Zigzagging to the sounds of gunfire, Nova sprinted to the helicopter, leaped into the pilot’s seat and shoved the key into the ignition. Blades began to churn.

Leaning out the window, she yelled, “Now, Joe.”

He stood, and then twisted and fell, his right leg collapsing under him. She couldn’t tell how badly he was hit, but he needed help. She opened the door, but before she could jump out, the three remaining thugs charged toward Joe.

The moment seemed to stretch out forever as she realized she must either take off without Joe, or all of them could be taken captive again.

He looked back at her. “Go!” he yelled.

I can’t leave you! she mouthed back.

“Go!” he yelled again.

Discipline took over—fear for the people in her care. She slammed the door and lifted the bird to get it out of the line of fire as fast as possible. All the while thinking, They’ll kill Joe. And I can’t imagine the world without him.

Dear Reader,

To be able to write and share with you this series of Nova Blair books has been a lifelong dream come true. For that, I’m grateful to Silhouette.

As a child I adored Wonder Woman—I wanted so much to be her. As an adult, I’ve created Nova, a modern-day Wonder Woman of beauty and courage. I’ve loved getting into Nova’s skin as she lays it all on the line to right wrongs and save good folks from evildoers. I’ve loved imagining that I’ve got her looks and talent. I’ve loved living her romance with her hero. I hope you find this latest adventure as exciting and fun as I did when writing it.

And as always, I’d love to have you visit my Web site, www.jhand.com, and find out about my other books and perhaps even send me an e-mail.

Cheers,

Judith

Captive Dove
Judith Leon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JUDITH LEON

has made the transition from left-brained scientist to right-brained novelist. Before she began writing fiction some twelve years ago, she was teaching animal behavior and ornithology in the UCLA biology department.

She is the author of several novels and two screenplays. Her epic of the Minoan civilization, Voice of the Goddess, published under her married name, Judith Hand, has won numerous awards. Her second epic historical, The Amazon and the Warrior, is based on the life of Penthesilea, an Amazon who fought the warrior Achilles in the Trojan War. In all of her stories she writes of strong, bold women; women who are doers and leaders.

An avid camper, classical music fan and birdwatcher, she currently lives in Rancho Bernardo, California. For more information about the author and her books, see her Web site at www.jhand.com.

Acknowledgments

I am deeply indebted to my friends and writing colleagues who read all or part of this story and whose comments and criticisms were vital to making me work to write the best story I could. I extend to all of them my grateful thanks: Chet Cunningham, Arline Curtiss, Barry Friedman, Donna Erickson, Pete Johnson, Al Kramer, Peggy Lang, Judith Levine, Bev Miller, Ellen Perkins and Tom Utts.

Special thanks go to two others as well. My agent Richard Curtis has been both friend and guide to the world of publishing. And gratitude goes as well to my talented Silhouette editor Julie Barrett. Without Julie’s appreciation for my work and her championing of it, none of my Nova Blair and Joe Cardone adventures would ever have seen the light of publishing day. I will always be profoundly grateful.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Epilogue

Chapter 1

N ova Blair drew in a breath of Colorado Rocky Mountain air, savoring its cold, pristine edge, wishing she could stop time. She was thirty-four. Staying thirty-four forever in beautiful Steamboat Springs could be fun.

But tomorrow, after six days of skiing, hot mulled wine, fabulous dinners, dancing, and good sex, she and David, who was skiing next to her, had to leave. Time did not stand still. In fact, only eight shopping days stood between her and Christmas and she still hadn’t found perfect gifts for the loved ones on her remarkably short list.

Dead ahead, the Storm Peak chairlift would drop the two of them at almost 10,400 feet at the top of this last run of their Steamboat Springs getaway. Every tree hunkered under the weight of glittering white crystals, soon to turn pink in the sun’s fading glow. Nothing here, at least in this moment, hinted at the dark side of human existence. How perfect it would be to remain in this moment, never doing a lick of work for the CIA again. Maybe the next time Smitty called, she would say no to him.

But go back to San Diego she must, to a tight schedule that would delay gift shopping still longer before flying out the next morning to New York to make an appearance at the latest showing of her photographs.

She took another deep breath as they neared the mountain’s crest, soaking up snow-capped peaks and the azure-blue sky. Life can be good. She felt complete freedom. Was this joy? Had she ever felt true joy? Yes. At least once. Making love with Joe.

Joe Cardone. Her partner for two missions. Just thinking his name planted an iron fist of pain in the center of her chest.

The lift chairs arrived at the summit. She pushed out of her seat, David beside her, and dropped onto the hardpack. Their skis hissed on the snow as they glided to the side of the slope to avoid skiers coming up behind them.

For a quiet moment they shared the spectacular view, the trails heading down the mountain filled with skiers and snowboarders wearing the pastel “in” colors of the season: pale yellows, greens, blues, pinks and violets. The rainbow of color against the white snow reminded her of spinnakers against a cloudy sky on a windy day in San Diego’s Mission Bay.

She wore a fuchsia jumpsuit. She looked good in cool, winter colors, and fuchsia especially complemented her black hair—French-braided at the back of her head at the moment. David, a skiing hot dog and oblivious to fashion, wore neon red.

As owner of David Lake Travel, a company with a dozen branches in resort cities, he spent significant time exploring exciting resort escapes. They shared a love of travel and adventure, one of the reasons she’d been attracted to him after breaking up with Joe six long months ago.

“Okay,” she said, forcing a smile. “Let’s make this a race.”

“Straight down to Christie Base and the Sheraton,” he said. “Triangle, Cyclone, Drop Out and then the easy cool-off on Right-O-Way.”

All black-diamond runs, except at the bottom.

“You got it.”

They shoved off. She hit her rhythm, right, left, right, reading the slope, reading the snow. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing. Freedom!

The Sheraton Hotel snuggled in the snow, right at the base of the mountain—ski in, ski out—with luxury accommodations to match the convenience. David waited for her, his ski poles planted in the snow, his goggles raised, his gloves hung over the tops of his poles. She side-slipped to a stop alongside him, out of breath and thighs burning.

“Outstanding,” she said, knowing she was grinning like she’d won a million bucks.

He slid her goggles onto the top of her forehead over her bangs and gave her a peck on the lips. “I love you,” he announced, grinning. “You are the most exciting woman I’ve ever met.”

She felt her smile freeze and she blinked, not sure what to say in return. Love? Love was a word they had agreed never to use.

Three hours later, showered, rested and dressed in the emerald-green, turtle neck cashmere sweater, a match for her eyes and her favorite, Nova looked into the bathroom mirror. She snatched the hairclip loose and her hair plummeted in a silky cascade to her shoulder blades. David loved to see her hair down, and, she reminded herself, it was David, not Joe, for whom she was dressing. She ran a comb through it as David stepped behind her. He moved her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck.

“We could skip dinner,” he said.

She let the comment pass. Instead, she turned and gave him a slow smile. Already wearing his topcoat, David helped her into her black, ankle-length faux shearling cloak, then followed her into the brightly lit and thickly carpeted hallway. The uniformed Sheraton doorman opened the outer door and they stepped from comforting warmth into the exhilaration of Mother Nature’s cold, thin breath. At the entrance stood a sleigh, complete with bell-bedecked horse and driver. David led her to it.

Joy suffused the child in her who had feasted on Russian fairy tales, read to her by a loving, handsome and doting father. “What a wonderful surprise, David,” she said, grinning.

He helped her aboard, tucked a red-and-green plaid woolen wrap over her lap and joined her. “Maddie Silk’s, right?” said their sleigh master, a man with rosy cheeks and nose and all bundled up in a black parka.

“Right,” David said. They set off surrounded by the music of silver bells in the cold, black velvet, perfect night.

The ride was as lovely as any fairy tale. He poured her a mug of wine, but before he let her drink, he kissed her. He smelled deliciously of spice himself. For a moment she wished with a familiar pang that she could love him, marry him and settle down into a normal life. She took a sip of wine and pushed the pointless longing for normalcy away. She could love a man—she already did love one—Joe—but thoughts of normalcy were a ridiculous indulgence in fantasy. She was with David, could be comfortable with him, because he agreed that their relationship was special but that it wasn’t ever going to be what most of his friends, and hers, thought of as normal.

The elegant dinner setting was a perfect ending for their week. For the first time they talked music. David loved Mozart, too.

“He’s my favorite,” she said. “When I die, I want them to play Mozart. His music is so radiant it seems wrong he wasn’t cherished all of his life and buried with great honor instead of in an unmarked pauper’s grave.” She stared at the bloodred of the wine in her glass and a deep sigh slipped out. “But then, life is often unjust.”

David put his hand over hers, his gaze gentle and understanding. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, for your sadness.”

She smiled and shook her head, regretting that she’d let some sliver of the past tarnish the beautiful evening for even a moment. “I’m not sad. Truly.”

David knew a lot about her now. Obviously the superficial realities: that she was a professional adventure travel guide and that her hobby—if you could call something she worked that hard at, a hobby—was nature and portrait photography. He had also met her sister, Star, on one occasion, and on their fifth date he’d confided to Nova that he’d paid someone to look into Nova’s history. It wasn’t personal, he explained. Because of his wealth, whenever a woman really captivated him, he initiated an investigation.

And so he knew about her diplomat father’s death when she was twelve and about her mother’s marriage to a wealthy Argentinean, Candido Branco. David knew that when she was sixteen, she’d killed the man to keep him from molesting Star. He knew she’d been incarcerated for five years. David knew all that, he said, and it didn’t affect how he felt about her.

What he didn’t know was that she took her first contract job for the CIA when she was twenty-two, and in the line of duty through the intervening years she had already killed six men, as well as a villainously insane woman and a misguided teenage Muslim boy-terrorist bent on killing hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people. Her sadness didn’t come from killing Candido. That had given her nothing but release. Her sadness came from all the others she’d killed and all the evil she’d seen.

