Ready for Anything, Anywhere! Read online

  “I can order a beer and ask directions to the bathroom. How’s yours?”

  “Two years in college. I can find my way around, but I never learned the proper phrase for ‘My car is now at the bottom of the ocean.’”

  “I think he’ll get the drift.”

  “Hope so.”

  Actually, Cutter could communicate fairly fluently with authorities on several different continents. He’d already decided how to capitalize on this situation, however, and his plan didn’t include making things easy for Ms. Dawes. Accordingly, he stayed in the background when she approached the police officer.

  “Excusez-moi.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle?”

  “Ma voiture, uh, été perdue.”

  At his blank look, she fell back on English and the universal language of hand gestures.

  “My car. It’s gone. Out there.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.” Heaving a long-suffering sigh, the officer hefted his notebook and pen. “Tell me, please, the license number.”

  “I don’t know the license number.”

  “The make and year?”

  “It was a Peugeot. A little one. Blue.”

  The gendarme was too well trained to roll his eyes, but it was obvious to everyone present he wanted to.

  “You have rented this car, yes?”

  “Yes. From an agency at the Paris airport.”

  “We shall call the rental agency and get the information I must have for my report. This way, s’il vous plaît.”

  The glance Dawes threw Cutter’s way sent a spear of intense satisfaction through him. He was an ally now. No longer a stranger, not quite a friend, but a familiar face in a sea of trouble. Ms. Dawes didn’t know it, but they were about to get a whole lot better acquainted.

  He nodded encouragement as she accompanied the gendarme to the police van parked at midpoint on the causeway. While the officer got on his radio and requested a connection to an operator at the Paris airport, Cutter eased out of sight at the rear of the van and made a call of his own.

  Mike Callahan took his succinct report of the sinking of the Peugeot along with the request he draw on Lightning’s particular expertise.

  On the other side of the Atlantic, Mike whipped around to check the electronic status board on the wall behind him. The blue light beside the director’s name indicated Nick was alone and at his desk downstairs.

  “Lightning’s on scene,” Mike advised Cutter. “I’ll get back to you in ten.”

  “Roger that.”

  Shoving back from the console containing an array of screens and phones that would have made his counterparts in the CIA and FBI turn green with envy, Mike strode toward the elevator. The titanium-shielded bullet zoomed him down three stories with stomach-bouncing efficiency.

  Grimacing at his reflection in the highly reflective door, Mike scrubbed a hand over his cheeks and chin. He’d been at the control desk without break since the op had kicked off. No big deal compared to some of the stretches he’d pulled. Still, he could have scraped off his whiskers during the down hours between contacts with Slash. There was a reason OMEGA maintained sleeping quarters, shower facilities and a fully-equipped gym for controllers and their backups.

  Mike’s mouth twisted. Hell! Who was he kidding? He’d never given a thought to his whiskers before. Nor had any other male operative, until a certain blue-eyed babe with a killer smile and a body to match had volunteered to fill in for the recuperating Elizabeth Wells.

  He could see Gillian now, courtesy of the hidden cameras that made regular sweeps of the elegant first-floor offices. Although they appeared empty of visitors, Mike pressed a button to signal he wanted entry and waited for Lightning’s temporary assistant to give him access.

  Okay, he lectured himself sternly as the elevator door whooshed open. All right. No need to get his shorts in a bunch. He was thirty-five years old, for God’s sake. He’d spent the past seven years as an OMEGA operative. When not dodging bullets, he trained sharpshooters for a list of agencies that read like a governmental alphabet soup.

  No damned reason his insides should turn to mush because Adam Ridgeway’s daughter swiveled around in her chair to greet him.

  “Hi, Mike.”

  “Hi, Gillian-with-a-J.”

  It was a stupid joke, one he’d pretty well worn out in the years since Adam had brought his coltish teenaged daughter to the shooting range and she’d solemnly introduced herself as Gillian, spelled-with-a-G-but-pronounced-with-a-J.

