Rebecca York: Till Death Us Do Part

As Jed watched the servant lead her toward a back hall, he wondered if there was some way he could listen in on the phone conversation.

He’d memorized the floor plan of the house. There was another access to the hall, from a door off the enclosed patio.

As if he had nothing more important to do than get a breath of fresh air, he wandered casually toward the French doors.

When he stepped onto the stone terrace, the tropical night, rich with the scent of flowers, enveloped him. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. As they did, he went very still. Marissa had come out the side door he’d been heading for and was walking rapidly toward the far wing of the house where the office complex was located. The office complex that was strictly off-limits to everyone except Sanchez and his handpicked staff. Jed had heard stories of summary executions of suspected spies caught there.

Didn’t Marissa know the risk she was taking? For that matter, didn’t she know there was a guard? Jed’s gaze probed the darkness.

There was supposed to be a guard. He didn’t seem to be in sight. Had Marissa taken care of him? Jed cursed under his breath. This was just the kind of audacious maneuver she was so good at pulling off.

He was about to follow her; then, before he could, he saw a figure ooze out of the shadows like a night creature crawling out from under a rock. Without making a sound, the man padded after her.

The hair on the back of Jed’s neck stood on end as if a cold breeze had blown across the patio. Marissa was in deep banana oil. Unless he could stop her before she reached the office wing.

* * *

ABOVE THE SOUND of the mariachi band playing at the party, Marissa thought she heard a voice nearby. Her whole body went rigid while she waited for a large hand to clamp down on her shoulder. When the blow didn’t fall, she sprinted the rest of the way to the office wing. The heavy door was unlocked. That had been part of the deal. Jerking it open, she threw herself inside and stood with her shoulders pressed against the carved mahogany.

The door at her back gave her only a partial feeling of security. Now that she was here, she wished she’d come up with some other plan to get the information Victor wanted. Even for her, this was taking a hefty chance.

But it should work out all right.

She’d paid enough bribes to supplement the San Marcos military budget for six months.

Still, as she struggled to bring her breathing into normal range she peered down the hallway searching for signs of life. The place was as silent as a tomb. The only illumination came from a pair of ornate sconces that looked as if they held fifteen-watt bulbs. Since the electricity in San Marcos was likely to be off for half of any twenty-four-hour period, the low wattage made sense. Probably Sanchez was using his own generating plant and needed the bulk of his power supply tonight for the party.

Her high heels sounded like a flamenco dancer as she started down the polished tile passageway. Slipping off her pumps, she looked nervously over her shoulder, half expecting to see Jed Prentiss behind her striding down the hall to catch up. If anyone bollixed up things tonight, it would be him!

All she’d needed a half hour ago, as she was psyching herself for this raid, was to glance up and discover him stalking his way toward her like a jaguar about to pounce on a tethered goat.

Her hands clamped down so tightly on her evening bag that her fingernails dug into the expensive fabric. When she realized what she was doing, she loosened her grip. She’d come here to do a job. And she would finish it and reappear at the party before anyone noticed she was missing.

As she began to tiptoe down the hall again, shoes in hand, she cursed herself for not knowing more about Jed’s recent activities. Then again, she hadn’t had time to brush up on every agent who’d worked in Latin America before she’d come to San Marcos. She’d better stop obsessing about him before she made some kind of fatal mistake.

With a quick glance at her watch, she saw that three minutes had elapsed since she’d ducked out of the party. That left only a little more than fifteen to get in and out of here with the goods Victor was paying her to bring home.

At least Sanchez’s office was on the ground floor, she thought as she turned the corner and started for the end of the hall. She felt less exposed as soon as she’d stepped into the anteroom and quietly shut the door behind her.

The room was spartan, with a secretary’s desk, a few wooden chairs and some filing cabinets. Marissa gave them only a quick glance. The good stuff was in Sanchez’s private office under lock and key.

Victor had briefed her on the likely places to look, so she went straight to his desk and knelt behind it. His most confidential files were in the two bottom drawers. Willing steadiness into her hands, she extracted a small case from her evening bag. What appeared to be a manicure set was really a set of lock-picking tools. A quick look through the contents of the first drawer told her that she’d struck out. And she only had ten minutes left.

Teeth clenched, she worked the other lock. Then she came across a stack of coded papers neatly filed in manila folders. She couldn’t read the text. But this was what Victor had told her to look for.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she placed the first one in the center of the desk blotter and got out the small camera disguised as a lipstick. Methodically she began snapping pictures of the incriminating letters and other documents.

She was almost finished when a noise in the hall made the hair on her scalp bristle.

Someone was coming!

Sweeping the papers into the folder, she had them back in place and the drawer locked again in fifteen seconds.

Now all she had to do was get out of here. And quickly. A desperate glance at the barred window told her she wasn’t going to escape in that direction. With camera and evening bag clutched in her hand, she bolted for the only other possibility—the general’s private bathroom.

* * *

“ERES TU?”

Jed stopped dead on the path, just managing to avoid crashing into a young Hispanic woman who had stepped out of the darkness to block his progress.

“Let me by,” he answered in Spanish, only half hearing her words as he tried to push past her to get to Marissa.

Her fingers clamped onto the sleeve of his dinner jacket. “Jed. It’s really you. I thought at first I’d made you up.”

She stopped abruptly, looking furtively from side to side as if she were terrified of being overheard. The urgency of her touch arrested him, and he peered at her more closely. There was something familiar about her face. But on the darkened patio he couldn’t place her.

“I must—”

“It’s Clarita,” she interrupted. “Don’t you know me? I’m so glad you came back to see us.”

The features resolved themselves into familiar lines. Clarita. Miguel Sanchez’s daughter. She was more mature now. A girl on the verge of womanhood. She’d been eleven when Jed had been here six years ago helping the general train his troops. He’d recognized her as the neglected child of a rich man who had more important things to do than worry about his offspring’s happiness. When he’d come home from the training camp with Miguel on the weekends, he’d tried to make a small difference in the little girl’s life.

“I heard them talking about you, so I took a peek at the guest list for the party,” she told him. “I knew you would be here. Like old times. When everything was simple.” Her tone was high and wistful, as if she longed for the past.

“Clarita, I can’t stay here and talk to you now.”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard. “It’s all right. Do you remember how you taught my parrot to say ‘no sweat’?” she asked eagerly. “He still remembers. Come see.”