She was a contract agent for the Company, not an employee. She never took Company assignments that served the government, such as planting false information or stealing plans for troop maneuvers or for development of weapons. They knew to call her only if the lives of innocents were at stake. She had saved many people. That was true. Still, she often relived the up-close killings in bad dreams, and memories of them had a way of slithering into even the happiest moments.

Like now. But her smile and words seemed to have convinced David. He looked away and gestured for the check. Their feast was over. Time for another magic sleigh ride.

The moment they were back on the snow he slid his gloved hand under their wrap and took hers. He squeezed. She squeezed back. “I know we said no falling in love, no marriage,” he said, “but I want, I need, to change the rules of the game.”

The unnerving shock of his words caused her to gasp, a cold breath. Oh, David. Please, please don’t. You told me—we agreed.

He hurried on. “We are so good together, Nova.” He leaned closer and wrapped her gloved hand in both of his. “I desperately care for you.”

She pulled her hand free. She didn’t love him. Maybe she didn’t even love Joe since when he’d said the word marriage, she’d frozen, her feelings spinning, much like she felt right now. Joe was the only man in her life that she might…just might…love. But even for Joe, she hadn’t been able to wrap her emotions around giving up her dearly won freedom. She’d never do so for David.

She clasped her hands together in her lap. “I told you up front that I’m a difficult person with a difficult life and that love and marriage were to be off-limits. We need to keep it that way.”

“But you aren’t difficult, Nova. And your life, while it involves lots of travel and pressure, isn’t all that different from mine.”

Oh, she thought, how wrong you are.

“Please, David.”

He shook his head and thrust himself heavily back into the seat. She could feel his hurt coming off him like body heat. If she stayed in the relationship, she was going to hurt David terribly. She had thought, wrongly, that she could set up parameters to keep it all safe.

Her spirit, soaring for hours, deflated: a gay balloon slashed by a serrated Ka-Bar, a knife with which she was all too familiar. Sometimes life was good, but too often those times didn’t last long.

“Okay,” he said. “We stay with our original agreement.”

No. That isn’t possible now. You care too much.

Later, when he snuggled up beside her in bed after they’d made love, her heart aching with every kiss, guilty, sad, knowing that she was saying goodbye but unwilling to utterly destroy their last night together, she closed her eyes and sighed, dreading what she had to say to him tomorrow.

Chapter 2

The Amazon—Ten Miles Downriver from

Manaus, Brazil, near the Meeting of the Waters

A birding tour group of ten Americans intending to cruise the great Amazon River for fifteen glorious days, stopping each night at a different site, had rented a two-decker, forty-foot boat. This afternoon they had anchored at a wide spot on the Amazon’s north shore. Half a mile down lay the Meeting of the Waters, the point where the black Rio Negro and the reddish-brown Rio Solimões joined to become the mighty Amazon. A little like pouring molasses and water together, the two feeder rivers didn’t mix right away. For many kilometers they ran side by side, black and red, although eventually the red color would win. That marvelous natural phenomenon thrilled and fascinated them all.

But in the darkness, shortly before eight, their trip took a turn into nightmare. Fifteen heavily armed men boarded their boat.

One of the men, Carlito Gomez, had until now never been much farther than fifty kilometers from his own home in southern Brazil. He stood, bloody machete in hand, over the corpse of the man he’d just killed. The dead man, identified to Carlito and the others by a photo they had brought with them, lay face down on the floor of the cruise boat’s main cabin surrounded by the nine other terrified Americanos, also sprawled on their bellies. They had stopped screaming, but most of the women were crying.

The dead man’s arms were both pinned beneath him. Carlito reached down and pulled the left arm free.

“No, no!” his boss, Felipe Martinez, yelled. “The Eagle says it must be his right hand.”

Quick to obey, Carlito pulled the right arm free and used the machete to finish the job. The other passengers began screaming again. A woman, probably the dead man’s wife, shrieked, “Ellis!” so loudly it hurt Carlito’s ears.

Using his body as a screen, Carlito snatched up what looked like a real gold watch from the dead man’s wrist. Felipe didn’t notice. Felipe’s big concern was the black boy, and he had turned his attention to securing the boy’s hands. The Eagle’s other men were also occupied with binding and gagging their prisoners. Carlito felt a quick flush of greed rev his already adrenaline-fueled pulse. It looked like he could get away with keeping and then selling the watch for himself. He stuffed it into his pocket.

The other teenaged boy, the pretty blond one, attempted to be Mr. Macho and tried to stand. Felipe bashed him in the head with the butt end of his Beretta. The kid collapsed onto the deck, blood running down his forehead and dripping off the tip of his nose.

“Get it up to the iced package,” Felipe commanded. “Now!”

Carlito dropped the machete and gingerly plucked up the severed hand. He scrambled across the cabin, clumsily kicking the machete, and climbed the short flight of steps to the upper deck, which was covered but open on the sides. From the roof over his head came the heavy splatting of Amazon basin rain. He stepped around the boat captain, who was still out cold on the deck and now bound.

Carlito opened the white, insulated box. Felipe had brought it with them, already prepared to deliver this message from Manaus, Brazil, to the office of the vice president of the United States of America. The package, delivered by an untraceable courier, should arrive in Washington no later than tomorrow afternoon.

Carlito slipped the hand into a plastic bag and then took care, using a pair of gloves brought for the purpose, to arrange the dried ice around it before replacing the interior insulation. Finished, he taped the package shut. An address and postage were already on the top.

Felipe emerged from the cabin followed by the other men, shoving hostages. One by one, the men walked the captives on a makeshift plank across the black water onto their own riverboat, stolen earlier in the day for this purpose.

Carlito was now suffering a nagging worry about getting away. There were no roads between here and Manaus. In fact, there were no roads at all going south into Brazil from Manaus. The single road out went north to Venezuela. Plane fare being expensive, common folk left by riverboat, a trip to the coast taking four or five days.

But with their prisoners, they would cruise ten miles back upriver, running under cover of darkness to the small port of Ceasá. From there, a lorry would drive them to Manaus’s international airport, where a plane chartered by the Eagle, using a false name, would return them home. There would be no record of their arrival to or departure from here. Felipe had made it clear, when Carlito had asked about it, that money could buy anything in Brazil.

It would likely be some time, maybe not until midday tomorrow or even later, before anyone cruising the river became curious enough to stop at the boat. They would find the bound and gagged boat captain and notify the authorities, who would be pissed to learn they had a huge international mess on their hands: one dead American and nine missing tourists.

Soaked to the skin but still warm in the tropical night, Carlito watched the heavy drops of rain pour from the boat’s roof to batter the gangplank and shore and pock the surface of the water. Once the Eagle’s other men had all the hostages aboard, Felipe quickly cast them off, heading them back to Ceasá.

Their passage was slow, guided by three men at the front manning strong searchlights. The package would be on its way right on time out of Manaus, but, given the heavy rain, Carlito wondered as he wiped himself down with a dry rag if the visibility would be good enough for them to make their planned quick exit by air.

Chapter 3

S till sweating from a twenty-minute jog and anxious to find out if there were any last-minute disasters for the New York show, Nova made a final check of her answering machine. No new messages.

This latest show of her award-winning photos of the world’s most beautiful coastal drives seemed to be progressing without serious glitches. Putting on this show was costing a bundle and although her agent, Deirdre, was enthusiastic about the photos—she always was—Deirdre was worried for the first time that they might not be able to sell enough to cover costs, let alone make a profit. It had been a long time since Nova had had to take a loss in order to get her work into circulation. This time she was going to have to do more than just show up. She would need to put on the razzle and dazzle needed to sell.

In her kitchen, she rinsed and dried her favorite Florentine cappuccino mug and returned it to its hook, satisfied that she could leave knowing that the condo was in order. If she never returned—in her life, always a possibility—she could still hold her head up in heaven. She’d not left a mess behind.

A small, rueful smile touched her lips. Star had said more than once, “I think your problem with men is that you’re too damn neat. What man can relax and scratch his balls in comfort in such a neatnik home?”

Although they never discussed it, she and Star both understood just why Nova had such a “thing” about control. For four hellish years, their stepfather, Candido Branco, had controlled Nova’s existence while secretly molesting her. When Candido turned his attention to Star, Nova had instinctively reacted and threatened Candido with a knife. During their struggle, she had killed him. She’d not planned it, but she also hadn’t regretted it. And since she could not prove the molestation, a jury had convicted her of manslaughter. She’d served five years, from age sixteen to twenty-one. And in prison she’d been unable to decide things as simple as when to turn out her light at night. Between Nova and Star, Nova’s passion to be always in command required no discussion or explanation—or excuse. But it did have consequences. For Nova, living the rest of her life unmarried might just be one of them.

A sigh slipped out as she closed the blinds that let in generous swaths of western light and a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean. Last night in Steamboat Springs she’d said nothing to David, not wanting to spoil the end of their trip, but when he’d dropped her off at the condo early this morning, she’d told him it was over.

He’d been so surprised. She felt another rush of sadness mixed with guilt. Breaking up right before Christmas and New Year’s had seemed especially unkind. On the flip side, maybe at some big holiday party David would meet someone new. Someone to make his life complete.

She leaned over the couch to pick up Divinity, her white Angora cat, a treasure with one green and one blue eye. She scratched gently behind one of Diva’s ears. “Time to visit Penny, sweet thing.”

She left the condo’s door ajar and strolled along her balcony to Penny’s door. Their two condos took up the three-story building’s top floor.

Today’s gorgeous blue-skied weather in San Diego could not be bettered any place in the world she’d been to, and from working for the Company and Cosmos Adventure Travel, she felt like she’d visited an impressively large selection of the planet’s offerings. Sunny, clear, a pleasant eighty-two degrees.

To her left, the Pacific Ocean beckoned, framed by four palm trees. A pleasant December day in exclusive and beautiful La Jolla, named “The Jewel” for its beauty and perched on the coved edge of the sea. Seven days before Christmas.

