“So when do I start?”
“Tomorrow morning, if you take the job.”
“If I take the job.”
“I told her I needed your okay.”
“Really? That’s a first.”
“Look, David, as hot as she is, I’m not running an escort service here. I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. I’ve seen her, and it’s hard to imagine how any man could resist her for long if that’s her game plan.” He paused. “On the other hand, she is paying top dollar, and this could be legitimate. It may be that your Delta Force credentials are what impressed her and not your friendly smile. But given my doubts, I won’t insist you take this.”
“Thanks, Wade. But if I have to risk the attention of a beautiful woman,” he said with mock bravado, “that’s just what I’ll have to do. For the agency’s sake, of course.”
“Of course,” repeated Fleming wryly. “You’re loyalty to the agency is legendary, David. I’ll e-mail you the assignment details and where to find her so you can get started.” There was a long pause on the line. “And I want you to know, while the rest of us are dodging bullets and laser-guided missiles protecting hairy fat guys, we’ll be thinking of you lying on the beach with a centerfold model—dodging those dangerous UV rays.”
“Don’t mention it, Wade. That’s just the kind of team player I am.”
“Well, I don’t want to have to worry about you, David,” said Fleming sardonically, “so be sure to use a good sunblock. SPF 30 at least.”
“Good tip,” said Desh in amusement.
“You know what’s really annoying about this one?”
“That she didn’t ask for you?”
There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. “Aside from that,” said Fleming good-naturedly. “What’s really annoying is that you’ll probably be bringing in more money to the agency than anyone else this month. Maybe I should open up an escort service.” Fleming paused. “Take care, David,” he said signing off, but couldn’t help adding, “you lucky bastard,” before hanging up the phone.
David Desh rapped on the stained wooden door, just below its peephole and above the cheap brass “14D” affixed to it. He had removed his laptop that morning from its docking station in his apartment and it was carefully tucked under his left arm. He was wearing Dockers, a blue polo shirt, and a tan windbreaker that concealed his H&K .45 semiautomatic. A much smaller SIG-Sauer 9-millimeter was shoved in his pants at the small of his back, and identical, sheathed combat knives were strapped to each of his lower legs.
Kira Miller was working with terrorist groups who would stop at nothing to protect her. Groups who celebrated death rather than life, and who would welcome the chance to remove Desh’s head with a hacksaw—while he was still using it—if it would further their cause. The closer he got to her, the more dangerous it would be for him. Perhaps these precautions were premature, but why take chances?
Desh heard movement from inside the apartment.
“David Desh?” called a voice questioningly from behind the particleboard door, loudly enough for Desh to hear.
“That’s right,” confirmed Desh.
“Adam Campbell’s friend?”
“In the flesh.”
Desh’s friend Adam, an ex-soldier who was now a private investigator, had set up this meeting for him the night before, right after he had returned home from his meeting with Connelly.
“Do you have my retainer?”
In answer, Desh removed 60 hundred-dollar bills from an envelope and fanned them out in front of the peephole. There was a rustle behind the door as a chain was unhooked and a loud click as a dead-bolt lock was turned, followed by the door creaking open.
Desh entered the small, cluttered apartment. It bore the heavy musk of prolonged human habitation that Desh knew could be helped by an open window and the inflow of crisp, autumn air. Four high-end computers straddled a heavy glass-topped desk, all connected to each other through a spaghetti of makeshift wiring. On top of the desk sat a wireless keyboard and three high-definition, plasma monitors. Hanging on the wall above was a framed placard that read:
HACKER-CRATIC OATH
I swear to use my awesome powers for good, not evil.
Other than this and a large black-and-white poster of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue, the entire living area consisted of the desk, a single couch, a plasma television, and a small kitchen.
Desh appraised the man in front of him. His name was Matt Griffin, and he was a bear of a man. He was at least 6 foot 5 and 300 pounds, with a bushy brown beard and long, wavy hair—almost a cross between a man and a Wookie. Despite his enormous size he had a harmless air about him that made him completely non-threatening. While his bulk and appearance could quickly lead one to the conclusion he was a dim caveman, his words were spoken with the intellectual affect of an ivy-league professor. Desh handed him the money and waited patiently as he counted to sixty.
Griffin smiled affably. “Okay, Mr. Desh, I’m at your service for a period of one week. What can I do for you?”
Fleming Executive Protection had its share of computer experts, but Desh couldn’t use them for this assignment, and he was supposed to be in playboy fantasyland anyway. Matt Griffin was said to be the best in the business. He usually worked for corporate clients doing fairly mundane tasks, but from time to time he helped private investigators if their cause was right, fully prepared to engage in illegal hacking, a victimless crime, if it could result in finding a missing person or stopping a violent criminal. Desh’s friend Adam had worked with Griffin several times and had been effusive in his praise for the man, who apparently took his hacker-cratic oath quite seriously, and would only work with someone if he had assurances their intentions were honorable. Adam had vouched for Desh and told Griffin he could trust him implicitly.
Desh set his laptop on the only unoccupied space on the corner of Griffin’s desk. The giant eyed it with interest but said nothing. Desh handed him a typed page with Kira Miller’s name and last known home and work addresses, e-mail addresses, and telephone numbers.
Griffin scanned the information quickly. “NeuroCure,” he said with interest, lowering himself into a black-leather swivel chair in front of his computer monitors while Desh remained standing. “Aren’t they developing a treatment for Alzheimer’s?”
“Very good,” said Desh approvingly. “You’re certainly up to speed on your biotech.”
Griffin shook his head. “I’m afraid I know next to nothing about biotech,” he admitted. “My aunt suffers from the disease so I tend to keep abreast of possible cures.”
Tend to keep abreast. The dichotomy between Griffin’s Viking appearance and soft-spoken, lofty speech patterns was amusing to him. “I’m sorry about your aunt,” offered Desh.
Griffin nodded solemnly. “Why don’t you fill me in on what you’re after as completely as you can. Nothing you say will leave this room.”
“Good. Absolute confidentiality in this case could not be more vital. For your health as well as mine.” Desh locked his eyes on Griffin’s in an unblinking, intimidating stare, and held it for several long seconds. “You’re known to be a man of integrity,” he continued, “but betraying my trust would be a very, very bad idea …”
“Save your threats,” said the giant firmly. “Veiled or otherwise. You have nothing to worry about. I take my responsibilities in this regard very seriously. As I’ve told you, your information is safe with me.”