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CHAPTER SIX

C allan was almost positive nobody had followed him.

Almost wasn’t good enough, though.

After he’d arrived at his Charlestown apartment, he’d taken his time packing a bag. He’d meandered to the bus stop and waited for ten minutes before the bus finally arrived. After a short ride to North Station, he’d hopped on the Green Line T into Boston.

All that time, he picked up no tail.

He exited at Park Street, aimed for the exit, then shifted to the underground corridor that led to Downtown Crossing.

It was late on a Wednesday night, and nobody else traversed the tunnel.

If there had been somebody watching, surely he’d have seen them behind him. Unless they monitored every T-stop in the city.

His own people could do that, if they had enough advance notice, but he was fairly certain Ghazi couldn’t.

He caught what was probably the last train headed north on the Red Line. He didn’t take it all the way to the Harvard stop, though, which was the nearest T-station to the hotel. Instead, he hopped off just north of the Charles River at MIT and met an Uber he’d ordered on the way.

If people had followed him on the subway—and he didn’t think anybody had—the car certainly would have thrown them off.

Altogether, it’d taken him an hour and a half to return to the fancy-shmancy hotel from his apartment, which was, as the crow flies, about two miles away.

But he’d gotten the things he’d need for a few days and confirmed that nobody was watching his apartment.

The door to the Rooming House opened as he approached.

“Good evening, Mr. Crenshaw,” the bellhop said.

“Good evening, Jeeves.”

The man’s lip quirked at the corner. “It’s William, sir.” He lowered his voice. “But you can call me Jeeves if you want.”

Callan stepped inside, giving the man a quick smile. “I was afraid you’d gone to bed, William.”

“There’ll always be someone here to let you in.” He flicked his gaze to Callan’s suitcase. “And collect anything you might need.”

“I appreciate that. Good night.” Callan headed for the elevator.

It only took him six minutes and two wrong turns to find his way back to the room.

Inside, everything was as he’d left it. No light shone beneath Alyssa’s door, so she’d finally gone to sleep.

Though her light had remained on for hours after she’d fled into the bedroom, and it'd still been on when he'd left to go to his apartment. She was probably still not convinced he wasn’t lying to her about everything.

Exasperating woman.

Callan closed his bedroom door and left a voicemail for his boss, giving him a quick rundown on what was going on. He didn’t know Malcolm Springer well enough to predict how he’d take the news.

He might be furious.

He might be impressed.

Callan had left the field a few months earlier and started working support from the Boston office. He didn’t hate using his field skills again. He missed it.

Which was probably why he’d followed a tip from a disembodied, garbled voice on the phone. Was he so desperate for action that he’d walk heedlessly into danger?

No, it wasn’t that.

It was just that he knew what he was doing when he was running an op. He knew what he was doing at the office, of course, but it was dull, definitely not what he’d signed up for when he’d applied for the CIA.

With Peri, he was in way over his head.

For the first time since he’d discovered his daughter’s existence, he’d gone hours without thinking about her.

Guilt squeezed his midsection. What kind of a father was he, anyway?

It wasn’t as if she could escape what had happened. It wasn’t as if any of it was Peri’s fault.

And now he had a new female to worry about, and just like Peri, no matter how hard he tried, Alyssa wanted nothing to do with him.

So.

This would be fun.

Some reprieve he’d signed up for.

Unlike his fake fiancée, Callan didn’t unpack all his things and fold them neatly in the drawers. Instead, he opened his suitcase on one of the queen-sized beds, grabbed a pair of pajama pants—because he couldn’t exactly sleep in his boxers with a woman in the suite—and tapped the thermostat to reduce the temperature.

The AC kicked on immediately.

He felt like someone had dumped two hundred puzzle pieces in front of him—from a thousand-piece puzzle—and demanded he solve it. Without giving him a clue what the final picture was going to look like.

The more he tried to manipulate the pieces, the messier the image got.

Maybe morning would bring clarity.

Maybe God would bring clarity.