Reginald Pennypacker, her closest friend, was an African-American with delicate, Ethiopian bone structure and large, dark eyes. Penny owned La Jolla’s most exclusive beauty salon and, bless him, he took care of her plants and Diva upon request, no advance notice—something that happened rather often.

Today, Nova didn’t even need to knock. She’d told him weeks ago about the New York trip. Apparently hearing her steps, he flung open his door and stood there, regally dressed in a gold jogging suit with black trim.

“Come to me, precious one,” he commanded, lifting Diva from her arms.

“Back in three days,” she said.

“Right. And if not, you’ll call.”

He smiled and studied her face to see if she had further suggestions or requests.

She hugged him and offered her half of their ritual parting. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I intend to do a bunch of things you’d never do,” came back his reply.

She turned and saw the Airport Shuttle service pull up. Now it was off to New York and sell, sell, sell.

Chapter 4

C IA field agent Joseph Cardone unbuckled his seatbelt. He should have been tired but instead he felt “fired up and raring to go,” one of his father’s expressions. Within the hour he’d be driving on a summer evening through moon-washed Texas sagebrush, soaking up vistas from a childhood that had been damn near perfect. He’d grown up in a loving family on a Texas ranch, where he’d ridden horses, milked cows, mended fences, driven a tractor, and baled hay. He was almost home.

The man next to him in first class, an oil exec also returning from Baghdad to Houston, had the aisle seat. They stood, and the man opened the overhead bin and pulled out his briefcase. Like Joe, the exec had traveled casual: chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, white for the exec and a light blue for Joe.

“It’s been damn pleasant sharing the hours with you,” the exec said. He stuck out his hand and Joe shook it. “You decide to come into town for some fun during your stay, give me a call. Or if IBM ever sends you to Houston on a troubleshoot. I’d love to show you around.”

IBM troubleshooter was Joe’s cover identity, and he would never take the likable guy up on his offer of hospitality. CIA business was Joe’s real life, one that occupied virtually all of his time. He had no idea where the Company would send him next, although it sure wouldn’t be Houston. “Like I say, I’m just here for a few days for my brother’s wedding. Family stuff. It’s not likely I’ll get away from my folks’ ranch or into any town other than Placita. That’s where the church is.”

At the door leading from first class into the Boeing 737’s exit, the flight attendant on this leg out of Baghdad pressed her business card into Joe’s hand. She said, “I don’t fly out again for four days.” He flipped the card over and checked the back. Sure enough, there was her phone number.

He smiled and used his forefinger to touch the tip of her chin. “I don’t know my schedule right now. But thanks for great service.”

He pocketed her card and strode down the gangway.

There had to be sixty or seventy people waiting for arrivals, but drawn by the unerring pull of maternal love, the first face that registered was his mother’s. Rosalinda Cardone. She stood next to his brother, Manuelito, and seemed to glow from within, her smile identical to the one for which Joe was legendary among CIA colleagues of both sexes: brilliant white teeth, sensual lips.

He dropped his overnighter as she embraced him, plump arms hugging his waist, her head pressed hard against him. Standing on tiptoes, her head came to his midchest.

He closed his eyes and let a warm sensation spread up his neck to his face. He was flushing with happiness. And something else. Some powerful feeling. This is absolutely the only place in the world where I am safe.

His mother pulled back enough to look up at him. His eyes were dark brown with some gold flecks, like his father’s. Hers were deep pools of velvet black from her Spanish heritage. “Your muscles are firm enough, but you are too skinny, Joseph,” she said.

He laughed and kissed her on the forehead. “You are my home.”

“Been too damn long,” Manuelito said, grabbing Joe into a bone-crushing hug.

“And how’s Dad?” Joe asked.

His mother took his hand. “He’s fine, he just didn’t want to wrestle the wheelchair through the airport. He’s waiting for us at the ranch.” His bullock of a father had finally been broken by a car accident that had robbed him of the use of his legs.

Joe checked out Manuelito, head to toe. Levis. Red shirt. Black, well-worn cowboy boots. He’d let his hair grow long and wore it pulled back in a ponytail, Antonio Banderas style. It looked good. When they were young they were often mistaken for each other. Same dark brown wavy hair, light brown skin, brown eyes, and quarterback physique.

Joe at thirty still had rock-hard abs. He patted his twenty-eight-year-old brother’s midsection, softer-looking than the last time they’d been together. “Well, Manuelito, looks like you’re ready for marriage, all right.”

“You bet. Time for the really good life.” His brother picked up Joe’s overnighter.

“I can get it,” Joe said.

The ride Joe had been imagining took place in the cab of a beat-up Chevy truck, Manuelito driving, Joe riding shotgun and their mother in the middle. Life could sometimes be so damn good.

Chapter 5

P araguay. A landlocked country in the heart of the South American continent.

In area, slightly smaller than California.

A country that in the east had grassy plains and wooded hills; in the west, low dry forest and thorny scrub in the vast, sparsely inhabited emptiness of the Gran Chaco; and that in the extreme east, possessed a magnificent strip of tropical rain forest where Paraguay shared a border with Brazil and Argentina.

In Paraguay, Tomas Morinigo Escurra—born in Manaus on the Rio Negro in northern Brazil—found refuge at the age of fifteen, after he killed his first man.

According to the CIA World Factbook on Paraguay:

Population—95% Mestizo.

Languages—Spanish and Guarani.

Capital—Asuncion.

Religion—97% Roman Catholic.

Government—constitutional republic.

Economy—poor economic performance attributed to political uncertainty, corruption, lack of structural reform, internal and external debt and deficient infrastructure.

International Disputes—an unruly region at the convergence of the Argentina-Brazil-Paraguay borders that is a locus of money laundering, smuggling, arms and drug trafficking, and fund-raising for extremist organizations; a major illicit producer of cannabis; a base for transshipment of Andean (Colombian) cocaine headed for Brazil, other Southern markets, Europe, and the U.S.; and a center for corruption and terrorist money-laundering activity, especially in the tri-border area.

In the years that followed his arrival from Manaus, Tomas Escurra hacked out success and imposing wealth in his adopted country, working as a hired hand, then a small rancher, and finally he married a rich man’s daughter and became a legitimate cotton grower. Later, he moved into more lucrative endeavors, ones more challenging and exciting—his specialty: drug smuggling. In his younger years he had also gained fame as a champion practitioner of capoeira, the distinctive martial art of Brazil, a combination of music, dance and fighting. But that time of young glory now lay thirty years in the past.

Six days before he would celebrate the birth of Christ by throwing one hell of a huge party for local honchos from hundreds of miles in every direction, Escurra was hosting a dogfight at ten o’clock in the evening for his soldiers. He’d built this fighting pit on the grounds of his massive Rancho Magnifico, half a million acres hacked out of the jungle on the Brazilian side of the tri-border area.

He sat in his place of honor surrounded by shouting, swearing, cheering, unwashed men watching a German mastiff and a German shepherd tearing each other to death. And days hence, on Christmas Eve, while the local VIPs wined, dined and danced at his home, his less savory business partners would enjoy an even more exciting blood sport. Naturally, he had cocks and dogs lined up, but a pair of human fighters would be selected too, the final choice made only the day before the event.

The smell of beer and marijuana was enough to get high without even taking a hit. He’d put his money on the mastiff. The German shepherd lay whining and writhing on the ground in a messy pool of its own blood mixed with arena dirt. Escurra leaned forward. Finish it! he thought, his pulse pounding warmly at his throat, his passion with the mastiff. Escurra would win his bet. He usually did.

This rough fighting complex was comprised of wooden pens for dogs, cocks and even men—for special, highly secret events, such as those on Christmas Eve—plus a viewing stand. The viewing stand was part of an arena his men could enlarge for the bigger contests or make smaller for the cockfights.

The fight was over; the dogs were being hauled away. Escurra checked his watch. He’d not heard from Felipe, not one word about the Manaus operation. The operation had been planned down to the finest detail, but experience had long ago taught him that it was impossible to control everything, hence his anxiety.

Rodrigo, the man seated beside him, was Felipe’s brother and Escurra’s cattle manager. Rodrigo said, “He will call, jefe. Felipe is smart. Don’t worry.”

Rodrigo knew everything about raising prize beef, as well as the ins and outs of Escurra’s many illegitimate projects. “Felipe’s smart, Rodrigo, but it’s a different kind of cargo we’re dealing with this time.”

The Casa Grande, where Escurra lived with his wife and youngest daughter, lay only minutes away by private road or by golf cart across perfectly manicured lawns. He really ought to go, now, to say good night to them. Early tomorrow, both women would leave for the States to visit his wife’s family in Washington, D.C., for Christmas and New Year’s. They went every year. They much preferred the sophistication of Washington, plus holiday shopping in the expensive boutiques in New York, to the rough people and countryside celebrations of this isolated island of jungle in Brazil.

Convention required that he say good night and pretend that he would miss them. He wouldn’t. He’d learned young that he was different from other people. Stronger. He didn’t need anyone. He wouldn’t miss anyone. He cared for no one—but himself.

Such lack of feeling had to be cleverly disguised, though, in order to be successful, because if it weren’t, you couldn’t get people to trust you. You could achieve greater success if you used fear, or as he liked to think of it, respect and trust, in dealing with others. Whichever worked best in the circumstance. He knew how to work people, had been fucking brilliant at creating a benevolent, honest facade as local benefactor and charitable giver.

He stood, saying to Rodrigo, “I need to go say goodbye to the women.”

To reach Casa Grande he would drive past tennis courts, three guest rancheritas, a pool and spa, the helicopter pad, and various other buildings for workers or supplies. He seated himself in the golf cart and his cell phone vibrated, the one with the direct and secure line to Red Dog, his main business contact in the States. Quite a number of U.S. covert operations were funded by drug money. Ordinarily, Felipe made all contacts and arrangements with Red Dog, the code name of this extremely highly placed man in the U.S. military whose actual identity remained a secret, even from Escurra.

