Strangers When We Meet Page 11

  She got through to Zacharov’s office a few minutes later. He wasn’t there, forcing Lara to relay her urgent request to his aide. He promised to contact his superior immediately.

  “Call me,” she begged. “Please. As soon as you speak to the colonel.”

  When he agreed, she dropped the phone onto its cradle. Her hands shook as she smoothed the crumpled fax and stared down at it with burning eyes.

  Who had slipped it into her pocket? When?

  She tried to think back, tried to remember the times the green Gortex jacket had been out of her immediate possession. Last week, when she left it in Dodge’s rented SUV after the accident. Last night, when she’d spent those stolen hours with Dodge.

  And today, she remembered in a blinding flash. At the restaurant. When she draped the garment over the back of her chair and joined the long line at the grill. Anyone could have brushed past her chair, slipped something into her pocket.

  Or collided with her in the narrow hallway outside the restrooms.

  Her stomach lurched. Had he been waiting for her, the stranger in the red ball cap? Had he anticipated her emergence from the bathroom? Put himself directly in her path?

  Desperately, Lara tried to remember his face, his features. All she could recall was his intent look and the way he’d dipped the brim of his hat in acknowledgment of her muttered apologies.

  Had he remained silent so she would not recognize his voice? The possibility hit with the force of a blow. In her heart she knew—she knew—that he was either Henry Barlow or one of his hirelings. Perhaps the same hireling had driven the black SUV that had forced Dodge’s Jeep off the road.

  Her first instinct was to run across the parking lot and hammer on Dodge’s door. Her second, to obey the ominous instructions.

  Say nothing to anyone or your daughter dies.

  A wave of hate swept through her, so raw and hot it thawed the ice around her heart. Someone would most certainly die, she vowed with all the ferocity of her Cossack ancestors. Someone would die before the next sun rose.

  Striding into the kitchen, she yanked open the drawer containing the cooking utensils. Her jaw clamped tight, she pulled out a small cutting knife and tested its blade against her thumb. A thin red ribbon welled up where the serrated blade sliced into her skin.

  Welcoming the pain and the warm trickle of blood, Lara sat down and waited for the clock to tick away the minutes until midnight.

  Chapter 10

  Blade had a grainy black-and-white surveillance video up on the screen of the console when Mackenzie Blair Jensen sailed into the control center. Although it was close to 4:00 a.m., the mother of lively twin boys looked as fresh and bright-eyed as she had when she’d assembled her team almost twenty-four hours ago.

  The woman who entered with her looked even better. Her combination of honey-blond hair, mile-long legs and black leather could jump-start a dead man’s pulse.

  His visceral reaction to Victoria Talbot had Blade delivering a swift mental kick in the butt. Rebel had let him know in no uncertain terms that it was—and would remain—strictly business between them.

  “We got him,” Mac announced gleefully.

  “Barlow?”

  “Right.” Grinning, she hooked a strand of mink-brown hair behind her ear. “The coating on the fiber in the bug threw me for a while. I’ve never seen that mix of polymers used on a communications device before.”

  “Because it’s never been used in a communications device before?” Blade guessed.

  “Right again.” Her brown eyes gleamed with the thrill of a successful hunt. “We spent hours researching patents and Federal Communications Commission new-product applications. Rebel was the one who suggested we tap into NASA’s database. And there it was, buried in a bid to upgrade the space shuttle’s cockpit voice-retrieval system.”

  Rebel shrugged as if to downplay her role in the discovery, but the excitement was there. Blade felt the vibes as Mac continued.

  “The bid described a new composite that can supposedly withstand everything from the intense cold of deep space to the heat of reentry. So new that it’s still in final research and development at E-Systems.”

  “Bingo,” Blade said softly.

  “It’s a link,” Rebel concurred. “But a loose one. There could be upward of a hundred people at E-Systems working R&D of new products.”

  Blade’s glance cut to the computer screen on the command console. “But only one who was tagged in a CIA surveillance video leaving a Moscow nightclub with Elena Dimitri less than an hour before her death.”

