Mission: Out of Control (5 page)

A woman with a plaid brimmed hat and overlong brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail, wearing yoga pants and pink Uggs, read a Jane Austen book, a pair of black glasses low on her nose.

Ah, there she was. Staring at the tarmac, with blond hair piled up like a long-ago starlet, a red leather jacket over her shoulders, wearing go-go boots and a leather skirt. He dropped his bag into a chair and slid up to her.

“Nice disguise. But you can't fool me.”

“Oh, honey, this is the real thing.”

The gravelly voice of a lifelong smoker grumbled out the words as the woman grinned at him. Definitely too old for that short skirt. He didn't want to guess further.
She looked past him, turning as the man from the bar offered her something orange and frothy.

Okay, his instincts simply weren't firing anymore. He skulked back to his bag, scanning the room.

An adolescent boy with mocha skin, wearing a pair of skater shoes, jeans and a orange T-shirt, fought with his Nintendo. Another woman, her long legs crossed, flipped a newspaper.

“Where is she?” He looked at Leah, raising an eyebrow. She popped out her earbuds.

“What?”

“Where's—?” This was why he needed his backup. It wasn't like he could announce her name here in the middle of the airport, right?

“Ronie?” Leah said.

“I'm right here.”

He turned. The brunette put down her book and grinned up at him. “Gotcha.”

Oh, weren't they going to have fun?

 

She was so going to win their security war. She waited until Brody buckled in next to her, then slipped out past him to the bathroom. They were closing the doors but she had time for a quick text.

I'll be there.

At this rate, Kafara was halfway home.

She deleted her sent message, then adjusted the wig—something Savannah had worn near the end—and smiled into the mirror.
Thanks, sis.

The flight attendant had begun to read off the passenger instructions as she slipped back into her aisle, climbing over Brody to get to her window seat.

“Listen,” he whispered, “we need to come to some agreement here.”

She buckled her seat belt, cinching it down, and grabbed
Pride and Prejudice
. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He made a face and shook his head. Ha. She could recognize frustrated when she saw it. Another week, tops, and he'd go packin'.

“Ronie, you win. I quit.”

Huh? Already? She turned to him, hating suddenly the feeling of loss. Okay, this had been way too easy. “I win?”

“I can't keep up with your disguises. And you clearly don't want to let me in on your life. I mean, it would have been nice to know that Lyle was going on this trip with us.”

She'd seen him back in business class, with Leah, still head-down in his game. “I'm sorry. He was a last-minute addition.”

“But one I should have known about. I'm not a bad guy—I get that you want to take him with you. We just need to work on our communication. I'm not the guy who's going to stand in your way. I'm just going to make sure you're alive when you get there.”

Brody had pretty eyes. She hadn't really noticed them before—a dark green, almost, with flecks of hazel inside. And he smelled good, too. Like Old Spice cologne. She'd actually noticed the flight attendant's gaze rest on him as he'd lifted her bag into the overhead.

He filled out that black T-shirt pretty well, too.

Not that she was looking. Because, contrary to his
belief, he
would
stand in her way. At least once he found out what this trip was really about.

Still, maybe she could appease him a bit. Get him to lower his guard, offer an olive branch. “Maybe you're right. I have been giving you the dodge, haven't I?”

“A little. And really, you should be a spy or something with the way you can slip into a room unnoticed.”

A spy. She tried to stay calm, not let herself give anything away. If he only knew… Still, she let a little smile escape. “Thanks. I spent years perfecting that move at my father's dinner parties. Savannah and I—” She sucked in a breath. “I was always trying to get my hands on a glass of champagne. Until, of course, I succeeded, and managed to throw up all over my Christmas dress. Hate the stuff. I don't drink.”

But his smile had dimmed on her Savannah slip. She swallowed past a boulder in her throat. No, please. “What are you listening to?” She reached out for his iPhone and she could have hugged him—okay, not really, but he did win points when he released it to her. She scrolled through his playlist. “Stevie Ray Vaughan, BB King, Otis Rush, Eric Clapton…and Big Joe Turner? You got a great mix of blues here.”

