Disappeared Page 5

“Ohh-kay,” she said with a shrug.

  She slid her arms into Burke's jacket, stepped up to the bike, and sat down on the makeshift cushion, figuring that riding sidesaddle would be the most comfortable—and modest—position to be in. Burke placed his hands on the handlebars, trapping her with his lean, muscular arms.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “I guess,” she said resignedly. “But remember this: If you try any wheelies, I'll break your ribs.” She was only half joking.

  Burke laughed again. This time she could feel the tremors behind his breastbone. “I promise I won't. So where to?”

  “Up this street to Sunset. Then four blocks down.”

  They took off. Burke eased the turn onto the street in order to keep the bike as upright as possible. Once they were on the open road, they gained momentum until they reached an easy glide. The cool night wind rushed past her, whipping her skirt about her legs and causing locks of hair to rise in a jerky sort of dance.

  It was exhilarating. At first Sydney tried to hold herself as rigid as possible. Eventually she found it easier to balance by leaning back against Burke, nestling herself in the crook of his left shoulder. This allowed her to hold her legs out away from the front wheel.

  She could feel his breath near her ear where it mingled with the night air, and smell his spicy scent of sweat and exotic incense. Was it her imagination or was he leaning forward, curving his shoulders around her? For once, she didn't care. She didn't tense up, and her mind didn't fly into hyperanalysis. She simply relaxed against him.

  She still had to deal with Francie, SD-6, and the ramifications of her actions. But at least for now, she was okay. For now, she could just close her eyes and enjoy the ride.

  To: bossman@creditdauphine.com

  From: reginald.wilson@creditdauphine.com

  Subject: Sydney

  This could be a mistake. We could lose her.

  To: reginald.wilson@creditdauphine.com

  From: bossman@creditdauphine.com

  Subject: Re: Sydney

  She won't fail. We need her. She needs this.

  Mission to move forward as scheduled.

  5

  BE-BEEP! BE-BEEP! BE-BEEP! BE-BEEP!

  Sydney gasped and sat upright. Peach-colored light flooded in through her dorm window, spearing her pupils. A thousand-decibel alarm was blaring.

  “Francie, get up. I think there's a fire,” she tried to say, only her voice came out croaky, unintelligible. Francie continued to sleep soundly—not even the slightest flutter in her thick, dark lashes.

  BE-BEEP! BE-BEEP! BE-BEEP!

  The noise was coming from her nightstand. Sydney shielded her eyes against the blinding morning light with one hand and groped along the tabletop with the other. Her fingers eventually closed on a small, vibrating rectangle. Her pager.

  Stupid thing must be malfunctioning, she thought. It's never been this loud before.

  She grasped the box and fumbled with the row of tiny buttons until it finally stopped wailing. Then she turned it over and squinted down at the alphanumeric display screen. WILSON—9:00 it read.

  “The briefing,” she mumbled as she slipped out from under the covers and stood up straight, her temples throbbing from the change in altitude.

  Oh well, she thought. At least I don't have to worry about SD-6 executing me.

  After Burke had seen her into the lobby the night before, she'd come upstairs to find Francie pacing the room. The minute she saw Sydney she began apologizing profusely. “I'm so sorry I didn't wait for you when I was running from the cops!” Gradually, Sydney was able to cobble together a version of what had happened after she left: A neighbor called the police when the girl screamed; the jerk came to and told everyone he'd been beaten up by a guy—or maybe two; the girl had been too drunk to remember anything; and as soon as everyone heard sirens, all the underage drinkers took off running.

  Francie assumed Sydney had done the same thing and realized halfway home that she had Sydney's wallet. “I'm just so glad the cops didn't stop you,” she'd said to Sydney.

  That makes two of us, she had thought before collapsing into bed.

  Of course, she wasn't completely out of hot water. Wilson could have heard about everything that happened. Since she still wasn't a fully trained agent, it was possible SD-6 had someone tailing her.

