They stepped out into the hallway and he turned toward his temporary digs in an underground warehouse space that he’d appropriated a few weeks back.
“What exactly are the Medusas?” he asked as they walked.
“‘Who are they?’ is the appropriate question.”
Not real chatty, this self-contained woman. When she didn’t continue, he said, “Okay, then. Who are they?”
“Special Forces team. All-female.”
“All-what?” Female? No. Freaking. Way. There was no way women could do the job he and his buddies did. None. Not possible.
She didn’t bother to reply. Apparently, she figured he’d heard her correctly the first time.
She might not let him carry her bags for her, but he did open the door for her when they arrived at his office. She nodded her thanks as she stepped inside. The true black of underground shrouded the room, and she paused in the thin shaft of light spilling weakly into the space from behind them. He reached out and flipped the wall switch beside the door. Halogen lights flashed on overhead, illuminating the cavernous space.
His companion studied the elaborate mock-ups of walls, and partial rooms scattered all over the spacious room, looking like stored television show sets. He closed the door behind them. “Welcome to my laboratory.”
“What are you researching?”
“The appropriate question is ‘Who is the Ghost?’”
“Okay. Who is the Ghost?”
“Our mission. Yours and mine.”
“Come again?”
He smiled at the incongruousness of such a quintessentially military phrase issuing from her quintessentially feminine mouth.
“The Ghost. We’ll talk more about him later if it turns out you can actually help me. My desk is over here.” He led her to a glass-enclosed space tucked in one corner of the storage area.
He led her inside and moved behind his desk to sit down. He actually felt safer with the bulky piece between them. She’d taken him by surprise with that throw of hers. Next time, though, he’d be ready for the move. “I’m afraid I need you to tell me a little more about yourself before I can bring you on board this project.”
“Captain Steiger, I am an experienced and decorated Special Forces operative, and General Wittenauer thinks I’m the right person to help you with whatever you’re doing. This isn’t a job interview. It’s a done deal; I have been assigned to this mission.”
He studied her, frustrated. What the hell was he supposed to do with a girl? What on God’s green Earth was the Old Man up to?
He must’ve muttered that last question aloud, because Captain Kim replied dryly, “I don’t speak for General Wittenauer. Why don’t you call him and ask?”
His eyes narrowed. He could smell a bluff at a hundred paces. Fine. He picked up the phone. “Hey, Carter, get me JSOC headquarters, will ya?” He’d show her a thing or two about playing poker with a good ol’ boy.
The familiar voice of Mary Norton, General Wittenauer’s personal secretary, came on the line. Jeff drawled, “Well, hey there, Ms. Mary. How’s my favorite lady in the whole world doing today?”
The secretary’s formal tone thawed considerably. “I’m fine, Captain Steiger. And what can I do for you?”
“Is the Old-is General Wittenauer available?”
The secretary laughed. “Yes. The Old Man’s here. He’s only in his early fifties, you know. One moment.”
A brusque voice said, “Go.”
“Sir. This is Captain Steiger down at H.O.T. Watch. I’m calling about the operative I asked for to help me catch the Ghost.”
“Hasn’t she arrived yet? Her plane must’ve gotten held up.”
Her. He’d said her. The woman sitting before him wasn’t a mistake. Sonofa-
“She’s a hell of an operator, Jeff. Just the ticket for what you need.”
“But I need a combat operator. Someone to catch a thief-”
The general cut him off. “And that’s why I sent you Cobra. If anyone can get the job done, it’s her. Trust me, Steiger. She’s a pro.”
Cobra? She had a field handle? Great. Some chick with delusions of being one of the boys.
“Let me know how your experiment goes, son. We’ve got some very high-powered folks breathing down the necks of their congressmen, and that sort of crap rolls downhill fast. It’s landing on me deep and still steaming over here at the Pentagon.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.” He hung up the phone, staring at it stonily.
A melodic voice interrupted his dark musings. “We’re going to catch a thief, are we? What’s he stealing?”
“Art.”
“What kind of art?”
“Paintings. The cheapest one so far has a price tag in the two million dollar range.”
“Where are these paintings being stolen from?”
He looked up at her grimly. Wittenauer wanted him to give the girl a try? Then that’s just what he’d do. “Come with me.”
He led her out into the larger room and over to one of the full-room mock-ups. He stopped in the doorway of the two-story-high structure. He flipped a switch, and a labyrinth of red laser beams cut across the space. He pointed to a window on his left.
“Come in through that. Don’t touch the floor. Cross the room to that painting over there.” He pointed at a poster-size print of a buxom blonde in a skimpy, wet bikini, hanging on the far wall.
Kat commented dryly, “The little known follow-up portrait to the Mona Lisa? The Moaning Lay-me?”
He grinned reluctantly. “That Da Vinci dude was sure ’nuff a fellow of fine taste.”
Kat eyed the mock-up assessingly. “What equipment may I use?”
“Whatever you want. I’ve got climbing cups, rope, grappling hooks, crampons, you name it.” He gestured at a pile of gear on a table just outside the door.
“I’ll need to change my clothes.”
“Fine.”
“Where?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “My office. I won’t look.”
She shrugged. “My lingerie covers more than that girl’s bikini.”
“Too bad,” he quipped. A twinge in his shoulder from his earlier fall kept him from saying more. She might not catch him by surprise again, but he didn’t relish a straight-up fight with her. After all, he had a rule against hitting girls. Yup, that was why he didn’t want to tangle with her, he told himself firmly.
She emerged from his office in a one-piece gray bodysuit that made him about swallow his tongue. Whoa. She was perfect. She had curves in all the right places, was slender in all the right places. She was a tiny little thing. No more than five foot three. Though slim, definite muscles flexed beneath her sea-land suit.
The high-tech gray fabric was waterproof when submerged, but when dry, it breathed like cloth and allowed the wearer to sweat normally, unlike the neoprene suits divers traditionally wore.
While he struggled not to stare, she moved to the pile of equipment and confidently sorted through it, slinging climbing ropes over her shoulders and strapping on a climbing harness. She clipped carabiners and belaying devices on to her waist belt and quickly strapped a knife to her thigh. She certainly handled the gear like she knew what to do with it.
She asked, “Have you got three or four handheld, signaling mirrors?”
“Coming up.” He went over to an equipment locker and pulled them out.
She held out her hand without even looking over at him. The mirrors disappeared into one of her waist pouches. She walked over to the “outside” of the window.
“Does noise matter?”
“Not for today’s purposes.”
“Time limit?”
“Not this time.”
She leaped up onto the window ledge as lightly as her feline namesake and balanced there easily. He watched with interest as she threaded a spare radio antenna through the sighting hole in the middle of one of the mirrors. She broke off the end of the antenna and poked its now sharp end into the drywall above her head. A slight adjustment, and the mirror caught one of the laser signals and reflected it away from the space above the window. She repeated the process until she’d created a gap in the net of lasers. Clever.