At 5:00 p.m.—an hour before the gala began— Becca passed through the elegant wrought-iron doors of the brownstone on 68th Street that served as the Gotham Roses’ home.
Italian marble stretched across the lobby. A doorman prompted her for her coat, which she kept; the Berlin chill remained with her. The faux mink-trimmed wool duster was more fashionable than warm. It was the gloves and a smart hat that kept her from the cold.
Renee’s secretary, Olivia Hayworth, spied her on the video console and immediately buzzed her in. Becca had little time, and should go directly to Alan for briefing for the evening, but not until she saw Renee. Asked her the burning question.
Had she been bait?
Passing by Olivia’s desk, Becca nodded to the freckle-faced beauty, who usually wore her hair in a loose, blowsy bun that emphasized her elegant bone structure and drew attention to her exquisite blue eyes.
Tugging off her gloves, she walked on past the main floor tearoom, which was right off of Renee’s office.
The two hundred members of the Gotham Roses would never guess covert activities took place literally beneath their feet in the basement.
And should they ever wonder? Well, no explanation so decadent as a secret agency would occur to the socialites.
Renee’s office was a generous-size room with seventeenth century French furnishings mixed exquisitely with modern touches like a cappuccino machine and a huge plasma screen, the latter of which functioned as a monitor, a surveillance screen and a television.
Not taking the time to do more than shower and change clothes since her arrival, Becca wore moisturizer and some clear lip gloss, and had pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail. She was still in agent mode.
Pausing before knocking on the door, she tugged down the simple violet cashmere sweater she’d slipped on over the clingy wool slacks. Dane hadn’t seen her sensible Prada boots because she’d left him asleep with a note to meet her at the gala.
Part of her wanted to nab Dimitri on her own. Part of her thought partnering with Dane wasn’t so dreadful. An even bigger part of her screamed for her to pull herself together—she was made to go it alone.
“Come in,” a calm female voice called through the door.
Fresh white tea roses scented the room with a hint of spice.
“It’s good to see you, Becca. How was Europe?”
“A whirlwind. Not so cold as New York.”
“We’re having a bit of a snap.” Renee gestured for Becca to take the chair across from her desk.
Becca crossed her arms and paced to the wall opposite the desk, where the plasma screen hung. Her back to Renee, she centered her brewing emotions. Anger. Curiosity. Even doubt.
“You’ve obtained the diamonds?”
“Both of them.” Becca turned and, arms swinging, strode to the center of the room. “They’re at my apartment in a safe. Will they be claimed by CIA or the Gotham Roses?”
“That’s need to know. I’ll send someone to retrieve them.”
Need to know. Not what she needed to hear right now.
“Of course. Jake will accommodate whomever you send.”
Renee dismissed the absence of evidence easily. She was all-business. But for the struggles she had faced with her husband’s incarceration, she literally glowed. “I have information on Agent Dane that will interest you.”
“You have information on everyone, Renee,” Becca replied. “Not interested.”
Renee gave her a long hard look. That had been a very curt reply. But no one told Becca with whom, or when, to have a liaison.
“Very well.” The older woman crossed her legs, gathering her composure. “Have you been briefed for tonight?”
“I’m meeting with Alan as soon as I leave you.” Allowing the anger to simmer up, Becca pressed her fists to the edge of the ornate desk and spoke as calmly as her agitated nerves would allow. “Please tell me the CIA had no idea they were after Uther and his technology from the get-go.”
“You’re speculating, Becca.”
“Speculating!”
Renee sat back in her chair and gazed at Becca. The woman was impeccable in style, manner and determination. Normally she could quiet Becca’s ire with just a look.
But not this time.
Standing and shaking out her arms, like a boxer working off tension, Becca asked, “Who wants Uther? The CIA? FBI? Some black-ops arm even you don’t know about?”
“I can’t say.”
But she did know.
“The Governess?”
“I can tell you we have Uther Magnusson’s best interests in mind. If he should fall into the wrong hands—”
“Damn it, Renee, I was chosen because Uther knew me. Is that right? No one cares about Dimitri. He’s just a mule carrying the cache to the States. The cache is Uther Magnusson. A prize that might be won only by sacrificing an innocent, Sabrina Morgan.”
The two woman locked gazes until Becca finally blew out a breath and offered a brisk apology. She ran her hand over her hair and tapped her booted foot.
