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He’d seen Prentiss slip out of the reception room minutes after Devereaux had also disappeared. And he’d made a silent bet with himself that the two events were no coincidence. It was gratifying to confirm that he was right. Also a bit unsettling.
Devereaux had told everybody who would listen that she was a travel agent. Prentiss was supposed to be on a fact-finding mission for the Global Bank. But it appeared the two of them had more compelling reasons to be in San Marcos. Also, it seemed they knew each other, although neither one had admitted as much. Probably they were working together. And it looked as if Devereaux had gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar, so to speak.
His lips thinned. Had she discovered anything incriminating before they’d bagged her? He’d have to find out quickly. And make sure she didn’t get a chance to talk.
For several seconds he enjoyed watching Prentiss stand with his hands clenched at his sides. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing the bastard was sweating. But the man in the bushes didn’t let the pleasure show on his face.
Deep in thought, he left his hiding place and strode toward the mansion. He’d never met Prentiss, although he’d heard of him. He was a once-top agent who was now washed up in the intelligence business. The rumor was he’d lost his nerve. But he’d toughed it out just fine with Sanchez’s man.
Too bad. Prentiss and Devereaux were another problem he’d have to solve before he made any final decisions about Sanchez. But right now he’d better get in touch with his man in Junipero Province to make sure nothing out of the ordinary was happening out there.
* * *
JED STUDIED C ASSANDRA Devereaux, noting the strain etched into her profile. She looked so much like Marissa so much that it was painful.
“Would you tell the others what you told me?” she asked in a strangled voice.
It had been three days since Marissa was taken away by Sanchez’s guards. Jed had arrived at Cassie’s renovated East Baltimore row house at five in the afternoon, given her a summary of her sister’s predicament and collapsed into bed for a few hours of badly needed sleep. While he’d been conked out, she’d made half a dozen phone calls, and he was damn impressed with the group of people she’d so quickly assembled.
He looked around the living room at the circle of faces.
He knew Jason Zacharias, of course. They’d worked together on a number of undercover assignments, including the time he’d come to rescue Jason and his wife Noel from a Scottish megalomaniac and Jason had ended up saving him. The other women of 43 Light Street and their husbands were strangers. But he knew they were Marissa’s friends. He’d always thought of her as so cold. But he could see from the faces around him that they were all deeply concerned about the turn of events in San Marcos. And they’d do anything they could to get her out of this mess.
He was especially struck by the couple sitting close together on the couch. She was Jo O’Malley, who’d been introduced as a private detective. He was Cameron Randolph, an electronics genius. Jo was expecting their first child, and it was obvious how happy they were about the pregnancy. Still, Jo had cancelled a prenatal appointment to attend this meeting.
“Start at the party,” Cassie requested.
Jed did, skipping over his personal reactions to Marissa and sticking with the facts, “I went straight from Sanchez’s to the American embassy, but they couldn’t do anything until nine the next morning. By then it was already too late to complain that an American citizen named Marissa Devereaux was being held incommunicado by General Miguel Sanchez.” He shifted in his chair.
“Too bad the embassy didn’t get right on it. I checked with the San Marcos Department of Immigration the next day and found out that no one named Marissa Devereaux had entered the country in the past three weeks the legal limit for a renewable tourist visa.”
Jo’s eyes narrowed. “Somebody must have been working overtime searching for her entry visa. But it paid off. If she’s not legally in the country, there’s no way to lodge any kind of official complaint.”
“You’ve got it,” Jed agreed.
“I’ve been burning up the phone lines to the State Department,” Cassie added. “Marci was on an undercover assignment for our old boss Victor Kirkland. He was willing to speak off the record because I’ve still got my security clearance. He says he’s sorry, but he can’t do anything to help her because State can’t acknowledge her mission.
“Can the U.S. State Department really operate that way?” The question came from a woman sitting in the corner. Small and delicate, she had curly brown hair and big brown eyes that seemed to stare right through Cassie. Her name was Jenny Larkin, and she was blind. Jed had wondered at first what she was doing at the meeting, since it was obvious that she had less experience than the others with the unofficial workings of government or with detective work. But he’d quickly discovered that her analytic mind and phenomenal memory were an asset to the group.
