Chapter 44

 

 

1242 hrs.

 

Calla’s breath formed a steam film on the pane of the salon’s grand windows. “He’s out there, Nash.”

Nash raised an eyebrow from his reading. “Who?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

A few meters away, with his tousled, sandy-brown hair away from his face, Nash lounged on the upholstered couch, his feet on the glass table. He watched her curiously. Nash never failed to astound her. At six-foot-three, his lean build and posture spoke of years of military discipline, though that didn’t rob him of the sparkle in his engaging, deep-gray eyes.

Trendy and intelligent, he had just enough athletic physique to make her self-conscious by looking at him. Nash also had a quiet confidence that dazzled from the intent look of his stimulating eyes and a sharp sense of humor. Calla was awkward around men she found attractive and as a rule, she avoided them. With Nash, that guard had dissolved without warning. Nash had made his feelings clear. He wanted a life with her. Yet Calla feared a steady relationship, although if any, it would be with Nash. There was no denying it, he was fiercely handsome. Athletic and chiseled in the right places, his sculpted arms revealed strength. Lean washboard abs tapered to a narrow waist—topped with broad shoulders.

He was good to her. Her instincts had made an unintentional decision regarding him. Though they’d been close friends for months, his being around gave her renewed strength, and she was drawn to him more than she cared to admit.

As a former US Embassy marine, now employed by the National Security Agency in human intelligence, Nash had been in London on and off in the last three years leading ISTF’s classified intelligence analysis projects.

“There’s no one out there,” he rasped in his standard American tone. “This is private property. If anyone crosses the gate, the sensors will go off, and we’d know. See right there?” Nash’s finger pointed to a wireless camera that sat idly on top of the entertainment center in front of him.

A raw sensation shot through Calla’s veins. The ten mile-run that morning with Nash around Gore Lake Trail and the woods near the house, had left intrusive thoughts. She leaned the side of her head against the warm cedar of the double-glazed windowpane, taking in the imposing, serrated ridges of the Gore Mountain ranges.

The protruding snowcapped mountainside, visible now in the early afternoon, provided much solace to her unsettled mind. Her emerald eyes glowed with the reflection from the slopes. She dug her hands deeper in the pockets of the cable-knit sweater she wore over a pair of dark-wash jeans. Removing a hand from her pockets, she ran it through her licorice-colored tresses.

At one end of the extensive salon, the stone fireplace blazed in silence. Billie Holiday broke the otherwise quiet afternoon with a soft rendition of ‘A Stormy Weather’. Calla welcomed the slow crackling of the pine, which reminded her of winters back in her native England and growing up outside London in Alderley Edge.

“Is there something you need to tell me, Cal? Is someone after you?” Nash asked. He observed the lines in her face from behind a worn volume on the origins of the Cold War, as she gazed out at the frozen yard.

Calla felt dryness in her mouth. “I don’t know?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Her eyes followed the feathery snowflakes land on the lawn that bordered the edge of the covered swimming pool. The light floating was nothing compared with the squall they’d seen that morning, a typical occurrence in October.

She’d never imagined what Nash’s getaway home might look like, a retreat he’d often spoken of over the three years they’d known each other. Set on the edge of a golf course, she’d spent that last six months in its opulent comfort, undisturbed and avoiding any mention of the events that had taken place in London.

She glanced toward the Douglas-fir trees and wondered why Nash hardly spent any time in the alpine home that included a large main house, a guest bungalow and a large lawn, the epitome of class and privacy. A mirror of Nash himself.

Nash paused his reading. “Believe me, beautiful, anyone who dares step on my property uninvited will be asking for it.”

Calla’s face tightened as she observed the high noon sun hit the mountain snow caps. Nash could keep her safe. After all, he was a trained marine, and had combat and intelligence analysis skills that the NSA prized in him when they recruited him three years ago. She bit her lip and mumbled. “I saw his footprints out there yesterday, when you went into Colorado’s NSA branch. Nash, he could be an operative.”

Nash raised an eyebrow. “Why are you concerned with them? Operatives don’t have anything against you. From my recollection, you were capable of handling anyone twice your weight. In fact, weren’t they begging you to join them?” He stretched for sip of chilled water. “Is that what this is about?”

When Calla did not respond he flipped a page and continued reading. “Those footprints belong to the mailman.”

The frigid glass began to cool her flushed cheeks. She turned her attention to Nash’s concerned face. He was not reading. He reclined his frame across the sofa, a body he kept fit by regular training, a residue from his military years. He wore a wool jumper above charcoal jeans that complimented him well. She studied the faint scar on his strong jaw, one she’d caused when they first met at Denver airport, three and a half years ago.

She was safe with him, her best friend who’d not hesitated to leave London on a whim at her sudden request. He’d taken several months leave, juggled his government assignments to work remotely for the NSA.

Not once had he asked her why they’d left in such a rapid hurry. Not until now.

