Dusk had fallen by the time Jenny pulled up to the industrial park that housed her uncle’s storage unit. She learned of it while snooping through the outgoing mail on his desk at the paper, where she had returned to the staff part time.
The Daily Chronicle had its own storage and archive facilities, but this address was not it. Ever on the lookout for something out of the ordinary, this remote area across town immediately caught her attention. A little steam and a steady hand with a letter opener produced an outgoing cash payment to a storage company for a bill addressed to someone other than her uncle, a name she didn’t recognize. It might be a long shot, but it was the only thing she had found out of the ordinary in her uncle’s business or personal life.
Jenny didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of her superiors by sending them on a wild goose chase over nothing, so she took it upon herself to do a little investigating on her own before reporting her findings. Now, she sat outside the mystery unit in her idling car, bracing herself for what she might find inside.
The industrial park was a ghost town on this rainy Sunday night. The Cord’s headlights illuminated the dingy gray metal slats of the roll-up bay door, and Jenny quickly turned them off to avoid any undue attention. She was sure she was alone but couldn’t tame the paranoia that comes with being someplace one shouldn’t. The bulb above the storage unit’s number was out, just like all the lights above the park’s units. In fact, the entire place looked abandoned, and, for the moment, that suited Jenny just fine. She pulled her car around to the side of the building and stepped out into the fine drizzle, flashlight in hand and lock picks at the ready.
It took her fifteen minutes to get inside the unit, but she chose to blame that on the rusty padlock and the miserable weather, rather than her lack of expertise with a lock pick. Once inside, she lowered the bay door behind her and quieted its clanging pulley chain. It was pitch-black inside. There were no windows, no lights, and it smelled stale and musty. She turned on the flashlight and did a quick scan of the small room.
Haphazardly stacked boxes, and what she assumed was covered furniture, filled the space. The layer of dust blanketing every object in the room made Jenny feel that her overactive imagination had led her astray and she’d done nothing but disturb someone’s long forgotten tomb.
She felt foolish, standing in the dark, holding her flashlight like a rain-soaked Nancy Drew wannabe, but just when she accepted that she had stumbled upon a dead end, she saw them—footprints in the dust-covered floor, leading into the center of the nondescript piles of boxes and dingy sheets.
The discovery sent a chill up her spine, and she suddenly felt like she wasn’t alone. The darkness behind her felt corporeal, like it would reach out and grab her at any moment. She spun the flashlight around to her perceived foe, and finding nothing but the cement block wall behind her, she backed up to it to gather herself. The wall was cold and unwelcoming and did nothing to ease her discomfort. She exhaled a steadying breath and focused her attention and the light on the well-traveled path through the dust on the smooth concrete floor. The footprints were large—a man’s to be sure—and she wondered when they had last left their mark.
She trained her light on the stack of boxes straight ahead and tried, unsuccessfully, to shake the feeling she wasn’t alone. She took a step and swore she heard something other than her movement and the steady rain on the corrugated tin roof. Her heartbeat quickened and her eyes darted to the dark corners beyond her flashlight’s reach. If someone else was in there, she was a sitting duck. There was nowhere she could go. She’d never get away, and after she was caught, no one would hear her scream.
She swallowed hard. When would she learn? An idea that seemed so brilliant in her head once again unraveled under her shortsighted enthusiasm and left her exposed to possible danger. She heard panicked breathing but soon realized it was her own. She held her breath for a few seconds, to listen for signs of company, and hearing none, concluded that her opponent was probably doing the same. It was always like that in the movies—the dead calm before the fatal attack.
Hoping her attacker had never seen such a movie, she slowly put her hand in her pocket, and in the sternest voice she could muster, said, “Come on out of there, nice and slow … I’ve got a gun.”
She supposed it would have been more impressive had the flashlight in her hand not been shaking with dread, but after a few nerve-racking moments, logic took over and she reasoned that anyone with intent to harm her would have attacked before now. Her bravado was rewarded with continued silence, and she let out a relieved chuckle in honor of her vivid imagination.
She shook her head when reality finally set in. “Jenny, there’s only one way in, and the door was locked from the outside. You’re an idiot.”
She chuckled out loud and wiped the rain from her brow as she shone her light into the room with renewed confidence.
“Okay,” she exhaled as she moved in to examine the scene closely. “What have we got here?”
Kathryn exhaled the final drag on her cigarette and smashed the spent butt into the full ashtray under her hand. She listened indifferently as Colonel Forsythe commended her work.
She was fully immersed in Forrester’s world now, and her assignment had become a way of life. It was a coping mechanism—anything to keep her mind off Jenny—and hardly something she thought should be commended.
Her aggressive stance with Forrester had opened new avenues for their investigation, and Kathryn lamented the fact that she had not taken it sooner. She wasn’t prepared to say the time she’d spent with Jenny was not time well spent, but in the big scheme of things, she shuddered to think what her delay may have cost the war effort.
Thierry Bouchaule was the prize for her efforts. Yesterday had been their first intimate encounter, but not their first clandestine meeting—those had started weeks ago, in Chicago, when the doctor boldly approached her and confessed he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Thus, began weeks of teasing and flirting over the phone once Kathryn returned home.
