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La Jolla, 7:00 a.m.
Sunday, May 15
“Nova, love. There is a Mr. Right for you. Your problem is, you don’t try.”
Reginald Pennypacker wheezed out his words of criticism between breaths as he and Nova rounded the final curve of the path along the bluff where they ran each morning. First her daily run, then the cougar photos.
They slowed to cool-down speed for the last block, uphill to the white, red-tile-roofed condominium where they each occupied one of the two top-floor units. Nova’s lips turned up in a slight smile. Reginald Penny-packer, “Penny” as nearly everyone called him, was the closest thing she had to a best friend and confidant.
She was sorry her refusal to come to his party had him upset, but he’d never know the dark things Nova Blair had done. There’s never going to be a Mr. Right, because I’ll always be Mrs. Wrong. Murder. Prison. Her work for the Company. No, Penny would never know why all his attempts at matchmaking would fail.
She treasured this spectacular La Jolla coastline. The best part of their run was that it let her gauge the Pacific’s waves, smell her breath, feel her mood. Today the great ocean had the blues: flat, gray-blue water sloshed indifferently against the beach. The on-shore breeze carried the stink of seaweed. A perfect day for nitty-gritty slave labor in the darkroom. The magazine photo contest deadline was breathing down her neck. And then, there were the cougars. “I try. I keep my eye out for possibilities.”
“If you were trying, you’d come Saturday.” He used the hem of his red T-shirt to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead. “How can you say you can’t make my party and still claim to be on the lookout for a man? I told a widowed admiral and a filthy rich, recently divorced trial lawyer you’d be there. They weren’t going to come but I promised I’d introduce them to a world-class adventuress photographer. A dazzler with emerald-green eyes and onyx-black hair.”
Nova reflected with a photographer’s eye on Penny’s slender elegance. Thirty-eight. Built like a marathoner. Part Irish and part Afro-American, and fiercely proud of both heritages. He was the owner of La Jolla’s most exclusive beauty salon and he’d invited a “select group” of patrons and friends to a bash for his long-time lover’s birthday. He smiled. Apparently his temper had cooled. He yanked twice on her ponytail. “You really must show. So I won’t look like a fool.”
“Why would you tell them I’d be there? You know how my life works. I might be out of town. In fact, how about you just tell them I am out of town.”
A two-brick-high trim bordered the green lawn next to them. Nova purposely stubbed her toe against the trim, did a somersault and landed on her back on the lawn. Alarmed, Penny rushed to kneel beside her. She reached up and, grinning, tugged twice on his earring. “Better yet. Tell them I had a jogging accident and broke my leg.”
He shook his head, returned her grin and extended his hand to help her up. “See what I mean? You don’t try. You avoid.”
I don’t avoid. I’m just a realist.
Side by side, they trotted up the three-floor stairwell. At the top they stepped onto the balcony running the length of its west side. From behind four palm trees standing guard on the lawn, a glorious Pacific vista beckoned. They shook out their arms and legs. She took in a lungful of salt air.
“You don’t try, but when you make an effort to fancy up, Nova, you’re really…well, really mesmerizing. Great legs. Fabulous eyes. That jet-black hair. You should have men hanging around here like bees after nectar.”
“Don’t be silly, Penny,”
“Don’t be falsely modest, Nova.” He paused, scanned her face, then looked away. “I watch you. The men buzz around, all right.” He fluttered his fingers to mimic busy bees. “But when they zero in to land, you close up your little petals, like you’re afraid they’re going to steal something.”
His words brought a sudden pang, a quick rapier-thrust to her heart. Candido Branco had left no visible scars; her stepfather had always avoided making wounds that would leave traces on her skin. But the scars on her soul were another matter.
Penny planted both hands on the balcony rail. “I’ve known you nearly twelve years. You’ve not had one serious attachment. Not since— How many years is it now since the amazing Ramone took off?”
“I’m not pining for Ramone Villalobos. The man did a lot for me. I was—” She started to say, Headed for big trouble, but switched. “He introduced me to travel and photography.” She didn’t add that he’d also recruited her for the CIA. “Unfortunately, I foolishly thought he loved me when he was just having a good time.”
Penny straightened, crossed his arms. “I worry about you now and again, love. Maybe I better shut up, though, before I say something I’ll regret.”
