Книга - Iron Dove

Iron Dove
Judith Leon


Mills & Boon Silhouette
They called her the Dove–her gentle beauty concealing a will of iron. But former agent Nova Blair never wanted to return to the world of spying. She'd started a new life…until her former partner came to her with a mission she couldn't refuse. Terrorists had threatened to release a deadly strain of the Ebola virus that could wreak global devastation. Going back to the shadowy, seductive life of an international spy was the price she would pay to save millions of lives–but could Nova save her soul, too?









Praise for Code Name: Dove by Judith Leon


“Code Name: Dove launches the new Bombshell line with guns blazing. Judith Leon’s hard-edged thriller is not your traditional series romance. She delivers an exciting, action-packed read with expertly drawn main characters, complex relationships, a lightning-fast pace and a truly creepy villain.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“He said that if I injected one, it would make me immune.”

Ya Lin hurriedly opened the cosmetic bag and stripped back white paper, revealing three vials topped with stubby needles. “The minute he left I used one.”

“So you are immune?” Nova asked.

“If the man is right. But I’m not staying in Italy to find out. Here.” She pressed the vials into Nova’s hand. “Maybe they’ll make you immune. That might help you if you try to stop him. And I can feel less guilty.”

Ya Lin was right. If the drug conferred immunity, chances of stopping these madmen would be tremendously increased. Otherwise, approaching them without bulky and confining Hazmat gear would be a death sentence.

Nova stared, undecided, at the vials, her heart racing. The stuff might infect rather than create immunity. Was it worth the risk?


Dear Reader,

I’m often asked what inspires a particular story. With Bombshell books, the inspiration is virtually always based on four things, the same four that influence me in the creation of any story.

First, I love being in the head and heart of a brave, strong woman who can take charge and make a difference, so I am right at home in the Bombshell world. I’m not Nova Blair, but for a time I can dream as though I am.

Second, I want to explore places of beauty and interest that I’ve not seen before. I pick a setting where I think I’ll enjoy spending time, in the case of Iron Dove, the absolutely beautiful Amalfi coast of Italy, and a bit of Rome itself. I traveled to both places as research for the book. If I write well, my readers—you—get to experience those same things.

Third, I consider what kind of villain or antihero is a worthy opponent of my heroine: Who should she take down? What kind of mess in the world needs fixing? I spend a lot of time thinking about the nature of the evil she will confront, and I find inspiration in taking him or her out in fiction. We can’t always make things right in the real world, but why not in our imaginations, right?

And finally, and perhaps most satisfying of all, my heroines find love—if not right away, eventually. Love is the greatest force I’ve experienced in my life, and I thoroughly enjoy finding it anew in one fabulous hero after another.

I’d be delighted to have you visit my Web site to learn more about my other books: www.jhand.com.

Judith




Iron Dove

Judith Leon







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




JUDITH LEON


made the transition from left-brained scientist to right-brained novelist. Before she began writing fiction some twelve years ago, she was teaching animal behavior and ornithology in the UCLA biology department.

She is the author of several novels and two screenplays. Her epic of the Minoan civilization, Voice of the Goddess, published under her married name, Judith Hand, has won numerous awards. Her second epic historical, The Amazon and the Warrior, is based on the life of Penthesilea, an Amazon who fought the warrior Achilles in the Trojan War. In all of her stories she writes of strong, bold women—women who are doers and leaders.

A classical music fan, world traveler and bird-watcher, she currently lives in Rancho Bernardo, California. For more information about the author and her books, see her Web site at www.jhand.com.






To my steadfast friend, staunchest moral

supporter and talented writing partner—

a true visionary and a gifted editor,

Peggy Lang.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45




Chapter 1


“I don’t want to die!” Robin Scott’s quavering voice shot through the green canopy of Costa Rican cloud forest. A pair of Emerald Toucanets, in a flash of yellow and green, exploded from a treetop, taking flight into pearl-gray mist.

Every muscle in Nova Blair’s body tensed. Her youngest adventurer on this isolated birding tour, sixteen-year-old Robin, was dangling a hundred and fifty perilous feet above the ground.

This wasn’t your usual tame, gray-haired birder tour, where senior citizens poked around with their binoculars into low-lying bushes and safe pathways. This was an entirely different tour where adventurers traversed distances of more than a hundred feet from one wooden observation deck to another, suspended on leather harnesses, fifteen stories above ground. Safe, yes. But scary as hell if you weren’t familiar with what you were doing. And Robin wasn’t.

With the mist the way it was, you couldn’t even see the ground. Nova had told Robin to focus, instead, on reaching the next deck. Now the young girl was flailing at the air and at the sling harness in which she sat supported on a small leather seat.

“I’m going to fall!”

Nova called back, “Robin, you’re okay. Just stop moving, love. Your security line is tangled. I’ll free it from the traverse line and you’ll be fine.”

Four other members of the tour, who had not yet crossed the traverse line to the next deck, stood beside Nova, holding their breaths. Through the misty green came the raucous who-who-who-whos of howler monkeys, an eerie sound that matched the girl’s own wails.

Two traverse lines were anchored to the sky bridge platform situated a short fifty paces from the Treetops Hotel’s canopy-level patio. Nova’s group would use seated slings to pull themselves across five such rope passages to reach today’s observation deck, a wooden perch overlooking the nesting site of a showy pair of resplendent quetzals, birds famous for their reclusive habits and long, fancy tails.

The quetzal observation deck—nestled among branches at the tops of figs trees, tree ferns and lianas—had been lowered into place two years ago by a blimp. Researchers needed a secure platform but couldn’t afford the cost of attempting from-the-ground-up construction in the heart of a jungle. By selling this tour to enough wealthy adventurers, Cosmos Adventure Travel was making the scientists’ quetzal research possible.

For Nova, this was a win-win-win situation; she loved sharing a life of adventure and travel with fellow daredevils, she admired field scientists who searched for truth in dangerous places and she loved the beauty of birds.

Yesterday, Jeeps had dropped her group here after a torturous four-hour drive from Costa Rica’s capital, San Juan. Aged sixteen to an athletic fifty-six, they pluckily climbed a 150-foot wooden ladder to the surprisingly elegant hotel, Treetops, named for its famous Kenyan predecessor. Nova’s adventurers would not touch Mother Earth again for ten days. Rooms were small for two people but fitted with comfortable beds and elegant native furnishings.

“Bruce!” Nova called out. Her assistant waited for Robin on a platform out of Nova’s sight at the other end of the traverse line. “I’ll untangle her security line. You pull her the rest of the way yourself.”

“Roger,” he called back.

If Robin would just hold still, she should be in no danger, but Nova’s heart went out to her. After a day of travel and another day of orientation with father and daughter, along with this tour’s eight other clients, Nova had concluded that Robin had, more or less, been coerced into coming on this trip by her father.

Charles Scott, a hard-charging CEO in the import/export business, wanted to share an adventurous vacation with his daughter in one of Costa Rica’s most beautiful rain forests. But not Monteverde, a secure tourist preserve with several miles of sky bridges. No. He’d chosen an isolated region of rain forest, used mostly for a Smithsonian-sponsored research project and, by special contract, also by Nova’s tour company, CAT. A trip here was expensive, exclusive, and not for the faint of heart.

As Nova snatched up an extra sling harness and stepped into it, she again called to Robin. “I’m coming across on the other line.”

“I’m dizzy.”

In a calm, this-happens-all-the-time-voice, Nova said, “Stop moving, hon, and just sit tight.” And please, PLEASE for love of your life, sit still. “I’ll be over to you in just a few minutes.”

The senior Scott, a veteran of seven CAT tours, had been acting as though he believed this experience would turn his aspiring artist and poet into a thrill-seeker like Nova. Robin was an only child. Dad had probably counted heavily on having a son.

Nova pulled the sling’s harness over her shoulders as James Padgett, a pudgy, nervous conservationist from Panama, finished his thought out loud. “I’m going to quit working for the conservancy after this trip.”

James, now is not the time to talk about quitting your work. Nova bit back the thought before it could escape her lips.

James had been talking about the encroachment of cattle ranchers onto a strip of pristine forest preserve he’d worked years to save. His failure was obviously eating him up. When a man got that burned out, it was hard to care about anything.

Nova snapped her sling’s metal ring, located over her diaphragm, to the carabiner of her harness line. “I bet you know, James, that if the good guys quit, it means the bad guys win. I hope you don’t quit. You’re good at what you do.”

“Easy to say,” he muttered.

And also true. Quitters are always the losers.

“PLEEZE!” Robin yelled.

Another carabiner, those cleverly designed metal loops that were staples for rappelling and mountain climbing, attached her harness line to a pulley on her traverse line. She checked it. It was secure. In moves she’d made hundreds of times, Nova climbed over the guardrail and onto the three-foot-square launch platform.

Charles Scott elbowed his way past Padgett. “Robin,” he yelled, “Stop that screaming.”

You jerk! A hateful memory of her stepfather, Candido Branco, flared into Nova’s mind. “Mr. Scott, she’s understandably afraid.”

“If she’d pulled herself the way you said, the rope wouldn’t have gotten tangled and she’d be okay. She needs to learn to pay attention to details.”