Bouchaule was on her turf for the latest round of dealings with Forrester, and, true to his word, he had been discreet, demonstrating a healthy respect for Marcus Forrester’s possessive nature and Kathryn’s safety.
He’d been nothing but a gentleman, letting Kathryn dictate how far their physical relationship would go. Kathryn supposed Smitty was right. She could have strung the man along without surrendering her body to him and still gotten the information they sought, but she had already given herself to Forrester, and having learned long ago how to mentally anesthetize herself to the physical intrusion, giving herself to Bouchaule was no more or less a burden than anything else she’d done in her life to meet an end.
She felt no shame in her actions. She sensed it was almost expected of her. Colonel Forsythe was the exception—he was like the kindly father, blind to his daughter’s disreputable ways.
“What else can you tell us about Bouchaule’s interest in Forrester’s negotiations with the Chicago syndicate?” he asked.
“Not much more than is in my report.”
Thierry Bouchaule lacked the paranoia of a man in Forrester’s position and thought nothing of voicing his displeasure at the industrialist’s shortsighted obstruction to his project.
“He is a greedy little man, with no vision beyond his bank account,” the doctor had complained. He made it clear that nothing and no one would stand in the way of his work. Kathryn saw an unexpected intensity and determination in his eyes that made her realize Forrester had woefully underestimated his opponent, and perhaps she had as well.
He was a shrewd man when it came to his business dealings. He made no secret of the fact that the Chicago connection afforded him leverage in his negotiations—a power he would not possess otherwise.
“I am a doctor, darling, not a thug,” he explained. “I care not for Marc Forrester’s turf war, or any other war, for that matter. My work is bigger than that—something these fools would never understand, but I will remove anyone who stands in my way.”
It was becoming apparent that the doctors and researchers surrounding Forrester were frantically trying to play catch-up to decipher Daniel Ryan’s project, while Bouchaule exuded the calm and confidence of a man already well versed in its secrets.
Kathryn would have taken the Frenchman’s attitude as a reflection of his arrogant suave sophistication, but she sensed a legitimacy to his claim that would soon be borne out by his unsolicited declaration.
“It is mine, by rights,” he claimed cryptically. Bouchaule never mentioned names, so whether he was involved with the Ryan project wasn’t clear, but Kathryn felt his possessive attitude spoke for itself.
The doctor’s self-assurance threatened Forrester, who was uncharacteristically out of his element and grasping at straws to keep the upper hand. Bouchaule let Forrester play his power games, but Kathryn sensed he was merely waiting for his chance to strike—like a lion stalking its prey.
If Colonel Forsythe had information on Bouchaule’s past and his connection to Daniel Ryan, he did not divulge it, which did not surprise her, but Holmes was another matter. He had already broken the OSS’s standard protocol when he showed the Ryan file to Smitty and her. She didn’t know what to expect from the man, and she was not alone in her uncertainty, as all eyes turned to Colonel Holmes, who was uncharacteristically silent as he devoured her latest report like a self-absorbed child opening gifts on Christmas morning.
Sensing the sudden attention, he looked up.
“Your interaction with Bouchaule has brought us valuable insight, and it seems you have become quite indispensable to Mr. Forrester.”
“It seems.”
He nodded. “Very good. Very good. About time.”
Kathryn glared at him for his comment, but his attitude was hardly out of the ordinary.
The colonel rubbed his forehead and frowned as he looked over her report on Thierry Bouchaule. “I’d like you to approach some of the others.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how it works, Colonel. Forrester and Bouchaule approached me.”
“Make yourself available and appear interested,” he said impatiently. “I shouldn’t think it difficult for you, Miss Hammond.”
Smitty bristled at the officer’s attitude. “She’s not your whore, Holmes.”
The colonel glanced at the papers before him and then looked up. “Clearly, Mr. Smith, she is.”
Smitty stood in defense of his friend. “Now see here—”
“Enough!” Forsythe slammed his palm on the table. “Sit down, John. Holmes, you’re out of line.”
Kathryn lit another cigarette and took a disinterested drag, staring at the men like a bored spectator at a chess match.
Holmes corrected himself with a patronizing grin. “What I mean to say is that, clearly, Miss Hammond has graciously dedicated herself to our objective.”
Kathryn returned the patronizing grin. “While it is true that I’m dedicated to your objective, Colonel Holmes, those men approached me. It doesn’t work the other way around without raising suspicions.” She spread the photos before her. Typically, these other men would brag about their conquest. It would hardly be discreet, and I’m of no use to you dead.”
The colonel caught her drift, but not her logic. “What of Bouchaule? He is not your typical man?”
“A man that attractive has no need to boast. He takes a woman because he can, not because he needs to impress.”
Holmes stared at her for a moment and then reluctantly backed down. “I defer to your expertise in the matter.”
Kathryn peered at him through the smoke she just exhaled and waited for it to clear before she spoke.
“That’s why you chose me, Colonel,” she said, sending notice that his insults were powerless.
He held her steely gaze and smiled curtly. “Indeed.” He closed Kathryn’s report and opened one of the blue classified folders beneath his hands. “Thierry Bouchaule was deported from the United States in late June of ’40. How is it that he is back in this country?”
Kathryn stared at him, wondering why on earth he would ask her.