He seemed to consider her for a moment. “I was listening to
Texas Flood
on the flight from D.C.”

“I'm more of a BB King fan, although I love the cover song for
Texas Flood
. I have the live version on my phone. But I'm more into the original blues. In my other life, I'm Bessie Smith. Or Billie Holiday.” She handed him the phone. “I have to admit, I'd never peg you for a jump blues fan.”

“That's more for fun.” He turned the phone off. “Bessie Smith?”

“My mother had an album. We listened to it all the time when we rummaged through her closet. Savannah…” What was her problem? Why couldn't she seem to get her sister out of her brain? Or her vocabulary? She sighed, letting the sentence play out. “She had a great blues voice. I can still hear her—‘Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days; it seems like trouble going to follow me to my grave.'”

Oh, see, when she let it, the past just took over, and she began to babble. She rolled her eyes, fighting the burn in them. “Sorry.”

But his eyes had gone strangely gentle. “She was the fifth person in the room the other night. Can I ask what happened?”

She wouldn't have answered, couldn't have answered, but his voice, low and soft, seemed so…genuine. So willing to listen…to her.

Not Vonya.

Not Veronica.

Shoot, even if it was an act, she couldn't help herself. “Savannah was my older sister, by two years. She died when I was fifteen, from leukemia. Actually, she died because her body rejected my kidney, but probably it had more to do with the lethal combination of antirejection drugs in her body. And the last-ditch efforts…” She lifted a shoulder, turned to look out the window. The plane backed away from the gate.

“I'm sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. But sometimes I still miss her.”

Oh, why had she said that? Now he'd pat her arm or something, or maybe even start acting—how? It wasn't like she even knew him well enough to guess.

Although suddenly, a part of her wanted to. Especially when he said, “She used to like to swing, huh?”

She turned to him. “How did you know that?”

“You were singing on the swing at Harthaven. It drifted in my window.”

He'd been watching her? She let that soak in for a moment before nodding. “She loved to swing. And dress up in our mother's old clothes. And sing the blues.” And now she felt as if she'd just opened up her chest for him to take a good peek.

He gave her a long look, finally nodding. “She sounds like someone I would have enjoyed knowing.”

The plane engines revved and they taxied down the runway. She had the strange urge to reach over and take his hand.

Like
that
made sense.

The plane leveled off, reached cruising altitude. Ronie turned on her iPod, about to slip in her earbuds, when he leaned over to her. “So, if you love the blues so much, why the pop stuff? How did you get into the Vonya act?”

“Talent Night, my second year at grad school. Tommy D, who was my best friend even then, wanted me to sing. It was for charity—we were raising money for the Harvard Square Homeless Shelter, and since I was involved, I thought, sure, I could sing something. But I just couldn't…”

“You couldn't bring yourself to sing the blues.”

She met his eyes, caught inside their compassion too
long. “I came up with a funny song, something Tommy and I put together, then created a costume. It felt easier, you know, to be someone else. I probably overplayed it, and, well, Vonya was a hit. The songs were simpler back then—pop love songs, just for fun. But pretty soon Tommy had me booked in other venues. It sort of took on a life of its own, and in the beginning it was all fun. I gave everything I earned to the shelter, and it gave me a chance to sing. But then Tommy got me a gig on a late-night show, and it was all over from there. I could either finish my master's degree or become Vonya. I thought it would be nice to take a break from school, so I dropped out. I didn't mean for it to go this far, but…I have my reasons.”

He seemed to be mulling over her last words. Whoops, maybe she shouldn't have suggested ulterior motives. “Do you write your own music?”

She couldn't stop the smile that quirked the side of her mouth. If he only knew. “I used to. Now Tommy chooses them—we have a stable of songwriters. Only recently, the songs have become a bit…”

“More seductive?”

She bit her lip. “I don't necessarily like my new stuff. But it's Vonya, you know, and…” She lifted a shoulder. “She opens doors.”

“You sound like you're playing a character.”

Weren't they all?

“I'm a product. One that sells.”

He leaned back in his seat. “I think you're much more than that, Ronie.”

Ronie.
Not Ronyika.

