Kendra undid the clasp, and dumped the contents on the desk. There were six passports in all. She carefully inspected each one. The only thing missing was her photograph and identification. She’d take care of that later. “You do good work, Lupe.”
“Gracias.” He inclined his head, his second chin quivering. “But not free work, senorita.”
“Of course not.” Sliding her gym bag off her shoulder, Kendra reached inside and took out a rolled athletic sock. She handed it to him, and gathered the passports as he hurriedly peeled back the sock to reveal a thick roll of bills. He gave a little laugh, and began counting. Kendra shoved the manila envelope inside her gym bag. Her fingers grazed the gun inside. She decided to keep her hand exactly where it was until she was out on the street again. The transaction was going smoothly, but it was best not to get complacent. “Gracias and adios, se?or.” She backed toward the door, never taking her eyes off the man sitting behind the desk.
“Un momento, senorita.” He shot her a quizzical look. “A question, por favor.”
“I was under the impression you didn’t ask unnecessary questions.”
“Si. But it is most unusual, senorita. Why didn’t you want me to put in your photo? Your identification?”
“Simple, Lupe. You can’t tell someone what you don’t know.”
“You are muy careful mujer.”
“I am a careful woman. And you, Se?or Lupe, will thank me, if anyone comes seeking answers you can’t give.”
He looked amused. “Who do you expect to come after you, senorita? The mob?”
“No.” She pushed open the door, letting the afternoon sunlight spill into the gloomy interior. “The United States government. FBI. Maybe CIA, NSA, or Homeland Security.”
The smile vanished, and for the first time fear flashed in his small eyes. “La madre santa de Dios,” he whispered. “Qué has hecho?”
This time she was the one with the crocodile smile. “I haven’t done anything, se?or. Yet.”
6
Two days later
Kendra took the train to New York City and a cab to JFK, and flew out as French citizen Marie Boulanger. As the Boeing 747 winged gracefully over the darkening blue of the Atlantic, she tried to relax, tried not to think about everything she was leaving—and what she was planning to do. The internal battle sent her stomach churning, and had her skin feeling alternatively hot and dry, then cold and clammy. She reached for her purse, pulling out a small plastic bottle of aspirin. Popping the lid, she swallowed two tablets, swigging them down with the bottled water she’d purchased after the security check.
“Headache?” the woman next to her inquired with a sympathetic nod.
Kendra looked at her, careful to keep her expression confused. “Je suis désolé. Qu’avez-vous dit?”
“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.” The woman gave her an embarrassed smile, hurriedly retreating behind the People magazine she’d been reading.
Kendra felt a twinge of remorse, but had decided that the best way to discourage conversation would be to pretend not to understand English. In a plane full of Americans, she knew she had a better than decent chance of sitting next to someone who wouldn’t be able to converse in French.
Of course, she had her second line of defense, the iPod, which she now pulled out of her purse. Inserting the earbuds, she closed her eyes and forced her body, if not her mind, to relax as she listened to Bonnie Raitt’s bluesy voice sing slyly about giving someone something to talk about.
She’d planned well, she reminded herself. Yesterday, she’d called Leeds to tell him that she would be returning to the Bureau in a week. She’d even scheduled an appointment with the FBI shrink. And if that didn’t take off the heat, she’d made damn sure that if they began looking for her too soon, the trail would lead to Mexico.
She’d bought herself a week, maybe two. But all she needed was forty-eight hours.
Her stomach, which had been settling, lurched up again.
Forty-eight hours, and her life would change forever.
Kendra had always considered herself sophisticated and well-traveled, but her breath caught in her throat at her first sighting of Aldridge Castle. Maybe it was the contrast of the velvety green lawn and the craggy gray rock of the ancient fortress beneath silky blue sky. Or maybe it was its shocking size. Hell, she’d been in towns smaller than the castle, with its raised central tower, uneven castellated chimneys, and turrets that stabbed into the heavens.
The original tower, she’d researched, dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. Throughout the centuries, a series of wings had been cobbled onto the original structure. The effect was moody and magnificent, pulsating with prestige and barely-leashed power.