Page 22 of Code Name: Reaper (K19 Allied Intelligence Team Two #5)

REAPER

I hated to let go of Amaryllis, but when our phones vibrated for the second time, I knew I had to check mine. I shifted, reached into my pocket, and pulled it out.

Briggs meeting confirmed by Pentagon source. Fifteen hundred. Following were location coordinates.

From where we were in downtown Newport News, it would take three hours to get to Old Alexandria, which was where we were scheduled to meet. And that meant we needed to leave now.

“What is it?” Amaryllis asked.

“Briggs meeting confirmed.”

She shifted, sat up, and wiped away her tears. “Sorry, I don’t usually fall apart so dramatically.”

When she half smiled, I did too. “I’d call it spectacularly.”

“Ha, ha. So, when and where?”

I held out my phone so she could see the address.

She rested against the sofa, shut her eyes, and groaned. I’d offer to handle it alone, only to save her from making the trek, but one, she needed to be there. And two, I doubted it would come across in the way I intended it to.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

“Yes, you do.”

She opened one eye. “I thought we agreed to give up.”

I chuckled. “As if you really could.”

“I’m pathetic.”

“You’re tenacious.” I stroked her cheek with my index finger. “And beautiful.”

“Don’t patronize me. I got no sleep last night—your fault, by the way—and I’ve just had an ugly-cry fest.”

“Still beautiful.”

She looked me up and down. “Whose clothes are those?”

“My dad’s. My mother wasn’t shy about letting me know I needed to shower and change.”

She sat up straight. “I should do the same, then we need to leave.” Amaryllis looked me up and down a second time. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

I laughed out loud. “No. Definitely not. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. They make you look older than Briggs.”

Perhaps a tad harsh, but that was okay. If Amaryllis was giving me shit, I took it as a good sign.

We hit traffic on the way, which wasn’t unexpected, but still arrived in Old Town Alexandria with a few minutes to spare. The building was located on the waterfront and had an intercom for access. I was about to press the call button when Jason Briggs met us at the front door.

He looked every inch the three-star general he’d once been.

Silver hair, ramrod posture, and a handshake that could crush bones.

He led us up a staircase to an office that took up most of the second floor.

As was typical with retired military, particularly at his rank, the space served as a monument to his career, with photos and commendations covering the walls and credenzas.

“Please, have a seat.” He gestured to chairs facing his massive oak desk. “I understand you’re both with the UN anti-trafficking coalition.” He began.

I let Amaryllis take the lead, focusing on his facial expressions and body language.

“We got your name from two colleagues who thought you might be willing to consult on our current investigation. They both spoke highly of your expertise.”

“Oh?” Briggs leaned against his chair. “Who might that be?”

“Eleanor Aldrich and Suzanne Henning.”

For a fraction of a second—maybe half a heartbeat—his facade cracked and recognition flashed across his features. He recovered, and his expression became unreadable again.

“I don’t recall either name. But I’m sure you understand; I’ve worked with countless operatives through the years. It’s hard to remember them all.” He paused. “You mentioned they were colleagues. Within the coalition?”

“No,” I replied. “Aldrich and Henning—code names Prism and Mercury—are the cofounders of an elite international intelligence organization called Minerva Protocol. I’m sure you’re aware of it.”

His face tightened, but otherwise, he had no discernible reaction.

“The coalition is currently working with them on an investigation of SMO Romanov,” I added.

“Romanov, you say?” He shook his head. “I have to question your intelligence, if you’ll forgive the expression.

I’m a preeminent expert on Russian affairs.

If such an enterprise existed, I would certainly know about it.

” The arrogance in his tone was unmistakable, but so was the tremor in his hand when he reached for a glass of water.

“Our sources report Nikolai Vasiliev leads it.”

“I’m not sure I can help. I operate at a higher level, not with bad actors attempting to turn themselves into oligarchs. However, I have some free time presently and would be willing to look into this group if you forward me the details along with your proposal.”

“Of course,” said Amaryllis. “When should we expect to hear from you?”

“I’ll need a minimum of forty-eight hours. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have another meeting.”

We thanked him and walked out of his office. Rather than go down the stairs, we took an elevator to the street level. From there, we walked in silence until we were several feet from Briggs’ building.

“He’s definitely our guy,” I said quietly.

“Agreed. Let’s see if he makes a move,” Amaryllis suggested.

Instead of returning to our parked car, we positioned ourselves at a coffee shop across the street, with a clear view of Briggs’ building entrance.