  Neither Mac nor Rebel questioned how OMEGA’s Moscow contact had gained access to a CIA surveillance tape. But they hovered at Blade’s shoulder to watch it.

  He ran it once, then again. The video was only about forty seconds long but it established the fact that Hank Barlow was one of the last people to see Elena Dimitri alive.

  “I’d better pass this info to Dodge and Lightning,” Blade said when the tape flickered out.

  “You contact Dodge and I’ll call my husband,” Mac said. “I need to let him know I’m on my way home to relieve him of daddy duty.”

  “In the meantime,” Rebel added, nudging Blade aside to get at the console. “I’ll verify Barlow boy’s whereabouts. I have a feeling Dodge is gonna want to get up close and personal with him. If not tonight, then first thing in the morning.”

  Blade stifled a surge of annoyance. Damned if the woman hadn’t butted in on his op again. He’d have to break her of that habit, and soon. Reaching around her, he keyed in a number.

  Dodge had just drifted into sleep when his phone buzzed. He came awake instantly, checked the code on the digital display and had the phone to his ear by the second buzz.

  “What’ve you got for me?”

  He knew it had to be good. Blade wouldn’t call this late without reason.

  It was better than good. His gut tightened when Blade relayed that E-Systems was the only known manufacturer of what was still considered an experimental hyperconductive polymer. The CIA surveillance video tightened it another notch.

  “Time for me to head down to Denver,” he told Blade grimly.

  “That’s what we figured you would say. Rebel’s on the other line now, verifying Barlow’s whereabouts.”

  A moment later she made it a three-way conversation.

  “Surveillance shows he departed his residence at nineteen-ten this evening with an as-yet unidentified male. They took the other guy’s vehicle.”

  Hell! So much for tagging Barlow’s personal and company cars with GPS.

  “Did they go out to E-Systems?”

  “Negative.”

  The reply set off every one of Dodge’s internal alarms. “Hang loose! I want to check on Lara.”

  He dialed the number for her VOQ room. His chest squeezed harder with each unanswered ring. Swearing, he switched back to Blade and Rebel.

  “She doesn’t answer. I’m going over there.”

  The flight suit he’d tossed over the back of a chair was the closest item at hand. It took Dodge two minutes flat to zip himself into it and stomp his feet into his boots. Shoving his phone into a pocket, he snatched up the Beretta.

  He crossed the parking lot at a dead run that brought the security guards out of the shadows, assault rifles at the ready. One of them made a visual ID. The other responded to Dodge’s sharp query.

  “Anyone who doesn’t have access to this building try to get in?”

  “Not on our watch, sir.” He eyed Dodge closely in the dim light. “Is there a problem?”

  “Major Petrovna’s not answering her phone.”

  “That’s because she’s not here. She departed the VOQ about a half hour ago in a commercial taxi.”

  “A taxi?”

  “Yes, sir. Cheyenne Cab Company.”

  Thrown for a loop, Dodge tried to make sense of that. “Was she alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Under duress?”

  “Not that I cou
ld see.”

  “Did you ask where she was going?”

  “No, sir.”

  Dodge didn’t like this. Where would Lara go by herself at this time of night? His gaze swept the building, noting the light that spilled from two sets of windows. One set belonged to Lara. The other he was certain belonged to Bugarin.

  The FSB officer wasn’t in his room, either. Dodge spotted him inserting a key into Lara’s door. In the glow of the wall-mounted lights, his complexion showed pasty white.

  “You make a habit of letting yourself into other people’s rooms?” Dodge bit out.

  “I have the key. I am authorized.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “I have received a communiqué,” the FSB officer blustered. “I must speak with Major Petrovna. She does not answer my knock, so I use my key.”

  “She’s not there.”

  The FSB officer gaped, his black eyes almost popping from their nest of puffy flesh. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know? You are her escort!”

  He didn’t bother responding to that and focused instead on Bugarin’s revelation. “You indicated you received a communiqué. What did it say?”

