“It took some time, but they were able to identify the man from Port de Sóller. He used his real passport when he first flew in. Name’s Caspian Anderson.”
Westcott inhaled sharply, but Mpassi wasn’t finished.
“The woman with him was Liesel Bergmann. Sofie’s twin.”
As if frozen, Westcott’s brain simply refused to accept what he’d heard. His face flushed hot, and he felt his gut twist. He’d suspected Sofie might have said something to someone before she’d been shot dead, but her sister? He hadn’t seen this one coming.
But I should have ... what I shouldn’t have done was to bring her in.
Liesel and Sofie Bergmann, Caspian and Nelson Anderson? Had they been working together from the beginning? And who were they working for? When he’d recruited Sofie Bergmann, she’d been a German army officer. A logistics specialist who had a lot of contacts in Afghanistan. The Andersons were Americans. Could Nelson or his brother—or both—be CIA officers? It wouldn’t be the first time an intelligence service embedded one of their operatives with Doctors Without Borders now, would it? But could the Germans and Americans be working together this closely? Was this a rogue operation or a sanctioned one?
But even if they were backed by an agency, what did they know? Could they prove anything? Surely, if there was an active investigation, someone within his deep network inside the US government would have sounded the alarm, right?
“Do we have the influence to shut down any federal investigation into Mia?” Westcott asked, already thinking ahead.
“I can arrange to get regular updates, which would give us ample time to warn her,” Mpassi replied. “But shutting it down outright? I don’t think it’s possible. Not without raising alarms.”
“What about Blackstone? Were you able to cut all ties? Do you know if anyone has been digging?”
“There were some inquiries,” Mpassi conceded, “but there’s no legal link between Blackstone and Hearts United. Nothing admissible. At worst, there might be breadcrumbs, enough to raise suspicions, but not enough to prosecute.”
“But they could find out we used them.”
“It’d be hard, but not impossible. Again, nothing anyone could drag into court.”
Westcott shook his head. What was it that Mpassi didn’t understand? Did he not see that even a suspicion by the wrong people could be enough to derail everything? It was as if he didn’t care.
“So right now,” Westcott said slowly, “you think the only threats are the Anderson brothers and that Bergmann woman?”
Mpassi pursed his lips. “I know you don’t want to think this way,” he said, “but if Mia’s caught and decides to save herself—”
“I told you,” Westcott snapped. “She wouldn’t. Never.”
Mpassi sighed. “We’re so close to achieving Nailah’s dream ... do you really want to jeopardize that?”
Westcott pressed his fingers against his temples. A pulse had begun to throb behind his eyes. Mpassi kept mentioning Mia, but he hadn’t raised any question about Henry’s loyalty. Why was that? Was it because Henry was Mpassi’s man? Because Mpassi had handpicked him? Notfor the first time, Westcott wondered if he hadn’t given Mpassi too much leeway.
“If you’d like to hear it, sir, I have an idea on how we could take care of everything at once,” Mpassi offered.
“No! I don’t want to hear it. The only thing you’ll do while I’m gone is to give Mia and Henry the green light to take care of the Andersons and Liesel Bergmann. That’s it. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Mpassi replied.
Westcott stared at Mpassi, and he didn’t like the way the man was looking back at him. He didn’t like the faint gleam of calculation in Mpassi’s eyes. Trust was a fickle thing. It was slow to build and quick to collapse.
Without another word, Westcott stepped out of the SUV and climbed aboard the Gulfstream where he sank into one of the beige leather seats. He would speak to Mpassi when he returned from Europe. And if his instincts were right, and if Mpassi had started to think of himself as more than just Westcott’s number two, then maybe it was time to find someone else to replace him.
And he couldn’t think of anyone better than Mia Hernandez to do so.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Portland, Maine
Mia’s flight out of Miami had been as dull and unremarkable as she had hoped. She and Henry had booked different airlines, checked in for their flights at different terminals, and never saw each other during their journey to Portland. In fact, their itineraries hadn’t intersected until Maine, and even then, they had exited the airport hours apart and had headed to separate car-rental counters.
Each of them had checked one bag. Inside those bags, under neatly folded clothing and locked in hard-sided containers, were their firearms. Each had brought along a suppressor and spare magazines. Mia also carried a knife and the last of the antibiotic cream for the wound on her ear, though it was healing nicely, and the scar was mostly hidden beneath her hair.
The sun was low behind a thick bank of clouds, casting a gray pallor over Casco Bay. She had checked, and no rain was expected, but the air had that sticky, weedy scent that was often present during low tide.
