Face, The (23 page)

“Some of it.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Sorry, kid, but you didn’t need to know. Besides, you had other things on your mind.”

I snort softly, but I don’t argue. This place is rife with secrets, even between friends.

I rub the rough patch of skin between my mouth and my nose. “The envelope Espinosa gave Hightower—did you retrieve it?”

“It was gone when our agent arrived.”

“Do you have video of the meet?”

“We do. Dr. Mewton and I have been over it a dozen times.”

“Any contact between the two men? Any touch at all?”

“None.”

“Any way Hightower could have been hit with an airborne toxin? Something he inhaled?”

“Someone else would have been affected. The exchange took place on a public street corner.”

“Maybe the toxin was on the envelope.” I blink as a scenario forms in my head. “On your surveillance tape, what was the accountant wearing when he met Hightower?”

Judson snorts. “You forget, kid—I can’t
see.
”

“Can you show me?”

“What are you getting at?”

“If the toxin was on the envelope and Espinosa knew it, he might have been wearing gloves.”

Judson shakes his head and leans forward in his chair. “You’re bright, kid, but so is Dr. Mewton. If Espinosa had been wearing gloves, don’t you think Mewton would have noticed and said something?”

I press my hand to my temple, where a headache is beginning to pound. He’s right, of course. He and Dr. M always are.

Renee

“D
r. Carey?”

Glenda Mewton’s voice on the intercom startles me so completely that I nearly drop my glass of water. “Yes?”

“Could you attend a meeting in the conference room in half an hour? I’d like your professional evaluation of a newcomer we’ll be introducing.”

I smother a snort of surprise. “I’m supposed to evaluate someone on the spot?”

“I need a summary opinion, that’s all.”

I sigh. “All right, I’ll be there.”

I wait until the hum of the intercom stops, then roll my eyes and return to my reading. Until now, Glenda Mewton has seemed intent upon ignoring my status as a CIA employee, so either she’s run up against something she can’t handle or she’s been instructed to make use of me.

Probably the latter. I heard helicopters last night, which means officers and/or assets were coming and/or going. For all I know, the President of the U.S. of A. could be having an emergency face-lift upstairs.

I check my watch, finish the article I was reading, and step into the bathroom to brush my teeth. After popping two pain relievers for an incipient headache, I pick up my notepad and stroll to the conference room.

Judson is sitting alone at the table. He acknowledges me before I speak a word. “Morning, Renee,” he says, continuing to tap on his laptop.

“Morning, Jud.” I slide into an empty seat. “Is Sarah coming?”

“I don’t think she was invited to this little parley. We got a bigwig in residence, though.”

“How big a wig? Should I be nervous?”

He chuffs. “Not hardly. It’s Jack Traut, our boss. I smelled his pipe when I came through the hallway.”

Despite his assurances, my nerves tense when I hear footsteps in the hallway. I look up in time to see Glenda Mewton enter, followed by a man carrying a cup of coffee. “Sorry to hear about Hightower,” the man was saying. “A terrible thing.”

Glenda moves to an empty chair and shakes her head. “I don’t know what those fiends hit him with, but he didn’t stand a chance. Even if he’d pulled through the surgery, his brain was gone.”

“Did he have family?”

“A wife and daughter in Portugal. They think he’s been on an extended business trip.”

“Make the arrangements. Full burial with honors, the whole nine yards.”

The man takes a sip of his coffee, then looks at me for the first time. His brow shoots skyward. “You must be Dr. Carey.”

I stand and offer my hand. “I am.”

“Jack Traut. Nice to have you on the team, Doctor.” He shakes my hand, then lifts his coffee cup. “Can I get you something before we begin?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

I sink back into my seat as he sits next to Judson. I glance around the table, acutely aware of the two empty places. Glenda wanted my impressions of a newcomer. Did she mean
Traut?

The boss wastes no time. He settles in his chair and glances at Glenda. “I’m assuming we’ve had no success with the Mona Lisa. No one from Saluda took the bait?”

Judson shakes his head. “I checked first thing this morning. Even though we mailed over two dozen copies to employees, no one’s activated the program. My guess is that Saluda’s people have been threatened with dire consequences if they install any nonapproved software on the company system.”

Glenda sighs. “If only government employees were as conscientious. I’ll never forget what happened when that ‘I Love You’ virus was unleashed. Langley had computers down all over the network.”