“I’m afaid they can do whatever they want to, as long as they don’t get caught,” Cassie explained. “But I’m not going to let Victor get away with stonewalling me.”
Jed admired her defiant posture, but he didn’t hold out much hope from that quarter. He knew the rules. And so did Marissa. She’d taken a job where it was understood she was on her own if there was trouble.
Until now, Abby Franklin had been silent. “What else have you got for us?” she asked him.
“After the scam at Immigration, I didn’t expect to find a record of a Marissa Devereaux checking in to a hotel. But I put it around that I’d be at the Cafе Primo and that I was willing to pay for information about a blond gringa travel agent who might have been in Santa Isabella within the past few days.
“I got lucky with a portero from El Grande who remembered commenting on Marissa’s snorkeling equipment. He took her to room 345.”
“So you let yourself in and had a look around the premises,” Jo guessed. Jed was pretty sure she’d have done exactly the same thing. Before her pregnancy, anyway.
“Right. The room had been ragged out. But the maid had forgotten to replace the notepad by the phone. The top sheet looked clean. But I could make out the impression of the previous message, which was the name of a taxi company and Miguel Sanchez’s address.”
“I couldn’t go into court with that,” Dan Cassidy muttered. As an assistant state’s attorney, he knew the rules of evidence.
Cassie slammed her fist against the arm of her chair. “I’ve been begging Marci for years not to keep taking these assignments. I told her this one was too dangerous. Damn her. What’s wrong with her? Does she want to get herself killed?” She shot Abby a pleading look.
The woman shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “There are reasons why she takes risks other people would consider unacceptable.”
Startled, Jed stared at the attractive brunette. She’d been introduced as a psychologist. And, like most headshrinkers, she’d shut up and let everyone else do the talking. It sounded as if she’d been seeing Marissa professionally. Remembering the way Marissa had always struggled to hide her emotions from him, he was seized with sudden regret that he’d never tried to understand her; he’d only reacted to what he perceived as her cold arrogance.
“Is that all you’re going to say?” Cassie persisted, her voice fierce. “Won’t anybody stick their neck out for Marci?”
“It’s not a matter of sticking my neck out,” Abby said gently. “You know it would be a breach of professional ethics to talk about the things Marissa and I have discussed at her therapy sessions.”
Cassie looked down at her hands.
“You think someone betrayed Marissa?” Jenny asked Jed.
“I know she wouldn’t have crossed the patio unless she’d been assured it would be empty. There could have been a backup security system only Sanchez knows about. Even a silent alarm,” Jed observed. “Or someone at the party could have spotted her heading for forbidden territory and alerted security.”
“Who?” Cassie snapped.
“Any of over a hundred guests. She was talking to Thomas Leandro just before she left. But there were a lot of other people there. One of them might have jumped at the chance to do the general a favor. Or it could be someone with his own ax to grind. Pedro Harara, the president of the Banco Nacional, doesn’t much like American women.”
“Why not?” Cassie asked.
“He married one who caught him in bed with his secretary and took him for several million dollars when she moved back North again.”
The laughter around the room cut some of the tension.
Jed answered more questions, gave more opinions and assessments, all the while trying to keep certain pictures out of his mind pictures of what could be happening to Marissa. He couldn’t allow emotion to cloud his judgment. And he dared not let his private fears show on his face because that might panic the group.
Jason had been silent through most of the discussions, letting the others ask questions. Then he began to formulate a plan.
“Too harebrained,” Jed snapped when the security expert had finished.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Give me a little time to think.
* * *
“MARISSA SHIFTED uncomfortably on the narrow bunk. It was made of wooden planks and topped with a straw tick that prickled where it touched her skin. Not very comfortable, but at least the mattress wasn’t resting directly on the unwashed stone floor.
She shuddered. She’d been in this tiny cell for three days, and she knew she was in danger of coming unglued. After the scene on the patio, two women had strip-searched her before she’d been locked up.
