Exposure Page 6

"SO, WHO WAS the lady in gold?" Gabe's gaze was probing and appreciative all at once.

  "Our contact." Nigel forced himself to focus on his friend. His gut instinct had been to follow Melissa out of the party, to finish what they had started. But his common sense overruled the thought. Despite the fact that he was still attracted to the woman, or maybe because of it, he needed to let her go. To keep the past firmly where it was supposed to be. "Although I'm not sure that she gave us anything all that useful."

  "Anything is better than nothing." Madison joined them, linking her arm through her husband's.

  "Well, according to Melissa, she's only just begun her investigation. Which means that she can't point to a guilty party at this point. She did provide a list of names. Suspects as well as those she's ruled out,"

  "It's a starting point," Gabe said, his brows drawn together in a frown. "You called her Melissa Do you know her?"

  "Of course he knows her." Madison smiled, her eyes gentle. "Didn't you see the way he was dancing with her?"

  Nigel wished Madison wasn't quite as good at seeing things. But even if she hadn't been, Gabe would have ferreted it out eventually. So better to just tell them the truth—at least a version of it—and be done. "I do know her. Or more accurately, I knew her. It was a long time ago."

  "But it was intense." As usual, Madison's perception was dead-on.

  "Something like that," he admitted, staring down at his feet. "But I haven't seen her in years. In fact, I was as surprised as anyone to find her here, and more so when I realized she was our contact."

  "You didn't know she was CIA, I take it?"

  "You lot aren't all that keen on advertising your membership." Nigel shrugged with a nonchalance he most certainly didn't feel.

  "But you had a relationship." Madison was as relentless as her husband.

  "Yes." He nodded for emphasis. "Past tense."

  "It didn't look past tense to me." Gabe shot a glance to the doorway. Melissa was gone, but it was almost as if some essence of her still lingered. Nigel could still see the coppery glint of her hair against the gold filigree of her dress.

  "Well, it is." The very fact that he snapped at his friend was indication that it wasn't, although that in and of itself was a ridiculous notion considering she was gone. No doubt for good. Nigel sighed. "Look, it was a long time ago. I was practically another person. And apparently so was Melissa." His dry comment evoked a grin from Gabe, but Madison's expression was still quizzical.

  "You cared about her a lot." It was a statement, not a question. Occupational hazard with Madison, but Nigel didn't like being dissected.

  "Let it go." His voice was low and brooked no argument. Madison nodded her agreement, although there was something in her face that indicated the topic hadn't been retired permanently.

  So he'd accept the battle and weather the war. He'd done it before.

  "Hopefully she's given us something we can use. The honest-to-God truth is that we haven't got enough information to target anything specific. Even if we agree that the nerve agent is headed for the U.S., the number of potential entry points is almost limitless. Not to mention the fact that there's nothing concrete to tie any of this to a purported traitor at the UN."

  "With luck, Harrison and Payton will be able to sort through the chatter and find some sort of lead. With Homeland Security on alert, it's much more difficult to get something into the U.S. than it was before 9/11, which should play to our advantage as it actually does limit access. For the moment, the possible manipulation of shipments through Peacekeeping is our best bet. And Melissa's list of suspects is a good start."

  "The problem being that we're still shooting blind and the clock is ticking. Whatever has been planned, you know it's meant to happen soon." Nigel couldn't help the edge of dread that clawed at him. He hated racing against an unknown adversary, although he'd spent much of his adult life doing just that.

  "All the more reason we move quickly." Gabe fidgeted with his bow tie, his mind already moving beyond the party.

  "Sounds to me like it's time to make an exit," Madison said.

  Gabe took the statement as permission and immediately headed for the door, Madison falling into step with Nigel as they followed. "She's beautiful, your Melissa."

  "She's not my anything."

  Madison smiled, her hand warm on his arm. "Sometimes fate throws the very things we're most afraid of right at our feet."

  Nigel wasn't afraid of Melissa. He opened his mouth to tell Madison exactly that, but then shut it before he could issue the words. Truth was, she did scare him. Or at least the intensity of the emotions she aroused scared him.

