouldn’t take McNiel too long to get in touch with someone.

Apparently he needn’t have worried, as Eve’s phone rang about two minutes later. She answered it, listened, said, “Talk to you in the morning,” then disconnected. She gave them a bland smile. “I guess you pull some pretty powerful strings in your organization.”