Her stepfather’s voice had always been soft, his words encouraging. Candido Branco had never spoken to her harshly. But then, there’s all kinds of abuse. I probably would have been less screwed up and my life would’ve been less screwed up if he’d just yelled at me.

A magnificent butterfly—electric blue and iridescent green, with bright yellow spots on each wing—landed on her hand as she double-checked the carabiner linking her to the pulley. I’m thirty-three and Candido is finally losing his control over me. I hope Robin gets over her father a whole lot sooner.

“Let me have your unipod a sec,” she said to Padgett, urgency and some disgust with both men putting a sharp edge to her tone. Padgett turned his back, and from his day pack she fetched a collapsible aluminum pole that he used to steady his camera while taking photographs. The camera platform at the tip end of the pole would make a serviceable hook.

She hurriedly extended the unipod to full length, let the sling harness and traverse line take her weight, then let herself off the sky bridge. The movement disturbed a flock of violet sabrewings. They burst in a shower of green and purple, flapping from the crown of a towering strangler fig ten feet away.

Nova started pulling toward the girl, Robin’s “I don’t wanna die” still ringing in her ears. There were lots of places to die. Lots of places and times already in her life where she had come close to dying. For her this beautiful place would actually be a good one.

A shriek cut the air. Nova’s head snapped in the girl’s direction. Robin now hung, rotating slowly, ten feet below the traverse line. Merciful God!

She had been saved only by her safety line from a fall that would surely have killed her. The harness line was still attached to the traverse line—but not to Robin. How could that have happened?

“Robin, Robin,” Charles Scott yelled.

Nova’s pulse beating loudly in her ears, she yelled, “Robin! Do. Not. Move. Do you understand?”

“I…I do.”

Pulling fast, her heartbeat pounding against her breastbone, Nova raced back toward the skywalk. Be calm! Be cool!

Training and discipline took over, her thoughts sped up and her senses sharpened. Now, in addition to the unipod, she would need a length of nylon rope, a rescue pulley and possibly a replacement carabiner.

That’s what safety lines are for. It will hold. It has to hold. Please, make it hold.

“Novaaa!”




Chapter 2


“So, Mr. Cardone, who’s so important you have to fetch him out of the middle of the jungle?”

The Huey’s flight engineer had left her place up front. She perched on the jump seat beside Joe. She’d removed her headset, looping it around the back of her neck, and was yelling over the beating of the chopper blades.

With Costa Rican permission, Joe, the flight engineer, and the Huey’s two pilots had come inland from the USS Reagan, stationed off Costa Rica’s Pacific coast.

“How long until we get there?” he yelled back.

“Ten minutes. You didn’t answer my question. Big secret?”

“Not really. At least who isn’t a secret. Why we want her is.”

“A her? Who is she?”

Joe pictured Nova. Dark black ponytail and bangs, delicate fair skin. Nondescript makeup and a nondescript “look.” That’s how she had struck him the first time he’d seen her. But there was nothing nondescript about those startling emerald-green eyes. He recalled the first time he’d seen her dressed for a seduction for the Company. Man, had he ever been one bowled-over Texas boy. She’d let her straight hair down to her shoulder blades and tucked it back behind one ear. A crimson red gown clung to every mouthwatering body curve. Dangling crystal earrings had glimmered in the ballroom light.

Jesus, she was the most incredible chameleon. Nova could disappear into the woodwork when she needed to, but dressed up she could morph into a movie star or Paris model. Code name: Dove. It fit her perfectly because she seemed so gentle and sweet, someone you could trust. But she was also as tough and professional a spy as he’d ever known.

Well, Nova wasn’t really full-time CIA as he was. A contract agent, Nova served only when she chose to and when called in because one of her special talents or gifts was needed. Sometimes she was called upon because of her beauty, but mostly it was when the Company needed someone with an unsurpassed ability to win trust. Within the inner circles of the agency, she was famous for “spinning silken threads of either trust or desire.” She’d rescued the daughter of an Argentinean diplomat by winning over the hostage taker’s mistress. She’d convinced a Saudi prince that she was a doctoral student studying falconry, and by doing so, obtained information that enabled the Company to prevent the bombing of a disco in Malaysia.

“Nova Blair,” he yelled back to the chopper engineer. “She’s a world-class photographer. Also a tour guide for an action/adventure travel company.” CAT was a legitimate travel company and also a CIA cover, the one Nova used most often.

The flight engineer grinned. “My name’s Katie Donovan. And I’m a damn good dancer. You guys staying on the ship tonight? We’ve got a party planned.”

He gave Katie Donovan one of his better smiles. Quite a few women had complimented him on that smile. “Sorry,” he yelled. “After I get Nova, it’s back to the Reagan to jet off ASAP.”

“I’m sorry, too.” She paused a moment, then, “Does she know you’re coming?”

Now there was a good question. She didn’t. In fact, he’d been told by Langley that since his last job with her, Nova had twice turned down assignments. In Germany, she’d fallen hard for Jean Paul König, a charismatic German politician with the looks of a movie star, but when the mission was over, she’d decided König wasn’t right for her.

In Joe’s opinion, she’d been seriously let down. Hell. He’d caught her with tears in her eyes after making her parting speech to König, and Nova definitely wasn’t the crying type.

He hadn’t pressed her for details. Nova just might be the most private person he’d ever known. And she owned some very deep and dark secrets, some he knew having to do with the stepfather she refused to discuss. Those secrets must be the explanation for why such a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman undertook the dangerous and sometimes murderous things she did for the Company.

He thought it unlikely that Langley knew about her genuine affection for König. He wasn’t about to break her confidence and tell them; Nova’s private business was her private business. But the Company was clearly aware that the assignment had put her off working for them. “Look, we need her for this assignment,” he’d been told when his controller had awakened him in his D.C. condo at three-twenty this morning, “and we need her now. You’ll be going to Italy. To the Amalfi Coast.”

“If she’s burnt out, maybe you should get someone else,” he’d replied, pleased that she’d quit Company work, a dangerous business mixed up with the scum of the earth.

“You’ll get your briefing in Italy. Time is of the essence here. The bottom line is that fast and accurate translation is the key, and it may have to be done on-site. For that we have to have someone who can translate and speak fluently in Russian, Italian, Chinese and, of course, English, and who is intimately familiar with the lingo involved in virus research. The Italians don’t have any one person like that. We have Nova, and we’ve told them we’d get her for them.”

He’d been surprised. “Nova knows about viruses?”

Now irritated, the Company man had muttered, “You’ll get your briefing in Italy, Cardone. All you need to know now is that Nova is uniquely qualified, that’s she’s needed urgently for this assignment, and a fucking lot of lives are at stake. I’d say, conservatively, millions of lives. Your job is to get her to do it. Get her involved again for the Company or expect to feel big heat from higher up. All the way higher up.”

Joe yelled to Katie over the helicopter’s racket. “No. She doesn’t know I’m coming. And if she’s like most women, she’ll probably be pissed when I show up.”

Grinning, Katie Donovan tilted her head, eager for his explanation.

“The last time I saw her we were about to spend a nice weekend together when I got called away. The usual thing, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And about the last thing I said to her was that I’d call. I didn’t.”

“Oh yes. You are in big trouble.” Katie used his shoulder for support as she pushed to her feet. He liked it. The feel of a woman’s hand. “We should be about there.” She made her way forward.

He gazed out the starboard door over the rolling sea of green, the earthy-smelling warm wind hitting his face, thinking, Why didn’t I call? He had intended to. But his next assignment kept him fully occupied for the first ten days, and when he finally caught his breath, he remembered how Nova, who was five years older, always treated him like a kid brother.

And König was an urbane sophisticate, quite the opposite of a Texas-ranch-raised, ex-Naval aviator jock. Calling Nova had suddenly struck him as stupid. Besides, they led crazy lives. When could they ever realistically get together? So at first he’d put off calling her, and then finally he’d quit even planning to.

Now he was going to have to pay the price.

But then, maybe not. Nova wouldn’t really have expected a call. What a monumental ego you have, Cardone. She would have assumed that his saying he would call was like a Hollywood producer saying, “We’ll do lunch soon.”

Nova Blair was one woman who wouldn’t be sitting around waiting for some man to call her.




Chapter 3


Nova halted on her traverse line immediately above Robin. The terror-stricken girl was still rotating, but more slowly now. Pale, she was gazing up at Nova.

“You hanging in there?” Nova said, wishing with an aching heart that she could be the scared one, not Robin. “Pun intended,” she said, forcing a reassuring smile.

Robin actually smiled back, but with thin, white lips. “Yep, ha-hanging in there.”

“I’ll attach a rescue pulley to your traverse line. Then I’ll let down a rope. Put the rope under your arms, and together we’ll haul you back up. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Using the unipod, Nova pulled the girl’s carabiner, dangling at the end of Robin’s harness line, across the short space between the two traverse lines. The carabiner was fine, but somehow Robin’s thrashing had been enough to yank the metal ring off her harness.

Nova clamped the rescue pulley onto Robin’s traverse line. She fed one end of the thirty feet of half-inch nylon rope through the rescue pulley and tied a figure-eight knot. Feeding out rope, she said, “Put the loop under both arms and make sure the fit is good and tight.”

