Mountain Bodyguard, page 6
“She’s a very perceptive young woman—her father’s daughter.” Prescott frowned. “My conversation with him last night could have gone better. I get it. The man is concerned. Hell, I’d feel the same way if one of my kids had been attacked. But I believe these idiots were after me, not the nanny or Helena or the children. They should all be safe.”
“What did her father say to her?”
“He was willing to have Lexie stay.”
And that was fortunate, because she’d already made up her mind about what she intended to do. “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
Mason cleared his throat. “Is Lexie dating anyone?”
“When she first came to us, she asked about a boyfriend by the name of Anton. But she’s forgotten him. And she’s only gone out on a couple of dates.” He gave a sly grin. “Any other questions?”
“When is her next day off?”
* * *
MASON ACCOMPANIED THE FOURSOME: Prescott, Collier and the two NSA guys—Hank Grossman and Sam Bertinelli. Predictably, Collier was a superb golfer with picture-perfect form. Bertinelli wasn’t half bad, but took way too long to set up each shot, testing the wind direction and picking bits of grass out of the way. The admiral played solid, par-level golf. And Grossman cheated.
Since they were zipping around in golf carts, the only chance for conversation was on the green. Collier, Prescott and Bertinelli followed golf etiquette and kept their voices low so they wouldn’t disturb the putter. Grossman wasn’t so polite.
“Listen up, boys,” Grossman growled. Mason guessed that the gray-haired, stoop-shouldered man was older than the admiral, definitely north of sixty. “Let’s take advantage of this time alone to talk about the Damascus Cache. We all know what it is. Don’t pretend that you don’t.”
“I’ve heard talk,” Prescott said, “about a comprehensive list of personnel and weapons in the Middle East and sub-Saharan Africa. A cache of information, compiled several years ago at the end of the Bush administration.”
“More valuable than a cache of gold,” Grossman said.
“Not all of it.” Prescott’s ball was in a bunker, farthest from the hole. Therefore, he was first to shoot. After selecting a wedge club, he positioned his feet in the sand, straightened his shoulders, glanced at the flag and hit a perfect chip shot. The ball stopped a mere six inches from the hole.
As he tapped his ball into the cup, he continued, “There were lists of supplies, locations of arsenals and maps of supply lines. At least, I’d guess the cache included that information—details that are now worthless.”
“It is about the people,” Collier said.
The next to putt was Bertinelli. His ball was about thirty-five feet from the hole, and Mason guessed it was going to take five minutes for Bertinelli to test the wind and tamp down divots. A waste of time—this average golfer wasn’t going to make such a long putt.
“I agree about the danger posed to the people on this list,” said Prescott. “I’m not saying that I’ve ever seen the cache or that I even know it exists, but I’d guess that it would give details about intelligence operatives for the military, the CIA, NSA and Interpol. Many were undercover.”
“Many still are,” Collier said. “These are people who may or may not still be involved in espionage. Some have dropped off the grid and are leading normal lives. They are married. They have children.”
“Ha!” Grossman exploded with a loud, humorless laugh. “I’m guessing that these former spies sure as hell don’t want their names made public.”
“Exposure would be a death warrant.”
Finally in position over the ball, Bertinelli looked confused. “Why would AC-CD want the list?”
“Hurry up and putt,” Grossman said. “As for the AC-CD, they claim to be anti-conspiracy. So they might think they’re doing the world a favor by causing trouble for spies.”
“An altruistic motive,” Prescott said.
“Yeah, yeah, they’re shining a light on the truth. That kind of phony-baloney.”
Mason pinched his lips together to keep from blurting out his ideas and opinions. His college degree was in international relations. Because his brother had been stationed in the Middle East, he’d focused on that area and on Africa. These were lands where espionage ran rampant, lands where bribes were more common than taxes, lands of genocide. Heinous battles were motivated by politics, religion, ethnicity and plain old greed. He seriously doubted that AC-CD wanted the Damascus Cache to expose the truth.
Bertinelli tapped his ball. It traveled slowly but steadily and...plink! He sank the putt and gave a victorious arm pump. This guy wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he shouldn’t be counted out.
“I got the answer,” Grossman said. “Destroy the damn list. Delete it from all servers. Encrypt the hell out of it.”
While he babbled about how they could destroy the cache, he misfired on a four-foot putt. His ball was about as far from the hole as Collier’s, which was good enough for Grossman. He scooped it off the green and into his pocket. “That’s a gimme.”
Collier spoke in his smooth, lightly accented voice as he lined up his putt. “We cannot destroy something that we do not have. The Damascus Cache, whether it exists or not, is nowhere to be found.”
The stroke of his putter was as elegant as his tailored black trousers and cashmere sweater. When the ball dropped into the hole, he casually removed his sunglasses. His blue-eyed gaze zeroed in on Prescott. “I wonder, Admiral, why do these people believe that you are in possession of the cache?”
“A damned good question,” Grossman bellowed. “I know you worked in intelligence with the navy SEALs, but you’re retired.”
Not to be left out, Bertinelli added his two cents. “You’re a surprising target, sir. You have a reputation for not being comfortable with computer technology.”