“I don’t know, Colonel. Immigration officer is not on my resume. My guess would be that people like you let him in so that people like me can extract information from him.”
Holmes gave her a disparaging look and went back to the classified report in his hands. He flipped a few pages and went back to Kathryn’s report with a frown, as if something was incongruent.
“You intimate here that Daniel Ryan terminated his project sometime before his death. Is this a fact or your opinion?”
“In my opinion, Colonel—”
“We’re not interested in opinions, Miss Hammond, we need—”
“On the contrary,” Forsythe broke in. He silenced Holmes with a warning look and shifted to face his agent. “Please continue, Kathryn.”
Kathryn motioned to the thick folder of Daniel Ryan’s coded documents in the center of the table.
“May I?”
“Please.” Forsythe pulled them closer.
Kathryn straightened and removed the top sheet from the disheveled pile. “See this short series?” She pointed to a line of text containing eleven characters, a mixture of letters and numbers. “This represents a date.” She studied it briefly. It was a simple code, unlike the complex string of numbers in the rest of the document. Any first-year agent could decipher it easily. It was meant as an annoyance, not a deterrent.
“Twenty April 1937.” She paused and looked up at the interested group. “By the way, I’m sure you’ve noted that this is the European way to write the date … day first, not the month first, like an American would.”
They nodded.
She turned the page over to observe the Received By date stamped on the back and thumbed through the others to do the same. The pages were in order, the top sheet being the latest received but older in origin than the one before it. She went through the stack and pointed out how the coded dates were in descending order, in contrast to their interception dates.
“The most recent documents you have are from July 1940, nothing after. Keep in mind, Bouchaule was deported a month earlier. He is no longer working with Daniel Ryan. This is where it gets interesting: The documents you’re intercepting now are going backward. There is nothing from the year preceding Daniel Ryan’s death, which makes me believe he either terminated the project or couldn’t continue without help from—”
“Bouchaule,” Forsythe uttered in astonishment.
“Perhaps,” Kathryn agreed. “But my point is, he went through a lot of trouble to keep this information under wraps.”
“He used the U.S. government to subsidize his work and turned around and sold it to the Germans,” Holmes said.
“Daniel Ryan didn’t need money, Colonel. You’re missing my point. I don’t think he was passing anything to anyone.”
“I think you underestimate man’s propensity for greed.”
“I think you’ve underestimated Daniel Ryan. I think he wanted this project stopped and the information safeguarded—from everyone. Including the U.S. government.”
“I think you have an overactive imagination, Miss Hammond.”
“I assure you, Colonel Holmes, that is one thing I do not have.”
Jenny Ryan did, however, and Kathryn struggled to keep her memory from her thoughts as she defended the woman’s father. She picked up a pile of the coded documents and waved them in the colonel’s direction.
“This is not about greed. Not for Daniel Ryan anyway. No one goes through the trouble of covering their tracks like he did without—”
“If you’re right,” Forsythe interrupted. “Why didn’t he destroy the documents?”
Kathryn reached for her cigarette, flicking the ash into the ashtray. “I don’t know.”
“Does Forrester know what’s in here?” Holmes asked impatiently, as he stabbed his finger into the documents on the table.
“Forrester brokers information, Colonel. He doesn’t care what it’s about, only that there’s a demand, which he exploits for a handsome fee. This time is different, however.”
“Then he must know what it is.”
“He knows it’s valuable, and he knows the lengths to which these men will go to get it. The what is irrelevant. At this point—”
“That’s absurd,” Holmes interrupted. “Why would a man go to such lengths to acquire something he knows nothing about?”
Kathryn stared at the man, amazed he didn’t see the parallel. “Same reason you do, Colonel.”
Holmes chewed on her words as she continued.
“As I was saying … at this point, Forrester is in trouble. Without the key, he’s basically brokered useless information. He’s dancing as fast as he can, but I don’t know how much longer he can stall. Without Daniel Ryan to point us in the right direction, deciphering these documents is nearly impossible, and finding that key is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
The group was silent as they absorbed the well-known truth. Holmes gathered his papers, and Forsythe officially ended the briefing.
“Thank you, Kathryn. Is there anything else?”
“Bouchaule has asked me to get the key to the code if I can. Should I tell him Forrester doesn’t have it?”
Holmes and Forsythe exchanged looks. Forsythe deferred to his British counterpart.
“Tell him he doesn’t have it.”
“And Forrester?”
They exchanged looks again. Holmes nodded to Forsythe, who replied, “Let him fall.”
Kathryn nodded, and the meeting was adjourned.
Kathryn and Smitty walked toward the elevators in silence. Smitty regretted the end of their briefing, for it meant another wordless day on the job. He absentmindedly counted the solid click of Kathryn’s heels on the hard polished floor with each long stride and, to his surprise, was interrupted when she had something to say after all.
“Thanks for coming to my defense in there.”
“He was out of line, honey.”
Kathryn smiled. “Skip it, Smitty. He’s not worth the trouble.”
“You shouldn’t let that prig talk to you like that, Kat.” He looked at her for her reaction and cut her off before she began. “And if you say anything other than, ‘You’re right, Smitty’ …”
She bowed her head with a broad smile and acquiesced to his unwavering support. “You’re right, Smitty.”
“Damn straight.”