In less than a minute, Robin was ready. Nova ran the rope under both of her arms and across her back. “Here’s how we do this. I’ll count to three. When I say three, you pull yourself up on the security line as much as you can. That takes weight off the rope. We’re both dangling. I don’t have any real leverage. But if you pull yourself up on the security line while I’m pulling on the rope, we will hoist you back here. Okay?”

Robin nodded.

Please let this work right! “Okay. One, two, THREE!”

Nova pulled, and took in at least a foot and a half. “Good,” she yelled. “Perfect! Okay. Again. One, two, THREE!”

Nova took in another foot and a half.

“It’s working,” Robin called out.

Charles Scott yelled, “You’re doing it!”

It took maybe ten minutes, but finally Nova had Robin face-to-face. She immediately refastened a thick nylon strap on Robin’s sling harness to the carabiner of the harness line.

“You okay, hon?” Nova asked, squeezing Robin’s hand, elated and relieved.

“I have never been so scared in all my life.”

“You’re going to have a great story to tell your friends.”

Robin grinned. “Yeah.” The smile faded quickly. “I am so sorry to be such a wimp. My dad’s furious. I can never please him. I try, but I just can’t do this stuff.”

“Here’s a guarantee. Trust Bruce and me and yourself, and when you leave here ten days from now, you’ll be amazed. I know you want to please your dad, but the person you most want to please is you. I promise, you will have learned that you can always do more than you first believe. Just don’t give up.”

“If you’d said that an hour ago, I’d have laughed out loud.”

“Right!”

Robin’s brow wrinkled in a frown. “What’s that sound?”

Nova hesitated, listening, as she, too, heard a thrumming. “Helicopter,” she said.

They searched the sky, and within seconds a gray-green military-type helicopter—a Huey, Nova noted—appeared, moving directly toward them.

“Oh, it’s coming our way,” Robin said, her voice again in a quiver.

“It’s not going to shake us out of these slings. We’re fine.”

The blissful stillness of the jungle, already assaulted by the chopper’s blades, suddenly crackled with the sound of bullhorn being turned on.

Just wonderful, Nova thought. This cannot be good news. Why in the world would anyone come out here in a helicopter?

“I’m from Cosmos Adventure Travel,” rumbled a voice over the loudspeaker. “My name is Joseph Cardone. I need to speak to Nova Blair.”

Joe! My God! If Joe was here for her, whatever was brewing must be serious.

Her tour folks were pointing her way. The helicopter edged overhead. She and Robin swayed.

For a second, Nova was transported to a street in Germany and Joe was kneeling beside her, his face ashen. He’d just saved her from being run over, maybe even killed. She remembered the strength of his hands, the rich chocolate of his brown eyes, that football quarterback body.

She briskly hand-signaled the helicopter to back off, afraid the downdraft might break branches or topple nests. The pilot responded, lifting the craft higher but still keeping it above them. Joe, holding the bullhorn, stood inside the starboard door.

“Hey, Nova!”

She recognized his voice and her heart—which was already pumping from the adrenalin rush of the rescue so hard she could feel it in her throat—sped up still more. The goddamn idiot never called.

She gave him a thumbs-up of recognition.

“CAT needs you to do something. Urgent. No time to get a Jeep out here. You should turn over the tour to Bruce, collect your stuff, and then we’ll pick you up from the hotel’s deck. Say, ten minutes?”

How about, say, never! How dare they assume she’d jump when they called! She couldn’t have made it clearer that she no longer intended to work Company jobs. She gave a thumbs-down.

“Bruce,” she called out. “You can pull Robin across now.”

Robin started moving away toward the far side of the canopy.

From the sky, “We’ll pick you up. Ten minutes. Okay?”

She looked up at him, happy to see him and furious at the same time. She wanted to climb up there and ask him what he’d been doing lately. Again, she gave him the thumbs-down.

“Are you saying you aren’t going to come?”

She nodded and simultaneously gave a thumbs-up.

She began to pull back to where Padgett, Charles and the others waited. The helicopter followed, hovering high over her at first, and then slid swiftly to hover over the hotel. She wondered what havoc the blades were stirring up with anything loose on the deck. A rope ladder dropped down from the starboard door.

No is no, she thought.

By the time she reached her group, Joe was halfway down the ladder. She unhooked her carabiner and stepped out of the sling.

“Sorry, folks. This shouldn’t take long, but I’ve got to deal with it before we can go out today. Clearly CAT has some special problem they think I can solve. Everyone wait here, until I get back. Or you can come back with me to the hotel.”

“I’ll wait here since Robin is already across,” Charles said.

“I’ll wait here, too,” Padgett added.

“Don’t leave us in the lurch,” said a teacher from Ohio.

“I’ll be back in no time,” she assured everyone. No is no!




Chapter 4


Her feet felt light, as though her tennis shoes had the power of levitation. Nova closed the space between herself and Joe, who had just dropped a couple of feet from the helicopter’s ladder onto the broad Treetops deck.

The khaki, lightweight military jumpsuit showed off his dark brown wavy hair and deeply tanned skin in a way that triggered a too damn familiar sexual fantasy she had of being swept off her feet by Joe, and more. Lots more. Across the narrowing distance between them, he sent her one of those goddamn fantastic smiles.

Her pulse beat a tattoo at her throat. She didn’t even try to suppress the smile she sent in return. How wonderful to see him again. How amazingly good it felt.

He grabbed her hand for a handshake. She embraced him in a bear hug. He smelled wonderfully like fresh air and Texas sage—soap or shampoo, she thought. She’d never known him to wear cologne. Then she pushed him away. “You are a typical male jerk.”

“You’re pissed.”

“You betcha.”

He tilted his head, gave her a sheepish half grin.

“As I recall you uttered something about keeping in contact, and I haven’t heard word one from you. How many months now? Since I know you’re a man of your word, I decided you must surely be dead.”

They were yelling over the sound of the chopper. Joe waved the pilot to back off farther, noting as he did that Nova had a bit of tan on that extraordinarily fair skin, something she’d not had the last time he’d seen her.

He also wondered whether her greeting was the kind she’d use with a kid brother—or a friend—or one she used with a man she was attracted to. So far, he couldn’t tell.

She’d braided her glossy, long black hair into a twist at the back of her head. He checked her earlobes and found a plain pair of silver studs—not the dangly silver doves that he’d given her as a parting gift. He suddenly realized he’d been hoping she’d be wearing those. She always wore earrings, acted as though she was somehow naked without them, but it certainly made more sense out in the middle of the jungle to be wearing simple studs.

She might not be wearing his earrings, but she clearly had remembered his promise. And she was right that promises should be kept. “My humble apology.” He added a little bow at the waist.

She laughed, and the deep, throaty sound made the small hairs at the back of his neck stand up. He enjoyed looking at the curve of her breasts beneath the tight, gray tank top, and then at the long legs exposed below her gray shorts. He forced his eyes to her lips. He sure wasn’t thinking about business and why he’d been sent here. He was thinking of sex.

Gazing at those moist, luscious lips didn’t solve his thought problem, so he turned sideways and, staring out at the expanse of green foliage, said, “Look, I know you’ve turned down a couple of Company assignments. But this one, I promise you, is critical.”

A man and woman approached from the other end of the deck. Nova said, “Joe Cardone, this is Hans Licht and his wife, Jennie. They pretty much make Treetops happen. Joe works with me at CAT.”

He shook hands with them, and Hans Licht said, “Is there anything wrong? What is happening?”

“It’s okay, Hans,” Nova said. “CAT has hit a snag and they think they need me. I’m quite sure they don’t, but Joe and I need to chat about it.”

Sensitive hosts that they obviously had to be, given their exclusive clientele, the Lichts made a swift departure. Joe was again alone with a reluctant Dove.

“I’m stunned they would send you all the way out here,” she said at once. “I’m finished with CIA business.”

The irony of this scene struck him, momentarily interrupting the argument he’d prepared for her. Here he was, tasked to get Nova to work for the Company again on pain of professional discomfort, or worse, if he didn’t succeed. Yet during the last conversation he’d had with her, he’d asked why in the world she ever worked for the Company. He’d even said something to the effect that he didn’t understand why someone with her many gifts would spend any time dealing with the lowlifes of the world, even for her country.

He shook his head. A smile must have accompanied the headshake because Nova said, “What’s funny?”

“Sorry.” He leaned back against the sturdy deck rail—one guaranteed to keep distracted or tipsy guests from tumbling a hundred or more feet to the ground. He crossed his arms. “Not funny. Just ironic. I should be glad you want to quit, but here I am, and I’ve got to convince you to take just one more job. Just one more.”

“No.”

He waited. He’d let her wonder a bit just what they might need her for.

“Look,” she said.

She leaned against the rail beside him, close enough so that he felt the skin of her arm brush his forearm. Would she stand so close to a man she thought of as a kid brother?

“I’m burnt out. I lost a man I loved. I had to kill people again. I hate it. I’m out of the game.”

“Okay. You don’t need to convince me. I’m not someone who wants you…well, I’d just as soon you quit. But we’ve got a megaproblem, and we need you.”

“That’s ridiculous. They can always find someone else.”

“Someone else who speaks and reads, fluently, English, Italian, Chinese and Russian?”

She snorted in disbelief. “Why in the world would they need…?” She studied his face. “You’re not authorized to explain unless I agree to take the job, are you?”

