I'd Rather be in Paris Read online

  "Dmitri!"

  As the recording played out, Zara's insides turned to Jell-O. Staring at the conference table and gritting her teeth, she struggled to keep her model-agent persona intact as she relived those awful moments. She clasped her hands in her lap as she listened to Dmitri's cold, calculating voice trade jabs with her.

  "...a little game I like to play..."

  "...I don't play games..."

  In her mind, she saw the farmhouse, saw Dmitri's ice-blue eyes. It was as if his arms were around her again, his finger trapping hers on the trigger of his gun.

  ...beep, beep, beep...

  The alarm on her watch had given her the microsecond of surprise she needed to throw all her weight to her right hip and jerk Dmitri's hand to the left. He pulled the trigger, but the bullet went astray and dropped his lieutenant instead of Tim.

  In the same instant, Lawson Vaughn and his Pegasus team had emerged from the forest surrounding the farmhouse, one man killing both guards, another training his weapon on the lieutenant who writhed on the ground. Still another man moved in to cover Tim.

  Zara had gone dizzy with relief. Tim's safe.

  At least that part of her plan had worked. All she'd had left to figure out was how to save herself...

  "...drop your weapon ... let her go..."

  Vaughn had aimed his weapon at Dmitri's head and the terrorist responded by shifting her to shield him from the deadly gun.

  Dmitri's lips next to her ear, his smoky breath had brushed her cheek as he chuckled. He forced the big black gun to her neck and all sensation had left her hand. She'd locked her knees and clamped her jaw, beseeching Lawson with her eyes. Please...

  Someone tapped a pen on the table, jolting her out of the memory. Flynn was frowning at her as if she'd missed something. Something important. Silence blanketed the room. She searched the gazes of the people staring at her. Was the tape done? “Sorry ... I ... uh..."

  At the slight shake of Flynn's head, Zara closed her mouth. “As you can see"—he shifted his focus to Maureen—"Agent Morgan had a handle on Dmitri then and she still does. She understands what makes him tick. She knows how to manipulate him."

  Maureen made a disgusted noise in her throat. “She took a huge risk—"

  "And it paid off,” Flynn interrupted. “Anything less and Tim Owens would be nothing but a star on the wall downstairs."

  Silence once again reigned as Flynn and Maureen stared each other down. Zara tried to ignore them.

  Michael Stone broke the tension this round, rolling up one, and then the other, of his shirt sleeves with slow deliberation. “The purpose of this meeting was to determine whether we go after Dmitri and Vos Loo and see if we can pick up their trail. Is everyone in agreement that when we do find them, we'll take action?"

  Zara, Annette and Flynn nodded in unison. Maureen drew in a deep breath, pressed her lips into a thin line for a long moment. “Agreed,” she said, reluctance ringing in her tone. “But what action we take needs to be decided now as well."

  Stone shook his head. “We can't make that call until we know what they're doing."

  Flynn shifted his attention back to Zara, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. “You up for fieldwork again, Tango?"

  Flynn had christened her with the nickname Tango after her daring rescue because she'd danced with Dmitri and lived to tell about it. Not something any other American or French intelligence operative had ever done.

  The nickname had caught on like wildfire. Rubbing the spot on her neck where Dmitri's gun had been buried, she met Flynn's gaze. He was offering to put her back in the field. Send her back to Paris. Give her the chance to hunt down the man who still appeared in her nightmares. There was no need to call forth any of her personas. She answered him with the determined part of her true self. “I'm ready, sir."

  Stone closed the folder in front of him and toyed with his blue CIA coffee mug. “At this point, Zara, we're still speculating about Dmitri's plans. We have no real reason to doubt the French aren't doing everything they can to recapture both him and Vos Loo."

  Zara didn't miss Flynn's eye roll as Stone continued, “But as we've discussed, the scenario seems too coincidental to ignore. The situation is delicate and must be handled with care. I'm willing to put you back in Paris to see what you can find out, but with a partner. Someone with tracking skills and on-the-ground experience.” Stone shifted his gaze to Flynn. “Director?"

