“I want to be sure—absolutely goddamn sure—that it’s Balakirev,” he said now, remembering the botched mission in Spain. How the hell had the Russian slipped through that net? He pushed that question aside to focus on Kendra Donovan.
If he felt a little squeamish about dealing with her, he was careful to keep that hidden. It had been his decision eight months ago to pull her out of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, where she’d been using her profiling and computer skills to work on the country’s most vicious serial killer cases. It had given him a jolt to meet her in person, though. He put his reaction down to her age—only twenty-six, for Christ’s sake. But he’d read her file; he knew who she was. Hell, he knew what she was. The offspring of two scientists who advocated eugenics, she’d been a child prodigy, landing at Princeton when she was only fourteen. By the time she was eighteen, she’d gotten degrees in advanced computer science, psychology, and criminology. No wonder the Bureau had wanted her badly enough to circumvent their age requirement of twenty-three to get her in. Kendra Donovan was a capable agent, Carson knew.
Even so, it was damn distracting, discussing tactical operations with someone who wore their hair in a jaunty ponytail. Feminists could kiss his ass, but Carson was old enough and, yes, old-fashioned enough to still believe that to bring a woman—especially a woman who looked like Kendra—into an all-male environment was to invite disaster. But if Kendra had found Balakirev, he’d kiss the foot of every feminist he met. Damned if he wouldn’t.
“It’s Balakirev.” Kendra was pleased her voice was steady, revealing none of her inner tension. “We’ve tracked his signal to a warehouse in Brooklyn.” She hesitated briefly, her eyes, as dark as onyx, unreadable. She kept her gaze trained on Carson, even though she wanted to glance at the man on the other side of the room. “The warehouse is owned by Berkshire, Ltd. That’s a shell company for E.V. Inc., which is a subsidiary of Greenway International.”
She held her breath. She’d just dropped a bombshell.
“Greenway International?” That came from Bradley Thompson, the CIA’s associate deputy director. He surged forward in his chair. “Are you talking about Sir Jeremy Greene?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thompson shot Carson a look. “You do know who he is, don’t you?”
Carson found himself bristling for no other reason than Thompson having been a major pain in the ass since they’d been forced to work together—in the spirit of interagency cooperation, of course. While Washington had given him the leadership position, the decision hadn’t stopped Thompson from trying to assert his authority every chance he could, the cocky bastard.
“I read newspapers,” Carson responded testily.
“You should read the reports we’ve had on him,” Thompson retorted. “The cleanest thing about him is his Savile Row suits.”
While Balakirev was a shadowy figure in the underworld of gun-running and smuggling, Kendra knew that Greene was another matter entirely. The Brit graced the business and society pages. He’d had been born into money and had amassed even more. Twenty years ago, he’d been knighted. He’d dined at the White House; slept in the Lincoln bedroom. The public probably believed that sort of prestige made him a good guy. In reality, it just meant he was politically savvy and smart. And his connections hadn’t prevented him from being scrutinized by the CIA, Israeli intelligence, Interpol, and Britain’s own MI5.
“He’s been suspected of money laundering, drugs, human trafficking, and,” Thompson added significantly, “weapons smuggling.”
Carson’s mouth tightened. “Our mission is Balakirev.”
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Thompson. “Greene changes everything. He’s the big fish. Washington will want to hook him.”
There’d never been anything resembling friendliness between the two men, but Thompson’s implied threat stripped away the pretense of professional courtesy. The very air in the conference room seemed to shimmer, a desert heat of hostility.
Kendra watched the men shift their positions. Those still seated now pushed themselves to their feet. The FBI agents joined Carson, while the CIA agents flanked Thompson, like two packs of dogs sizing up each other, ready to fight for their territory. The representatives from the NSA and NSB took a step back, separating themselves from the upcoming confrontation.
They were Switzerland.
And I’m a fool, Kendra thought wryly, stepping between these two powerful foes. “We may be able to hook both Balakirev and Greene.” Dangling that carrot made her, once again, the focal point. This time was worse, though, because at least one of the pairs of eyes on her was furious, and they belonged to her current boss.
“What are you talking about, Agent Donovan?” Carson demanded. The snap in his voice made her flinch.
“When I realized that Sir Jeremy owned the warehouse Balakirev was using, I took the liberty of tracing his whereabouts. He—”