Claimed by the Secret Agent (3 page)

G
rant reached in his pocket and pulled out his pick tools. It took a minute or so to slip the mechanism on the bathroom door and unlock it. The room was filled with steam, but a quick scan showed it was empty.

She had thumbed the lock and pulled it shut to buy some time. But how had she gotten past him?

Grant turned off the water and went back into the bedroom. He raked back the draperies and cursed. The window at the back of the building was open. The thin line of a rappelling rope anchored to the bed frame snaked out one edge of the window and dangled nearly to the ground. Probably kept as a means of fire escape. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

He ran a hand through his hair and gave it a tug.
Tricked like the greenest recruit, but how the hell was he to guess she’d even want to take off on her own? Where the hell did she think she was going?

After her kidnapper, of course. And the logical place for her to start would be back at that little burg where she’d been held.

A foot-long section of baseboard near the closet lay loose on the floor. The cavity that had lain behind it was the hidey-hole for the grandmother’s ring, if there had even been one, and whatever else she’d felt compelled to conceal so carefully.

He knew exactly what that would be. If he were her, working undercover, he would have his real I.D. and creds stashed somewhere safe. That, and cash.

Always have a back door.
Her fire-escape rope verified she’d had that. He was a little paranoid himself about any abode with only one exit, so he couldn’t fault her for that. He could, however, curse her for using it in this instance.

He pulled out his phone and called Mercier. Embarrassing as it was, he would have to report this snafu to control and take his lumps for it. He was mad as hell with the sneaky little devil. And sort of impressed in spite of that.

Mercier wasn’t impressed at all, especially with him. Grant could almost see the boss rolling his eyes.

“I know where she went,” Grant declared. “She tried to convince me to let her help catch her abductor. Since I said no, in no uncertain terms, she’s gone off on her own. I’ll have her on the plane within twenty-four hours.”

“No,” Mercier said. “If she’s that gung ho and that
quick on her feet, let her help. You say she’s seen him and heard him. Catch up with her and see how she does.”

“Jack, she’ll just slow me down. I’d rather do this by myself.”

“Noted, but indulge me.” An order, not a request.

“All right, but if she gets in the way, I’m sending her back, cuffed if necessary!”

“If you have to,” Mercier agreed. “Give her a chance, though. She’s been a real asset to the Company, had as much training as you and obviously has had real initiative. No reason to treat her as a novice.”

Yeah. No reason at all. Except that Grant really didn’t think she was up to this. He realized his take on it was colored by his personal opinions. As politically incorrect and chauvinistic as those might be, they were grounded in experience.

His mother had given every outward appearance of strength and courage. Everyone had always commented on how well she coped. Only Grant had known her to break down when no one else could see or hear. One of his first memories was that of sitting in the hallway outside her bedroom door, holding the little stuffed dog she had made for him, feeling her fright and wondering how to comfort her. His dad was overseas where they couldn’t go that time, and his mom couldn’t handle it. Her pretense left a lasting impression on him.

And so had Betty Schonrock, the girl who had everything. Everything but someone to watch out for her and care what happened to her. God, would he live with that failure forever? Twenty years had passed and it still
troubled him. It hadn’t been his place to protect her and what else could he have done? He ought to let it go.

He fully understood that women wanted and truly tried to be as strong as men. Maybe some were. He just didn’t think this one was as self-sufficient as she thought she was.

Marie Beauclair looked incredibly fragile and downright helpless at times. Okay, but while he knew that part of that had been an act to throw him off guard, her tears had been real enough. Her fear, the trembling and pain hadn’t been faked. At least he didn’t think so. Had they?

He had never worked with a female partner. He’d even caught himself worrying about the female agents employed by COMPASS. They seemed capable and got the job done, so he heard. But in his opinion, women were just more sensitive, more vulnerable, and they should be protected, not thrown into situations where they might be hurt.

They were physically weaker, a proven fact. And while they were probably more tolerant to pain than men were, he couldn’t see any justification for exposing them to it intentionally. Participating in an investigation of her own abduction and imprisonment surely qualified as painful where Marie was concerned. Dangerous, too.

Grant pocketed his phone and started after her. Maybe if he hurried, he could beat her there.

Marie sailed down the autobahn, grinning at the speed of her little Audi roadster. She loved the convertible, the one fancy she did love about her cover as an eager young admin assistant with her first international job. She had to admit she liked the clothes, too. Had to dress to impress!

