Hearing the question asked that directly made the answer seem ridiculously obvious. When he told her, she laughed.
“You’re kidding, right?” she said.
David smiled and shrugged. “Can you think of a better solution?”
She stewed on it. “Not at the moment,” she said at last. “I guess I’ll call him in the morning.”
David checked his watch. Technically speaking, it was morning already, but by any standard too early to call. He steadied himself with a deep breath. “All right, then. We have a plan. It’s a sucky one, but it’s a plan. So now we just have to wait for daylight.” He eyed the sofa. “So, can I sleep there?”
Becky stood, too. She approached him with a smile that stirred something deep in him. “Well, here’s the thing, David Kirk. Do you know why Charlie Baroli called here looking for you?”
His heart started to race. Whatever was coming was going to be very good or very bad.
She stepped up very close to him. “Apparently there’s a rumor in the office that I have this big crush on you.” She reached to his chest and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. “But that’s not true.”
David didn’t move. This was new territory for him. When it came to hitting on people, he’d always been the hitter.
“Does that surprise you?” Becky asked. “That I don’t have a crush on you?” She undid another button.
“I don’t know if it surprises me, but I confess it confuses me.”
A third button revealed enough of his chest for her to slip her hands under the fabric. She caressed him, and he felt heat rising in his face. And something else rising elsewhere. “It’s never been about a crush,” she said. “It’s about a strong, strong desire to see you naked.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
When his landline rang at 0730, Jonathan knew that it was Venice. Only a handful of people knew the number, and of those, only she had the courage to wake him at this hour. He fingered the handset from its cradle and brought it to his ear without opening his eyes.
“I hate you,” he said. Next to him on the bed, JoeDog stretched and farted. The seventy-pound black Labrador retriever had no official home — she was the town’s dog with special dispensation from leash laws — but more times than not, when Jonathan was in town, his bed was her bed.
“And good morning to you, too.” Yep, Venice. “A stern voiceless gentleman from the FBI delivered about two tons of paper. I believe they are the files you insisted on having. You know, because we’re in a hurry. Charlie and Rick were kind enough to stack them in the War Room.”
“Have you started sorting through them yet?” When he asked that, he made sure to project a smile that was louder than his words.
“And you hate me. Right. Please shower before you come up.” The line went dead.
The instant Jonathan pulled away the covers and sat up, JoeDog was on her feet and ready to play. Or eat. Or, if all else failed, to go back to sleep again. Jonathan gave her enough of an ear rub to elicit a moan of ecstasy, and then stood. “Okay, Killer. Time to go to work.”
Thirty-five minutes later, the three S’s were taken care of, and JoeDog and Jonathan were climbing the stairs together. At the top, Rick Hare tossed off a two-fingered salute. “Morning, Boss. Looks like you’ve got some research to do.” A former military policeman, Rick carried a .40 caliber Glock on his hip with which he could write his name in a target at twenty-five yards. His job was to serve as the first line of defense — offense, really — if anyone tried to duplicate the attack that nearly killed Venice a while ago. The HK MP5 he wore slung across his chest would help in that effort as well.
“Hi, Rick. I understand that you got stuck with schlepping duty. Sorry about that.”
“Well, that FBI troll wasn’t going to do it, and I didn’t see Ms. Alexander doing it all on her own. That wouldn’t have been right. So me and Charlie pitched in.”
Typical of many former military noncoms, Rick had a hard time addressing superiors by their first names. “I appreciate it,” Jonathan said, suppressing the urge to chastise him for abandoning his post and cooperating in what could have been a trap. Given the bucolic nature of Fisherman’s Cove, it would have sounded outrageously paranoid. Besides, Venice should have known better.
Jonathan pressed his thumb to the print reader and winked at the camera. When the lock buzzed, he pushed the door open and entered the hive of activity that was Security Solutions. As usual, it appeared that he was the last to arrive. You got to do that when you owned the place.
“Good morning everyone,” he said to the room. A few people spoke a greeting in return, but it wasn’t necessary. Jonathan turned left inside the door and approached Charlie Keeling, another member of the guard staff. The two guards on duty split their time between guarding the front door and guarding the entrance to the Cave.
“Listen, Mr. G,” Charlie said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I owe you an apology for this morning. Rick and I never should have helped with those boxes, but I couldn’t think of another way. Won’t happen again.”
Jonathan smiled. “I appreciate that, Charlie.” All was forgiven.
“Hey, JoeDog,” Charlie said. He patted his chest with both hands — a spot on his vest just above his slung MP5—and JoeDog planted her forepaws there, thus earning another ear rub.
Charlie buzzed the door and Jonathan and JoeDog both stepped into the Inner Sanctum. The beast made a beeline for her favorite leather chair near the fireplace in Jonathan’s office while her nominal master peeled off and headed for the War Room.
The teak conference table was buried in stacks of what had to be fifty file boxes, each of them marked with a sticker from the FBI proclaiming them to be SECRET: EYES ONLY.
“Holy shit,” Jonathan said.
“Welcome to my world.” Venice sat on the far side of the stack, the top of her head barely visible. “How many times do I have to remind you to be careful what you ask for?”
Jonathan stepped to the table and peeled the lid off a box, revealing file folders. Lots and lots of file folders. “I guess I underestimated the number of her enemies.”
“Oh, I think this is a more comprehensive file than just enemies,” Venice said. “This is essentially every person Yelena Poltanov ever talked to while she was in the United States.”
Jonathan gave a low whistle. “This will take days.”
Venice didn’t answer.
Jonathan pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and started paging through the box nearest him. From what he could tell, the files were organized by date. He started fingering through a box that seemed to span the month of March, 1985—part of the month, anyway. A counterespionage agent codenamed Watchdog had been following Yelena’s every move and taking annoyingly complete notes. As a random sample, Yelena had entered the chemistry lab at 09:54 and emerged in the company of two unknown students at 11:42. From there, she’d proceeded to the campus cafeteria, arriving at 11:57.
“Oh my God,” Jonathan said. “Imagine the poor SOB who had to read through all this minutiae and analyze it.”
“Your tax dollars at work,” Venice said.
Jonathan pulled out one of the rolling chairs that surrounded the conference table and sat. “We need context,” he said. “We don’t have the time to read through this stuff cold and figure out the cast of characters.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ve got nothing.”
“Then keep reading.”
“Have you called in Boxers for this?” Jonathan asked.
Venice laughed. “Right. This is definitely in his wheelhouse.”
Jonathan wanted to argue, but what was the point? Boxers’ attention span in fact did not lend itself to hours of document analysis. Still, it would be nice to have the extra set—