Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) by Valerie Plame, Sarah Lovett Page B
Authors: Valerie Plame, Sarah Lovett
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blood was real.
But if not Bhoot, then who were these new terrorists?
She heard his voice replay once more: “. . . if I’m taking this risk, if I tell you I’ve been betrayed and what is mine has been stolen, think what might be set loose in the world.”
At that moment, his words had rung true.
And that made her very afraid.
14
Just before 1900 hours, Vanessa took the lift two flights up to the safe house on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Her headache had almost disappeared, perhaps numbed by the deep chill that had crept into her bones from the walk through Paris.
On the intentionally zigzag route back, at least she’d been able to verify that no one had followed her. She had been outstanding in her class at the Farm in identifying surveillance.
The lift stopped and she slid the ornate cage open onto the dimly glowing entrance hall. The apartment, dark behind frosted glass, showed no sign of life. Had everyone left? The French and Jack to their respective residences, Hays to whatever hostel he could afford with his 100-euro per diem. (CIA tech guys loved getting the cheapest place possible and pocketing the difference in their per diem from the USG.) Just this morning she’d reminded him to make use of the safe-house bath and kitchen, which were obviously superior to whatever a hostel had to offer, but it would be nice to have some solitude.
As she punched in the key code, she heard the soft murmur of voices coming from inside. At almost the same time the door opened and she found herself face-to-face with Chris Arvanitis.
He beat her to words, saying, “Damn, Vanessa, you look worse than I feel.”
She gave him a quick hug. “I’m happy to see you, too,” she said simply.
“Ditto,” Chris said, his expression serious.
“I have so much to tell you,” she said, shrugging out of her damp jacket and hurriedly draping it on a hook of the old-fashioned coat rack. She was reenergized by Chris’s presence. “I just came from the site and a walk-through with Marcel Fournier, but I had—”
She broke off as Hays appeared from the living room carrying two steaming mugs. He held them out in offering. “Very hot, very bitter coffee.”
Chris took one and Hays pressed the other into Vanessa’s hands before reaching around her to nab his coat off the rack. “I’m on my way over to the Station. They have a possible match on your bomber—and we’re going to put a rush on the analysis of some DNA taken from the site—they’ve got better toys, so I’m out of here.” He two-stepped restlessly toward the door.
“Let me know the instant you find out anything on the bomber’s ID,” Vanessa said. “And Hays, I heard that a fourth victim died?”
“A forty-two-year-old man,” Hays said soberly.
Vanessa nodded wearily. So not the girl. Yet. She stood on tiptoe to give Hays a quick hug. He blinked in surprise, but his smile was the last thing she saw as he closed the door.
As the lock clicked in place behind Hays, Vanessa turned to Chris. “Give me one minute?” She was already walking toward the apartment’s third bedroom—hers—index finger raised to signify “one.” “And make yourself at home.”
Alone, she dropped onto the neatly made bed and covered her facewith her palms. Hays had put a damper on her first impulse to tell Chris everything, beginning with her call from Bhoot. Now she’d had time to second-guess that. What if he declared her burned and pulled her off the team? He had the power to do that. She ran her hands from her face across the top of her head, smoothing her hair back. Her cheeks stung where debris had cut her skin. She found a few Advil she’d left on the bedside table and she gulped them down with a stale glass of water.
What the hell am I getting myself into?
But now wasn’t the time to give in to doubts. She had to follow her instincts—they’d led her this close to Bhoot. And she wouldn’t lie to Chris again. She had let him down before by withholding
But if not Bhoot, then who were these new terrorists?
She heard his voice replay once more: “. . . if I’m taking this risk, if I tell you I’ve been betrayed and what is mine has been stolen, think what might be set loose in the world.”
At that moment, his words had rung true.
And that made her very afraid.
14
Just before 1900 hours, Vanessa took the lift two flights up to the safe house on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Her headache had almost disappeared, perhaps numbed by the deep chill that had crept into her bones from the walk through Paris.
On the intentionally zigzag route back, at least she’d been able to verify that no one had followed her. She had been outstanding in her class at the Farm in identifying surveillance.
The lift stopped and she slid the ornate cage open onto the dimly glowing entrance hall. The apartment, dark behind frosted glass, showed no sign of life. Had everyone left? The French and Jack to their respective residences, Hays to whatever hostel he could afford with his 100-euro per diem. (CIA tech guys loved getting the cheapest place possible and pocketing the difference in their per diem from the USG.) Just this morning she’d reminded him to make use of the safe-house bath and kitchen, which were obviously superior to whatever a hostel had to offer, but it would be nice to have some solitude.
As she punched in the key code, she heard the soft murmur of voices coming from inside. At almost the same time the door opened and she found herself face-to-face with Chris Arvanitis.
He beat her to words, saying, “Damn, Vanessa, you look worse than I feel.”
She gave him a quick hug. “I’m happy to see you, too,” she said simply.
“Ditto,” Chris said, his expression serious.
“I have so much to tell you,” she said, shrugging out of her damp jacket and hurriedly draping it on a hook of the old-fashioned coat rack. She was reenergized by Chris’s presence. “I just came from the site and a walk-through with Marcel Fournier, but I had—”
She broke off as Hays appeared from the living room carrying two steaming mugs. He held them out in offering. “Very hot, very bitter coffee.”
Chris took one and Hays pressed the other into Vanessa’s hands before reaching around her to nab his coat off the rack. “I’m on my way over to the Station. They have a possible match on your bomber—and we’re going to put a rush on the analysis of some DNA taken from the site—they’ve got better toys, so I’m out of here.” He two-stepped restlessly toward the door.
“Let me know the instant you find out anything on the bomber’s ID,” Vanessa said. “And Hays, I heard that a fourth victim died?”
“A forty-two-year-old man,” Hays said soberly.
Vanessa nodded wearily. So not the girl. Yet. She stood on tiptoe to give Hays a quick hug. He blinked in surprise, but his smile was the last thing she saw as he closed the door.
As the lock clicked in place behind Hays, Vanessa turned to Chris. “Give me one minute?” She was already walking toward the apartment’s third bedroom—hers—index finger raised to signify “one.” “And make yourself at home.”
Alone, she dropped onto the neatly made bed and covered her facewith her palms. Hays had put a damper on her first impulse to tell Chris everything, beginning with her call from Bhoot. Now she’d had time to second-guess that. What if he declared her burned and pulled her off the team? He had the power to do that. She ran her hands from her face across the top of her head, smoothing her hair back. Her cheeks stung where debris had cut her skin. She found a few Advil she’d left on the bedside table and she gulped them down with a stale glass of water.
What the hell am I getting myself into?
But now wasn’t the time to give in to doubts. She had to follow her instincts—they’d led her this close to Bhoot. And she wouldn’t lie to Chris again. She had let him down before by withholding
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