The routine helped, but there was still a dull ache, enough so that the simple act of pulling a red tube top over her head made her wince. If only she had brought something cozier to wear with her favorite faded jeans and new red sneakers, but she had packed to support her call-girl image. Appearing attractive for the opposite sex was the last thing on her mind right now as she used all her concentration to tie her shoelaces.
“You were right, you know,” Ortega told her.
She turned toward his voice, then smiled to see that he had dressed in jeans and tennis shoes, too-black ones, accompanied by a black V-necked T-shirt. “Right about what?”
“The exercises helped. Balance is always the answer, right?”
She nodded.
“Then take the painkiller.” He held the container from her nightstand toward her.
“Codeine makes me sleepy,” she told him with a sigh. “Bring it to Geneva, and you have my word. As soon as we’re out of danger, I’ll take the whole bottle.”
He laughed and poured a pill into his palm, then broke it into halves. “How about a compromise?”
She knew he was right. She had to clear her head or she’d be no use to him, so she accepted the partial pill, washing it down with alpine spring water.
Then she continued to get ready, locating a rubber band in her suitcase and twisting her hair into a loose braid down her back and securing it. She wasn’t about to blow it dry, or to put on makeup. Men were going to have to love her for her personality today. If not, she’d strangle them.
Another wave of nausea washed over her, and she cursed herself for ever having touched Kell’s power pill. The euphoria and confidence, while nice, weren’t worth the price.
Maybe not for you, she scolded herself. But for men like Jonathan, who are scared of everything, it’s a dream come true. Who knows what therapeutic uses it might have for fearful, timid people all over the world. Remember Angelina Carerra? A victim transformed into a powerful, confident female? Something did that for her. Education, or love, or drugs. Something. And it changed her life.
She turned to Ortega. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“It’s about Angelina Carerra.”
Ortega winced. “That happened years ago. Long before I met you.”
Miranda laughed, then paid for it with a stab to her sinuses. “I’m serious, Ortega. She was timid, right? Downtrodden?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“I met her last week. She was confident. Radiant. In command. Men were jumping to obey her, and not out of lust. Out of fear and respect.”
“Impossible.” He cleared his throat, then admitted, “Radiant? Sure. She’s a good-looking woman. And it’s not all sex appeal. She’s sweet. But no one fears her.”
“It’s been ten years.”
“Doesn’t matter. Unless she’s had a complete personality transplant-”
“Or unless she was on drugs?”
He cocked his head to the side. “You said she seemed powerful, not high.”
“Right.” Miranda shrugged her shoulders. “I know it sounds crazy, but I also know how it feels to be on Jonathan’s power drug. That feeling of invincibility. I swear, Ortega, Angelina had it. So I’m asking you, is there any way she could be the Brigadier?”
He barked in disbelief. “Her?”
“Okay, okay. Maybe she hooked up with someone after you killed Benito. Another powerful man. She told him about Jonathan’s research. And about his political theories. The new boyfriend was so impressed, he set up the Brigade. Isn’t that possible?”
Encouraged by the pensive expression on Ortega’s face, she continued eagerly. “Jonathan told me he talked a lot about his theory while he was in that cage with you. He probably talked about it while they were torturing him, too. All of that information was available to Angelina, right?”
Ortega looked at her for a moment, his eyes narrowed, then he spoke carefully. “Something happened five years ago.”
Miranda waited.
“I was just setting up SPIN. My operative days were behind me. But an old buddy sent me a copy of a report, just because he knew I’d want to see it. It registered, but seemed so nuts-and so completely unsubstantiated-I didn’t pay much attention to it.”
“What kind of report?”
“They were interrogating a drug dealer who swore that Carerra-Benito, not Angelina-was still alive and running the cartel. Everyone assumed the prisoner was just saying that to save his own neck. The CIA did some follow-up, but no one really took it seriously because…” He took a deep breath, then reminded her, “Because I put an arrow through Benito Carerra’s throat. Pinned him to a fucking tree. You don’t survive something like that.”
Miranda walked over to him and looked deep into his eyes. “Did you check for a pulse?”
“A pulse?”
“Ow. Stop yelling.”
“Sorry.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “Carerra’s men were everywhere. I needed to get Kell to safety. And it didn’t matter-I didn’t need to check for a fucking pulse-because the son of a bitch was pinned by his throat to a tree.”
“Sure seems like he should have been dead,” she agreed.
“Yeah. But you’re saying Angelina somehow got her hands on Kell’s power drug? Which means, Benito Carerra’s alive? And he’s the Brigadier? That’s what you’re saying?”
“No way. I never said that. I never even thought it.” She gave him a weary smile and explained, as gently as she could, given her raging headache, “I think you’re the one who’s saying that.”
She could see he needed a minute, so she flopped onto the bed and buried her face in a fluffy pillow, enjoying the fantasy that she might just go to sleep, and stay asleep, until the pain had subsided. But Ortega’s theory had crept into her brain, and she found herself reviewing her conversation with Angelina.
Hadn’t Miranda, a.k.a. Jennifer, said something like: Ortega had his nerve saving you from your own husband?
And hadn’t Angelina said: Ortega was so busy playing hero, he never once considered what would happen to me if Benito didn’t die-if Benito found out I was unfaithful to him with Ortega, but Ortega was long gone, and I was left with that madman and his ruthless temper?
Miranda was almost sure it had gone something like that. Of course, her brain was full of fuzz, so she knew she might just be making things up. Still…
“He’s alive,” she murmured finally, lifting her face from its cocoon to connect with Ortega.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Maybe so. He had the money. The information. The anti-American sentiment and megalomaniacal tendencies, not to mention, total confidence in Kell. He really thought the guy was another Einstein. Maybe so, Miranda. And if so…”
She waited again.
Then Ortega looked directly in her eyes, and to her surprise, he seemed almost jubilant. “If it’s true, we’ve got it made.”
Miranda sat at the breakfast table and listened to Ortega and Kell exchange tips about their reclusive lifestyles, and stories about “the old days,” as though they were at a cocktail party. Meanwhile, her head, while improving thanks to the codeine, was still swimming, mostly because her thoughts themselves were a jumble.
Just play along with me, Ortega had instructed her. We’re gonna turn Kell. He’d never be a part of anything headed by the monster who tortured him. So all we have to do is present our theory about Carerra to him in a way that doesn’t give him a goddammed heart attack.
Relegated to the sidelines, she decided to use this opportunity to study Ortega’s technique so that she could use it herself in future ops. There was a definite rhythm to his style of conversation. First he flattered Kell with outright compliments, then more subtly, by showing him he trusted him with secrets. Valued him as a sounding board. Then he raised the stakes by talking about their imprisonment and torture, reminding Kell of the reasons