Jenny stood in the center of the crowded elevator at OSS headquarters and waited for the doors to open to her floor. When the heavy panels parted, she took a step forward with the rest of the group and then froze in her tracks, causing the large man behind her to run into her back.
“In or out, doll,” he muttered, as he shouldered past.
Jenny was oblivious. The sight of Kathryn and Smitty coming toward her from the busy hallway paralyzed her.
She thought she’d prepared herself for this eventual chance meeting. She’d gone over every possible scenario and how she would react to it. If they were alone together, she would ignore her. If they were in a professional setting, she would acknowledge her with a cool “Hammond,” letting her know she’d accepted their relationship for the game that it was and that she was no longer the naïve child who had fallen for her ruse.
In the past month, she’d tried not to feel anything for or about her. Kathryn Hammond was paid to do a job, and she did it brilliantly, which is why they chose her. She wasn’t worth anger or resentment—or so Jenny had convinced herself—that is, until she saw her.
Kathryn’s face was downturned. She was smiling, almost laughing, and Jenny was immediately seized with hatred. She hated her for being so beautiful, hated her for taking her breath away, hated her for laughing and smiling when she had so callously destroyed her life. What right did this heartless creature have to be happy?
The crowds jostled in and out of the elevator, and Jenny could do nothing but seethe and stare as Kathryn and Smitty turned right and headed for the neighboring bay of elevators. Soon they were out of view and the elevator doors were closing. Jenny quickly stepped into the hallway and didn’t dare look to the side. She walked purposefully down the corridor toward her meeting with Colonel Holmes and put thoughts of Kathryn behind her. She had more important things to focus on.
She increased her stride and passed a stern-looking Colonel Forsythe, who didn’t notice her, as he fumbled with a file in his hands. It was her day to be invisible, she supposed, but she wouldn’t be invisible much longer. She would have Holmes’s undivided attention, and she was sure he was going to be pleased with her discovery.
The colonel was in his outer office giving instructions to his secretary when Jenny entered the room.
Holmes grinned and extended his hand in welcome. “Ah, Miss Ryan. Good to see you. Come in.”
Kathryn watched the elevator doors close on Jenny’s back as she walked down the hall and away from the elevator bays. She briefly shut her eyes, invoking her promise never to watch her walk away, and suppressed the urge to run after her. Smitty saw her, too, but showed no sign of it until he snuck a glance at her halfway through their descent.
Kathryn stared straight ahead, her face a stone mask. They left the building and got into the car with the silence as strained as ever.
Memories of happier days with Jenny inundated her, and she involuntarily shook her head, as renewed disbelief at the outcome of their affair wrapped itself around her heart.
It seemed like an eternity had passed since the dubious security breach that sent her world into a tailspin. She was sure it was no accident. Holmes and his aides were her first and only suspects. Files like that didn’t accidentally wind up out of the classified loop.
She never liked Holmes and was suspicious of him from the start. She thought it was a reflection of her bad attitude after their previous interactions overseas, but she felt vindicated when he revealed the Ryan files to her and Smitty, against Colonel Forsythe’s better judgment. They never should have seen those files. Assignments are strictly compartmentalized. Only a handful of officials are privy to the full picture, and she and Smitty were certainly nowhere near that chain of information. It was clear to Kathryn that the whole thing had been carefully planned from the beginning. She was a pawn, and she played her part above and beyond their expectations.
She gave Colonel Forsythe the benefit of the doubt in her conspiracy theory. It didn’t seem like his style—if there was a style to espionage. Her suspicions didn’t change anything, however. What was done was done. She had another part to play now, and a life to endure without Jenny Ryan.
They arrived at the club for the afternoon rehearsal, and Kathryn immediately sought out her boss to make amends for her poor work ethic. She found him in his office, where he was pleased to see her, as always. Dominic accepted her apology, all the while denying the need for it.
“Technically, your work is flawless, Kathryn. That is why I said nothing. But I know you. I know your gift. Your song resonates from your soul.” He smiled but then shook his head. “You are empty here.” He tapped his chest. “I worry for your broken heart.”
She let her easy grin cover the pain of the truth. “My heart will survive, Nicky.”
“It may survive, but when will it sing again?”
“It will sing tonight, I promise.”
He leaned closer and put his hand over hers. “Pretend all you like on the outside, mia amica, but when will it really sing again?”
It was a question she couldn’t answer, so she remained silent. The way she felt at that moment, her heart might never sing again.
Dominic leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands thoughtfully across his belly. “What of your friend? Is there no hope?”
“I’m afraid that’s over.”
“Over for her. Not for you.”
“Unfortunately, the result is the same.”
Dominic nodded regretfully. “I am sorry for the both of you.”
“So am I.”
With nothing else to say about the subject, and their business concluded, Kathryn got up and promised that, from now on, her work would please him.
Dominic rose and took her hand. “Do not do it for me, Kathryn. Do it for yourself—because you love it. Because it moves you.”
Easier said than done, she thought to herself, as she left his office and headed to her dressing room. It should move her, and she didn’t have to wonder when it stopped, only marvel that she hadn’t noticed.