An eerie feeling raced through her, hot and electric, a feeling that Penny was about to hand her the key to the dark rooms of her past. She felt her pulse quicken at the base of her throat. “No, don’t shut up on me.” Penny would say words that would explain why she was unable to trust. No. She knew why she couldn’t trust any man. But Penny would say words that would tell her how she could trust again and then she’d be free from the past. “Say what you’re thinking.”
His gaze flicked to her face, apparently checking to see if he should continue. He plunged ahead. “I don’t get it. You meet lots of men on the tours you lead. You’ve never once said you’ve slept with one. Maybe you just wouldn’t tell me that.”
He paused, still searching her face. She waited, afraid to interrupt.
“I can’t imagine leading the macho, high-adventure tours you do and not meeting men by the planeload. You think you’re honestly open to offers?” He grinned. “You’re thirty-three and not getting any younger.”
Oddly, as suddenly as the mysterious feeling had hit, it fled; she felt as though she’d taken a six-floor drop in an elevator. Penny didn’t have a magic key after all. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“Come to my party Saturday. You can practice opening up and I’ll critique your man-baiting techniques.”
She threw him a look of mock horror. “That sounds perfectly awful.”
Penny turned toward his door, then looked back. “Just say you’ll come and deliver a few nice words to the good admiral and the wealthy attorney.”
She smiled. “Okay, okay.”
“Saturday. At eight.”
“I’ll be there.”
She moved toward her door, but Penny was still plotting. He stopped, his hand on his doorknob. “Wear emerald-green. That skimpy flowy silk that matches your eyes.”
“Yes, yes. I promise.”
“And I’ll do your hair. Something flashy. Black hair can be so dramatic.”
Penny hated her ponytail.
“This is going to be a great party.” Penny glided toward his door.
As he disappeared into his condo, Nova fished her key from the pouch Velcroed to her wrist. Sitting like a Sphinx on the chaise lounge next to the door, Divinity waited, staring northward along the sweep of the Pacific. Nova scooped up the white Angora, kissed the top of her head. One sapphire-blue and one emerald-green eye stared back. Now here was someone a woman could rely on.
“Hi, sweet thing. Penny insists I need a man. Anyone worthwhile drop by?” She draped the cat over her forearm, unlocked the door, felt a buzz saw of purring on her wrist. As she dropped the key onto the entry table beside the door, the state of the room snagged her attention.
“Diva, dear, our home looks a mess.”
Her dark wicker furniture was arranged so dining was done Oriental fashion around a low table in front of the living room picture window. Ten overstuffed green-and-blue lounge cushions reclined in crazy disarray on the carpet or against furniture or walls. Last night’s birthday dinner for ten-year-old Maggie had been a hit, especially Nova’s own gift: a 3-D video game.
She could almost feel Maggie’s small hand in hers. She loved all three of Star’s kids. When they called her “Auntie Nova” she felt like putty. But in Maggie she saw her own tender self before fate had set her feet on this…this bizarre life path.
She rearranged the pillows. When they were in place, things felt right. The condominium was the part of the world over which she had absolute control. And keeping things neat, even too neat according to her sister, gave her that sense of control that she had never felt for too many years of her childhood. She retrieved Diva from the couch and, sauntering down the hallway toward the bedrooms, glanced at the telephone answering machine. No messages.
In the master bedroom she spilled Divinity onto the comforter. The cat became a white puff of fur against the pattern of white, green and yellow swirls. A swath of sun suddenly lanced through the bay window. Two quick sets of sit-ups and push-ups, then she stripped. She took her shower hot and steamy.
Toweled but damp, she slipped into her carmine robe. The usual five brush swipes ordered the straight hair that fell to her shoulder blades. Two more straightened her bangs. She picked a pair of red earrings and tilted her head to locate the always difficult hole in her right earlobe. For some unfathomable reason, she always felt incomplete without earrings.
She picked Divinity up as the phone in the dining-room-converted-into-office jangled. The answering machine clicked on. She stepped into the hall. “Hello, Nova. It’s Leland. Give me a call. This will be a long trip.”
The line went dead.
A bolt of excitement and fear pulled her head up and, unthinking, she stroked too hard. Divinity leaped to the floor, her claws digging into Nova’s arm.
