The news story was entirely appropriate for the mission cover; the information given out, routine. A failure to advise the media of the operation could have aroused suspicion in its own right.
But to Smith it was a shout into the darkness, and there was no way of knowing who might overhear.
In her hotel room, Randi Russell sank down on the edge of the bed. Aimlessly running her hand over the golden-toned coverlet, her thoughts jumbled between the past and future.
Damn it, she was a good pilot, or at least a fair one, but she didn’t have near the hours needed to consider herself a competent arctic bush aviator. But that was always a problem with the Agency. Admit you knew how to fix a leaky faucet, and the assumption would be that you knew how to manage a flood control project.
The compounding half of the equation was, of course, the personal pride that always choked off the words “No, I can’t do this.”
Most particularly she couldn’t bring herself to say those words to Jon Smith.
What curse chained her to that man?
She would always remember the worst fight she’d ever had with her older sister, the cold fury she had felt when Sophia had appeared with Smith’s engagement ring on her finger, and the searing words of betrayal she had rained upon Sophie before stalking out of her apartment.
The worst had been that Sophie had refused to fight back. “Jon’s sorry for what he’s done to you, Randi,” she’d said, smiling that wise, rather sad, big sister’s smile of hers, “more sorry than you can ever know, or at least be willing to understand.”
Randi would never understand, not now.
She was starting to unzip one suede boot when a soft knock sounded at the door. Tugging the zip up again, Randi crossed to the room’s entryway, carefully checking the door’s security peephole.
A pair of level, narrowed gray eyes looked back.
Randi went through the motions of clearing the dead bolt and the security chain and removing the wet molded tissue wedge from the foot of the door. “Is anything wrong, Professor?” she asked, opening it.
“I’m not sure,” Valentina Metrace replied, her voice cool. “That’s what I’m here to find out. We need to talk, Miss Russell, specifically, about you.”
A little startled, Randi stepped back, and the historian brushed past her into the room. “Are we secure here?” she asked bruskly.
“I’ve scanned for bugs,” Randi replied, closing and relocking. “We’re clean.”
“Good. We can get down to it, then.” Valentina paced into the middle of the room, her arms crossed. Abruptly she turned to face Randi. “What the hell is wrong between you and Smith?”
In her casual amiability over the dinner table, Professor Metrace had not seemed quite such a formidable personality. But in attack mode now, her eyes were steel, and Randi was aware that even without heels, the brunette was an inch or two the taller.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Professor,” Randi replied stiffly. “There are no problems between Colonel Smith and myself.”
“Oh, please, Miss Russell. The atmosphere over that table was so charged it would have registered on a Geiger counter. I’ve never worked with either you or Smith before, but I gather you must have operated with the colonel in the past. I must also assume that you both must be reasonably competent members of the Club, or you wouldn’t be here. But it is also obvious something has gone off between you.”
Damn it! And Randi had been priding herself on the way she’d been keeping the lid on. “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself about, Professor.”
Metrace shook her head impatiently. “Miss Russell. I am a professional at this game. That means I don’t work with people I don’t trust, and right now I’m not trusting anybody. Before I take another step forward on this operation, I want to know what exactly the bloody hell is going on between my theoretical teammates-in detail!”
Randi could recognize the gambit in play: belligerence, probably feigned, and a sudden slashing assault. Metrace was not merely demanding information. She was probing, testing Randi’s reaction.
The CIA operative strove to suppress her instinctive flare of anger. “I suggest that you discuss this matter with Colonel Smith.”
“Oh, I fully intend to, darling. But he’s not available at the moment, and you are. Beyond that, Smith seemed to be handling affairs better. You seem to be the one with her knickers in a knot. Illuminate me.”
This woman was infuriating, or at least that was how she desired to be at the moment. “I can assure you that any dealings I may have had with Colonel Smith in the past will have no effect on our current assignment whatsoever.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Metrace replied flatly.
Randi felt her control cracking. “Then you may judge that it’s none of your damn business!”
“Keeping my skin intact is my business, Miss Russell, one that I devote a great deal of loving attention to. And right now I am sensing a sour team and a mission aborted before it launches, because of personnel problems. I’m one of the mission specialists, thus, indispensable. I suspect Colonel Smith is as well. That leaves the little helicopter girl to get the black ball. I assure you that you can be replaced, darling. Now, watch me walk out of here and make it happen!”
The confrontation hovered on the verge of critical mass. But both women recognized that if a blow was thrown, it would be no scratch-and-slap cat fight; one or the other or both of them would be dead or critically maimed in seconds.
Finally, Randi took a deep, shuddering breath. Damn this woman and damn Jon Smith and damn herself. But if they were going to be operating together, Metrace had the right to ask and Randi the responsibility to answer.
“Ten years ago a young army officer that I was very much in love with was serving with a peacekeeping force in the Horn of Africa. We were going to be married when he got home. But he contracted something out of the African disease pool, something that medical science was just beginning to recognize. He was evacuated to a Navy hospital ship and placed under the care of an army doctor who was serving aboard at the time.”
Valentina relaxed minutely. “Colonel Smith?”
“He was a captain then. He made a misdiagnosis. It wasn’t really his fault, I suppose. Only a few tropical disease specialists really understood the illness at the time. But my fiancé died.”
The silence returned to the room. Randi took another deep breath and went on. “Some time later, Major Smith met my older sister, Sophia. She was a doctor, too, a research microbiologist. They fell in love and were engaged to be married when he convinced her to come and work with him at the U.S. Army Medical Institute for Infectious Diseases. Do you remember the Hades plague?”
“Of course.”
Randi kept her eyes fixed on the blandly patterned wallpaper. “USAMRIID was one of the first agencies called in to try and isolate the disease and find a cure. While working with the plague, my sister caught it.”
“And she died as well.” Valentina Metrace’s voice softened into compassion. The test was over.
Randi could meet the other woman’s gaze now. “Since then I’ve found myself working with Jon on a number of different assignments. For some reason we just keep getting tangled up with each other.” She continued with a wry, self-derogatory smile. “I’ve come to recognize that he’s a good operative and essentially a good person. I’ve also come to recognize that what’s happened in the past is…past. I promise you, Professor, that I’ll have no problem working with him as my team leader. He knows his business. It’s only that I have some memories to work through whenever we first come together.”
Valentina nodded. “I see.”
She turned for the door but paused halfway through the move. “Miss Russell, would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow, before we get on the plane?”