Kathryn sat at her vanity and reached for her powder. She glanced at herself in the mirror and did a double take. For weeks, she had been looking but not seeing. She hadn’t seen the dark circles under her lower lids, or her sallow skin, or the way her tired eyes narrowed in protest under even the softest light.
She closed the windows to her soul, not wanting to see the emptiness she knew she’d find there. She didn’t want to see who she’d become or acknowledge what she had lost.
Smitty was right. Something had to change. She had tried to lose herself in her assignments. It had worked in the past. She would embrace her character, become the product of her lies. It was a well-worn pattern, almost automatic.
She tried convincing herself that that’s what she had done with Jenny—played a role, as ordered. It just hurt less. But she knew that wasn’t true. She had been in love. Really in love. The truth made losing Jenny that much harder, made her assignments that much more repulsive. Instead of embracing her considerable power over Forrester and Bouchaule, she found herself torn, desperately trying to hold on to the woman Jenny saw and loved while, at the same time, denying that woman ever existed.
Kathryn put her elbows on the vanity counter and rubbed her temples, trying to stave off the wave of conflicting emotions.
She allowed herself some anger toward Jenny for showing her how to love and then leaving her to flounder without it. But the worst part was that Jenny didn’t believe in them. She didn’t believe in her.
The pain of it twisted around her heart and threatened to spiral her anger into grief. There was no place in her life for the anger or the grief. Breathe. Just breathe. She let the emotion flow through her like the wind blowing through an empty house and then let it go. It wasn’t Jenny’s fault, and she forgave her for leaving. Her lack of trust was understandable, and while she was in the forgiving mood, she forgave herself, admitting there was nothing she could have done differently.
This time when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t flinch at her reflection. No more would she use Jenny’s love to punish herself. Instead, she would embrace it, use it to give her strength. A burden lifted, and a warmth she’d thought she’d lost filled her heart. She shed tears finally, not because she’d lost Jenny, but because she’d found something good in herself through their love.
Smitty knocked on the door and entered, uninvited.
Kathryn wiped a tear from her cheek as he appeared behind her in the mirror.
He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s about time,” he said of her tears.
She smiled at his reflection and pressed her cheek to his hand.
“I’m sorry, Smitty. I’ve been horrid.”
“Skip it. Are you okay?”
She looked up into his concerned eyes as a reassuring peace settled about her. “I’m going to be.”
Smitty squeezed her shoulder. “That’s right, honey.”
He seemed as relieved as she was, but she wondered if he really understood.
“I really loved her, you know.”
“I know you do.”
Kathryn turned and looked up in appreciation.
Smitty offered her a tight-lipped smile. “I know you miss her.”
Kathryn nodded and turned to the mirror again. She did miss her, but the tears were for having found her again, and this time she would keep her with her always.
The sounds of the band tuning their instruments drifted up from the club below, and Kathryn earnestly wiped the tears away to prepare for rehearsal. She didn’t feel joy for her music just then, but she knew she would again, and soon, and that was enough.
After Smitty left, she warmed up properly for the first time in weeks and then went downstairs, where she would let music soothe her ravaged soul.
Jenny smiled curtly at the secretary in the outer office and then slammed the door behind her as she left her meeting and entered the hallway.
“Arrogant son of a bitch,” she said under her breath. To be threatened with removal from the Ryan case was not what she had expected when she had entered Colonel Holmes’s office.
“I am very disappointed in you, Miss Ryan,” he had said, his clipped British accent telegraphing his annoyance. “You should have come to us with this information immediately, not taken it upon yourself to investigate. You could have blown your cover, gotten caught, tipped our hand—myriad things could have gone wrong, all spelling disaster for our case.” He shook his head in disgust. “I think your involvement has been a mistake.”
Jenny stood up, astonished at his lack of gratitude. “Now see here, Colonel! You’ve been crawling up my uncle’s behind for how long? And what did it get you—nothing. I practically walk in off the street and I bring you the biggest break you’ve gotten so far.”
She leaned in on the desk to show him she meant business. “You need me, Colonel, because I can see things your people can’t. This is my fam—” She stopped herself, having banished the word from her vocabulary when speaking of the Ryans. “I know these people. No one you have knows them better.” She sat down and raised her chin in confidence. “You’ll keep me on this case because you’re closer to the truth with me than without me.”
She watched Colonel Holmes weigh her outburst against the truth of her words. “You’re a high-spirited young woman, Miss Ryan. But don’t think for one moment you are indispensable. Insubordination will not be tolerated, do you understand?”
Jenny swallowed her pride. “Yes, sir.”
“You will not visit that warehouse again. Is that understood?”
She wanted to point out that the warehouse was not under his jurisdiction, and more than that, it not only contained information he sought, but also information about the Ryan family that would fill in the blank spaces she didn’t even know existed. She bit down on her objection and repeated a meek “Yes, sir” instead.
If Colonel Holmes was pleased with her find, he didn’t show it. Jenny thought it was grand though, smiling proudly as she handed over the film from her small agency-issued Minox camera.
At first, she thought the warehouse had been a bust. What she assumed was furniture turned out to be printing presses and various items used in the print business. Stacked neatly were boxes and boxes of blank envelopes and reams of paper. Several boxes contained copies of Daniel Ryan’s three medical journals. She was reminded that she had given Kathryn a set that she had never returned—another reason to dislike the woman.