  She could only imagine the report Wilson might get. Subject seen doing clumsy roundhouse kick on 285-pound party-goer. Subject then seen jumping chain-link fence like frightened squirrel. Soon after, subject observed eating and talking with known antigovernment radical.

  Not exactly a page lifted from a career improvement book. And it would be especially upsetting considering the confidence they were placing in her with this upcoming mission.

  And what if Noah found out? came a voice inside her pounding head. What would he say?

  “Shut up,” she said to the voice. She couldn't even think about that now.

  What she needed to think about was a long, hot shower and gallons of coffee. Maybe she should even shower in the coffee.

  As she headed for the bathroom, her gaze passed over the bedside clock. Almost immediately her head snapped back for a second look—a move that seemed to dislodge her frontal lobes. It was already 8:37.

  “No!” she moaned. She had no time for a shower or coffee. She barely had time to change.

  If she wasn't careful, this could end up being a very, very bad day.

  * * *

  “Balfour Isle is three miles long and one mile wide.”

  Sydney focused on the grainy satellite image on the screen.

  “It's twenty miles off the west coast of Scotland and approximately thirty miles from international waters,” Wilson went on.

  Sydney tried to look alert. She'd been so relieved when she arrived at work and realized no one knew about her lapses in judgment. But relief had been replaced by guilt. Here they were, handing her a crucial life-and-death mission, and she had to force herself not to fall face forward. Maybe she didn't deserve their trust after all.

  “If you turn to page four in your assignment notebook, you'll see that your entry plans are standard procedure.” Wilson pressed the control panel and all the video screens in the conference room went blank.

  As her computer faded, Sydney caught sight of her reflection on the monitor. Her hair was sticking out at strange angles, and a thin layer of grease shone on her unwashed face. She'd told Wilson when she arrived that she'd gone for a long jog that morning, to help explain why she looked like an electroshock therapy patient. He'd bought it without question—which made her feel even more lame. She'd never lied to him before.

  Sydney leaned forward and flipped to the page in her notebook, glad for a reason to move. As she scanned the date and time of her flight and connecting train and the address of her contacts in Edinburgh, she couldn't help thinking that this time there would be no Noah to guide her or chastise her. She'd be alone, completely cut off from her fellow agents, her reliable technology, her country, and her old life. It would be as if she had disappeared.

  Which might not be too bad . . .

  It could be kind of refreshing to go solo. Relying only on herself. No distractions, going on instinct and training alone.

  In which case I should probably stop daydreaming and read, she scolded herself, staring back down at the timetable.

  “According to intelligence sources,” Wilson said, “the list of people who have RSVP'd to von Muller's summit meeting are you and four others: Carmina Polito, a representative of Mercado de Sangre; Konstantin Baranov of K-Directorate; Nigel Hubbard, whose UK-based outfit runs arms and drugs throughout Europe and parts of Asia; and Asam Rifat, a Turk whose Red Star ring openly competes with Hubbard's business. Nichita would not have ever dealt with these individuals in person. But you should still study some of their past records as detailed in your notebook.”

  Sydney nodded along obediently. “Okay.”

  “Now then,” Wilson glanced up
from the mosaic of charts and reports scattered in front of him and met her gaze. “I know you told me at our last briefing that you were up for this mission. But even though we've already used some manpower in setting up this assignment, it isn't too late if you've changed your mind.”

  He paused for a few beats, studying her. “I have to repeat that this is going to be highly dangerous for you, Sydney,” he went on. “You will basically be flying solo, without a net. Are you sure . . . are you absolutely positive that you want to do this?”

  Sydney rummaged through her emotions. Was she sure? He made it sound so dire. Impossible even. Could she really handle this?

  “Yes.” The minute she said it, she knew she believed it. She could definitely do this. If there was anything she was good at, it was relying only on herself. In fact, it might be easier than having another agent around looking out for you, criticizing your every move—and possibly even turning on you.

  Wilson remained silent for a moment. “All right then,” he said. He leaned over and pressed a button on his phone. “Graham? Could you come in here now, please?”