If he’d learned nothing else in the months since Peri had come into his life, he’d learned he needed to rely on God.

Heaven knew, Callan didn’t have a clue.

He paraphrased his new favorite Psalm. Lord, give me counsel, and instruct me as I sleep.

Because he needed sleep. And he needed to wake up with a hint as to how all these pieces fit together.

He took a warm shower to wash off the day and all the questions assaulting him, then brushed his teeth and climbed onto a mattress about ten times as comfortable as his own.

And trusted he’d wake up with a plan.

* * *

Callan’s phone was ringing.

He grabbed it off the nightstand and checked the caller ID, fearing bad news.

But it wasn’t his parents. It wasn’t about Peri. It was his boss, calling from his cell phone. Probably not a good sign, considering it was just past six o’clock.

Callan let the call go to voicemail. He needed coffee before he dealt with Malcolm.

He headed through the living room, flicking lights on along the way, into the kitchen. A pot of coffee had already been brewed.

Alyssa must be awake.

He poured himself a cup, added half-and-half from the mini-fridge—not the cheap little peel-off-the-top deals, either, but a pint-sized container. From a basket of different types of sweetener on the counter, he grabbed two sugars, dumped them into the hot liquid, and stirred.

These were definitely nicer accommodations than a campsite.

He stepped out of the kitchenette just as Alyssa’s bedroom door opened.

“Oh, hey.” She froze on the threshold. “I didn’t realize you were up.” Pink crept into her cheeks.

He probably should’ve put on a T-shirt.

Where he was barefoot and wearing nothing but pajama pants, Alyssa wore jeans and a pink T-shirt. Her hair was wet, a little wavy, hanging below her shoulders.

She was far more attractive than anyone had a right to be so early in the morning.

“Thanks for this.” He lifted his mug. “Exactly what I needed.”

“I’m glad you made it back.”

Was that relief in her voice? “Nobody followed me. As far as I could tell, nobody was watching my apartment.”

“I found the name of the Russian.”

“Already? Is that why your light was on so late last night?”

“I thought it would take longer, to tell you the truth.”

Was it Callan’s sleep-addled mind, or did Alyssa seem nervous?

Interesting.

He sipped his coffee, enjoying the sweet warmth. And the fact that his confident rival seemed anything but at the moment.

“I thought I’d send him the name,” she continued, “and tell him I’m taking a break for a while.”

“You can’t send him the name.”

She leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms, the frustration she’d worn the night before flashing in her eyes. “Look, Michael called me an hour ago. He confirmed that Dariush Ghazi is in Boston. He seemed furious that the guy hasn’t been picked up and incarcerated. He said if you thought Charles Sanders is Ghazi, then you’re probably right. Michael thinks I should get out of the city. Not just out but…he wants me to go into hiding.”

“Huh.” Callan set the coffee mug on the table and slid into a chair, nodding to one on the other side, an invitation for her to join him. “That’s not a bad idea. Did he say where?”

Alyssa didn’t move. “Dad’s got a few places that are off the radar. A cabin in West Virginia. A chalet in the Alps. A house on Kauai. I don’t want to go that far away, but I guess Uncle Roger’s vacation house off the coast of Maine is a bad idea. That’s where all the craziness went down last winter, and Michael says Ghazi was there.”

“Is that all the choices you have? No yacht with a crew on standby? No…” He struggled to think of another option. “Paris penthouse?”

“That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t hate hiding out at the apartment…” Her eyes narrowed. “You were kidding.”

“I thought I was.”

“Doesn’t matter. Mom is having it renovated.”

“I guess you could just stay here in this dump.”

She scowled. “They’re not my properties.”

“Whatever you say, Paris.”

Her scowl turned to a glare. “And I don’t want to run away. I can’t. I’ve got a business to run. I promised I’d talk to you before I reached out to Char... Ghazi, so that’s what I’m doing. Unless you have an objection, I’m going to send him the name this morning.”

“Who is it?”

She disappeared into her bedroom and returned with her laptop, which she set on the table in front of Callan.