  The teenager had gone on to graduate magna cum laude from Georgetown, had landed a job at the State Department and snared a plum first assignment at the American Embassy in Beijing. Daddy’s connections had no doubt had something to do with that. Mike suspected her Uncle Nick had probably weighed in, as well. Now Gillian was home between assignments, filling in for Elizabeth Wells for a few months and making Mike’s life a living hell.

  He was too old for her, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. Too damned rough around the edges. She’d grown up in the country-club set. He preferred not to think about the cesspool he’d sprung from. Rumor had it that she was getting snuggly with some buttoned-down Ivy League type, and that he was the reason she’d decided to take this hiatus before accepting another overseas assignment. That alone should have prevented Mike from going hard and tight when Gillian asked what she could do for him.

  Should have, but didn’t.

  Ruthlessly suppressing several inappropriate thoughts of what he’d like her to do for him, he growled out a terse reply.

  “I need to see Nick.”

  “Sure.” Crossing one knee over the other, she reached for the intercom. “Hang on a sec.”

  Sweat popped out on Mike’s palms. The girl—woman!—was all leg. Damned if she wasn’t well aware of it, too.

  Jilly hid a smile as she buzzed her godfather and honorary uncle. She knew she shouldn’t tease Mike. Her father, mother and godfather would all lace into her if they had any idea she’d deliberately let her skirt slide up. Or that she was taunting an operative with Mike Callahan’s reputation.

  Problem was, she’d nursed a world-class crush on Callahan since he’d positioned her in front of him, wrapped his arms around her, and helped her line up a paper target in the sights of a Walther PPK. She just might have to take a refresher course, Jilly mused as Nick picked up.

  “Hawkeye needs to see you,” she advised.

  “Send him in.”

  Exercising severe mental discipline, Mike put the long-legged temptress out of his head and gave his boss a quick update. Lightning’s reaction was one of amusement.

  “The car sank?”

  “Like a rock. Slash says he saw it go under, taking Dawes’s suitcase, passport and traveler’s checks with it.”

  “I’ve been to Mont St. Michel a good number of times. Amazing what tourists leave in their cars while they trudge up to the abbey.”

  Every OMEGA agent knew the story. Nick Jensen, born Henri Nicolas Everaud, had once run numbers and picked pockets in his native France. He’d also offered to pimp for Maggie Sinclair, Gillian’s mother, during a long-ago op. Judging by the small smile that flitted across his face, he still had a hankering for the good ol’ days.

  “What about the disk?”

  “It’s still in the vehicle,” Mike advised, “and sending signals.”

  “Does Slash think this business with the car was intentional? That the Russian will attempt an underwater retrieval?”

  “If that’s the plan, Slash doesn’t believe Dawes was in on it. He says she’s genuinely upset. Apparently,” Mike added with a grin, “she’s turned to him for help.”

  “I’m not going to ask how he managed that!”

  “He wants to play the Good Samaritan and keep her on a string as long as possible. I’ve already made a call to State. Dawes won’t get a replacement passport any time soon. I’ll work American Express when I get back upstairs. What I need from you is a recommendation for a good spot for Slash to go to r
oost in the area.”

  “I know just the place.”

  His enigmatic smile returning, Nick lifted the phone.

  “Jilly, please get me Madame Yvette d’March-and.”

  “The shoe designer?”

  “That’s her.” He checked his watch. “She’s probably at her Paris office, on the Boulevard St. Germain. If not, her secretary will know where she can be reached.”

  Mike walked out of Nick’s office a few minutes later with directions to a seaside villa and assurances that its staff would be primed and ready to receive Monsieur Cutter Smith and companion.

  Gillian-with-a-J gave him a wave and another glimpse of those mile-long legs. Mike’s jaw had locked by the time the elevator door swished shut.

  “A villa?”

  Cutter threw a quick glance at the police van to make sure Mallory was still engaged with the gendarme.

  “I was thinking more in terms of a hotel room where I could maintain close surveillance.”

