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Benson shrugged noncommittally. “He might not have. Could be a glitch. Hopefully it’ll come back online soon enough.”
Kaiser’s gaze didn’t waver. “You get audio and video feeds from those phones, don’t you?”
Benson shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I had the feeds turned off.”
Kaiser groaned. “To give them privacy? I should have known. The Darkwater dating agency strikes again. How many people die as collateral damage this time, John? You fucking head-in-the-clouds psycho.” He shut his eyes tight, took a slow breath like he was counting up to ten or maybe down to zero. When his eyelids flicked open there was a cold glint in there which Benson knew well. “Get out, John,” Kaiser said quietly for the third time in about ten minutes. “Now, while I still have the self-control to not have you dragged out in handcuffs.”
Benson glanced at his watch, that trusty old Fossil Chrono from his Navy days, back when things were so much simpler, the stakes so much lower, the grand game barely a sparkle in his eyes.
The game which was very close to what felt like the end.
Well, Benson thought as he watched the second-hand tick its way around the battered watch-face, nothing to do but play it out.
“Out.” Kaiser was standing now, his voice sharp. “Now. I have a meeting in an hour, and I’ve got a hundred emails to get through before then.”
Benson sighed, then stepped back away from Kaiser’s desk and sat down in that straight-backed chair again. He crossed one leg over the other knee, carefully plucked a piece of white lint off his charcoal-gray trousers. “Go ahead and do your emails. But your meeting is now, not in an hour.” Benson glanced at his watch again, then looked up and grinned impishly when a knock sounded at the door. “Ah, there she is.”
23
Kaiser frowned, raised an eyebrow. “Therewhois?”
“Paige Anderson.” Benson stood and began to stroll his way to the soundproof door. “She’s the CIA-tech that Rhett suckered into doing his dirty work. Seems like a good kid. Smart as hell, but no match for Rhett’s charm.”
“And now you’re going to useyourcharm to get her to flip on Rhett Rodgers?” Kaiser chuckled dryly. “You already said there’s no electronic evidence linking Rhett to a damn thing. If she’s that smart, then she knows we’ve got nothing concrete on her—or Rhett. And that’s assuming you’re right in the first place and it is indeed Rhett setting O’Donnell up.”
“You’ll see I’m right in a minute.” Benson reached for the door handle, glancing at Kaiser over his shoulder. “Just sit quiet and look stern and severe, like you’re annoyed by the distraction. There, that’s the look. Perfect, Martin. Resting-asshole-face is what we’re going for, and you’ve got it nailed.”
Benson pulled open the door before Kaiser could protest. Paige Anderson stood outside, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight it made Benson’s scalp burn in sympathy. She wore a black pant-suit over a high-necked white blouse. Her sharp blue eyes were bloodshot with anxiety—which was exactly what Benson wanted to see.
“Sit over there,” Benson said without greeting her, without introducing himself, without allowing even a hint of warmth or empathy into his tone. Paige would already be shaking in her booties from being called to the Director’s office, and this would rattle her even more. “No, not that chair. That one’s mine. Yours is over there by the wall.”
Benson closed the door, making sure to slide the deadbolt across it loud enough to send an ominous click through the cavernous office which felt like a cave because Kaiser kept the thick Kevlar-lined curtains drawn closed at all times like maybe he’d been a vampire in a past life, perhaps still had a hankering for fresh human blood now and then.
Kaiser had sat back down behind his desk. He’d put his reading glasses on and was squinting at his unmarked black laptop which looked heavy enough to sink a battleship.
“Don’t mind him,” Kaiser said without looking up from the screen. “He doesn’t work for the Agency.”
Alarm flashed across Paige’s heavily made-up face. At first Benson figured the makeup was to cover the acne scars he’d seen in her file photograph. But the scars probably dated back to her teenage years, and if she’d been using heavy makeup all this time, then surely she’d be better at applying it after ten years of practice.
No, this was Rhett Rodgers at work. The bastard was using the old trick of finding a woman’s insecurities and using them to break down her confidence, make her believe Rhett was doing her a favor by deigning to be with someone so unattractive and flawed. Add to that the age gap, the power differential, Rhett’s old-world Southern charm, and the alluring air of mystery he must have picked up from years practicing his dark arts in Eastern Europe and North Africa, and Paige Anderson didn’t stand a chance.
But she did have potential, Benson thought now as he studied her composure, saw that she was petrified but still holding it together admirably, showing a strength of will that could certainly be developed by the right circumstances, the right guidance. The intelligence behind those anxiety-ridden eyes was also undeniable. And, of course, her tech skills were indisputable—Benson’s own tech-guy had acknowledged that if Paige had really been hacking into the CIA systems, she was so good that even he couldn’t find a trace. She was quite literally the ghost in the machine.
Darkwater could use a hacker like Paige Anderson.
If there even was a Darkwater after this mission.
But first things first, Benson reminded himself as he slipped out his phone and tapped his way back to the video that had put Kaiser in that state of stunned disbelief earlier.
Kaiser glanced up from his laptop, peering at Benson over his reading glasses, then shooting an ambiguously loaded look in Paige’s direction before going back to his emails. Benson and Kaiser had played this game a hundred times over the years. It wasn’t exactly good-cop-bad-cop. Something far more unnerving, because their targets knew that CIA didn’t bother with pesky things like the Bill of Rights and Reasonable Doubt.
Not when there was Plausible Deniability.
“Now it’s entirely plausible that you did what you did without understanding what you were doing, why you were doing it, and, most importantly, forwhomyou were doing it.” Benson showed an emotionless smile as he strolled towards where Paige sat on that straight-backed wooden chair up against the side wall, her legs tight together, palms on her knees, fingertips digging into her pant-suit, crinkling the fabric as she clawed at herself.
Her face flushed redder than the rouge. She said nothing, which was probably Rhett’s coaching. Still, Benson saw the hint of a puzzled frown flash across her face.
“I know what you’re thinking, Paige,” Benson said softly, skipping the formality of calling her Ms. Anderson, allowing some warmth into his voice—which was easy, because he liked the kid, could see her potential, hoped to hell she was self-aware enough to accept that she’d been played, self-assured enough to forgive herself for it, motivated enough to learn from it, courageous enough to use it to become the woman she was destined to be.