Word of Honor Page 2

  “I’m fine,” Valerie said.

  When she gripped Diane’s shoulders carefully and kissed her, her hands were cold but her lips were invitingly warm. “I can’t seem to stop frightening you. I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t frighten me.” Diane rubbed Valerie’s forearms, wishing that she could warm the cold place inside her. She’d never been more aware that love was not always enough, and she alternated between feeling angry and helpless. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Just restless.” Valerie forced a smile, which she expected Diane could see right through. In the four weeks since she had almost been killed by the same fanatical “patriot” who had tried to assassinate Blair, she’d been haunted not by the near-death experience, but by the fifteen years of her life she had blindly devoted to an organization she could no longer trust. Recruited into the Company right out of high school, she had assumed an identity that had been painstakingly created for her, and over the years she had been many people. So many people that she wasn’t certain there was anything of her left at all. When she awakened in the night from her never quite sleeping state to find Diane slumbering innocently beside her, she was tormented with the absolute certainty that she did not deserve this woman’s trust or her love. Cameron Roberts might have orchestrated both her death in an explosion in the Atlantic as well as her subsequent rebirth as an OHS agent, but that didn’t mean the Company hadn’t targeted her for elimination. Even someone as powerful as Cameron Roberts could not protect her from a shot in the dark on a deserted street or an ice pick slipped between her ribs in a crowded subway. In some part of her mind, she had always expected death to come that way, swiftly and unexpectedly. She didn’t fear her own death, but she was terrified that her mere presence in Diane’s life placed her in harm’s way.

  “If you tell me what’s wrong, I can help you,” Diane said quietly.

  Valerie caressed Diane’s cheek and kissed her again. “I’m not certain I should be here. It might be better if I stayed in a hotel for a while.”

  “Because?”

  “Someone may be looking for me.”

  Diane drew a shaky breath. “Someone may be trying to kill you.”

  “Diane,” Valerie said gently.

  “There’s no point pretending otherwise. I know you might still be in danger.” Diane took Valerie’s hand. “Come back to bed.”

  “I can’t. I need to get ready for the briefing.”

  “I keep forgetting how ridiculously early you people start your day.” Diane forced a note of levity into her voice. “Then come into the kitchen while I make coffee.”

  Valerie followed her, and in comfortable silence they ground coffee, filled the coffeepot, and took down cups while waiting for the coffee to brew. She had never shared such simple domestic moments with anyone in her life. She had never lived with anyone, never had a long-term relationship, never been in love. She had loved another woman, one woman, and loved her still, but not with the consuming need that she felt for Diane.

  Valerie leaned back against the counter and Diane put her arms around her waist.

  “You told me that Cam hasn’t been able to uncover any evidence that the Company or anyone else is looking for you,” Diane said. “You said the cover story of you being killed in the boat explosion would be enough. Especially with your handler gone.”

  “All of that is probably true. Henry was the link between me and whoever he reported to up the company food chain, and with him dead and the cover story Cam put out about my death, I might just be a line item on someone’s tally sheet.” Valerie knew the hole in the argument was that her handler might have given her identity away, but she wasn’t going to frighten Diane over things she couldn’t change. “So with everyone in the intelligence community focused on finding who was behind 9/11, I’m probably not on anyone’s to-do list.”

  “But you don’t believe it?”

  Valerie looked away.

  “I know it’s hard for you to trust me—”

  “No,” Valerie said immediately. “I do trust you. It’s just that—listen to yourself. You’re standing in your kitchen talking about handlers and targets and cover stories.” Frustrated and angry, hating the weakness that kept her in Diane’s life when she knew, she knew, it was wrong, Valerie plunged a hand through her short, thick red-blond curls. She’d cut her hair, she’d changed the color, she was wearing green contact lenses to cover her blue irises—another new identity, another new history. But at heart, she remained a cipher, even to herself. “Is this really what you want in your life?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” Diane snapped. “Because I’m tired of answering it.” She gave Valerie a small shake and forced her to meet her gaze. “I love you,” she said with slow emphasis on each word. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

  “Any of it.” Valerie closed her eyes and pulled Diane close. They were very nearly the same height, and she rested her cheek against Diane’s. The scent of Diane’s perfume lingered ever so faintly along her hairline. She’d gone to sleep countless nights dreaming of that fragrance. “I don’t have a clue why you love me.”

  “Well, I’m tired of telling you.” Diane kissed Valerie’s mouth, then moved to her neck. “So I’ll have to work harder at showing you. Come back to bed. The coffee will keep.”

  Valerie laughed softly and abandoned good judgment, letting Diane tease her into surrendering, for the moment.