“Correct.”

“Does it really have to be one person with all of those languages?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“I don’t want to do it, Joe.”

She frowned in a way he’d never seen before. A look of true hurt. She wanted to be free to take her beautiful photos and spend her days in magnificent and exciting places with interesting and nice people. And why not?

“When we were in Virginia training for the German mission,” he said, “someone told me that you never took jobs for the Company unless people had been killed. Not agents, and not bad guys, but ordinary people. I can tell you one thing. No one has died yet, but if we don’t succeed in this mission, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of people will die.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

He said nothing. He waited a moment more to let that sink in, and then, “You’re unique, Nova. You are fluent in all the languages we need.” Another pause. “Just one more job.”

“Why do they need me? Us? Why not use local talent? Use several of their own break-in specialists and translators?”

“I wasn’t told that, but you can be sure they have their reasons. If I had to guess, I’d say maybe they need someone on-site to translate, for whatever reason, and to avoid leaks or generating suspicion by the target, they don’t want to have more people on location than is absolutely necessary. They require one person with heavy-duty language skills. And who knows about viruses. He definitely mentioned viruses. You know about viruses?”

“I did a job several years ago in Pakistan that involved bioweapons.”

“Well, a translator fluent in a bunch of languages who knows about bioweapons is an exceedingly rare bird. That’s you. Or maybe they think they need an on-site translator with a good cover who won’t obviously smell like security. We’re foreigners. We, as a team, would fit. Maybe they want all of those things.”

“I cannot tell you how much I don’t want to do this.”

“Look, it’s not going to be like last time. No wet work involved. This is a break-in and translation job, and I do the break-ins. I’ll even tell you where. It’s in Italy. The Amalfi Coast. What could be more beautiful? It’ll be more like a vacation. How’s that? A great, paid vacation for a little translation work and the potential to save thousands.”

She remained silent. “You’d be lead agent,” he added with an encouraging smile. “In charge, just like in Germany.”

Nova sighed and shifted her weight. She put her hand over Joe’s. She could tell from his tone that he was honestly reluctant to drag her back into this, but reluctance wasn’t stopping him. He believed she was, in fact, essential.

Her stepfather’s sexual and verbal abuse had hardened her. Killing Candido to save her younger sister Star from that same abuse and the years she’d served in prison for the killing had toughened her still more. Being recruited for the CIA by a man she thought had loved her but who’d dumped her when she no longer served his purposes, had been the finishing touch. She was capable of taking out the bad guys, and if Joe was being honest—and she believed he was—then how could she turn down this job and live with herself afterward? All they asked from her was translations. Was she going to call Claiton Pryce at Langley and say, “I absolutely refuse to translate one word for you or the Italians no matter how many people might die if I don’t?”

“Okay,” she said. A heavy weight descended onto her shoulders. “One more time.”




Chapter 5


The young man’s feet felt like great stones, every step requiring a huge effort. His palms were clammy and even though he had rubbed on massive amounts of deodorant to prevent perspiration in his armpits lest he be detected too soon, he felt some wetness there.

Scarcely one block away, he saw his target, Madrid’s famous and busy Gaudi Galleria, a shopping and entertainment center that at this afternoon hour would be crowded with hundreds—no, thousands—of infidels. Although people were dashing across the boulevard, he crossed the street at the light. He must do nothing that might call attention.

Half a block from the entrance, his vision of the glassy Galleria structure ahead momentarily blurred. He stopped, his legs shaking, and sucked in a breath.

“Don’t stop,” Ahmad al Hassan had coached him repeatedly. “It will seem strange.”

To cover the moment, he glanced in the window of the shop beside him. Nothing he saw registered in his mind. He turned again to his target and walked at the same practiced pace. Not too fast.

But his heart raced with his eagerness to get there, to have it done. He prayed he would not lose courage at the last minute, that he would be the one to press the button. If for any reason he froze, two others were with him on this mission, and one of them would do it for him. There was no way out now, no way back, only forward to honor and paradise.

No one seemed to notice a clean-shaven, nicely dressed youth with dark, intense eyes and well-combed hair.

Fifteen paces inside, he put his shaking finger on the detonator button. “God is great,” he shouted in Arabic. He pressed, the circuit completed connection.

The roar, which he did not hear, was deafening.



In his small, tidy office on the second floor of a building in Amalfi that housed a bakery on the first floor, Ahmad al Hassan fought the urge to squirm in his desk chair. The aroma of fresh bread seeped into the room from below and his mouth watered despite his anxiety. His two assistants, Mohsin and Brahim, appeared to be busy laboring at their desks.

He stroked his beard, kept short so that he would not draw excessive attention to that fact that he was Muslim in this heathen land. So much was happening all at once. In his pocket he carried the e-tickets that would take Nissia and the children out of Italy, and he was anxious, now, to tell her she must leave. But he could not possibly leave work until he knew if today’s attack had succeeded. Ahmad had spent enormous emotional energy and substantial Al Qaeda financial resources to get the bomber in place.

To Mohsin he said, “If the boy is caught—”

He spoke in Arabic, which he allowed his assistants to speak only in the office. Outside it, they were never to speak anything but Italian, the better to blend in.

Success meant he could concentrate his efforts immediately on the still greater spectacle, one that would bring Italy and the continent to its knees. Failure in Madrid meant he would have to deal with criticism from Syria.

Again he checked the television screen. The station put out continuous news but Ahmad had ordered Mohsin to silence the sound. He simply had too much to do to have the monstrous machine blaring at him in Italian.

He checked the clock. If the boy had succeeded, the Galleria would be in chaos at this moment and the boy in the presence of Allah. The news should appear on the screen soon.

Mohsin sneezed. His head, a small round ball atop a long skinny neck, nodded over the fake documents he was preparing for Al Qaeda recruits due to arrive soon from Palestine, Egypt and Syria, on their way to Germany.

By habit, the dua associated with sneezing spilled from Ahmad’s lips, “May Allah have mercy on you.”

“May Allah be praised,” Mohsin responded.

Mohsin was a graybeard of fifty-five, much older than Ahmad’s thirty-six years. They had met in Palestine. Then ten years ago, Ahmad had become a sworn member of Al Qaeda and the two of them had been sent here to Amalfi. Now fronted by Ahmad’s profitable and legitimate fishing business, both of them were deep undercover. And although Mohsin felt the creeping affliction of Parkinson’s disease, the fire of jihad still burned hot in his soul. He would sacrifice his life, if he had to, to get all Westerners out of the Holy Lands.

“I am sure that all will go as we have planned,” Brahim said from across the room. His voice, high with anxiety, betrayed his confident words. Brahim, twenty-five years old, short and plump, was a financial whiz, skilled at laundering money through the fishing business.

Ahmad studied Brahim for a moment, fascinated as always by his remarkably fat yet agile fingers, then he snapped, “Concentrate on your work. The list of weapons needs to be sent to Greco by tomorrow at the latest.”

The weapons, to be secured from the weapons dealer Fabiano Greco, who lived in Positano, would be smuggled via Lebanon into Syria. The heart of Al Qaeda now resided in Syria under the leadership of the Saudi imam, Ramsi Muhammad.

Ahmad forced his eyes once again to his own work. Because of his language skills, one of his tasks was to translate all-important, sensitive messages from Kenya, Libya and France, brought by courier to this office, into Arabic. Another courier carried them on to Syria. The secret to remaining undetected by the electronics of the infidels was to avoid electronic devices for all really critical communications. At the moment, he labored over a report from the Al Qaeda cell in Kenya.

“That’s it,” Brahim shouted.

With his two assistants, Ahmad turned to the TV, his gaze transfixed by the scene of twisted metal, broken glass, scattered paper, here and there, something recognizable as a body.

“Allah be praised,” Ahmad said, almost a whisper, his head bowed.

Mohsin leapt to his feet and turned on the sound.

The news anchor spouted the basics: how many known dead so far, twenty-three but the death toll swiftly rising; that it was the work of a suicide bomber, but as yet no clues and no one claiming responsibility; that the wounded were being taken to nearby hospitals.

Ahmad turned to Brahim. “I am going to be busy with preparations for the fourteenth. You are in charge of getting the information out to the usual outlets that this is our accomplishment. Make sure Aljazeera receives it first, by at least an hour. They are fanatical about having priority. And the video, too.”

Brahim nodded.

Mohsin said, “I have the article for the Web site ready. Do you still wish it to be posted tomorrow, not today?”

“Yes.”

From the beautifully carved cedar PrayerKeeper on the wall came the call to prayer, interrupting Ahmad’s growing sense of joy, swelling sense of pride and relief that the boy had not been caught and they were all still safe. As the head of the Al Qaeda cell in Italy, keeping this Amalfi operation safe—their home base in Italy—was his most solemn duty.

Like the good Muslim that he was, he prayed five times daily at the appointed hours, and the PrayerKeeper let him know the correct moment. It could indicate the time for prayer at any place in the world. In addition to playing the call to worship, it indicated the direction of Qiblah. The time was 16:09, the time for mid-afternoon prayers.

The timekeeper had been a gift last year from his son, Saddoun. A good son. Smart. Devoted to Allah. Ahmad could never have hoped for a better seed. He had tried to have at least one other boy, but Allah, the one true God, had blessed him with three daughters instead. Allah’s will be done.