“People have learned a lot since then,” Jud answers. “And people who have a lot to lose are naturally suspicious.”

I find myself wishing I’d accepted Traut’s offer of coffee when a tanned, mustached stranger enters, a steaming mug in his hand. His eyes rove around the room without so much as a flicker of interest.

“Hola,”
he says, moving to an empty seat. “Good morning.”

“About time,” Traut says, nodding at the man. “Glenda, Judson, Dr. Carey, I’d like you to meet Oscar Espinosa. Since no one picked up the Mona Lisa, I thought it’d be a good time to call on one of our assets. Espinosa is a bookkeeper at Saluda, and he’s provided information over the past several months. He’s willing to help us again.”

Judson, Glenda, and I murmur polite “nice to meet yous,” but I can’t help noticing Glenda glancing at Judson as if she’d send him a message if she could. What’s that about?

Espinosa nods at me and Glenda and stares for a moment at Holmes. Though the man’s gaze darts from face to face, his mouth never moves—likely a sign of anxiety. But who wouldn’t be nervous in this situation?

“Oscar’s been at Saluda three years,” Traut continues, pulling a pipe from his pocket, “so Adolfo Rios and his men are accustomed to seeing him. Espinosa has also developed a friendship with Rios’s secretary, a woman named Felicia Vargas.”

“I’m assuming this is a romantic relationship.” Glenda meets Espinosa’s gaze without smiling. “Those relationships can be…unpredictable.”

Espinosa gives her a smile as thin as rice water. “I have everything under control.”

Of course he does. He’s oozing machismo.

“Espinosa’s computer is monitored, of course,” Traut continues, “so our plan is to send him out on his lunch break. He’ll talk to Ms. Vargas and distract her long enough to plant the Mona Lisa on her computer.”

“Why her computer?” Judson asks. “Why not use someone a little lower down the food chain?”

Espinosa’s mouth shifts just enough to wriggle the mustache on his upper lip. “Felicia must have constant contact with the boss, no? She will have access to files that are off-limits to other departments.”

Traut nods. “With any luck, we’ll have copied and uploaded all the files on Saluda’s servers by the time they close their offices for the day.” He glances around the table. “Comments? Let me have them.”

Holmes twiddles his fingers over the keys of his laptop. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this approach. Saluda’s henchmen don’t stop at warning those who are caught betraying the organization. Your computer is monitored, Señor Espinosa, so you don’t want to risk your neck. What makes you willing to risk Señora Vargas’s?”

Espinosa’s mouth curls in a one-sided smile. “She is a woman. No one will believe her capable of planting a sophisticated program.”

“Why not?” The words zip out of Glenda’s mouth. “She’s obviously bright enough to be the big man’s secretary.”

The newcomer’s hand rises to tweak the end of his thin mustache. “Maybe it is different here, but the women at Saluda are not clever. Felicia is, however, a feast for the eyes.”

A disgruntled sound rises from Judson’s throat. “What if you’re seen at her desk?”

“I will improvise. Don’t worry, I am good at it. Your people have trained me well.”

I glance around the table and study my companions’ expressions. Traut seems content, but something about the plan doesn’t agree with Glenda.

She turns to face Espinosa. “How can you be sure this woman isn’t setting you up? She may not be as thickheaded as you think. I’d bet my last euro that she isn’t.”

Traut shuts her down with a stern glance. “If Espinosa trusts this woman, we’ll trust her, too. When he’s ready to proceed, I want to bring Sarah in to provide satellite surveillance.”

Judson clears his throat. “Isn’t that overkill? If it’s as simple a matter as Señor Espinosa proposes….”

Glenda shakes her head. “It won’t be simple. Even if he succeeds in loading the Mona Lisa onto Saluda’s network, the files we want will certainly be encrypted.”

Espinosa lifts a hand. “I need to know—what exactly does this Mona Lisa do? If they find the program on Felicia’s computer, it might be helpful if I could deflect their suspicion—”

“They won’t find it,” Judson interrupts. “The Mona Lisa plants a half-dozen innocent files, all of them with random creation dates and .doc, .jpeg, or .pdf extensions. Only by breaking the files apart and analyzing every string would anyone find the code that’s siphoning off information.”

