Face of Deception Page 7

  “No, I prefer to be checked out. If there’s a problem about Brandon’s custody, our return could be delayed for days. Thank you again for all your trouble. Are we free to leave here now, Mr. Waterman?”

  “Of course. We’ll have a limo at your hotel at six o’clock. I hope that is sufficient time for you to get ready.”

  Ann stood up and took Brandon’s hand. “I guess we better get going, sweetheart, if we intend to be on time. Thank you, Mr. Waterman, for all your help.” She remembered Baker’s presence. The American official had not said a word since they entered the room. She nodded to him. “And you, too, Mr. Baker.”

  “Have a pleasant fligh. I wish it was under different circumstances.”

  “We both do, Mr. Baker,” she said.

  As soon as they left, Baker and Waterman exchanged meaningful glances. “I don’t like this,” Baker said. He left the room.

  Jeff Baker returned to his office, picked up the telephone and punched in numbers. When his call was answered, he said, “I have to talk to you right away. Get over to Langley on the double.”

  Chapter 9

  Mike sat down and waited while Baker finished a conversation on the phone. When he hung up, Baker got to his feet and walked around the desk.

  “Mike, I’m sending you out.”

  He and the squad needed a rest, and they were going to get one. “The team’s on leave, remember? They’re all over the place by now. You caught me practically going out the door. I’m heading back to Wisconsin for a couple weeks. I intend to just lie around and get in some fishing.”

  “Forget the team. I’m just sending you.”

  “Like hell you are! Beirut, Afghanistan, Iraq. I’m burned out. You’ve got other agents.”

  “You’re familiar with this one. It’s the Burroughs case.”

  Mike had spent a restless night thinking about Ann Hamilton—and that kiss. The thought of it began licking at his groin again. “The team completed our mission and we’re out of it.”

  “Not anymore. The whole damn thing reeks of three-day-old fish. The Hamilton woman was attacked this morning while she was out jogging.”

  If Baker wanted his attention, he just got it. Thank God for his training. Despite the fact that his stomach had just taken a giant leap to his throat, Mike asked casually, “Attacked?” So maybe his voice sounded like he hadn’t reached puberty. He sucked in a deep breath and shoved the lump back down into the churning tank of stomach acid that was burning his guts. Objectivity, Bishop. Don’t lose your objectivity.

  “What happened?”

  “Seems Miss Hamilton was jogging this morning at the Ellipsis. Some guy came along and threatened her with a knife. She fought him off, and when a couple of joggers came along the guy took off.”

  His heart had begun thumping painfully in his chest. “Was she hurt?”

  “It shook her up a little, but she got off with just a twisted ankle.”

  “You think the attack had something to do with Burroughs’s death?”

  “Could be just coincidence. The D.C. police said there have been other attacks near there. The son of a bitch rapes and disfigures his victims.”

  “But you aren’t buying that theory.”

  “Waterman is, but I didn’t stay alive in this business by believing in coincidence, Mike. I go with my gut feelings. I figure the lady knows something.”

  “You think she’s lying to us?”

  “Not necessarily. It could be something she doesn’t even know she knows. It might be bits of information she can’t connect. But the killer might figure she could put the pieces together and finger him.”

  “So what do you have in mind?”

  “Hamilton and the boy are booked on an eight-o’clock London flight out of here tonight to attend Burroughs’s funeral. The limo will pick them up at six. I want you with them. What will you be packing?”

  “I suppose a suit since there’ll be a funeral, shaving gear, a couple pair of socks and shorts—an Uzi pistol and a Trident.”

  “Trident? Why the knife?”

  “Didn’t you tell me Hamilton’s attacker had a knife? If the bastard’s an up-close-and-personal kind of guy, I’ll be glad to oblige him.”

  “You really are a killing machine, aren’t you, Bishop?”

  “You trained me, sir. Just make sure no air marshal gets any ideas to search me.”

  “I’ll get you cleared through the security, then you’re on your own. You’ve been trained to blend into the background. So blend.”