  But the fact wasn't relevant. Melissa was gone, and he had a job to do. And fate simply wasn't a factor he was willing to consider. At least not now—hell, not ever.

  "I THOUGHT EVERYTHING was settled." Khamis exchanged a glance with Malik and then returned his attention to the man standing in front of him. Paulo Salvatore would sell his mother if the price was right. Khamis had been doing business with him for more than a decade, but despite the longevity of their association, Khamis didn't trust the man.

  "Our network has been compromised." Paulo extended his hands in a shrug. The Spanish were lazy fools, but until now useful. "My father is dead, and Interpol is all over us. I myself only just escaped the bloodbath. Had I not been in Seville on business..." Again with the shrug.

  "I don't give a damn what's happened to your network." Khamis leaned forward, his stance intended to be threatening. "We had an agreement and I expect you to honor it."

  Malik shot him a questioning glance, his normally placid face marred with a frown. "Perhaps we should reconsider." His words were pitched low, for Khamis's ears only, but Khamis rejected the thought with a shake of his head. He'd worked too hard for this, and he wasn't giving it up without a fight.

  "There must be an alternative," Khamis said, his attention centered again on Paulo.

  "Perhaps." The younger man narrowed his eyes, his gaze assessing. "But it will cost you."

  Khamis tightened his hand on the butt of the gun stuck in the waistband of his pants. It was tempting to shoot the arrogance off the Spaniard's face, but his cause would not be furthered by the action. Better to maintain control. At least until he had the information he needed. "We will meet your price."

  "I don't want money." Paulo was clearly nervous now, his fingers fidgeting with a button as he worked up his courage. "Since my father's death, there are eyes everywhere. I need to disappear. To start over. I believe you can make that happen."

  Again Khamis exchanged a look with Malik, his friend giving the barest of nods. "Consider it done."

  Paulo searched his face, and then apparently satisfied, reached into his pocket for a slip of paper. "Call this number."

  "And who exactly am I calling?"

  "An insider with the UN. He'll be expecting you."

  "And this man is to be trusted?" Khamis's eyes narrowed as he considered the change of plans.

  "Sí. I've used him more than once to transport goods into particularly difficult regions. He'll make it happen. You have my word."

  Paulo's word carried no weight with Khamis, but there was no point in sharing the fact. He reached for the paper, and once it was securely in hand, nodded toward his partner. "Go with Malik. As soon as I am certain that your contact is legitimate, we'll arrange for you to disappear."

  Permanently.

  But that, too, wasn't information he was prepared to divulge. He'd found through experience that people got rather rebellious when they thought they were about to die.

  ED HAD PICKED one hell of a derelict place to meet. The shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge fell black against the diner, neon light refracting off the East River. Taking the time to change out of the gold gown had obviously been a good idea. This wasn't exactly a couture kind of joint.

  She pushed through the door, the blast of warm air cloying. Shrugging out of her coat, she considered the coatrack and then rejected it, preferrin
g not to share her coat's warmth with anything furry.

  The place was sparsely occupied, not that she was surprised. A haggard waitress stood behind the counter making a new pot of coffee. Two teenagers dressed in chains, leather and a stunning array of body piercings sat at the far end of the counter, nursing slices of some kind of pie, and a wizened old man sat huddled in a booth against the far wall. His clothes were old and tattered, but she could see a spark of intelligence in his eyes.

  Besides the four of them, the place was empty. No Ed. She glanced at her watch to confirm the time. He should be here. With a sigh, she slid into a booth near the front of the restaurant, her back against the wall, her line of vision extending from the front door to the kitchen.

  It was an occupational hazard, but she liked knowing the lay of the land. The waitress sidled over with a torn and stained menu, but Melissa waved it away, asking instead for a cup of coffee.

  The woman nodded and returned to the counter, making a great display of pouring the coffee. Maybe she was ticked that Melissa hadn't ordered something more. Tips in a place like this were probably meager at best.

