Kate Donovan - Exit Strategy

He barked in disbelief. “Her?”

“Okay, okay. Maybe she hooked up with someone after you killed Benito. Another powerful man. She told him about Jonathan’s research. And about his political theories. The new boyfriend was so impressed, he set up the Brigade. Isn’t that possible?”

Encouraged by the pensive expression on Ortega’s face, she continued eagerly. “Jonathan told me he talked a lot about his theory while he was in that cage with you. He probably talked about it while they were torturing him, too. All of that information was available to Angelina, right?”

Ortega looked at her for a moment, his eyes narrowed, then he spoke carefully. “Something happened five years ago.”

Miranda waited.

“I was just setting up SPIN. My operative days were behind me. But an old buddy sent me a copy of a report, just because he knew I’d want to see it. It registered, but seemed so nuts-and so completely unsubstantiated-I didn’t pay much attention to it.”

“What kind of report?”

“They were interrogating a drug dealer who swore that Carerra-Benito, not Angelina-was still alive and running the cartel. Everyone assumed the prisoner was just saying that to save his own neck. The CIA did some follow-up, but no one really took it seriously because…” He took a deep breath, then reminded her, “Because I put an arrow through Benito Carerra’s throat. Pinned him to a fucking tree. You don’t survive something like that.”

Miranda walked over to him and looked deep into his eyes. “Did you check for a pulse?”

“A pulse?”

“Ow. Stop yelling.”

“Sorry.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “Carerra’s men were everywhere. I needed to get Kell to safety. And it didn’t matter-I didn’t need to check for a fucking pulse-because the son of a bitch was pinned by his throat to a tree.”

“Sure seems like he should have been dead,” she agreed.

“Yeah. But you’re saying Angelina somehow got her hands on Kell’s power drug? Which means, Benito Carerra’s alive? And he’s the Brigadier? That’s what you’re saying?”

“No way. I never said that. I never even thought it.” She gave him a weary smile and explained, as gently as she could, given her raging headache, “I think you’re the one who’s saying that.”

She could see he needed a minute, so she flopped onto the bed and buried her face in a fluffy pillow, enjoying the fantasy that she might just go to sleep, and stay asleep, until the pain had subsided. But Ortega’s theory had crept into her brain, and she found herself reviewing her conversation with Angelina.

Hadn’t Miranda, a.k.a. Jennifer, said something like: Ortega had his nerve saving you from your own husband?

And hadn’t Angelina said: Ortega was so busy playing hero, he never once considered what would happen to me if Benito didn’t die-if Benito found out I was unfaithful to him with Ortega, but Ortega was long gone, and I was left with that madman and his ruthless temper?

Miranda was almost sure it had gone something like that. Of course, her brain was full of fuzz, so she knew she might just be making things up. Still…

“He’s alive,” she murmured finally, lifting her face from its cocoon to connect with Ortega.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Maybe so. He had the money. The information. The anti-American sentiment and megalomaniacal tendencies, not to mention, total confidence in Kell. He really thought the guy was another Einstein. Maybe so, Miranda. And if so…”

She waited again.

Then Ortega looked directly in her eyes, and to her surprise, he seemed almost jubilant. “If it’s true, we’ve got it made.”

Miranda sat at the breakfast table and listened to Ortega and Kell exchange tips about their reclusive lifestyles, and stories about “the old days,” as though they were at a cocktail party. Meanwhile, her head, while improving thanks to the codeine, was still swimming, mostly because her thoughts themselves were a jumble.

Just play along with me, Ortega had instructed her. We’re gonna turn Kell. He’d never be a part of anything headed by the monster who tortured him. So all we have to do is present our theory about Carerra to him in a way that doesn’t give him a goddammed heart attack.

Relegated to the sidelines, she decided to use this opportunity to study Ortega’s technique so that she could use it herself in future ops. There was a definite rhythm to his style of conversation. First he flattered Kell with outright compliments, then more subtly, by showing him he trusted him with secrets. Valued him as a sounding board. Then he raised the stakes by talking about their imprisonment and torture, reminding Kell of the reasons Ortega had been sent to assassinate Carerra in the first place-the drug dealer had been a true monster in virtually every sense, a danger to everyone around him. And as his sphere of dominance had widened from family to business associates to an entire region, the number of lives he ruined had grown exponentially.

Kell’s voice was rich with fear and contempt as he confirmed the stories, explaining to Miranda that words like “cruel” and “ruthless” were inadequate to describe Carerra’s depravity. It would have been bad enough if the man had simply been powerful and cunning, but he had been like an evil sponge, soaking up information from every source imaginable, then perverting it to his own uses.

Just as Kell’s anxiety began to soar, Ortega artfully changed the subject, describing his Sierra sanctuary in great detail, a tactic that seemed to lull their host back to a feeling of safety. Then he complimented Kell’s fortress, Kell’s work, Kell’s commitment to the future. And the cycle began again, always leading to Carerra, then retreating when Kell became too upset.

Miranda found herself realizing that of all Ortega’s talents, patience was probably the most amazing. He was investing hours in this, confident that if he prepared Kell properly, he could get him to turn against the Brigade and cooperate with the CIA despite the scientist’s strong hatred for his country and his commitment to the new political order he had helped to define. It was fascinating, especially given the fact that if Ortega failed, he had wasted valuable time that could have been spent getting away from the fortress and contacting the authorities, then rendezvousing with them in Geneva for an intelligence summit.

Finally, just before lunchtime, the moment of truth arrived. Ortega sent Miranda a warning glance, then said to Kell, “There’s something we need to discuss, Jonathan. It’s important. And I need you to hear me out before you react. Can you do that for me?”

Kell’s eyelid began to twitch a little, but otherwise, his trust in Ortega-the Brigadier-sustained him, and he nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Miranda’s heart sank. He was so vulnerable, and his world was about to come crashing down around his shoulders. He would have nothing left-not the Brigade, but also not his hero worship of Ortega, or his crush on Miranda. They had lied to him. Used him. He would never again be able to trust a human being. Even his life’s work on phobias would be too tainted to offer him respite. That work had saved him after his ordeal in the jungle. Had given him a reason to live. Now his research would be as dead to him as everything else.

“Wait!” She held up her hand, suddenly inspired.

Ortega seemed too surprised to be annoyed, and settled for murmuring, “Is your headache worse?”

“It’s gone. I can tell, because I just had a great idea.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “Okay?”

He locked gazes with her, and was apparently satisfied with what he saw, because he nodded. “It’s your show. Go ahead.”

She stood, announcing, “I need to get something out of my suitcase. I’ll meet you two in the lab, okay?”