“Really?” Maryanne said. Her voice sounded shocked. “That’s all?”
Jonathan stopped, turned, and planted his fists on his hips. “What more would you have? I’m not a soldier anymore. I don’t take orders. I make decisions whether a risk is worth its reward. There’s never been a free agent freer than I. The rest is up to you. My team, my rules. Play by them, or pick a different field.”
Not waiting for an answer, he turned and headed back to the opera. He figured that she’d come to her senses or she wouldn’t. Personally, he didn’t much care.
Jonathan was a little disappointed when he exited the Opera House and Maryanne wasn’t there waiting for him. Now there was one more mystery in the world for which he would never know the resolution.
“What exactly did she want?’ Venice asked as they turned the corner into the Hall of Nations, a vast corridor where the flags of dozens of countries hung from the sixty-foot ceiling — the flag of every country with which the United States had diplomatic relations, in alphabetical order. Jonathan had heard stories that after the fall of the Soviet Union, workers had to reorder everything to make room for twelve additional standards.
“A home was invaded in Indiana and the family was taken. They were spies for the good guys. She wanted our help getting them back.”
“Isn’t that what the FBI gets paid to do?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Jonathan said. A set of doors led to the first of a series of escalators that would take them down to Jonathan’s car.
“There must be some kind of internal problem within the Bureau,” Venice said. “Why else turn to outside talent?”
Jonathan caught the drift that Venice’s curiosity was piqued. “Again, you’re channeling me. Too many outstanding questions to get any closer. History has proven that there’s no upside to getting in the middle of a catfight between Uncle Sam’s various children.”
“Speaking of children,” Venice said, “were any kids involved in the kidnapping?”
He held up his forefinger. “One,” he said. “Fourteen. Plus a nanny-slash-bodyguard and maybe the mother. Dad was killed in the initial assault.”
At the base of the first escalator, they turned and continued down. “This isn’t like you. Don’t you think—”
Jonathan touched her arm. “Perhaps this is a discussion to have in a smaller crowd.” On the moving stairway, they were but two of hundreds who would soon be clogging the roads. Venice and he were speaking quietly enough not to stand out, so there was little chance of being overheard, but still. Also, Jonathan didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
They made it to the second-level garage and Jonathan led the way to his BMW. As he unlocked Venice’s door, Jonathan stopped her again with another gentle touch on her arm. She looked up, her brown eyes flashing a reflection of the harsh overhead lights. “You look stunning tonight,” he said.
Her smile flashed brilliant white. “Why thank you, Mr. Grave. You clean up pretty good, too.”
He wondered sometimes if the gap in their ages were less, would he have returned the crush she’d had on him as a teenager. While age differences meant less with every passing year, it had been an obscene and felonious gap back then, and even though they remained close, a slice of Jonathan’s brain would always see her as the googly-eyed kid.
Jonathan was about to push the passenger-side door closed when he saw the business card that had been tucked under his windshield wiper. Even from a distance, he could see the emblem of the FBI shield.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
“What is it?”
He pulled the card away from the rubber wiper and took a closer look. The name embossed on the front read Irene Rivers, Director. On the back were written the words, “This lvl, sect B row 2.”
“Well, shit,” Jonathan said. He handed the card to Venice.
She read it, and right away started to climb out of the car. Whatever it was, she was coming along.
“Before you get out,” he said, “do me a favor and pull the black square out of the center console.”
“The what?”
“You’ll see it. And be careful when you handle it.”
Venice looked and then rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Jonathan reached out his hand and wiggled his fingers. She handed him his Ruger LCP .380, already tucked into its pocket holster. He slid it into the front pocket of his tuxedo pants.
Jonathan craned his neck to get his bearings. The parking lot was massive, more typical of a shopping mall than an entertainment venue, and B2 was quite a hike from where they stood. With all the departing traffic, driving was not practical, so they decided to walk.
“Is that really Wolverine’s handwriting?” Venice asked.
Jonathan shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her handwriting. It’s always phone and e-mails.”
Jonathan’s relationship with Irene Rivers went way back, to the days when he was still in the Army, and she was a special agent working out of Alexandria, Virginia. He’d helped her with a problem, and that had started a history of off-the-record assignments that needed the special skills of a man with Jonathan’s training, but could never carry Uncle Sam’s fingerprints. When they first met, neither could have foreseen her ascendancy to the big chair at headquarters. Then again, no one could have anticipated the events that launched her into Bureau superstardom.
“Did you notice that there’s no space number?” Venice said. She kept studying the card, as if searching for a secret message.
“I did notice that,” Jonathan said. Parking garages were inherently creepy places, which probably explained why they were so often featured in scary movies. The weight of the LCP in his pocket — all eleven ounces of it — reassured him. Far from his preferred weapon in a gunfight, it was better than being left with fingernails and fists if the shit hit the fan.
Fifteen seconds later, he realized that he wouldn’t need to know the space. A standard government-issue heavy metal POS Chevy flashed its lights.
Jonathan stopped walking, and Venice pulled up short with him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Never overcommit,” Jonathan said. “Let them come to us. Anyone can use someone else’s business card. It’s not real until I see a face.” He waited as a stream of departing patrons drove past them. After ten or fifteen seconds, the sedan’s door opened, and Special Agent Maryanne Rhoades rose from the driver’s seat to reveal herself.
It didn’t take her long to get the point that he wasn’t walking over to join her, so she came to him.
“Is Wolverine in the car?” Jonathan asked as she strolled his way.
Maryanne shook her head. “I left her card to reinforce the fact that I am here on her authorization.”
“You misrepresented yourself,” Venice said. “That’s not a good way to start a relationship.”
“Venice Alexander,” Maryanne said. She pronounced the name correctly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Director Rivers told me to tell you that the offer to join the Bureau is still open. We can always use skills like yours.”
Venice more snarled than smiled. She shared Jonathan’s distrust of federal agents, but she had a special distrust for those who looked beautiful in an evening gown.
“Ven’s got a point,” Jonathan said. “My cards are on the table. I know every detail or I don’t play.”
Maryanne made a point of looking over both shoulders to survey the garage. “Clearly this is not the place. Might I suggest that we pay Mr. Van de Muelebroeke a visit? I believe he lives close to here.”
The man she referred to was Brian Van de Muelebroeke, Jonathan’s friend and cohort from forever. Most people knew him as Boxers, and those who did generally knew better than to surprise him with a late-night visit. He wasn’t always the most cheerful fellow, and at just south of seven feet tall and considerably north of three hundred pounds an angry Boxers could be ugly.