Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (6 page)

“No, you do not!” She sat upright, ripped her arm away, refusing to look at the woman. Mercy focused on her kitchen window, the sunshine, a world unsullied by clandestine ops and people who lied for a living without a twinge of guilt.

“Listen, I’ve lost people dear to me, too. Not my mother, but…others.” Margaret Storey drew an audible breath, and Mercy actually heard remorse in the soft hiss of its intake. “When that happened, I truly was helpless. There was nothing I could do to save them. But there is a way that you can do something productive. Something that well might alter your mother’s fate.”

                                          6

Mercy felt sick to her stomach. The woman sounded sincere, which made her all the more wary. She sighed. “Explain.”

Margaret Storey nodded her head. “Okay. We
do
need something from you. But being useful is different than being used. I can explain the details if you’re willing to listen. I honestly believe we have a great deal to offer in return for your help.”

“You’re hired spies, mercenaries to all intents and purposes. Right? And you expect me to just join up?” Mercy murmured, feeling suddenly weary.

“We know where Talia is. We know who has her.”

With those words, Mercy felt her exhaustion seep away as if through a sieve. She should be furious at being played like this. This most critical of all information was what the woman had been holding back. Talia O'Brien's fate was her bargaining chip. And Storey had been waiting to see how close Mercy would come to committing to working with Red Sands.

It was all Mercy could do not to scream:
The fucking nerve of you people!
But if she did that Margaret Storey would walk out the door without telling her where her mother was. So she buried her anger and kept her voice low and calm. “Then, please, tell me what you know.”

“I will. But you must understand that the lives of many more people are involved than just your mother’s. We have a man in place in Pripyat, the town closest to the Chernobyl site. We believe that’s where she is, or somewhere close by. But we need to move cautiously. A word in the wrong ear, and the people who are holding your mother might panic and kill her. Aside from her life, there is a great deal more at stake. This situation has the makings of a truly horrendous international incident.”

“Then I’ll go over there and meet with your man in Pripyat, if you’ll help me get through airport security. Give me a new identity. Travel documents, whatever. I’ll be careful.”

“No. It’s far too sensitive a situation, and that’s on top of the political unrest after the rebel military forces ousted the Ukrainian president. As good as you are, you’re still an amateur, Mercy. The chances of your being found out are too high. Plus, you’re emotionally involved. That will make it harder for you to control your responses to stress. If the wrong person realizes who you are, things could go terribly wrong.”

Mercy was up off her seat now, pacing the kitchen floor. “Wrong how? I don’t see the point in—”

Storey leaned out and grasped Mercy’s hands, bringing her to a stop. She held on, her slender fingers shockingly strong. “Imagine how you’d feel if you knew you were the one who made your mother’s captors decide to cut their losses and kill her. They’d put a bullet in her head. Or smother her. No big deal to people like that.”

Mercy shuddered. Her throat closed up, making it nearly impossible for her to breathe, much less speak.

“Mercy, believe me, you’d never forgive yourself. But we can find her for you.” Storey’s eyes, she noticed for the first time, weren’t really gray but seemed an odd violet color. Up close Mercy could see the faint ring of contact lenses, and she wondered what the natural color of those eyes might be. Had other changes been made to the woman’s appearance for the purpose of her work?

Storey was still talking at her, pushing the words out in a flow meant to convince. “And, in the meantime, you will be earning our help by making the best use of your natural talents. We’ll brief you every step of the way, keep you abreast of our progress. I promise, we’ll do everything we can to bring Talia home.”

Mercy concentrated on breathing for a moment. Then, “Red Sands is a business. That’s what you said. Organizations hire you. I have money. More than enough to pay any fee you ask.”

The agent released her hands and sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. Her navy-blue blazer, unadorned by jewelry, looked even more like a military uniform now. “We’re not interested in your money. I’ve told you that we’ll consider your cooperation as fair compensation for our services in rescuing your mother. That’s the only way we can do this.”

Mercy sighed, no less suspicious, but managing to still rein in her anger and frustration. “In case you haven't noticed, I’m an artist. I own an art gallery and live as quiet and law-abiding a life as anyone can in today’s world, so—” She stuttered to a stop and studied the woman seated at her kitchen counter. Storey’s hand had snapped up to cover her mouth as if to hide a smile.  “What the hell do you find so amusing, Agent?”

“You forgot to mention that you also steal documents from the locked safes of suspected crime lords. Oh, and yes,” she added, “there were a rather dramatic incident involving you and an assault on an armed compound outside of Mexico City. A quiet life, you say?”

Mercy stared down at her hands, clenching and unclenching them in front of her.  “What do you want me to do?” The words brought her physical pain.

Storey had released her hands long ago and now leaned on her elbows back against the polished granite countertop. “We’re asking you to work with us for just a few months. It’s a single assignment. Once it’s complete, you’re off the hook and you’ll have your mother back home, safe and sound. Just give us the time to do what we need to do.”

Mercy's heart leapt with hope. The Red Sands agent was telling her that Talia was alive. She watched the other woman’s eyes. They didn’t shift, blink, or waver. “Can I stay in DC for this assignment?” She was thinking of Maria, Sebastian’s daughter, not wanting to be away too long from her, even though the girl would be safe enough at the Virginia boarding school where she’d placed her. Sebastian had asked her to watch over Maria. His enemies were many and powerful. Then there was the issue of Sebastian himself. Would she be allowed to tell him what she was doing and where she was going?

“Sorry,” Storey said, “you’ll be out of the country for a while.”

“Where?”