She put her buds in her ears, her hands shaking.

Oh, no. For the first time, she considered that she might not want to win after all.

“Y
ou know, bro, you had us totally off the map about this woman. I expected some sort of misbehaving teenager. Vonya is one of the nicest people I've ever met.” Luke stood at the window, overlooking Friedrich Strasse. He had rolled his dress shirt up at the cuffs, his blond hair was a wreck—although he liked it messy—and he had a five-o'clock shadow that Chet would disapprove of.

In fact, he might disapprove of the entire operation. Brody could admit it felt hacked together, slipshod. Thankfully, no one really believed that Vonya was in any danger. Still, their techie, Artyom, in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt—the look of a man who stayed behind the scenes—was already monitoring the chat sites, as well as reviewing video coverage from tonight's event. They'd track faces and see who showed up more than once.

Outside, the rain had stopped, the street shiny and freshly scrubbed.

Brody liked Berlin—the grandeur of the Brandenburg Gate, the architecture of the Reichstag.

Even this hotel had its perks. So what if it was a
re-creation of a hotel built in 1907—it felt old, with its marble lobby, stained-glass domed ceiling and Art Noveau fountain. And the piano player in the lobby added a touch of class.

Thankfully, they'd arrived incognito, without Vonya to mock the high-society feel that extended to the rooms, attired in gold and caramel and deep indigo blue. A cityscape picture hung over the double-long caramel sofa in the main living area. Sleek black-leather chairs surrounded a glass-and-metal coffee table, a flat-screen topped a dark walnut console, and in the adjoining room were two queen beds that he hadn't used nearly enough.

Brody would have preferred the penthouse for the entire crew, with its adjoining rooms and suite, but Ronie nixed that right off. Instead he'd reserved them suites on one end of the hall—his team's right across from Vonya and Leah.

“This is the nice Vonya. I'm not sure where the other one went,” Brody said to Luke's assessment. He closed his cell phone. Hopefully the guy on the other end understood “pepperoni and mushroom.” His German was so rusty, especially compared to Ronie's, that he might have just ordered schnitzel on his deep-dish pizza.

“I love her music.” Artyom raised his voice from the adjoining room suite.

“You wouldn't know music if it hit you over the head, Russki. I've seen your version of entertainment in Moscow. If a disco ball isn't involved, it doesn't count.”

“Tchaikovsky. Rachmaninoff. Need I say more?”

“Right. Like you've ever even heard them. And Vonya's a far cry from the classics.”

But, okay, sure, he'd tapped his foot a few times tonight at her show. Even found himself smiling. Especially since the gig had gone off without a hitch.

He'd counted no less than seventeen wardrobe changes. She had the speed of a supermodel, and frankly, the woman must work out, because the trapeze act, which turned out to be a hit, was nothing less than acrobatic. The pyrotechnics show had him hoping her purple wig was fireproof.

All in all, it was success. No doubt everyone left a Vonya concert feeling happy. He'd finally figured out her product…happiness. Escape.

It really wasn't about music at all.

Although, he had to admit again, she could sing. What might her real voice, the one behind the mask, sound like?

Maybe sweet, like her laughter. Like yesterday, when Lyle had trounced her in chess. Although a big part of Brody suspected that perhaps she'd had to work hard to lose. Brody watched her—those eyes, which had layers of green and gold, lit right up, her laughter bright against the rainy pallor of the day.

“She might not be a classic but she has something special about her.” Luke turned away from the window and lay down on the bed still, perhaps favoring his leg after last fall's gunshot wound. “I need some shut-eye. And, frankly, Wick, so do you. Vonya's tucked into bed for the night, her door locked, bars on the windows. You need some shut-eye.”

“Actually, I thought I'd see if she'd like some pizza.”
He heard the strange hope in his voice even as the words trundled out. Uh-oh.

Luke heard it, too. He looked over at him, eyebrow up. “You're bringing her…pizza?”

