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“Rich people never think they’re rich. And they’re friends with President Poe. They don’t need to be rich.”
“Are you whining, Spencer?”
She groaned. “Yes, I’m whining. How long is Dunnemore staying?”
“Not my problem.”
Which meant it was her problem. Maggie had seen pictures of Rob Dunnemore. He was fair and very good-looking, more rugged than she’d expected—or particularly wanted to admit at the moment, since she preferred to think of him in terms of stereotypes.
People said he had gray eyes, but she hadn’t really noticed.
“When’s he getting here?” she asked.
“Half an hour.”
“I like the big warning I get.”
Bremmerton shrugged. “I just found out myself.”
“You have his flight information?”
He handed her a printout. “Don’t treat him like a VIP. He’s a federal agent. He’s here on business.”
“Marshal business? Or President Poe business?”
“Don’t go there, Maggie. Dunnemore’s main reason for being here is to see you. He’s not even being very subtle about it.”
Since Bremmerton had more than two decades of foreign assignments behind him and she had three weeks, Maggie trusted his instincts. She was fortunate to be working with him. He’d gone to Nairobi in the aftermath of the American embassy bombing that had killed scores there. From all accounts, he’d been a steady presence amid tragedy and fear. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone who knew him or his reputation. No task within the realm of diplomatic security was too big or too small for him to tackle, which, along with his mix of competence and genuine decency, had earned him widespread respect and admiration. He also managed to have a relatively normal family life, with his speech-therapist wife with him in The Hague and two kids in college in the Midwest.
Maggie had worked hard to gain George Bremmerton’s confidence in her three weeks at the embassy and didn’t take it for granted.
If he wanted her to baby-sit President Poe’s marshal pal, that was what she’d do.
“I guess I should get going,” she said.
“His twin sister’s getting married in a few weeks to the marshal who got shot with him in Central Park.” Bremmerton shrugged at his own non sequitur. “It’ll give you something to talk about. She’s an archaeologist. Sarah.”
“He’s going to want to talk about Nick Janssen.”
Given the small size of the Netherlands, Schiphol was almost exclusively an international airport—a very busy one—but Maggie had no trouble finding Rob Dunnemore. She recognized him from all the pictures she’d seen of him since the Central Park attack.
He was even more good-looking in person. Tall, very fit. Lightly tanned. He had on a dark suit that had come through the long flight virtually without wrinkles.
His eyes were, indeed, gray.
She introduced herself. “Can I carry something?”
“No, thank you, I’ve got everything.”
She’d expected more of a Southern accent. He had a small carry-on suitcase that she hoped meant he didn’t plan a long stay.
But as he observed her, she sensed an air of danger about him that took her aback. She quickly told herself she’d imagined it. It was just something she’d assumed because she knew he’d nearly been killed in the line of duty four months ago.
“Decent flight?” she asked, leading him out to her car.
“Uneventful.”
“That’s the way I like it. I always feel as if I’ve come out of the dryer after a long flight. Did you sleep?”
“I’m fine, Agent Spencer.”
But cranky, she thought. “Please, call me Maggie.”
He didn’t seem too excited about riding in her red Mini. She unlocked the passenger door. “SUVs don’t work that well in Holland with all the narrow streets and teeny-tiny parking spaces.”
“The Mini’s no problem. It’s yours?”
For the first time, she detected his Southern accent. She nodded. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”
She thought he might have smiled.
“Jet lag’s a killer,” she said when she got in behind the wheel. “My father used to swear by drinking a gallon of water on the plane and not eating a bite. I thought he was exaggerating, but he meant it. A whole gallon of water.”
“I ate everything that was offered.”
Maggie smiled. “That’s what I do.”
Dunnemore stared out his window most of the drive back to The Hague. She didn’t bug him. It was still before dawn his time. His body wanted to be in bed, asleep.
“I’ll drop you off at your hotel,” she said. “You can get settled, and I’ll come fetch you when you want—”
“I can make it to the embassy on my own.”
So it was going to be that way. He wanted control. No suggestions from her. She shrugged. “Fine by me.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound surly. Thank you for trekking me around.”
“You asked for me. My boss gave the order.”
“I asked if I could talk with you. I didn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She smiled over at him. “You’ve got me for the duration of your visit, Deputy.”
