Julia’s mind raced, trying to make sense of everything.
A part of her wanted to throw herself into Con’s arms,
tuck herself into his body for comfort, for the consoling
protection only he could provide. But it had been too long
since she’d found comfort in his arms. So much had
happened in the last year, the last twelve hours even,
that she felt out of sync, her mind and heart struggling
to catch up. After squeezing his hands lightly, she pulled
hers out of them, stood and walked away from him, trying
to sort out the tangled logic. Love for him making the
impossible choices he had made competed with the anger she
felt over his arrogant manner of manipulation.
Exasperated, her voice came out stronger now. “I
understand what you did and why you did it, but I still
don’t like it. In fact, I hate it.”
Conrad huffed out a sigh, but nodded once in
acknowledgment.
Moving to the doorway, she leaned on the frame, ran a
hand over her face. “Germany. Now I finally understand why
you were always running off to that hellhole. God, I hated
that country. Do you know how many nights I laid awake in
our bed in Paris wondering what you were doing? I imagined
you sleeping with a beautiful young fräulein or, worse,
lying dead in an alley somewhere.”
Conrad still said nothing, but his eyes were sad,
watchful.
“Then came the bomb,” Julia went on. “Synchronized
watches and an explosion that happened two minutes sooner
than planned.” She shook her head. “Me, sitting helplessly
inside the car, my body in shock, my mind totally unsure
of what had happened. I prayed that night, Conrad. I
prayed you’d come running around the corner any second and
I could breathe again.” She took a deep breath and blinked
back tears. “But I knew, deep in my gut, you were never
coming back. And it was my fault. I built that bomb and it
went off early.” She steeled her attention on him. “I
thought I killed you.”
Julia could see him visibly struggling with shame and
guilt. His gaze went down to the floor, came back up to
hers. Was it a silent plea for forgiveness she saw in them
or only weariness? Before he could speak, she cut him
off. “Only, my bomb didn’t kill you, just my life with
you.” She wiped an errant tear off her cheek. “I want to
be angry with you and this wicked deception you pulled on
me, but all I can feel is sadness and regret lodged right
here.” She tapped her chest with a fist. “You sacrificed
your career and your life to save me, so it’s hard to feel
self-righteous after that, but your betrayal has still
broken my heart all over again.”
Conrad moved for her then and she held out a hand to
keep him back, but it didn’t work. As soon as he grabbed
her, the fight in her dissolved. She stiffened only
slightly as his arms went around her and his grip
tightened. He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair.
Tears fell from her eyes and soaked into his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
If she tilted her head up, she could kiss him. For a
moment, Julia actually considered it. The kiss they’d
shared that morning in Michael’s bed had been surreal,
weird, almost frightening. The kiss earlier in the evening
in her bedroom had been shy and left her with a miserable
ache of need. Miserable but desirable at the same time…she
wanted to feel his lips again, wanted to suck the heat
from his body and the tongue out of his mouth…and…
In the background, Smitty cleared his throat. Loudly.
Julia moved back and drew in a ragged breath. Conrad
looked down at her, his eyes grave and watchful again. And
maybe a little heated, but now was so not the time to be
thinking about kissing Conrad.
Smitty shuffled papers on the coffee table and tried to
look like he hadn’t been watching them. Julia stepped away
from Conrad and set her focus on Smitty instead. It was
easier to control her emotions if she wasn’t looking at
Con. It was easier to think. And she definitely needed to
think.
“So, Michael was right when he told me Con’s death was
not my fault.” She was pleased at the matter-of-factness
in her voice as she spoke to Smitty. “But he was wrong
about me being safe. Someone, possibly an intricately
woven group within the Agency, sold me and four other case
officers out. I survived, but that doesn’t mean I’m not
still a target. Why? Why would someone give five case
officers up to a sure death sentence?”
“Power, money, vengeance.” Smitty shrugged. His neck
was slightly pink and he kept his gaze on a paper he was
holding. “There are endless motivations, but we think
power is the key here.” He chanced a glance at her.
“Not money? They usually go hand-in-hand.”
Smitty shook his head. “My money tracers have found no
significant exchanges of money by the key players. No red
flags in offshore accounts.”