Jenny was confused for a moment as to who owned the contents of the unit. More searching revealed personal Ryan family keepsakes. There were old photos, college sporting trophies for the two brothers, etching plates from her grandmother’s artwork—all forgotten traces of lives left behind. The warehouse was a Ryan family catchall, it seemed.
It was all very interesting but not what she came for. A large locked desk was the pot of gold at the end of the footprints in the dusty floor.
She made quick work of the lock and tugged on the old oak desk’s center drawer, releasing the locking mechanism for the file drawers to each side. To her surprise, instead of files, the deep drawers contained money—lots of it. Cash, in hundred-dollar bills, in neatly banded piles. She couldn’t even fathom a guess at how much lay before her, and because of the weakening batteries in her flashlight, she didn’t have time to count it.
She opened the large center drawer and found a ledger book. It tracked cash transactions dating back years. To her shock, the handwriting was Daniel Ryan’s. She turned to the most recent entries and found Calvin Richards’ name prevalent, but in Paul’s hand. The amounts to him weren’t significant, and she cringed, as it appeared he had been paying him to woo her. She followed the entries back a year and found a gap in the dates—several months of inactivity after Daniel Ryan’s death. The entries then started again, with Paul Ryan the new accountant. Jenny didn’t recognize any of the other names on the pages. Some were common between the two men, others recent additions to Paul’s regime. She found the entries to Calvin Richards calming. Somehow, she found a modicum of relief in the fact that Paul knew the man as Cal Richards and not some imposter bent on treachery. But still, the redheaded man remained a mystery.
She pulled out her miniature camera and took photos of the ledger, starting with the most recent entries and going back for as long as her film and the batteries in her flashlight held out. When her light began to fade, she made sure she put everything back exactly the way she found it. Her light had almost gone, but she couldn’t resist opening one last box to take a peek.
She blinked when she was met with pictures of herself. She held her fading light closer and realized they were pictures of her mother. The rest of the room faded away as she reverently reached into the box, gently parting the contents to see every precious item inside. She found pictures, letters, small books of poetry, and weaving its way through the woman’s history was a brightly colored silk scarf. From the unique pattern, Jenny recognized it from the picture in the study. She gently removed the scarf from the box and touched it to her cheek. She smelled it, hoping against hope her mother’s scent would still be there. The scarf revealed nothing of its owner, and Jenny wilted in disappointment. She closed her eyes and clutched the smooth fabric to her heart. It was the only tangible piece of her mother’s existence, and it was all she could do not to take it with her.
She was angry at Daniel Ryan for keeping these things from her. He’d reduced her mother to a picture on an expensive piano and relegated her life to a few memories in a musty box.
Jenny opened her eyes to find her flashlight almost extinguished. She shook the heavy metal cylinder in her hand, begging it to give her a few more moments of light, but beyond a brief flickering, she could coax no such grace from it.
She reluctantly closed the lid on the only family she had but vowed to return—and next time, she would be prepared with fresh batteries and more film.
As Jenny stormed down the busy halls of headquarters with a reprimand ringing in her ears, she could barely contain her anger. Colonel Holmes couldn’t possibly understand how important the contents of that box were to her. To hell with the Ryan family and their dirty little secrets. The OSS could have them, and good riddance. She had to spend the rest of the day at the Daily Chronicle, but no one was going to keep her from learning about her mother.
“Stay away from that warehouse my ass,” she muttered.
The shocks on Jenny’s car groaned with every dip into the minefield of potholes on the dimly lit road to the industrial district. She was glad she’d had the fender repaired or she would’ve blown another tire. As she crept along, she wished she were in her first car—an old Ford coupe. It would have been a little less conspicuous than her relatively rare Cord, and a lot less expensive to repair should all the jarring shake the wheels off.
She’d driven by the entrance to the warehouse section several times, and, to her dismay, found the area quite active for nine o’clock on a Monday night. She was afraid she’d never get to the storage unit unseen, so she devised a new plan.
She parked in a fairly populated portion of the district so that her car wouldn’t stand out, and pockets weighed down with fresh batteries and plenty of film, she made her way through a break in the chain-link fence behind the warehouse she sought and waited patiently in the shadows until the coast was clear.
Her lock picks at the ready, she snuck around the building and kneeled before the large padlock. She picked the lock quickly this time and allowed herself a proud chuckle as she set the defeated lock aside and lifted the large bay door. She quickly ducked inside and pulled the door down behind her.
She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Okay, Momma, here I come.”
She felt as though she were meeting the woman for the first time, and her heart swelled as she pulled the flashlight from the back of her waistband and turned on the switch. She aimed her light at the center of the room and stood in stunned disbelief as she stared into an empty shell.
“No,” she breathed.
“What the—” She rushed forward and focused her light into each corner. There was nothing left. No trace of the contents that filled the room the night before—even the floor had been swept.
“This isn’t happening.”
She panicked and hoped, all at the same time, that she’d broken into the wrong unit. She quickly ducked outside and trained her light on the number under the unit’s smashed lightbulb. It was the right place. She shook off her disbelief and closed the door and replaced the lock.
