Kate Donovan - Exit Strategy

“That’s true.”

“You sound kind of lonely yourself, S-3. Have I been neglecting you?”

“If I said yes, would you come back early?” She bit her lip, then insisted, “I know you need to be there until the end of the week-”

“I’ll catch a plane right after work tomorrow night. How’s that?”

Kristie closed her eyes, grateful beyond words, and more madly in love than ever. “That sounds good. Thanks, Will.”

“My pleasure.” He cleared his throat and added, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you anyway. About Ortega. So this will be good.”

Oh, God…

The spinner stared at the receiver, wondering what to say next. But the words came without any conscious effort by her. “I love you, Will McGregor. I love working for you, I love talking to you, I love making love to you. And I need you, because I’m going crazy here by myself.”

“Hey!” His tone had become wonderfully protective. “Maybe I should come now.”

“No, no. Tomorrow night is great. Perfect. I can’t wait. We have so much to talk about, just like you said.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Try to get some sleep. You know I love you, right?”

She bit her lip, then murmured, “That’s good, because tomorrow night I’m going to dump a humongous problem on you. It’s not fair, but it’s going to happen.”

“Dump away,” he told her simply. “That’s what I’m here for. Don’t you know that by now?”

The information photographed by Miranda at Gresley’s town house turned out to be invaluable. After sending the “manifesto” electronically to Kristie, she also placed a copy on her laptop’s hard drive to study, even though she would have to erase it before she went to Jonathan Kell’s fortress. The reclusive scientist was just suspicious enough to check her computer, and she wanted him to find some games, some amusing Internet sites concerning fashion and “tips for pleasing a man,” and a datebook showing appointments-booked by eager male patrons far in advance-with every third weekend per month reserved for Ray Ortega’s exclusive use.

Creating a call girl’s fantasy calendar on the airplane ride had been fun and relaxing, but once she arrived at the hotel room Kristie had reserved for her, Miranda’s only indulgence was twenty minutes of breathing exercises before settling down with Gresley’s Brigade file. Almost immediately, she knew one thing for certain about the Brigadier-he wasn’t an American. No American, however disenchanted, could have written so dismissively about the United States.

Miranda had been trained to handle anti-American propaganda. In fact, she had been trained to spew it. But the Brigadier’s statements still rankled her. It wasn’t so much that he referred to her country as a lumbering, ineffective behemoth that had outlived any possible usefulness. What bothered her, and what told her the guy wasn’t an American citizen, was his contention that the U.S. had never been anything special. Had America not been protected by two oceans, the Brigadier insisted, it would have never have come into existence, and certainly would have been easily wiped out, “and good riddance for that.”

Not that the Brigade was fond of any other country, either. In fact, according to the group’s core philosophy, the very concept of a “nation” had outlived its usefulness. Individual nations, especially democracies and republics, were paralyzed by their giant bureaucracies and terrified of their citizenry. They were incapable of responding quickly to threats, and thus were vulnerable to complete destruction.

Destruction by whom? Miranda was fairly certain the Brigade saw itself in that role, although the file didn’t quite come out and say it. Instead, it simply theorized that small, strategically placed cadres, similar to terrorist cells but populated by mainstream players-global bankers, scientists and philosophers-and supported by easily deployable mini-armies, could better respond to the realities of the 21st Century world, and thus, would naturally begin to spring up and take over. Eventually, these cadres would interlink to form a network that could protect and dominate the world with their quick responses and streamlined procedures.

Miranda was sure this new intel was burning a hole in Kristie Hennessy’s virtual pocket. The spinner would be desperate to turn it over to the CIA immediately, yet if she did so, she’d have to explain its origins. If she did that, the CIA would recall Miranda and fire her, and Kristie’s job would also be in jeopardy. Yet to withhold the information probably felt like quasi-treason to the spinner.

Still, Miranda was confident her friend wouldn’t betray her trust, at least not for another day or so. Which meant Miranda had to gain Kell’s confidence quickly so that he would give her the remaining pieces of the puzzle before the CIA took action to end the operation.

To earn Kell’s trust, she planned to convince him they had a lot in common-namely, they both loved and admired Ray Ortega, and they both had debilitating phobias. As for pretending to be Ortega’s mistress? Well, how difficult could that be? He was an objectively attractive man, so her feelings would be inherently believable. Better still, she had actually slept with him once, which would help enormously.

And luckily, their night together had been memorable, from the fake foreplay, to the incendiary rush of true heat between them when he had carried her to her bedroom and devoted himself to making an impression. She had refused to dwell on any of that for months thereafter, knowing he had just done it to earn her loyalty if the police decided to question her. But now she had an excuse to think about it, not to mention a reason to finally savor it.

Plus, there was the fact that she hadn’t been with anyone since Ortega. That alone made the experience stand out in her mind. She had been so distrustful of men thereafter, and so intent on salvaging her derailed career, she hadn’t even considered dating. Ironically, she had spent a lot of time with men, professionally speaking. She had flirted with them in bars, perhaps allowing them to nuzzle or paw her just a bit on the way to her hotel room, where she would begin to strip for them. But by the time she was down to lacy lingerie, a bright light would flash, and she’d know that the CIA camera crew had gotten the photograph they needed to turn the mark into an asset.

At that point, her job was usually done. If the man had been a gentleman, more or less, she would often stay to go over the terms of the deal with him. Sometimes she would even apologize. But if the guy had been a slimeball in any sense, she’d just put her clothes on and leave, knowing that the officer in charge would take it from there.

Compared to those losers-the last and most disgusting being Alexander Gresley-Ortega was actually a catch! Especially the Ortega she had met at the mountain cabin, who had radiated physical health, spiritual balance and raw sex appeal. Now that it served her interests to admit it, she reminded herself of the erotic overtones to the breathing lesson he had given her. They had reached a moment of mutual harmony and shared trust, despite their past, and that moment could have turned into an afternoon of lovemaking had she allowed it.

Feigning severe claustrophobia would be much more complicated than pretending to love Ortega. Miranda had tried it once on the airplane-concentrating on the closed-in feel of the cabin, the lack of outside air and the impossibility of exiting-and her pretend panic had begun to quickly resemble the real thing, so much so that she could only quell it by turning up the air jets on the console above her seat until they were blasting oxygen in her face, allowing her to inhale and exhale deeply and rhythmically until calm returned.