  Sydney sat forward expectantly. She'd heard all about Graham, their op-tech specialist. Apparently he was a whiz at inventing and modifying all sorts of gadgets and weapons. Now she would finally get to meet him.

  The door opened and a tall, gangly guy walked in, carrying a shiny steel attaché.

  Sydney had expected a man, but she'd envisioned someone older. Graham looked like a college student—then Sydney noticed his Scooby Doo T-shirt and Star Trek belt buckle—or younger.

  He stood at the front of the table and cleared his throat. Wispy black hair framed his pale face, and his brown eyes were magnified by heavy-framed glasses.

  “Because of the mandates of this mission I wasn't able to create tools to the best of my abilities,” he said quietly. “In fact, I had to resort to almost caveman-like devices.

  “However, I did manage to construct two useful and, dare I say, ingenious devices that should remain undetected during the search and sensor sweep.” He paused for effect.

  “We do appreciate the effort you've put in on this case,” Wilson remarked, sounding a little impatient. “Please show us what you've brought.”

  Graham set his briefcase on the table and opened it. “This first apparatus resembles a pair of ordinary sunglasses,” he said, handing the device to Sydney. “But the lenses are made out of special diachronic glass. After dark, you should stare at the sweeps from the nearby lighthouse. The lenses will filter out all light except for the part of the spectrum your team will bury in the beam as a Morse code message. This way, we can get information to you. You won't be able to contact us.”

  Sydney looked them over, hoping the hasty Morse code lessons she'd undergone were good enough.

  Graham reached back inside the case and held up a black satin and lace bustier. “This looks like ordinary lingerie,” he went on, his cheeks turning the color of cocktail shrimp, “but hidden inside the boning is actually a steel-and-wire harness. If your contacts on the mainland detect a problem and want you to abort the mission, they will signal an emergency pickup. You should then remove the harness, put it on, and get to the roof parapet. A helicopter will then fly over, lower a hook to attach to the harness, and lift you off to safety. Got it?” he asked, his cheeks fading back to white.

  “Got it.” Sydney tried not to smile as she thought of Graham fashioning a black lace corset.

  “Any other weapons or tools that you need will have to be fashioned out of your surroundings,” Wilson said as Graham left the room. “You depart in two days. We have arranged for your aunt Lila to become extremely ill, requiring you to miss classes to be by her side.”

  “But . . . I don't have an Aunt Lila.”

  “You do now, along with all the necessary physicians' notes to show to your professors.”

  “Right,” Sydney said slowly, still amazed at how quickly SD-6 could get things done. She'd legitimately tried to get a doctor's note once for strep throat, and it had taken weeks.

  Wilson rose from his seat and Sydney followed suit. “In the meantime, step up your hand-to-hand training and keep studying your Romanian.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Sydney?”

  She paused in front of the door. “Yes?”

  Wilson walked over and placed his large, weighty hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine,” he said. “I know we can count on you.”

  * * *

  She made it ten feet down the corridor before running into Noah.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said, falling into step beside her.

  “Save it.” She kept her gaze focused forward, allowing her sudden burst of anger to quicken her pace.

  “Come on, Sydney.”

  Oh, so now he wanted to be on a first-name basis. After making her feel like a pesky four-year-old and then slamming her in front of her boss. She stopped abruptly and narrowed her eyes at him. “I don't have anything to say.”

  To her ever-mounting frustration, he smiled. “Then just hear me out.”

  Sydney squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled loudly.

  “Come on, Syd. It'll just take a moment.” His voice was soft.

  She opened her eyes and faced him again. “Fine,” she said, holding on to her irritation like a lifeline. “You have one minute.”

  Noah licked his lips and took a breath. “Listen, I really don't think you should go on this mission.”

  “I know. You made that clear already. You don't think I'm good enough for—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “That's not it.”

