Prince Joe. Suzanne Brockmann
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straight,” Joe said, adding, “sir. That bastard nearly got Frisco killed. We were extracting from Baghdad with a squad of Iraqi soldiers on our tail. Frisco took a direct hit. The kid nearly bled to death. What’s maybe even worse, at least in his eyes, is that his knee was damn near destroyed. Kid’s in a wheelchair now, and fighting hard to get out.”
Mac Forrest stood quietly, just letting Joe tell the story.
“We’d reached the Baghdad extraction point when Prince Charming over there refused to board the chopper. We finally had to throw him inside. It only gave us about a thirty-second delay, but it was enough to put us into the Iraqi soldiers’ firing range, and that’s when Frisco was hit. Turns out His Royal Pain-in-the-Butt refused to get into the bird because it wasn’t luxurious enough. He nearly got us all killed because the interior of an attack helicopter wasn’t painted in the colors of the Ustanzian flag.”
Joe looked steadily at the admiral. “So go ahead and reprimand me, Mac,” he added. “But be warned—there’s nothing you can say that’ll make me do any favors for that creep.”
“I’m not so sure about that, son,” Mac said thoughtfully, running his hand across the lower part of his face.
Joe frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Have you seen the news lately?” Mac asked.
Joe looked at him for several long moments. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Just asking.”
“Mac, I’ve been in a chopper, a transport jet and a jeep tonight. None of them had in-flight entertainment in the form of the evening news,” Joe said. “Hell, I haven’t even seen a newspaper in the past eighteen hours.”
“This morning there was an assassination attempt on Tedric.”
Aha. Now it suddenly all made sense. Joe nodded. “Gee, sir,” he said. “And I already smell like bait. How appropriate.”
Mac chuckled. “You always were a smart mouth, Catalanotto.”
“So what’s the deal?” Joe asked. “Where am I inserting? Ustanzia? Or, oh joy, are we going back to Baghdad?”
Inserting. It was a special operations term for entering—either stealthily or by force—an area of operation.
The admiral perched on the arm of the sofa. “You’ve already inserted, son,” he said. “Here in D.C. is where we want you—for right now. That is, if I can convince you to volunteer for this mission.” Briefly, he outlined the plan to have Joe stand in for the crown prince for the remainder of the American tour—at least until the terrorists made another assassination attempt and were apprehended.
“Let me get this straight,” Joe said, sitting down on the couch. “I play dress-up in Cortere’s clothes—which is the equivalent of painting a giant target on my back, right? And I’m doing this so that the United States will have more oil? You’ve got to do better than that, Mac. And don’t start talking about protecting Prince Ted, because I don’t give a flying fig whether or not that bastard stays alive long enough to have his royal coffee and doughnut tomorrow morning.”
Mac looked across the room, and Joe followed the older man’s gaze. Veronica was nodding at Prince Tedric, her face serious. Red. Her hair was dry, and it was definitely red. Of course. It had to be red.
“I don’t suppose working with Veronica St. John would be an incentive?” Mac said. “I had the opportunity to meet her several weeks ago. She’s a real peach of a girl. Rock-solid sense of humor, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it to look at her. Pretty, too.”
Joe shook his head. “Not my type,” he said flatly.
“Mrs. Forrest wasn’t my type when I first met her,” Mac stated.
Joe stood. “Sorry, Mac. If that’s the best you can do, I’m outta here.”
“Please,” Mac said quietly, putting one hand on Joe’s arm. “I’m asking for a personal favor here, Lieutenant. Do this one for me.” The admiral looked down at the floor, and when he looked back at Joe, his blue eyes were steely. “Remember that car bomb that took out a busload of American sailors in London three years ago?”
Silently, Joe nodded. Oh, yeah. He remembered. Mac Forrest’s nineteen-year-old son had been one of the kids killed in that deadly blast, set off by a terrorist organization called the Cloud of Death.
“My sources over at Intelligence have hinted that the assassins who are gunning for Prince Tedric are the same terrorists who set off that bomb,” the admiral said. His voice trembled slightly. “It’s Diosdado and his damned Cloud of Death again. I want them, Lieutenant. With your help, I can get them. Without your help…” He shook his head in despair.
Joe nodded. “Sir, you’ve got your volunteer.”
It was nearly two-thirty in the morning before Veronica left the planning meeting.
All of the power players had been there—Senator McKinley, whose million-dollar smile had long since faded; Henri Freder, the Ustanzian Ambassador; Admiral Forrest, the salty-looking military man Veronica had met several weeks ago at an embassy function in Paris; stern-faced Kevin Laughton, the Federal Intelligence Commission agent in charge of security; and Prince Tedric’s four chief aides.
It had been decided that Prince Tedric should be spirited away from the hotel to a safe house where he’d be guarded by FInCOM agents and Ustanzian secret service men. The American sailor, Joe Catalanotto, would simply move into Tedric’s suite of rooms on the tenth floor, thus arousing no suspicion among the hotel staff and guests—or even among the prince’s own lesser servants and assistants, who would not be told of the switch.
After convincing the prince to give Veronica St. John a chance to work with the sailor, McKinley had gotten the ball rolling. Prince Tedric was gone, much to everyone’s relief.
Veronica and the prince’s main staff were working to reschedule the beginning of the tour. The idea was to organize a schedule that would require Joe to have the least amount of contact with diplomats who might recognize that he was not the real prince. And the FInCOM agents put in their two cents worth, trying to set up times and places for Joe to appear in public that would provide the assassins with an obvious, clear target without putting Joe in more danger than necessary.
“Where’s Catalanotto?” Admiral Forrest kept asking. “He should be here. He should be part of this op’s planning team.”
“With all due respect, Admiral,” Kevin Laughton, the FInCOM chief, finally said, “it’s better to leave the strategizing to the experts.” Laughton was a tall man, impeccably dressed, with every strand of his light brown hair perfectly in place. His blue eyes were cool, and he kept his emotions carefully hidden behind a poker face.
“In that case, Mr. Laughton,” Forrest said tartly, “Catalanotto should definitely be here. And if you paid close attention, sir, you might even learn a thing or two from him.”
“From a navy lieutenant?”
“Joe Cat is a Navy SEAL, mister,” Forrest said.
There was that word again. SEAL.
But Laughton didn’t look impressed. He looked put-upon. “I should’ve known this was going too smoothly,” he said tiredly. He turned to Forrest. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the expression, Admiral: Too many cooks spoil the broth?”
The admiral fixed the younger man with a decidedly fishlike stare. “This man is going to be your bait,” he said. “Can you honestly tell me that if your roles were reversed, you wouldn’t want in on the planning stages?”
“Yes,” Laughton replied. “I can.”