  Flynn rubbed his knuckles across his chin. “I suppose I could get away for a few days."

  Stone set his mug down with a hard thunk. “The Director of CIA Operations does not do fieldwork."

  Flynn winked at her from across the table. “Of course not.” He pushed back his chair and began gathering his files and Day Timer. “Come on, Tango. Let's go find you a partner."

  Zara grabbed her pen and notebook and hurried to follow Flynn out the door.

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  Chapter Two

  Lawson shut the door of Director Flynn's office and nodded a greeting. “You paged me? Is Agent Morgan in danger from Dmitri?"

  Flynn motioned him to the chair across from his own behind a massive oak desk cluttered with papers. “Only if she does something asinine like the farmhouse incident."

  The farmhouse incident had been added to the never-ending war stories folks in the CIA loved to tell over and over again. Shortly after Lawson had returned to the States from Paris, the story had grown to epic proportions, much of the gossip warped. Today, when he'd heard Dmitri had beaten the French system, a knot had formed in his stomach. Zara Morgan was an obvious target. “I can't believe she did what she did."

  Flynn shrugged. “She saved Owens’ life. Gotta give her credit for that."

  "With respect, sir, my team saved Owens’ life and Zara's for that matter. She had no business leaving the tech van."

  "Not true.” The challenge in Flynn's voice was subtle but clear. “Contrary to popular belief, Zara is one of the CIA's brightest new operatives. She passed the Farm at the head of her class, and while she didn't have the right kind of experience to deal with Dmitri face-to-face when he pulled his stunt with Owens, she showed more guts and cunning than spies who've been in the field for years."

  "Still—"

  Flynn raised a finger to silence him. “I assure you, Commander, she can jump out of a helicopter with an M16 slung across her back as easily as you can and look more graceful doing it. She was a star ballerina in her younger life."

  A mental image of Zara with an M16 in her hands tested the bounds of Lawson's imagination. She was a fighter—he'd seen that when he rescued her—but she was hardly a seasoned soldier like the majority of spooks he worked with in the field. His mind found it much easier to imagine her dancing across a stage than taking out terrorists. “How did she go from tutus to machine guns?"

  "I believe it was Swan Lake."

  "Excuse me?"

  "She was fourteen. Her partner didn't support her weight properly during a jump and she was injured. She never performed onstage again."

  While she had certainly attracted his attention, Lawson still couldn't figure out how an ex-ballerina had attracted the CIA's. “Surely you didn't recruit her for her dance skills."

  Flynn chuckled. “You might be surprised what I look for in a recruit and I wish I could take credit for finding her, but Stone did when he was still DO. She practically grew up in Europe. She fits in. She'd make a good Secretary of State if you ask me."

  Zara was beautiful and ... cultured, he'd give Flynn that, but a field operative taking out terrorists? It just didn't compute. Unbidden, the image of her jumping the ditch on the sweet Ducati flashed in his mind. She certainly hadn't looked like a ballerina then. “Is she one of your army?"

  A tiny tic jumped under Flynn's left eye. “She's gutsy and I like her. Let's leave it at that."

  Arguing with him was a battle Lawson wouldn't win, so he stowed his misgivings. If she was part of Flynn's black ops team, there was more
to her than met the eye, and Lawson hadn't made it this far without knowing how to pick winnable battles.

  Tapping his thumb against his thigh, he reined in his doubts but not his worry. “She sent Dmitri to prison less than a month ago. The son of a bitch might be looking for her."

  "At this point, we believe Dmitri is too busy with his other prospects."

  "Have you at least informed her he's escaped from prison?"

  Flynn stared at him for a several seconds before a faint smile broke the flat line of his lips. “I do believe you have a soft spot for my foreign intelligence officer, Commander."

  Lawson fought not to break eye contact. He didn't know why he was here, why Flynn was baiting him. The leader of the spy group was an ex-Navy man like himself, and an ex-SEAL on top of it. He had great respect for the retired spy, but even after contracting with him for several recent missions, he still didn't understand the way the man thought. “You said you had an assignment for Pegasus."

  "Not Pegasus.” Flynn leaned back in his chair. “You. Deputy Director Stone and I agree you are the best man for this job."