  Not that any of it really mattered.

  She leaned her head back against the wall and fought the urge to close her eyes. It was late, and by even the most conservative standards, it had been a trying evening, her emotions roller-coastering in and out of control with alarming intensity.

  The waitress returned with the coffee and a tight-lipped smile, and Melissa ordered a slice of pie. She had no intention of eating the stuff, but somehow it soothed her sense of fair play to give the woman a little more business. Especially if she was going to be sitting here long.

  She consulted her watch again, wondering where in the world Ed was He was usually such a stickler for punctuality. She sighed, checked the watch again, and settled in to wait. The coffee, despite the fact that it was fresh brewed, had a nasty bitter taste. Still, it was hot and loaded with caffeine, so she drank it.

  The pie arrived looking surprisingly tasty, and she allowed herself one bite. After all, a girl needed nourishment. Mata Hari-ing took a lot out of a person. She laughed at the thought, drawing a frown from the waitress and a smirk from one of the two teenagers.

  Sobering, she shifted a little, enough so that she wasn't forced to stare at the boys. She kept them in her peripheral vision, though. Not that she expected an attack from that quarter. It was just better to cover all bases. She took another sip of the acrid coffee and followed it with another bite of the pie. The apples were nicely coated with cinnamon and sugar, and the crust was amazingly flaky.

  That, or she was just starving to death. Running into an old lover could do that to a girl. She considered the idea and then rejected it. The truth was, her appetite had been stimulated— but she wasn't hungry for food. She was hungry for Nigel, and the idea angered her as much as anything. Sure, there'd been the occasional night when she'd remembered their lovemaking with longing, but she'd always written it off to loneliness or the amazingly loud ticking of her biological clock.

  Only tonight, the real live deal had presented himself, and there could be no denying the connection between them. She hadn't exaggerated the physical chemistry. It was still combustible even after all mis time. But it remained gossamer thin, as well. Nothing that could ever be substantial.

  They were two of a kind—he led a life of danger, and she walked a tightrope of duplicity. Neither good ingredients for happily ever after. Not that she wanted anything like that. It was just that seeing him had brought back so many memories.

  Most of them wonderful.

  She smiled at the thought and had another sip of coffee. Where the hell was Ed? The last thing she wanted to do was spend the middle of the night sitting in a derelict coffee shop mooning over a man she'd left fifteen years ago.

  The waitress walked over to the old man and refilled his coffee cup. The pot was different from the one she'd been drinking from, and Melissa found herself wondering if perhaps the good stuff was only for regulars. More likely he was drinking decaf. Not a bad idea. Her nerves were jittery enough without caffeine.

  As if to dispute the fact, she reached for the cup, tipped it in camaraderie toward the old man and had another swallow, the bitter beverage sending comforting warmth shooting through her body.

  Laughing at her ridiculous musings, Melissa set the cup back on the table, dismissing both the old man and all thoughts of coffee. Ed had said their meeting was important. Something about new information. She wondered if finally they'd gotten a bead on the man behind the UN smuggling. If they had found the culprit it would mean an end to her investigation, which meant she was free to move on to other more interesting assignments.

  She'd recently been offered an assignment in the Middle East, but had had to turn it down for the sake of her work at the UN. Boring from a photographic point of view, she was more than ready to see the last of the Secretariat and head off to points unknown. A bit of an adrenaline junkie, she needed the rush to keep her edge, and too much time in New York was not the ticket.

  That and the fact that the desert was a great place to forget all about adolescent romantic yearnings. Nigel Ferris was just a man. And she was a woman who had better things to do than sit around drinking bad coffee waiting for some CIA pencil pusher to show up.

  Ed usually chose out-of-the-way places for their meetings—they'd once met in a barn in Mogadishu—but this topped the charts. She checked her watch again, noting that he was fast approaching really late.

  It had been a long night, and her head hurt. All she wanted was a warm bath, a warm bed—and.. .no she wasn't going to go there at all.

