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The Innocents Club
Taylor Smith
Senior CIA analyst Mariah Bolt remembers her late father as the man who abandoned his family to run off to Europe with another woman. Ben Bolt's fans remember him somewhat differently, and revere him as a literary genius.
But like it or not, Mariah has become the reluctant guardian of his legacynever suspecting she has also inherited a ticking time bomb.
As she is about to depart on a much-needed vacation with her teenage daughter, Mariah is called in on an urgent assignmentto lure a man into betraying his country. There's only one hitchto get to this man she has to cross paths with her father's old lover. Suddenly the past is back with a vengeance.
One old friend will betray her and another will be murdered, as Mariah discovers how little she really knows about her father's lifeand his death. And when her fifteen-year-old daughter goes missing, Mariah will be reminded once more that there are no limits in the terrifying game of international espionage.
Praise for the novels of TAYLOR SMITH
“The Innocents Club is an exciting espionage thriller….”
—Midwest Book Review
“Fifteen rounds of sturdy international espionage-cum-detection….”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Innocents Club
Taylor Smith…John Grisham “…it’s a perfectly plausible comparison—though Smith’s a better prose stylist.”
—Publishers Weekly on Random Acts
“The mix of suspense, forensic science, romance and mystery make this a real page-turner.”
—Orange Coast on Random Acts
“The story line is fast-paced and filled with numerous twists…Taylor Smith…continues her amazing rapid climb to the top rung…”
—Painted Rock Reviews on Random Acts
“Sharp characterization and a tightly focused time frame…give this intrigue a spellbinding tone of immediacy.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Best of Enemies
“The pace is swift and the action is concentrated…making it a perfect summer read.”
—Orange Coast on The Best of Enemies
“In this absorbing tale…characters are engaging…”
—Publishers Weekly on Common Passions
Also available from MIRA Books and TAYLOR SMITH
GUILT BY SILENCE
COMMON PASSIONS
THE BEST OF ENEMIES
RANDOM ACTS
DEADLY GRACE
The Innocents Club
Taylor Smith
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
This book could only be for Amy Moore-Benson, with heartfelt gratitude for her insight, her perseverance and her unflagging grace. Here’s to the wonder of new beginnings.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
My deepest thanks to those who offered their expertise and encouragement throughout this project. If I played fast and loose with the facts, it’s through no fault of theirs. I am especially grateful to members of the Newport Beach Police Department, who have been extraordinarily kind and helpful, particularly Dale Johnson, Don Gage, Ken Cowell, Mike Jackson and Dave Sperling. Thanks, too, to Dr. Ed Uthman, Ken Keller, Gary Bale and Luis Hernandez for coming up with answers when I needed them. For unflagging moral support, I thank Patricia McFall, Philip Spitzer, the Fictionaires (Orange County’s finest fiction writers) and family members near and far (most especially my wonderful Richard, Kate and Anna, who make life a joy even on the darkest of days).
No one could be more thankful than I for the steadfast commitment and hard work of the talented people at MIRA, beginning with Editorial Director Dianne Moggy. My warmest thanks to them all, most particularly Randall Toye, Katherine Orr, Stacy Widdrington, Greg Sarney, Heather Locken, Krystyna de Duleba and her brilliant design team, and, last but never least, Alex Osuszek and his enthusiastic team, the folks who bring stories and readers together.
To forget one’s ancestors is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root.
—ancient Chinese proverb
Contents
Thursday, July 4 (#ue74ff59c-7a26-5a0d-b4c8-eb478e23286c)
Prologue (#uc8ff583e-12b3-5ed7-87f8-d7124862fb50)
Monday, July 1 (#u3f61bc9e-6d45-5e1b-ad46-8386307bb7ad)
Chapter One (#ufe710372-7a30-52ef-a62c-a1d115de85ae)
Tuesday, July 2 (#u92bcd3f8-5dab-50de-9f7f-bbc264c96e18)
Chapter Two (#ub19aac67-3bd3-5887-bb2c-707220a28ced)
Chapter Three (#ue367331e-5629-52bc-893c-1015f2defb85)
Chapter Four (#uade482b0-0976-51e1-802b-487ba72cf46e)
Chapter Five (#u6c033f66-5120-5a8f-b7ba-00bb7ac8fe1b)
Chapter Six (#u721b0a50-7327-50df-9775-4cb516230920)
Chapter Seven (#u9750e7c0-bcd5-56fb-a810-45aa38dc7b78)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Wednesday, July 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Thursday, July 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Friday, July 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Tuesday, July 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Thursday, July 4
Prologue
She was exhausted. Wounded, bleeding, swimming for her life. Lungs on fire. Thin arms and legs aching from cold and the effort of pumping against heavy surf. A silent cry arose inside her, fueled by equal measures of pain, fear and indignation: I can’t do this!
As a young woman, Renata thought, she might have had a chance. She’d been fit then, and strong, albeit more than a little spoiled—the indulged only child of one of the world’s wealthiest men. But she was sixty-one years old now, for heaven’s sake. She hadn’t the stamina she once had.