  “So was I,” Hawkeye relayed, “but Lightning says this place is airtight. The owner ran a string of high-class call girls until she married one of her clients and he set her up in another line of business. She’s since made millions as a fashion designer. Lightning says she’s an avid art collector, and has all of her homes equipped with start-of-the-art surveillance. You won’t have to worry about security.”

  “What’s my cover?”

  “You’re a wine broker, in France for the fall tastings and lot auctions. A friend of a friend knows the villa’s owner. She offered to let you use it as a base while you search out select vintages in the Calvados and Loire regions for your extremely discriminating clients.”

  “Hell, I don’t know Calvados from Calvin Klein. You’d better zap me a short course in French wineries.”

  “It’ll be waiting for you at the villa.”

  “Roger that. Gotta go. The target just parted company with our local gendarme and looks ready to bite nails.”

  Not just bite them, Cutter decided as he slipped the phone into his pocket. Chew them into little pieces.

  “Problem?” he asked politely.

  “Yes,” she ground out. “The rental agency says they have to check with their insurance company before they can authorize another vehicle. They’ve also put a hold on my credit card until full damages and liability are assessed.”

  She raked back her hair, threading the silky strands through her fingers.

  “Looks like I’m stuck here until American Express comes through. May I use your phone?”

  Hawkeye had promised to take care of American Express; Cutter needed to give him time to work it.

  “Sure, but you’ll need something to write with once you get hold of the information. I’ve got a pen in my car. It’s right over there.”

  He lowered the windows to let the sea breeze in while she struggled with the information operator. She couldn’t know every word was being recorded, or that Cutter derived a sardonic enjoyment from her mounting frustration.

  “I know I should have made a record of the check numbers,” she said after a short exchange with whomever she’d reached, “but I didn’t. Can’t you look me up in the computer?”

  She waited, tapping her borrowed pen against the notepad Cutter had thoughtfully provided.

  “You did! Thank God!”

  The happy grin she zinged Cutter’s way lit up her face. Seconds later, the grin collapsed.

  “No, I can’t come to the Paris office to present my passport as identification. I’m currently without cash and any means of transportation. I’m also without passport.”

  Another lengthy pause.

  “Excuse me, but we’re not communicating here. It doesn’t matter where the closest American Express office is. I don’t have the money to get to Paris or Nantes or Marseilles and I’ve lost my passport along with my traveler’s checks.”

  Her expression grew more thunderous by the second.

  “Yes, I understand you’re not authorized to fork over the funds without proper identification. Can’t I go to a bank or post office? Or a notary. You have notaries in France, don’t you? He or she could verify my ID from my driver’s license and fax you the verification. No. No, I don’t. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Hold on.”

  Her eyes stormy, she appealed to Cutter.

  “He has to get authorization from his superiors to accept a notarized signature. It may take a little time. He needs a number where he can contact me.”

  “Give him mine.”

  Magnanimously, Cutter jotted it down for her. She relayed it to the clerk and snapped the cell phone shut. Her glance strayed to the island looming just yards away.

  “Lord, I hope there’s a notary somewhere on that pile of rock.”

  He let her down gently. “You might have to look farther afield. I read somewhere that Mont St. Michel has only about fifty or so permanent residents.”

  He made that up to twist the screws a little tighter. It worked. Dawes’s muttered expletive would have done any of the OMEGA operatives proud. Glancing sideways, she caught Cutter’s grin and colored.

  “Sorry. I’m, uh, a little rattled by all this.”

  “Not to worry,” he chuckled. “I’ve heard worse.”

  Mallory would bet he had. His expertly tailored sports coat and Italian loafers shouted money, but she’d seen the man in action. He’d handled the beefy tourist who’d accosted her with unruffled ease. She suspected he hadn’t come by those powerful shoulders working out in a gym. Then there were those awful scars ….

  Wondering how he’d acquired them, she flipped up his cell phone again. The sun was a red ball slipping toward the sea. She’d better finish her calls and find some place to stay the night.

