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by CJ Cooper
CHAPTER ONE
“No one ever said fighting terrorism was easy,” Falcon Spitzer whispered to herself as she ducked into a recessed doorway to catch her breath.
Although she was used to snags, setbacks, and last minute changes to her itinerary, Falcon couldn’t shake the feeling that this unexpected detour to Geneva meant serious trouble.
She should have been halfway to Moscow by now. Her research to identify the terrorists responsible for three plane crashes over Zaire had run into snags for nine weeks. She had been followed, photographed, and detained for no reason. Going to Moscow was her last chance to find the information she needed. She couldn’t risk completion of her project by taking chances.
Distant church bells chimed seven o’clock. Circling to the unlit end of the block had taken more time than she expected. She was late. She peeked toward the drug dealer she had dodged when she stepped off the bus. He was still standing near the street lamp on the far corner. The silhouettes of two people still sat in the car parked opposite the Rarities and Used Books Shop, her destination.
Keeping an eye on the drug dealer and the car, she crept through the shadows. The hood of a sedan, parked in a narrow alley next to the bookshop, was still warm. She hoped it was Marc Tascereau’s rental car. She sidled to the shop door.
The musty smell of old books whooshed, and settled like dust in the darkness as the door closed behind her. She stepped into Tascereau’s embrace.
He wrapped her inside his overcoat and pulled her closer. “You’re shivering.”
Falcon sighed. She wouldn’t have dressed in Moscow chic if she had known she was going to Geneva. “It’s May. I didn’t expect Geneva to be this cold, so I left my coat at the airport with my luggage. Tell me what’s going on, then I have to get out of here.”
“Let’s get away from these windows. There’s an office in the back,” Tascereau whispered.
“No way. I have to get to the airport to catch the last flight to Moscow. But how about this? After you tell me what’s going on, I’ll wait for the bus at the end of the block. If the people across the street have seen either of us, they’ll follow me. As soon as they’re gone, you can get away and I’ll lose them at the airport. When I return to Paris at the end of the week, we’ll get a case of champagne and a hotel suite with a Jacuzzi and make love every day for a month.” She snuggled against him. “This is the last step, Marc. I’m so close to the answer, I can taste it.”
His muscles tensed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. His silence reminded her that one possibility always existed. But that was impossible. “Please don’t tell me that headquarters put the skids on my project.”
“Not yet, but it’s going to happen.”
Her stomach tightened and she backed away from him. “Why?”
“We’re not going to have this conversation in the dark, Falcon. Let’s go to the office in the back and talk.” Tascereau squeezed her shoulders. “Please.”
She slipped her arm around his waist. During the four years she had worked for Marc Tascereau at INTERE, Interpol’s Terrorist Research group, unshakable trust had cemented their relationship. Her forte, identifying the terrorists responsible for civilian air disasters, was inherently dangerous, so the safety of her information resources relied on his precise attention to detail in arranging the covert meetings that her research often required. And he needed the safe haven of their love affair as much as her expertise, sometimes more, a respite from the political pressure to find answers. Their repeated victories against terrorists had made a small dent in the faceless war.
As they followed an aisle between tall bookcases toward the rear of the shop, Falcon vowed to go to Moscow, even without INTERE’s approval. Her meeting with Boris would give her the data necessary to complete her Zaire project, and would provide a starting point for the real battle, the fight against Myra Pendleton and the CIA. Tascereau had shown her pages from a secret file that hinted at Myra’s role in the CIA’s betrayal of Paul Spitzer, Falcon’s father. She needed solid proof. Boris was the key. She had worked four years to acquire the research experience she needed for the most important battle of her life. She refused to give up before she got started.
Falcon waited in the office doorway while Tascereau turned on the desk lamp. The journals and ledgers stacked on shelves in the small windowless room underscored the absence of computer equipment. When he pulled the chair away from the desk for her, she sat down and leaned her valise against the chair.
INTERE’s logo, the letter I superimposed on a dagger, was engraved on the sterling silver flask that he took from his pocket before he folded his overcoat onto the desk and removed his hat. He rested his hip on the edge of the desk. His left hand held the flask. His right hand closed into a half-fist as he studied his perfectly manicured nails. His fastidious three-piece suit, his mannerisms, even his judicious sips of brandy to counter the chilly weather, epitomized the exactness she depended upon. Sometimes his silence was the most important part of their conversations, so she hesitated to interrupt his thoughts.
She glanced at her watch. She had to leave for the airport if she hoped to catch her flight.
“This doesn’t have to be a problem, Marc. Boris and I need two or three days. If headquarters hasn’t shut me down yet, I’ll disappear in Moscow while you sweet talk them. I’ll have the answer before they have time to make a decision,” she said.
