Softly falling snow blanketed Washington, D.C., adding a
touch of lacy white trim to the elegant town houses lining
a quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue. The few
residents of the capital who weren't glued to their TV
sets this Superbowl Sunday scurried by, chins down and
collars turned up against the cold. Intent on getting out
of the elements, they didn't give the town house set
midway down the block a second glance. If they had, they
might have noticed the discreet bronze plaque set beside
the entrance that identified the offices of the
president's special envoy.
Most Washington insiders believed the special envoy's
position had been created several administrations ago to
give a wealthy campaign contributor a fancy title and an
important-sounding but meaningless title. Only a handful
of the most senior cabinet officials knew that the special
envoy secretly served in another, far more vital capacity.
From a specially shielded high-tech control center on the
third floor of the town house, he directed a covert agency.
An agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the
Greek alphabet, OMEGA. An agency that, as its name
implied, sprang into action as a last resort when other,
more established organizations, such as the CIA, the State
Department or the military, couldn't respond.
Less than an hour ago, a call from the president had
activated an OMEGA response. From various corners of the
capital, a small cadre of dedicated professionals battled
the snow-clogged streets to converge on the scene.
Maggie Sinclair unwrapped the wool scarf muffling her
mouth and nose and stomped her calf-high boots to remove
the last of the clinging snow. Stuffing the scarf in her
pocket, she hurried through the tunnel that led to OMEGA's
secret underground entrance. At the end of the passageway,
she pressed a hand to a hidden sensor and waited
impatiently for the computers to verify her palm-print.
Seconds later, the titanium-shielded door hummed open. She
took the stairs to the second floor and scanned the
monitors set into the wall. Satisfied that only the
special envoy's receptionist occupied the spacious outer
area, she activated the sensors.
Gray-haired, grandmotherly Elizabeth Wells glanced up in
surprise. "'My goodness, Chameleon, you got here fast.'"
"'I took the subway. I wasn't about to try driving through
this mess.'' Shrugging out of her down jacket, Maggie
hooked it on a bentwood coat tree. "'Besides, I wanted to
leave my car for Red. Just in case.'"
Elizabeth's kind face folded into sympathetic
lines. "'What a shame you were called in right in the
middle of your father's visit. He doesn't get back to the
States all that often, does he?'"
"'No, he doesn't.'"
Actually, Red Sinclair was lucky if he managed a quick
trip stateside once a year. As superintendent of an oil-
field exploration rig, the crusty widower traveled
continually from one overseas job to the next. He might be
drilling in Malaysia one week, Saudi Arabia the next.
"'And when he does come home,'' Maggie added with a
grin, "'he usually times his visits to coincide with the
Superbowl. I left him and Terence ensconced in front of
the TV, alternately cheering the Cowboys and cursing the
Redskins.'"
"'You left the poor man with Terence?'' A ripple of
distaste crossed Elizabeth's face. Like most of the OMEGA
team, she actively disliked the bug-eyed blue-and-orange-
striped iguana a certain Central American colonel had
given Maggie. The one time the receptionist had been
pressed into lizard-sitting, the German shepherd-size
creature had devoured her prized water lilies.
"'Honestly, dear, I don't understand how you can keep
that...that creature as a house pet. I find him utterly
repulsive.'"
"'Dad does, too,'' Maggie replied,
laughing. "'Unfortunately, the reverse doesn't hold true.
Terence hates this cold weather. He's been trying to climb
into Red's lap to share his warmth, not to mention his
beer, all afternoon long. I left them just before
halftime, tussling for possession of a bottle of Coors.'"
"'Perhaps I should give your father a call,'' Elizabeth
mused. "'If you're going out of town, he might like to get
away from that disgusting reptile for a while. Maybe have
dinner with me.'"
Maggie's brows rose. ""Am I going out of town?'' Elizabeth
gave a little cluck of disgust at her uncharacteristic
slip. Having served as personal assistant to OMEGA's
director since the agency was founded, she knew when and
how to keep secrets. She also knew how to use the Sig
Sauer 9 mm pistol she kept in her upper-right-hand desk
drawer. She'd fired the weapon only once in the line of
duty, to deadly effect.
Maggie grinned to herself. This kind, lethal woman had a
background and a personality as intriguing as her father's.
"'I wish you would give Dad a call, Elizabeth. I'm sure
he'd enjoy having dinner with someone who doesn't prefer
bugs as an appetizer.'"
The receptionist grimaced and reached for the intercom
phone. "'I will, I promise. Right now, though, I'd better
tell the chief you're here. He's waiting for you.'"
While Elizabeth announced her arrival, Maggie raked a hand
through her snow-dampened, shoulder-length brown hair. A
quick tug settled her faded maroon-and-gold Washington
Redskins sweatshirt around her jeans-clad hips. This
wasn't quite her standard professional attire, but the
coded message summoning her to headquarters had signaled a
matter of national importance, and she hadn't taken the
time to change. Oh, well, OMEGA's director had seen her in
worse rigs than this. Much worse.
Now all brisk efficiency, Elizabeth nodded. "'Go on in,
dear.'"
As Maggie walked down the short corridor leading to the
director's private office, a flicker of anticipation
skipped through her, like a tiny electrical impulse
darting across a circuit board. She tried to tell herself
that her suddenly erratic pulse was due to her imminent
mission, whatever it might be. Herself wasn't buying it.
She knew darn well what was causing the shimmer of
excitement in her blood.
He was waiting a few steps away.
Maggie paused outside the door to draw in a deep,
steadying breath. The extra supply of air didn't do her
any good. As soon as she walked into his office and caught
her first glimpse of the tall, dark-haired man standing at
the window, her lungs forgot to function.