For over five years, Red Dog had provided cover for Escurra’s drug smuggling into the U.S., always taking a big cut. Escurra had never discovered how Red Dog had found out about the drug smuggling, but Red Dog had made an offer that Escurra could not refuse: cooperate and share profits or Red Dog would expose his operation to Brazilian authorities. Then a month ago, he had approached Felipe about this crazy operation involving kidnapping and blackmail.

Escurra would have opted out if he could have. Smuggling drugs he knew from every angle, but kidnapping and smuggling people was new; doing something new entailed major risks and invited disaster. Triply so because so many well-connected Americans would be involved.

Red Dog, however, refused to accept his no. Furthermore, the American implied that he might find some other middleman who was more cooperative. Fuck all. So much of Escurra’s business now depended upon this contact. How could he refuse the operation? Even Red Dog’s sweetening the pot with the promise of two million dollars didn’t make the deal sit any better in Escurra’s gut.

He fished the cell phone from his pocket. “The Eagle,” he said in English.

In his capoeira fighting days, his insignia had been a harpy eagle in flight clutching a dead colobus monkey in its talons. The harpy eagle—biggest eagle in the world. All who knew and feared Escurra still used the nickname behind his back. He had found it amusing to use it himself with the American.

“I was told I’d get a call by nine o’clock your time.” The low, tense voice was that of Red Dog. Escurra had personally talked only three times with the main man. Never before had Red Dog sounded agitated, angry or even tense. He’d always impressed Escurra as one very fucking cold Americano.

Escurra said, “I haven’t heard from my operative yet.”

“Has something gone wrong?”

“How can I know? I told you, I haven’t heard from him yet.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I can’t help that. I sent my best people, led by the man you usually talk to. When I hear from him, I’ll call.”

A long silence stretched to the point where Escurra said, “You still there?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The connection went dead.

Escurra sat thinking about that strained sound in Red Dog’s voice. Maybe Red Dog was the top man in Washington. Maybe not. Maybe he reported to someone with even more power. Escurra would have to do a lot more thinking about that. But one thing for certain, Red Dog wanted those hostages much more than he had ever wanted profit from drugs. Somehow, for some reason, Red Dog was vulnerable. If all went well, Escurra would demand more money.

Just as he reached the main house his other phone vibrated. He answered.

Felipe said, “Your packages have been picked up and are on their way. Anything new for me?”

“No. Just get your ass back here.”

Chapter 6

T he priest was explaining to Joe’s brother, Manuelito, and his bride-to-be, Susa, exactly where to stand and what to say tomorrow during the actual wedding. Joe, along with the rest of the wedding party, stood in places lined up near the altar.

Joe’s youngest brother, Diego, and two other friends of Manuelito’s who would serve as ushers, stood on one side of Joe. On the other side of the bride-to-be, the bridesmaids were whispering among themselves, but the priest, Susa and Manuelito seemed not to notice. Joe stood facing the entry.

For a moment, as he looked down the rows of pews toward the door, he imagined the seats filled with people, the bride’s processional music playing and Nova dressed in a white gown and veil walking down the aisle toward him. He chuckled to himself. Actually, in his mother’s worldview, white would be entirely the wrong color for Nova. No virgin there. Light-years from being a virgin. Maybe Nova, the seductress, should be wearing red. Or maybe even black. Nova had eliminated bad guys, and more than once.

Then a different image replaced the wedding scene, a memory of sitting across the table from her in a funky little restaurant smelling of cinnamon. Their last weekend together. She’d picked a bed-and-breakfast in a tiny mountain hamlet called Julian, northeast of San Diego, a place famous for apple pie and the orchards that produced them. A place where the two of them could be assured of anonymity. He was holding her hand across the table.

He had presented her with an engagement ring, fully expecting her gorgeous green eyes to light up with joy. Instead they had dimmed as though a gray cloud had suddenly covered his sun. Nothing he’d said could change her mind. She’d quickly grown angry, saying he’d agreed they would be lovers. But no big commitment like marriage. He’d grown angry in response. They had locked in a test of wills. He’d finally said, “Either marry me, or I’m outta here.”

Her reply, as she’d pulled her hand out of his, her tone both sad and final had been, “Then, I guess it’s over.”

Now, clenching his fist, Joe swallowed down a golf-ball-sized lump and forced his attention to the priest. A dumb phrase popped into his head—“Real men don’t cry.”

He had actually found and loved a woman like no other. He would never love another woman because in his eyes, none would ever compare to Nova in beauty, intelligence or courage. So why the hell had he insisted on marriage? Why the hell had he let her push him away? And just when the hell was he going to swallow his pride and call her?

Chapter 7

N ova’s photo agent, Deirdre LeDoux—her name matched her flamboyant looks—stepped onto the squat platform at the Franke Gallery of Fine Photography. She’d piled her blond hair up in dramatic swirls and wore a purple, floor-length Dolce & Gabbana that would also be smashing on her look-alike, Charlize Theron. The string quartet had just finished playing Vivaldi’s “Spring” Concerto and fell silent. Deirdre said huskily into the microphone, “May I have your attention, please.”

The one hundred invited guests cruising the gallery floor, most of them dressed in black tie or a gown equal to Deirdre’s, turned toward Deirdre and wound down their chitchat. A last sip of champagne. A final bite of foie gras or Russian caviar.

Deirdre had explained that half the guests were already Nova Blair collectors, eager to meet the photographer and perhaps buy something new from Nova’s collection of Scenic Ocean Drives of the World—at prices ranging from one thousand to fifty thousand dollars. Nova always felt squeamish about the prices Deirdre insisted upon. Taking the pictures was its own payoff in the pleasure she derived from it, even when capturing the image involved danger or hardship. Especially then. But, as Deirdre relished repeating, when hazard and beauty were brilliantly combined they merited very special recognition. Such works always brought the highest prices, and Deirdre, from the beginning of their seven-year friendship, had put Nova in that elite class.

“I see you are all enjoying yourselves,” Deirdre said. “I’ve interrupted just briefly because I want to share with you, and with Nova, the announcement that her photo of A Boy and Butterflies has just been awarded The Nature Conservancy’s photo of the year. Their top prize.”

All gazes switched to Nova, and enthusiastic applause showered her. She felt the warming glow of a blush of pleasure and surprise.

Deirdre finished. “Now please, do continue to enjoy your evening.” She stepped down and slipped her arm around Nova’s waist. Deirdre’s perfume, Llang Llang Myrrh, enveloped them. The quartet resumed its mood-setting, Canon by Pachelbel.

“Nice surprise, huh?” Deirdre enthused. “Come, I want to introduce you to the mayor’s assistant. She loves photography and her husband is a nature freak. He’s always off on wilderness trips. Do what you can to sell her a photo and maybe you can sell her hubby a tour as an added bonus.”

They were halfway across the room, the two of them smiling, shaking hands and kissing cheeks as they walked, when Deirdre’s assistant, Donnie, approached. He said, “There’s a call for you, Ms. Blair. He says to tell you it’s Smitty.”

The pleasurable fizzing of her spirit flattened immediately into alarm. She grabbed at a straw of hope. Maybe it’s nothing serious.

But of course it was serious. The CIA never called her when there was “nothing serious.” To her surprise, she also felt a quick burn of excitement. Over five months had passed since her last Company assignment, and her subconscious was apparently eager for action.

“Where can I have a little privacy?”

Donnie led the way. Over the phone and sounding tense, Smith said they needed her as quickly as was convenient this evening. He gave her the name of the hotel and the room number where he would be waiting. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

“I can finish up here in thirty minutes. I’ll see you within the hour.”

She left hearing good news. “I’ve sold three photos,” Deirdre said, looking relieved. “We’ll for sure make expenses, and probably then some.”

“There were nine tourists and a guide,” Leland Smith said. “The boat captain was knocked out and tied up.”

Smith lounged in a green wingback chair opposite Nova, a hotel table between them, a Scotch and soda in his hand. He wore a plain brown suit and white shirt, tieless and open at the neck. Plain brown shoes. Plain brown hair. She had met in person with “Smitty” twice before, and each time she had had a hard time afterward remembering exactly what his face looked like. The perfect CIA field agent or controller.

Smith’s assistant, Marvin King, sat propped up in the queen-size bed with his back against the headboard. Marvin, a light-skinned black man who wore elegant gold-rimmed glasses, would never be nearly so invisible.

Smith continued. “The note that came with the severed hand says that the hand belongs—belonged—to Ellis Stone, Colette Stone’s husband, and that he’s dead.”

“The Colette Stone?”

“Exactly. So what the bastards have is nine tourists and the guide, ten hostages in all, one of them the rather famous niece of the U.S. vice president.”

“You know, I think I will have that drink,” Nova said to Marvin. He rose. She detested the vice president, who had never seen a forest he didn’t feel needed harvesting or an oil field that didn’t beg to be drained. She added, “Is the hand Stone’s?”

“Yes. Confirmed by fingerprints and DNA.”

“Who received the package?”

“Came by express mail to the secretary of defense with instructions to forward it to the office of the vice president. We might not be able to pin down the actual origin.”

“Fifty million is a lot of dollars.” She took the Scotch and soda from Marvin and sipped. Chilled. A nice burn. Marvin returned to his perch on the bed.

Smith said, “They hold major bargaining chips. In addition to Colette Stone—well—” He reached into a leather briefcase on the table beside his chair, extracted a sheet of paper from a folder and handed her a list of names. She read them, sipping the drink, as he continued. “You see Colette’s and Ellis’s names at the top. Kimball Kiff is the birding tour’s leader. Kiff’s the curator of birds at the Los Angeles County Museum of Natural History and has taken other clients on the same trip three times before.

“Redmond Obst, it seems, is what they call a world-class birder. He keeps a list of all the species he’s seen, a world list, because he’s been to so many places. He’s a personal friend of the leader, Kiff. Ronnie Obst is his sixteen-year-old son and is also considered a serious birder. Alex Hailey Hill is the grandson of our Supreme Court Justice, Suleema Johnson. He likes the outdoors but isn’t an especially big fan of birding. He and the Obst boy are best buddies.”