When they arrived at his hotel, he turned down her offer to make sure his room was ready. He’d see to it. He was definitely independent. Self-sufficient. Not one who played well with others. Maggie hoped it wouldn’t become a problem. She didn’t want to bump heads with Rob Dunnemore, friend of the president.
Thomas Kopac intercepted her when she got back to the embassy. “Rumor has it you’re escorting President Poe’s—”
“You shouldn’t be listening to rumors.”
“Rob Dunnemore. He’s here?”
“He’s freshening up at his hotel. He’s a marshal. We’re not supposed to think of him as Poe’s surrogate son.”
Kopac grinned. “Says who?”
“Says me. Anything I can do for you? Or do I get to do a little work before Dunnemore gets here?”
“Nothing you can do for me, Special Agent Spencer.” He leaned in toward her, adding in an amused conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll be in my office if you need a place to scream. It’s in the bowels of the building. No one’ll hear you.”
“Very funny.”
He laughed. “I thought so.”
When she got back to her desk, Maggie checked her e-mail, hoping for another tip, something that would force Bremmerton to find someone else to stick Rob Dunnemore with. The guy put her nerve endings on edge. It wasn’t the Poe connection, she decided. It was the gray eyes.
But there was nothing.
Her mobile phone rang, almost as if it knew she was looking for distractions.
A private number.
“Maggie Spencer—”
“St. John’s Cathedral is the finest example of Gothic architecture in the Netherlands.”
The voice was male, the accent East Coast American, and the words had her sitting up straight. St. John’s was in ’s-Hertogenbosch, the same city where Dutch police had picked up Nick Janssen yesterday.
“Who is this?”
“I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. It’s important that we talk.”
“I understand, but I need more information—”
“Just trust your instincts.”
“My instincts tell me this is a crank call.”
She thought she heard the start of a laugh. “I doubt that. Do people still call you Magster? Your father did when you were small, didn’t he?”
Magster.
Her stomach flip-flopped, but she warned herself that using her childhood name could just be a good guess, a way to manipulate her. It didn’t mean he knew anything about her father’s death. She couldn’t let herself think it was anything more.
“Who are you? I need a name.”
It was as if she hadn’t spoken. “Come alone. If you don’t, I’ll disappear, and you’ll have missed an important opportunity.”
“An opportunity for what?”
But he was gone, the connection dead.
A meeting. Was the guy out of his mind?
He must have prepared every word in advance. Of course her father called her Magster. What father with a daughter named Maggie didn’t?
Some days she couldn’t believe it’d been eighteen months since his murder; other days, it was as if her father was more a dream than anything else, lost in a fog of memories and lost possibilities.
Had the caller known him?
Maggie felt a sudden rush of tears that she immediately fought back, impatient with herself.
But Rob Dunnemore materialized behind her, startling her with his good looks. The ends of his fair hair were still damp from his shower. He hadn’t wasted any time in getting cleaned up and settled in.
She smiled quickly, hoping there was no sign of even one damn tear in her eyes. “Have a seat, Deputy. We can get started.”
“Bad day?”
“What? Oh.” She made herself smile. “No, not yet.”
He didn’t seem to believe her. “That’s good.”
Maggie wished she’d indulged in chocolate sprinkles that morning, because it was going to be a very long day.
Magster.
She’d figure out what to do about her anonymous caller when she didn’t have Deputy Dunnemore’s gray eyes on her.
Wide awake despite his overnight flight and long day, Rob sat on a wooden chair at a small table in his room on the top floor of his hotel, a renovated eighteenth-century building. It had low, slanted ceilings and no air-conditioning, but it wasn’t a hot night, at least by middle Tennessee standards.
He heard laughter through his open window and looked down four floors at a young couple standing under a linden tree, its branches carefully trained.
Rob turned away from the scene.
His eyes were heavy, scratchy, from fatigue and jet lag.
Maggie Spencer had walked with him back to his hotel, turning down a quick after-work drink.
A woman with things on her mind, Special Agent Spencer.
He’d gone into the dark, quiet bar by himself, but in a few minutes another man joined him, introducing himself as Tom Kopac, an embassy employee. Maggie’s friend.
They’d had a beer together. It was clear word had gotten out that the wounded marshal from the Janssen mess in May—the marshal who was friends with the president—was in town and Maggie was stuck with him.
Kopac had decided to check him out.
Their conversation was cordial but superficial. Rob had smiled at the older man. “Maggie’s a DS agent. She protects you. You don’t protect her.”
“She’s also a friend.”
