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“I’m sorry, I’m not Susan,” the woman replied with a hint of a Slavic accent. “I don’t believe I know you.”
“Oh, I’m so embarrassed!” I pressed my hand to my cheek. “Of course, I can see that now. Your eyes are a lovely shade of green, not brown like Susan’s. Please forgive me. I’m Ashlee.” I held out my hand.
She gently squeezed my hand. I hoped that from the TJ person’s perspective, it looked like we were old friends chatting, and the banality of it would make him lose interest in me.
“No need to apologize,” the woman said. “I’m Renalda. And I know who you are. Are you here working on your next big story?” She dropped her voice and smiled like we were sharing a secret. “Maybe an exposé of an oligarch? I’ll bet you can find more than one of those here tonight.”
In my line of work, it pays to have a poker face. It also didn’t hurt that I could tell her a half-truth. Which, technically, by definition, is also a half-lie. “It’s nice to meet you, Renalda. Actually, I am here for a story, but probably not the kind you think. It’s a human-interest piece on Luka Kovac and his interior design career.”
“Luka? That’s wonderful. He’s such a lovely man.” She touched her companion’s shoulder, drawing his attention away from the diplomatic attaché with whom he’d been speaking. “Darling, this is Ashlee Armand. She works for one of the DC newspapers. She’s writing about Luka Kovac. Isn’t that wonderful?”
A surge of warm energy crept up my neck and into my face. My reporter’s instinct tacked to high alert. Between Renalda rhapsodizing and her husband staring wide-eyed at me upon hearing Luka’s name, I was sure they knew something about Izak Kovac’s criminal activities. Maybe my new acquaintanceship was serendipitous. It certainly had gotten me out from under the microscopic gaze of the mysterious man who’d called himself TJ. His back was to me now, and his shoulders were relaxed as he talked with a handful of people. My faux friendship with Renalda must have assured him I belonged here, after all.
“If you’re a friend of Luka’s, I’d love to interview you.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a business card. Old-school, for sure, but I knew from dealing with the rich and powerful that you had to create the illusion they were in charge. Giving her my contact details without requesting hers was part of the smokescreen. “The story goes to my editor in a couple of weeks, so the sooner, the better.”
Renalda stared down at my card. “Oh, I don’t know if I should.”
That was a strange choice of words for the circumstances, and I was only more intrigued.
“Why don’t you?” Her husband took the card from her and tucked it into his pocket. “I’m sure Miss Armand would love to hear about the charity events you and Luka have organized.” He met his wife’s gaze and widened his eyes, sharing a silent communiqué.
I fought the urge to roll forward on my toes with excitement. These two random strangers I’d chosen from the crowd might be a gold mine for the real story I planned to uncover. A part of my lizard brain whispered that there were very few real coincidences in the world, but I silenced it. It didn’t need to remind me to be cautious. Any reckless impulses I might have had in my younger days had been, quite literally, beaten out of me six months earlier, when my colleague and I had walked into a trap and only I had walked out alive. Actually, I’d been half-carried out by a rescue team. One wrong move from either one of the people in front of me and I wouldn’t hesitate to pull my Mace, employ my newly acquired self-defense skills, kick and scream, and do whatever it took to make a scene and get myself free.
I kept my mask of calm in place, complete with a polite smile, and breathed evenly, waiting for Renalda’s response.
“I’m free Friday morning from ten to eleven,” she said, glancing sidelong at her husband. “My personal assistant will contact you with an address.”
“Perfect. I look forward to it.” I smiled at both of them. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to powder my nose. Do you happen to know…?” I let the question trail off, an old reporter’s trick. It conveyed discretion and good manners. You can trust me, it implied.
Renalda angled her head toward one of the exits. Also discreet, it messaged back to me. “Through those doors and to the left.”
“Thank you.” I bid them goodnight and ventured one more glance at my earlier admirer.
He was talking with two couples. The image poked at another memory buried deep in my brain, but I couldn’t summon it forward. Some of the residual effects of my trauma, according to my therapist. A terrible deficiency for a reporter, according to my loud inner critic. I was about to turn away when one of the women, an attractive blonde, laid her hand on TJ’s forearm and threw her head back with laughter.