Espinosa leans back and whistles. “Genius. Did you write the program?”

“It’s one of Sarah’s,” Jud answers, grinning. “A little ditty our steganography whiz kid whipped up in an afternoon. And if you think that’s impressive—”

“If there’s nothing else—” Glenda cuts him off, her voice dry “—we should get back to work.”

I exhale in relief when Traut grips the arms of his chair.

“I think that takes care of it,” he says. “Espinosa, we’ll give you a flash drive loaded with the Mona Lisa before you go.”

Traut and Espinosa stand. They pause to exchange smiles and claps on the shoulder before moving into the hallway. When they’ve gone, Glenda turns to me. “And your impression of Señor Espinosa is…?”

I blink. “Based on a ten-minute encounter?”

“I’m not asking for a case history, only an impression.”

“Okay…chauvinistic and strong-willed, but anxious. And at least partially deceptive.”

“Based on what?”

“His mustache. He kept grooming it.”

One of Judson’s brows rises. “He was lying to us?”

“Or he was thinking about the lies he’d have to tell in order to pull off his assignment. He seems capable and willing…but I can’t be more definite than that.”

Apparently my professional opinion counts for less than nothing, because Judson shuts his laptop and turns to Glenda, his closed eyes holding her as firmly as if he’d been a sighted man. “Do you feel good about this one, Dr. M?”

“No.” She peers into the hallway. “No, I don’t.”

“Me, either,” Jud admits. “But I can’t put my finger on why.”

Sarah

A
unt Renee knocks on my apartment door and asks if I want to have a session while Judson and Dr. Mewton have their meeting. I don’t open the door, but beg off by telling her I have stomach cramps. I’m stretching the truth only a little because my gut has been tied up in knots all day.

While Judson and Dr. Mewton meet with Mr. Traut, I hunker at my desk and consider the new information I’ve learned this morning. My father was killed while trying to expose Saluda. Judson was maimed while following the same case. Hightower was—what, poisoned?—while trying to get the goods on Adolfo Rios.

I have no way of knowing how many people have lost their lives while trying to expose Rios and his henchmen, but I don’t think I’ll be able to rest until I know who killed my father. The CIA knows he was murdered, but Aunt Renee says everyone back home thinks he committed suicide.

How could my country allow such a travesty of justice? It’s not right; it’s not fair. We should have exposed Rios and his thugs long ago.

For an aching instant I wish I could unlock the door and let Aunt Renee in to share all my secrets. I would love to have a partner in what I’m about to do, but I can’t tell anyone.

Judson has already paid for his involvement with Saluda, and Aunt Renee didn’t sign on for this kind of venture.

I must take this next step alone.

I want the world to know the truth; I want the murderers exposed. So how can I, a faceless girl, succeed where so many agents have failed?

I can only do what I do best.

I line up my fingers on the keyboard and close my eyes. I’ve already hacked into the agency’s server farm, surely a federal offense. I’ve pried into every corner of the convent. I’ve rifled through networks at Langley without being detected. If I’d left a trail, they’d already have enough evidence to hold me in prison forever, but they’ve never detected my snooping…and in my skill lies my only hope.

I set my jaw and open my basic steganography program, then pull up a photo of one of Judson’s Internet bimbos. The blonde is big-haired, sleepy-eyed, and wearing a red dress so tight every microfiber must contain a full strand of her DNA. Any man with eyes in his head would pause if this picture flashed across his computer screen.

It’s perfect.

I input the .jpg file path, then open a new file and save a simple message as plain text. The program asks for a pass phrase and I type
HOLA.

When I click the F5 key, the program replaces random pixels of the photo with my text file. I double-check the finished picture to be sure the blonde’s eyes have not been crossed or her cheeks misaligned, but the bimbo’s face is still flawless.

I attach the jpeg to a blank e-mail and type
[email protected]
in the “To” window. I tab down and type:
Para destapar mis secretos, digas hola.

I’m not certain of the Spanish, but I’m confident my message will be noticed.

I save the e-mail to a flash drive, delete the file from my system, and enter the defrag command. While the largest portion of my hard drive gets busy wiping and reorganizing files, I enter the partition with my alternate operating system, access the e-mail through the flash drive, and bounce it through a dozen trap doors.

By the time Adolfo Rios opens the message, not even the hacker with the patience of a spider could trace it.