“Why does this particular case bother you so much, Becca? Yes, we are aware you know Uther, but you two are not close.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Then what is it? You’ve done this before. You’ve been trained. You are required only to know what you need to know, and to look beyond personal connections, yet if need be, to use those connections.”
“I know.” Need to know. Right. She’d been too hard on Dane for something that was just part of his job.
Renee tilted her head and leveled a hard gaze at her. Becca was fully aware of all the woman and her family had suffered at the hands of the good old boys. Everything was personal to her. And how she held herself together in the face of opposition was to be admired.
Pursing her lips, Renee sighed and splayed a hand in surrender. “The CIA was worried Uther would fall into the hands of the Russians or, even worse, although we hope unlikely, the Duke. Uther Magnusson is an asset we can’t afford to give up.”
The Duke. Another moniker for a face Becca didn’t know, but had only heard about. The Governess’s nemesis. The man authorities believed was rich, powerful and behind some of the worst crimes imaginable. But his wealth and status had managed to protect him, conceal him and make him untouchable. Rumor was that the Governess believed the Gotham Roses might be the key to rooting him out. Some Roses were rumored to be dedicated solely to that purpose. Certainly it was possible the Duke would be looking to get his hands on Uther, whose technology could make him millions in the black market. But all signs pointed to the Russians.
“There might be a mole,” Renee admitted, almost reluctantly. “We believe someone may be tipping off the Russians as to Magnusson’s research. They’re poised to nab the scientist as soon as he goes public. That’s all I can tell you.”
“A mole.” Events from the past few days passed through Becca’s thoughts. “Zeek?”
“She’s being watched. I don’t believe so, but she won’t be in on the operation this evening.”
“Agent Arlowe?”
“She’s been assigned in Croatia. Again, unlikely.”
“The Russian Mafia’s reach is far and sticky. It could be anyone.”
“Mafia— Becca, are you aware Nazarova is SVR?”
She lifted a brow. “Nazarova?”
Renee tapped out a few keys on the flat screen embedded in the desk before her, and the picture of Dimitri appeared, along with his stats in green text. “He’s been in New York for the past month, posing as one Dimitri Boratav—”
“Yes, yes, as a Turkish prince. Nazarova, eh?”
Russian intelligence? She and Dane had only speculated. Or had she speculated when Dane had known all along?
“Zeek implied Dimitri was Mafia. When did that information come in?”
“A few hours ago. Until then we’d thought him Mafia, as well. We’ve been keeping an eye on him but hadn’t been able to blow his cover until now. Thanks partly to Katarine Veld’s arrest.”
“What does the SVR want with Uther?” Stupid question. Same thing the CIA wanted him for. And MI-6. Nano-coding to be used by their country’s military.
“So I’m trying to lure in a Russian agent? Why? He’s already got what he wants— Uther.”
“I suspect Dimitri would like the diamonds, as well. A backup, in case Uther won’t be cooperative.”
Renee spoke of Uther as if he were some kind of…equipment.
“We’ll do everything we can to protect Miss Morgan and him. Everything in my power.”
“I understand.”
“You did lead Nazarova to Uther.”
“I didn’t lead—” But she had. Dimitri had to have followed her and Dane to Berlin, to the very hotel where Uther had been hiding out. “No. The mole. It was someone else.”
Renee pondered the idea. “Possibly. Can I trust you’ll be on top of your game tonight?”
“I always am.”
“You’ll be wearing two hats.”
“Yes, that of socialite Becca Whitmore and that of spy. Tell me this—is my objective merely Uther Magnusson, or does nabbing Dimitri somehow figure into the game?”
“We are not interested in Nazarova. But you will be competing against MI-6 tonight. What’s your relationship with Agent Dane?”
“Partners.”
Renee’s condescending stare bored right through Becca’s exterior armor and into her heart. She saw things even Becca couldn’t yet recognize. “Fraternizing with foreign agents, even if they are allies, is a no-no, Becca.”
“I’ll put it on my list.”
Not an answer Renee appreciated. Tough. There were too many hands in the cookie jar. Becca didn’t have time to fight for anything but the biggest piece.
“I know you don’t want to hear it,” Renee began slowly, “but I must inform you— Dane’s father was MI-5.”
“He told me that.”
“Did he also tell you it was Nazarova who tortured and then killed him for refusing to expose MI-5 secrets?”
