nudged the photo of Prescott to reveal the final one in the pile. It was a long shot of Jack Haden, sitting alone at a table outside a restaurant. Her fingers brushed the image of his face as if by accident, but the recollections that heated inside her were anything but casual.
Meredith spoke carefully. “Haden has always been well-liked at the Agency. I was surprised when I heard he’d transferred to Guatemala.”
Reynolds studied her face. Meredith stared back calmly. She was confident he had no idea she and Haden had been lovers. No one had been better than the two of them at keeping secrets. Even from each other.
Especially from each other.
“I was surprised, too,” Reynolds said finally. “I always thought Hades would close Langley down and turn out the lights after everyone else had gone.”
She smiled without thinking at the nickname but her expression changed as Reynolds continued.
“I find it hard to believe he’s involved in this whole mess, too, but he is. We have the photos and surveillance on the ground. His fingerprints were all over Prescott’s room. You can confirm that with the police if you like. The rest of the information I’ve given you is confidential, of course. But if you want to double-check it…” His voice was stiff and defensive.
“That won’t be necessary. You’ve shown me the photos. If you’re sure, that’s good enough for me.”
“I’ve never been more positive of anything in my life. I wouldn’t have called you if I’d had the slightest doubt.”
“Where is he right now?”
“Guatemala City as far as I know. He hasn’t been in the office for a couple of days, but he’s still in the country. I would have heard if he’d left.”
She sat quietly for a few seconds, then she asked the question she’d been holding back since Dean had called her two days before. “You have other ways to handle this.” Her eyes locked on his. “Why me?”
“You’re the best,” he said without preamble. “And that’s what I have to have.”
She started to interrupt, but he stopped her with an uplifted hand.
“When Jack’s disappearance comes to light—and it will—the investigation will be very thorough. The people in D.C. who work these kinds of details will turn Guatemala upside down trying to figure out what happened. I can’t have any loose ends pointing back to me or, God forbid, the president.” He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. “Can you imagine what would happen if the press were to learn the U.S. president had sanctioned one of his own men? The Agency would be destroyed and no one would care that we’d saved ten thousand lives in the process.” He stared at her without blinking. “You’re the only person who can do this and do it right. If any mistakes are made, we’ll all go down, the country included. You’re the only person in the world I can trust to do this right.”
His confidence in her was reassuring. For a minute, she felt as if her dad were sitting beside her. “And Prescott?”
He crumpled his coffee cup, the action holding a finality. “Prescott’s a civilian. If something happens to him, it would be unfortunate, especially if he’s innocent. Try to bring him back.”
Her words came out with difficulty. “How do you want it to happen?”
“I don’t really care,” he said coolly. “But if I were you, I’d find out if Haden knows where Prescott is before you take care of…things. Other than that, it doesn’t matter. You’re the professional.”
TELLING HER MENTOR she needed some time, Meredith left without giving Dean Reynolds a firm answer. She turned in her rental car at the airport, found her terminal and sat down, her thoughts a lot more convoluted than they had ever been before.
She’d loved working at the CIA and felt as if she’d been made for the job, but that had been the trouble, according to Reynolds. She’d been so good—“born to it,” he’d said, “the kind of agent we get once in a lifetime”—it was felt her talents were being wasted at her post in D.C.
Still, she’d been surprised by Reynolds’s support. The Agency was a place where it was every man for himself. Reynolds was an uptight, by-the-book patriot lawyer who’d been the Director of Operations for years. He’d survived four presidents, two wars and a terrorist attack at the CIA’s headquarters eight miles outside downtown D.C. He didn’t hand out favors easily.
At the conclusion of Meredith’s third year, though, Reynolds had pulled her into his office and pushed a laptop computer across his desk to her. Open on the screen was a written report, the pages of which vanished after she read each one. In the corner there had been a drawing of a small black box. She’d understood what that meant at the end—when the words Classification: Black Box had flashed across the screen, then disappeared.
She’d had no idea there was a level of secrecy within the Agency designated as black box. A class so far above the others that it was described only as silent. When Dean had explained the protocol, she’d been speechless.
“You’ll have to be fired from the Agency,” he’d said. “And you will have to leave in disgrace. No one can ever know that the Operatives have the president’s blessings. If anyone did find out—” He’d stopped abruptly and broken their eye contact. After a short pause, he’d continued. “If they find out, it would be bad, very bad, for all concerned.”
In a daze of disbelief, she’d almost laughed out loud at that point, the old joke about “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you” coming to her. One look at the older man’s expression, however, had sent her amusement fleeing. She’d gone home and agonized over the opportunity but in the end, she’d agreed, the patriotism running through her too strong to resist the pull of performing a service this special for her country. She’d thrown in only one condition—she wanted her father’s help. A former Navy intel man, he’d been quickly approved and even welcomed into the circle.
The Operatives had come together shortly after that. Handpicked by her father and cleared by Meredith, the three men on the team each had their speciality: Stratton O’Neil was a sniper. Jonathan Cruz used his hands. Armando Torres was a doctor, and no one understood exactly how he did what he did.
Meredith’s weapon of choice was the knife.
They were assassins and only a handful of people knew it.
Of those, fewer still knew the whole truth: Every hit they’d ever made had been a sanctioned one, vetted and cleared by the president of the United States himself. The secret was buried so well that even the men on the team didn’t know. At least, not officially. They’d guessed by now, she was sure, but nothing had ever been said about their status.
Haden had not been included in the group who knew these facts. He thought the Operatives were mercenaries, plain and simple. A year or so after she’d been “fired,” she’d run into him at Heathrow. He’d been on his way to the Sudan and she’d been going to Hong Kong. She’d wanted desperately to avoid him, but escape had been out of the question. He’d started straight for her the second he’d seen her.
“I hear you’ve a very rich woman,” he said without preamble.
“I make a living.”
His