He made ablution, as did Brahim and Mohsin. Afterward, he unrolled his carpet as they did theirs. They all took the position of reverence. “Allahu Akbar” they intoned.

Praying on clean ground would be better, but even the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had used a carpet. Although Islam was growing in fertile soil in Italy and the country now had more than four hundred mosques or cultural centers, there were none yet in Amalfi, so they prayed together at the office.

He prayed thrice, at the end said Aameen, and used both hands to rub his face. He stood and rolled up the carpet.

“I have to leave now,” he said. “I cannot return, so you should close up.”

Ahmad rushed out the door, down the outside stairway and to his ancient Audi. As he seated himself inside and turned the ignition, he said the appropriate dua.

He pulled into the Amalfi traffic, heading for home. Nissia was not going to want to leave, but before the fourteenth, his entire family must be out of Italy.




Chapter 6


Joe hung above her, climbing quickly, halfway up to the hovering Huey. Someone had hauled up her minimal gear. She’d taken only four minutes to change from walking shorts into a pair of light gray cotton slacks and matching short-sleeved top.

“It’s such a shame they can’t get someone else,” Charles Scott said, his hair and clothes rippling in the downdraft. “Robin is going to be horribly disappointed. She admires you enormously.”

James Padgett grabbed Nova’s hand. “Take care,” he bellowed. “I’ll try to remember what you said. ‘Don’t give up.’”

Joe disappeared into the Huey. James Padgett gave her a leg up onto the first rung. She grabbed the ladder with both hands and climbed swiftly.

Joe and a blond, blue-eyed, and quite young military woman pulled her into the Huey. With Joe beside her, Nova buckled herself into a jump seat, and the blonde went forward to join the pilot and copilot.

“Where are we headed?” Nova yelled.

“The USS Ronald Reagan. About thirty minutes off the coast.”

The blonde then reappeared carrying two cups. She handed one to Nova. “Coffee?” she yelled over the noise of the helicopter blades.

“Yes, thanks.” Nova loved Costa Rican coffee. Better still, a cappuccino made with Costa Rican coffee. She was pretty much hooked on cappuccinos.

The blonde extended the second cup to Joe. “How about you?” She gave him an unabashedly come-hither smile.

Nova snapped her gaze to Joe’s face. He captured the blonde’s gaze with those dark chocolate eyes of his, returned her smile and, when he took the cup, managed to let their fingers touch.

Or had the blonde arranged that?

This guy is absolutely incorrigible.

He’s a jock. Women are crazy about him—beautiful women younger than me. He’s younger than me. And if I let him get under my skin again, I’ll richly deserve the disappointment I’ll eventually have. I’ve got to stow it.

The blonde went forward. Nova gave Joe a cocky smile. “Still got that winning way with women, I see.”

He just grinned and shrugged.

Twenty minutes later, they touched down onto the carrier’s deck. They had barely dashed out from under the still rotating blades when a young, sun-blistered lieutenant colonel met them. “We have an EA-6B Prowler waiting for you,” he said. The lieutenant colonel’s aide carried a couple of bags Nova assumed must belong to Joe.

The blonde deposited Nova’s two bags at Nova’s feet. She gave Joe a parting smile and strode off, back straight, hips in a swagger. Nova felt a flash of admiration for the confidence in her stride.

Looking at Joe’s gear and the large duffel bag and aluminum camera case at her feet, the lieutenant colonel added, “I don’t think the Prowler will handle that much.”

“Sure it will,” Joe countered.

“I’ll leave the clothes if I have to,” Nova said. “I won’t leave the camera equipment.”

“While we take a quick anticipatory trip to the head,” Joe said to their contact, “you check with the pilot and find a way to bring all her gear.”

“Yes, sir,” came the man’s crisp answer. “You’ll find the heads one deck down that ladder,” he gestured with his thumb, “and to your right.”

Joe took Nova’s arm. Her body remembered at once the feel of his hand on her arm—firm, warm and a bit possessive. And she didn’t mind any of that. Not at all.

He steered her toward the ladder. “Here’s the deal,” he said. At last she was going to get a better feel for what was afoot. “We need to be in Rome as soon as possible. We’re going to be picked up by SISMI, the Italian version of the Company.”

“SISMI. Right. Servizio per le Informazioni e la Securezza Militaire. And Rome. I haven’t been to Rome for about eight years.”

“It will be easier for them to pick us up from Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport than from the American military base, so we’re going to make the last leg of the trip on Alitalia, out of Atlanta. And we have to be there by 17:30 this afternoon, Atlanta time, to make the connection. It’s sure a better deal for us. We’ll be a lot more comfortable in Alitalia’s business class than on a military transport.”

“If I’m not mistaken, my niece, Maggie, is in Italy right now. Or should be soon. You remember I told you my sister Star has three kids. Maggie, the girl, is their ten-year-old.”

They reached the lower deck and turned right. She spotted the sign for the women’s head.

She met him back on deck where he was waiting with the lieutenant colonel. In short order, she slipped into flight gear and a helmet; as she climbed into the Prowler, she felt her pulse picking up. Joe had been a naval aviator before an accident had ruined his vision and he’d traded flying for spying. This would all be old hat for him, but she’d never flown in a jet with this much power before.

The takeoff from the carrier’s deck was a thrill ride times a thousand, the jet’s thrust slamming her hard into the seat. “That was way too quick. I want to do it again,” she said into the intercom.

“You’d have made a great pilot,” Joe’s voice came back.

“Glad you enjoyed it, Ms. Blair,” she heard from the pilot. “Always my pleasure to give a hot woman a thrill.”

Yes, she thought with a grin. Flyboys do love their thrills—of all kinds.

The flight to Pensacola left her too much time to wonder about what job could be so complicated as to require uncommon linguistic skills.

Time to think, also, of how much she did not want to deal anymore with the brutality and destruction some people seemed compelled to commit. She was quite certain why they’d sent Joe to rope her in. They knew she would trust him. And she did. If Joe believed it was important for her to do this, then they figured she’d go along.

At the Pensacola air station, she and Joe ran to a waiting private executive jet, were whisked inside and were quickly once again airborne. Free of the uncomfortable flight suit, she stretched her legs and arms and sighed. Except for the pilot and a copilot, they were alone at last, Joe sitting facing her in one of the comfortable leather seats. “So what can you tell me?”

Joe removed one shoe and then the other. “It’s bad, Nova. Potentially a disaster.”

He started massaging the ball of one foot. With a grin, he said, “Sorry, but the sneakers are new. My feet ache like hell.”

She pinched her nose in fake revulsion. “As I recall, you’re the guy with a great perfume connoisseur’s nose. How can you think of subjecting me to male foot smell?”

“Gonna pass out?”

She let go of her nose. “No. I’ll just cut down on breathing. So, what kind of disaster?”

He talked with his eyes closed. “On the plane coming down here, after I got the call instructing me to fetch you, I received some further information. Not much, but here’s what I know.” He opened his eyes, propped one leg across his knee. “SISMI has obtained reliable information that someone in the Amalfi area has their hands on the formula for a new strain of the Ebola virus.”

Icy fingers brushed a chill across her throat.

“It’s a modified form of something called the Reston strain, which apparently means you don’t need physical contact to get it. It can be spread in the air.”

From her op in Pakistan, Nova was all too familiar with the early symptoms of the Ebola Zaire strain: fever, headache, muscle ache, rash, diarrhea, vomiting and stomach pain. The Zaire strain was the first one recorded, named after the African country of Zaire, where the first outbreak was recorded. To date, it was the most lethal strain, with a fatality rate of eighty to ninety percent. During her pre-op briefing for Pakistan, she’d been shown a photo that had been taken during an outbreak in Gabon. A woman held her child, both of them in the final stages of the disease. A bloody rash covered their bodies and they were bleeding from the eyes, ears and nose. They would likely die from shock before they bled out.

Nova shuddered. She thought about the Reston strain and what she knew about it. As bad as Ebola Zaire was, becoming infected required physical contact with body fluids. The Reston strain was not as fatal, but had the potential to be much worse because it could be transmitted through the air.

“So you’re saying that someone is selling the information needed to take the rather tame but airborne Reston strain and turn it into a deadly, airborne strain. Right?”

Joe shook his head. “What does it mean if it has a ‘carrier phase’?”

Bad to horribly bad! “What that means is that they have modified it so that a person can have the disease but not show symptoms for quite a while. Days or even weeks. And all the time they’re walking around, they’re spreading it.”

“Holy shit!”

“Is it the virus that’s being sold, or just the know-how to make it, if someone gets their hands on some Reston?”

Joe shrugged. “Don’t know. The message only said that SISMI had evidence that someone has their hands on the formula for creating a new strain of Reston Ebola virus with a carrier phase and is going to sell it. I presume it refers to the formula.”

“Let us pray that it doesn’t refer to the actual virus, either the original Reston or, even worse, the modified form.”

They were quiet a moment. The world was rapidly becoming a bloody scary place. So many seriously misguided men and women were willing to kill thousands, and technology made it ridiculously simple and possible. A wave of sadness pulled at her.

Joe was absolutely right. She couldn’t walk away.

“So, how’s your love life?”