“True,” Prescott said. “I still have trouble figuring out how to make my phone send texts.”
“Why you?” Collier repeated.
The admiral didn’t even attempt to answer. He shrugged, checked his wristwatch and started walking toward their cart. “Play the next hole without me. I’ll catch up after I take a meeting.”
“We’re going to miss you,” Grossman called after him.
“I’ll bet.”
The admiral drove the cart toward a grove of aspens that were several yards off the fairway. Apparently, he wanted privacy for this meeting. Not only did he put distance between them and the others in the foursome, but the outdoor location made it difficult for anyone else to overhear. Mason knew that his buddy Dylan would have set up a computerized meeting that was nearly impossible to hack.
“I need you to keep time,” Prescott said as he handed Mason the Luminox wristwatch preferred by the SEALs. “I need to log on at precisely 10:44 and log off at 10:59.”
Mason took the watch. Three minutes until log-on. The admiral had the computer open on his lap. He flexed his fingers and cleared his throat. And then...
“Trouble approaching,” Mason said.
A golf cart with a distinctive pink top bounced across the fairway toward them. In the driver’s seat, Helena hunched over the steering wheel like a speed racer and squealed wildly on every bump. Riding shotgun, Lexie clung to the fringed pink top and laughed.
The admiral shook his head and grinned. “That’s my woman.”
A lot of men, especially those in positions of authority, would have been annoyed by Helena’s wild driving, but Prescott was amused, even a little bit proud of his flamboyant wife.
“Sir.” Mason tapped the face of the watch. “It’s time.”
Prescott touched the correct computer key, and the laptop screen showed a broad-shouldered man sitting at a desk. His face was easily recognizable from television talk shows—a lantern jaw, heavy brows and thick black hair with silver streaks at the temple. He was the Secretary of the Navy, Thomas Benson.
“Good morning,” Prescott said.
“Maybe where you are it’s morning.” Benson’s jaw lifted, and he scowled into the screen. “Here at the Pentagon it’s past my feeding time. What’s happening, Prescott? Tell me about these anti-conspiracy whack jobs.”
“Not much to tell,” he replied. “My concern is the Damascus Cache. I thought we’d destroyed every copy.”
Mason took note of the change in Prescott’s attitude. With the other golfers, he’d been cagey about whether or not the Damascus Cache even existed. While he was talking to the SecNav, a veteran officer who was a peer and an equal, there was a total lack of pretense. These two spoke truth to each other.
The SecNav shook his head. “I can’t be certain that one copy didn’t get away from us.”
“Who was responsible for getting rid of this intelligence?”
“Your old buddy, Al Ackerman.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
With one last squeal, Helena parked next to them in the shadow of the aspens. She bounded from the cart and came around so she could see over her husband’s shoulder. The instant she recognized the man on the screen, she fluttered her fingertips in a wave. “Hello there, Tommy.”
“Helena.” His smile was so broad it looked as if his jaw would unhinge. “Lovely as ever, and who’s that with you?”
“Our nanny, Lexie DeMille,” she said as she dragged Lexie into the camera range.
Mason noticed how Lexie’s posture went from relaxed to as stiff as steel rebar, almost as though she was standing at attention. He understood why she straightened up. No matter where she went or what she became, Lexie was a military brat. SecNav was a man of the highest rank and authority.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said with a slight quaver in her voice.
Prescott said, “She’s Danny DeMille’s daughter. As long as I’m making introductions, my bodyguard is Mason Steele. His brother was Matthew.”
To his amazement, the SecNav saluted him. “Matthew Steele was a hero. His quick thinking saved thirty-seven children. My condolences to you and to your parents.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mason was reeling. The SecNav knew his brother. More than that, he knew something about the circumstances of Matthew’s death. He had posthumously been awarded a Purple Heart, his second such award, so his family had known that he’d died honorably. Still, hearing the details would mean a great deal to Mason’s parents.
With a start, he realized that Prescott was talking to him, telling him to move the ladies out of the way while he finished his conversation. Mason herded Lexie and Helena deeper into the aspen grove while leaving a clear route back to the admiral in case he needed to get back there in a hurry.
“Wow,” Lexie said. “Thomas Benson knows who my dad is. I can’t believe it! And I met him, too.”
“He’s just good old Tommy,” Helena said. “The man is a sweetheart and a ham. Did you know that he was a pilot?”
Both Mason and Lexie nodded. Though he was interested in her story, he kept one eye on Prescott. Mason was curious about the “old buddy” named Ackerman. Why had the admiral expressed concern when the SecNav mentioned him?
“At a karaoke bar in DC,” Helena continued, “Tommy and Prescott serenaded me. Can you guess what they sang?”
Lexie nodded. “The SecNav was a top gun. I’m guessing they sang ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’.’”
“Of course, you’re right.”
Helena started singing, and Lexie backed her up. Damn, they were cheerful. If he hadn’t known better, he wouldn’t have believed that Lexie had recently been in a firefight and Helena’s husband was under threat of abduction. Was the singing and smiling a front? Showing a brave face so the kids wouldn’t be scared?