“There he is,” she whispered.

I watched as Briggs came out the same door we had. Gone was the relaxed confidence he’d displayed earlier. His posture was tense and his pace hurried. “He’s walking in the opposite direction.”

We followed from enough of a distance to avoid detection. Briggs walked three blocks then entered a small café overlooking the Potomac River. We took position in another across the way.

Amaryllis nudged me. “He’s meeting someone.”

I was able to get clear images on my phone of both Briggs and his companion. The second man was in his fifties, well-dressed, and had the kind of bearing that screamed Russian intelligence.

“I’ll run facial recognition.”

I loaded the images, and within seconds, we had a match.

“Denis Bogdanov. He’s connected to the SVR—Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service,” I reported.

“Any link to Vasiliev?”

“Negative.”

We watched as Briggs slid a manila envelope across the table. The Russian operative opened it briefly, glanced at the contents, then tucked it inside his jacket. Their conversation lasted maybe ten minutes—long enough for us to capture dozens of photos.

The two men stood to leave. “I’ll take Bogdanov, and you stay on Briggs.”

“Roger that,” Amaryllis responded, already on the move.

I tailed Bogdanov for six blocks, where he entered a parking garage, then emerged a couple of minutes later in a black sedan with diplomatic plates. I snapped as many images as I could. Once we returned to the SUV, I’d see if my contacts at the NRO could track him.

When I arrived, Amaryllis was there, waiting.

“What happened with Briggs?” I asked.

“He returned to his multi-million-dollar waterfront mansion,” she muttered without looking away from her phone.

“Ready to return to the town house, or is there a reason you think we should stick around?”

“None I can think of. On the way, I’ll pull everything I can on Bogdanov. Oh, and Vera requested a meeting.”

“NSA headquarters are in the opposite direction.”

She glanced over at me with a look of exasperation I’d seen so many times I lost count. “Thank you for the reminder of the location of the office where I spent the majority of my career.”

I grinned inwardly as I pulled the SUV out of the parking place. “You’re welcome. Now, should I go the other way?”

“She’s coming down. Or rather is already in Norfolk. I told her I’d let her know when I arrived.”

When she arrived? Not both of us? “Is the meeting related to the investigation?”

“She didn’t say one way or another.”

I glanced over at her several times and saw that rather than searching anything on her phone or tablet, she appeared lost in thought.

“It’s Wren,” she said when her phone vibrated and she raised it to her ear.

“Hey,” I heard her answer since I was sitting so close. “How’d it go with Briggs?”

“Reaper and I are returning to Newport News now. Okay if I put the call on speaker?” While I could hear her regardless, it was better to confirm whether I should be privy to whatever she had to say. More so now that Vera had requested a meeting alone with Amaryllis.

“Of course. Delfino found something. It appears Jekyll was investigating Operation Avalon after he joined Minerva.”

“Interesting but not surprising,” Amaryllis replied. “As for Briggs, shortly after our meeting ended, he left his office and met with Denis Bogdanov. I was getting ready to prepare the brief.”

“Bogdanov. Not familiar with the name.” We could hear Wren’s fingers on her keyboard in the background. “I’ve got a hit, but if it’s the same guy you saw with Briggs, he’s not Russian.”

“What is he?”

“US-based, meaning a natural-born citizen.”

I raised a brow. “But connected to SVR?”

“According to what I’ve found, yes. However, in the report Nemesis was able to get regarding Operation Avalon, the bulk of their alleged criminal activities were domestic.” She paused again. “I’ll keep working on this. Send the photos as soon as you can.”

“Roger that.” Amaryllis ended the call.

Seconds later, another came in.

“Unknown caller,” she reported, then swiped the screen. “Yes, this is Charity Beaudoin.” Unlike with Wren’s call, I couldn’t hear what the person on the other end was saying, but Amaryllis checked her watch. “Right, okay. We’ll get there as soon as we can, and thanks.”

Amaryllis set the phone on the console. “That was Edmonds’ daughter. Her father is awake and asked for me.”

“Which hospital?”

“University of Virginia’s medical center in Charlottesville.” As she spoke, she programmed the address into the SUV’s navigation system and I saw we were still two hours out.

“If he wants to talk to you in person, it must mean he’s got something important to tell you.”

“I hope so.”

Like earlier, Amaryllis seemed distracted.

“What else is on your mind?”

“Mainly my grandparents’ house.”

“Yeah?”

“I still own it.”

“Is it a rental?”