No need for that today, though. Her small duffel was packed with only practical stuff, not the froufrou. She wore dark jeans, a black knit shirt and black running shoes with thick socks to cushion her cuts. Her braid kept her still-wet hair slicked back for the most part, but as it dried the wind grabbed at tendrils around her face.

The little Glock 27 lay on the seat beside her, ready to tuck into her belt when she got back to the scene. Dressed to kill, she thought with a smile.

Hopefully the kidnapper would be out looking for her in the village still, thinking he’d find her wandering around the streets half naked, begging for help or curled up in an alley nearby, hiding. With any luck, she’d find him first.

She imagined trussing him up, strapping him to the hood of her car like a hunting kill and hauling him to the nearest Polizei station. He had definitely picked the wrong victim this time.

Was Grant Tyndal still sitting in front of her television, or had he caught on by now? Poor guy, never had a clue. Eyelash fluttering and lip trembling went a long way with him. Pity it had taken
her
so many years to discover the power of that—she might have saved herself a boatload of angst early on.

She felt sorry for Tyndal, but he could have cut her a little slack and agreed to let her assist. Despite his periodic gruffness, he had been a real softie and easy to dupe. He seemed an all right guy, at least on the surface, so she hoped he didn’t get into too much trouble for losing her.

This probably canceled any chance of her working for COMPASS, but so what? She liked the job she had.

She had been procrastinating on a response to the offer anyway. It would be an excellent move professionally, she was flattered they wanted her and she probably would have accepted. But the European assignment had been really exciting so far and she hated to give it up so soon.

The Company would reassign her to another post, and she’d carry on, attending parties, searching, listening and mentally recording, playing the featherbrained innocent overawed by the powerful who surrounded her.

In what seemed no time at all, Marie reached the exit leading to the village where she’d been stashed. When she got to the town, she slowed and parked on the sidewalk in front of a small row of shops.

She slipped her weapon into the back of her belt, pulled her shirttail down over it and got out to join them.

The village was a bit larger than she reckoned, and it took a while to locate the building from which she’d escaped.

The alley adjacent to the building was deserted. Marie walked around to the entrance. The door was unlocked, even standing open a little. She pulled her weapon, hesitated, listened and heard nothing. Quietly, she edged it open a little more and slipped inside.

It was fairly dark, dank smelling and apparently empty. There was a chair, a bare cot and a table near a door to what she figured must be her former cell. That door, too, was cracked open a few inches.

Carefully, she approached, gun out and off safety. She kicked it fully open and shouted, “Polizei!”

“Bang. You’re dead,” a quiet voice declared in English. He sat, hands linked over his stomach, leaning back against the wall in the same straight chair she’d used to break the window.

“Dammit, Tyndal! I almost shot you!” She lowered her weapon and shook her head. “How’d you get here before I did?”

“Shortcut,” he drawled. “What took you so long?”

“What do you mean? I flew!”

He rocked forward and got up. “Not fast enough, either of us. Our boy’s gone already. I just found this in the other room, though.” He held out a scrap of paper with a few words scribbled on it. “It’s in Dutch, I think.”

She examined the paper. “Yeah, it’s a supply list. So he’s probably either from the Netherlands or had Dutch parents. That must be his mother tongue. He used it to make a list, and I heard him curse in it. Not much of a clue to his whereabouts now, though.”

“It’s all we have so far.”

Marie looked up at him and grinned. “Did you just say
we?
”

He shrugged and nodded, looking resigned.

“Not your decision, I take it?”

He shook his head. “Mercier said to watch you. So, show me what you got. If it’s good enough, I guess you get the job.”

“I have a job right now—getting this guy. One thing bothers me. If he intended for me to escape, maybe he meant for the authorities to find that,” she said, staring at the paper as she spoke.

“You think he let you go?”

“Sure made it easy enough. And he let me overhear him speaking in Dutch.”

“Let you, huh? Maybe he thought you were still out from the drugs. I don’t think we can assume—”

Marie interrupted. “So what do you think? False leads?”

“I don’t know. I found the paper right before I heard you coming and haven’t had time to examine it. Give me a minute.” He turned away, holding the scrap between his palms.

It was a full minute before he answered. “No. He took something out of his pocket, dropped this accidentally.”

Marie didn’t appreciate the humor, but she laughed anyway. “Thanks, oh, great swami. Did you divine anything else?”

Oddly enough, he didn’t laugh with her. “I’m psychic.”

“Well, excuse me for not recognizing that. Your ears aren’t pointy like Mr. Spock’s.”

