The other thing that intrigued him was that finding out the true story behind Frank Medici’s death and keeping Jed Calhoun alive were going to present almost impossible challenges.
As his fax machine began to whir, Gage smiled again. It had been a long time since he’d come up against an impossible challenge, and the last time it had cost him a leg. But, one leg and all his brains were intact, he thought, as he lifted a sheet out of his fax machine and began to read.
“I’VE HEARD a disturbing rumor.”
Bailey Montgomery closed the file on her desk and glanced up to meet the gaze of her most immediate superior at the CIA, Hadley Richards. “Had” to his friends and a favored few of his subordinates.
He closed the door behind him with a little snap.
Bailey wasn’t one of the favored few. She’d worked under “Had” for nearly a year, and he was still Mr. Richards to her. Go figure. Bailey watched him stroll to her desk and make a ritual out of sitting down, pressing the crease in his slacks and lifting them slightly to cut down on wrinkles. Once he was seated, he proceeded to adjust his cuffs.
Hadley Richards was a tall, handsome man in his early fifties who was always meticulously dressed and normally had charm oozing out of his pores. Not that he’d ever wasted any of it on her. In fact, he seemed to check it at the door whenever he entered her office. He was also a man she neither underestimated nor completely trusted.
Since she’d known him, he’d been playing the old-boy network very skillfully to ensure he was on the fast track to becoming the next director. He would probably achieve his goal since he had the right political connections. His father-in-law was the President’s National Security Advisor. And it didn’t hurt that his wife was richer than a goddess and the current CEO at McManus Pharmaceuticals.
“Well, aren’t you going to ask me about the rumor?” Had asked.
Arching one brow, she set down her gold pen and smiled at him. “I’m confident that you’re going to enlighten me any second now.”
He returned her smile—a slight curve of lips that wasn’t echoed in his eyes.
Hadley Richards didn’t like her. She wasn’t sure if his dislike sprang out of the fact that he didn’t believe women belonged in the CIA or whether he feared that she was competing with him. Or perhaps the formal way he treated her was due to the fact that she’d made it clear early in their relationship that she wasn’t going to take a tumble with him between the sheets. Had’s reputation as a womanizer was firmly established. He was usually discreet. Sometimes, there was gossip, as there had been six months ago when the rumors had circulated that he’d been “seeing” one of the new data analysts, a young woman named Zoë McNamara. But when she’d quickly resigned, the talk had stopped.
“It’s about that assignment I asked you to handle in Bogotá six months ago,” he said. “Someone has spotted your quarry back here in D.C.”
Bailey’s stomach clenched, but her gaze remained steady. “That’s impossible.” Ever since she’d spotted Jed Calhoun at that trendy party at Millie Langford’s house two weeks ago, she’d been waiting for this. But Had must have received his news secondhand, so he couldn’t be certain. If he’d spotted Jed at that party, as she had, he would have been in her office the next day. “The man you sent me to Bogotá to kill is dead.”
“You know that party that Millie Langford threw two weeks ago to honor my wife for receiving the President’s Humanitarian Award?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my source thinks our so-called dead man was there.”
Bailey kept her gaze and her voice steady. “Your source is mistaken.”
“I’ve been checking. There’s no official record of the man’s death.”
She shrugged and sent him another smile. “We’re talking about Colombia. Records get lost, or more likely, they never get filed. I was there in the alley. I arranged the hit. You’ll have to take my word for it. Or the shooter’s. His report is in the file. He’s the marksman you insisted I take with me.”
“I spoke with him. He says that you insisted on a shot to the shoulder.”
Bailey’s stomach knotted even tighter. “Because I wanted to finish the job myself and make sure there was no mistake. I shot him and let me assure you that he’s dead.”
For a moment Hadley Richards merely studied her with a slight frown on his face. She knew exactly what he saw. She’d worked very hard to cultivate a specific image on the job. She saw a hairstylist once a month to keep her straight blond hair at a perfect length, one that she could tie at the nape of her neck when she worked out or let fall straight to a spot just below her chin when she was in the office. Her manicurist kept her nails short and covered with a clear polish. And she was wearing her typical uniform, a conservative suit—today’s had a pinstripe running through it. The only personal indulgences on the job were the gold hoops she wore in her ears and the red silk blouse.