Millions to Spare

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is there a phone I could use?”

Leila looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

Julia sighed. She shouldn’t have been surprised the staff had been given instructions about her. Harrison definitely struck her as a detail-oriented kind of guy.

At the top of the staircase, her feet sank into the thick carpet of the hallway as they made their way along an open railing that looked down into the atrium.

Julia didn’t know whether to admire or sneer at the tall trees and the broad-leaved tropical plants below and the brilliant starscape through the domed glass ceiling above. It was all gorgeous, but definitely excessive.

When Leila opened a set of double doors, the opulence of the suite echoed that excess all over again.

A four-poster bed dominated the room, while a plush furniture grouping was tucked into an alcove. The carpet was as luxurious as the one in the hall, potted plants were dotted all around, and a door led to an absolutely decadent marble en suite with an oversize tub, gold faucets and double sinks.

Although the silly gold faucets were probably worth more than her car, Julia had to admit it was a whole lot better than her last prison cell. And, really, with a palace this big, there had to be an unguarded telephone somewhere.

Chapter Three

“So is she a spy?” asked Alex Lindley, stopping in the doorway of Harrison’s study, a snifter of cognac dangling from his fingers.

Harrison kept his gazed fixed on the Web page on his computer monitor. “It would appear a Julia Nash does, indeed, work for Equine Earth Magazine. Of course, it might not be our Julia Nash. And, even if it is, it could be a cover.”

Alex moved into the room. “A fake identity as a reporter would give her an excuse to travel around the world.”

Harrison nodded. He’d also found several dozen horse-themed articles written by Julia Nash, a scientific paper by a professor of the same name, a Julia Nash on the board of directors of Qantas Communications Company, and a couple of genealogy charts naming long-deceased Julia Nashes.

His quick search hadn’t come up with anything that either convicted or exonerated her. It might mean she was an innocent reporter or it might mean she was simply a competent covert operative—since none of them would have their real profession splashed all over the Internet, either.

Alex glanced over Harrison’s shoulder. “You want me to make a couple of calls to my military contacts?”

As an American ex-naval officer, Alex could still call in favors in most countries in the world.

“All that will do is send up one mother of a red flag in the secretary-general’s office,” said Harrison.

“Yeah,” Alex agreed. “Might as well cancel the reception outright as do that.”

Harrison pushed back in his chair. “And we won’t be canceling the reception.”

Alex nodded his agreement. As Harrison’s right-hand man, he knew full well the real reason behind the reception. It would facilitate under-the-radar consultations on an international oil pipeline.

“You hear anything more on the negotiations?” asked Alex.

“Uzbekistan’s on board, of course. But Kazakhstan can’t move without a Russian security guarantee. That means Turkmenistan has the French over a barrel on financing.”

“No French, no financing.”

“No port access and no pipeline.” Harrison finished what they both knew.

“If it all goes to hell, what kind of a loss are you looking at?” asked Alex.

“Sunk capital or net present value.”

“I don’t even want to think about net present value.”

“A hundred million in drilling anyway.”

Alex whistled under his breath. “Then I guess we won’t be sending up any red flags for the secretary-general’s security staff, will we?”

Harrison gave a nod to that. Russia wasn’t going to budge on their position on the pipeline. And if the secretary-general canceled his attendance at the reception, the high-level diplomats would follow suit. Harrison would lose his one chance for a meaningful conversation between the French, the Uzbeks and the Turkmen.

At the same time, if Julia Nash was some kind of an operative, or if she wasn’t working alone, and managed to pull something off at the reception, he could trigger one hell of an international incident.

“So what do we do?” asked Alex, dropping down into a guest chair.

“Beef up security,” said Harrison. “Talk to her. See if I can get a feel for…” He swung to his feet, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. But she doesn’t strike me as…”

“The best spies never do,” said Alex.

Harrison frowned at his friend. He knew that. But he’d also been around international commerce and politics long enough to get a feel for people. He was usually right in his assessments.

Then again, the stakes weren’t usually quite this high.

“I’ll talk to her again,” he repeated.

“If you’re sure,” said Alex.

“It’s my ass in a sling.”

“Unless the bullets start flying. Then it’s all of our asses.”

Harrison gave a hard sigh. “I lose a hundred million in sunk costs,” he said to Alex.

“Then you’d better talk to her.”

Harrison glanced at the clock. They’d passed midnight a couple of hours ago. “Let’s hope she doesn’t plan to sleep late.”

The next morning, it took Julia a few minutes to orient herself. Her eyes blinked open to bright sunshine, and the bed beneath her was incredibly soft and comfortable. A window was open, and the cool morning air wafted over her comforter, bringing with it the sound of birds and scents of jasmine and roses.

But then she remembered.

Her white, embroidered cotton nightgown was borrowed, and there was a lock on the outside of her door. After marveling for a brief moment over her sound sleep under such frustrating conditions, she dragged back her covers and headed for the bathroom. She had no idea what the day would bring, and she wanted to be ready.

She showered, then discovered that somebody—she assumed it was Leila—had left a simple, cowl-neck dress of ice-blue silk on the freshly made bed. It had three-quarter-length sleeves, a wide, gauzy hood that could be pulled up as a head scarf, and it fell to just below her knees. Whoever it was had also left a pair of practical, low-heeled sandals that hugged Julia’s feet softly as she tested them on the carpeted floor.

Then she opened the French doors and walked onto the third-floor balcony, gazing at the stables and the sea beyond, giving herself the illusion of freedom.

A rap sounded on the door. She assumed it would be Leila or maybe breakfast, but she didn’t bother going back inside to answer it. People seemed to come and go as they pleased around here.