A Deadly Business. Desiree Holt
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She’d call him a slimy piece of shit if she could.
“I try to keep business and pleasure separated. You know that.”
He gave a soft laugh. “One of the many things I admire about you. All business, and exceptionally good at it. Mr. Maes is very pleased with your work. I still consider the day we met one of my most fortunate.”
“Thank you. I do my best.” She eased her hand from his as gracefully as possible.
“Well, enjoy your weekend.” He took a step back. “Plan on meeting for lunch next week. Mr. Maes has some additional assets he needs to deal with.”
More assets? This could be the last piece of the puzzle she was looking for. Among other things, they still had no information on the other men Maes had dealt with, men who colluded with hm. Maybe whatever Desmet had would lead her to them. Then maybe she could get the hell out of here before it all fell apart.
“I look forward to it. And again, thank you for dinner.”
She tamped down her need to hurry as she mounted the steps to her building, turned once to wave at him, then let herself in. And leaned against the door, drawing a breath, and exhaling slowly. A ribbon of excitement curled inside her at his last statement.
After three years of swimming in the high-energy financial waters of London’s Canary Wharf district, she had almost enough for the CIA to drop the net on Maes, but there was one piece of the pie she was still missing. She prayed that what Desmet had for her was that piece, because she needed to get the hell out of London. Lately she’d had the itchy feeling she was being watched. And was there a slight change in Desmet’s attitude at dinner, or had she just imagined it?
She checked her watch, realized she was running late for her meeting with Craig Joffrey, and raced up the flight of stairs to her flat. The man had been her handler from day one, and she both liked and respected him. Tonight, she had two things for him: a flash drive with more critical information on Maes’s accounts, and the tidbit Desmet had teased her with.
One good thing about a small flat was you didn’t have to look a lot of places for things. In less than ten minutes her business look was gone, replaced by jeans, sweater, and battered boots. A worn jacket and a watch cap pulled down over her distinctive auburn hair, the flash drive slipped into a hidden pocket in her sleeve, and she was ready.
Downstairs again, Lauren pressed a hidden button that opened a panel at the back of the foyer. In seconds, she was racing through a tunnel connecting to the house behind hers. After exiting the other building, also CIA-owned, she hurried to the corner and turned right. She always used this method when meeting Craig. Anyone looking for her would be watching the front of her known address.
She loved the fact the Kensington area was convenient for transportation. The Tube was only two blocks from her flat, and with her Oyster card she could travel anywhere in London and be as anonymous as possible. Even if someone followed her, getting lost in the station and on the train was old hat to her by now.
But no one followed her on the street, and nothing tickled her senses at the station. On each new train, she changed cars to see if anyone followed. If only she could get rid of that damn itch between her shoulder blades. Nothing had happened to put it there, but she’d been at this for three years now. The shelf life of safety was about to expire, and she knew it. If she could just make it through next week.
She had no qualms about what would happen to her if Maes knew what she was doing. When Brian Gould had recruited her, he hadn’t pulled any punches describing the man.
“He’s a vicious bastard with no conscience and no soul. He destroys lives as easily as some people squash bugs. He kills as easily as some people brush their teeth. He’s not too particular, either. If someone gets in his way, they and anyone connected with them become his victims.”
“Nice guy,” she’d commented, and shivered.
“Not,” he’d snapped. “He’s the quintessential Croatian thug, growing up on the streets of Zagreb where the biggest requirement was a lack of conscience. He has a hit squad recruited from the gangs he ran with, and inflicting unbearable pain is only one of the weapons in their arsenal.”
“If you’re trying to scare me,” she’d told him, “you’re doing a good job.”
“I just want you to watch your step, but we’ll have your back all the way.”
It still amazed her that for three years she’d walked this tightrope without falling off.
Two Tube transfers later, she entered the Dirty Dog, a pub in a dingier part of Kensington whose dark interior provided the perfect environment for her meetings with Craig. She found him waiting in their usual booth, two beers sitting on the table. He always ordered to keep the waitress from pestering them, but they only pretended to drink, taking a sip for show now and then.
She slid in across from him and pulled off her cap.
“Safe for another week.” It was her standard greeting, only tonight it sounded hollow to her. More than at any other time since she’d stepped into the role of Lauren Masters, financial wizard, she felt uneasy.
Craig scowled. “Don’t joke about that, kiddo. Any op can turn sour in a minute. And you’ve been on this one for three years. That’s a long time in anyone’s book.”
“But it’s worked so far, right?” Joking was one way she dealt with the tension of her situation. She never forgot for one minute the dangerous game she’d agreed to play.
“So far.” He frowned. “I never did cotton to the idea of the CIA taking untrained people and putting them in dangerous jobs. I just wish I didn’t have this feeling we’re pushing our luck.”
Lauren tensed. So, he felt something, too? Should she forget about next week, and have him pull her out now? No. She didn’t want to leave feeling her job wasn’t finished. Surely, she’d be safe for one more week. Right?
“I was trained,” she reminded him.
He shook his head. “A degree from the London School of Economics isn’t much good in a firefight.”
“But it’s what you needed to put someone in place to handle Maes’s financial accounts. Besides, you’ve done this long enough. If you thought there was imminent danger, we’d flip the kill switch now. Right?”
“Right, I just…” He shook his head. “I haven’t because I think you’re the most focused agent I’ve ever worked with. And doing a damned good job.”
“I think that’s a compliment.”
“It can be good and bad. Never mind. Just be alert. How was your dinner with Desmet tonight? You watch your back with that slimy bastard. He’d cut your throat and not turn a hair.”
Lauren nodded. “I agree, but I’ve learned how to handle him over time.”
She hoped.
“Just be on your toes, please. You’ve done a great job for us and I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”
Lauren grinned. “Aw. You like me,” she teased. “You really like me.”
“Don’t joke, Lauren.” Craig’s tone was dead serious. “I told your boss we needed to wrap this up. Stefan Maes trusts no one, except maybe Desmet. He’s been known to set traps for people—both real and electronic—just to set his mind at ease that nothing wonky is happening. I want you out before he decides you’re next up.”
“I am being very, very careful,” she assured him. “Believe me, I don’t want to be the object of his wrath.”
She didn’t want to tell him she’d been feeling uneasy lately. That she looked constantly to be sure no one was following her or checking her computer work. If she did, he would pull her out right now. Maybe he should, but there was that little tidbit Desmet had dangled in front of her tonight. It could be the final nail in Maes’s