The Paradise Prophecy

will pay for it.”

A charitable offer, but no amount of therapy in the world would bring Rebecca back. “And if I don’t?”

She sighed again. “Then may God have mercy on your pitiful soul.”

6

MIAMI, FLORIDA

She couldn’t remember what name to use.

Oh, she knew her real name. That one was easy. It was downright impossible to forget an albatross like Bernadette Imogene Callahan-as much as she might like to. But seeing as how she had passports issued to at least a dozen different identities, she sometimes felt as if she needed a Rolodex implanted in her brain just to keep track of…

. . . Wait now.

Stephanie.

Stephanie Hathaway.

Twenty-nine years old, newly divorced, using her alimony to travel the world. Had a layover in Dallas before heading into Miami where she spent the weekend at the Viceroy. Thought South Beach was pretentious and overpriced, but shopped there anyway.

Was that the one?

She was pretty sure it was.

Standing at the airport ticketing kiosk, she tuned out a lobby full of anxious travelers, then hit the touch screen and began keying in the letters:

H-a-t-h-a-

She was up to w when she realized her hand was trembling.

Again.

Shit.

She flexed it several times, then held it out flat, studying her fingers as carefully as one might study a work of art, but with none of the appreciation or pleasure. The tremor was slight, but unmistakable. Which meant that the first time she’d noticed it had not been an anomaly.

Damn.

She flexed the hand again, wanting desperately to hide it in a pocket or something. But hiding it away wouldn’t change anything. The tremor wouldn’t magically cease once the hand disappeared from view.

She could think of a hundred different reasons for the problem-the majority of them neurological-but in strict allegiance to Occam’s razor, she figured the simplest explanation was the best one.

She’d barely had a wink of sleep in three days.

Three interminable days.

Not for lack of trying, mind you. But there it was.

And loss of sleep would also explain why she’d had so much trouble remembering which cover she was supposed to use. Not to mention the panic attack she’d had just before sunrise.

In short, she was falling apart.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Do you need some assistance?”

Startled, Callahan immediately dropped her hand to her side and turned to find a uniformed airline employee standing beside her. He was a short, stout young man who looked to be of Malaysian or Filipino ancestry, and had a pleasant, toothy smile-no hint of that tired, sourpuss expression she saw on the faces of so many airport front liners these days.

Which, of course, immediately gave him away.

Amateur.

Why did Section always use newbies as messengers? It made no sense. Here she was, trying like hell to be professional and the powers-that-be had sent in some lightweight to blow her cover.

Then again, maybe she was being too critical. And maybe there actually were airline employees who sported genuine smiles. Surely she’d seen a few in all her years of travel, hadn’t she? No point in condemning an entire industry with one sweeping generalization.

But there was no doubt in her mind that, for better or worse, this young man was a colleague. And this surprised Callahan, because she’d had no indication that such a visit was forthcoming.

“Ma’am? Do you need some help?”

“I’m just punching in my name here. Trying to get a boarding pass.”

The drill was a clever one. Probably a tad elaborate, but people in the intelligence field are prone to complicate things. You found the designated kiosk at the designated airline, punched in your cover name and received a boarding pass. Until that moment, you had no idea where you were going or what the particular assignment was.

Printed on the pass was a special 3-D bar code, which, when scanned into your government-issued smartphone, connected you to one of Section’s private data servers that had enough firewalls and security traps to disappoint even the most aggressive hackers. The server held an encrypted mission dossier that could be downloaded at your leisure.

To the untrained eye, you were simply another tourist queuing up for the long slog of airline travel. Even to a trained set of eyeballs you were unlikely to arouse any suspicion.

But apparently today’s drill had been revised.

And that troubled Callahan. Even more than her tremors.

She didn’t like revisions.

“I’m afraid this machine is out of order,” the young man said, still smiling away. “I think kiosk number seven is free. Just touch the screen and type in your confirmation number.”

By “confirmation number” he really meant her classified federal ID, a six-digit code that was given to every Section field agent the moment she or he came on board. It also meant that she’d be traveling under her real identity, as an official representative of the United States Government.

Highly unusual. And not something she felt comfortable with. “Are you sure you aren’t making a mis-”

“Move along, ma’am.” The smile had abruptly disappeared. “I have to close this thing down.”

Mission aborted, just like that.

Callahan furrowed her brow at him, then turned on her heels, scanning the lobby for kiosk number seven, which was located near a set of sliding glass doors that led to another section of the terminal. A beleaguered- looking woman with two small kids approached it, so Callahan sprang forward and quickly cut in front of her.

It was a rude, insensitive move, but she was in no mood to be polite.

The woman gave Callahan her deepest, most sincere scowl, then went away muttering, as her two kids tugged at her blouse, whining and crying for more Gummi bears. Callahan had no idea where they’d be traveling to, but she felt great sympathy for the passengers on that plane.

Turning to the kiosk, she touched the screen, went through the menu selections until she found the appropriate entry box and hesitated only a moment before keying in her code. A split second later the screen showed her true name-Bernadette I. Callahan-and next to this was the time, flight number and destination. An all- night trip from MIA to GIG, then on to GRU.

Surprised, Callahan pressed the button to print her boarding pass. And despite the troubling nature of this entire enterprise, she could think of worse places to go.

She was headed to Sao Paulo, Brazil.

There wasn’t much to the mission dossier.

A short overview of the assignment, a few police reports, some photos of a body, but nothing Callahan could really sink her teeth into.

What surprised her, however, was the number assigned to each of the downloaded files. They all ended in - 078, which, for reasons Section had never fully explained to her, meant that this assignment was a balls-out, take-