Leland Smith managed Cosmos Travel. He was also her Company contact. They had a code. “Hello, it’s Smitty” meant “CIA business, call in as soon as possible.” “Hello, it’s Leland” he’d used only twice before. It meant urgent, she would have to leave now.
“Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her excitement quickly settled to resolve. The grim truth was, the CIA never called unless deaths were involved. The photo contest, the cougars, they all faded to insignificance. “You know how it is when the Company rings. He only says ‘Leland’ when things are especially bad.”
Penny’s admiral and lawyer were going to be disappointed. So would Penny. She wasn’t going to make the party after all.
Anchorage, 3:15 p.m.
Sunday, May 15
Joseph Cardone pulled his overnighter from under the seat of the passenger in front of him, slung it onto the middle seat and stepped into the DC-10’s narrow aisle. The Denver to Anchorage leg of his red-eye from New York held few passengers. As he retrieved his raincoat from the overhead bin, a young, Levi’s-clad couple with a toddler in tow edged past and the kid stumbled over the tip of Joe’s freshly buffed loafers.
With a quick move, he caught the boy. “Hey, big guy, watch for the bumps,” he said, tousling the kid’s blond hair. He sometimes wished, like now, that he had more reasons in his life to be around children, but kids and family…his life wouldn’t be fair to them.
He strolled forward. One of the stewardesses, Rita Halloran, stood in the galley, puttering with stainless-steel coffee urns. He’d spent the better part of the flight exploring what he and Rita Halloran had in common. Most notably so far, they’d both been born in Corpus Christi, Texas. He smiled. “I’d love not to have to say goodbye, at least not just yet.”
It looked as though she might feel the same as he: no professional requirement called for quite that warm a smile. He said, “I have to go on to Fairbanks. The chances are good, though, I’ll be back in Anchorage tonight.” He shifted his overnighter and coat to the other hand and automatically checked his tie. “Can’t be sure I’ll be back. But if I can make it, nothin’ would make this Texas boy happier than the pleasure of your company this evening.”
“The crew stays at the Captain Cook. I’m expected to join friends for dinner at the Crow’s Nest—the restaurant on top. I could get free, though.” She paused, eyes sparkling. “If necessary.”
He tilted toward her on the balls of his feet. “Think of me as a necessity. Please.”
She smiled again. “You got a date, Texas. And by the way, I wouldn’t be too confident about catching the flight out of Fairbanks in time, what with this awful pipeline disaster thing. Everything’s a mess. Pipeline people and investigators out the gazoo going north and south. The captain says they even caught one of them.”
Not good. If the media were already reporting that authorities were holding one of the terrorists, a security breach must have occurred. Joe whipped his pen and a business card, the card that said he was an IBM representative, from his left breast pocket. “Let me have your phone number.”
“Honey—” she was writing in large, flowery curves “—you’re the best-looking Big Blue representative I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving.” He pocketed the number and then turned toward the arched exit. Rita’s soft voice followed him out the door. “I sure will be looking forward to that call.”
The Flight Arrival display indicated that his contact’s plane should arrive in thirty minutes and was on time. He sauntered to the Alaska Airline’s lounge, dropped into a chair, leaned forward with elbows on knees and wished he could shuck the dreads and doubts that clung to him like a cheap, tight-fitting suit. His new partner was female.
Certainly nobody appreciated women more than he. But he had worked his first assignment alone. He’d liked it that way. Then came last night’s call. “You’ll have a partner. She’s highly trained. Very experienced. In fact, when you’ve been with the Company a while longer you’ll learn the Dove is legendary. She has the Deputy Director’s full confidence and will be in charge.”
The caller had made that very clear. He had a partner. She was senior. A woman, code name Dove, would be in charge.
Once again Joe checked his watch. Ten minutes or so and she should arrive. A man seated opposite seized Joe’s attention. Only one side of his face moved. The other side was dead, lifeless.
The flight at the next gate was called and the man rose and disappeared through the loading door.
Joe checked his watch again. Her plane was now late. He stood, paced, sat. If they didn’t make the Fairbanks connection, they’d arrive later, finish later and he’d be back in Anchorage too late to see Corpus Christi’s Miss Halloran.
He heard the high whine that hovers around big jets on the ground. The twenty-odd people waiting with him stirred. The door to the plane’s entry ramp opened. He scanned for “a fair-skinned woman with straight black, Asian hair to her shoulder blades.”