And then I knew. I had seen her six months ago, aboard the harbor cruising ship that—one day later—became my temporary prison. The other woman in the group had been on that ship, as well, along with both their dates, who had been on my radar for a couple of years. They were the Wilder brothers, who ran a successful athleisure-wear company. I had researched everyone who had attended that ill-fated cruise, including the Wilders who, from all I could dig up on them, were good guys running a legitimate business. But this was the second time they were in the vicinity of the sinister, shadowy group responsible for terrorizing me and killing my colleague and friend, Aiden Brooks. Obviously, I’d stopped my investigation of the Wilder brothers too soon, and first thing tomorrow, I would remedy that.
My reporter’s instincts gave me no read on whether TJ was a friend of the group or simply chatting them up as he made the rounds of the party. I would make it my mission to know for sure by this time tomorrow. But for now, the coast was clear, and I had an important task at hand.
Still unsettled, I slipped through the exit and saw the restroom signs to my left. I made a slow circle to make sure no one had followed me and there were no security cameras mounted in the area. Then I pressed myself against the wall, reached up under the hem of my skirt, and pulled out the small, flat packet there. I unfolded it, changing its shape into a black plastic rain slicker. I zipped it over my dress and carefully pulled the hood over my chignon so I wouldn’t return to the party later looking like a hot mess. I crossed my fingers and hoped my security consultant was right that my dark purple dress would blend in with the black coat, and the coat would disguise me well enough to give me plausible deniability if I did get caught on camera.
I glanced over my shoulder one last time to make sure I wasn’t being watched or followed, almost expecting to see TJ or one of the suspicious foursome behind me. Seeing that I was alone, I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Then I mentally reviewed the embassy floor plan I’d memorized, and slipped down the hallway in search of Izak’s office and any evidence I could uncover that he was part of the organization that had done its damnedest to ruin my life.
2
TJ
Ms. Armand slipped out one of the exit doors when she thought no one was watching. Just what I needed, a civilian with a bad plan. As expected, she was naïve. She was a beautiful woman, an excellent investigator, and a brilliant writer, but she was not a spy, despite all appearances that she was playing our game.
More than half a dozen pairs of eyes were on her every movement, including those of my team members standing with me, and my boss and her bodyguard on the opposite side of the room. At least luck was on the intrepid reporter’s side. Embassy security was surprisingly lax and, it appeared, would need at least a couple of minutes to figure out that a guest was taking too long to return from the ladies’ room. That was our window of opportunity.
“She’s on the move,” I said quietly to my team, mostly for the benefit of the remote crew listening in through the undetectable communication units each of us had in our ears. “Penn,” I said to our logistics team lead, who was part of that crew. “Is the decoy on standby?”
“Ready if we need her,” he answered.
Cynthia Kessler, the shapely blonde next to me, and Mai Li, the statuesque dark-haired beauty across from me, both nodded to confirm they were ready to help the decoy blend in with the other guests. Kessler and Li comprised the best tactical team inside HEAT, or Headquarters for the Elimination of Advanced Threats, a covert enterprise buried so deep, only a handful of the highest-level staff in the three-letter agencies like CIA, FBI, NSA, and DIA knew of our existence. And most of those who knew about us didn’t have the security-clearance level to have any idea what our missions were. Looks are not something most bosses should ever notice, but I needed to be aware of every weapon in my tactical team’s arsenal. Since they were like sisters to me—younger, energetic, annoying ones at that—there was never a concern about any of us crossing lines.
Kessler and Li’s boyfriends, the men escorting them tonight, were not only brothers and wealthy businessmen. One of them, Derek, was a former HEAT agent himself. His brother, Chase, was a civilian, but he had been pulled into the very operation that had ended in Armand’s kidnapping and covert rescue six months ago, after she and a colleague had fallen into the hands of the dangerous international crime syndicate, the Carbonados. HEAT had rescued her, although we’d been too late to save her colleague, who had died of a heart attack from the stress. To this day, Ms. Armand didn’t know who had saved her or, to our previous knowledge, who had held her captive.
