A Starbucks by the Galleria
Houston, Texas
Late May 2006
"YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON who can do this, Meredith. There's
no one else I trust." Dean Reynolds tapped his paper
coffee cup against the table and then looked up. "There's
no one else I'd even ask."
Meredith Santera stared at the man sitting on the other
side of the small, black table. Six years had passed since
the last time she'd seen him and that meeting had been
under decidedly different circumstances. They'd been in
Dean's office, with its perfect view of the Memorial
Garden and the haze of D.C. in the distance. He'd had on a
black suit, she remembered, and a red tie, his shirt so
white it had dazzled her almost as much as the voice
coming out of his speakerphone.
"Yes, Mr. President, she's here right now." Reynolds had
winked at her, then waved his hand toward the phone. The
seriousness of the situation overcoming her, Meredith had
stuttered and stumbled and made a fool of herself, but the
president had been gracious.
She sipped her coffee then put down the cup. "I was
shocked when you called. I never expected to hear directly
from you. We agreed —"
Dean leaned infinitesimally closer, his back ramrod
straight. "I know what we agreed, but I couldn't trust
anything except a face-to-face on this one." He seemed to
force himself to relax and gave her what passed for his
smile. "I hope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience for
you to meet me."
"Seeing you could never be anything but a pleasure, Dean.
You should know that by now."
Meredith patted the older man's hand. He was the same age
her father would have been were he still alive and the two
men had always reminded her of each other with their
similar military backgrounds, their staunch patriotism and
their love of all things convoluted.
But she hadn't wanted to meet with Reynolds when he'd
called and obviously he'd sensed that during their short
conversation. He'd said just enough to make her want to
hear more but trepidation had come with it. Her father had
passed away six months ago from a stroke and she missed
him like crazy. They'd been business partners as well as
parent and child, their relationship particularly close
since Meredith's mom had died while Meredith had been in
college, a brain tumor taking her within months of its
discovery. Since her father's death, Meredith had
questioned every decision she'd made.
Just as she was doing now.
She toyed with her napkin, folding the edges, then
smoothing them, the metal grids on the table making a
pattern from below. "I'm just not sure I can help you with
this...situation," she said reluctantly. "You may be
talking to the wrong person."
"I disagree and so does the man I report to. He wants you
in on this and you and I both know why." He paused. "It's
important, Meredith, or I wouldn't even be asking you."
"He" was the president but neither of them acknowledged
that fact.
"I understand what you're saying, Dean, but one of our
own?" She shook her head at the enormity of what he was
asking.
"I know...I know. It doesn't feel right, does it?" He
sounded sad as he asked the question that needed no
answer. "All I can say is that we have no other option. We
have to stop these people. Think about 9/11. You would
have done anything to prevent that disaster, just like I
would have."
"Are you talking about something that big?"
"Yes. Potentially worse. These aren't migrant farm workers
Jack Haden is smuggling from Mexico, Meredith. They're
terrorists from Syria. Every one of them is a member of Al
Balsair."
Meredith drew a deep breath at the name of the violent
group. "That just doesn't sound like the Haden I knew.
Dammit, Dean, he's the last guy I'd expect to get involved
in something like this."
Reynolds's mouth tightened at her curse, just as her
father's would have. "My information is as reliable as
information gets. Jack Haden's turned and you have to take
care of him. If you don't, he's going to help some of the
worst terrorists alive get a free pass into the United
States. I don't want that happening on my watch, Meredith,
and you shouldn't, either. He's a traitor."
She gripped her cup and wished she had a flask of
something — anything — that she could add to what was left
of her coffee.
Jack Haden had been her boss at the Agency, but he'd been
better in bed than behind the desk. Short and violent as a
spring storm, their top-secret relationship had been
chaotic and disastrous. Then Dean had called her into his
office for that historic meeting and the Operatives, her
team of specialists, had been born.