She ran to her car, hopped in, and drove until her heart stopped pounding out of her chest. She pulled to the side of the road and tried to process what had just happened. She certainly couldn’t confront Colonel Holmes. He would know she disobeyed his direct orders. What would happen when Uncle Paul found out?
“Damn it!” She pounded the steering wheel in frustration.
The OSS could have the rest, but that one box—her mother’s box—belonged to her. She looked at the road sign in front of her car. If she turned left, it would take her home. If she turned right, it would take her to Kathryn’s apartment. She would know what to do. She might even know where they would take the contents of the storage unit, and if she didn’t, maybe Smitty would, or could find out.
Turning to Kathryn for help was almost too much to swallow, and it made Jenny a little sick to even consider it, but then she reasoned, turnabout was fair play. Kathryn had used her to get information, why couldn’t she do the same? If Kathryn truly cared about her, as she claimed, it would be easy to get back into her good graces. Once there, she could easily convince her to help, and once she got what she wanted, Kathryn would get a taste of her own medicine.
Jenny stared at the road sign, weighing her decision. She looked in the rearview mirror and angled it until she could see her face. She closed her eyes and exhaled. Kathryn wouldn’t hesitate to do such a thing. That’s what made her a great agent. Jenny wanted to be a great agent.
She centered the Cord’s back window in the rearview mirror and then turned left, toward home.
Kathryn mingled in the main lobby of the hotel while she waited for Marcus Forrester to arrive. He had made a day trip out of a community award ceremony and had yet to return to town. Kathryn marveled at the public’s perception of the man. His industrial endeavors courted favor with the communities they supported, and all the while his dark pursuits ran swiftly under the surface, like the sewers beneath their feet, contaminating the unsuspecting sea with its silent poison.
Kathryn recognized the usual offenders. They appeared anxious as they looked at their watches and nervously scanned the crowd. Negotiations were coming to a head, and anything out of the ordinary set everyone on edge. Kathryn looked at her watch. Forrester was late.
A busboy approached and handed her a note. It was not the explanation she expected. It was an invitation to one of the rooms upstairs. She gave a final glance around the crowded hall and quietly slipped away.
“Thierry, this is outrageous,” she said, shouldering past the Frenchman and into his room. “Marc will arrive at any moment, and I’ve got to—”
She was interrupted by a passionate kiss, to which she momentarily surrendered with the expected moan before pushing away.
“Are you mad?” she said, pretending she was flustered.
Bouchaule smiled and went to the bar, where he poured two glasses of champagne. “Apparently as mad as you, because you are here.” He held out a glass. “I have it on good authority that Mr. Forrester has been delayed.” He looked at his watch. “For forty-five minutes, at least.”
Kathryn ignored the glass and feigned trepidation. “Then he’ll call, and I’ve got to—”
She was interrupted by the ringing phone.
“I believe that is for you.”
Bouchaule smirked and turned down the soft music in the background. Evidently, he’d instructed the concierge to forward Forrester’s call.
Kathryn picked up the phone with an incredulous glance to her host.
“Hello? Yes, darling.” She cradled the phone like she cared. “Yes, the fog was dreadful here too. When will you arrive?”
Bouchaule smiled on cue when he heard Forrester’s voice through the receiver say, “In forty-five minutes.” Kathryn shook her head at his conceit.
“Yes, Marc. Please be careful. I’ll see you soon.”
She hung up the phone with a capitulating grin and, this time, took the offered glass of champagne.
“I suppose you arranged the weather too.”
He raised his glass. “You would be surprised by what I can arrange.”
“Mm. You are full of surprises.”
He smiled and turned up the music, then he took the glasses and placed them on the serving cart beside the ice bucket and held out his hands. “Shall we dance?”
Kathryn swept into his embrace, where their bodies molded perfectly as they swayed to the rhythm of the mellow swing song.
“This is not discreet, Thierry.”
He leaned in for a kiss, which was given, and then held her tightly against his hip. “I promise you it is.”
Kathryn stiffly played along.
“Relax, darling,” he whispered in her ear. “You are perfectly safe.”
“Someone could have seen you come in.”
“No one saw me arrive, and no one will see me leave. I just wanted to be near you again.” He ran his hand up the length of her spine. “It has been a long day without you.”
Bouchaule’s movements were smooth and confident as he kissed her bare shoulder and started to unzip her dress.
Kathryn smirked at his impatience and his growing desire pressing on her hip. “Are we going to dance, or are we going to make love?”
“What is the difference?”
“Depends on how good you are.”
“You already know how good I am … at both.”
He eased one spaghetti strap off her shoulder and then the other, gently kissing the spots they once occupied. The closeness of their bodies was the only thing holding up her dress, and still they danced. She playfully untied his perfect bowtie and backed off enough to begin freeing the buttons on his shirt. She slid her hand into his shirt and caressed a nipple. That finally disrupted their dance, as she swore her partner got weak in the knees.
Kathryn smiled into his chest and knew it was time. She kissed her way up his neck to his mouth, and he allowed her dress to fall to her waist as he ran his hands up her torso to her breasts.
He attempted to capture her waiting mouth, but she pulled away with a wicked smile.
“I have something for you.” She seductively eyed his lips. “Something you want.”
“Yes, you do,” he exhaled hungrily and tried again for her mouth.
She stopped his advance with a hand on his chest. “Information.”