Becca had stored the few facts about Dane’s father for further thought. She hadn’t had opportunity to think about them, but now it was as if she had known all along. Dane and the SVR…there was a connection she was missing. She needed to shake through the past few days and focus.
“Thank you, Renee.” Inhaling a calming breath, she held it in. “I should be going. Alan is waiting.”
“You can use my entrance,” Renee offered. She pressed a button on the desktop console and the sliding door to her powder room opened. The cooling system hushed out a stream of chilled air.
“Becca, you’re one of my best agents. On occasion I’ve turned my attention to your private pursuits. But I trust you’ll do what is best for the agency, and not yourself.”
“I will.” She sighed and turned in the doorway, leaning against the partition. “You know…” Dare she bring this up? She had always been able to talk to Renee; the woman would understand. “It’s different with a fellow agent.”
The softer side of Renee emerged with a gentle smile. “It is. You think your secrets are safe. And yet…the secrets are actually doubled, Becca.”
She thought about that. She and Dane knew each other’s cover. Bonus points for that. But could they ever know whom their ultimate alliances were to? Not unless he confessed his secrets. How many more did Dane still keep? Subtract multiple points for needing to know.
“Thanks, Renee.”
Becca walked into the closet stocked with every designer label of the season. Turning to the wall of shoes, she pressed a keypad to reveal the glass elevator tube that would shuttle her down to the underground operations. Leaning forward to the biometric panel, she waited for iris recognition to verify.
Dane’s father had been tortured and murdered by Dimitri?
I was lipreading.
Oh, Dane. What the hell was he up to?
A moment after Becca had left the office, Renee’s phone rang. It was the Governess. She rarely called, and when she did, her voice was altered with a digital scrambler. Keeping her identity a secret was of utmost importance, even from Renee, although Renee had her beliefs about who her mystery boss might be.
“Everything prepared for the snatch this evening?”
“I’ve got one of my best agents on it.”
“Yes, Becca Whitmore. The woman who allowed MI-6 to accompany her to New York?”
“He’s within jurisdiction.”
“You protect your girls foolishly, Renee. I trust no one. Not even MI-6. The Brit could be on the Duke’s payroll. Uther Magnusson is key. The CIA can’t afford to lose him. Put an extra agent on Whitmore. I don’t trust her, either.”
Renee leaned back and tapped her desk with a French-manicured fingernail. “I trust her.”
“You’re not calling the shots tonight. If you can’t handle the situation—”
“I’ll see to the arrangements,” Renee broke in. “Have a pleasant evening.”
“I’m going to need more eyes tonight,” Becca explained as she sorted through the various gadgets on the black steel countertop in Alan’s shop. “The Waldorf ballroom is huge. The expected attendance is pushing one thousand. This sort of scenario is filled with distractions. We need to pinpoint our suspect before he sees me. He’s ID’d me in the Aquadom elevator. I can’t wear a disguise because I’m expected to host this evening. My two worlds are converging head-on.”
“Usual operational procedure,” Alan noted.
“Yes, but for some reason, tonight I expect one hell of a nasty collision.”
“No problem.” He beamed. The young man’s stylish, midnight-blue Paul Smith suit accented his lean frame and straight shoulders. He must have plans to trip the light fantastic later. “I’ve got everything covered. Kristi’s got a fab gown. I think red for tonight?”
“Red’s good. So long as it’s not too tight. I want ease of motion to move about.”
“And good sturdy shoes.”
“Sounds utilitarian,” Alan said with a pout.
“Well, certainly I wouldn’t frown at a pair of Marc Jacobs.”
“Good girl! So here’s the plan.” Alan opened up a black jeweler’s case to reveal a pair of chandelier earrings upon a bed of black velvet. Much more delicate than the Paris ones. “We’ll have a Rose agent, Sherri Grant, posted at the entrance to take pictures of every person who crosses the threshold. You know Sherri, yes? She’s the cute one with the dimples and red hair. Love those catty green eyes of hers! Anyway, photos will arrive here—and with Zeek—and the faces will be matched in our database.”
“I know Dimitri. I can ID him, no problem.”
“Yes, but will you be all places at once?”
No, she’d be dancing a delicate line between socialite and secret agent.
“If he doesn’t have an invite he won’t enter through the front door. The CIA will have operatives posted throughout, posing as waiters and staff.”
“He’ll come through the front door,” Becca said, a startling fact dawning like a lightning bolt to the brain, “because he has an invitation.”