He took a long moment to study Lexie. Her black jeans fit smoothly. On the top, she wore a white shirt with an eyelet trim under an embroidered denim jacket. Once again, her curly hair was yanked up in a high ponytail. He liked the casual version of Lexie. If she was faking this carefree attitude, he’d have to nominate her for an award.
Prescott motioned for them to join him as he powered down the laptop and closed it. Still singing and snapping her fingers, Helena approached him and kissed both cheeks, leaving a scarlet imprint of lipstick.
“Are we okay?” she asked.
“We’re fine,” he assured her. “But I’m going to need to spend another day or two at the Pentagon next week.”
“Next week is the start of our summer schedule. We’re all taking off in different directions, and I want to get packed and organized.”
Prescott looked around her shoulder to make eye contact with Lexie. “How about it—are you ready to organize the Prescott troops?”
“Ready to try,” she said.
“How’s the arm?”
“Doesn’t hurt a bit. At the worst, I’ll have another scar to add to my collection.”
Mason had wanted to ask the same thing. What did she mean about a collection of scars? There was so much more he wanted to know about her.
Prescott took on a serious expression. “I want to promise you, Lexie, that we will find and destroy any existing copies of the Damascus Cache. But I know better than to make guarantees that cannot be fulfilled with certainty.”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best.” Her lips twisted in a confused smile. “But I’m not sure why this would be important to me.”
“The cache is a list of undercover operatives in the Middle East. It was generated several years ago.” He took her hand and squeezed. “Your father’s name is on it.”
Chapter Seven
Tony Curtis blended in with the valets handling parking at the boutique hotel. He’d grabbed a uniform—a black vest and a bolo tie—from the garage, and he found a name tag in the top drawer of a beat-up desk by the lockers. The name was Andy. Not entirely accurate, but close enough. He sidled up the drive to the desk at the front entrance, where guests were checking out and demanding their vehicles.
Though he was probably fifteen years older than the other valets, his build was as lean and wiry as an eighteen-year-old’s, and he’d plucked the few gray hairs from his thick black mane. It was no problem for him to pass himself off as a young dude with a hard-luck story.
Along with the rest of the crew, he hustled back and forth to the underground parking to retrieve the Escalades, Bimmers and Hummers. He let the other guys do most of the work. They didn’t care. This was a job that ran on tips.
Tony made no effort to be secretive or to hide. Instead, he acted as if he belonged. He played his role as a guy who was too old to be making a living as a valet...doing it anyway but not even trying to do it well.
A job like this might have been his really real life. He smirked at the thought, acknowledging that the person who had babbled about really real life was Franny, who now wanted to be called Lexie. Hell, why not? Lexie rhymed with sexy, and that suited her. She was hot, sexier now than when he’d known her. He was almost glad he hadn’t killed her.
What set him apart from the other valets was his intense training with firearms and his instinct for murder. In the past few moments, he’d been tempted to lash out. Taking gratuities made him feel like a servant. When a pompous, red-faced rich man dribbled a one-dollar bill into Tony’s outstretched hand and stood waiting for a “thank you, sir,” a homicidal urge boiled up inside the not-really-a-valet.
Since metal detectors were all over the hotel, he hadn’t hidden a gun up his sleeve. Nor was he carrying the well-honed hunting knife he used to gut and clean a deer in five minutes. Tony had two weapons strapped to his chest under his vest. One was a stun gun. The other was a razor-sharp plastic chef’s blade.
He locked gazes with the pompous hotel guest. Tony could kill this fool in ways that didn’t require a weapon. With a deft twist, he could snap the rich man’s neck. Eye gouging was an option. Or a quick, lethal chop to the trachea.
The rich man must have recognized Tony’s deeper nature, because he peeled off a ten to accompany the one-dollar bill, quickly dived behind the steering wheel of his shiny SUV and drove away.
Nobody paid any attention when Tony edged around to the side of the hotel and pulled out a cigarette. From this vantage point, he could see the admiral and his buddies playing golf. Life would have been so much easier if he could have just killed the admiral. The kidnapping scheme meant the admiral had to be incapacitated and then removed from the scene. Neither would happen while the bodyguard protected him.
Tony traced the edge of the leather knife sheath fastened to his chest. He came to the conclusion that the only way to abduct the admiral required killing the bodyguard.
* * *
THOUGH THE DAY was sunny and clear, Lexie felt cold shadows closing around her, tweaking her shoulders and sending shivers down her spine. Standing on the balcony outside her hotel room, she stared into the warm blue Colorado sky and thought about Texas, the closest place she had to a home. Like most military families, the DeMilles had moved from base to base around the country while her parents were together. After the split, she and her brothers had been raised by her grandma in Austin while her dad was stationed far away. And working as a spy?
She hadn’t even known that the marines had spies, but of course they did. Every branch of the military had intelligence officers, and the SEALs were totally involved in undercover ops. Still, she didn’t think of her dad as a secret agent. How could that be? Suave wasn’t part of his vocabulary. He was loud, demanding and straightforward...just about as subtle as a charging Brahman bull.