She laughed. The question was such a complete switch, but she welcomed anything to take her mind off the mission for the moment. “We never talked much about our love lives in Germany, did we?”

“No. I’d say we pretty much had other things on our minds. How have you been doing? I mean, about cutting König loose?”

“It was tough for a while, but I’ve met someone new. His name is, um, James Padgett.” James Padgett! Why would she make up such a dumb thing? “He’s crazy about photography, like me.”

Well that proved it. When she was with Joe, she lost her grip on reality. A mild case of disconnect, to be sure, but enough to make her fabricate a romance!

She countered. “So what about you?”

Now he grinned. “Been really busy for the Company. Until two days ago, I hadn’t even been to my D.C. condo in over a month.”

“I didn’t know you lived in D.C.”

“There’s a lot of stuff, isn’t there, that we don’t know about each other.”

She let it go at that. They settled back to their own thoughts. That was something she remembered liking about Joe. He didn’t need to talk all the time. And he knew when to stop asking questions. At one point he went to the rear and returned in civvies.

Their Alitalia flight, direct to Rome, would take off at 5:30 p.m. They made the Atlanta airport in good time, close to 4:45, and were ushered through security by the local Company man who met them. Using her computer, she checked her e-mail. Nothing important. Everyone was expecting her to be in Costa Rica for another two weeks.

She felt a caffeine twitch. “How about we hit Starbucks for a cappuccino?” she asked Joe as he closed his own laptop.

He nodded, and they made their way to the food court. “I pay,” she said.

He laughed out loud. “Yep. You sure do. Every cup of cappuccino we ever have together, you pay for.”

So Joe remembered their bet. In Germany, she had made a bet with him on who was the bad guy. He had won. She paid for all future cappuccinos.

They checked into the boarding area and, as they sipped, she called her sister Star in La Jolla. First, she asked about their mother’s condition; their mother had had another small stroke.

“It’s not too bad,” Star assured her.

Nova also asked about Maggie and learned that the girl was indeed going to Italy in two days.

Star explained, “It’s another hiking trip like the one the Robertsons took her on last year.”

“After Costa Rica, I might be going to Italy. If I get some time, I might try to hook up with Maggie and the Robertsons. I’ll call if it looks like I might be able to work it out.”

Maggie was the closest thing Nova had to a daughter. She’d been at the hospital, in the birthing room, when Maggie was born. In Nova’s life, Maggie was a bright, lovely light.

She didn’t tell Star about the abrupt change of plans from Costa Rica. Not one person in her life, not even Star, knew about her work for the company.

She called her close friend, Penny. She and Penny, the gay owner of La Jolla’s most prestigious beauty salon, had side-by-side apartments. He, bless his heart, took care of her plants and her cat, Divinity, when she was away.

“The Costa Rica trip might be longer than two weeks. And I may take a side trip to Italy.”

“No problem,” Penny said.

When she and Joe had settled into their seats in Alitalia’s business class, she watched as the flight attendants, both of them, fawned over Joe. Yes, the two women were gracious to her as well, but they absolutely glowed when they talked with Joe.

When she and Joe had privacy again she said, “It’s actually fun to watch you at work.”

“Nova, I swear I usually don’t do a thing. Yes, I know I can turn on the smile and charm if I need to. But it’s always been like this since I was, maybe, fourteen. It’s a blessing, sure. But it’s also a curse. Look at how you’re dressed. Hair hidden by that braid, that gray outfit, no makeup. It must be a relief to, sort of, be able to disappear. A guy can’t change his hair or leave off the makeup.”

“Ah, the burden,” she said, her amusement showing in a wry smile.

One of the flight attendants offered them magazines. Nova took O and InStyle, but for a while she and Joe talked about Italy. Both had been there twice before. Both of them loved the astounding history of Rome, the republic and then the empire.

Dinner was served, including wine. Joe raved about his boeuf bourguignon. Her stuffed manicotti melted in her mouth. They talked long into the darkness. She was tired and she knew he had to be as well, but somehow the flow of conversation about sports and movies seemed too exciting to break off.

But eventually it did. He beat her to sleep. As she started to drift off, she opened her eyes again, just to catch a glance of him sleeping. She couldn’t remember ever having seen him sleeping before.

The urge to reach out and touch the brown hair that curled onto his forehead was so strong that she nearly had to sit on her hand to keep from doing it.




Chapter 7


The home Ahmad had made for his family lay a short five-minute uphill drive from Amalfi’s distinctive Moorish-Norman cathedral. When he arrived, the smell of lamb cooking greeted him. Nissia had promised shish kebab for dinner. He would also have her make atayef. The pancake—filled with walnuts, cinnamon and sugar, and drenched in syrup—was his favorite dessert, and tonight was a night to celebrate.

Leila, his fifteen-year-old daughter, and fourteen-year-old Hanan sat at the dining room table dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Leila was fixing her sister’s hair. Saddoun, his eyes riveted to television news about the Madrid bomb blast, seemed not to even register that his father had arrived.

Leila glanced at Ahmad and smiled. “The peace of Allah be upon you, Father.”

“And upon you, Daughter. Where is your mother?”

“She’s in the bedroom with Fatima.”

Leila’s greeting smile had entirely faded when he asked about her mother. Clearly, something was wrong. Yesterday had been Fatima’s twelfth birthday. She had reached puberty and today was the first day she had gone to school wearing a hajib. Had something gone wrong? Had someone insulted her? Some in the Italian government proposed to ban the head scarf in public schools.

Finally Saddoun noticed his presence. “Look, Father,” Saddoun said. “One of our soldiers has struck a heavy blow in Madrid. I can almost feel the fear of the infidels coming through the television.”

“Have they said yet who is taking credit?”

“No. But I’m sure it’s one of ours.” Saddoun looked at Ahmad, his mouth open, perhaps to ask Ahmad to verify if this was true.

Ahmad shook his head and indicated with a nod toward the girls that Saddoun should not speak of men’s matters in front of them. Saddoun grinned. “I earned highest rank today for my marksmanship in gun class.” He turned back to the television.

At only sixteen, Saddoun had yet to fill out. He was slender and wiry like his mother, and like his youngest sister, Fatima, he had high spirits. But while Fatima already at twelve was proving a difficult handful, drawn like so many of the young to sinful Western ways, Saddoun was filled with the righteous spirit of Allah. On his fifteenth birthday, Saddoun had begged Ahmad to let him take a gun class and a class in karate. He was, in fact, becoming quite good at both. Ahmad felt a warm glow of pride just looking at his son’s fine hands and strong shoulders.

Nissia joined them, but without Fatima. Usually everyone came to greet him.

“Where is Fatima?”

“We have to talk about her,” Nissia replied. “And you will have to talk to her.”

“First I want you all to listen to me.” He looked at Saddoun. “Turn down the TV.”

He immediately had their attention. “I have not been able to tell you something sooner, and I regret that. I know what I’m going to say will not please you. But it is necessary.”

“What can be so serious?” Nissia frowned. She shook her head and softly muttered, “Allah deliver me from this horrible day.”

“I have purchased airline tickets for all of you to leave Amalfi on the fourteenth of this month. The tickets will take all of you to your mother in Jordan, Nissia.”

For a moment, the only sound was the low background chattering of the television.

Then their protests burst forth all at once. “I can’t leave school,” Leila cried. “I have a party on the sixteenth,” declared Hanan.

“That’s impossible,” Nissia said, lips set in a hard line.

“I won’t go,” Saddoun said.

Ahmad held up his hand and stared each of them down. “This is not debatable. This is essential. It is necessary that you submit to my will.”

Only Saddoun and Nissia knew that he was far more than a very successful dealer in fresh fish. He saw both of them struggle to resign themselves to what they could not question.

Hanan said, “Father, why do we have to leave? Just us? Aren’t you coming?”

“This is something I can’t explain. It’s something you must accept.”

He turned to Nissia. “Now, what is this problem with Fatima? Where is she?”

Saddoun continued to stare at him, his young jaw set firm, but Leila returned her attention to Hanan’s hair with only a protesting pout on her lips.

“Come with me,” Nissia said. She turned and headed for Fatima’s bedroom. He followed, his good mood having entirely evaporated. He could tell from Nissia’s straight back and stiff neck that she was in foul humor.

Fatima lay on her bed. The room held the scent of jasmine. Quite inappropriate for a twelve-year-old.

Like his other daughters, Fatima wore jeans and a T-shirt. He accepted this in the home, provided that in public the garments covered their arms and legs and that they wore a hajib to cover their hair and necks. Nissia had sided with Leila and Hanan about being casual at home, so he found it the only way to keep even half the peace. Hearing them enter, Fatima sat up but did not greet him. She stared straight ahead.

Nissia walked to the chest of drawers and picked up a photo. She handed it to Ahmad and said flatly, “I found this in her bottom drawer.”

The photo had a signature identifying the subject—Christina Aguilera. The young woman in the publicity photo wore a shape- and skin-revealing red outfit characteristic of a woman of the streets. Arms, shoulders, neck and practically all of her legs were exposed.

He felt the warmth of anger at his neck. “Why would you keep a picture of such a woman?”

Finally Fatima looked at him. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s shameless!”

Nissia sat the picture back onto the dresser. “The picture is only a symptom of the problem, Ahmad. I am sorry to say that your daughter tried to deceive us.”