Calla shifted with her back against the window, and leaned on its wide edge. “I’m not imagining this, Nash. Someone knows I’m here. There’s only one way up this part of the mountain, right?”

“This is private land and has been in my family for years. My grandfather built that road out there himself. The only people who come up are the mailman and delivery. I can’t imagine you’re expecting any of those.”

He perked his upper body. “Who are you running from and why? Don’t you think it’s time you told me?” Nash’s eyebrows drew together. He shut his book and stood shoving his hands in his pockets. “Calla, I didn’t ask why we left London in such a hurry.” His voice trailed with resignation. “Can you come away from the window and tell me why I hired a private jet to fly us out of London without telling a soul? It’s been six months. I think you owe me an explanation.”

He was holding back his irritation at the riddles between them. She let out a quiet sigh. “I know, Nash.”

“We didn’t even tell Jack. He must be worried,” he said.

A brooding gaze swarmed over Calla’s face. He’s right.

She recalled that last week in London. They hadn’t spoken to Jack Kleve, their mutual friend and colleague. She could not shake the words spoken of Nash by Allegra and Vortigern, two operatives she wasn’t sure she understood.

Allegra’s face formed in her mind. Wisdom exuded from the older woman, stemming from her experience as a highly efficient, British diplomat and the new head of ISTF. The agency was a clandestine, global, crime-fighting organization headquartered in London. Allegra’s words continued to gnaw at Calla’s conscience. You can’t be with Nash.

Vortigern was a recent acquaintance and a lead operative, who’d been difficult to place as his conduct shifted like shadows. Yet, he’d revealed much about her past, including information about her parents. He too had given her unwarranted warnings about her liaison with Nash.

Calla disagreed with it all. That’s why she’d left. She’d run from the responsibilities of a lead operative for people she didn’t yet understand and an ancestry she wasn’t sure she wanted. The words spoken over Nash were treacherous. She had acted with intuition, on impulse and decided to leave that life behind. But what do I do now? Can you blame me? I want to protect you from these people.

When they arrived in Colorado, they were grateful to be alone, away from the events whose plausibility they could not explain. Her increased physical capacities were still a mystery. She hoped to make sense of a new relationship with a father she hardly knew and a new group of people calling themselves operatives, demanding she joins them. Calla had longed to find her parents—and why she’d been given up for adoption.

“You’re right, Nash. It’s been six months,” she said.

“Do you want to go back to London?” Nash said.

Her eyebrows knit, penciling worry lines on her forehead. The truth about her past had been painful and London reminded her of that truth. She shrugged. “I don’t know. How can I? After twenty-nine years, I’ve finally met a father I barely know. A criminal behind bars wants me dead. I’m faced with the fact that I’m an undercover agent for an organization that’s as enigmatic as far as the other side of the solar system. If I accept the operatives’ terms, I’ll have to—”

“What are their terms? You’ve never told me.”

I can’t. Because you are the bargaining chip! They don’t want me with you. She began to reason. “Nash—”

“Must be hard to learn things you weren’t expecting. I’m not so sure about the operatives either and their secret methods. Where do they get such knowledge to generate technological and scientific advancements that defy anything we’ve seen in the military and the NSA? But—”

Calla blinked at Nash’s hesitation.

He continued. “Don’t you want to get to know Stan, your father? Perhaps spend some time with him in England? You searched for him all your life.”

Nash would not normally prod for answers. He usually let her emerge from her guarded self on her own terms, in her own time. He was patient that way. Nevertheless, his patience with her hesitation was wearing out.

Calla’s voice began to crack. “I’m not sure what I want.”

“You didn’t get to bond with him.” Nash’s face quizzed her. “You must have questions for him. Maybe more questions about your mother.”

She rubbed her sweating hands on her jeans. “She’s dead.”

Nash sidled to the retractable doors where Calla stood. She observed his affectionate movement toward her. Her back turned toward him, as Nash stepped behind her and placed his robust arms around her frame. He glanced out the window the sun hitting his strong jaw. “You’re safe here. No one is going to find you, whatever you are running away from.”

He brushed his lips over the top of her head, and rested his chin on her smooth mane. “My father first sold this house when I joined the military. I bought it back from the owners a year ago.”

She sensed a hesitation in his voice when he mentioned his father. An irritation. He was changing the subject for her sake. She sank into his embrace. “It’s beautiful out here, Nash. Why did your father sell the house?”

“It happened when I joined the marines. He didn’t approve,” Nash said shrugging his shoulders. “Probably wanted to annoy me as he did my mother, and drove her away. They split years ago.”

Pain was evident in his voice as he spoke of his parents. She decided not to pursue the subject. “Thank you for bringing me here.” She listened to Nash’s soft breathing. Calla turned away from the window and looked into his gray eyes. “Okay. It’s time I tell you why we really are here.”

 

 

 

HER MAJESTY’S PRISON SERVICE

BELMARSH, LONDON

1700 hrs.