“I like Justice Johnson. This will certainly be frightening for her.”

Seeing the next two names, she caught her breath. Nancy and Otis Benning were among the most enthusiastic collectors of her work. Smith saw her reaction. He said, “You know the Bennings?”

Nova had first met the famous Washington, D.C. socialite, Nancy Benning, about six years ago at a party at the French Embassy. Nova had been undercover as a cocktail girl, tailing the wife of a Saudi diplomat newly arrived from Saudi Arabia and due to return to her home within the week, Nova still on her tail. Nancy Benning had spilled a Bloody Mary on her dress and Nova had helped with a cleanup in the ladies room.

Their second meeting, the one Benning would remember, happened at Nova’s second D.C. photo showing. Nancy Benning had purchased a scene of thousands of pink and white flamingos lifting off from a remote, unnamed lake in Kenya. “I’ve met Mrs. Benning. She loves birds. She’s purchased at least one of my photos.”

“Well then you may know that her husband, Otis, owns Benning Corp. Big into plastics. Rolling in dough, the both of them.”

“Fifty million dollars is suddenly sounding like peanuts. Or like the kidnappers don’t really know the identity of all the fish they’ve caught. Something’s strange. Have they not contacted anyone else, just the vice president?”

“Maybe it’s still too early. But to answer your question, the only ransom demand so far is the one centered on Colette Stone.”

Nova looked at the remaining names. “Who are Linda Stokes and Annette Coulson?”

“Stokes is a librarian from San Diego. Coulson is a dance teacher, also from San Diego. They’re friends and enthusiastic bird watchers. Dennis Chu, the last on the list, is an entomologist from NMNH, the National Museum of Natural History. Apparently pretty famous in his own world.”

Seeing her frown of puzzlement, Smith added, “Insect expert. According to the NMNH people in Washington, he took the trip because he wanted to collect bugs in the Amazon. He has no real interest in birds.”

“Clearly they’re holding some pretty important people, but what do you want with me? If you pay the money, you’ll probably get them back.” In truth she was skeptical of that last statement and knew that Smith would discount any such hope as well.

Smith leaned forward, eager to reach her with his argument. So far, only one man was dead. This wasn’t the kind of op Nova normally considered working and Smith knew it. In every case that she had worked, multiple innocent people had already been killed or the threat posed was the kind that could result in the deaths of many people. In her last case, in Amalfi, thousands if not million of lives had been on the line, justifying, in a way, the dirty work that Company jobs too often entailed.

“The State Department has already put together an FBI team,” he said. “They are on their way to Manaus and will officially work with the Brazilian authorities. But these hostages are high profile. The vice president wants us to do more, much more, than that. Christ, Nova, they have his niece! We have orders to send down a crack undercover team. At least undercover in terms of being U.S. government. We want someone who can go down there saying they are looking to find a relative, one of the hostages, and be convincing. We want you.”

She said nothing, just took another sip.

“No one in this government is going to depend on the Brazilians to get our people out. And no one is going to sit around hoping that when the money is paid, the bastards will keep their word and let everyone go. The plan is to locate the hostages and then send in a special operations team to extract them. You know Brazil. Even better, you know Manaus and the Rio Negro. You’ve been there, how many times?”

“Seven trips to Brazil, four of them included stops in or around Manaus.”

“You speak Spanish fluently, and some Portuguese, right?”

“No real Portuguese.”

“And then there is your main advantage, always your strongest asset. You’re a woman, who can put on a great act of being helpless and nonthreatening.”

She smiled, feeling a bit devilish and wanting to tweak Smith a bit. “Well, there’s something else to consider. I detest vice president Ransome. I have no desire to do anything to help that SOB.”

Chapter 8

S ixty-three-year-old U.S. Supreme Court Justice Suleema Johnson stooped slowly to the sofa. She picked up and cradled her calico cat, Hypatia, and headed for her bedroom. “I’m tired, my dear. It’s been a long one,” she said, bone-weary but smiling. Hypatia was named for the famous mathematician who had lived in ancient Alexandria and was stoned to death by a mob led by the Catholic priest, Cyril. She was Suleema’s closest confidante, privy to Suleema’s most private thoughts and desires. Suleema considered Hypatia to be as wise as the woman for whom she’d been named.

After an especially tedious, work-filled day, Suleema had decided to retire early. Tomorrow she would hear arguments in the case of Wade v. Lemonn—very technical stuff on the patent rights of biopharmaceutical companies. Although it was barely eight o’clock, the arthritis in her hips and lower back cried out for her to lie flat.

Fortunately, this house suited her aging body perfectly, since the previous owners had redesigned it to place the master bedroom on the first floor. She’d purchased the house a little over a year ago, just before her swearing in as the first black woman to serve on her country’s highest court. The location was ideal for getting to and from her office at the court and was only an hour and a half’s drive from her daughter’s lovely home right on the Chesapeake Bay.

Suleema had calculated that on occasion, Regina and Clevon might want to stay in Washington for an evening at Lincoln Center for a fancy dinner or show, so in her home, they had an upstairs bedroom to themselves. But sixteen-year-old Alex was getting too old to visit Grandma anymore.

She flicked off the living room floor lamp and eased down the hallway. Alex was, at this very moment, off someplace in the Amazon birding with his buddy, Ronnie Obst. Suleema had met the young Obst once, at Regina’s house. She had liked him, and thought him a good friend for Alex. Alex, so exceptionally bright and mature for his age, was too serious. Ronnie was outgoing and adventurous and had traveled all over the world with his rather famous father. Ronnie encouraged Alex, who had been more devoted to his computer than to nature before their friendship, to get out and explore life.

She used the wall switch to light her nightstand lamp. Another night of sleeping alone. Her gaze was drawn to her favorite photograph of Raymond, gone from a heart attack for just over five years. He’d not lived to see her elevated from the Ninth Circuit Court, but he’d always believed she had a good chance to be “the one.”

Hypatia wiggled, and Suleema let her drop onto the quilt.

“I know it’ll happen,” Raymond had said. “You’re the smartest woman, the smartest person, I’ve ever known, Sulee. You’re a natural for the Supremes.”

He’d been right. He was a building contractor, the practical one, she the one who lived a life of the mind. They’d been a great match. The place in her chest where her heart had been ripped away by his death still throbbed with longing and loss.

It took no more than ten minutes to undress, snuggle into a cotton nightgown and down under the covers. Hypatia curled up at her hip. She’d never had trouble sleeping, and quickly drifted into the state of fractured thoughts that came just before full unconsciousness. Then she heard a sound.

What was it?

Silence. She let her mind drift again.

Another sound, a definite click. She stiffened in the bed, eyes open, peering at the dark ceiling, ears straining.

Hypatia lifted her head from her paws and looked toward the bedroom door. Suleema sat up halfway on one elbow, peering into shadows formed behind moonlight flooding through the bay window, and then a shadow, dark as a cave, blocked off the pale glow. A gloved hand grabbed her throat and shoved her back down into the bed.

The man, it had to be a man, knelt so that he forced one leg between hers, right through the covers. He grabbed Hypatia by the scruff and lifted the calico into the air.

Suleema clawed at the gloved hand, unable to suck in even a tiny breath. She raked her fingers down his sleeve. He leaned on her, his weight that of a man at least as tall as Raymond’s six feet.

“If you don’t want me to kill your cat,” the dark shadow said, “lay still.”

Lie still! Shouldn’t she fight for her life?

Could she even fight for her life? She was sixty-three years old! His hand felt huge, his body enormous. He was probably going to rape and kill her, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

She tried to say, “Can’t breathe,” but no words would come out.

“You gonna lay still?” he said. He spoke softly, an ominous near-whisper, but clearly and with authority. He moved so that some light fell on him and she saw that his head was bald and he wore only one gold earring.

He wasn’t masked, not hiding his identity. Yes, he was going to kill her.

He let up enough on her throat for her to drag in a choked breath, then another.

He sat Hypatia on her chest. “I could kill this cat right now. I could kill you right now. Right?”

She nodded. Clever Hypatia leaped off the bed and headed for a safer place.

“I got in here, I can get to you anywhere. I have a message for you. You listening?”

Again she nodded. That seemed to be all he wanted from her so far. To listen. Her mind was going lickety-split, thinking what a woman was supposed to do. Try and talk to him.

“The Supreme Court’s decision in the case of Sharansky versus the United States Government is due in eight days. On the twenty-seventh of December. I’m telling you that you are to vote against Sharansky.”

This is insane. It doesn’t make any sense. What the hell is he saying?

“You hear me? In Sharansky versus the U.S. Government, you are to vote against Sharansky. And if you don’t, your grandson, Alex Hailey Hill, will be killed.”

She got it. He was here to make her vote for the U.S. Government in this bitterly fought case brought by New Hampshire’s lieutenant governor and the lieutenant governors of seven other states. The court was split. Their deliberations were secret, but it was widely assumed that the decision would be up to the new justice, Suleema Johnson, the swing vote, the tiebreaker. And this assumption was, in fact, correct. And someone choking off her breath claimed to be able to kill Alex unless she voted against her conscience and her judgment.

But Alex wasn’t even in the country. The threat seemed preposterous.

“Now here’s the way it’s going to be,” he said. He leaned his knee hard into her groin. “You will not tell anyone—and I mean anyone—what I’ve just told you. You will vote for the government. That is why I’m here. To make sure you do. If you tell anyone, the boy will be killed. You understand?”

She nodded, wondering who she could safely tell. Someone would have to be told.

“I know that when I leave, you’ll want to call your daughter to check whether the boy is safe or not. Don’t. She won’t know yet that we have him. Your calling would tip her off you know something you shouldn’t, and we will be listening.”

The very mention of Regina from this thug sent Suleema’s mind bounding off in a rabbitlike panic.