  Baker got up and walked him to the door. “Good luck, Mike,” he said as they shook hands. “Let’s hope that maybe this morning’s attack was just coincidence. I don’t want to hear that anything happened to that woman or that boy.”

  “You’ve got that right, sir.”

  Mike left headquarters and went back to his apartment. He took a shower and dressed. It didn’t take long to pack the few belongings he intended to take along. He even remembered a shirt and tie.

  Next he loaded his pistol and got the Trident from his gear. Rolling up the right pant leg of the khakis he was wearing, he put on a leg holster for the pistol, and then rolled up the other pant leg and put on a sheath for the knife.

  Mike stepped back and checked himself out in the mirror. Maybe the three of them would look like a family on vacation to the other passengers.

  Yeah, right! A person would have to be freaking blind not to figure him as a Fed or a cop, but at least neither weapon bulged.

  After throwing a shoulder holster into his bag to wear at the funeral, a couple of extra clips for the gun, he locked up the bag that was small enough to carry on the airplane. Then, grabbing a lightweight jacket he left. It was exactly five o’clock when he tapped on Ann’s door at the Watergate.

  Her surprise was evident. “Mike, what a surprise to see you. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “The Agency didn’t call?”

  “Why no. What about?”

  “May I come in?” She nodded and moved asid

  Mike stepped in and closed the door. Brandon was stretched out on the bed, lying on his stomach with his chin propped up in his hands. At the sight of Mike, he jumped off the bed. “Mike! Is Rick and Pete with you?”

  “No, they went back to England.”

  “We’re going to England, too. Aren’t we, Ann?”

  “Yes, we are,” Ann said. “Something tells me Mr. Bishop is aware of that. Aren’t you, Mike?”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here. How’s your ankle? Heard you had an accident.”

  “It’s fine. Nothing serious.”

  “The ankle or the accident? Can I talk to you privately, Ann?”

  She looked around the room. “I guess it will have to be in the bathroom. Sweetheart,” she said to Brandon, “go back and watch your television show. Mike and I have some business to discuss.”

  Once in the bathroom, Mike closed the door. “I’ll be going to England with you.”

  “You mean as a watchdog.”

  “Call it what you wish.”

  “I don’t need a watchdog, Mike. I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe in England.”

  “Ann, use your common sense. Clayton Burroughs was murdered in Kourou. And even though he’s dead, whoever was responsible came after you and the kid. Why?”

  “Maybe they didn’t know Clayton was dead. He was a wealthy man and they may have just planned on holding us for ransom.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “What about yesterday morning in the mall? You were terrorized there.”

  “You said it was my imagination. Are you saying you lied to me?”

  “Yesterday I did think it was your imagination. I didn’t see anyone go into that dressing room after you entered. I figured if it wasn’t your imagination maybe a woman had been in there when you entered, and could have been just as scared as you were.”

  He didn’t believe that explanation any more than she did. “Besides, in thinking it over, I lost sight of the dressing room for ten seconds
when I had to step around a floor display. Someone could have sneaked in then.”

  “Oh, now you tell me. Yesterday you were adamant that no one entered that room after I did.”

  “I’m trying to be objective, Ann. Now, considering the incident this morning, I’m convinced someone wants you out of the way.”

  “The police said that man has attacked other women.”

  “Did you ever hear of copycats? It’s a good way to knock off someone when there’s a serial killer or rapist operating in the vicinity.”

  He could see his words had begun to sink in. Those gorgeous violet eyes of hers were widening with every word he spoke. “Why would anyone think I know anything? If I did, would have revealed it at once. I told the CIA everything I know.”

  “We think that you may know something significant and don’t realize it. It’s all theory, but the Agency thinks you’re at risk.” He hesitated, and then added, “I think you’re at risk, Ann. I let you push me away the other night because emotionally that was the easiest way out. No strain. No pain. I won’t let that happen again. You’ve touched something in me, and I’m involved whether I want to be or not. But the only way I can protect you is not to let my emotions mess things up again.”