The night she'd informed Haden she was leaving the Agency,
they'd had two hours of incredible sex, then afterward,
when she'd revealed as much as she could about her plans,
he'd thrown her out of his apartment. She'd been so
unprepared for his reaction she'd ended up on his front
porch clutching more of her clothing to her chest than
she'd actually been able to get on her body.
She'd told herself the breakup had been bound to happen.
Sooner or later, she and Haden would have killed one
another. One would have shot the other or they would have
screwed themselves to death. Sometimes, though, she
wondered where the relationship might have gone. Haden had
been an intriguing man with secrets that didn't match the
person she'd come to care for and the contrast had kept
her interested far longer than normal. She would have
figured him out eventually — but it might have taken her a
lifetime.
"I brought Jack Haden into the Agency so believe me, this
wasn't an easy decision." Reynolds toyed with the sugar
packets. "I trusted him. But a lot of field officers end
up this way. There's money and excitement and deals to be
made. South America is like a drawer full of candy to a
smart guy like Haden, and he's reached in and grabbed a
handful."
Meredith didn't reply because she didn't know what to say,
a vague sense of discontent marring the loyalty she had
always shown her mentor. "I just don't know...."
Disapproval came into Reynolds's pale gray eyes. "I
thought I could depend on you, Meredith. I helped you a
lot when you were on the official payroll. I got you where
you are right now." He paused.
"Surely you haven't forgotten that, have you?"
"I haven't forgotten anything you've done for me, Dean,
and I never will," she said slowly. "But Jack is one of
us —"
Dean's hand snaked out and captured her wrist before she
could finish her sentence. She jerked her gaze to his face
in surprise.
"He was but he isn't anymore." His voice turned fierce.
His fingers squeezed painfully, then he released her and
thumped the pile of black-and-white photos sitting on the
tabletop between them. "This is what he's become and you
have a duty to see that it doesn't go any further."
Meredith picked up the photographs he'd already shown her,
her hands shaking in spite of herself. The first one was a
long-distance shot of Jack Haden and two other men. Their
faces were grainy but clear enough. She knew who the
terrorists were. She moved on to the second one. It showed
Haden on a busy street kissing a dark-haired woman.
According to Reynolds, the woman was a courier for Al
Balsair. Haden had one hand around her waist and the other
at her neck. The kiss was a serious one and it'd instantly
reminded Meredith of the kind they'd shared. She swallowed
hard and pushed the memory aside, her eyes going to the
third shot. Obviously caught at a party, Haden had been
snapped standing beside a blond man and they were
engrossed in a conversation, oblivious to all around them.
She tapped the last picture, distracting herself from the
one before it. "Tell me again about this Prescott
fellow...."
"He works for a telecommunications firm out of Boston
called Redman Cellular," Reynolds said.
"They're bidding on a job to install a series of towers
down there for cell phone communication. It's easier than
trying to get land lines to everyone. He went to Guatemala
City two weeks ago. The last time his wife heard from him
was three days later. Since then, not a word."
"Have you talked to anyone at Redman?"
"I've spoken with Prescott's boss several times."
"No mention of a ransom?"
"He said no. He's upset and worried, but at a loss to
figure out what happened, or so he says. Everything seems
normal on the surface."
"But...?"
"But Redman Cellular's name came through the system
earlier this year with a yellow flag. The American
companies that have contracts in the Latin quadrant are
overworked and understaffed. They're desperate to hang on
to their deals so they're sending people down there who
aren't anything but warm bodies. They don't know what
they're doing, but their presence makes the locals think
something's getting done and it buys the companies more
time."
"But in the meantime, all anyone employed by Redman needs
is a legitimate work visa and they're free to travel
between South America and North America. Regular round
trips aren't out of line — they're expected."
"Exactly."
"Perfect setup for a mule."
"You got it."
Meredith shook her head in disgust. The bad guys made so
much money here they had to have it physically transported
to Latin America. The women and men who shuttled the money
and goods back and forth were called mules. Lately, with
all the advances that had been made in electronic
eavesdropping, information and other pieces of
intelligence were frequently hand-carried as well.