“Listen, she's been on her best behavior all week. Even cooperating.” She texted him a picture of herself in her daily disguise in the mornings—see, wasn't that helpful? And she hung back and let him lead the way when they went out in public, in and out of transports, to the studio and back. The German paparazzi had tracked her down, but so far, all she'd done was wave. Not one move that might add a headline to their trip.

He had tried to reward her with silly gifts like making a latte run to Starbucks and meeting her in the lobby yesterday with a chocolate-filled kringle. So shoot him—they had looked delicious in the bakery case.

Nearly as delicious as her surprise when he'd handed her the bag at her door.

“Do I sense romance in the air? Because, you know, you're still on the job.”

Brody held up his hand, like a shield against Luke's sentence. “No. I'm not that stupid. She's a client, and my job is to watch her back. I just…well, maybe I over-reacted. Maybe I did have her pegged wrong. Maybe she's not going to be any trouble after all.”

“Uh, is that you letting your guard down, buddy? Because—”

“Listen, she's got a lot of baggage. Her sister died a few years ago after Vonya donated her kidney to her. That has to be tough, right?”

Luke said nothing.

“And her father is a real piece of work. Has the
emotions of a piece of ledgerock. I have a feeling no one in their family has ever dealt with their grief.”

Artyom came and stood in the door, leaning his shoulder against the frame.

“I can't shake the feeling that there's more to her, and of course, I thought it meant she was up to something. Now I think she's just trying to survive. And if she has to do it in costume…”

He went over to the window, staring down at Luke's view.

“People do what they have to in order to survive.”

Luke sat up. “Sounds like she's pretty hard on herself, if you ask me. Like she's blaming herself for her sister's death.”

“Why would she blame herself? She had no control over her sister's body.”

“It was her kidney. She has to feel responsible. Maybe she just can't forgive herself.”

Yes, he understood not being able to forgive yourself.

You don't even like me.
Why did her words keep coming back at him? Especially since, in fact, he
had
begun to like her—a little bit more every day.

Yes, the real Ronie had a startling sweetness. He saw it in the way she bantered with Lyle, and encouraged her band, and even kidded with Tommy D. In fact, Brody had started to suspect that perhaps there was something between them.

Not that it bothered him or anything, but what on this green planet would she see in Tommy D?

“You don't like him?”

Oh, good grief, had he been mumbling again? He closed one eye in a wince at Luke's question.

“He's just…pushy. He picks all Vonya's songs—especially the sexy ones. I saw her old stuff on You Tube—she used to have a sweetness about her. Now during some of her songs, I feel like I should troll the crowd for stalkers.”

“Feeling overprotective, Wick?”

“Here's a word for you, pal—
bodyguard.
Not that it's my favorite, but hey, it's what I'm getting
paid for.
”

Luke smiled and picked up the remote. “Let's see if we can find something in English.”

Brody leaned his forehead against the cool window. Overprotective. Maybe. Okay, so he was fond of Ronie, but only because he understood wanting to shake off the past but not knowing how to do it.

On the street, he saw a pizza delivery vehicle pull up.

“I'll be back.” He grabbed the door key and headed down to the lobby.

The pizza man, not unlike the variety on the other side of the pond, haggled with the concierge. “That's for me,” Brody said. He paid for the pizza at the desk, tipped the driver in euros and hit the button for the elevator.

Yes, he understood Ronie, finally. Something had broken open between them on the plane. He might even call it…trust.

The elevator opened. He let pass a woman in a metallic gray dress with black hair bobbed to her ears and bug sunglasses. Some sort of German starlet incognito, probably. Apparently, the hotel also housed other national highbrows—a billionaire from Greece, an Italian
designer with his own slew of models, an African diplomat. He'd gotten the rundown from the security chief at the hotel.

He pushed the button for the fourth floor.

The pizza practically called to him to snag a piece of pepperoni. This was what international living did—made you crazy for home. Sure, he liked a good bratwurst or schnitzel now and then, but after the week he'd had, nothing but comfort food would make him sleep.

And now that Ronie was locked safely in her room, he just might do that.

But first, he'd see if she wanted a piece. Just because they were friends.

He stood outside her door for nearly a minute, letting his courage talk him into knocking. Friends. He was simply working the charm factor. Two Americans enjoying a large, deep-dish, pepperoni pizza.