It had been humiliating, but thank God they hadn’t found anything incriminating. Now she was praying that her hasty addition to Sanchez’s toilet tank didn’t gum up the works.
At first she’d huddled on the bunk, expecting the general to interrogate her as soon as possible. But minutes of waiting had turned into hours. Was he researching her background before he called her upstairs to give himself an advantage?
That theory had gone out the window as hours dragged into days. She still hadn’t seen the general. Or anyone else, since the guards were shoving her meager meals of rice and beans through a slot in the door.
Some of her clothes and her bag of toiletries preceded the food on her second afternoon. Wondering if anyone was watching on a hidden camera, she changed out of her rumpled black dress into cotton slacks and a T-shirt. The knowledge that someone had been in her hotel room wasn’t comforting. Nor was the lack of response to any of the pleas and questions she’d shouted through the door.
What kind of mind game was Sanchez playing, anyway?
It was hard not to feel completely abandoned, but she didn’t allow herself to lose hope. Still aware that someone might be spying on her, she furtively took some of the items from her cosmetic kit and slipped them into her pocket. If she was very lucky, she’d get a chance to use them.
Then, for as long as she could keep moving, she did what exercises she could manage without getting down on the squalid floor in her tiny cell. After fatigue claimed her, there was nothing to do but lie on the bunk and think.
First she tried to figure out how she’d gotten caught. Most likely the dirty rat who’d taken her money to unlock the door to the office complex and disappear for twenty minutes had turned her in. Or he could have gotten nailed himself. Or someone else at the party besides Jed might have figured out what she was doing.
Thomas Leandro? The balding professor who spouted Marxist doctrine and combed what hair he had in a swirl around his glossy dome. In a strong wind, he looked like a bird’s nest that had blown out of a tree.
Pedro Harara? The five-foot-three banker who dressed like a character in a thirties gangster movie and wore a girdle to hide his paunch. He’d almost put her to sleep standing up with his scintillating discussion of international fund transfers.
Louis Rinaldo? The tough-looking minister of development who’d worked his way up from street gang member to cabinet officer. He wore three gold rings on his fingers to prove he’d made it.
Or what about the man who called himself William Johnson, the one with the horse face and the drawl that stretched all the way to Texas? She had no idea who he was or what he was doing at the party, but she’d had him on her list to check out. Too bad she’d never gotten a chance.
The only guest she was sure hadn’t given her up to El Jefe was President Juan Palmeriz. San Marcos’s elected leader hated Sanchez and was praying for an excuse to get him out of power. But his fear of a coup was so great that he didn’t go to sleep at night without first looking under the bed.
After hours of fruitless speculation, Marissa felt as if she’d go insane if she didn’t have someone to talk to. Maybe that was what Sanchez wanted. And she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking her. So she began to make up long silent conversations with various friends and enemies.
She mentally discussed with Abby the character defects that had gotten her into this mess. Abby kept saying it wasn’t her fault; she wished she could be as sure.
She railed at Victor Kirkland for sending her on a mission that, in retrospect, had been foolhardy.
She tried to rehearse plausible answers to the questions Sanchez was eventually going to ask her. If he wasn’t simply planning to let her rot here.
But when she felt most alone and terrified, she talked to Jed Prentiss. Particularly at night when it was dark and he couldn’t see her face.
She knew that was a silly contrivance. He wasn’t even in the cell with her. She wasn’t sure she could trust him. She didn’t even know whether he was still in San Marcos. Yet it was somehow very comforting to lie in bed and mentally whisper to him in the dark, as if they were lovers instead of uneasy rivals.
Somebody turned me in. Was it you? She posed the question to him in her mind for the dozenth time, holding her breath as if she really were waiting for his answer.
I wouldn’t do that, honey bee.
She wanted to believe him with all her heart. For the time being, she gave him the benefit of the doubt.
You’re the only one who knows what’s happened to me.
Yeah.
Are you doing anything to get me out of here?
