So what to make of her? Could her story have been true? It was impossible to say. But regardless, Desh had to admire her competence. She planned brilliantly, was quick on her feet, and was decisive.
But was she too decisive? She had shot one of the intruders to get information with a ruthless efficiency. Few people were capable of acting so callously. On the other hand, she could easily have killed them all. A true psychopath wouldn’t have hesitated. Unless for some unfathomable reason it continued to be of importance to her to convince Desh she was innocent, so much so that she was able to sublimate her psychotic nature.
Or was she not a psychopath at all? Had she really been a model citizen before she had altered her own brain chemistry? Maybe. But even if she was, it was equally possible that the changes to her nature she claimed to have come about as a result of her experiments had become permanent, despite her assurances to the contrary.
But this still wouldn’t explain the deaths of her parents and uncle and teachers, Desh realized. Even if the murder of her brother and her collaboration with terrorists could be explained as a result of self-induced psychopathic behavior, a horrible side effect of the rewiring of her own brain, these earlier murders could not be. Could it be that she honestly was unaware of her own true nature? What if she had suffered from schizophrenia and had developed a split personality at a young age? Maybe it had always been a Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde thing with her, with the changes to her brain chemistry doing nothing more than allowing the Mr. Hyde personality to become more dominant.
Desh shook his head, annoyed with himself. Why was he trying so hard to identify some part of her that was innocent! He knew that she was getting to him, but he hadn’t realized just how much until now. Along with a powerful intellect that he found stimulating and those soft, expressive eyes, there was a charm and sincerity to her that was undeniably appealing, even though he knew it was nothing but an accomplished acting job. He had to hand it to the ancient Greeks: they knew that a treacherous woman who could still captivate a man was far more dangerous than the most powerful of sea monsters. How many others had been mesmerized by Kira Miller’s siren song, he wondered, letting down their guard and crashing against the cliffs. If their paths crossed again, he had better find a way to tie himself to the mast if he wanted to have any chance of surviving the encounter.
He was still lost in thought, forty minutes after he had abandoned the cell phone, when a large, two-door sedan pulled off the road a hundred yards before the church. Two men with night-vision equipment of their own jumped out and without a word began to double-time it to the church, leaving the driver waiting in the car. They had taken the bait already. Impressive. Whoever they were, they were exceedingly well connected. Despite the police presence in the motel, they had been able to pull the required strings to retrieve their men and track the missing cell phone in record time.
Desh pulled out the tranquilizer gun he had borrowed. Despite the fact they had been tailing him, they were still most likely friendlies. He wasn’t exactly in a trusting mood, but he wasn’t about to consider lethal force, either, until he knew who they were.
Desh sprinted along the tree line in the opposite direction from the church so he could circle back around behind the car. As the two men entered St. Peters, Desh cut quietly across the road and noiselessly lowered himself into a military crawl. He inched forward toward the passenger door, not even allowing himself to breathe. He was betting the driver had not locked the car.
Desh let out a slow, preparatory breath and quietly removed his goggles, leaving them on the ground next to him. Then, in a single fluid motion, he shot up from the ground—catching the door handle on the way up—and yanked the door wide open. It wasn’t locked! Wasting no time congratulating himself, Desh pointed the gun at the startled driver, who had just begun reaching for his own weapon. “Hands on the dash!” he barked fiercely.
The driver studied Desh thoughtfully, and then calmly placed his hands on the dash as instructed. The tip of Desh’s tongue protruded just slightly through his lips as it tended to do whenever he was engaged in any physical activity that required his absolute concentration. He slid through the car’s open door and into the back seat, his gun never wavering from its target.
“Slide over and close the door,” commanded Desh in hushed tones.
The man did as he was told.
“Now slide back and get us on the road. Quickly!” demanded Desh. “Head farther away from the Church.” Desh had no interest in passing the man’s colleagues who he knew would be exiting the church at any moment after they discovered they had been set up.
The driver did as instructed, and the church rapidly receded in the rear-view mirror.
“Very impressive, Mr. Desh,” the driver allowed. “But then, I have heard good things.”
“Who are you?” demanded Desh. “And why were you and your people following me?”
“Call me Smith,” said the driver, a short, wiry man in his late thirties, with short brown hair and a two-inch scar under his ear that followed his jaw line. “After a session with Kira Miller you get a little paranoid, don’t you? Don’t know who to trust or what to believe.”
“Smith, huh,” said Desh to himself. The man was unmistakably military. And along with the obvious alias, there was a peculiar arrogance about him, as though he considered himself above it all; unencumbered by rules that might apply to lesser men. “Black Ops, then?” guessed Desh.
A self-satisfied smile flashed across Smith’s face. “That’s right,” he said. “We had a shot at the girl and we took it. Sorry we surprised you. Given what you’ve just gone through you’re reacting the way any smart soldier would. But we’re on the same side you and I. Really.”
“Why was I under surveillance then, if we’re on the same side?”
“I would be happy to explain that and much more, Mr. Desh. I’m the one who authorized putting you on this Op in the first place. I trust that Colonel Connelly gave you a number to call when you found the girl?”
Desh didn’t respond.
“I’m going to lend you a cell phone,” said Smith. “I have two of them. I’m going to reach in my pocket for the phone but remain facing the road. I’ll throw it back to you. If I begin to pull out a gun, shoot me,” he added.
Desh knew that at their current speed any hostile exchange would cause them to crash, killing them both. Mutually assured destruction. Smith would realize this as well.
“Okay,” said Desh, nodding warily. “But very slowly.”
The man reached into his pocket and carefully inched out the phone, lifting it with his hand facing backward so Desh could see. Still facing the road, he flipped the phone over his shoulder. Desh caught it with his left hand while he continued to train the tranquilizer gun on Smith with his right.
“Dial the number that the colonel gave you,” instructed Smith.
Desh flipped open the phone and dialed the number he had memorized. As the call went through, a ringtone melody issued from Smith’s shirt pocket. He looked at Desh in the rear-view mirror and raised his eyebrows. “Mind if I get that,” he said smugly.
Smith reached into his shirt pocket and flipped open the phone. “Hello, Mr. Desh,” he said, his voice arriving in stereo from both the front seat and through the phone in Desh’s hand. “I think it’s time we had a little talk.”