“You’ve been a busy bee,” she said, walking inside the apartment with a dark-haired, dark-skinned male lackey behind her.
“I’m not good at relaxing,” Rachel said.
“Clearly not. You’ve succeeded at copying the style of the graphic in question. Very clever. We should have asked you initially instead of wasting our own team’s time.”
Rachel took a sip from the soda. “Yes, you should have.”
“Do you think you can replicate the graphic again?”
With a snort, Rachel set the cola can beside the laptop. Every move she’d made had been watched. She wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t creeped out.
“With my eyes closed.”
Tremayne’s eyes narrowed, her expression serious to the point that Rachel felt her stomach roil with dread.
“We’ve intercepted the artist you directed us to. According to the agents on the scene, he was preparing to send a final message to the sleeper cell.”
“But you stopped him?”
Tremayne shook her head slightly, but enough for Rachel to understand that this was not a victory. “If the cell expects a message and receives none, they may take that as an order to attack.”
“What kind of attack?”
Tremayne frowned. “We’re not sure. We haven’t been able to locate the cell, Ms. Marlowe. And at this point, the only way we can find them is by sending another message in the style of their initial contact. They’ve likely been trained to recognize the signature-a signature you’ve succeeded in re-creating.”
Rachel shivered. It was one thing to mess around on the computer, something else to have the safety of the free world on her shoulders. She expected the weight of what Tremayne was asking her to do to stop her dead in her tracks. Instead, a rush of adrenaline shot through her body like a precise line of newly lit gunpowder.
“I’m a civilian,” she said.
“That can be changed,” Tremayne replied. “The communication between terrorist cells through various media forms is becoming more and more common. You’re a freelancer, yes? We’re simply asking you to work for us now.”
Rachel knew Tremayne was one of the good guys-technically. But something in Tremayne’s tone, an underlying sharpness along the edge of her voice, caused Rachel’s skin to prickle in warning.
“Where’s Roman?” she asked.
Poised to help his investigation, the least Rachel could demand was a one-on-one with the lead field operative, or whatever he’d called himself. Besides, she missed him. Deeply. Even now, with a prospect of being able to help avert a tragedy sizzling in her blood, she wanted to share this with him. He’d understand, right? He’d appreciate the importance of what she was about to attempt in order to fight the terrorists.
“Roman Brach is no longer your concern. Concentrate on your new assignment. Once you are done, we’ve arranged for you to leave the country.”
Rachel’s heart slammed against her chest. “What?”
Tremayne laughed lightly, as if she enjoyed toying with Rachel. The woman had a sick streak, nearly making Rachel refuse her offer.
“We’re talking a brief vacation from the city-just until we round up all the men who might have recognized you from your association with Roman.”
Rachel frowned but remained silent. She didn’t want to be sent away, separated from her apartment and friends. She loved to travel-but on her terms and under her own direction. But there was world safety to think of-and the fact that the whole idea of using her skills to help stop terrorists from communicating worked for her in ways she never imagined they would. Even as a dreamy teen, she’d never fantasized about being a spy. She always thought James Bond was sexy, yeah, but the idea of joining up with any suave super-agent gave her hives. She loved to travel and set off for distant lands, but avoided guns and thieves and con artists at all costs. Now she was thinking about becoming all of the above?
Unless, of course, the suave, sexy agent was Roman Brach. That might change her mind a bit.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Tremayne instructed. “I’m simply suggesting a nice vacation once your work is complete, and you can consider then whether you’d like to remain on our payroll. We understand that two friends of yours, Mario Capelli and Iris Rivera, are planning a trip to Puerto Rico. It’s reportedly a romantic getaway, but we thought, perhaps, you’d like to tag along. I doubt they’d mind.”
“You’ve spoken to them?”
Tremayne shrugged one shoulder. No, she wouldn’t have any way to speak to them. Mario wouldn’t trust this woman if she paid her full fare with a fifty-percent tip, cash up front. But Roman, he’d trust. With a hard swallow, she tamped down her hopes for a rendezvous with Roman. For now, she had a job to do.
“How much time do I have?”
“From the notes we retrieved, the scheduled broadcast is only a few days away.”
“What language will the message be in?”
Rachel had copied the signature but not the images. She had never seen them before.
“That’s where this agent comes in,” she said, gesturing to the man who’d entered behind her. “He’s an expert linguist and has studied the text of all the previous messages for nuance and syntax. He’ll tell you what to write.”
“How do the terrorists know when to look for the graphics?”
The pattern, Tremayne explained, hadn’t been so difficult for them to figure out, once they realized exactly what they were looking for. Rachel had a little over three days to work with Tremayne’s Arabic-speaking assistant and create the graphic that could possibly stop some unnamed and unexplained attack.
For now, Rachel would concentrate only on that goal. Only once she was successful would she allow herself to contemplate if she’d ever see Roman again-and if she did, what then?
YOU WOULD THINK AFTER saving the world, the CIA or the FBI or whatever agency she’d really been working for could have sprung for tickets on a plane that actually departed on time.
Realizing in her exhaustion that her wrist had slipped from holding up her head and ended her nap, Rachel shook consciousness into her body and reached for the caffeine-laden diet soda she’d balanced on her backpack. The warm, fizzy bubbles scraped down her throat, and once her vision cleared, she glanced down at her watch. The plane was now more than two hours late. A quick look around told her that Mario and Iris had once again left her for a stroll around the terminal. She couldn’t blame them. She wasn’t exactly delightful company, especially since the two of them had stars in their eyes only for each other.
In spite of her own foul mood, she grinned a little at the way Iris and Mario’s romance had developed. Mario had a reputation as a matchmaker. This time, however, her ill-fated affair with Roman had actually spurred Mario to make a move on Iris. About time, too, since he’d been sniffing after her for as long as Rachel could remember. She was happy for them.
And miserable for herself.
After yawning unattractively-something she realized only when a blond guy in a baseball cap leaning against a nearby wall chuckled and made brief eye contact-Rachel shifted in her seat. She rubbed her makeup-free face, combed her fingers through her hair and hoped she didn’t look as exhausted and cranky as she felt.
Once she’d turned over the new graphics to the Agency, she’d expected to hear from Roman. Perhaps even see him. How hard would it be to run into him in the Agency’s headquarters? But he’d not only made himself scarce, she’d also had no further dealings with Amelie Tremayne. None of the other agents seemed to know how to contact Roman, and this time Rachel didn’t feel like chasing him.