  “Then why? I don't understand. In Paris we—”

  “Shhh!” He held up a hand and glanced up and down the corridor. Then he edged in closer, his face only inches away from hers. “I just don't think it's a good idea,” he whispered.

  Why was she even listening to him? Why was she still standing there? And why, why, why could she not stop staring at that little crevice above his mouth? That smooth channel that sloped from the bottom of his nose to the dip in his upper lip, like a perfectly molded fingerhold?

  Because she was pathetic. Whacked. Possibly masochistic. She should go five doors down and sign up for another psych evaluation.

  “Why?” she managed to croak, still in the grip of his stare. “You still haven't told me why.”

  Noah broke off his gaze, turning his head toward the end of the hallway. “I just don't want anything to happen to . . . jeopardize the mission.”

  Oh. So that was it. He was afraid she'd botch everything up.

  “It's too late,” she said with all the confidence she could muster. “It's my op, Agent Hicks. And there's nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

  He looked as if he was going to say something. But before he could utter a word, the door across the corridor flew open and a tall, handsome black man walked out holding a bouquet of flowers. Sydney recognized him as the agent she'd smacked into during her very first tour of headquarters last fall.

  The agent looked just as surprised as she felt. “Oh. Hi,” he said awkwardly. He turned and noticed Noah. “Hey, Hicks.”

  “Hey, Dixon.” Noah ran a hand through his unruly brown hair. The intense earnestness was gone from his face. “Hey, have you met Sydney Bristow? She's one of our latest recruits.”

  “I'm Marcus Dixon. Nice to meet you.” Dixon smiled warmly and extended his empty palm.

  “Likewise.” As they shook hands, Sydney couldn't help matching his wide, warm smile, in spite of all the excruciating confusion with Noah. His was a genuine, all-out grin—an expression rarely seen in the stuffy corridors of SD-6.

  “So what's with the flowers?” Noah nodded toward the bouquet of mixed spring buds. “You trying to butter up Sloane?”

  Dixon chuckled. “Not a bad idea, but no. These are for my wife. Our anniversary is today and I'm supposed to meet her for lunch. Which reminds me.” His forehead wrinkled sheepishly. “Wou
ld you mind seeing if there's any lint on the back of my jacket?” He turned sideways.

  Noah picked off a crumb-sized piece of paper and Sydney smoothed a slight pucker in the left shoulder.

  “There,” she said, with an approving nod. “You're good to go.”

  “Thanks.” He straightened his tie and ran a hand over his closely cropped hair.. “Guess I better be off. Nice to meet you.”

  Sydney smiled after him as he charged down the hallway. “Wow,” she said, shaking her head. “I never thought of these guys as having wives.”

  “Bad idea.”

  “What?” She hadn't actually been talking to Noah, but his comment made her spin around and frown at him. “What do you mean?”

  Noah shrugged. “Sloane is married, and Dixon is a family guy. But it's a mistake for the rest of us.”

  “How?”

  “This life . . . Agents are too busy to deal with such distractions. And besides,” he added, raising an eyebrow, “you never know how long it can go on. Your next mission can always be your last.”

  He walked backward a few steps, fixing Sydney with a calculating expression. Then he turned and walked away.

  Sydney sighed and hugged her operations notebook to her chest. She wanted to read something into Noah's words, some hidden message he was trying to convey to her. Was it really that he thought she'd screw things up? Or was it remotely possible that he cared what happened to her?

  Yeah, right. That's why he insisted she call him Agent Hicks, told Wilson she wasn't prepared, and said marriage was a waste. Because he was so caring.

  That's why I've got to stop thinking about Noah, she told herself firmly, trying to focus on Wilson's instructions. It didn't matter what Noah thought.

  It was her mission.

  She didn't want it to be her last.

  I'm not what you'd call an existentialist. And I'm not exactly a hermit, either. But I have figured out some advantages to going solo. At the top of the list? There's no one there to rip out your heart and wring it out like a soggy dishrag.

  It's just better to be alone. Because when you let people in, you give them power over you. And in my line of work, you need all the power you can get.