“You just wait a day. Watch the news. Maybe give your daughter a call tomorrow. She’s in for a nasty surprise.”

“Get off me!” she managed to hiss out.

With his free hand, he pulled something from his pocket. A knife. The blade—short and thick and serrated along the top—gleamed silver in the moonlight.

One quick stroke toward her chest. She felt nothing at first, then a stinging sensation and then liquid trickling warmly across her skin.

“That’s just a little taste,” he said, his voice still that ominous whisper, “of what could happen to the boy. And to you.”

He released her, stood, turned and strode out of the bedroom.

Suleema lay still, afraid to even move enough to touch her chest. How badly had he cut her? Maybe he was still in the house.

No. He’d want to get out.

She forced her hand to move, touched the cut beneath the cotton, and felt a surge of relief that it was sticky but superficial.

She should get up. Call 9–1-1. Call the federal marshal’s office.

But what if he, or whoever had sent him, did have Alex? How could that possibly be? Maybe Alex hadn’t gone on the trip. Maybe they had taken him from school. Kidnapping was FBI responsibility. She must call the FBI, of course, not 9–1-1.

But the FBI could only help if Alex was in the States. Wasn’t that so? What if Alex wasn’t? She crossed her hands as if lying in a casket and hugged herself, still terrified to get out of the bed, nightmare images and thoughts scrambling through her head. How could they know how much Alex meant to her? The man had been so confident that he wasn’t even wearing a mask.

What if she didn’t call the FBI at once, if she waited until tomorrow to call Regina to find out if the threat was real? If she called the federal marshals, they would insist on putting a bodyguard on her, even when she was away from the court. Except occasionally at high-profile speaking engagements she had never felt the need for a bodyguard, provided when requested to Supreme Court judges by the marshal’s office. Until now. Having her driver, Sam, with her had been reassurance enough. Asking for protection now would wave a red flag.

Someone was trying to influence the vote of a justice of the United States Supreme Court. Surely duty required her to call in the authorities at once.

But at the risk of Alex’s life?

Chapter 9

S mith’s raised eyebrows indicated genuine surprise. “Come on, Nova,” he said. “You don’t expect me to take your dislike of VP Ransome seriously. When has politics ever affected the Dove’s decision to take on a job for Langley?”

She allowed herself a soft laugh. “Dove” was her Company code name. “I do seriously dislike the vice president’s politics.”

Smith grinned and lifted his glass as if in a toast of agreement and then continued, all business again. “Surely I needn’t point out that these poor people are all innocents. And Colette Stone certainly can’t be blamed for her uncle’s bad political judgment. In fact, the word is that Ms. Stone and the VP don’t get along. And she loves birds. She’s a bird painter, Nova. They all love birds. Shit, it was a goddamn birding trip!”

She smiled at his urgent attempt at persuasion. But it was true that it did tick her off that people who simply took a trip to the jungle to soak up some of the Earth’s beauty were being brutally mistreated. And she knew the Bennings. They were real to her, names and faces and voices. She could not say no and live with herself. She gave Smith an exaggerated smile. “Oh, well then, that decides it.”

He grinned and leaned back. “Just jerking me off, right?”

“Right.”

Smith set his glass on the table and clasped his hands together as if warming them over a fire, ready to get down to business. “Okay, then. Your cover will be that you are the sister of one of the San Diego women, Linda Stokes, and you’re looking for her on your own dollar. You don’t trust the government, and so on. I have people setting up your cover as her sister as we speak. Another reason you’re ideal for the op is that you already know San Diego, which will save the preparation time we’d otherwise have to spend with someone else.”

“It does look like saving time would be a good idea,” she said in understatement.

“Absolutely. Today is the nineteenth of December. The kidnappers have given us two days, until midday Washington time on the twenty-first, to wire-transfer the fifty million to an offshore account in the Bahamas before they start killing a hostage a day.”

“Will the government or her family pay the ransom?”

“I don’t know. The negotiators are taking a position initially that they won’t pay any ransom and will not negotiate with terrorists. To stall for time, they eventually will start negotiating. But no one is actually counting on the bastards releasing the hostages whether a ransom is paid or not.”

Smith took another shot of his drink. “They claim they’ll save the VP’s niece until last, but no one’s counting on that either. The State Department has been assured complete cooperation by the Brazilian authorities. At least four FBI men are on their way to Manaus. The Company has only one man on station there. Until now there’s been no big action we needed to watch; one pair of eyes has been sufficient.”

“I want to do a quick stop with whoever is in charge in Brazil to get their stats on Brazilian terrorists or other illegal operations. I presume that person is not in Manaus.”

“That would be Leila Munoz, head of station in Rio.”

Nova felt mental gears hitching up, her pulse increasing. “If I’m to stay completely undercover, I’ll have to avoid being honest with the FBI guys or anyone official. So who will you get to cover my back and worry if I don’t check in?”

“Your backup is in the works. Joe Cardone again. You two already know each other, always a plus when you’re undercover and in a rush, as we are. No time wasted getting familiar with your partner’s habits and MO. We’ve already contacted him.”

Smith said it casually, but she thought he was studying her. She kept a straight face, but her pupils had likely done a quick dilation from an extra-sudden squirt of adrenaline. Smith was a trained observer. Did the Company know about her affair with Joe after their last op together? Was Smith expecting her to be pleased? Or did they also know that her budding romance with Joe had ended in a head-on collision of wills?

Neither she nor Joe had made any special effort to hide their intimacy from the Company, or anyone else. But they hadn’t volunteered information on the subject, either.

God, sitting right in this hotel she suddenly smelled cinnamon and apple pie, felt again the panic tightening her chest. She was back in Julian on that last day. Joe had said, “Marry me or it’s over,” or words to that effect. To marry meant loss of freedom. Compromise. Always compromise. So many things could go wrong if they tied the knot that bound their lives together, presumably until “death do us part.”

Joe had said, “You can’t always control everything.”

She’d fired back, “I can’t control the creeps of the world, but I do control my private life. And giving that up scares me.”

“You’re saying no because you’re scared? I don’t buy it. You aren’t afraid of anything.”

That’s what he’d said. And he’d taken off angry and hurt because he’d believed that and thought she didn’t love him. He’d been wrong.

“Cardone,” she said to Smith in what she hoped was a sufficiently neutral tone.

“Right. It also works out well because we can get him there quickly. He’s currently in Texas, not on the other side of the globe. But this time we want the two of you to use separate identities. Make no public contact. Joe will be doing a freelance article on terrorism and money laundering. His cover name will be Joseph de los Santos. He speaks Spanish and Portuguese fluently.”

She couldn’t sit still, not while thinking about seeing Joe again. Hell, working with him again. She stood and went to the makeshift bar Marvin had set up and added two ice cubes and fresh Scotch to her drink. To protest would look strange and unprofessional. Joe was a top agent. She should be relieved to have him back her up.

Piss all.

She sat again. Both Smith and Marvin were waiting for her reaction, no doubt about it. For years she’d felt that someone at the Company kept close tabs on her private life. Joe had more than once claimed that Claiton Pryce, the deputy director of operations, had the hots for her. Maybe so. Or maybe this was all just her imagination and no one from the Company had any idea how much she loved Joe.

She stirred her drink with the tip of her finger, making a concentrated effort to do it oh so casually as Smith added, “We’ll have him on his way ASAP directly to Manaus.” To Marvin, Smith said, “Let’s see the map.”

Marvin rose and flipped open a laptop sitting on the table, already booted up. One click and a screen showed a map of South America. Smith pulled his chair around so he could also see the map. Her eyes went first to one of her favorite places, Iguazu Falls, located on the spot where the northern border of Argentina, the eastern border of tiny Paraguay and the western border of Brazil met, halfway down the continent, right below the bulge—the tri-border area, famous for rampant crime. Her first trip to South America had been to Iguazu Falls, so she tended to use it as her South American orientation point.

Her gaze quickly moved north, though, to the equator, to the Amazon River, which lay just below the equator and ran parallel to it. Smith pointed to Manaus, a rundown city that hugged the north shore of the Rio Negro seventeen miles up from the Amazon.

“You ever been to Manaus?” she said, looking first at Smith and then Marvin.

Marvin shook his head. Smith said, “God, no. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“It’s a surreal experience. Here you are, dead in the heart of the world’s biggest jungle in a city that has beautiful black and white inlaid stone sidewalks, elegant old mansions and a central market with wrought ironwork that looks like something designed in Paris. But everything’s gone totally to seed. Rubber built Manaus, and when someone smuggled out some rubber tree seedlings to Southeast Asia, the boom busted. And the place is always hot as Hades with a miserable ninety-five percent humidity.”

“So you won’t need much luggage,” Smith said, smiling. “Only light clothing.” He set his glass down, earnest again. “The kidnap took place on the Amazon River, not far below something called the Meeting of the Waters, a few miles downstream from the last little town that has a road into Manaus.”

“Ceasá,” she said.

“Correct. So tell me what you’ll need.”

“This is an isolated area.” She turned ideas over in her mind a moment. “I need to anticipate whatever might come up. There’ll be no getting anything special quickly.”

“I’ll have Operations working on it tonight. You’ll have everything you want before you fly out tomorrow.”

“A Glock, broken down. Thin jungle camouflage top and pants and light-weight pull-on boots and socks for climbing or hiking. A BlackBerry. And could you send some quinine to me tonight? I might not have a mosquito problem in the city, but I’d be better off having some malaria protection if things go native.”

“Why don’t you have your own BlackBerry?” Smith groused, frowning. “I always have to leave phone messages.”

“I don’t want to be that connected to the world unless I’m working for the Company. Could you also please have the techs put onto it whatever they think I might be able to use?” She continued compiling her mental list out loud. “Pen recorder and the smallest video/still camera that’s resistant to water. A GPS in a locket I can wear and one built into the kit. It’s all got to be able to fit without detection into a woven, not flashy but still fashionable, shoulder bag, between the cover and a thick, quilted inner lining.”

