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“Why would you?” He sounded interested. “My cover was as a contract agent.”
Looking back, she realized that Dallas had known, which was why he had urged Medina to stay behind rather than risk capture. And Dallas, an ex-SEAL accustomed to top security clearances and need-to-know, had kept the information to himself, not even telling her, his wife. But she worked for the Agency now, and she knew that was how things were. You kept things to yourself, you didn’t tell friends or neighbors what you did for a living; discretion became second nature.
“Dallas knew, didn’t he?” she asked, just for affirmation.
“He knew I wasn’t a contract agent. He didn’t know my real name, though. When I worked with him before, he knew me as Tucker.”
“Why did you tell me? It wasn’t necessary.” She wished he hadn’t. If even half the rumors she had heard whispered about the elusive, shadowy John Medina were true, then she didn’t want to know who he really was. Ignorance, in this case, was safer than discretion.
“Perhaps it was.”
His voice was reflective, and he didn’t explain further.
“Why did you have a cover with us? We were a team. None of us were out to get you.”
“If you didn’t know my real name, then, if any of you were captured, you couldn’t reveal it.”
“And if you were captured?”
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“I wouldn’t be.”
“Oh? How would you prevent it?”
“Poison,” he said matter-of-factly.
Niema recoiled. She knew that some operatives, back in the tense Cold War days, had carried a suicide pill, usually cyanide, that they were to swallow rather than allow themselves to be captured. To know that John Medina did the same made her feel sick to her stomach.
“But—”
“It’s better than being tortured to death.” He shrugged. “Over the years, I’ve pissed off a lot of people. They would all like to have a turn removing my body parts.”
From what she had heard about his exploits, he was understating the case. It was even rumored he had killed his own wife, because he discovered she was a double agent and was about to expose a highly placed mole. Niema didn’t believe that particular rumor, but then neither had she believed John Medina was a real man. Not one of the people who talked about him had ever met him, seen him, or knew anyone who had. She had thought him a kind of . . . urban myth, though one restricted to intelligence circles.
She couldn’t quite take in that not only was he real, but she knew him. And even more astounding was how accepting he was of everything entailed in being who he was, as if his notoriety was simply the price he had to pay to do what he wanted.
“Given your circumstances,” she said with asperity, “you shouldn’t have told me now, either.” The fact that he had made her suspicious.
“Actually, I was so surprised to see you that I blurted it out without thinking.”
The idea of him being taken off guard was so out of character that she snorted, and stretched out her left leg. “Here, pull this one, too.”
“It’s true,” he murmured. “I didn’t know you were going to be there.”
“You had no idea Mr. Vinay wanted me to . . . whatever it was he wanted me to do? And you just happened to show up? How likely is that?”
“Not very, but unlikely things happen every day.”
“Does he expect you to talk me into taking the job?”
“Maybe. I don’t know what he was thinking.” Irritation colored his voice now. “I suspect, though, that he’s working two angles. You’ll have to ask him what those angles are.”
“Since I’m not taking the job, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter what the angles are, does it?”
He grinned suddenly. “I don’t think he was expecting to be turned down, especially not so fast. Not many people can tell him no.”
“Then he needed the experience.”