“A skeptic. Well, at least my luck’s consistent today.”

“You’re serious,” she guessed. “You really think you can…”

“I really
know
I can, and I don’t intend to debate it with you right now. I thought maybe since you have a photographic memory—something very few people possess and some consider strange—that you’d at least have an open mind about it.”

“That’s why COMPASS wants me? So all that stuff about the team having unique powers isn’t just some outlandish rumor?”

“Hardly. But it’s not up to me to convince you. Mercier can do that if you come on board. If not, it’s just as
well you retain your disbelief. We don’t need it advertised.”

She cocked her head and pursed her lips. “So, how’s it work? Your gift, I mean. And how
well
does it work?”

If she expected defensiveness, she didn’t get it. He pocketed the paper and answered matter-of-factly, “Only works with touching things, not people, which we figure might be an early developed defense mechanism on my part. Or it could simply be a limitation. Accuracy’s about 80 percent in my case.”

“Oh, so you admit that sometimes it doesn’t work?” she asked politely.

He nodded. “It depends on how much energy was expended on the object that was held or used and for how long it was exposed. Our boy obviously put some thought into making the list. Got more than I figured from it.”

“Okay, let’s hear it. What did you
get?
” She asked, humoring him while trying not to view him as a crazy she ought to run from.

After a pause, Tyndal added almost reluctantly, “He’s working for somebody else.”

Marie avoided his eyes and gave a succinct nod, not wanting to make him angry by questioning this ability. Psychic mumbo jumbo aside, he had access to a number of enforcement agencies and therefore more resources for investigating this than she had.

She needed him, crazy or not. Now how could she make him need
her?

“I
f I give you a picture of him,” Marie offered, “you could have it run through Interpol?”

“Sure, but how—”

“Art major. Worked my way through LSU doing sidewalk portraits around Jackson Square.”

“That’s not in your file.”

“Don’t tell the IRS. I worked for cash only. I’ll need charcoal and a sketch pad.”

She pushed past him and returned to the outer room. Have you checked out the rest of this place. Maybe he dropped something else.”

He followed. “Because of you, we have breaks in the case now, you furnishing that likeness of the perp and this, the location where he held you. None of the others
that lived have been able to provide any information. They were drugged the entire time, then dumped in a public park, either alive or dead. Forensics hasn’t gotten anything, either, but this time, we’ve lucked out.

“I got a partial print off the bed frame.”

Marie smiled her approval. “You brought a print kit?”

“Boy Scout. Always prepared.” He held up the salute.

“Hey, I hear they give
badges
for that!”

“Funny girl.” He ushered her through the door to the street. “You aren’t always this perky, are you? I hope this is another guise to throw me off the real you. Perky just irritates the hell out of me.”

“And condescension annoys me, just so you know. Your car or mine?”

“Mine. All my gear is in it and your ride isn’t exactly low profile. Is that hot little number part of your fluffy persona, or are you naturally a show-off?”

“You saw my car? When?”

“No, I haven’t seen it, but I did read your file. Except for your art and erstwhile tax evasion, I know just about everything there is to know about you.”

She raised her eyebrows and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Believe that at your own risk.”

He guided her to the same gray sedan they’d used earlier. The car looked as if it had seen its better days in the last century. It wasn’t a pretty ride like hers, but it had made great time this morning and had beaten her here on the return trip. Hidden power beneath the hood. Like the driver, maybe?

Marie made a face as he opened the passenger door for her. She stepped away from his touch when he tried
to usher her inside. “You really are a Boy Scout, Tyndal. Help little old ladies across the street, too?”

“Whether they want to go or not,” he said, making her laugh.

She liked the man in spite of herself. He didn’t like her much, though. Thought she was deceptive, impulsive and too aggressive. She didn’t have to be psychic to get that. She also didn’t need extrasensory perception to know he was physically interested, though he hid it pretty well. She could use that. Sometimes it was the most valuable tool available, but it was risky and she seldom employed it.

Her touch-me-not attitude was for real, but most men saw it only as a come on. It must intrigue them or something. With Tyndal, that would probably work very well. She needed him on her side, helping her but not coming on to her. That last part bothered her.

Unless she had misjudged him, he wouldn’t make any sexual demands, because of his ethics. Not that she trusted any man’s ethics very far. There was a price to pay for following through with a calculated flirtation, a very heavy price she was not willing to pay again.

But fantasies didn’t cost anything, she thought with a sigh. Fantasy was always better than the reality anyway.