  "What kind of job?"

  "I'm sending Zara after Dmitri to see if she can figure out what he's doing with his friend, Vos Loo. You're her new partner."

  A nerve in Lawson's shoulder twitched. Zara and him? She wouldn't even give him the time of day. “You can't be serious."

  Reaching into a desk drawer, Flynn removed a plane ticket, a passport and a brown envelope and pushed them across the desk. “Your plane leaves Dulles at nineteen hundred hours. Your cover, money and written orders are all here."

  Lawson stared at the plain envelope for a moment while his brain puzzled out Flynn's motivation. “You want me to tag after your agent in case she goes wacko again."

  Flynn narrowed his eyes. “You've built your career on tracking people, Commander Vaughn. I want you to assist my intelligence officer in whatever capacity she needs to find Alexandrov Dmitri and Jon Vos Loo, and I want it done as quietly as possible. We, meaning everyone from President Jeffries on down to yours truly, do not want the French to know we're sticking our noses in this.” He pointed at the brown envelope. “After you commit the assignment to memory, destroy the orders. This mission should be untraceable."

  "Meaning you want deniability if Zara screws up."

  Flynn gave no acknowledgement. “Contact with this agency should be kept to a minimum, but if you need analytical or technical assistance, Special Agent Annette Newton and Del Hoffman in case management will be available to you 24/7. Yvette LeMans will be your initial contact in Paris. Start with her. She will give you the details about Dmitri's release, Vos Loo's escape and the current police investigation."

  "And who is her allegiance pledged to?"

  Flynn again ignored his question. “This is a special assignment, Lawson. It could open doors for you."

  "What about Tim Owens? Isn't he available?"

  "Owens is under deep cover in another country and doesn't possess the skills I believe are necessary for this.” Flynn rocked his chair. “Give Tango guidance with the operational plan, but work with her. I expect constant feedback and cooperation from both of you, but no unnecessary heroics on your part."

  Lawson stood and grabbed the brown envelope. “Which translates to, don't play Superman unless your spook needs someone to save her backside again."

  "Her backside, her front side, it's all in excellent shape and I want you to keep it that way.” Flynn winked at him. “Off the record, you know who her father is?"

  Again Lawson wondered about Flynn's thought processes. “Charles Morgan, the finance mogul."

  "Charles Morgan, friend and consultant to Titus Allen. They go way back."

  Politics. Lawson tried to avoid them as much as possible, but he knew how the game was played. Allen was the Director of Central Intelligence. Next stop President.

  Flynn smiled benignly. “Anything happens to Zara, Titus will help Chuck mount our two heads on the study wall at the Morgan mansion.” He stood and extended his hand to Lawson. “Good luck. I'll expect your initial report by twenty-three hundred hours tomorrow."

  After Vaughn left his office, Conrad sat at his desk and stared at the closed door. Vaughn was a good Navy man. Experienced, a little hyper, but a productive, no-nonsense contractor. Conrad liked him.

  Conrad liked Zara too. She'd been his first real test as Director of Operations. Stone had almost had his ass over the farmhouse incident, but, as usual, Conrad put his head down, dug in his heels and saved both himself and Zara from losing their jobs. It didn't hurt that her father was friends with Titus. It also didn't hurt that Titus had fond feelings for Conrad and wanted to keep him at Langley.

  Zara was a doer and that's what Conrad liked. She didn't sit on her hands and analyze everything to death. She saw a chance and took it. She looked at a problem and figured out what she could do to solve it. She never said, “That's not my job,” or looked the other way. Her inexperience at the farmhouse had in no way stopped her from taking a chance with Dmitri. She had balls the size of Texas and that was the first requirement to be a great spy. After all, he'd been the best in the field in recent years. He should know.

  Zara Morgan was a Conrad Flynn in the making. A Mini-Me. Conrad smiled to himself.

  Rocking his chair absentmindedly, he thought about Zara's future. He was already grooming her to rise high in the shark-infested waters of the CIA. If she could keep her wits about her on this mission and work in partnership with Vaughn, she had a real chance of becoming a senior case officer. Then he'd put her under Ryan Smith's tutelage in Europe and see how far his best friend and head of the European directorate could take her. With her black ops training, the terrorists didn't stand a chance.

