“I’ve been ordered to tell you that you aren’t to leave the country until the police are finished interviewing you and Jackson. I’ve got you rooms in a nearby hotel.”
“What about Maria?”
“I’ve been assured by the Argentine authorities that her remains will be released to me in a day or two. After that, I’m going to accompany her body back home to the States. She wasn’t married; however, her brother is waiting to bury her in their hometown.”
“Jesus, this is a nightmare,” said Mitchell, rubbing the back of his neck. He could feel the tension building up. “Did you tell the general that the people who took the probe were wearing protective suits?”
“Yes, and he’s as puzzled by that as you are,” replied Donaldson. He could see the black rings under Mitchell’s eyes and wondered when he had last slept. “Look, Ryan, I have a cab waiting for you. It’ll take you to your hotel. I’m gonna wait here until Maria’s remains are transferred off the ship. I’ll bring Nate with me to your hotel. Why don’t you go there now, have a nice long hot shower, a tall drink and call Jen before you pass out.”
“Yeah, that does sound good.”
“Go and don’t worry about another thing. I’ll meet you and Nate downstairs in the hotel restaurant at eight for breakfast.”
Fifteen minutes later, after checking into the hotel, Mitchell opened the door to his room and stepped inside. He was about to reach for the light switch when the lights in the room suddenly turned on.
In a chair facing the door sat Grace Maxwell, dressed from head to toe in tight, black, leather clothing. She had a pistol in her right hand, trained on Mitchell. On the table beside her was a bottle of scotch and two glasses.
Mitchell closed the door behind him, dropped his bag. “You know, most men would say that finding a woman dressed in black leather waiting for them in their hotel room with a pistol and bottle of Scotch was a fantasy come true. I, on the other hand, have to break it to you that I’m seeing someone. Even if I wasn’t, I’m too damn exhausted to give a damn that you’re here.”
“Please don’t flatter yourself, Ryan, I only came here looking for information,” said Grace, lowering her gun.
Mitchell walked over, took the Scotch from the table, and poured a couple of drinks. He sat down on the edge of his bed, raised his glass to Grace, and took a sip. He felt the amber liquid burn as it slid down to his empty stomach.
“Eighteen-year-old Laphroaig, I’m impressed,” observed Mitchell.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s on your hotel bill,” replied Grace as she took a sip.
With a weak smile, Mitchell said, “Now before I pass out, what is it you want to know, Ms. Maxwell?”
“Ryan. Please call me Grace.”
“Okay, Grace, what do you want to know?” replied Mitchell, quickly tiring of the game.
“The Luna 15 probe, I know that you don’t have it. Who does?”
Mitchell snickered. “How the hell do I know? And why do you give a damn who took it?”
“I’ve been hired to return it to its rightful owner.”
Mitchell thought for a moment about what Grace had just said. “Are you telling me that the Russian government wants its probe back?”
Grace nodded her head.
“Didn’t they sell it to David Houston?”
“Yes, but now they want it back.”
“This is getting ridiculous,” said Mitchell, shaking his head.
“Don’t you have any leads?”
“Grace, it’s taken us ten days just to get back to port. So no, I don’t have any leads,” replied Mitchell testily. “Why don’t you ask Houston’s competitors, perhaps one of them took it?”
“Perhaps I will.”
Mitchell sat forward and looked into Grace’s emerald-green eyes. Suddenly, a thought flashed into his tired mind. “You’ve got connections that I don’t have. McMasters, look for Eric McMasters — if that’s his real name. Find him, and you’ll find the probe.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
“No, not on me, but if you leave an email address with me, I’ll make sure that you get everything I have on him the minute I get back to the States.”
“Why would you help me? You were hired to retrieve the probe; don’t you want it anymore?”
“Grace, if you find it first, you can have it. All I ask is that you let me know if you come across McMasters.”
“Why?”
“Because he murdered a defenseless woman in cold blood, and I’m going to see that he pays for it, that’s why.”
“Fair enough,” replied Grace, saluting Mitchell with her glass.
“Now, since you’re not my girlfriend, I’m going to have to ask you to leave so I can get undressed and have a nice hot shower,” announced Mitchell as he stood up.
With a flirtatious smile, Grace set her drink down and said, “Jennifer March is a lucky woman to have such a loyal boyfriend.”
Mitchell grew defensive. “How do you know her name?”
“Please, Ryan, it’s a standard business practice. I checked you out after our last encounter in Vegas. I know all about both of you, including how you met and that you’re looking for a new apartment in Albany. Don’t worry; my interest in both of you is strictly aboveboard.” With that, she winked at Mitchell and let herself out of the room.
“Mercenaries,” swore Mitchell under his breath.
He downed his drink in one gulp and poured himself another tall glass before heading for the shower. He turned the water on as hot as he could take it. He finished his drink under the pulsing spray and felt the stress and the strain begin to fall from his shoulders. Mitchell leaned his head under the shower and let the heat relax his aching neck. While he let the water cascade down his back, his mind wandered back to his conversation with Grace. Why do the Russians want their probe back? Mitchell pondered the question for a few seconds. From out of the haze, the image of McMasters’ goons wearing chemical suits hit him like a bolt of lightning out of the blue.
“Damn!” said Mitchell aloud.
Suddenly wide-awake, he turned off the shower, rushed over to his clothes and dug out his secure cellphone. He pressed Jen’s work number. A couple of seconds later, Jen’s cheery voice filled his ear.
“Ryan Mitchell, I was wondering when I would hear from you,” said Jen.
“Jen, I love you, but this will have to wait. Please dig as deep as you can into the history of the Luna 15 probe. There is something going on here that we’re not privy to. I’ve just learned that the Russians want it back, and I want to know why.”
“Sure, can do,” replied Jen, her voice tinged with concern. “Is something wrong, Ryan?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m beginning to believe that something uninvited came back with that probe that has a lot of people spooked — and I’m one of them.”
The next morning at eight o’clock sharp, Mitchell strode into the hotel restaurant wearing a pair of comfortable blue jeans and a loose-fitting, green fleece top. Jackson and Donaldson were waiting for him at a table in the far corner of the restaurant. A white-jacketed waiter came over, poured three cups of coffee, and took their breakfast orders, leaving them alone in peace. Mitchell quickly filled his companions in about his visit from Grace and his growing suspicion that the Luna 15 probe contained something far more dangerous than they had been led to believe.
“What do you think is going on?” asked Jackson.
“I haven’t a clue. However, this surely is something for the U.S. government, not us,” replied Mitchell.
“Don’t count on them getting involved,” said Donaldson.
“Why not?” asked Mitchell.
“Because Houston is Vice President Grant’s biggest campaign contributor, and with an election around the corner, call me cynical, but I doubt that the FBI will be knocking on Houston’s door anytime soon.”