He balanced the pizza box in one hand and knocked.

Leah cracked open the door. “Hey, Brody. What's up?”

“I brought a late-night snack. I was thinking that—”

The look on her face stopped him cold. Some people could lie. Some couldn't. And Leah clearly was in the second category. He could see her trying to conjure up a story, and fast.

“Where is she?” He put his hand on the door and pushed.

“Brody, no,” she said even as she stepped aside, probably more from fear than acquiescence. “Listen, I tried to talk her out of it but she said she had to go.”

Brody tossed the pizza onto the glass coffee table.
He stalked in to one bedroom, then in to the other. Lyle looked up at Brody. “Did you say pizza?”

Brody rounded on Leah. “Go where?” His voice lowered to barely a whisper.

Leah wrapped her arms around her waist and drew in a breath. “She'll be fine, Brody. She does this all the time. And I promise, no one will recognize her. She's in costume.”

“Of course she is.” He wanted to put his fist through a wall as he remembered the dark-haired starlet exiting the lift. “Black wig, a gray dress?” Leah nodded.

“Where was she going?”

Leah made a face. “Do you promise not to be mad?”

“Leah, I am so beyond mad right now, but the truth is, this isn't about mad. It's about crazy. And me trying to keep her from getting hurt.
Please.
”

“She's at a party. For General Mubar's son.”

 

Ronie had recognized the genius of Vonya the very first night she'd donned the dress, the wig and the mask and crept onto the stage over five years ago.

She could go anywhere and do anything, and no one would be the wiser. Even Brody, who she'd passed without him even blinking at her as she snuck past him on the way to the penthouse elevator.

She might even explain her actions away, blaming them on Vonya. Tell herself that she, Ronie or Veronica S. Wagner had nothing to do with the flamboyant character who seemed so far from the person she thought she was.

Vonya had sometimes gotten out of control, turning into someone even Ronie couldn't justify.

But tonight, for Kafara, Vonya would be her salvation.

She approached the door and handed the thug—a bald German the size of a linebacker—her invitation. He scanned the bar code. “You're Vonya?”

“In the flesh, baby.” She puckered her bloodred lips at him and gave him an air kiss. He moved aside to let her enter the penthouse suite.

How convenient that Brody had picked this hotel for their accommodations, although why he'd had to find the most expensive hotel in Berlin was beyond her, unless… For a long, bone-chilling moment, she suspected he had figured her out.

But how could he know that she'd been using her Vonya persona as a cover ever since Zimbala, to ferry information as well as national secrets in and out of Europe as a CIA asset?

Yes, she kept that one close to her chest.

Not that she was on the payroll or anything. She just…well, she'd made friends with Clive Bishop, agent on the ground in Zimbala, and he'd needed a courier.

One time had turned into many.

Perhaps she did have a morsel of superspy in her because, yes, she loved the danger of knowing she carried highly sensitive, internal secrets across the ocean. Like footage of General Mubar's recruiting techniques. And the mass grave Bishop had uncovered, proving the genocide of thousands of innocent women and children.

But this gig was personal. Or, at least, once she finished her mission, it would be.

She moved into the huge array of rooms, a smile on her face as she picked up a glass of champagne for show and sashayed through the crowd. A techno-European mix of punk rock thumped out of giant speakers. The balcony door hung open, probably to offset the heat of so many bodies breaking the fire code. The television blared a soccer match. She recognized faces from tabloids—an Italian actress who would probably know her in pink hair, and a punk rocker she'd met at a Berlin club during her tour a year ago. None of them recognized her.

Thankfully. Because circulating around the room like piranha were a few invited paparazzi. Yeah, that'd be perfect—get her picture taken so her father could totally lose his mind over her “behavior.”

And she didn't tell Tommy D, either. Last time she'd hung out with Damu Mubar, tabloid pictures had put them together as a couple and Tommy had practically come unglued. She didn't agree with her father that General Mubar knew her real identity. Damu had never suggested he knew her as anyone but Vonya. Still, she'd stay out of the press, just in case.