  *

  A stocky young redhead sipped coffee from a tall paper cup as he stood at the window of his rental unit watching Blair Powell’s building. Directly across the gated park that occupied a square city block, the lights came on in Blair Powell’s loft. Shadows flickered behind the drawn curtains of what must be the bedroom. To the casual observer on the street, her windows appeared to be like all the others in the building, but he knew they were constructed of bulletproof glass. The doorman who stood inside the double doors in a topcoat and uniform was also a private security agent. A Secret Service agent would be stationed behind the desk. Secret Service Agent Cynthia Parker had been at that post when his brothers-in-arms had burst through those doors a little over two months before, firing automatic weapons. According to intelligence reports, the female Secret Service agent had killed one of his compatriots before she’d been gunned down. They had expected casualties upon entry, and one death was excellent. They hadn’t anticipated that Cameron Roberts would fire on her own agent without a moment’s hesitation. They had always planned for Secret Service Agent Foster to die during the assault, but not before he had assassinated Blair Powell. They had underestimated Cameron Roberts not once, but twice. That could not happen again.

  His cell phone rang, and without taking his eyes off the first daughter’s bedroom, he answered it.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Good morning, Colonel,” General Thomas Jefferson Matheson said cheerily. “Enjoying the view?”

  “Yes sir, very much, sir.”

  “I’m happy to report you’ll have the afternoon off.”

  Colonel Jonathan Perry frowned. “I’m not due to be relieved until eighteen hundred hours, sir.”

  “I’ve been advised that our bird will be flying this afternoon. We’ll pick her up when she lands.”

  “Sir, I would prefer to follow her my—”

  “Patience, Colonel,” Matheson said, his deep baritone oddly soothing, “our time is very nearly at hand. I have something special planned for you.”

  “Yes sir, whatever you say, sir.”

  “You might use the time off to buy some new winter clothing. It’s cold in Colorado this time of year.”

  “Yes sir,” Perry said with a slow smile. “I’ll do that.”

  Chapter Two

  Paula Stark halted just inside the reinforced steel door of the command center and surveyed the long rectangular room. Opposite her, floor-to-ceiling windows faced Gramercy Park. The glass was reinforced, shatterproof, and impregnated with filters to block UV and infrared penetration, making
video surveillance from external sources impossible. The filters also distorted the view through a high-powered laser rifle scope.

  A semicircular monitoring station covered with equipment—satellite receivers, radio transmitters, computers, and every other form of electronic hardware required for communication and intelligence assessment—took up the far end of the room. In addition, separate high-speed computer and surface lines maintained direct links to the NYPD and the New York City Transit Authority in case another 9/11 event necessitated the evacuation of Blair Powell—code name Egret—from the city. Just now, at a little before seven a.m., Secret Service agents from the night shift occupied rolling desk chairs in front of the bank of monitors displaying continuous feeds from the video cameras mounted above the entrance to the building, in the lobby, over the rear exit, and in the underground parking garage.

  “Looks like they’re about done.” Renée Savard gestured to two workmen who stood on tall wooden ladders in the center of the room, riveting bulletproof shields to the subfloor of the loft apartment above. Should a bomb detonate in the command center, Blair’s apartment would be partially buffered from the direct effects of the blast. “Finally.”

  “Can’t be too soon for me.” Paula was very aware of Renée’s shoulder almost brushing hers, and she needed to remind herself not to touch her. An hour before they had been lying naked in bed together, which made the transition to being just colleagues a challenge. But what made maintaining her professional distance from Renée even harder was that Renée had come close to dying when the South Tower came down, and not much later had been wounded in the gun battle to apprehend the man believed to be partially responsible for the terrorist attack. Paula had a hard time not constantly touching Renée to reassure herself she was alive and well. Although only slightly taller than Paula’s 5’7”, Renée gave the impression of more height because she’d lost weight, and what had once been a naturally trim, athletic figure was now honed down to taut muscle and bone. Her coffee and cream complexion was as flawless as ever, but her blue eyes had lost their sparkle. In fact, Renée rarely smiled, and Paula missed not just her radiance, but her joy. She forced a smile and tried to keep her tone light. “After an hour of listening to this racket, I have a headache.”

  “You shouldn’t complain.” Renée gave her boyishly handsome dark-haired lover a playful arm bump. “You security guys get the room with a view and we’re stuck in the back with no windows.”

  Paula lowered her voice and teased, “Spooks are supposed to be hidden away in dark corners.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if the commander were here.”

  “Damn right I wouldn’t.” Despite the fact that Paula was now the chief of Blair’s security detail, she and the other team members who had worked under Cameron Roberts before Cam moved over to the OHS still considered her their leader. Paula was just getting used to hearing people call her Chief, and although she didn’t let anyone know, she was also just beginning to believe that she didn’t have to fill Cam’s shoes to do the job right. She squeezed Renée’s hand for a millisecond, then released it. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Be careful,” Renée said, as she always did when they parted.

  “You too,” Paula replied. They didn’t talk about it, but she knew that Renée felt the same way she did. They loved their jobs, they loved their country, they loved each other. Danger was an inherent part of their work, and not something anyone in their position dwelled on. But the unfathomable events of 9/11 had taught them and everyone who worked to secure the safety of the nation that death waited around the next corner. To forget was to invite disaster. None of them would ever forget.

  *

  Renée stopped in the small kitchenette midway between the Secret Service command center and the new regional office of the OHS. She wasn’t sure how the commander had gotten the team out of DC and onto the same floor as Blair’s security ops, but she was glad not to have to worry that someone was tapping their lines or hacking their files. Here they could fly under the radar, which was just the way they all liked it.

