“I’m not a private detective,” she said, “nor am I one of Jones’s contract ‘fixers.’ I’m still not certain who you really are or what you are doing for Jones, and I doubt if you are going to tell me, are you?”
“A deduction made by real police work,” he replied, lifting his beer in a mock salute.
She said, “Look, there’s something I need to tell you. I told my superiors that it was a mistake sending you along.”
“I would have been surprised if you hadn’t.”
“It’s nothing personal. You’re kind of likable.”
“Kind of likable, not adorable?”
“The reason why I said I didn’t want you tagging along is because you’re a cowboy. You don’t follow the rules and that means I can’t depend on you. When we first met — when Senator Windslow first demanded that you be brought into the kidnapping investigation — I put all of my cards on the table. I was completely honest with you and treated you like a professional. But you didn’t put your cards on the table. You didn’t treat me like a professional. You hid information from me.”
“You’re right,” Storm said. “I did hide information from you.”
“At least you’re honest about that,” she said. “My point is: How are we supposed to work together if I can’t trust you? I don’t know for certain if you are being honest with me right now.”
“I understand,” he replied, “but I work with people all of the time who are not telling me the truth and are hiding things from me. I’ve even worked with people who wanted to kill me.”
“I can understand that,” she deadpanned.
“But you find a way to get around all of that and accomplish the mission.”
“How? Especially if you don’t follow the rules?”
“I don’t trust rules. But I do trust my instincts and what they tell me about the people working with me. Rules can get you killed.”
“So can breaking them.”
“Agent Showers, have you ever had a one-night stand?” he asked.
She let out a sigh. “I’m trying to have an adult conversation.”
“Perhaps it’s not the best analogy, but hear me out. If you meet someone in a bar and you end up in the sack, you have certain expectations, maybe even certain demands, but you don’t fall in love with that person and you don’t share your most intimate secrets with them, even though you are doing something very intimate. You don’t necessarily trust them either. You just do your job and move on. The same is true at work.” He smiled, clearly happy with that explanation.
“You’re making my head spin with your logic. Is that what a one-night stand is to you?” she asked, raising a brow. “A job? And then you move on?”
Without waiting for him to answer, she said, “I guess that’s one of the differences between us and why I work at the FBI and you work for Jedidiah Jones.”
“Now my head is spinning,” he said, mimicking her.
“When I was in college, a CIA recruiter came to see me. He told me that people who worked for the Agency were not obligated to follow U.S. laws when they traveled overseas. He bragged that a CIA employee could lie, cheat, steal, break into apartments, and even kill. The rules don’t apply. That’s what he said. That’s the sort of folks he wanted working for him. People who think they are above the law. People like you.”
“He was just being honest with you,” Storm said. “As my mother used to say, ‘You got to crack a few eggs to make an omelet.’” He finished his beer and waved to the waitress.
“I’m not a person whose moral code ends when I cross the U.S. border,” she said. “Oh, another thing. I don’t do one-night stands. So don’t get your hopes — or anything else — up during our trip.”
“Around you,” he replied, “I’m always fully hopeful.”
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said. “I’ll see you on the plane.”
“Don’t get confused and go into the wrong potty,” he said, smirking.
“I only do that when I have to rescue you,” she replied, leaving.
He noticed that she’d not left a tip.
“Lady friend troubles?” the waitress asked, returning to his table.
“She’s a bit high-strung.”
“Too skinny, too.” The waitress bent over when she served him another beer, giving Storm an eyeful. “This one’s on the house. My name’s Eve. You know, the girl who ate that nasty apple. Why don’t you stop in again when you get back from wherever you’re flying off to.” She walked away slowly, making sure that he got a good view.
The gate agent announced over the intercom that it was time to board the Heathrow flight. First class ticket holders hurried forward. Business class was next.
Storm checked his first class ticket. But he did not move. He had no interest in boarding early. If he did, all the passengers that came after him would see his face as they slowly made their way down the aisle, finding their seats and storing their luggage. Storm wanted to be the last on a flight. He wanted to sit as near the front of the plane as possible, and he wanted to be the first off every flight. This way, he could observe all of the other passengers and hopefully not call attention to himself.
When it looked as if the last passengers were on the walkway, Storm tossed a ten-dollar tip on the table and walked over to the gate. He’d not seen Showers and was curious where she’d gone.
“Welcome aboard,” the agent said, taking his ticket. “Oh, you’re first class. You could have boarded earlier.”
“Nature called.” He bent down to tie his shoe, stalling. Where was Showers?
Storm heard the sounds of someone running toward him.
“I’ve got a ticket.” It was a woman, but not Showers. Storm noticed that she had a distinct Russian accent.
“Looks like you have three late-comers,” Showers said as she stepped to the gate.
“Yes,” the agent replied, “and all three of you are seated in first class. What a coincidence.”
“Yes, indeed,” Storm said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
torm knew the instant that he saw her and heard the Russian accent. In her late twenties, she was wearing functional shoes, skin-tight designer jeans, and a dark gray sweater pulled over a low-collared, gray, wide-striped shirt whose tail peeked out. A professional women’s dive watch was on her wrist. She wore no jewelry but did have a thin silver belt around her waist that Storm suspected could be an effective garrote in her well-manicured hands. He put her at five-foot-six and 119 pounds. She had long black hair pulled back from unblemished bronze skin. Her dark eyes were highlighted perfectly by thin brows.
Storm knew the SVR — the successor to the Soviet KGB — didn’t believe women were emotionally stable enough to be trained as operatives. Instead, the Russian intelligence service used them as secretaries, couriers, and sometimes as prostitutes in covert operations. They also sent them abroad as illegals, giving them fake backgrounds and sending them into enemy countries to embed themselves in the local culture and gradually work their way into useful positions to spy. But they never used them as Vympel soldiers or on protective details.
If Storm was correct, this woman was not a native Russian but was from one of the Soviet’s former republics whose intelligence services didn’t share Moscow’s machismo attitude. He suspected she worked for Ivan Petrov.
The overnight flight proved uneventful. Unfortunately, Storm found himself seated next to a rather plump middle-aged woman who drank four glasses of Riesling, fell asleep instantly, and began snoring with an open mouth.
As soon as the flight landed, Storm exited, keeping an eye on both the late arriving passenger and Showers. After clearing Customs and Immigration, he ducked into Heathrow’s Virgin Atlantic clubhouse, where he used his laptop in one of the private rooms to send a photo to Langley of the female passenger. He’d snapped the picture with his cell phone when she’d gotten up to use the toilet after dinner on the transatlantic flight. The agency’s facial recognition program identified her in less than a minute.