“Pull around to the main drag,” she ordered as he got behind the wheel. “There’s a stationer, where they might sell art supplies. If not, I can make do with plain paper and a pencil. While I shop for that, you can call for somebody to pick up my vehicle and store it.”

He did precisely as she instructed, which Marie took as a sign that he was prudent. She didn’t, however, mis
take it for submission on his part. He still thought he was running this show and she would let him think it. For now.

She worked best on her own and resented the fact that she needed him. She didn’t like needing anyone for anything. Surviving on her own was a way of life for her. Lonely at times, but that was no excuse for abandoning what worked best. But partnering on this mission was necessary.

Grant cast sideways glances at the sketchbook as he drove. She was damn good. “We have another artist on the team, Renee Alexander. You’ll like her.”

“Assuming I ever meet her. Is this all she does?”

“No,” he said. “She’s an agent.”

“That’s not what I meant. Can she do what you said you could do? You know, psychic stuff?”

“Some.” He didn’t expound on it, since Marie wasn’t on board with the team yet. He’d probably volunteered more than he ought to already.

She got the message and didn’t ask anything else about it. Grant liked that she sensed when to drop things without being told.

Her drawing looked almost finished when he pulled off the autobahn an hour later to fill the gas tank and get some food. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal yet and it was already three o’clock.

“You must be starved,” he commented. “What would you like?”

“Fast food. Hamburger,” she muttered, still intent on her drawing.

“C’mon. That stuff will kill you. Let’s get a schnitzel.”

“Oh, yeah, like that will keep your arteries clear. Humor me and find some Golden Arches, will you? And a beer. I want beer and a burger.” She rubbed the picture with one finger, smudging in a shadow. “Make that two. Two burgers. One beer, unless you’re driving all the way. Then I’ll have two of each.”

Grant clicked his tongue, exasperated. “How
do
you keep that figure?”

“I only indulge when I’ve been kidnapped,” she said with a smile that looked forced. “Buy me some comfort?”

He bought her some comfort, watching her with no little fascination as she consumed two quarter-pounders with cheese, fries with mayonnaise and two cups of draft.

“Isn’t it wild that you can buy beer everywhere? Even here?” she asked.

“I see you’re still going through culture shock. Do you even
like
beer?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, I do. German beer anyway.”

“Apple pie?” he asked, nudging one toward her side of the table and wondering just how much she could hold in that tiny frame before exploding.

She took the pie and simply looked at the cardboard container longingly. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe? No maybe about it, you eat like a lumberjack,” he said with a laugh.

“I haven’t had a hamburger or pie since I was a kid,” she admitted. “I had to give ’em up.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just eaten. Her gaze met his. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Okay, why?”

“I was a fat kid.” Her blue eyes widened in that engaging way she had, and she nodded for emphasis. “Really,
really
fat.”

And now she was really, really tipsy. “Yeah? How long since you had beer?”

“Month or so. I love the taste of it but don’t indulge a lot. I’m not much of a drinker.”

Obviously. Her eyelids were drooping.

The stress was catching up with her, adrenalin crashing right on top of those two little cups of beer. “I think you need a nap. Let’s go and you can sleep on the way.”

“Wait! You have to get the picture to Interpol!”

“Is it finished? Let’s have a look.” He pulled the sketchbook to his side of the table and opened the cover.

The profile was detailed, right down to the mole near the eye and stubble on the jaw and neck. Off in one corner was a man’s left hand with a scar delineated on the wrist. “Man, it’s so realistic! You
are
good.”

“Photographic. That’s what I do best,” she replied.

He pulled out his cell phone, caught the images on his screen, then e-mailed them along with a short message to Mercier, who would do the proper distribution. “There. All done.”

Grant smoothed the page down with his hand and almost gasped. The energy radiating from the drawing virtually leaped up his arm.
Rage. Determination. And suppressed fear.

Damn. He couldn’t let her go into this with that much emotion. It would wreck the whole mission, not to
mention what it might do to
her
if she ever actually confronted her captor. But now was not the time to discuss it.

She wouldn’t voluntarily rescue herself, not easily anyway. Maybe he could somehow make her see reason before they reached Holland.

He led her to the car and settled her in the backseat, stuffing his folded jacket under her head as a pillow.

Grant had noticed how she shied away from him, but now she accepted his help easily enough. Either she trusted him a bit more or the beer had lowered her defenses. Any woman who had undergone all that she had in the last twenty-four hours probably couldn’t stand any man getting too close. From now on, he’d keep contact to a minimum whenever possible.