 

“That’s the fourth visitor this month,” said Hugh Kail the prison guard in charge of high-security unit criminals at Belmarsh.

The tightly fortified prison stood in the eastern part of London. Kail surveyed Mason Laskfell’s dark cell on the closed-circuit, television monitors in the officers’ quarters. Dark tobacco stains were visible on his finger as he ran it along the edges of the surveillance system. He considered the eminent felon, a silver-haired man whose physique defied his recorded age, an unusual criminal in his charge, and one with high, international status. He stroked his clean-shaven chin. Kail was used to notorious offenders, but not like Mason.

The man was daunting.

Kail pressed his lips in a moderate grimace. He took a seat at his desk and turned to Elias Koleszar his subordinate, who’d just come in from a ten-minute break.

Elias’s wide brown eyes shone in the bright lights. He’d been a prison guard for twelve years at Belmarsh having been fired from the London Metropolitan Police for insubordination and violence on the job. Elias had spent seven months in prison himself. He’d left with one goal—uphold the law and community spirit, viewing it as part of his responsibility. So far, he’d failed. He extorted high-profile criminals for any money they could part with, in return for petty favors like extra blankets, cigarettes or anything he could sneak into their cells.

Elias tunneled bony fingers through fine, gray hair. “Laskfell’s behavior is odd.”

“What else is new?”

“Has he settled in that isolation cell?”

“Seems fine to me.” Elias knit his eyebrows. “He’s one to watch. Nothing like the others, you know. He has that strange, quiet knowing, as if he sees what you’re thinking.”

“Don’t get too close.”

“I’m not. And off the record, he’s the former head of ISTF. They wouldn’t let me put that on his records. Something to do with keeping ISTF out of the media’s radar.”

“ISTF, huh? You mean the undercover group that intervenes in global, criminal investigations.”

“I heard they only hire wunderkinds. You know, twenty-twenty vision, tip-top medical shape, IQs no less than 160. Sheeesh!”

Kail raised his head from his laptop. “ISTF has been under heavy investigation for years and yet is funded without the taxpayer’s knowledge.”

Elias pondered for several seconds. “Until we got this guy, we all thought it was poof! Long gone. That it had stopped existing months ago.”

Kail didn’t care for the exaggerations. ISTF had turned down his application years ago. And Mason was a sore reminder of that fact. “I don’t think ISTF ever existed.” His voice lowered as he set a finger on the mute button of his phone systems. “That’s what the papers said. Yet one way or another, money keeps drifting through many hands to fund the blasted thing.” He shot his colleague a deliberate gaze. “Some legit, some less legit. What do I care? I retire in two years. Doesn’t seem as though Her Majesty’s Royal Pension Service will be handing out gold coins.”

Elias contemplated, his eyes fixed on the surveillance monitor. “That’s what makes Laskfell’s case fascinating. How do you incriminate a man for high crimes against an organization that doesn’t exist on paper, again using taxpayers’ money?”

Kail shrugged his shoulders. “They’ll find something linked to other government agencies. You’ve seen these government types. So-called visitors have come and gone in the last six months, some coming from as far as Washington DC.” Kail’s eyes left the screen for the first time and wandered to where Elias stood. “That guy’s got more millions than the welfare checks we hand out in this country, even after the government confiscated his personal funds.”

“A billionaire behind bars. Milk it for what it’s worth. You and I’ll never see money like that in our lifetime, unless—”

“Everyday, gifts from unidentified sources arrive for him. Have you been making a list? Make sure they stay in the confiscated pot. I’ll find use for them someday. We need to cover our backs,” Kail added.

“Certainly,” said Elias. “But the governor authorized Laskfell’s laptop in his cell.”

“The magistrate denied him bail. She must’ve felt sorry for the geek and consented to a few belongings.” He slammed his own laptop shut. “Heck! A laptop today is like having a book. Laskfell’s laptop is generations newer than this piece of scrap. Did you disable the wireless and 4G networks? We can’t have him engaging in any online activity. That was the magistrate’s only stipulation.”

“Yup.”

Kail rubbed his chin. “We can’t be careless and none of the other prisoners should know about it.”

Elias nodded. “I doubt anyone wants to be near him. The prisoners are talking. They fear him like the plague. I don’t get it. It’s not that he has the strongest build or even the worst criminal record. It’s weird stuff, mate. They don’t look him in the eyes. And when they do, they’re gripped with fear of even coming within yards of him.”

Kail rotated on his seat and glanced at the magistrate’s list of approved visitors. He stamped a piece of paper authorizing Mason’s next visitor, signed it and handed it to Elias. “Solitary confinement will help with that little problem.”

Elias glared at the slip of paper. “To imagine, that one man could be waiting trial for murder. His report also lists offenses including the mishandling of classified information, kidnapping, criminal handling of government assets and suspicion of terrorist activities against the state and international territories.” He shook his head. “I had better check-in his new visitor. This one’s unusual.”