  She fished her coffee cup out of a precariously stacked pile on the drain board and filled it. She heard voices coming from the conference room as she walked down the hall cautiously sipping her coffee. It was fresh and strong. She was willing to bet the commander had made it. It didn’t matter what time Renée arrived for work, Cam was always there first. So too, it seemed, was Valerie. Cam and Valerie sat at one end of a long conference table, cups of coffee and open file folders in front of them. Cam tapped her pen on a tabletop as they talked.

  “Morning,” Renée said as she sat down opposite Cam.

  Both women returned her greeting, then Cam said to her, “We’ll wait for the others to brief formally, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m going to be out of pocket a fair amount for the next week or so, and you’ll be in charge here.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Renée said. Six weeks ago she had thought her career was over. She’d taken a bullet in the knee during the raid on Matheson’s mountain compound, and the injury was the kind to put her out of the running for any kind of field duty in the FBI despite the fact that she’d made almost a total recovery. Then Cam had offered her something better. Not just a place on her newly formed OHS team, but responsibility for the antiterrorism arm of their operation.

  “You and the rest of the team need to focus on finding Matheson,” Cam went on, “while I…” She grinned ruefully and shook her head. “While I am busy doing the marriage stuff.”

  “Wedding planning,” Valerie said in her low, husky voice. “It’s called wedding planning, Cameron. I know, since it’s all Diane talks about these days. I think she’s enjoying your wedding a lot more than you are at the moment.”

  “It couldn’t be a worse time to be getting married,” Cam said.

  “With all respect, Commander,” Renée said, “I think it’s a perfect time.”

  Cam raised an eyebrow.

  “Personally, of course, I think it’s great. But it’s more than that. You and Blair are sending a message. You’re telling the world that life goes on, that we’re not afraid, that we won’t be beaten. That we won’t live our lives in fear. You’re making a statement for all of us.”

  “Ah hell,” Cam muttered. “The last thing I want is to be a symbol of anything.”

  “Blair has always been a symbol, and never more than now,” Valerie said, sounding oddly gentle. “Standing beside her in this is another way of telling the world she’s not touchable.”

  Renée wasn’t surprised that Valerie was the one to point out the one thing that would mean more to the commander than anything else. Blair’s safety. Valerie and the commander had a history, and as much as the rest of them admired Cam and would give their lives for her, they weren’t her friends—not in the way that Valerie was. No one other than Blair and Valerie ever really spoke to the commander without a certain degree of reservation and respect. The boundaries were necessary to enable the team to function, and although Valerie was officially part of the team, she would always be a little bit apart. Just as she was a little bit apart from all of them.

  “Making Blair a target hardly seems a great way to keep her safe,” Cam said, almost to herself.

  Valerie extended her hand as if she were going to touch the commander’s forearm, and then pulled it back. “The more visible she is, the tighter her security will be. She’ll be safer in Colorado than she might be walking down the street here in New York. I know it will be difficult, but try to enjoy the next week or so.”

  “I agree,” Renée said. “Blair has great security. Mac and Ellen are doing the advance groundwork at the lodge, and you know they’re the best at it.”

  Ellen Marks, a seasoned agent, had been on sick leave for almost three months following an injury sustained in a bomb blast. She and Mac Phillips were already at the Rocky Mountain ski resort where the wedding would take place. Part of their advance work included coordinating plans with local authorities f
or security along Blair’s anticipated travel routes, detailing evacuation plans in case of injury or imminent threat, and liaising with representatives from the local media.

  Cam nodded. “It’s good to have Ellen back on the team.”

  “And we’re close to getting this bastard, Cam,” Valerie said with quiet vehemence. “We know who he is, we know where he came from, and we know where his last base of operations was. Felicia is cross-referencing his known contacts—family, ex-Army associates, military school graduates—against names Ricky is pulling from the ATF and FBI patriot watch lists. We’ll find him through his friends.” Her gaze became distant and her voice dropped to a whisper. “The friends are always the weak links.”

  Renée wondered if that was why Valerie seemed to have no friends, no family, no connections to anyone except the commander, and now, Diane. The Company discouraged its field operatives from forming intimate relationships, even friendships, because friends could be compromised. Unless of course the relationship itself provided cover. Valerie had been alone for years except for her handler, whom Cam had ordered killed just weeks before. Renée tried to imagine what it would be like to be violently cut off from the only real relationship one had ever had, even if it was a manipulative one. The loneliness had to be devastating, but Valerie never seemed anything except calm and cool. And she had Diane now. Sometimes it seemed love was all that kept any of them going. Renée allowed herself a brief moment to think about Paula and to be thankful for having found her, before refocusing on the hunt for the man who had helped destroy so many lives.

  “We have to dig under rocks and sift through a quagmire of disconnected bits of information to get even a whiff of Matheson’s trail,” Cam said bitterly, “but all he has to do is listen to the news or read the daily paper—or better yet, check the goddamn White House Web site—to know exactly where Blair is.” Cam stood abruptly, surprising Renée with the barely constrained tension in her body and the rage in her voice. The commander never lost control. “While we keep her locked down, he’s walking around free. It’s wrong.”