Bouchaule’s passion turned to purpose, as all desire was forgotten and he grabbed Kathryn by the shoulders. “Tell me.”
Forty minutes later, Kathryn greeted Marcus Forrester in the lobby with a kiss on the cheek. Fifteen minutes after that, Thierry Bouchaule walked through the front door as if he’d never been there before.
“Very smooth,” Forrester said before sipping his champagne.
“Very,” Kathryn agreed, smiling to someone across the room.
“Can he give me what I want?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
She smiled. “He wants me to steal it from you. He’s got nothing.”
In truth, Bouchaule seemed to have gotten what he needed, and his concern was that Forrester not have the same access to it.
Forrester’s eyes narrowed at Bouchaule’s back. “Lying bastard. He’ll pay for that.”
Kathryn smiled internally. Bouchaule had said the same about him.
Forrester stewed over the man’s betrayal and took an agitated tug at his tight collar.
“Did you have sex with him?”
“No,” Kathryn lied into her glass.
Forrester gave her a doubtful glance, wrapped in a flash of anger.
She raised her brow. “Once you give him what he wants, he no longer wants it.”
Forrester returned to his champagne, clearly relieved. “What a fool.”
“A man like that wants a conquest, Marc, not a girlfriend.”
Forrester looked at her with wonder. “Have I told you lately that I adore you?”
Kathryn smiled sweetly and entwined her arm with his. The turn of events would make for interesting final negotiations in Chicago the following weekend.
Jenny sat at her desk at the Daily Chronicle and rubbed her tired eyes. Staring at code all morning and working at the paper all afternoon was taking its toll. She was thankful it was Friday and that she’d managed to get the weekend off from both jobs.
She’d had no more meetings with brass, nor had she made any progress in locating her mother’s belongings. She stared at the mockup of the Entertainment section on her desk and was met with a side column ad for The Grotto. Her feelings for Kathryn had turned sympathetic when faced with the catch twenty-two of her own situation with brass. Even through her anger, she had entertained the thought that Kathryn had actually cared for her. The realization that she may have thrown it all away because of her stupid pride and unforgiving temper hit her like a brick.
Jenny stared at the number for The Grotto and reached for her phone. She didn’t know what she would say to the woman, but she had to know for sure. She looked at Paul in his office, and the betrayal all came flooding back. She took her hand off the receiver and focused on the layout for the weekend edition.
A commotion in Paul’s office made her look up. He was screaming something into the phone and then angrily hurled it against the wall. All heads turned to the office, as Paul grabbed his jacket and stormed out the door.
Jenny didn’t have to wonder what it was about. “Uncle Paul?” she ventured weakly as he brushed past her desk.
He didn’t respond, and he nearly ran over the newswire boy rushing down the aisle from the opposite direction.
“Stop the presses!” the boy shouted, waving a piece of ticker tape.
“No one orders that but me!” Paul said, ripping the tape from the courier’s hand.
He read the ticker and let his arms fall limply to his sides.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said in disbelief, as he dropped the message for any and all takers and bolted to the pressroom.
There was a mad scramble for the tape, but the boy broke the news first.
“Marcus Forrester is dead!”
Jenny snatched the tape from the nearest hand. “What?”
The workers in the newsroom stood in stunned silence for all of about three seconds before all hell broke loose and everyone scrambled for their phones and a notebook.
Jenny stood in numb silence as she let the tape drift to her feet.
Chicago STOP Forrester plane down STOP All onboard killed STOP Six men one woman STOP More details to follow STOP.
Jenny’s hand shook as she pressed the phone to her ear and struggled to keep her emotions in check.
“Please,” she begged the secretary on the other end of the line. “Your airline has to have a passenger manifest.”
She put her head in her hand as the woman responded and quietly hung up the phone. She had gotten the same answer from everyone she’d spoken to at the airport: no passenger manifest on the private charter, and no one could give her a description of the woman.
She felt lightheaded and sick to her stomach. She’d called everyone she could think of, including headquarters, which was a fruitless exercise that led her to secretaries who couldn’t say whether Kathryn was on the plane. Smitty was nowhere to be found—she hoped he wasn’t on the plane. The club was no help either, as Bobby informed her that Kathryn was off for the week.
The wire room finally told her to stop calling. They would let her know as soon as the names were confirmed. It was assumed the woman was Kathryn Hammond. Jenny even saw it in one reporter’s notes. She took issue with the man, only to apologize when he acknowledged her friendship with Kathryn and offered his condolences. It all felt so surreal, so déjà vu. It was like her father had died all over again. Everyone had the same patronizing tone, the same look of pity. She had to get out of there. Kathryn wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead.
Jenny took refuge in an empty office and locked the door. She was overwhelmed by the realization she’d been wrong about Kathryn. She replayed every tender moment they’d shared, every tear they’d shed, every longing look and loving touch. No one was that good. Not even Kathryn Hammond.
She was gripped with a frigid wave of remorse, and she hugged herself to stop her body from shaking. She slid down the wall and sobbed. Why did she burn the letter? Why didn’t she listen when Kathryn tried to explain? These were the things she would have to live with. Just like the fight with her father—regret would haunt her, with no chance of a pardon. Despite her vow to the contrary, history had repeated itself.