“I already made the decision. You’re not going to Moscow.”
Falcon couldn’t believe her ears. Zaire was one battle INTERE could not afford to lose, and Tascereau knew it. “You made it? Why?”
“Boris is dead.”
“Oh no.” Her plans evaporated. She had never talked to Boris – Tascereau arranged all her meetings – and yet her research had created the clear image of an elderly scholar able to locate any tidbit of information she needed. “His profile didn’t mention an illness. What happened?”
“He was caught stealing state secrets from the military archives. He resisted arrest and the police shot him.”
“You have to be kidding!” she said. “That can’t possibly be right! I checked every detail a dozen times! Boris had legitimate access to all the records I need. I know he did.”
Tascereau ran his finger slowly across the INTERE logo on his brandy flask before he looked at her. “Have you had unsecured communications with anyone about this project?”
“No one except you. I haven’t even submitted my preliminary reports to headquarters yet, because we agreed to keep it quiet for a while, so you and I are the only ones who know the big picture. I know you didn’t tell Boris why I needed the information.” Falcon returned his frown. “What are you getting at?”
“Someone has apparently figured out where your inquiries are headed and is becoming nervous. I received the specifics of Boris’ demise from Ali Malak.”
She caught her breath. “Ali Malak, the assassin? How did he connect you and Boris?”
“Ask yourself a different question. Why did an assassin, internationally renowned for his craft, set Boris up to be discovered by the police instead of killing him?”
“Oh god, no.” Falcon’s hands tensed into fists. “Police involvement tightens security on the records. The people who hired Ali Malak are the ones we’re looking for, but we can’t investigate their activities because we don’t have the final piece of the puzzle that identifies their activities. And now we’ll never have it.”
“I think continue at your own risk is the essence of the message. That brings us back to your question. Boris must have been a weak link in security.” He offered her the flask, and sipped from it when she shook her head. “You’re on leave of absence while I tie up loose ends. Take a couple of weeks on the Riviera.”
She felt a small flutter in her chest. Panic? She was sure she had exorcised the demon of her youth long before she went to college. But its slimy tentacles stretched into her throat and its hideous wings flapped in her head with a warning that it was still there. She told herself to relax and concentrate. She could control it. She had to. She couldn’t let Tascereau see a panic attack. Swallowing the clog in her throat, she unclenched her fists and took a deep breath.
When she leaned toward him and rested her hand on his knee, his dark eyes met her stare. Her voice was soft. “I guess it’s just too bad that Boris and the twenty-seven people who died in Zaire nine weeks ago didn’t have the Riviera option. If we invest time, money, and manpower in research, get close enough to the truth to activate the enemy, and then quit before we have the answer, why does INTERE exist? Why do we even bother?”
The wings of panic flapped as she waited for his response. They couldn’t quit now. The weapon used in the Zaire incidents hadn’t been identified and couldn’t be traced, so it was the perfect vehicle for terrorism. Unless INTERE finished the project, the threat might consume air transportation worldwide. Risk was the life they had chosen. Falcon refused to quit.
Tascereau’s gaze circled the room before returning to her face.
“The Zaire project is shut down. I’ve submitted a report about Boris’ death and your leave of absence to headquarters. They’ll review it in the morning and concur with my decision. There’s no room for discussion.” His face, contrary to the I’m-your-boss tone of his voice, pleaded for her understanding as his finger gently touched her lips to block her objection. “Here are your travel arrangements. I have to destroy your research data.”
His touch calmed her. The travel pouch he gave her contained the forged passport she used when extreme security was essential and a ticket for a flight to Cairo, scheduled to take off in two hours. Her gaze followed the same circuit around the room that his had taken a moment earlier. Who was the beneficiary of the Riviera con? A listening device was impossible and external surveillance was ... she pictured the drug dealer and the people in the parked car. They were suddenly irrelevant. Tascereau was the embodiment of caution, so Ali Malak’s contact with him about Boris’ death meant that the usual precautions had failed long before this meeting.
“Do you have the data, Falcon?”
She rifled through her valise and slapped two diskettes onto the desk for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “That’s everything. It’s worthless without Boris.”
“I know, but we have to follow regulations.” He pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket. “Are you familiar with the long-range procedures that come into play in cases like this?”
She shook her head.
“This level of exposure means that you can’t be a researcher when you return from leave. While you’re basking on the beach, think about your transfer. I’ll get you into any administrative office you choose.” He finished writing his note, folded the sheet around the diskettes, and handed it to her. “I’ll recommend that your new position include a salary increase.”