  The Russian hesitated, caught between Lara’s unexplained absence and his ingrained suspicion of any and all Americans. Both emotions seemed to boil over an instant later.

  “I am being recalled.” Bitterness gushed from the man in almost palpable spurts. “Immediately. I am to pack my bags and leave on the first flight this very morning.”

  “Why?”

  He flung a hand toward Lara’s door. “Because of this stupid bitch.”

  When Dodge made a sound deep in his throat, Bugarin’s mouth twisted into a sneer.

  “She has played her games with you, hasn’t she? She’s a whore, that one. Just like…”

  He broke off, gasping as Dodge grabbed his shirtfront and slammed him against the wall.

  “You’re two seconds away from dead, you little turd.”

  “You cannot…! The treaty!”

  “The hell with the treaty. Tell me about this communiqué. Did it include any information about Hank Barlow?”

  “No, no!” The FSB officer clawed at the choke hold. “It said only that I am to cease all inquiries regarding a woman by the name of Elena Dimitri and return to Moscow immediately.”

  His mind racing, Dodge let the man drop. He could think of only one reason for the FSB to come down so hard. Barlow had friends in high places.

  Scooping up the key Bugarin had dropped during the scuffle, Dodge shoved it into the lock on Lara’s door. A quick check of her rooms confirmed the sentry’s report. She was gone. So was the jacket he’d obtained for her from central supply.

  Jaw set, Dodge whipped out his phone. Luckily, there was only one cab company in town.

  “This is Major Hamilton, F. E. Warren,” he rasped at the sleepy dispatcher who answered. “One of your drivers picked up a customer at the Visiting Officers’ Quarters here on base about a half hour ago. I need to know where he took her.”

  “We’re not s’posed to give out that kind of information but, well, this one’s kinda strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  “The driver radioed in just a few minutes ago. Said he dropped his passenger off at a rest stop on I-40, forty-two miles west of Cheyenne.”

  “Forty-two miles west.” Dodge painted a map inside his head. “That’s almost to Laramie. Hell, I know that stop. There’s nothing there but a cement slab with restrooms and a couple of trash cans.”

  “Like I said, it’s kinda strange.”

  It was a whole lot more than strange, but Dodge didn’t have time for explanations. He slapped the phone shut and was about to spin for the door when he saw Bugarin stoop to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper from under the desk. The FSB officer straightened, smoothed the paper and went pasty white. Wordlessly, he held it out.

  Dodge recognized the smiling pigtailed girl instantly. The scrawled warning below the picture brought the breath hissing out of his lungs.

  He spun toward the door again and hit the hall on a dead run. Crashing out into the parking lot, he shouted at the guard who leaped from the shadows.

  “Call Colonel Yarboro. Tell him Major Petrovna is missing and get his authorization for me to take up the alert bird. I’m on my way to the 37th now.”

  The 37th Helicopter Squadron kept a chopper fueled and ready at all times. They had to, to support the wing’s twenty-four-hour missile-alert requirements. The Huey could also be used when requested by civilian authorities for MAST—Military Assistance to Safety and Traffic. Dodge could care less how the squadron classified this mission as long as they got the bird in the air ASAP.

  Tires squealing, he peeled out of the parking lot. As he tore across base, he used one hand to steer and the other to get his OMEGA controller on the net. Blade sucked air when Dodge bit out the latest developments.

  “Contact the Wyoming Highway Patrol. Have them get a patrol car out to the rest stop, like, now!”

  “Will do.”

  When Dodge screeched to a halt on the ramp behind the 37th’s flight-ops building, the sound of engines revving filled his ears. Colonel Yarboro hadn’t wasted any time.

  Nor had the maintenance personnel. Most of them were former air force who’d opted out of the military and into the civilian corporation that provided support for a number of military chopper units in the Western U.S. Combined, they represented probably over three hundred years of experience on the Huey.

