but the most difficult of tasks. He wondered what the good director was going to ask him to do this time.
The elevator doors whooshed open. Robert stepped into a large room filled with low-rise cubicles, about half of them occupied by men and women hunched over computers or speaking into communication headsets. He spotted Carla Juarez, who waved, flashed a dazzling smile, then turned her wheelchair and headed in his direction. Robert watched her approach and smiled for the first time that day. He liked Carla. She was young and pretty with a lovely sense of humor. Up until a year ago she’d been a field operative. Then she’d taken a bullet in her back during a deep cover operation in Eastern Europe. The injury had left her partially paralyzed. She’d been through hell in the last year—something he identified with even though they’d never discussed anything so personal. But unlike Robert, Carla had never grown bitter.
“Hey, Dr. Davidson, how’s it going?” she asked.
Because he didn’t want to answer that truthfully, Robert put on a grin and lied through his teeth. “Couldn’t be better.”
She rolled her eyes. “For an agent, you’re not a very good liar.”
“Thanks.” Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I think.”
“Pin bothering you?”
Subconsciously, he brushed his hand over his left thigh. “Must be a front coming in,” he said shortly, not because he was annoyed but because it embarrassed him to complain about his leg to a woman with a severed spinal cord.
“Takes time,” she said breezily. “Been able to run yet?”
“I’m up to two miles.” It hurt like hell, but he ran. He’d be damned if he was going to spend the rest of his life letting the residual damage from a shattered femur keep him idle. “Played basketball a couple of weeks ago.”
“Ethan told me he beat your butt.”
“I guess that makes him a better liar than me.”
“And a sore loser.” She smiled. “Hatch is expecting you.”
“Thanks.” Robert opened the door to find Samuel Hatch standing at the back of his office looking at a tiny, withered plant.
He looked over his shoulder at Robert and scowled. “Damn strawberry plant is going to die on me,” he muttered.
“They need sunlight.”
“Security had a cow when I suggested I get an office with a view.”
Robert stepped closer and glanced at the plant, wondering why a man like Hatch was so concerned with a scraggly little plant no one cared about. “They like sandy soil,” he offered. “Or maybe some cow manure.”
At Hatch’s questioning look, he added, “I worked in a nursery part-time during high school.”
“I’ll see if procurement can get me a plant light and some cow poop, then.”
Hatch left the plant and seated himself behind his desk. Robert guessed him to be about sixty years of age, though he could pass for forty-five. He was bald on top but kept the rest of his gray hair cropped short. He was of medium height and slightly rumpled in appearance. Part soldier, part scientist, he was fit for his age and glowing with health. He would have been ordinary-looking if not for the sharp intelligence that burned like gemstones in his green eyes.
Robert took the adjacent chair and waited for the briefing to begin.
“How’s the leg?” Hatch asked, pulling a file from his drawer and setting it on the desk between them.
Robert shifted uncomfortably in the chair, wondering how the other man would react if he answered truthfully. “No problems.”
“You running?”
“Twice a week. Two miles.”
“Good. I like my agents in shape.” Hatch opened the file. “I need you to go to Rebelia.”
For a moment, Robert wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. Then the meaning behind the single word struck him like a rude slap. Dread curdled in his stomach. He stared at the older man, aware that his heart rate had spiked, that a cold sweat had broken out on the back of his neck.
“I know how you feel about Rebelia, Robert, but—”
“I don’t think you do—”
“Dr. Alex Morrow is still missing.” Hatch cut him off. “I want my operative back.”
Robert had never met Morrow, but he’d heard of his work as a environmental biologist within the ARIES network. The man was brilliant. A legend in a few circles. “I knew he was missing. I thought you’d send someone else.”
Hatch looked at him with those sharp green eyes. “You know Rebelia.”
Robert shifted uneasily in his chair, wishing he’d never heard of that godforsaken country, trying hard to control the pounding of his heart—and the bitterness at the back of his throat.
“I need you, Robert. You know Rebelia and her people better than any man in the division,” Hatch said. “You know the customs. The language, the regional dialects. You have contacts—”
“Hatch, with all due respect I haven’t been in the country for almost two years.”
“Save the excuses, Robert.” A hint of ice laced Hatch’s voice. “I’m not asking.”
Clamping his jaws together, Robert looked at his hands, then at Hatch. “Rebelia is still pretty volatile these days.”
“You can handle it.” Hatch’s eyes narrowed, sharpened. “Can’t you?”
After an interminable moment, Robert nodded. He could handle it. But he sure as hell didn’t like it. Not because of the civil war, but because of the ghosts.
“All right,” he said. “I’m in. What do you need?”
“Your mission is twofold. Your first priority is to set up a base of operations for what will be the third leg of the mission. While you’re there I want you to find out everything you can about Bruno DeBruzkya.”
The sweat on Robert’s neck turned to ice at the mention of DeBruzkya. He could feel the muscles bunching with tension. “You mean aside from his being a ruthless son of a bitch?”
“Intelligence tells us he’s been stealing gems.”
“I know about the gems.”
“Then I’ll recap what we know so far. We have substantial evidence telling us that he’s behind at least four heists. The Stedt Museum in London. The Legvold collection in Stockholm. A private collector in Frankfurt.”
“The Gala Summit.” Robert had been there as part of the surveillance team. He knew what had gone down. And he knew Hatch had nearly lost one of his agents. “Do you have any intelligence as to why he’s amassing gems.”
“Could be any number of things. Maybe