“You’ll have it.”

She could feel excitement bubbling strongly now. She was going on a hunt once again.

“You going to have any problems getting away?” Smith asked.

“I’ll tell my agent I’ve decided I can’t take the time to stay and shop in New York after all. She won’t ask any questions I can’t answer.”

“Good, then,” he said and rose.

She stood. Marvin handed her a packet with the necessary papers and tickets. Smith had the last words. “Marvin will pick you up at your hotel in the morning. You’ll be met in Rio by the head of station, Leila Munoz.” That was it.

She walked toward the elevator with mixed feelings about seeing Joe. How would that go? For a moment, she’d had a refusal on the tip of her tongue; maybe he would refuse the job.

She jabbed the elevator button three times. She wasn’t ready to see him again. She should have said no to Smith.

She turned, looked back toward the room, but her feet stayed planted. For all the reasons Smith had laid out, she probably was the best person to find Colette Stone and the others before anyone else got killed.

But I have to find some way to get Langley to stop throwing Joe and me together.

The elevator door opened, she turned and stepped inside, hit the first floor button as though she’d like to punch it clean out. I hate it, I absolutely hate it, but the truth is, I can hardly wait to see him.

Chapter 10

A fter enduring an interminable morning of oral arguments, and having already doffed her judicial black robe, Suleema hurried down the marbled corridor toward the private entry to her office suite. She entered a room shared by her three senior law clerks. Seeing her, Patrick Hagan, fair skin, red hair and freckles, rose with a manila folder in his hand and stepped toward her.

“Absolutely not now,” Suleema snapped at him as she forged ahead, her temper frayed by her desperate need to call her daughter, a need she’d put off for over fourteen hours since that abominable creature had cut her with his knife.

Patrick braked to a startled halt. Her two other clerks looked up in amazement as she brushed past them and into her office. She closed the door behind her.

Mistake, mistake, her mind cautioned, in a panic. She ought not do anything to draw suspicion. Certainly she should not begin to show an uncharacteristic ill temper.

Her swivel chair creaked as she threw herself into it. She placed her hand on the phone receiver. She would not use a cell phone, of course. Cell phone talk wasn’t secure. But it was quite natural for her to call Regina. No need to hide the fact of making a call to her daughter.

The answering voice on the other end was Clevon’s. “Hello, hello,” he said, almost shouting. A cold chill ran up Suleema’s spine. Clevon home in the middle of the day?

Suleema had not called the FBI. And no matter what Clevon told her now, no matter what the details were, she knew the man with the knife had not been lying.

“Is Regina there, Clevon?”

“Let me have the phone,” Suleema heard Regina say, her voice shrill. “Mama, I have to tell you something,” Regina said. The terror in Regina’s voice pierced right into Suleema’s heart. “Mama, the people that Alex went with on the trip to South America have all been kidnapped. Alex has been kidnapped, Mama. I’m terrified.”

Remember, act like you know nothing. “How do you know he’s been kidnapped?”

Through sobs Regina said, “The feds came here about half an hour ago. Colette Stone’s husband, Ellis, is dead. They’ve killed him.”

“Who, Regina? Does the FBI know who’s responsible?”

With a clarity that shook her even worse than she’d been shaken last night, Suleema knew that if anything happened to Alex, it would utterly break her spirit. She could not endure the loss of this boy, her legacy. The phone receiver grew slick in her hands.

“It’s Secret Service, Mama, not the FBI. And they don’t know who. They were kidnapped somewhere around Manaus. That’s in Brazil. And the monsters sent Ellis Stone’s hand to Vice President Ransome with a demand for fifty million dollars.” Regina giggled nervously, a grotesque sound. “Ransome being asked for a ransom.”

For a moment Suleema’s mind stuck, baffled by a money demand being sent to “Wild Bill” Ransome when what the man had said last night was that the kidnappers wanted Suleema to vote for the government in the Sharansky versus U.S. government case. It only took a flash, though, and she realized there was no reason for the terrorists not to demand money for all their captives as well.

“Alex will be okay, Regina. You have to believe that. He’s so smart. Even street-smart, for his age.”

“But I don’t know if they let him take his medicine with him. Do they even know or will they care that he’s diabetic?”

“Maybe the Secret Service can find that out from them.” Suleema suddenly remembered that Otis and Nancy Benning were also in the birding party. And likely there might be others whose lives would be valuable. Blackmailing a Supreme Court justice was unusual but not contradictory to a ransom demand. What it implied, however, was that someone in the United States, not some terrorist in Brazil, was the driving force behind the plot. Money they might want—but sewing up her vote, due to be officially announced in seven days, surely topped their agenda.

Big money, military power, and in no stretch of the imagination, ultimately world domination, was at stake in Sharansky. Congress had passed a law authorizing the deployment of lasers on space-based, orbiting platforms. These offensive weapons, touted as being deployed for defensive purposes only, could, of course, also be used to suppress virtually any opposition to American positions in any global conflict over anything, anywhere. The international consternation caused by this U.S. policy was significant, affecting U.S. allies as well as the country’s opponents.

Citizen groups in a number of states were also violently protesting this expansion of human warfare off the planet, and so unless they were stopped by law, men would do what men so love to do—weaponize yet another sphere. They would take their violence right out into space and off to other worlds.

Sharansky, who was the lieutenant governor of New Hampshire, and the lieutenant governors of seven other states had filed suit against the U.S. government on constitutional grounds. Sharansky and the other lieutenant governors argued that the space above the atmosphere over their states was part of the commons and that the federal government could not appropriate the use of space for any purpose, military or otherwise, without the consent of the citizens of those states. Maybe her vote might only slow the process down; Suleema had at least prayed for that. But if she voted against Sharansky, there would be laser weapons in space within her short remaining lifetime, she was sure of it. If the lieutenant governors won their case, numerous powerful interests would be thwarted. Any one of them would want to make sure Judge Suleema Johnson voted their way.

“I’ll come right now, Regina. I’ll be there are soon as I can.”

Suleema hung up. She rubbed her sweating palms against her skirt and then, feeling the urge to throw up, stood and rushed to her small private toilet and knelt over the john. She retched once, but nothing came up. She’d been unable to eat anything for breakfast. Heat flushed over her in waves, and under her arms, perspiration soaked her blouse.

She knelt there for a full minute, then, shaking, she pushed to her feet. She had to make up her mind right now if she was going to call the FBI or the Secret Service or anyone official. “Please, dear God, help me decide.”

Nova sees that there are other people in the small, flying-school plane with her, and every last one is calmly putting on a parachute, getting ready for the drop. But the straps of her harness are crossed, seemingly hopelessly so. And she’s running out of time. Any minute now she’ll have to jump. The jump master keeps demanding that she hurry. She twists the straps one way, then another. Her heart is beating like crazy. Her fingers seem too thick and awkward. She can’t grip the straps correctly, let alone get them untwisted.

But the jump master won’t listen to her protests. The man puts the parachute harness onto Nova and clips it shut. “The straps aren’t done right,” Nova says, her panic now threatening to explode her heart.

He turns around, Nova thinking it’s to help another student, but then a buzzer sounds. The jump door opens, and the other students all rush toward it, shoving Nova along in their hurry, and all of a sudden she’s in the air and falling. Plummeting toward the dark earth she can’t see but knows is below.

She fumbles to find the pull for the ripcord…but…but she doesn’t have one. And if she hits the ground, she will die.

It’s the dream, she says to herself. Wake yourself up! It’s the dream.

She finds the ripcord pull and yanks.

And nothing happens. Her parachute has failed.

It’s the dream! part of her mind protests again.

She’s going to die if she doesn’t wake up.

Breathing hard, her heart racing, Nova pulled herself into consciousness.

She was gripping the armrests of her Varig business class seat so tightly she imagined she might bend them. God.

“Are you all right?” This from the gray-haired woman beside her who had disappeared into a Nora Roberts novel the moment the plane had lifted off from JFK.

“Yes. Fine. I just dozed off.”

This was the single recurring dream of her life, one she’d had so many times when she was in prison that she couldn’t count them. She’d had it less often in her early twenties. In fact, other than once or twice after Ramon Villalobos had loved and left her and right after she’d broken up with Joe, she had been free of the dream.

What had brought it on now? She couldn’t imagine. She didn’t even know why she had had it so often when she was in prison for killing Candido, other than the very obvious fact that in the dream she was in a blind panic. She’d spent many of her days in that monstrous prison cage in a panic.

She had slept very little last night, and the monotonous droning of the Varig’s four big jet engines had caused her to drop off. Whatever the meaning of this terror-inducing, recurring dream, she just wasn’t going to let the damn thing freak her out.

Nova smiled grimly and fetched the BlackBerry from the beautifully designed shoulder bag Marvin had brought this morning. Woven into its dark brown fiber was a pattern of green leaves and vines. The Company knew that she often wore emerald-green, the color of her eyes, and perhaps someone had taken note of that when planning how to design her kit to be tasteful and not stand out.

She’d also purchased two pairs of khaki pants, dark brown sandals, three capped-sleeve tops and a lightweight emerald-green pantsuit should she need something more formal. Woven from fine hemp, the pantsuit would breathe and also wick away the sweat she knew was going to plague her the minute she hit Manaus.

For now, most of the items she’d requested from Smith rested in the bag’s two spacious inner pockets, looking quite innocent. A camera that looked like a pen. A recorder built into her lipstick. The BlackBerry itself. And so on. The brown and dark green camouflage suit and collapsible boots were hidden inside the specially designed lining, along with the broken down Glock, its nonmetallic composition and un-gunlike components assuring that the bag would sail right through any metal or X-ray detectors.

She powered up the BlackBerry and opened up the directory for the files some tech from the Company had downloaded into it. Brazilian terrorists. Brazilian drug runners. Other Brazilian criminal organizations. Kidnap victim profiles.

