Havoc (3 page)

“Oh, my God, Alton,” said Mallory at last. “I thought you had combat injuries.”

“You know I do.”

“You could have fooled me. After that performance, I think you’ll be required to give back your Purple Heart. You don’t seem injured to me.”

Alton grinned and caressed her face. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” said Mallory. “But you know, I just can’t believe we’re here…right now…like this.”

“I know. I can’t either. Any regrets?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this for months. You?”

Alton smiled. “No. Perhaps I should, but I don’t. Maybe if I had any doubt of wanting to spend the rest of my life with you, I’d be chastising myself right now. But honestly, I’m in heaven.”

Mallory leaned over onto him a little more. “Me, too.”

After dressing, the couple once again gazed down on the Piazza della Rotonda, which had taken on a new radiance in Alton’s eyes.

Mallory slipped her hand into Alton’s. “I love you,” she said.

“And you, too,” replied Alton. He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“Alton—,” she began, but he pulled her close before she could continue, their lips meeting in a hungry rush.

The warm Italian sunshine continued to bathe the silent couple in its glow, lending them the appearance of a Michelangelo masterpiece come to life. Alton wouldn’t have objected to maintaining this pose forever, like a statue, holding the love of his life in an eternal embrace.

CHAPTER 7

The following morning, Ernesto Vega felt anything but statuesque. He paced the floor of his Palo Alto hotel room like an expectant father. Hadn’t twenty-four hours already passed? He contemplated calling Gantt but rejected the idea, knowing his supervisor would notify him as soon as he had any solid leads.

Vega threw himself into an uncomfortable Queen Anne chair and sat, brooding. A minute turned into thirty, yet still no word.

The ringing of Vega’s cell phone broke his reverie. He snatched it from his pocket.

“Yes?”

“This is Gantt. We have a lead on the files.”

“It’s about time.”

“There were five other Vidulum employees and a suspiciously-overqualified contract janitor who all had to be ruled out as suspects.”

“I see. So what about McFarland and the rest of Vidulum’s security team? Do they have any leads you can leverage, or are they still running around with their heads up their collective asses?”

“Are you kidding? They’ve never even figured out we’ve been looking over their shoulders for the past two years. In any case…McFarland booked a return flight from Seattle for tomorrow. Other than that, they don’t seem to be doing much besides reaching the same conclusions we did—only later.”

“Lovely,” muttered Vega. “So that means the guy in Europe is still our man?”

“Yep, although I’m still a little suspicious about the janitor,” replied Gantt. “I mean…an industrial engineer mopping floors? Really? I’m gonna dig into his past a little bit more. But at the end of the day, all the evidence still points to Europe. I’ll e-mail you the background information on that guy as soon as I hang up.”

“Okay. So, am I traveling as me?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. We need to keep this manhunt as far under the radar as possible. Interpol knows you and might start wondering why you’re suddenly showing up on their doorstep. If they recognize you, the best-case scenario is they slow you down. We can’t afford even that.”

“I agree. So which alias shall I use? The Chris Jackson one?”

“Yes. You haven’t made any international trips on that one before. It’s the least likely to be noticed. You still have the passport?”

“Yep, and the credit cards,” confirmed Vega. “What about my plane ticket?”

“I’ll take care of that while you’re on the way to the airport. I’ll message you the itinerary en route.”

“Good.”

“Vega,” said Gantt, “find the files before they’re sold. Do what you have to do to recover them. That’s a direct order—from the top.”

“Don’t worry. I know my job.” Vega paced the floor as he walked and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “But what kind of tools am I going to have to get the job done once I’m there? The airlines would allow me to pack my Ruger in checked luggage, but that might draw the kind of attention we want to avoid, don’t you think?”

“Agreed. I’ll disassemble a standard kit and express-mail you the components via four separate shipments tonight. You’ll have to perform the usual assembly once you get there. I’ll send you the shipping control numbers for pickup along with the rest of the information on our guy.”

“Perfect,” said Vega.

“Have you heard anything from your contact in Europe?”