  Shaking her head, she fumbled with her purse, her exhaustion making her clumsy. Finally she wrestled her cell phone out and flipped it open. Hitting autodial, she grimaced at the irony that number one was a man she hardly knew, a man whose sole job, it seemed, was to send her off to ferret out dubious information. In truth, Ed was Charlie to her Angel, although neither of them would have been cast in the movie.

  The phone at the other end rang once, twice, three times and was then picked up by an automated voice that announced that the number wasn't available. She clicked the phone closed and dropped it back in her purse. It wasn't like Ed to miss a meeting, but nothing he'd said made her think there was any real reason to worry. They'd just missed each other somehow.

  So until she could run him to ground, best to follow procedure. Retreat to a safe place, in this case, home. She stifled a yawn and reached for her wallet, extracting a ten to drop on the table. Probably a bit over the customary twenty percent, but she wasn't in the mood to wait for change. If it was important enough, he'd call her again, and they could meet somewhere closer to home. In a clean restaurant where they served better coffee. If not, then they could talk tomorrow.

  She stood up, holding on to the table for a moment to clear her head. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so tired.

  She picked up her coat but didn't put it on. The heat in the diner was stifling and suddenly all she wanted was to feel the crisp fall air. The old man nodded absently as she walked by, and the waitress lifted an eyebrow. Other than that, she might as well have been invisible. A cold night in a cold city surrounded by strangers.

  The wind outside was brisk, cooling her almost instantly, her head clearing in the damp air. She slipped on her coat and started to walk toward the corner. A streetlamp cast a bright yellow circle, the warm light beckoning, and she stopped in its glow, searching the street for a taxi.

  Traffic, however, was nonexistent, and her stomach was beginning to reject the coffee, roiling in protest of the nasty stuff. With a sigh, she left the light from the streetlamp and headed downtown toward the subway. Late-night trains could be a bit dicey, but standing in the cold in a less-than-desir-able neighborhood wasn't a picnic, either. The subway was simply the lesser of two evils.

  She passed into the shadow of the bridge, the dark seeming to swallow up everything. The night air wa
s strangely quiet for a city that never sleeps, and despite the fact that she wasn't a particularly skittish person, Melissa shivered, quickening her pace.

  The buildings here were even more derelict than the ones surrounding the diner, many of them boarded up, all of them dark. There were boxes and blankets crowded onto stoops along the way. It was a hell of a cold night to sleep on the streets. Melissa wondered what they would do in a couple of months when the snow came.

  Her head was pounding now, the rhythm threatening to rob her of rational thought. She checked a street sign, relieved to see that she only had a couple more blocks to go. Clutching her purse and trying to stay focused, she moved on, oblivious now to the street around her, the only important thing being to make the train.

  Half a block farther, she stopped suddenly, her stomach clenching in agony, the pain enough to send shudders racing through her as she grabbed her gut. Frowning, she cursed the fact that she'd trusted the pie and tried to forge onward, but the pain was coming in sharp waves now, the contractions making her nauseous. An alleyway beckoned, and Melissa ran.

  It might not be a nice neighborhood, but she'd be damned if she was going to throw up right there on the street. Bracing her hand against a brick wall, she bent double and let it rip, the evacuation immediately bringing relief.

  When she found Ed, there was going to be hell to pay. Pulling a tissue from her purse she wiped her mouth, feeling weak but much better. Making a solemn vow never to eat apple pie again, she turned back toward the street, intent now on finding the subway stop and getting home.

  But three steps later, she was hit again with the racking pains. This time she admitted she needed help, and with a concerted effort, dragged open her purse and pulled out her phone. She hit number one again, but the result was the same. No Ed. There was a risk to involving her sister, the invented explanations sure to bring all kinds of recrimination, but it beat the hell out of dying in the middle of the alley.

  She started to call, but before she reached the first button, the nausea seized her again, and the phone went flying in her effort to avoid the regurgitated coffee and pie. This time there was no relief, just another wave of cramping and nausea, the alley starting to spin alarmingly.