On her screen was a photo of a man called Yefim Lavrentiy.

“Guy’s name really rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t smile.

“I’ve never heard of him.” Callan peered at the image. “He doesn’t look familiar.”

“Michael doesn’t know him either. He’s going to have his team look into him.”

“What does he think about your plan?”

Alyssa’s lips pressed together. She shrugged.

“He doesn’t think it’ll work, either, does he?”

“You could both be wrong.”

“Possible.” Unlikely, but it seemed rude to say so. “I’m going to jump in the shower and then make a call. Hold off until I get out before you call him, okay?”

“All right, but I want to do it soon.” She closed her laptop.

“While you wait, could you order us some breakfast?”

Irritation crossed her features, and he braced himself for accusations of misogyny or chauvinism. But she forced her mouth into a smile he didn’t believe for a second. “What do you want?”

“Whatever, Paris. You choose.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He grinned, enjoying her ire. “Why not? It fits.”

“It absolutely does not?—”

“Breakfast, Alyssa. Please.”

At her curt nod, he returned to his bedroom. It was too early in the morning to navigate the minefield that was conversation with Alyssa Wright.

His phone rang before he made it to the bathroom.

He snatched it up and saw his boss’s number again.

Might as well get another unpleasant conversation under his belt. Or…elastic waistband, as it were. He swiped to answer. “Callan Templeton.”

“What the blazes are you doing?”

“Good morning, Malcolm.”

“Who is Alyssa Wright to you?”

Why did Malcolm’s question sound like an accusation?

Callan flicked on the light and pulled back a corner of the curtain. The sun was working its way up, the black-and-gray world starting to tinge with color.

“She’s an old friend,” Callan said.

“That’s all? Just a friend?”

Callan chose not to respond to the implication.

“How do you know her?”

“We went to college together.” Callan had left in his message that he’d seen Alyssa dining with Dariush Ghazi—though he hadn’t used the man’s real name—and stepped in. He’d assumed this conversation would be about the terrorist, not the attractive cyber-investigator. “Alyssa was at the restaurant with?—”

“I listened to your message. What were you doing there? How did you know she was going to be there?”

“I got a tip Ghazi would be there and somebody would be?—”

“In danger. You told me that too.”

Callan clamped his lips shut. Malcolm was angry, and until Callan understood why, he figured the more he talked, the less good he could do himself.

“Why did you follow the tip?” Malcolm asked.

“Curiosity.”

“That’s a stupid reason to insert yourself into someone else’s op.”

Since it wasn’t a question, Callan didn’t say anything.

“Spill it, Templeton. What’s the real reason you were there?”

Malcolm thought he was lying, but why? “I got a tip. I had nothing else to do.”

“We both know that’s not true. You have a kid. You had other places to be. Better places to be, or at least most people would think so.”

The words were aimed with precision, and Callan felt them like a knife to the gut.

On this point, Malcolm wasn’t wrong. The problem was that Callan felt competent walking into an unknown situation to observe, or even to insert himself into danger.

But where his eight-year-old daughter was concerned, he felt utterly incompetent.

He’d been a successful agent. As a father, he was a complete failure.

“You’re not in the field anymore,” Malcolm added, “and for good reason.”

Still not a question, so Callan remained silent.

“You should have told me immediately.”

“I’m not in the habit of running my dinner plans by you. Sir.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm.”

“I’d like to know what I’m being accused of. I got a tip. I followed it. I didn’t plan to insert myself into anything, certainly not an op I knew nothing about. I went to observe, nothing else.”

“You should’ve stuck to that plan.”

Maybe. But it was Alyssa. Callan hadn’t thought twice about interrupting her conversation with a murderer.

“She had no idea who her client was,” Callan said. “He hired her to find a name. Which she did, last night.”

“Which is?”

“Yefim Lavrentiy.”

“Without our say-so, she’s just going to give the guy what he wants?”