After almost three years, Maggie thought wryly, she ought
to be used to Adam Ridgeway's effect on her respiratory
system. The sad fact was that each contact with this cool,
authoritative, often irritating man left her more
breathless than the last.
He turned and gave her one of his rare smiles. "'Hello,
Maggie. Sorry I had to drag you away from the game.'"
She forced the air trapped in her chest cavity to
circulate. Okay, the man looked like an ad for GQ in knife-
pleated tan wool slacks, a white oxford shirt and a V-
necked cashmere sweater in a deep indigo blue that matched
his eyes. And, yes, the light from his desk lamp picked up
a few delicious traces of silver in his black hair, traces
he claimed she herself had put there.
But he was her boss, for heaven's sake, and she was too
mature, too professional, to allow her growing fascination
with Adam Ridgeway to complicate her relationship with the
director of OMEGA. Unfortunately.
"'Hi, Adam,'' she replied, moving to her favorite perch on
one corner of his massive mahogany conference table.
"'I don't mind the weather, but if the Skins lose this
game because I'm not there to cheer them on, Red's going
to gloat for the rest of his visit. He still can't believe
I've transferred my allegiance from the Cowboys.'"
"'That is a pretty radical switch for an Oklahoman,'' the
Boston-bred Adam concurred gravely.
"'No kidding! A lot of folks back home think it ranks
right up there with abandoning your firstborn or setting
fire to the flag.'"
Actually, Maggie's move to Washington three years ago had
resulted in far more than a shift in allegiance in
football teams. Until that time, she'd chaired the foreign
language department at a small Midwestern college. An easy
mastery of her work and a broken engagement had led to a
growing restlessness. So when she received a late-night
call from the strange little man Red Sinclair had once
helped smuggle out of a war-torn oil sheikhdom, she'd been
intrigued. That call had resulted in a secret trip to D.C.
and, ultimately, her recruitment as an operative.
From the day she joined OMEGA, Maggie had never considered
going back to sleepy little Yarnell College. What woman
could be content teaching languages after leading a strike
team into the jungles of Central America to take down a
drug lord? Or after being trapped in a Soviet nuclear-
missile silo with a brilliant, if incredibly clumsy,
scientist? Or dangling hundreds of feet above the dark,
crashing Mediterranean to extract a wounded agent from the
subterranean lair of a megalomaniacal film star? Not this
woman, at any rate.
Although...
If pressed, Maggie would have admitted that the life of a
secret agent had its drawbacks. Like the fact that most of
the men she associated with in her line of work were
either drug dealers or thieves or general all-around
sleazebags.
Oh, there were a few interesting prospects. A certain drop-
dead-gorgeous Latin American colonel still called her
whenever he was in D.C. And one or two operatives from
other agencies she'd worked with had thrown out hints
about wanting to know the woman behind the code name
Chameleon. But none of these men possessed quite the right
combination of qualities Maggie was looking for in a
potential mate. Like a keen, incisive mind. A sense of
adventure. A hint of danger in his smile. A great bod
wasn't one of her absolute requirements, but it certainly
wouldn't hurt.
So far Maggie had only met one man who came close to
measuring up in all categories, and he was standing a few
feet away from her right now. The problem was, whenever
they came face-to-face, it was generally just before he
sent her off to some far corner of the world.
As he was about to do now, apparently. "'So what's up,
Adam?'' she asked. "'Why are we here?'"
"'I'm here because I got a call from the president an hour
ago,'' he said slowly, his eyes on her face.
"'And?'' Maggie prompted.
The tingling tension that always gripped her at the start
of a mission added to the fluttering in her veins that
Adam's presence generated. Anticipation coursed through
her, and her fingers gripped the smooth wood as she
focused her full attention on his next words.
"'And you're here because you're going to impersonate the
vice president for the next two weeks.'"
Maggie's jaw dropped. "'The vice president? Of the United
States?'"
"'Of the United States.'"
"'Taylor Grant?'"
"'Taylor Grant.''
Maggie's astonishment exploded into shimmering, leaping
excitement. In her varied career with OMEGA, she'd passed
herself off as everything from a nun to a call girl. But
this would be the first time she'd gone undercover in the
topmost echelons of the executive branch.
"'Now this is my kind of assignment! The vice president of
the United States!'' She shoved a hand through the thick
sweep of her brown hair. "'What's the story, Adam?'"
"'For the last three months, the vice president has been
working secretly on an international accord in response to
terrorism. According to the president, the parties
involved are close, very close, to hammering out the final
details of an agreement. One that will send shock waves
through the terrorist community. When this treaty is
approved, all signatories will respond as one to any
hostile act.'"
"'It's about time!'"
In the past few years, Maggie had seen firsthand the
results of differing government approaches to terrorism.
Depending on the personality of the people in high office,
the response could be swift or maddeningly slow, strong or
fatally indecisive.
"'The key players involved in crafting the treaty are
gathering at Camp David to hammer out the final details,''
Adam continued. "'No one — I repeat, no one — outside of
the president, the VP herself and a few trusted advisors
know about this meeting.'"
Maggie eyed him shrewdly. "'So I'm to deflect the world's
attention while this secret meeting takes place?'"
"'Exactly.'"
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. "'Why me?'"
"'Why not?'' he countered, watching her face.
"'Mrs. Grant has at least half a dozen women assigned to
her Secret Service detail,'' Maggie said bluntly. "'They
know her personal habits and routine intimately. They
wouldn't need the coaching I will to double for her.'"
"'True, but none of them matches her height and general
physical characteristics as well as you do.'"