“The Virgin Islands. It’s quite lovely there.” The woman flashed a stage smile. How much of her was real and how much role playing? “It’s not like we’re packing you off to Siberia. White-sand beaches. Blue ocean. Warm sun. A hell of a lot nicer climate than in DC this time of year.” She winked at her. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”

Highly unlikely, Mercy thought grimly. She sighed and glanced up at the stone plaque on her kitchen wall. It was a plaster casting of an Aztec burial mask, a gift from Sebastian. She had hoped to see him again soon. He was, of course, at this very moment still in Mexico, fighting his own war against the corruption and violence that had kept his country from becoming as strong and respected a member in the international community as it could be.

Mercy sat down beside the coffee pot. She poured another cup to the brim, brought the mug to her lips and held it there, breathing in the aromatic steam—better even than the taste.

“What about my gallery? If I leave Evelyn in charge she might be in danger. Yegorov is still out there somewhere.” She refused to involve the older woman in any of this. Evelyn was more than an employee. Mercy had bought the gallery from her, and together they’d worked hard to raise the business out of near bankruptcy in an astonishingly short time. More than that, they’d become friends.

“Close down for renovations. Or we’ll assign an agent to keep an eye on the place and watch over your manager.” Storey waved toward her. “Anyway, it’s you they want, not your assistant or property.”

Mercy blew on her coffee then sipped. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“If my mother actually had contacted me with information that threatened a criminal conspiracy of some kind—and she hasn't—wouldn’t the bad guys realize I’d have already turned that proof over to the authorities? What’s the point in offing me if I’ve already passed along evidence?”

“These people don’t always behave rationally.” Storey traced a finger around the rim of her mug, following the motion with her eyes. “We know for certain a few things that might have made them feel threatened. Talia’s editor received personal items that she left in her room at the Dnipro Hotel in Kiev. The syndicate may think these things were returned to you, and that something incriminating was among them. Possibly something that you don’t even know could be used against them. Also, before your mother disappeared she sent messages to her GeoWorld editor, attaching photographs.”

“I know. I saw one of them months ago. In the background you can see the shut-down Chernobyl reactors. But that proves nothing except that my mother was in the region.” The Red Sands agent opened her mouth as if to speak but Mercy pressed on. “Hell, I’ve found other photographs posted on the Web by a Romanian tourist and a British environmental watchdog organization. I also received a photo from the man who was trying to strong arm me into working for him while I was in Mexico. There was nothing special about that particular picture. But later, he gave me another one.”

“I know,” Storey said softly, in what she probably thought was a comforting tone.

Sympathy wasn’t what she wanted or needed now. “It showed a woman who’d been brutally beaten and lashed to a cot. I’m almost certain it was my mother. But—” She choked, the words suddenly refusing to come through a wave of stinging emotion.

“But?” Storey prompted gently.

“But I don’t know if it’s legitimate. If it’s real…or even if it’s my mother.”

“Our techs can tell whether or not it was digitally manipulated.”

“It’s a Polaroid,” Mercy said, knowing that mattered.

“Then it’s probably genuine. Digital is easy to mess with in a hundred ways—Polaroid, not so much. But scenes can be staged for any kind of camera.”

Just as she’d thought. Mercy felt sick to her stomach. It was not knowing the truth that made it all a hundred times worse.

She slid a finger across the stone countertop. When she rehabbed the townhouse, she had wanted white Carrarra marble. But her mother had talked her into this beautifully mottled stone with pale silvery quartz and red garnet flecks. She loved it. And she loved her mom. Admittedly, there had been times as a child and teenager when she’d resented Talia’s penchant for risking her life to be in some of the most dangerous places in the world—just to get the shots to make a story come alive for readers. Later in life, as an adult, Mercy still worried about her mother but came to understand the challenge that always drew Talia to the hot spots in the world. But to think of this world, this life, without Talia O’Brien was to contemplate a loss so vast she couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

And now, sitting here in the familiar coziness of her own kitchen, Mercy didn’t need to look again at that one photograph to remember every disturbing detail. It had imprinted itself on her brain. The woman in the picture lay helpless on a cot, her face bruised and bloodied. Her body fragile, shattered, and starved. The memory of that sickening image tore at Mercy’s soul. Suddenly, she had no doubt it was Talia.

She became aware that Margaret Storey was speaking again. “So we’ll get the Washington Post to run a cover story. You were injured in an attempted carjacking and your doctor has sent you to a rehab clinic in West Virginia. Your condition is stable. Full recovery expected.”

Mercy shook her head doubtfully. “My friends will question Evelyn. Of course I have to tell her that I’m okay and just—”

“No,” Margaret said firmly. “Let her believe you’re really in rehab, recovering from injuries sustained in an attack. That way when anyone asks she’ll sound convincing. It’s safer for her, too.”

“You’re telling me to
lie
to her?”

And to Sebastian? God, how could she do that? Would she even be allowed to see or talk to him? How could she simply disappear from his life? He’d think she didn’t care, that she’d dumped him. Worse yet, he’d think she was ignoring her duty to his daughter.

“Inventing a new form of truth is sometimes necessary.” The touch of warmth she’d heard in the agent's voice moments before had leaked away. Now she exuded cold practicality. Her gaze darkened as her eyes locked with Mercy’s. “It’s for your own safety as well as to protect the mission.”

Mercy still didn’t like the sound of it. Mission. Just the word sent chills through her—reminders of her close brush with death in Mexico. “Yegorov will start poking around when he can’t find me in West Virginia.”

“The Tambov Syndicate won’t want to draw any more attention than necessary, believe me. Chasing you through Georgetown late at night is probably the limit of their exposure, for the time being. Unless they really get desperate.”

"But what if they
do
become desperate?"
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