  Thinking about strong women, Conrad picked up his secure line and dialed his wife's cell number. When she answered, he told her, “I'll probably be going to Paris in a few days. Will you go with me?"

  Julia's pause was brief. Her usually calm, collected voice took on a note of excitement. “Paris? I might be persuaded."

  A former CIA operative and one of their top analysts, she now worked exclusively for the FBI. Lucky for him, she was in town for a training op and then she was off for a few days. He'd score points if he could whisk her off to Paris. She was fond of the place. “You, me, a bottle of champagne and that little B&B you love. It will be perfect."

  "As long as there's shopping."

  Conrad cringed, but said on a sigh, “Of course."

  "Michael's okayed your leaving town?"

  Not giving one good goddamn whether Michael Stone would agree to his leave or not, Conrad lied. “Of course."

  Julia, of course, knew he was lying. “We'll talk about it tonight."

  "Tonight.” Conrad said goodbye with a smile on his face.

  He was fond of Paris too.

  * * * *

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Alexandrov Dmitri filled his lungs with crisp night air and leaned against the second-story balcony railing. After the sharp metallic smell of bars and the stench of doomed men, he fed on the fresh air like a vampire on blood.

  His eyes followed the landscape, rising with the hills in the distance. The tips of the trees pointed like a forest of arrows at the belly of the late fall moon. He dropped his focus to the fleur-de-lis pattern on the wrought iron gate in the garden below the balcony, its pattern mimicking the tall evergreens. A smile formed on his lips and he took a cigarette from his inside jacket pocket and lit it. Like the moon, he was flaunting himself to the world, daring the poison arrows pointing at him to let loose and stop him. And like the moon, he hung just out of reach. With his latest transaction complete, he knew no one could touch him now.

  His cell phone vibrated against his chest and he pulled it out, drawing deeply on his cigarette at the sound of the woman's voice on the other end. “You're marked."

  Marked. He found he cared little. “What about the princess, does she know?"

  "Yes." />
  Shifting the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, Dmitri breathed deeply again. No wonder the night air was so tantalizing—it carried the smell of fear. He fingered the slender gold chain wrapped around his wrist. “Good. And what is your employer doing about me?"

  "Sending a two-person team to track you down."

  "Only two?"

  The woman snorted softly in his ear. “At this moment, you aren't even a blurb on the President's Daily Briefing memo."

  Dmitri pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaled and threw it into the garden below. “That will change one of these days quite soon."

  "You'll like the man they're sending. He's found you before."

  "Ah, him,” Dmitri said and nodded at the moon. “I'm looking forward to our reunion. Who is assisting him?"

  "The princess."

  Dmitri fingered the chain again and thought of Zara Morgan's fragile throat. Imagined the feel of it under his fingers. He could almost see her eyes bulging, feel the scrape of her fingernails on his face as she fought for her life. “I will enjoy that reunion as well."

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  Chapter Three

  Dulles International Airport

  Fluid was the word that surfaced in Lawson's mind as he watched the woman glide toward him. Soft red silk flowed over every curve of her body like a quiet stream over polished rocks. She strolled through the busy terminal on matching red heels with the confidence of a pampered rich girl.

  As she moved through the lines at the Air France counter, through the security check and then to the waiting area at the gate, she was noticed, admired and envied. Every man in the place, including Lawson, wondered what she looked like under the dress.

  As comfortable in her own skin as she was in the second skin of the silk dress, she ignored the attention and sought out a quiet corner with an empty chair where she set her black and white satchel on the floor and sipped from her Starbuck's cup.

  She now sat directly across from him, her eyes, so damned blue and intense, stared at him over the rim of the cup. Blonde curls feathered her face like delicate fingers, calling subtle attention to the classic cheekbones and tiny chin. Gone was the conservative suit she usually wore at Langley and in its place, the dress and four-inch heels. The change was uncanny. The attention she was drawing to herself, unnerving.