Her brain snapped an obvious response: Swim or die, you fool!
She glanced nervously over her shoulder as, behind her in the dark, deep voices sounded, exchanging terse, furious commands. Had they spotted her, a tiny form bobbing on the star-sparkled water? Were they following? They seemed so close.
No, she tried to reassure herself. Not that close. It was just an acoustic trick of the clear night air. They were far away, too far even to be seen very clearly, though the sweep of the searchlight told her they hadn’t yet abandoned the hunt for her.
Only her?
A flash of shame passed through her as she thought of the young girl she’d abandoned on deck. What kind of woman leaves a child in mortal danger while she flees to save her own skin? Was it true what her husband had once said about her? Renata wondered. That there was something unnatural about a woman without empathy?
Her stroke slowed. Keeping low and still, she peered back at the boat, trying to distinguish between the silhouettes on the deck, but her vision wasn’t what it had once been, either. If the girl was still on board, Renata couldn’t make her out.
Perhaps, she rationalized, Lindsay, too, had managed to escape, leaping overboard in the confusion that had followed her own break for freedom. The girl appeared delicate, but they said she was a competitive swimmer. So, if she had gotten away, she had as much a chance as Renata herself of making it to safety. Maybe even better. After all, Renata thought resentfully, the girl had youth on her side.
Renata felt another quiver of guilt run down her spine. And if Lindsay hadn’t escaped those thugs on the boat? There was little doubt what was in store for that lovely young thing.
Well, all the more reason to keep swimming. Renata turned back toward shore and paddled on with new resolve.
Her captors had miscalculated. All up and down the coast, from Dana Point to Long Beach, Chinese rockets, pinwheels and brilliant cascades were exploding in the blue-black sky, clamorous displays of Fourth of July patriotism. Dozens of other small craft bobbed on the water, observing the spectacle.
Those brutes may have counted on the noise and confusion to cover their escape, but they hadn’t counted on one of their victims jumping overboard, had they? Renata thought smugly. And the pyrotechnics, far from making her more visible, seemed to have camouflaged her amidst watery shadow and sparkle as she made a clean escape.
Almost. But not quite.
At first, she hadn’t even realized they’d fired on her, what with the noise of the fireworks. They had to have been shooting blindly, but one lucky shot had found its target. Renata winced at the caustic, burning sensation in her shoulder, but forced herself to ignore it. If she could just reach one of the small pleasure crafts lying in toward shore, she’d be home free. Then, she’d send back the authorities.
She slogged on, determined to get as far away as possible from the boat’s searchlights before the fireworks finale, when her predators’ eyes would readjust to the dark and have a better chance of picking her out. It would be a ridiculous way to die, flapping in the water like some wing-shot pelican. She wouldn’t have it. It was as simple as that.
But her strokes were becoming more ineffectual. It wasn’t just fatigue and the loss of blood. Her sodden dress was weighing her down. It would have to go, Renata decided. Her pumping legs kept her afloat while she wrestled out of it, wincing with pain. All she had on now were her sagging underthings, but her bra straps cut into her wounded shoulder. Her panties, too, drooped with the weight of the water they’d absorbed. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought ruefully, slipping out of them, as well.
Then, she swam on, holding down rising anxiety by sheer force of her legendary indomitable will. It worked for a while, but between her injured shoulder and flagging strength, she made slow progress. Inevitably, panic began to creep up, and in spite of herself, Renata began to cry. She was so weary! She’d been paddling for what felt like hours toward the nearest boat, yet it never seemed to get any closer.
They must be moving off, leaving me all alone out here! Oh, God, I can’t do this!
Her father’s impatient voice rose from the deep recesses of her memory: Stop whining and get on with it, girl! We make our own fate. Don’t get mad, get even.
He was right. Terrible to be so weak, Renata thought, angry with herself now. She’d become too sedentary, that was the problem. Her self-indulgences had once included scuba diving in the Mediterranean, all-night dancing and many, many men, but now they ran to more sedate pleasures—the latest gallery opening, a very good cognac, dinners at the White House. Certainly nothing that would prepare her to leap off a boat and swim, bruised and bloodied, toward a shoreline that was—what? Miles off, it must be.
She breasted a rising swell, breathing hard through gritted teeth, but her waning strokes no longer carried her forward against the rolling sea. Renata paused to catch her ragged breath and give her aching arms a rest.
Just for a moment. I’m so tired.
She lay back, arms spread, a tiny, naked crucifix on the water’s surface. Something warm seeped over her right breast, a tepid rivulet trickling over her shoulder and down into her armpit. Her fingers probed the wound’s sticky edges. It should hurt, she thought, but it didn’t anymore. The narcotic effect of sheer adrenaline, she supposed. She closed her eyes, trying not to imagine how much blood she’d lost. How much was still ebbing away into the great, insatiable ocean.
From somewhere deep inside her head came another voice, low and drawling, offering stoic reassurance: Just a flesh wound, ma’am.
