in,” he said easily. “Thought I knew him from somewhere and was curious as to his identity.”
“Now you know. Want me to track down his number for you?”
“That’s okay. I can get it. Thanks.”
He hung up and made two additional calls. The first was to the Office of Special Investigations. The OSI conducted counterintelligence ops within the air force, in addition to investigating everything from terrorism to desertion, drug trafficking and/or murder.
The local OSI duty officer patched him through immediately to the F. E. Warren detachment commander, Lt. Colonel Paul Handerhand. Hander hand listened without comment when Dodge described Major Petrovna’s odd behavior, and promised to have his people check out Hank Barlow.
“I’ll do the same,” Dodge advised.
That was met with a short silence. Handerhand had been read-in on some of Dodge’s background and knew he’d been brought in from an outside agency. That was all he knew.
“Let me know what you find out,” Handerhand said briskly.
“Same goes.”
Dodge disconnected and pressed the star key on his cell phone. The instrument looked ordinary enough, but Mackenzie Blair Jensen, the agency’s guru of all things electronic, had crammed in enough circuitry to bounce signals off a supernova. The device also performed an instant thumbprint, iris scan and voice analysis to identify the user’s biometrics and detect if he or she was under duress before connecting to OMEGA’s control center.
The high-tech control center was located on the third floor of a town house in the heart of Washington D.C.’s embassy district. All a casual passerby would see if they strolled past the town house was a discreet bronze plaque identifying the building as home to the offices of the President’s Special Envoy. The title was one of those empty honorifics dreamed up to give a wealthy campaign contributor a chance to rub elbows with Washington’s movers and shakers. A mere handful of insiders knew that the President’s Special Envoy also served as director of OMEGA. As such, he fielded highly trained and specialized agents, only at the direction of the president and only when it wasn’t expedient to use other, more established agencies.
Which said a lot about Washington’s determination to make sure this START III inspection went off without a glitch. With the international situation so precarious and wild-eyed insurgents blowing themselves up all around the world, the last thing either the U.S. or Russia needed was an incident that could lead to a nuclear showdown.
Feeling the weight of all those nukes on his shoulders, Dodge held the cell phone up so the scanner could beam his iris print. Seconds later, his controller’s face painted across the screen.
“Hey, Dodger.”
“Hey yourself, Blade.”
Clint Black, code name Blade, had been with OMEGA almost as long as Dodge himself. They’d worked several ops together and would trust each other with their lives. That trust didn’t extend to women, though. Blade was still plotting payback for the fun-loving UPI reporter Dodge had whisked out from under his nose last year.
Although … Dodge and everyone else at OMEGA had been watching with some interest the fireworks that sparked between Blade and one of the newer agents. The betting was Blade’s sharp edge was about to get blunted, big-time.
“How’s it going out there in cowboy country?”
“It’s going,” Dodge replied.
After a succinct status report that included his initial impressions of the three Russians, he broached the reason for his call.
“I need you to check out a dude by the name of Hank Barlow. He’s the CEO of E-Systems.”
“Hank Barlow. E-Systems. Got it. Anything in particular you want me to look for?”
“See if he has any connection to our visiting Russians.”
“Roger that. I’ll get back to you.”
Blade hung up and keyed the name into OMEGA’s computers. While the supercomputer did its thing, he skimmed a glance around the busy control center.
It was geared to operate 24/7. Active and passive electronic countermeasures prevented interception of its encrypted emanations. Communications techs kept the array of computers and wall-size digital displays humming. Even the field-dress unit, which could turn a grungy agent just back from three weeks in the jungle into a tuxedoed James Bond in the blink of an eye, had at least one team member working some esoteric disguise or another.
Blade dragged his chair closer to the operations control panel to key in the name of the individual and company Dodge had just requested data on. Blade intended to run both through a wire-tight screen. He’d done enough covert ops for OMEGA to know success or failure on any mission hung by a thread. A late contact, a small detail buried under others, a blurred photo—any or all of them could spell disaster. He’d just started skimming the info that came when his nemesis strolled in.
“Oh, Christ.”
Victoria Talbot, code name Rebel, caught the low mutter and pasted on a saccharine smile.
“Good to see you, too.”
Blade blew out a slow breath and swung around to face the honey-haired operative. She was dressed in her usual leather: bomber jacket, thigh-hugging pants, boots, all the same thin, supple black. All she needed to complete the image of an oversexed biker babe were a few tattoos.
It wasn’t that Blade disliked the woman. Hell, the truth was, she turned him on. But they’d had this love/hate thing going ever since they’d clashed during Rebel’s first week at OMEGA. It had been a simple misunderstanding, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t need to knock Blade flat on his ass. Wouldn’t have, if he’d had the least inkling she would even try.
They were both professionals. They’d smoothed things over. On the surface, at least. But they both knew whatever the hell was going on beneath that surface would blow up in their faces one of these days.
“You need something?” he asked, with a credible attempt at civility.
“No. Just wanted to check on Dodge.” She cranked her too-sweet smile up another notch. “I thought I could help, since he and I are both former air force.”
And Blade wasn’t. Obviously she thought his stint as a lowly army special-forces grunt didn’t count for squat when dealing with one of her fellow hotshot pilots.
“Thanks anyway, but I’ve got it under control.”
“You sure?” Her glance flicked from him to the screen. What she saw there made her lift a brow. “Hank Barlow? Is that the E-Systems guy?”
She crowded closer to peer at the screen. Too close, dammit. Blade got a whiff of her scent as she leaned over his shoulder. How the hell could leather smell so sexy?
“E-Systems,” she murmured. “Yep, that’s him.”
Much as it galled him, Blade had to ask. “You know him?”
Rebel hitched a hip on the console, forcing him to scoot his chair back to give