  “Mike, what almost happened between us last night makes it very awkward to be with you. If your agency wants to protect me, I prefer they use a different agent.” She tried to soften the words with a weak smile. “I can’t say it’s not personal, because it’s very personal. I think you understand.”

  “I think you don’t. Anything that’s gone between us in the past remains there. I’m a professional on an assigned mission. That means I don’t muddy up the water with personal feelings.

  “In case you weren’t aware in that little French Guiana Shangri-la you existed in, lady, it’s a dangerous world out there. Our agents have their hands full. The Agency’s sending me because I’m familiar with the background of this situation. So right now I’m the only thing that could be standing between you having your head blown off or your throat slit. You’re just going to have to grin and bear it. If you don’t cooperate, you could be endangering Brandon’s life, as well. So I go, or you don’t go. It’s that simple. End of discussion, Miss Hamilton.”

  “As usual, Bishop, your ultimatum leaves me little choice.”

  “I assume you’re packed and ready to leave. The limo’s due shortly.”

  Those violet eyes were flashing danger signals, but he had to give her credit for not smashing him in the mouth.

  “You know, Bishop, you were easier to tolerate when you kept your mouth shut.”

  She opened the door, and he started to follow her. She slammed it back in his face as she stormed out.

  “Dammit!” She’d done that on purpose. He grabbed his nose and checked it in the mirror. At least it wasn’t bleeding. Maybe she didn’t need anyone to protect her after all.

  Ann was helping Brandon on with his shoes when Mike came out of the bathroom. She started to close up a tiny child’s suitcase with large paste-on letters that spelled B R A N D O N across the top of it.

  “Couldn’t you have packed the kid’s clothes in one of these other suitcases?”

  “These aren’t clothes. They’re coloring books, crayons, story books and treats to snack on.”

  “Don’t you think the kid should try and sleep instead during the night?”

  “Tomorrow’s another day, Bishop.”

  “So it is, Miss Scarlet. So it is.” He shoved his own bag under his arm and picked up two more of hers.

  “Howid you manage to buy out Washington in just a couple of days?”

  “I’m well organized,” she said, tucking Brandon’s case under his other arm.

  When they left the room, he could only hope they didn’t run into any terrorists in the elevator.

  Chapter 10

  Mike was seated directly across the aisle from Ann and Brandon. They were in first class, so there were fewer people he had to concentrate on. Not that he figured anything would happen on the plane. And, since it was an overnight flight, everyone slept most of the way to London.

  As soon as they landed, he took them straight to the British State Department. The funeral service and interrment, scheduled for three o’clock that afternoon, would be held at the site of the Burroughs’s vault. He hated letting Ann out of his sight until then, but she would be as safe there as she would in a hotel room with him. Probably a damn sight safer considering how his testosterone level soared whenever he thought about her.

  He checked into the hotel Baker had reserved for him and left a wake-up call for one o’clock. It took him fifteen minutes to shower and shave, then he hit the sack. A few hours later the buzzing telephone woke him up at one o’clock.

  The limo was waiting when he arrived to accompany them. Ann came out of the building holding Brandon’s hand. She was dressed in a plain sleeveless black dress with a round neckline. The hem came to the top of her knees, a single strand of pearls was around her neck, tiny pearls at her ears, and her blond hair was swept up and pinned at the top of her head. Classy and simple. Princess Grace Kelly. Audrey Hepburn. Not like any of the trashy-looking actresses of today who figured they had to have their boobs hanging out or their bare butts showing to look sexy. She didn’t need any of those kind of gimmicks. One look at her and his fingers began itching to get at those pins in her hair and the zipper at the back of the dress.

  And her legs had been worth the wait. Most men were “T and A” guys. Not him. Nothing turned him on like a good pair of legs. And Ann had a good pair of legs. Long and tan running clear down to the painted toenails peeking out from under a couple of black straps that passed as shoes.

  He lifted his gaze and saw she was staring at him with a surprised look. “What?” he asked.

