Often it was the last thing some people saw.
Hannah rarely ventured forth out of the Cellar, wielding her power in the darkness through her agents. Golden, on the other hand, as a psychiatrist, had to meet people to do her job. Many of those people were covert ops, toughened veterans, who conjured up initial impressions quickly and had little time or tolerance for those who tried to probe into their minds, especially a woman.
Even when that probing could determine whether they lived or died at Hannah’s command.
“Childhood trauma,” Golden said. She had no notes to refer to. Hannah didn’t believe in a paper or electronic trail. If one came into her office and couldn’t remember what they had to say, perhaps what they had to say wasn’t that important. The only papers Hannah kept were in the desk behind which she sat. There were no copies.
Hannah gave a wry smile. “Don’t we all have childhood trauma?”
Golden nodded. “Pretty much. But it’s the manner of the trauma and which parent figure it comes from that is the key. And then the environment in which one grows up.” This was Golden’s specialty: profiling backward, looking not at crime scenes but at lives, seeing the patterns to them, particularly in the formative years.
Golden did it first as a student, writing her PhD on it. She’d wanted to determine who had the predilection to be a killer long before they killed. Serial killers were born and also made in her opinion, and she wanted to study the combination that made the cauldron of evil. She then expanded her field and was drawn to further study in the military because they kept such good records of their members. Hannah’s predecessor, Nero, had done it instinctively, keeping files on numerous candidates, sensing the traumas and, most importantly, how the betrayals in their lives would cause them to blossom into adults of a certain nature.
Hannah had been one of those candidates. Nero had been looking for a person who could withstand the most base betrayal yet still be able to function, to perform their duty.
For Nero it had been an instinctive art; for Golden it was a science.
Hannah’s husband’s betrayal had been like the smash of a blacksmith’s mighty hammer on a misshapen lump of metal, splintering it, revealing a finely honed edge of steel hidden inside.
Sometimes, alone in the dark, and she was often alone in the dark, Hannah mulled over the issue of free will. Were we all a product of our genes and then our environment shaping those genes, as Dr. Golden postulated? Was it all just fate? Was her presence here, behind this very desk, a predetermined event, in which she was just playing her part? If she got up and walked away, quit her post as head of the Cellar, was that also preordained? A person could go crazy trying to understand the ramifications and possibilities.
However, this didn’t bother Hannah much. She only thought about them as a means of exercising her mind when she was bored.
Which wasn’t often. There was almost always something in the world of covert operations that demanded her attention.
Golden folded her hands in her lap as she waited on Hannah. The office was spartan, essentially little different from when Nero had occupied it, minus the medical equipment near the end of his tenure. And a bit more lighting, since, unlike her predecessor, she could see. Nero had lost his eyes at the hands of the Nazis after being captured on a covert operation during World War II.
After being betrayed. Making him the perfect candidate to head the Cellar.
“Bottom line?” Hannah said, because she always dealt in bottom lines.
“Moms appears to be a loner but she isn’t,” Golden said. “She took care of her brothers, all younger than her, while they were growing up, nurturing them, giving them what her mother wasn’t capable of. She works best on a team.”
“Neeley liked her,” Hannah said. “Thought she was effective,” she amended, surprising herself a bit at the term like. Like had nothing to do with what she had to do here at the Cellar.
“That was more a product of the observation than the observed,” Golden said.
Hannah graced her with a smile, revealing perfect teeth. “I enjoy how you phrase things. I imagine therapy with you would be most interesting.”
“Therapy for you would be counterproductive,” Golden said.
“True. I am who I am and who I am is what this job needs. So Neeley is”—Hannah searched for what she wanted to say—“needy?”
Golden swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t have the full story, but she did know that Neeley and Hannah had come to the Cellar together after a trial under fire. When the toughest jobs came up, it was Neeley whom Hannah dispatched to deal with them. Perhaps for too long now? That was the question that had caused Hannah to summon Dr. Golden.
“You will admit,” Golden said, “that it is rather amazing Neeley is still alive after all the missions she’s been on. While her body is intact, I have concerns about her mind.”
“And,” Hannah concluded, “you don’t think Moms would be a good replacement.”
It was a statement, so Golden didn’t reply.
Hannah leaned back in her chair and gazed off, lost in thought. She was like that for almost a minute before returning her gaze to Golden. “Can you help Neeley?”
Golden was startled. This was not what she had expected. “I can try. When can I meet with her?”
“As soon as she finishes her current mission,” Hannah said. “Also consider the possibility that Moms might replace Ms. Jones, not Neeley. Our Russian friend is getting on in years.”
Dr. Golden wouldn’t be sitting in this office if she hadn’t already considered multiple possibilities, playing the game out several moves ahead. She knew she would never be a move ahead of Hannah, but she tried her best to keep up. “That is a much better fit. But her emotional connection with the team could cloud her judgment.”
Hannah shrugged. “Teams can be rebuilt. It is the head that is most important.” She nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. Please listen in later today when I meet Moms.”
Golden nodded. She got up and left the office, the heavy security door swinging shut behind her, sealing the room.
Alone, Hannah lifted her hand in front of her eyes. She stared at it, noting there was a slight tremor.
This all would be so much easier if she were a psychopath. Or even a sociopath.
She wasn’t that lucky.
The phone rang and Hannah’s secretary, Ms. Louise Smith, announced a call from Ms. Jones. Hannah picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Moms will be en route shortly. She’s in-briefing our latest addition.”
“Good.”
A long silence played out and Hannah waited. She knew Ms. Jones wasn’t happy. But Ms. Jones’s happiness wasn’t something she cared about.
Ms. Jones finally spoke. “I would like to reiterate my stand that the Nightstalkers should be allowed to pursue Burns. He’s an unknown entity. This might not be a simple Sanction.”
“No Sanction is ever simple,” Hannah said. “You’ve made your position known. Thank you.”
And then she hung up.
CHAPTER 5
Scout rode Comanche along the riverbank as far as she could, which wasn’t far, since waterfront property was prime real estate. She reached the fence on the far side of the pasture and halted. She stood in the stirrups and looked downriver. The rhythmic thump of the pile driver started up behind her as they went to work on another pole.