Page 43

Protect her.
Love her?
The thought came from nowhere and everywhere, and Indy’s head buzzed so hard that she barely heard Benson confirming that he believed Indy was being set up and the mission had changed.
Or maybe this had always been the mission, came the thought from Indy’s thumping heart as she unsheathed Ice’s knife and sliced away the plastic cuffs from his ankles.
She glanced into Ice’s smiling green eyes as he yanked away the broken plastic ties and flashed her a quick wink. The phone was flat on the bed, the camera covered by the bedspread, and Ice seemed to know it because he leaned in and followed that quick wink with a lingering kiss that confirmed something that couldn’t be spoken out loud—and not just because Benson and Jack were listening.
“Listen up, kids,” came Benson’s voice from the phone. “Kaiser’s given me full authority to get to the bottom of this, but at the same time I’m on a short leash. Can’t give you all the details right now because I’m still figuring things out. It’s not going to be easy to flush this guy into the open.” He paused, took a noisy breath, exhaled hard into the phone. “Even though I already know who it is.”
Ice glanced at Indy, then sprung to his feet and snatched up the phone. “If you know who it is, then why do you need to flush him out? This kind of shit doesn’t go to trial. You don’t need evidence that’ll hold up in a court of law. Hell, I can get on a plane and be back in the States by tomorrow. I’ll finish it quiet and clean, Benson. Plausible deniability, just the way you spooks like it. Mission accomplished. Threat eliminated. Isn’t that what Kaiser wants anyway? Get rid of whoever’s trying to bring him down?”
Benson sighed into the phone. “It’s not that simple, kid. Just like Kaiser wouldn’t green-light a hit on Indy without knowing for sure that she’s dirty, he’s not going to allow me to take out a top CIA guy without real proof. Yeah, we don’t need proof that’ll hold up in court. But the CIA has its own internal standards, its own watchdogs. Kaiser still answers to Congress through the Senate Intelligence Committee. You do recall that Senator Robinson heads that committee, right? This needs to be handled very carefully. If it blows up, we could all get burned. Kaiser and Robinson included. And thatcannotfucking happen.”
Ice rumbled out a breath, his eyes darkening. He glanced at Indy, then nodded towards the phone. “Roger that. I know how important Robinson is right now. I believe in the guy too, Benson. I want to see him in the White House too. But, damn, Benson, I want this guy dead for setting Indy up.”
Indy blinked rapidly as her heart fluttered from Ice’s fiercely protective words. But she focused on what she’d heard about Senator Robinson, her gaze darting from the phone to Ice and then off to the side.
She’d been following the political scene closely, of course. The current president was at the end of his second term. The presidential primaries were coming up in a few months. Senator Robinson was a frontrunner for his party’s nomination, and Indy liked the man, thought he was remarkably forthright, believed that he was about as uncompromised as any major politician she’d seen in at least a decade.
Oh, and he was married to one impressive woman.
Yup, Robinson’s wife pretty much sealed the deal as far as Indy’s support went. She’d been a fan-girl of Princess Delilah for years, ever since the African princess had arrived in DC. The word on the Hill was that she was every bit an equal part of that Washington power couple. There were even opinions that Delilah might have been the one running for office if she’d been born in the United States.
Either way, the thought of Marcus Robinson and Princess Delilah in the White House sent a shiver of excitement down Indy’s spine.
And it sounded like Benson shared that excitement.
Indy burned to know more, but she held her tongue and listened. After all, the spy business was more about listening than talking, wasn’t it?
“Maybe you’ll get your chance, Ice. But not yet. That’s it for now,” came Benson’s crisp voice. “I need to poke around here in Langley, follow up on a couple of hunches before I name names or point fingers.”
Ice stroked his day-old stubble, shot a quick glance at Indy, then back towards the phone. “Are we safe at this hotel?” he asked softly. “Is my alias solid? Or do I need to be ready for another wet-team like at the safe-house? What about Moses? Is he compromised? Is he dirty?”
Benson was silent for a long moment. “Your alias isn’t connected to the CIA, so the name won’t trigger anything. Moses is clean and out of the picture. The only risk is that our guy probably has a hacker in CIA tech working for him, so there’s a chance you get made from the Mumbai airport surveillance footage. Our guy knows Kaiser reached out to me, and unfortunately Darkwater isn’t as dark as I’d like these days. There are people at West Point who’ve guessed that you and Jack joined Darkwater. These days rumors get put into text messages, and both CIA and NSA have artificial intelligence programs scanning texts and emails and phone calls every second of every day. So if our guy’s got someone good in CIA tech working for him, it means we have to assume nothing’s a secret until this guy himself is no longer a secret.” He took another breath, let it out slow. “Truth is, if it is who I think it is, the game just got very fucking dangerous. For all of us. Stay alert. Stay moving. I’ll be in touch. Good luck and God bless.”
10
CIA HEADQUARTERS.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.
“God bless you, Rhett. Coming down with something?”
Rhett Rodgers looked up in feigned surprise, dabbing his nose with a clean tissue from the silver metal box on his custom-built standing desk. He glanced at the tissue to make sure there was no blood on it, then tossed it at the silver metal wastebasket that matched the tissue box.
A quick splash of alcohol-free disinfectant later Rhett strode across the walnut floorboards of his private office and shook hands with the silver-haired, wolf-eyed man who’d just entered.
“John Benson. They still let you walk around unsupervised?” Rhett flashed his best rendition of a genuine grin, making sure to smile with his eyes, just like he’d been taught thirty years ago.
Taught by this very man standing before him, grinning back at Rhett like the coyote he was, had always been, would always fucking be.
“Rhett Rodgers.” Benson’s handshake was firm, his grip lingering long enough to reinforce the message that Rhett had already gotten loud and clear just from Benson’s presence. “Heard you were back in the States. Thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
“Well, hello then,” Rhett said, pulling his hand away from Benson’s death-grip and gesturing towards a lonesome straight-backed chair standing against the far wall. “Grab a seat.”
Benson shook his head, then strolled over to Rhett’s standing-desk and rapped his knuckles on the walnut table-top. “I’ll stand, thanks.” He gazed out the large window overlooking the shady tree-lined campus of CIA Headquarters, then turned back to Rhett. “Won’t be staying long.”