Page 4 of Dangerous Liaisons

Chapter Three

Traffic oozed along New York’s Second Avenue like butter melting in a midsummer heat wave. In the backseat of a cab idling at a red light, Jesse scanned the street. Three blocks ahead loomed the Bank of America branch that housed a safe deposit box belonging to her alias, Joanne Anderson. The light changed and the cabbie merged into the right lane, then stopped at the sidewalk.

Jesse pulled a twenty from the open zipper of her small purse and handed it to him. “Keep the change.” She wanted to walk the last few blocks and get a look around.

She stepped from the car and breathed deep of the heavy city air. The next half hour was as crucial as had been the last three weeks dodging U.S. and foreign agents. Jesse headed south, noting every car, every person, on the avenue. If anyone followed, they were good—very good—but she expected nothing less.

Despite the inconceivability that Green Leader Robert Lanton could locate her safe deposit box, Colombia had taught her that earlier suspicions about the man hadn’t come close to revealing the depths of evil to which he was capable. Memory flashed of blood spurting from the Green Team member’s head when the mercenary shot him. Her step faltered. A passing man looked in her direction. She caught the concern in his eyes—felt the burn of tears—and hurried past without a word.

She had to get a grip on the memories. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself. Her jaw tensed at recollection of The Professor’s forwarded email: The Office of Internal Affairs reporting Green Team’s massacre. No survivors. Mission compromised by Blue Team operative Jessica Evans. Tom Montague, AKA The Professor, had included a copy of the transcript of her call warning Headquarters to pull Green Team out. But instead of a warning, the call had been altered to sound as if she had threatened Green Leader. And she had, but because of his inaction. Damn her temper. Lanton, the fucking puissant, had made it sound like she had killed Martinez and threatened him for trying to stop the massacre.

Jesse had made a thousand guesses as to how Green Leader intercepted her call to Blue Leader. No team leader had authority to interfere in another cell’s mission—nor did they have the authority to order an agent’s access code denied.

But Robert Lanton was smarter than she’d given him credit for. Three years ago, when Madrid gunrunners were waiting for The Professor as he slipped into their compound to crack their computer system she’d known something was wrong. A year later, she scouted a Hong Kong warehouse and Chinese secret agents appeared minutes after her call to headquarters. Lanton had headed both missions.

After Hong Kong, she began a quiet investigation that uncovered the fact he frequented a secret and exclusive DC BDSM club. If word got out one of OIA’s top handlers liked his sex with whips and chains, he would be ruined. Setting her up for killing his team meant he knew that she knew. But why not simply contract a hit on her? Because he needed someone to take the fall, if she survived the mission. That made the most sense, but why ally with Perez, and sabotage this mission in particular? Something more was going on. Lanton had been waiting for her call, which confirmed what Martinez had been about to report; Lanton was the leak to Amadeo Perez.

Jesse glanced at the flashing neon sign on a deli window that read Pizza and Wedges. Perez had ruined thousands of kids’ lives by shipping cocaine into the U.S., but it had taken the kidnapping of a senator’s daughter to light a fire under the government. Now they wanted Perez’s head on a platter. Lanton wanted the silver platter. He’d made Martinez his first sacrificial lamb. His six team members had followed, and Jesse was the final sacrifice that would ensure he got away with his crimes. No, there was one more possible sacrifice, Jesse’s sister Amanda.

A man flicked a glance at Jesse. She tensed, then relaxed when she realized his attention was aimed at her breasts. Choosing a disguise with blonde hair—even the dishwater-blonde wig—and blue eyes may have been a mistake. She had gotten a couple of stares in transit from the East side. She’d chosen the blonde hair as the opposite to her straight black hair.

She reached the corner and joined the crowd waiting to cross Second Avenue. Along with her false identity, a second identity for Amanda sat in the small Bank of America branch, one of hundreds of banks in a city close enough to Langley to be accessible in hours, but far enough away not to show up in a sweep of Washington, DC regional banks.

The light changed, and Jesse joined the others crossing the avenue. Two men in navy blue suits left the bank. Her heart rate accelerated. She’d seen FBI agents who were more relaxed. She kept pace with the moving crowd and, as the men angled on an intercept course for the corner she approached, she looked right, causing the locks of the lush wig to fall across her face.

The man on the left turned his head and said something to his companion. Jesse detected no wire in his ear. She stepped over the curb and peered down at the men’s shoes. One wore brown Forzieri dress shoes—too fancy for a federal agent. No FBI issue black leather, black-soled shoes. FBI and CIA clothing allowance didn’t cover four hundred dollar shoes, and in brown, no less.

The men passed without any indication they knew her. She stopped at the bank, pulled open the thick glass door, and plunged into the air-conditioned interior. A pink marble floor with gold inlay and fifteen-foot ceilings made the space feel even cooler. On the right, eight people stood in a roped line waiting for one of six glass-protected tellers seated behind a marble counter. Straight ahead were two freestanding counters with deposit slips and pens on chains. In the back, the vault’s massive door stood wide open, revealing the rows of safety deposit boxes.

To the left sat mahogany desks for the managers, loan officers, and the assistant manager, Louise, who handled safe deposit boxes. A shiver traveled across Jesse’s shoulders as much from the room’s chill as the prospect of spiriting Amanda out of the country. It wouldn’t be easy traveling unnoticed with an autistic sister. Jesse strolled to Louise’s desk and pulled the safety deposit key and New York Driver’s license from the inside pocket of her purse.

Louise looked up from her terminal. “May I help you?”

Jesse extended the key and license. “I’d like to get into box 1271.”

Louise’s eyes widened, then her expression melted into the bland professional look a customer might expect. Jesse smiled as if unaware of the reaction.

“I’m afraid there’s a problem, Ms. Anderson.”

Jesse raised her brows in question. Louise didn’t know her by name.

“There’s a small administrative issue.” Louise returned her attention to her monitor and began typing.

Jesse studied her. “What sort of issue?”

“Just a new policy.” Louise’s eyes remained on the monitor.

Tiny hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck prickled. How would Louise know she hadn’t been there since this new policy had been instituted?

Jesse glanced at her watch. “My lunch break is short. I don’t have much time.”

Feigning frustration, she took a casual step back and peered past the iron barred door into the vault’s subdued, gray interior. Her eye caught the nearest box number in her row, 1011, and scanned the row. Her gaze sharpened on the gaping rectangular hole where her box should have been.