I let out a deep breath. When it came down to it, I really didn’t know much, and Jacob hadn’t said anything about keeping what little I did know from Julianne. “Your father sent us, sort of.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Your father pulled some strings to make sure you were safe.”
“You think that’s funny?”
I shook my head. “Listen, I don’t know the history between you and your father. You don’t want him involved in your life, take it up with him.”
“My father left my mother before I was born,” she said, voice flat. “I’ve never met him. Whoever sent you, it wasn’t him.”
“
I let her words sink in the rest of the walk to the health club and focused on my usual security precautions, doubling back, watching for tails.
The place was called Stretchers, a nationwide chain exclusively for women. I didn’t have my membership card, but I gave them my fake name and address and they confirmed my ID on their computer. Julie waited in the lobby, and I popped into the locker room and opened my rented locker. From the duffle bag I took a clean driver’s license and a credit card in the name of Heidi Orland, a thousand in cash, an S&W tactical folding knife, and a spare charger for my cell. I still had Morrissey’s Glock, but I figured I might have to return it, so I added a compact Ruger .380 LCP of my own and two extra mags, cramming everything into my purse until it was so stuffed it refused to close. Then I secured the locker and led Julie to the nearest hotel.
Once we were inside the room and I’d searched the place for bugs using an app on my phone, I allowed my thoughts to turn back to what she’d told me.
“So you don’t know your father.”
“Never met him, have no idea what he even looks like.”
Julianne stepped to the floor-to-ceiling window. Crossing her arms over her chest, she looked down on Times Square. She looked small, lonely. Behind her, the clock on the Paramount Building read four o’clock, a half hour slow.
“My name isn’t even Julianne. It’s Julie. I just thought Julianne sounded more like a model.”
I attempted to run a hand through my hopelessly tangled hair. While I had recovered from my earlier desire to shave my head, as soon as this operation was over, I was definitely getting the mess cut short enough to keep it out of my eyes.
“What do I call you? I’m guessing your name isn’t Claire.”
No harm in telling her my codename. “Chandler.”
“Chandler. That’s cool. Like on that show
I preferred comparison to the dead mystery writer, but I supposed it didn’t matter.
Normal, not-a-model Julie turned from the window and looked at me.
“So now what, Chandler?”
“Nothing has changed. My assignment is to make sure you’re safe, whether your father is behind it or not doesn’t really matter. Okay?”
She gave a little nod, but she looked less than convinced.
“You’re going to be fine. I’ll make sure of it. I promise.” I gestured toward the bathroom. “Now why don’t you get cleaned up?”
As soon as I heard water hiss through pipes, I called Jacob. We engaged in our usual security dance. By the time I was able to speak, I felt like crawling out of my skin with impatience.
“Who is the VIP, Jacob?”
He paused for a moment. “I hear the extraction didn’t go as smoothly as we hoped.”
“She’s here. She’s unhurt.”
“But you left a nasty traffic snarl in the Queens Midtown Tunnel. The media is calling it a terrorist attack.”
“Couldn’t be helped. Who’s the VIP?” I repeated.
Another pause. “All I was told is that he’s the girl’s father.”
I was getting used to Jacob’s altered voice, but there were times I still wished I could hear his natural inflections, or better yet, look into his eyes, gage his expressions.
“She says she never knew her father, insists it couldn’t be him.”
He paused, then said, “Interesting.”
“That’s all you have to say? Interesting?”
“Does she have any ideas?”
“She says she has no one, and I think she’s telling the truth.”
I went on, filling him in on Julie’s real name and my suspicions that our fake modeling agency was also a fake when it came to the human trafficking business.
“You think they’re some kind of intelligence operation?”
“It seems so. Several are South American. I’m guessing Venezuelan, although they all might be mercs.”
“And that means there’s more to Julie than the fact that she’s daddy’s little girl,” Jacob said, summing up my thoughts.
“Right. I might have something on the Bradford and Sims Agency. I took the memory card from one of their cameras. It got wet, but if it works I’ll upload it to the dropbox as soon as I can.”
Jacob and I often communicated via a series of secure Internet drop boxes. It was a convenient system for trading various types of files no matter where I was in the world.
“Even if it’s damaged, I might be able to recover the data.”
“I’m not sure anything useful is on the card. But at the very least, you’ll be able to ogle some topless photos of me.”
“You weren’t kidding about the strip club, huh? I don’t know how you find the time.”
I smiled despite myself, and it felt good. I might never meet Jacob in person, but that didn’t change the fact that we seemed to ‘get’ each other, important when my life depended on his communication skills and willingness to watch my back.
“You sure you can’t find out more about this VIP?”
“Chandler …”
“Right. You’ll let me know when you know.” I paused, trying to come up with some other approach we could take. “How about my contact, Morrissey?”
“Morrissey? I have a dossier on him. He’s an experienced field operative. He has a clean record, is reliable, has been working undercover as a driver for a Manhattan car service for about four years. Has provided Uncle Sam with all sorts of intel.”
Four years of driving a car. I thought of his rough hands, his calm and deadly demeanor. I wasn’t sure I really suspected Morrissey of anything—actually I liked him, more than a little—but it never hurt to be thorough. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did a similar background search on me.
Not that he’d find anything. According to government records, Morrissey was undercover. I, on the other hand, didn’t exist.
“Military record?” I asked.
“Nope. Former FBI Recruited by NSA”
That didn’t seem right. Morrissey had combat training. He was a fist, not an ear. Sticking him in a limo service seemed like a waste of his talents.
“What else?” I asked.
“Not much. Parents deceased. Lives in an apartment on Staten Island.”
“Previous operations?”
“Classified.”