Confusion lumped in Falcon’s throat. He always joked about a salary increase when he needed more time to find the answers to her questions, but what question was he deferring? Easing out of her chair, she stood close to him. The tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead assured her that this was no joke. He knew something. Either he didn’t want to tell her, or he couldn’t.
She whispered into his ear, “What is going on?”
He pulled her against his chest. His finger rested on her lips, his lips against her cheek. “Leave through the back door, follow the alley to the next block, and catch the bus to the airport. I’ll contact you through Date Exporters International. You’ll be safe there. Please, wait for my message before you do anything. You’ve scratched Paydirt, but they monitor your every move. They’ll kill you before they let you find the answer. You can’t be too careful.”
Paydirt? That was the codename of her quest for proof against Myra. “What ...?”
“Promise that you’ll wait to hear from me, ma chérie.”
“I promise.” Then she broke the one rule of their relationship. “Come with me.”
Tascereau kissed her hand repeatedly instead of answering. He continued to clutch it as they crept to the back door of the shop. When she reached for the doorknob, he grabbed her in a tight embrace, a very un-Tascereau reluctance to say good-bye.
“Come with me, Marc. Please,” she whispered.
“Not tonight. Maybe we’ll get married when you return to Paris.”
Her stomach jumped. Marriage was her joke each time he asked about her post-Paydirt plans. Was he suggesting that she move forward with the real battle? Or was Myra Pendleton involved with the Zaire project? Clearly this was the wrong time and place to discuss the details. Forcing a smile to calm his anxiety and control her own, she kissed his cheek. “Legalizing our affair would eliminate the thrill of sneaking around. Besides, isn’t marriage against procedures?”
“Fuck procedures. Fuck INTERE. Go on. Catch your flight. Be careful.”
“I love you, Marc. They’re not going to win this one.”
“Wait for my message. Please.” He hugged her again.
When Falcon stepped outside, she heard the door lock click behind her. She paused to button her blazer and scan the narrow alley. Tascereau’s car blocked one end. The rest of the alley was deserted. Arriving at the stop as the bus pulled up, she was grateful for his impeccable attention to detail. How could she have doubted him, even for an instant? Probably lack of sleep – only two hours in the past two days. She had planned to nap en route to Moscow. Now, sleeping on the plane was out of the question. She had to find a map of Cairo on her notebook computer and memorize it before she landed.
But he had said that Date Exporters International was a safe place. Since she had promised to stop her research until she heard from him, and she was unlikely to figure out how Myra related to Zaire without his input, she’d sleep while she waited for his call. INTERE was unknown to the civilian world, but most of his business friends were spies. They’d understand if she napped.
Grabbing the overhead handrail when the bus started to move, she wobbled toward an empty seat. Before she reached it, the cold Geneva night shivered from an explosion that lit the sky. The other passengers gasped in unison. A woman screamed. A child began to cry. Two men opened windows, craning their necks for a glimpse of the spectacle, ranting about old furnaces and kerosene heaters as they tried to guess what had happened.
The color of the blast told Falcon that it was a gasoline explosion, probably caused by a car bomb. The location suggested a sedan parked in a dark alley near a musty bookshop where rarities were normal. She eased into the seat behind the open windows. The sobs of the crying child wrenched at her heart, urging her to ignore caution and procedures, to get off the bus and return to the bookshop to find Marc. But she didn’t move. The cold wind bit her face with the emptiness she knew better than she knew panic, the emptiness that had filled half her life.
Every trace of love and security had disappeared from her existence the day before her ninth birthday. She had watched strangers murder her nanny and had never seen her father, Paul Spitzer, again. She became a lonely spectator on the edge of the surface world, until fourteen years later when Tascereau wrapped her in his warmth and invited her to journey with him beneath the surface. After he told her about Myra Pendleton’s role in her life, she had dedicated her future to fighting on behalf of all the innocent victims of terror.
The windows snapping shut startled her. The conversation of the men sitting in front of her had changed from old furnaces to terrorism, and the improbability of a terrorist attack in Geneva. Aching to agree with them, she told herself that it wasn’t a car bomb. Marc wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. He was too careful to walk into a trap.
But the child’s sobs continued. And it was impossible to ignore the questions that pounded in her thoughts. If her Zaire project had caused Boris’ death and Tascereau’s, how would she complete her research without putting all of INTERE’s researchers and resources at risk? If her private quest to expose Myra Pendleton were the reason for their deaths, how would she live with herself, whether she found the proof she needed or not?
But how could she quit? This was one battle INTERE could not afford to lose. It was the one battle Falcon refused to lose. Praying that Tascereau was still alive, she cursed all terrorists, especially the unknown employers of Ali Malak.
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