“Yeah—I put him on the trail of our suspect, but I haven’t heard from him today. If I he hasn’t contacted me by the time I land, I’ll reach out to him.”

“Okay. Keep me in the loop.”

“Will do.”

“And Vega—don’t let me down. Our management team is getting more nervous every hour.”

“I’ll find the Silverstar files. You can count on that.”

CHAPTER 8

Upon opening his eyes the next morning, Alton lay perfectly still. He recalled one of many lonely nights in Afghanistan in which he had dreamed of walking arm-in-arm with Mallory. In the dream, an engagement ring had rested on Mallory’s hand, and her smiling lips had begun to speak, “Alton, I love—” when reveille had sounded, jerking Alton fully awake. How bitter had been the transition from dreamy perfection to stark, lonely reality!

Surely Alton hadn’t dreamed the events of the previous day. Yes, intimacy with Mallory had been on his mind—a lot—but everything that had transpired the day before had seemed so real. Yet Alton feared to turn his head, lest he discover that those events, too, had been only a projection of unrealized yearnings.

“Good morning,” said Mallory, rolling over to place her hand on his chest.

Alton exhaled in a rush, prompting Mallory to ask, “What is it? Are you okay?”

“Yeah…fine.” He reached over and pulled her close. “Good morning to you, too.”
Sweet reality
.

Alton lay with an arm encircling his beloved, wondering how long he could stay there before starvation set in.

“I could lie here all day,” said Mallory, “but I guess we should get going. Knowing you, I’m sure we have a full schedule planned.” She climbed out of bed and padded towards the bathroom.

As he attempted to rise, Alton felt a flame of pain lance up his leg. “Holy jeez!” He fell back, needing a moment to gather his strength. Taking two deep breaths, he pushed himself up to a sitting position using only his arms. Mallory appeared just as he rose to his feet. He placed a hand on her shoulder to steady himself.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Not entirely. Yesterday was a different kind of exercise than I’m used to. I think I…um…over-exerted myself,” he replied with a grin.

“I’ll say,” said Mallory, trying but failing to suppress a smile of her own. “So, was yesterday’s ‘exercise’ worth the discomfort?”

“Absolutely. You know, I used to think I’d feel so guilty if we slept together. Maybe I should feel that way, but I don’t. In fact, I feel as opposite from guilty as a person can feel. What about you—any regrets now that you’ve had a chance to sleep on it?”

“No, none,” she said, moving closer. “Like you said—just the opposite.” She observed Alton grimace as he took a couple of steps. “Sweetie, you’ve told me in the past how warming up your leg in the morning usually makes it feel better. Do you think a massage—a light one—would help?”

“I’m not sure, but I’d be willing to subject myself to the experiment if you’re offering.”

“Sure. Let me get some lotion from my cosmetic case. Why don’t you lie on the bed?”

Mallory returned and moistened her hands. “Show me where you’re sore.”

Alton gestured to the upper section of his left thigh. “Gently, please.”

“I’ll work around it,” replied Mallory. She moved her moistened palms with the lightest of touches along the length of his thigh. “How’s that?”

“Good…
really
good. But don’t press any harder—not yet.”

Mallory continued to apply the light massage for another ten minutes, stopping only to replenish the lotion.

At last, Alton spoke up. “I think that’s good. Thanks, Honey. I needed that.”

“Better?”

“Yes—it doesn’t hurt as much when I move it. And it’s not quite so stiff.”

Thirty minutes later, the couple walked hand in hand toward the hotel’s outdoor café, traveling at a slow pace on account of the tenderness in Alton’s limb.

“How’s it feeling?” asked Mallory. “Any better?”

“Yeah, a little. I was okay yesterday after we finished our…um…session, but as you could tell, it hurt like a mother when I first got out of bed a few minutes ago. I think warming it up helped. Maybe we shouldn’t sit at breakfast for too long, though, or it’ll cool down again.”