She had spent most of the night reading about the woman who was supposedly her sister, Linda Stokes, and Linda’s friend, the dance teacher, Annette Coulson. She’d memorized enough details to make her cover story sound convincing to anyone who didn’t know Linda or Annette personally. Now she clicked open the victim folder.

There they all were. The birding guide, Kimball Kiff from the Los Angeles County Museum of Natural History. The world-class birder, Redmond Obst, who Smith had said was a personal friend of Kiff. Next came Obst’s son, Ronnie, and his son’s friend, Alex Hailey Hill. The boys, being the youngest, would probably have the shortest bios. She’d save them for last. Then there were Otis and Nancy Benning. She already knew a lot about both of the Bennings. They could also wait. Last came the bug expert, Dennis Chu.

She decided to start with the primary victim and clicked open the file on the vice president’s niece, Colette Stone, a woman who may well have watched as her husband was killed and then hacked up. Nova went through all the files, noting ages, professions and possible worth in terms of ransom. She also looked at photos, flashing the pictures on and off numerous times. She needed to recognize these people on sight.

For dinner she chose the vegetarian lasagna with braised mixed vegetables. Varig clearly didn’t stint on their business class food: the pasta, with its hint of basil, was perfectly al dente, and the ricotta cheese on the vegetables melted in her mouth.

Her seatmate, Mrs. Remington, was traveling to visit her daughter, who was pregnant with her first child and married to a Brazilian who’d made a fortune selling gems. Their dinner conversation rotated around gems and kids, Nova thinking wistfully of Star’s children, Maggie, Blake and Bryan, as the closest she was ever going to come to having children. After dinner, for the remaining two hours to Rio, she turned her attention to files on the Brazilian terrorists.

Once off the plane and through customs in Rio, a woman waiting in the receiving area just outside Immigration and Customs held a Cosmos Adventure Travel sign that said, Nora Smith, Nova’s cover name for the op. Cosmos ran a lot of legitimate adventure trips in Brazil. It was also her CIA cover operation.

The contact was a forty-plus stunner, a woman who Nova immediately imagined could still flaunt her body on Ipanema Beach in a topless swimsuit and win the admiration of every man or woman she passed. They’d all say “Ahh!”

“Ms. Smith,” the Brazilian beauty said through a radiant, white smile. “I’m Leila Munoz.”

Chapter 11

L eila Munoz matched Nova’s height of five feet, eight inches, but where Nova had well-toned muscles honed for bringing down men fifty pounds heavier with a single aikido move, Leila was all soft curves in the right places. Her honey-colored skin and wavy black hair were typical of the racial mix of black, Hispanic and Indian heritage of Brazil.

Leila took charge of Nova’s rolling suitcase. “I can manage it,” Nova offered.

“No problem. Part of the service. Love your earrings.”

Nova laughed at the unexpected appraisal concerning her jewelry. The earrings were the silver doves with emerald eyes that Joe had given her. Among friends and within the Company, Nova was the Imelda Marcos of earrings; she never felt quite complete without them. Out of fear of embarrassment, she’d never counted how many pairs and half pairs she owned.

“And I love your dress,” she countered. Leila had wrapped her luscious curves in a lemon-yellow dress cut above the knees and decorated with butterflies in all colors of the rainbow. No one would ever suspect her of being CIA, and station head at that. For cover, Leila held a position as a translator at the U.S. Embassy.

Outside the terminal building, a balmy Rio December evening greeted them. A Ford SUV with the Cosmos Adventure Travel logo on its doors idled curbside. Leila tossed Nova’s bag into the SUV’s backseat and said, “Do you want to go to a hotel? I’ve reserved a room for you. Or would you like to stay at my place? Not so cold and impersonal. I have the files you wanted with me, so either place works.”

Leila’s slight accent was quite lyrical. Nova said, “Your place would be much appreciated. I get sick of hotel rooms.”

As they moved toward town, Nova caught a glimpse of the massive, lit statue of Christ on top of Corcovado Hill. Leila obviously intended to put their travel time to good use. “Our one regular agent in Manaus is Oscar Chavez,” she began. “He knows everything that goes on. All the major players. He’ll contact you in the bar of the hotel where I’ve rented you a room. The Gioconda. It’s modest, discreet, clean. Right in the center of Manaus. If you think it would bolster your cover as a rich American, you can show disgust and move in a day or so to something more fancy.”

“What’s his cover?”

“Government surveyor. It allows him to be out and about pretty much wherever he needs to go.”

They were now skimming beside a row of towering hotels that stretched along the beach south of Sugarloaf Mountain. “Copacabana,” Leila said. “You’ll have to come back and visit me sometime.” Leila gave Nova a long appraisal and then a big smile before turning her attention back to the street. “I like your looks, Ms. Smith. And I’m a great judge of character. Maybe you could come in February for Carnival.”

“I’d like that.”

They soon pulled up to a guarded gate leading into the underground garage of a high-rise condo building. Leila pulled a card from her purse and inserted it into the slot of a reader, the gate rolled upward and Leila waved to the guard in his little stand as she drove inside. “Lots and lots of crime in charming Rio,” she said. “You do know, don’t you, that it is quite unsafe to go out at night.”

Another security guard sat beside two elevator doors reading a comic book. He beamed at Leila, who was now lugging a hefty lawyer’s briefcase while Nova toted her overnighter. When he looked at Nova, the guard kissed the back of his hand.

Inside Leila’s condo, the view of Rio from the tenth floor at night, with the chains of lights stretching along the beach and the huge lit-up Christ and the dark patches that Nova knew were the favelas—dangerous slums housing abject poverty—was nothing short of spectacular.

But what took her breath away were all the butterflies. Butterfly lamps, butterfly pictures, butterfly images on rugs, coffee mugs and telephone notepads. “Go ahead,” Leila said, “ask about the butterflies. Everyone does.”

“I do get the feeling the condo might lift off any moment, but you don’t need to explain. I’ve got my own fetish.”

Leila smiled. “Good. I said I was a great judge of character.”

While Leila showed Nova the guest bedroom, she explained that Manaus was now crawling with Brazilian authorities, not only from Manaus but down from La Paz as well. “Ten very high-profile Americans kidnapped on Brazilian soil, one for certain killed. Big scandal. Bad news all around and a political hot potato, as the English slang puts it.”

“I will appear to be working alone, pretending to be the rich sister of one of the victims.”

“You’re alone!” Leila said, her eyebrows lifting elegantly.

“No, no. Of course I have a backup, but he stays deep. Seeming to be alone works well for me. I’ve done most of my ops that way.” The German and Italian missions, when she’d worked as a photographic team with Joe as her assistant had been exceptional…in a lot of ways. Soon she would see him. She licked suddenly dry lips. What if he was still angry? What if he was cold to her?

She pushed her fears away. “The bad guys tend to underestimate me. And because I’m a woman who comes off as rather gentle—”

Leila laughed. “Yeah, I make you for gentle. I was a bit surprised when you said you were Ms. Smith. Not at all what I expected.”

“Well, I can safely say I don’t live up to that image. But it serves me well because people tend to trust me and often divulge secrets they ordinarily wouldn’t.”

Leila chuckled again. “I guess I fit in that category with everyone else. I rarely bring an agent to my digs.” She put her arm around Nova’s shoulder. “Want something to eat or drink?”

“If you have a diet drink or iced tea or just ice water, I’ll be happy. I need to start to work on the Brazilian files in that big black briefcase of yours. See what you guys have on terrorists and gangs that we don’t. Any action in the Amazon, in particular.”

Leila set Nova up at the small dining-room table and then said, “I’m off to bed. It’s after ten and I like my eight hours of sleep. Do you think you’ll be up long?”

“I don’t need much sleep. Three or four hours is my regular dose.”

“Really!”

“Reading these files will also be good for me. I don’t read or speak Portuguese all too well. This will jump-start me into speaking and thinking in the local language.”

“Well then, I’ll see you early tomorrow. We need to get up about six to make it to the airport in time.”

“Obrigada,” Nova said.

“My pleasure,” her hostess replied, strolling down the hall.

Nova’s fully-booked flight to Manaus took off thirty minutes late. For the first ten minutes of waiting, she fantasized about Joe, who, if he had accepted the mission and was on schedule, was already there, waiting for her. Only two, two-and-a-half hours at the most, and she’d see him.

Surely he wouldn’t have agreed to come if he were still angry. She imagined the strong muscles in his arms and shoulders. She knew every part of that body. The first time she’d seen him naked, on Capri, was after their visit to Rome’s central jail. She’d delivered a message to a terrorist from the man’s son. In Amalfi, she’d caught the terrorist behind the unleashing of a killer virus that, ironically in the end, had killed the bastard’s own son.

On Capri she and Joe had made passionate, hot love for virtually all of their two-day rest and recreation, if you counted sweet talk and petting part of making love. Even eating had been a sort of devouring of food while devouring each other with their eyes. They ate every meal in her room, stark naked.

When she got to Manaus she would look first for his dark brown wavy hair and then those big, dark, chocolate-colored eyes. He virtually always had a deep tan.

This bloody longing she had for Joe felt as if something was burning slowly under her skin. The hours between them would not go fast enough.

She questioned again her decision to refuse to marry him. Had that been a truly stupid mistake? When Star had said Nova was crazy to let a great man get away, actually drive him away, Nova had countered with, “I’ve created a life I’m comfortable with, Star. I don’t know who I’d be if I married anyone, not just Joe. I need to be me. Not Mrs. Someone Else. I didn’t want to split up. He just wouldn’t settle for anything less than marriage.”

Star had snipped back with, “You’re just afraid to give up even a teeny bit of control.”

The businessman seated next to her finished skimming the paper he’d brought along. He folded it, stuffed it in the pocket in front of him, stroked his mustache and interrupted her gloomy thoughts, asking in Portuguese, “Have you been to Manaus before?”

“No. And I fear I don’t speak Portuguese very well.”

“Then let us speak English,” he said without missing a beat.

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