At the word deceive, he felt his pulse begin to thrum against his temples. “Explain.”

“She left the house wearing her head scarf, and she was wearing it when she came home. But Hanan told me she took it off at school.”

Ahmad stepped to Fatima, grabbed her wrist, pulled her to her feet and slapped her face. “Repent at once!” he commanded.

She pulled away and sat on the bed; tears welled in her eyes and spilled over.

“I said, repent.”

“I—I don’t want to stick out. I don’t want them to stare at me and make fun. I will lose all my friends.”

“You will wear the hajib. You will wear it both to protect yourself from the unwanted stares of men and to honor Allah, who alone is worthy of our worship. If you do not, if you disobey me, the next time I will beat you.”

She seemed to shrink a bit.

“Do you understand me?”

For a moment, she simply sat in sullen silence. Finally, she nodded.

“Repent!”

She took a shaky breath. “O Allah, I repent before You for all my sins and I promise never to return to the same.”

“I am shamed,” he said. “I pray to Allah that this is the end of it.”

He paused, glaring at her a moment to be certain the message had sunk in, and then spun on his heels and strode back toward the living room, at the same time both heartsick and furious. The infidels, if they could, would rob him of his children, but very soon he would strike a blow for Allah that would bring the cursed Westerners to their knees.




Chapter 8


With Joe leading, Nova stepped from the offloading ramp into the Alitalia boarding gate at Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport at roughly 8:15 a.m., local time. She had checked her duffel bag through, as he had, but she carried her aluminum photo equipment case and a briefcase with personal items and her laptop. Joe, too, had briefcase in hand.

“What’s our contact’s name?” she asked.

“Cesare Giordano.”

A tall, thin, clean-shaven and extravagantly dressed man of about thirty-five with bright blue eyes and a neatly trimmed van Dyke held a small sign that said CAT—Blair/Cardone. They walked up to him. Still leading, Joe stuck out his hand.

“I’m Cardone. This is Blair,” he said, nodding toward Nova.

Nova took in the man who should be Cesare Giordano and hid her surprise, although she did share a quick glance with Joe. Joe’s slightly lifted eyebrows suggested that he was having a similarly amazed reaction.

The man’s perfectly cut slacks were black; his long-sleeved silk shirt purple with a red crown pattern over one pocket. It was either an expensive Armani or a fine knockoff. Open at the throat, the shirt framed a heavy gold necklace, the chain holding a massive, two-inch bull’s head with sapphire eyes and polished black horns, probably onyx. Very expensive—with cuff links to match. The shoes were Bruno Magli, of O.J. Simpson fame. He whipped off a pair of sunglasses with metallic, hide-your-eyes lenses. If this was a disguise for a SISMI agent, it was certainly a good one. Her thought was, Beverly Hills pimp but with lots of class.

“Delighted, delighted. I’m Cesare Giordano,” he said smiling effusively. “So pleased to welcome you to Rome, once the capital of the known world. While you are in Italy, you will be my responsibility.”

Before either she or Joe could respond, sleek Cesare Giordano was at her side with the speed of a sprinter. She smelled just a delicate hint of a fruity cologne. He reached for her photocase. But she was also quick. She pulled it back before he could relieve her of it.

“No, no. Really. You must let me carry your case. A beautiful woman should not be toting luggage through Rome.”

“How about some ID?” she said.

He held up a hand dramatically, smiled, nodded. He pulled out a wallet from his slacks pocket and flipped it open. A SISMI badge bore his picture and the name Cesare Giordano.

She handed over the camera equipment. “Very thoughtful of you.”

“My honor, I assure you. Shall we proceed to baggage claim area. I presume you do have luggage?”

“Right,” Joe said.

“And how was your flight?” Cesare asked. Without waiting for an answer he commented on what he felt was the excellent quality of Alitalia service, comparing it one after the other with Lufthansa, British Airways and Aeroflot.

Side by side, she and Joe followed the SISMI agent through the airport to the baggage carousels. With pleasing speed, their bags arrived.

They followed Giordano outside into a warm bright June morning, marred by the stink of petrol and the noise of heavy traffic and landing airplanes. A car—a black, four-door Alfa Romeo—waited nearby, presumably granted this parking privilege because of the importance of the arrivals being picked up. Or, perhaps, because of Giordano’s pull.

Giordano clicked open the trunk. He had been making more or less one-sided conversation from the moment he had led them toward the baggage claim. As he put Nova’s aluminum case inside, he said, “It is my task to make you both comfortable.” He relieved Joe of his duffel bag, stowed it in the trunk, and then Nova’s. “I shall take you to a hotel at once. You may wish to relax a bit. I suggest you also sleep if you can today so as to readjust to time lag as quickly as possible. Right?”

Nova heard a sound from his car, looked up, and there in the back window she saw a small, white dog. A Lhasa apso.

“That’s my dear Principessa,” Giordano said.

Maybe it was the dear, but Giordano suddenly reminded her strongly of Penny. Giordano’s gay too. He has to be gay. Either that or he’d created a brilliant cover.

He held the door for Nova to sit in the front seat. Joe settled himself in the back. Principessa settled herself into Nova’s lap, at first wiggling and licking, but quickly curling up to be petted.

“Are we to stay in Rome, Mr. Giordano?” Nova asked.

“Oh please, please. Not Mr. Giordano. I am Cesare.”

The car, with Cesare in enthusiastic control, pulled into the traffic. They were out of the airport area in good time.

“Yes,” he finally said as they moved onto the freeway leading into Rome. “Tomorrow you will meet at a SISMI office here, in Rome, with Aldo Provenza, the case officer in charge of operation Global Dread.”

Cesare suddenly stuck his long arm across Nova’s chest to point out her window. “Now you see that splendid mansion! I am the creator of its absolutely glorious interior. I certainly wish we were not so pressed for time. I would love to show you some of my work. But we will save that for another day.”

Joe said, “Don’t you work for SISMI?”

“Would I be guessing correctly if both of you are thinking, ‘It’s just not possible this charming man is a SISMI agent.’ But I am. I’m accustomed to that reaction. But I assure you, I am their most important asset in all of Italy. Yes, I am. I am—with all due humility—Italy’s premier artiste of interior design. I have access to the homes of not only the rich and famous, but also the would-be rich and famous. And if I show up at someone’s door, anyone’s door, I am welcomed with open arms. And now, seeing you both, I am certain we shall make a perfect team. You are foreigners and, like me, you look nothing like agents. Amalfi, for her natives, is a small world, and outsiders are always noticed if they are not obvious tourists. You two are perfect.”

Again, Nova flashed on a comparison of Cesare with Penny. Her neighbor owned La Jolla’s most prestigious beauty salon and was every bit as proud of his work as Cesare. But while Cesare was showing every indication of being garrulous, Penny was a man of few, but carefully chosen, words. He shared with Cesare, though, a belief in his importance and artistry. Before long, it should become obvious whether Cesare was a blowhard or the real thing.

He continued to describe every notable point of interest along the freeway leading into the capital. Nova continued to stroke Principessa, who seemed to be a perfect lady.

All at once, Joe chimed in with, “You know, Cesare, Nova and I have both been here before. Several times.”

Nova turned to look back at Joe. He let his eyes roll skyward, clearly not thrilled by Cesare’s steady verbal stream.

“Oh, of course. I would imagine that both of you are experienced travelers.”

The car lurched left, Cesare changing lanes abruptly, ostensibly to avoid crashing into the bakery truck in front of them. She saw Joe grip his briefcase tightly just as she swiveled forward again to watch the road—and Cesare’s driving.

“I myself travel relatively little out of the country as my work consumes any spare time I might have. But it is such a pleasure to point out those features of Rome that only a native is likely to know.”

Nova glanced back at Joe. His arms were crossed, his eyes staring out the window. He was too good an agent to let his feelings show on his face unless he chose to, but she knew him thoroughly and imagined that in his mind he was gritting his teeth.

Poor Joe, she thought, but with a secret smile. She was actually enjoying Cesare—although he did seem a bit too excited by his own conversation to be driving.

“Have you heard about the bombing in Madrid yesterday?” Cesare asked.

“I haven’t heard or read any news since day before yesterday,” Joe answered.

“I predict it will be the handiwork of Al Qaeda,” Cesare continued.

“Determined bastards,” Joe replied.

Soon they were within the city’s embrace. Narrow streets ran beside the arches of a thousand-year-old aqueduct. She simply could not imagine how anything made of bricks and concrete could last that long. What fabulous stories those bricks could tell! Flowers gaily graced second floor windows and balconies of buildings that seemed to sag with age. A constant flow of people in cars and on bikes passed going in all directions.

Their car swept through the Piazza Venezia past the Vittorio Emanuele monument, and then down the crowded Via dei Fori Imperiali. On her right she recognized the grounds of ancient Rome’s heart, the Forum, and farther ahead she could see the northwest side of the Coliseum. She felt an elated buzz. No one could be blasé in this place. From this spot on the globe, the Romans had conquered and ruled the world for a thousand years.

Before they reached the Coliseum, Cesare lurched the car left into the rushing traffic of Via Cavour. From previous trips, Nova knew that not far ahead lay Rome’s central train station. Cesare, however, braked to a teeth-clicking stop in front of the Hotel Imperial Cavour. She gave it a quick assessing appraisal and ranked the seven-story hotel tentatively as three-star.