  “You look very handsome in a suit and tie, Bishop.”

  “And you look even better in a dress than you do in slacks, Hamilton.”

  “How do I look, Mike?” Brandon asked.

  Mike had forgotten about the kid. He was dressed in a black suit with long pants. “I’d say you look pretty spiffy in that suit, dude.”

  Brandon looked at Ann. “What does spiffy mean?”

  “It means you look good.”

  Brandon grinned. “Ann bought it for me today,” he said, climbing into the limo.

  “oday?” Mike grabbed Ann’s arm as she was about to step into the car. “You went shopping today?”

  “It was just a quick trip, Mike. I decided short pants weren’t proper for a funeral.”

  “Who in hell pays any attention to what a kid is wearing? I told you not to go anywhere without me. Dammit, Ann, why didn’t you call me?”

  “It’s over and done with. Nothing happened.”

  “This time.”

  She stepped in and sat down. He slammed the door and then climbed into the front seat next to the driver.

  “I wouldn’t be here if the Agency didn’t believe it was necessary. Either you start cooperating, or I’m putting that trim little tush of yours back on a plane to the States right now.”

  “Don’t issue orders to me, Bishop. And watch your language in front of Brandon. Can’t you see you’re upsetting him?”

  “He’ll be a lot more upset if you get hurt. From now on you don’t take a pee without me, understand?”

  She glared at him, turned her head, and proceeded to look out the window.

  He took it as a yes.

  The route wound along the spectacular beauty of the rugged coastline. Foamy waves lapped at the rocky boulders swarming with hundreds of seagulls lazing in the bright sunshine.

  After a forty-five-minute drive they arrived at the cemetery where several rows of chairs had been set up under a canopy in front of a granite mausoleum bearing the Burroughs name.

  Mike appraised the crowd at once and came up with a head count of forty-two. He stood back and tried to appear inconspicuous as the assembled mourners greeted Ann and Brandon.

 
Suddenly he stiffened to attention when one of the men rushed up to Ann and threw his arms around her. The kiss he gave her looked anything but casual. What the hell was the guy doing? This was a funeral for cripes’ sake. He sure wasn’t acting like he was in mourning.

  Who in hell was he? The man looked Latin—Argentinean or Brazilian. Probably late forties or mid-fifties. Smooth. Handsome. Custom-made suits. Big bucks. Poloponies rich.

  Mike shifted his gaze to the parked cars, looking for a Lamborghini or at least a Porsche. A red Ferrari convertible stood out among the row of black or gray limos like a peacock in a flock of pigeons. No surprise there.

  He didn’t like the way the guy was cozying up to Ann, and started to move toward them. An announcement was made requesting everyone to be seated. The Latin lover took Ann’s arm and sat down next to her, so Mike backed up and took a seat in the last row where he had an open-angled view of her.

  The minister began eulogizing Clayton Burroughs, but Mike focused his attention on Ann in the front row. He could tell the clergyman’s words were hitting her hard. Her head was bowed and Gilbert Roland—or whatever the hell the guy’s name was—slipped his arm around her shoulders.

  He felt like a bastard. He’d forgotten the personal grief she was suffering. When he’d piup he’d been distracted by how good she looked. Then he’d come down on her about going shopping. His attitude was only adding to her misery.

  He wasn’t the right man to pull this kind of duty. He’d never been a people person—a touchy-feely kind of guy. Tony would have been great at this. Tony was great with people. That’s why everybody loved him. Yeah, everybody but the bastard who slit his throat!

  Don’t go there, Bishop. This isn’t the time or place.

  As soon as the service was over he got up and approached Ann. “Are you ready to leave, Miss Hamilton?”

  “Yes. Mike. Will you take Brandon to the car while I say goodbye to Mr. DeVilles?”

  “Ann, I haven’t seen you in weeks,” DeVilles said. “We have so much to talk over. I insist you let me drive you.” He turned to Mike. “Take the child back and inform them Miss Hamilton will return after dinner.”