He was still seated when a woman matching the description emerged with the first-class passengers. Tall and slender, she wore black slacks and a green silk shirt. And damned if she wasn’t wearing black cowboy boots. This was his partner, all right.
He snatched his bag and coat and waded through the emerging passengers.
“I’m Joe Cardone.”
His words came out automatically, which was helpful since the thinking part of his brain suffered a brief short circuit. Her face was pretty and feminine, but her eyes were striking. Like a cat, his mind said as it jerked back into action. Green eyes with the merest, really no more than a subliminal hint, of almond shape. Twisted jade earrings the color of her shirt framed uncommonly fair skin.
Passengers streamed around Nova as she sized up her new partner. The flight had been long and bumpy, but the excitement of her newest mission hadn’t faded.
Agent Joe Cardone was good-looking, but young. Maybe her younger sister’s age, twenty-six. And while she might have expected him to be giving her a thorough going-over, too, he seemed to be captured by her eyes. She couldn’t resist a slight smile. She extended her hand. “Nova Blair. Glad to meet you, partner.”
His grip was warm and firm. He said, “We’ve got to hustle to make our connection. They’ve called the flight twice.”
“Let’s hustle then.”
They stooped to pick up her bulging bag at the same moment. She said, “I can handle it.”
She caught a frown from the kid, as if he felt she’d rebuked him. Let’s hope Mr. Cardone isn’t going to be uncomfortable taking orders from a woman.
“Yep,” he said, a cool edge on his words. “I bet you can handle it just fine.”
He spun on his heel and led the way at a fast clip. At the cockpit of their next flight, he paused. “Carrying?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. You?”
“Never when I’m in my IBM disguise.”
“IBM,” she said, and smiled. “Interesting cover.”
Most seats already held warm bodies. They had a window and a middle seat in row twelve. The aisle seat was already occupied. Her partner shoved his overnighter and coat into the overhead bin, climbed over the man on the aisle, and sat in the window seat.
Nova stashed her things overhead, and slid past the man on the aisle seat and sat in the middle.
Nova listened as her partner quietly flipped through the pages of a magazine. She wondered why they had paired her with someone so young rather than an old hand. She guessed Agent Joe Cardone could not yet have had more than a couple of assignments. Perhaps this was his first.
Fairbanks met them with a light drizzle, a low, leaden sky and a chill wind. They deplaned and hurried across the tarmac, the wind licking up the edges of their overcoats. They had privacy enough now for her to talk freely to him.
“Any other luggage?” he asked right away.
“No,” she said. “This is it.”
“We’re supposed to meet our Company man at city hall. That’s where the FBI has set up its Area Command Center. He’ll drive us to the hospital.”
She frowned. “I don’t know when you were in contact last, but I called in from Seattle. I was told the terrorist is in really bad shape. He might not make it.”
They entered the main receiving area. From long habit, she did a thorough visual sweep of the room as she continued talking. “Also,” she continued, “the Alyeska man may be—probably is—the only survivor from any of the pumping stations. It’s questionable whether either will be around much longer. We’re to observe the FBI’s interrogation, absorb what we can since the terrorist is the hottest lead we have. Apparently there is evidence of foreign involvement, in which case the Company is going to be brought in and they want eyes and ears here right now. I say we don’t waste time picking up our man. I’ll rent a car and get directions. You call and tell our contact to meet us at the hospital.”
She sensed him tense. Just the merest straightening of his shoulders gave him away. And the slight smile he offered was stiff. She was quite sure that he wasn’t used to taking orders from a woman—or perhaps might resent it. Only time with him would tell. And whether it was going to be a problem.
Chapter 3
Fairbanks, 3:30 p.m.
Sunday, May 15
Nova brought up the car, a Ford Taurus. Within minutes she and Agent Cardone were speeding up Airport Boulevard toward downtown Fairbanks. She’d buckled her seat belt. Her partner hadn’t. The kid’s still sure he’s going to live forever.
She snatched a quick sideways glance. He was frowning as he studied the rental agency map. She liked his looks: a broad face with brown, alert eyes set wide apart, dark brown wavy hair. He stood several inches taller than she. Broad shoulders and chest. She usually characterized a man’s body by sport type: with Car-done she thought boxer.