Again with sprinter-like speed, Cesare leapt out of the car and rushed around to open Nova’s door. Setting Principessa on the passenger seat, she let Cesare play gentleman, which, judging from his happy smile as she stepped from the car, pleased him. Joe, she noted, was glowering.

“Registration is in your own names. Tomorrow morning I will pick you up promptly at nine. You will spend the day in briefings. We are somewhat short on time, so I myself will be making final arrangements for our lodgings in Positano and for our transportation the day after tomorrow to Sorrento by helicopter and from Sorrento to Positano by auto.”

He opened the trunk and took out Nova’s gear. Joe, with quick-time speed to match Cesare’s, grabbed up his own gear. As the doorman piled everything onto a luggage cart, Cesare said, “Tomorrow I will pick you up after your briefings. By the way, don’t let Provenza frighten you.”

Joe blew his breath out.

Cesare looked first at Joe and then at her and shook his head. “But, of course, neither of you will be. What am I thinking? I myself am from Milan and the man is Sicilian, and I never really trust Sicilians.”

He turned, sank into his Alfa and, with a wave and a ciao, took off.

“At last,” Joe said as they strode toward the hotel entrance.

“I think he’s funny. And informative.”

“He’s going to drive me nuts.”

She patted Joe’s arm.

The stones of the street and the pavement already throbbed with heat. By noon, Rome would be as hot as Costa Rica had been.

Once inside the hotel and registered, she said, “I’d like to walk down to the Coliseum and maybe through the Forum. Want to come?”

He hesitated, clearly undecided. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Not really.” In truth, the thought of what they might be facing had her wound up tight. Maybe a walk could calm her. “But you’re right. Tomorrow we need to be bright-eyed and clear-brained.”

“Funny. I’m surprised that I actually forgot your insomniac thing about only needing three or four hours of sleep. I would want to come with you. Anywhere with you. But let me crash now. Tomorrow, after the briefing, we’ll do something.”

They stepped into the elevator and the bellman followed them in with the luggage, crowding the modest space. Her shoulder pressed against Joe’s strong, hard, and utterly male one. She suffered the outrageously out-of-place wish that they weren’t headed for separate rooms, followed immediately by an urge to ruffle his cocky feathers. “I know how kids need their sleep.”

He shrugged. “Just a normal guy who needs the normal amount of sleep. Unlike some weird folks I know.”

He followed her down the hall. Her thoughts switched again to tomorrow. What would they learn? Were they only concerned with the sale of deadly information, or was it the virus itself that was to be sold? Tonight, even four hours of sleep might be hard to come by.




Chapter 9


Jabalya Refugee Camp, Gaza Strip, Palestine

Ali Yassin stared at his brother’s bier, but his thoughts were on his mission in Rome.

“Now, Ali,” his uncle said softly, bringing Ali back to the squalor of the tent he and his mother, brother and two sisters called home.

His brother was dead, killed because he had been throwing stones. As dead as his father and two uncles before him. Ali became once again aware of the noise of the crowd outside, the sounds of the wailing of women and the chanting of prayers by men.

His mother touched Ali’s hand. “Carry him proudly.” Tears welled in her eyes above the veil that would cover her as she followed yet another of her loved ones to his funeral.

“Pride,” he said as he stepped over to the crude bier and, with his uncle and four other men, lifted it off the wooden table. “You can’t eat pride. Pride won’t put clothes on a man’s back. Pride won’t get a man an education. Pride is good, but it’s not enough.”

With the other men, he moved toward the door, and then out into the street.

Shouts of “Revenge! Revenge!” rose. The women’s wailing grew louder.

Waving palm branches and Hamas flags, the mourners moved slowly down the narrow and filthy street toward the camp’s humble mosque.

Soon his mother, sisters and uncle would have reason to be proud of what he would do, something that would make his name famous far beyond Palestine—and his mother would have the money given to the families of all martyrs who went to Allah.




Chapter 10


Cesare and Principessa dropped off Nova and Joe in front of a business with a sign that said Condolezzi, Importo e Exporto. The office occupied the middle of a block in a modest, tree-lined neighborhood halfway between their downtown hotel and the airport.

A small fountain in a pocket park in the center of the street gurgled pleasantly. Shops on either side and across the way proclaimed that they were a bakery, tobacco shop, shoe repair, Internet café and a copying and business supply establishment. The smell of cinnamon and coffee from the bakery lent the whole neighborhood a spirit of hominess.

“When you are ready to be picked up, call me on my cell,” Cesare announced, as full of energy and enthusiasm as he had been yesterday.

With Joe at her side, Nova entered Condolezzi. She would have preferred to be wearing something more professional than casual slacks, but so far she’d had no good chance to shop.

The balding middle-aged man reading a newspaper behind the counter removed his glasses. The smell of his pipe smoke suddenly evoked her father’s presence. Kind, strong, world diplomat, excellent father, loyal husband. His death in a plane crash into the water at Capri when he was much, much too young had changed everything in Nova’s life—for the worse. Her throat tightened.

How very different it all would have been, Papa, if you’d lived. I still miss you.

How ironic that beautiful Capri was such a short distance away and would be even closer tomorrow, when she and Joe reached Positano.

Her father had been, like Nova, tall and dark and with the same emerald-green eyes. Her straight hair and the slightly oriental almond shape to her eyes, though, came from her mother, who now lived in a full-care facility in La Jolla, an hour’s drive from Nova but quite near Star.

Nova’s mother was half Chinese and half Scottish and had been, in her day, an extraordinary beauty. Her father said that the moment he’d set eyes on her mother, at a diplomatic function in Hong Kong, he’d been her slave—or so he’d always claimed, laughing. The very language gifts that brought Nova into this smoke-filled room in Rome began with her life as a diplomat’s daughter.

She traveled, learning about so many places in the world right up until her father’s death and her mother’s tragic marriage to Candido. Rape, killing Candido and prison—that had been the beginning of learning about evil.

The balding man gestured with his pipe stem toward the door at the far end of the sparsely furnished room, then returned to his newspaper. There would be no ID check here in this public section.

Nova shook herself. To focus, she made note of the room’s number of desks (five), number of personnel (two young women, in addition to the senior man), the miscellaneous phones, faxes, posters and a wall clock with times around the world that suggested Condolezzi might actually do some importing and exporting.

The two women smiled at Joe, and Nova felt them watching her as well as she followed Joe to the rear door stamped with a sign saying, in Italian, Private, Store Personnel Only.

Joe opened the door for her. A large room full of shelved items held one man, dressed casually in slacks and sport shirt but armed with a Beretta 92F semiautomatic. He stood up. She and Joe showed the IDs that Cesare had supplied. These indicated that they were Jane and James Blake, Private Investigators. A small mark in one corner gave them immediate access to SISMI channels of communication or operations involved with Global Dread.

In Italian, he said, “Take the elevator and press the Loading Dock button.”

They went down. When the elevator door opened, they entered an entirely different world—ultramodern, with computers on every desk. Condolezzi was actually a SISMI operations center and safe house.

A nattily dressed bull of a man—her immediate thought was Olympic wrestler—stood at once and strode toward them with firm steps. She guessed his age at fifty. Clean-shaven and a bit jowly to match his bulk, he still had a full head of wavy, dark brown hair. He’d been perched on the edge of one of the ten desks in the room, talking to a man whose turban and coloring indicated he was probably a Sikh.

Fourteen SISMI personnel toiled at various tasks. She noted big blow-up maps of Italy and Europe on two of the walls and six huge, wall-mounted TV monitors.

“Glad to welcome you both,” said the Olympic wrestler in flawless English with a British accent. “I’m Aldo Provenza.”

So, she thought, letting a small smile curve her lips. The Sicilian whom Cesare claims not to trust.

Provenza introduced them, using English, and then steered them into a side conference room. Only the Sikh, Sandeep Dev, joined them.

“Would either of you care for something to drink?” Provenza asked, continuing in English. It looked as if Provenza felt the meeting would go most smoothly in English. “Water? Coffee? Tea?”

“Two coffees, black, would be nice,” Joe said. He glanced at her to make sure she, in fact, wanted coffee. She nodded.

Dev sent out a request for three black coffees and one Earl Gray tea. Provenza indicated that she and Joe should take seats at the starkly functional but expensive chrome conference table that occupied the room’s center. The chairs were matching chrome with extremely comfy blue upholstery.

“We’re profoundly glad to have you help us out here, Ms. Blair,” Provenza continued. He took the seat at the head of the table.

Nova sat across from Joe. She noted three thick manila file folders neatly lined up in the table’s center. Two other folders, also labeled in Italian, lay in front of Provenza. “May I call you Nova? I understand you speak quite a few languages.”

“Eight,” Joe chimed in.

“Nova is fine,” she answered.

“Eight. Quite impressive indeed. Although,” Provenza patted one of the files in front of him, “as an ex-field agent, I’m even more impressed with your ability to shoot, bomb, steal and just plain out-wit a lot of other people through your years of work for the Company.”

This sort of talk always made her squirm. “Perhaps we’ll have time for me to show you some of my more positive skills.”

“And these are?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”





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