  As a consequence, the craft was straining at the chocks when Dodge ducked under the whirring blades and yanked open the cockpit door. The familiar face of the helo squadron commander greeted him across the controls. Surprised, Dodge slapped on a headset and keyed the mike.

  “You pulling alert tonight, Digger?”

  “The captain who had duty came down with the flu. Figured I’d stand in for him and log some alert hours. What’s the big emergency?”

  “Major Petrovna from the Russian inspection team has gone missing.”

  The colonel formed a soundless whistle. “That’s gonna play hell with the START treaty.”

  Dodge didn’t give a rat’s ass about the treaty right now. Fear for Lara sat like a hard, cold rock in his stomach.

  “Her last known location was a rest stop forty-two miles due west on I-40. I need you to get me there, ASAP.”

  “We’ll be airborne in five minutes,” McGee promised.

  He punched the location into the mission-planning computer and strapped on a pair of night-vision goggles. After running through the last preflight checklist with the engineer, he revved the engine and lifted off.

  Dodge spotted their destination while they were still some miles away. A highway patrol car flashing red and blue strobes had already arrived on the scene. Its headlights stabbed through the darkness of the Wyoming night and highlighted the two eighteen-wheelers parked along the ramp leading into the rest area.

  After scanning the access road and finding a spot well clear of both the rigs and the wooden snow fence designed to keep winter drifts from blowing across the interstate, Digger keyed his mike.

  “Rotor One, this is Rotor Eleven.”

  The duty officers’ reply crackled through her headset. “Go ahead, Rotor Eleven.”

  “We’re at our destination and touching down.”

  “Roger, Rotor eleven.”

  Bringing the Huey down was an exercise in skill and caution, made even more delicate by the blast of air every time another semi roared by on the interstate just yards away.

  The skids had barely touched when Dodge jumped out. Digger stayed with the chopper while Dodge loped over to the uniformed officers. He knew they would have radioed in if they’d found Lara but had to ask anyway.

  “Major Hamilton, from F. E. Warren. Any sign of the Russian woman we’re searching for?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about those rigs? Did
the drivers see anything?”

  “One of the truckers says he saw a taxi drive up about ten, fifteen minutes ago. Thought it was odd, a taxi so far from town. Especially when the passenger got out and into another vehicle.”

  “Did he get the vehicle’s make or tag number?”

  “He was still half-asleep. Didn’t think to note the license number, but says the vehicle was a dark-colored Ford Taurus.”

  Stolen the night before, Dodge guessed grimly, and wiped clean of all prints when it’s found tomorrow. Barlow’s hired guns were nothing if not careful. He climbed back in the cockpit a few minutes later and gave a terse report.

  “She got into a dark-colored Taurus.”

  “Voluntarily?”

  “Apparently. The Highway Patrol is putting up roadblocks east and west of here.”

  “They’ll net him,” Digger said with more assurance than Dodge could summon.

  “Unless the bastard got off at the first Laramie exit and hit the side roads. He’s slippery enough to plan for just this sort of contingency. How much fuel have we got?”

  Digger read his mind. “More than enough to take this baby up and buzz one or two of those side roads.”

  It wasn’t the most coherent plan of attack but it was better than sitting on his hands while Lara was out there somewhere, alone, with the bastard who’d threatened to kill her daughter.

  Lara came awake slowly, painfully. A buzzing filled her ears. Pain blazed in her neck, her shoulder. She tried to raise her head, got it up a few inches, then it dropped forward, like a rag doll’s.

  “You surprise me, Larissa Petrovna.”

  The rasping whisper came to her through the wall of pain. Like a sword, it cut into her head and bludgeoned her whirling senses.

  “Most men wouldn’t recover from a jolt like that for a half hour or more.”

  Gritting her teeth against the agony, Lara forced her chin up, centimeter by whirling centimeter, until she could make out the man who stood before her, smiling.

  Smiling!

  Damn his soul!

  “I know,” he said with sympathy so false it raised a fury that burned away the last of her confusion. “These stun guns hurt, or so I’ve been told.”