She waited in the blackness, her mind forming the answer she wanted to hear: he was moving heaven and earth to spring her from this cell. But it was hard to have much faith in wishful thinking. Or anything else.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine that he had shifted to his side, that he had put his muscular arms around her so that they lay on the bunk spoon fashion. She sighed and scooted a little closer, almost swearing she could smell the spicy after-shave he wore, feel the hard wall of his chest against the back of her head. She pictured his broad shoulders and the sun-streaked hair that always made him look as if he’d climbed out of a lifeguard’s chair. It was so good to delegate some of the fear and uncertainty to him. To let him give her his protection.
She longed to ask more of him. Gently she touched her finger to her lips, stroking back and forth with a feather-light touch, imagining what it might be like to kiss him. A little shiver went through her. She’d wanted to taste his mouth. A couple of years ago she’d finally admitted that to herself. Almost every time they met, she looked at his lips. But there was no such thing as sharing a chaste kiss with a man like Jed. He would want more.
Vivid images invaded her mind, and she could feel her body trembling. In the darkness she struggled for control for the calm center of her soul where she was in charge of her life. It took longer than usual. Her emotions were in too much turmoil, her nerves too raw. But finally her will prevailed the way it always did.
Years ago she’d figured out what was necessary for her survival. Like the way she’d acted to keep Jed at arm’s length. She knew he’d been puzzled at first. The perplexity had changed to a mixture of anger and hurt. That had made her ache inside. She’d wanted so badly to erase the wounded look from his eyes.
But he frightened her too much. He was too male. Too assertive. Too much a creature of the tough, aggressive habits he’d developed during long years as an undercover agent.
He was too dangerous for her. The wrong kind of man entirely. If she was going to dare a relationship with anyone, it should be with a mild, unthreatening guy who wouldn’t make demands. Who’d let her set the pace. Yet fate kept throwing her into Jed’s path in various Latin American countries where they were both doing undercover work. And every time they met, she felt like a moth being drawn to a flame.
But it was different now. Here, in this cell, where she was so defenseless and alone, she was too weak to give up the small amount of comfort she gained by pretending he was lying in back of her, his body shielding hers, ready to overpower the guards when they finally opened the door. With a soft sigh she closed her eyes and hugged her arms around her shoulders.
* * *
JED LEANED BACK in the comfortable wing chair in Abby Franklin’s office at 43 Light Street. The setting was tastefully soothing, and he tried to fit in by crossing his legs easily at the ankles and sipping at the mug of coffee she’d offered him. Probably he wasn’t fooling Dr. Franklin. This crack-of-dawn meeting was his last stop in Baltimore before he decided whether or not to risk his life on a mission that had about a fifty-percent chance of succeeding.
“I appreciate your getting together with me so early,” he said, setting down the mug.
“I appreciate your volunteering to get Marissa out of San Marcos.”
“I’m not exactly working for free.”
Abby ignored the clarification. “Now that we know for sure that the State Department won’t do a damn thing, you may be her only chance.”
“You might have to come up with another alternative. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to take the job.”
“Jason thinks you’re the one who can do it.”
He ignored the vote of confidence and sprang a question on her. “Is Marissa just a danger to herself? Or to others, as well?”
“She’s not a danger to herself,” Abby retorted.
“You told Cassandra her sister takes crazy chances.”
“That’s a loose interpretation of what I said.”
“You have to tell me what’s going on in Marissa’s head before I make a commitment.”
Abby looked regretful. “Jed, she trusts me not to talk about our sessions. I can’t betray her confidences to you.”
“Not even to save her life?”
Abby paused before replying. “Let me put it this way. If you go back to San Marcos knowing certain things about her that she hasn’t chosen to reveal to you, she’ll sense it and react negatively. And she’ll never trust either one of us again.”
“Let me put it this way,” he countered. “Your group of conspirators has hatched a very flaky plan. And when I get to San Marcos, I’m not going to be able to clue in Marissa. She’ll have to take my opening moves on blind faith. Then the two of us are going to have to pull off a performance worthy of the stars in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Is she up to that? Or will she get both of us killed?”
Abby knit her fingers together in her lap. “Jed, I can’t tell you very much. But perhaps you’ve sensed that she has strong feelings for you.”