Conrad crossed to the futon. “Everything we’ve found,
all the evidence we’ve gathered supports an eloquent power
play, orchestrated by someone deep inside the Agency.”
Power. A freaking power-grabber had done all this
damage. Sudden anger flared in the pit of Julia’s stomach.
She wasn’t good at playing the casual victim, had already
done her time in that role. Ditto for turning the other
cheek.
Her anger morphed into steel-edged resolve. “How do you
know there’s more than one person involved?”
Both Conrad and Smitty looked at her, measured hope in
their eyes.
Smitty pointed to the computer. “We have evidence
showing the S&T and INTEL directorates have been involved
along with Operations. It’s minimal but there.” Science
and Technology and Intelligence were the other two main
directorates of the CIA.
“How did you obtain that information?”
Smitty glanced at Con and back to her. “I was running
the European operations long before I officially received
the title. Since I knew what to look for, I kept a close
watch on all the agents and operatives, and used all of my
assets in the field to figure out how far this operation
went. I uncovered a cache of info from several reliable
sources outside of the Agency.”
Conrad cleared his throat. “And some of it came from a
source on the inside who’s been helping us.”
She drilled him a look. “You already have someone
inside Langley helping you?” She knew the answer to her
next question, but she asked it anyway. “Then why do you
need me?”
Her ex-partner’s gaze was back on the coffee
table. “Because you’re the one sleeping with Michael
Stone.”
Silence hung between the three friends with crushing
weight. So now she had the truth. Julia swallowed the lump
tightening her throat and persisted. “Who’s your source on
the inside?”
Smitty smiled at her as if reasoning with an irritable
toddler. “Julia, you’ll be more effective to us if that
person remains anonymous to you. Think about it. If you’d
known about our operation, known that Con was alive, you
wouldn’t have penetrated the Agency as well as you have.”
Penetrated the Agency. Julia stared at a spot on the
far wall. What a polite way to say shagging the boss. She
crossed her arms over her chest and put a hand over her
mouth. There she was not a minute ago thinking about
kissing Conrad and completely forgetting about Michael.
What was wrong with her?
It was getting harder and harder to keep things
straight. Once again, she reached for the safety of
logic. “Why not take the information you have and give it
to the DCI?”
Titus Xavier Allen had been the charismatic Director of
Central Intelligence for a brief five years. A former spy
once in love with the clandestine side of the CIA, he was
now the sixty-five-year-old DCI in love with the Hollywood
side of government. Tailored suits, dinner parties and
vacations in the Keys held more seduction these days than
running agents.
“Not until we have absolute proof about who’s in charge
of the rogue operation.” Conrad vacated the futon and went
to sit in front of the computer. His fingers poked
awkwardly at the keys. “We have incriminating evidence,
but if we take it to Allen right now, he’ll sweep it under
the rug. The last thing the DCI wants is to face a
congressional committee or the Justice Department over
improper conduct by the agency that has made him into the
man he is. Plus, his buddy, the president, might get a
little miffed if anything further damages his popularity
poll ratings. Titus is one of the prez’s favorite cronies.”
A nearby HP laser printer began to hum. “Once we get
the last bit of proof we need, we’ll give it to the DCI,
along with the president, the Inspector General, and, of
course, the press.” Conrad paused and looked at
her. “We’re going to burn this bastard’s ass and everyone
helping him.”
Fear, like an icy finger, ran across the back of her
neck. Conrad already knew who had put her life on the
line, she was sure of it. “Who do you think the bastard
is?”
He picked up the paper the printer had spit out and sat
looking at it. She could see him struggle with the
impending disclosure. “Is it that bad?”
“Just remember, you wanted the facts, Jules.” He
refused to meet her eyes. “Here’s the facts, in black and
white, just the way you asked for them.” He pushed the
paper he was holding across the table to her.
Unable to resist the magnetic draw of the answer, Julia
grabbed it. Thirty or more CIA employee names were listed
with their corresponding code names. There, in amongst the
benign, was the identical code name on the e-mail that had
changed the course of her life.
Director of Operations, Michael J. Stone. Her knees
buckled.