  All too well aware that a hotel or inn would require a guest’s passport, she wrestled the number for the American Embassy from the information operator. The embassy was closed, but a recording gave her a twenty-four-hour emergency number. Unfortunately, the duty officer who answered didn’t classify a lost passport in the same emergency category as death, dismemberment or attack by suicide bombers.

  Mallory argued the point for some minutes before gritting her teeth and informing him she would call back tomorrow. During duty hours.

  “God! Bureaucrats! I can’t believe I’m one of them. Or was,” she amended darkly.

  Snapping the phone shut, she handed it back to Cutter. What the heck was she going to do now?

  Spend the night sitting at a table in one of the little bistros, she supposed, if she could find one that stayed open twenty-four hours. Judging by the departing tour buses and rapidly emptying causeway, Mont St. Michel was a day-tripper’s town. Mallory had the sinking feeling it rolled up its streets at night.

  Cutter’s deep voice dragged her from the dismal prospect of roaming dark alleys and narrow lanes in search of a spot to rest her weary bones.

  “I don’t like leaving you stranded like this.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Somehow.

  “How about we walk back into the town and get you a hotel room for the night?”

  Mallory was too relieved to mouth even a polite refusal. “Would you? I’ll reimburse you, I promise. Just give me your business card or mailing address.”

  “No problem. Or …”

  When he hesitated, her heart sank. Visions of dark alleys once again filled her head.

  “Look, you’re going to need a base camp for a few days to get this mess straightened out. I’ve been invited to put up at a villa not far from here. You’re welcome to stay there for as long as you like.”

  Wariness replaced weariness. Her face stiffening, Mallory retreated behind the defensive walls she’d erected in the past month. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

  As if reading her mind, he gentled his voice.

  “It’s okay. I’m not like the jerk who harassed you this afternoon. I promise I won’t hit on you.”

  A smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes.


  “Unless you want me to.”

  Chapter 5

  Doubts pinged at Mallory during the thirty-minute drive to the villa.

  Cutter’s invitation had seemed genuine enough. So had his promise to keep his hands to himself. She wanted to believe him. She was too exhausted not to. Yet the ugliness of the past month kept coming back to haunt her.

  What if he’d recognized her from the vicious stories in the newspapers and on TV? Or overheard the nasty remarks that creep had tossed out this afternoon? Mallory’s ready capitulation and acceptance of his offer to share a villa would have reinforced the rumors of her alleged promiscuity.

  On the other hand.

  He’d come to her rescue twice now, each time with quiet and extremely effective competence. Despite her prickly doubts and still-raw wounds, she felt comfortable with him. And, as crazy as it sounded, safe.

  Besides, she didn’t have a basketful of options at this point. Every bone in her body ached with weariness. All she wanted was a bed. Any kind of a bed.

  “You said you’re a bureaucrat. Or were.”

  His voice came to her through the autumn dusk now filling the car’s interior.

  “What kind of work did you do?”

  She dragged herself from her near-catatonic state and searched for an answer that wouldn’t open Pandora’s box.

  “I worked at the U.S. Department of Commerce for five years.”

  And then she’d accepted the position on Congressman Kent’s staff.

  Lord, what a mistake that had been! But Dillon Porter, Kent’s senior staffer, had lured her up to the Hill with tantalizing visions of helping shape laws and policies that would affect the nation’s balance of trade for decades to come.

  “Commerce, huh? What did you do there?”

  “Nothing very glamorous. I was an analyst with the Market Access and Compliance Branch of the International Trade Administration. Basically, I crunched numbers to track U.S. exports to and imports from Canada.”

  “Sounds like a big job.”

  “It certainly kept me busy. More than half a trillion dollars in goods flow between the U.S. and Canada every year. Most of the trade is disputefree, although things got dicey for a while over softwood lumber.” A note of pride crept into her voice. “I helped draft the agreement that finally settled that decades-long dispute.”