The couple reached the hotel’s front entrance. Despite his pain, Alton blessed the morning. To him, everything he saw seemed a sharper, clearer version of itself: the morning sun, canvas awnings blowing in a warm breeze, pedestrians scurrying through the streets, shopkeepers and hotel employees bustling to prepare for a new day.

They arrived at the hotel’s café and ordered a continental breakfast and coffee.

“So, what’s on our agenda for today?” asked Mallory.

“Touring the northern basilicas.”

“Oh, yeah—that’s right. And what about dinner?  Do you want to go to that restaurant the couple in the airport taxi told us about?”

“Naumachia? We could, but we already have reservations at a restaurant right next to one of the largest basilicas. Plus, we’d have to rush to get back here in time for dinner. Maybe we should wait until tomorrow.”

“Okay. Let’s do that,” replied Mallory.

As Alton and Mallory departed to visit historic sights, Feng Wu left his own hotel, located miles away on the eastern side of Rome. He walked along the street’s narrow sidewalk for nearly twenty minutes before hailing a cab. The hotel staff had seen his face, but there was no reason to grow the number of people who could place him at the hotel to include taxi drivers, the group most likely to be interviewed should the police somehow become involved. For the same reason, he asked the cabby to drop him off at the Trevi Fountain, several miles from tomorrow’s rendezvous spot.

Wu understood the principal of blending into the Roman crowds. Between his nondescript clothing, baseball cap, and sunglasses, as well as the high-end camera hanging around his neck, he looked the part of the archetypal Asian tourist. No one would give him a second look. Besides, even if they did, most Westerners said Asians “all look alike.” Why not put such lack of perception to his advantage?

After trudging several miles, Wu arrived at his destination. He scanned the area, committing the layout of streets and businesses to memory. This reconnaissance trip demonstrated one reason Xing Z
hǔ
xí had assigned Wu to this mission: a keen ability to retain details to which he had been exposed only briefly.

Wu circled the area, confirming both the optimal and alternate routes of approach and departure he had tentatively identified when studying maps of the location prior to the trip. He would leave nothing about this mission to chance. Completing his circuit, he lit a cigarette in satisfaction and began the return journey to his hotel, once again employing a circuitous cab route.

Back in Wu’s hotel room, a quick check of the equipment confirmed that everything was ready for the life-changing meeting. He had nothing to do but wait.

CHAPTER 9

Early the next morning, Ernesto Vega breathed a sigh of relief as his red-eye flight touched down, and not simply because he was another step closer to tracking down the thief. He hated flying—with a passion. So, of course, this job had required twelve hours of air travel. He seemed to think better on solid ground.

After working his way through customs and immigration as “Chris Jackson,” Vega picked up a rental car and pulled into the first gas station he could find. He knew he needed to contact Gantt to see what intel—if any—had been gathered during the last twelve hours.

Having worked with Gantt for nearly ten years, Vega had learned to trust the older agent. A shootout with a domestic terrorist had left Gantt too incapacitated for fieldwork, but his mind was as sharp as ever. Shortly after moving into the Control function, Gantt had mentored the newly-arrived Vega, sharing the tricks of the trade and sharpening the younger man into arguably the most effective member of his elite squad. After years of working together, the two men operated almost as a single, efficient unit, one often anticipating the other’s next statement or actions.

Vega flipped open his phone and initiated a call.

“Gantt here.”

“It’s Vega. I’ve arrived—just got off the plane. Do you have any updates?”

“Nothing definite—except we’ve pretty well ruled out the janitor at Vidulum. What about you? Have you heard from your European contact?”

“Not yet. I’ll be calling him as soon as we get off the phone.”

“Good. Let me know what you discover.”

“Will do. In the meantime, after I pick up the packages and assemble the kit, I’ll head to the target’s hotel and tail him. If something goes down, I’ll be in a position to intercept, I hope.”

“Agreed.”

“I could sure use some better intel, though,” said Vega. “Waiting to see what this guy does and hoping to intervene in time is a lot more risky than lying in wait.”

“I know,” replied Gantt. “I’ll see what I can do.”