“Of course not. She’ll do what we ask. She gave the information to a CIA agent assigned to the White House. That team is looking into it. I’ll forward everything I learn. If you don’t want her to give Ghazi the name, then?—”

“Whether she does or doesn’t, she’s involved with this guy. You really think she can just walk away?” Scorn filled the man’s voice.

What was happening? Callan had had a cordial relationship with Malcolm prior to this conversation. The man had respected him, or so he’d thought.

Now, Callan was being treated like an enemy—or a fool, at the very least. But why?

“I do not think it’ll work. I was just informing you of her plan. Alyssa hasn’t told me everything she’s done for Ghazi prior to this job, but?—”

“There’s a shock.”

“—I’m sure she will, now that she’s confirmed her client’s identity. I assume Ghazi has a bigger plan at work here, and Alyssa is part of that plan. He’s not about to let her go. What he’ll use to manipulate her, I don’t know—threats of some kind, I’m sure. The point is, after she realizes one doesn’t walk away from men like Ghazi, I’m going to get her out of the city until this is all over.”

“That’s not how this is going down,” Malcolm said. “Now that she understands she’s under surveillance, she’s going to gather intel for us. She’ll continue to work for Ghazi and pass along?—”

“No.” Callan’s hands curled into fists.

“I hate to break this to you, Templeton, but you’re not the boss.”

“You might be my boss, but you’re not hers . You have no right to expect an innocent civilian to put herself in danger. It’s not safe.”

“ Innocent? Is that how you see a woman who works with a terrorist?”

“She didn’t know who he was.” He hadn’t meant to shout and worked for a calmer tone. “She’s not an operative. She’s not…” He paused to think, then tried a different tack. “Do you know who she is? Do you know who her father is?”

“Do you?” The words were a challenge.

Uh-oh. What was he missing? “Gavin Wright was next in line to run our agency.”

“Yeah. And then he retired.”

“There’s no law against that.” What did Alyssa’s father have to do with anything?

“I guess that depends on where you think his money came from. Do you really think he got as rich as he did by building a legitimate business?”

Seemed reasonable to Callan. Except…

A West Virginia cabin. A Swiss chalet. A Hawaiian house. A Paris apartment.

A standing account at this high-priced boutique hotel, a hotel known for discretion?

“Do you know how much Gavin Wright is worth?” Malcolm asked.

“Not off the top of my head.” He deadpanned the words as if he didn’t care. As if it didn’t matter.

“Estimates say somewhere between fifty and seventy-five million dollars. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more stowed in off-shore bank accounts, hidden all over the world. A guy like Wright, with contacts on every continent, would know how to make—and hide—large sums of money.”

Callan turned to face the closed door between himself and Alyssa.

Was her father into something illegal?

Was she involved?

No. Of course not.

“What does Alyssa have to do with any of that?”

“His daughter just happens to have contracts with terrorists. You really think that’s an accident?”

“More likely, Ghazi targeted her because of her father. Or her cousin, Michael. He's had run-ins with Ghazi. That doesn’t make Alyssa guilty.”

“Doesn’t make her innocent, either. And whatever her status, she’s in it now. If she refuses to help… Well, we’ll know where her loyalties lie.”

Callan already knew where her loyalties lay. Didn’t he?

He replayed all the conversations he’d had with her in the last twelve hours. There was nothing in her words or her tone that led him to believe she’d known who Ghazi was.

No, whatever her father was into, assuming he was involved at all, Alyssa was innocent.

And Malcolm wanted to turn her into a pawn.

“And we’ll know where your loyalties lie too.” Malcolm’s voice was smug as he added the threat.

“I have nothing to do with anything.”

“You impeded a federal investigation.”

“I understand Ghazi’s being surveilled, but I wasn’t impeding anything. I joined an old friend at dinner because I was concerned for her safety.”

“Maybe. But if you want to keep your job—and your freedom to take care of your daughter—you’d better get Alyssa to work with us. Your future is at stake here.”

Malcolm ended the call, leaving Callan to stare at the blank screen.

What in the world was going on?

More importantly…what was he supposed to do now?