A shame, he thought, as his fingers brushed against her braid. She needed hugging in the worst way and didn’t even know it.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, cradling her face in one hand and closing her eyes.

“Fat little kid, huh?” he muttered to himself as he closed the door and went around to the driver’s side and got in. “You sure fixed that problem.”

She was as slender as she could be without looking skinny now, and he suspected the curves she did have were mostly muscle. No doubt she worked out regularly. Excellent shape. His admiration for her kicked up another notch now that he knew she wasn’t just born with lucky genes.

“I was skinny,” he said, his voice hushed in pretend conversation with his sleeping passenger. “Tall and a
beanpole. Geeky, to boot. I know what it takes to shape up and how miserable it can be doing it. Good for you, babe.”

He thought he heard a sleepy chuckle from the backseat but decided he must have imagined it. She was dead to the world back there.

Grant smiled to himself, trying to picture Marie as a roly-poly adolescent. All he could see in his mind were those remarkably expressive delft-blue eyes, bright with enthusiasm, intelligence and all-consuming energy.

He hated to disappoint her by sending her home. Maybe Mercier would know what to do with her, because he sure as hell didn’t.

They were already halfway to Holland from Munich, and Frankfurt was out of the way. He’d take her on to Amsterdam and put her on a plane. Then he could get down to business with no distractions.

Marie sensed that in her temporarily vulnerable state she’d given away too much about herself in her effort to befriend Tyndal. He had identified with her childhood problem. She’d figured he would do that. Didn’t all kids have socialization problems of one kind or another? But she had laid it out all wrong, and now he probably saw her as defensive, compensatory and a little out of control. He would dump her if she gave him the chance.

She wasn’t drunk on two beers—not by a long stretch—but the beer had loosened her up while she was winding down from the high of all the excitement and exhaustion.

No use regretting her dietary lapse or trying to get too
close to him too soon. She made it a point never to second-guess her decisions or actions. Counterproductive.

Doing something was almost always better than doing nothing at all. Her policy was to go for broke, roll with the consequences, good or bad, and try to make them work for her. Right now she needed sleep, but she couldn’t afford to let this slide.

With that in mind, she sat up and leaned on the back of the front seat. “Why do you think he let me get away? I’d like your take on it.”

“You seriously think he
let
you?” Tyndal glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“It didn’t occur to me at the time, but in retrospect, it seems he made it pretty easy. He was speaking Dutch and talking pretty loudly. Could be that he was trying to establish that the abductions are not terrorist acts but simple kidnappings. As a witness who got away, I could send the investigation in a different direction. That would explain why he gave me the opportunity to run.”

“Could be. But I think the abductions
are
terrorist acts. The earmarks are there. American victims from American embassies and consulates, huge ransoms.”

He glanced up at her again, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Think about this: He didn’t know you were a trained agent. And he couldn’t have known how long that drug would affect you or precisely how soon you’d be able to overhear him. How would he know you’d even recognize Dutch when you heard it?”

Marie considered that. “Then why did he make it so easy for me to get away?”

“It would
not
have been easy for most people. If you
were the little clerk he thought you were, you’d probably still be there. Now why don’t you get some rest? You’ve got to be wiped out.”

She sighed. “Okay, but I’m fine, just so you know. You really think he’s gone to Holland?”

“Yes. Amsterdam.”

“Explain. The vibe you picked up from that piece of paper?”

“Something like that. Don’t want to bore you with details you wouldn’t believe anyway.”

He took a deep breath and released it, firming his hands on the steering wheel as he looked in the rearview mirror again. “You need to go home, Marie. It’s the best thing all around, for you and for the investigation.”

“I don’t think you want me to work this by myself.”

“I don’t want you to work this
at all.
You’d like to kill him, Marie. Don’t deny it.”

Well, he had her there. “Wouldn’t you?” she asked, sincerely curious. “The bastard grabbed me in my own kitchen, drugged me and tied me up like an express package! Of course I’d like to get back at him in the worst way. But I won’t go in like Rambo and kill him and any chance of finding out why he did it or who’s running the show.” She pouted for a second. “Give me a little credit for control.”

Tyndal remained quiet. Was he thinking that over or just refusing to discuss it?

“Well?” she prompted.

He shifted in his seat, body language broadcasting that his decision was highly reluctant. “All right. But only because Mercier wants you evaluated. One screw-
up and I’ll have the locals haul you in and hold you for me as a material witness. Got that?”