The Prime Objective

It took him only seconds to rappel down to the third-floor balcony. Soundlessly, he slipped over the railing, secured his line, then knelt and went to work on the lock with a narrow pick. A sharp click, and he was inside the apartment.

He didn’t have much time. He’d watched the subjects for weeks and learned that they were never gone longer than a half hour. Moving through the darkened apartment on cat feet, he worked with quick efficiency. Even so, it took him a little over twenty minutes to conceal the listening devices throughout the three rooms. He was installing the last bug when he heard footsteps on the stairs and murmured conversation.

Jack’s nerves jumped, but he continued to work at a calm, steady pace. The instant he completed the job, he stood, hefted his canvas bag and slung it over his head and shoulder across his body. On his way to the door he made a visual sweep of the room to be sure he hadn’t left any signs of his visit—nothing out of place, nothing left behind that shouldn’t be.

A key clicked in the lock. Jack slipped out onto the balcony, grabbed his rope and swung over the iron railing as a light came on inside the apartment. With his feet braced against the side of the building he pulled himself up, hand-over-hand.

The instant Jack gained the roof and untied his rappelling line, he coiled the rope around his bent elbow and hand, stuffed it into his bag and took off across the rooftops.

As fast as possible, he put distance between himself and the apartment building. Nearly a block away, he stepped off the roof of a one-story structure onto a lean-to shed at the back and jumped down into the alley.

The instant his feet touched the ground he whipped off his ski mask and stuffed it into the canvas bag. Running his fingers through his flattened hair he made his way to the alley entrance and peered around the corner.

A half a block down the street three robed men walked in the general direction of his hotel. Jack stepped out onto the sidewalk and fell in step behind them, careful to keep his pace casual and maintain the distance between himself and the men.

One of the trio glanced back over his shoulder and spotted him. He nudged the man nearest him and murmured something. The other two looked back, as well.

Jack pulled out his cell phone and pretended to become immersed in a conversation as he strolled along.

The men’s murmuring began again, this time punctuated by hand gestures.

After a few blocks they turned a corner onto a street that headed into a residential area. Jack pretended unconcern, but in his business it paid to expect the worst. Just in case the three were waiting to waylay him, as he approached the corner he slipped his hand inside his bag and wrapped his fingers around the Walther PPK pistol that lay in the bottom.

Luck was with him. He reached the side street and found that the men were halfway down the block, still talking among themselves.

When he was certain that he wasn’t being followed, Jack thumbed a number on his cell phone. The call was answered on the first ring.

“Yeah?”

“Are we working?”

“Like a charm.”

“Good. I’ll report in. Then I’m going to get some shut-eye. I’ll relieve one of you guys in the morning.”

Jack disconnected, looked around again, then punched in another number. This time there was a series of clicks and buzzes as the secure call made a convoluted route around the globe and was scrambled. Finally the connection was completed, and again, the person on the other end picked up on the first ring.

“Yes?” a throaty feminine voice queried.

Ah, hell, Jack thought, a weary half smile twitching his mouth. Annie Smith had the sexiest damned telephone voice. Whenever he heard those husky tones, thanks to his starved libido, his mind immediately conjured up visions of cool sheets and hot, sweaty sex.

Annie had been his contact on other assignments in the past, and on this job he’d been reporting through her for the last five weeks. He’d never met Annie personally, but he’d heard that she was in her late fifties, gray-haired, on the chunky side and had penchants for crocheting and soap operas.

“It’s Jack. Clearance number 78C19344LZ622. Operation Rabbit Hole,” he rattled off. “We’re in.”

“Any problems?”

“None. Smooth as glass.”

“Great. I’ll pass the word along.”

“Be sure and advise that activity has increased. Something is definitely brewing. We should know soon. I’ll keep you informed.”

Jack could see the lights of his hotel ahead—the only thing close to a western-style establishment of its kind in town. Reporters from all over the globe stayed there, and since his cover was that of a photojournalist he did, as well. He picked up his pace.

He longed for a hot shower, but he’d have to settle for a soak in the ancient tub down the hall from his tiny room. No matter. Already, just thinking about sinking into a deep tub of hot bathwater, he could feel his strained muscles beginning to ease.

“Anything else?” Annie asked.

“Naw. Now we wait.” And listen, he added, but only in his mind. Not even on a scrambled line would he or any other agent say anything that might remotely tip off the other side as to what they were doing.

“You got anything for me?” he tacked on almost as an afterthought.

Annie’s pause lasted only a second, but little got past Jack, not even as weary as he was at that moment. Fatigue dropped away like a stone, and his attention sharpened. “What is it?”

“Um…nothing earth-shattering. I’m sure it can wait until you’re not so busy.”

“Tell me,” he demanded.

“It’s just a personal message for you that was passed on earlier this morning.”

“Personal?” Jack repeated, puzzled. Since he no longer had any close family and none of his friends knew how to get in touch when he was on assignment he couldn’t imagine who would be leaving him a message. “From whom?”

Annie paused again. He could almost see her biting her lower lip. “Kate Mahaffey.”

Jack stopped in his tracks less than twenty feet from the entrance to the hotel. “My ex-wife left a message for me and you didn’t think it was important enough to pass on?” he said in a dangerously quiet voice. “Why the hell didn’t you contact me the moment it came in?”

“The operative word is ex, Jack. I have to use my judgment in these matters. You’re in the middle of a critical mission. I figured hearing from the woman who dumped you could only upset you and interfere with your concentration.”

“You let me worry about my concentration. Now give me the message.”

“Jack—”

“Now.”

Annie sighed. “Oh, all right. It says—‘I need your help. If you can return in the next day or two, I’ll be at Tralee.’ There, you see? That doesn’t sound so urgent.”

Maybe not to Annie, Jack thought. But that was only because she didn’t know Kate. For his independent, self-assured ex-wife to ask for help at all—especially his help—meant something was terribly wrong.

“I want you to get me on the next government plane out of here,” he instructed without hesitation.

“What! Absolutely not. You can’t leave in the middle of an assignment!”

“The hell I can’t. I’ve got months of personal time built up. I’m taking an extended, indefinite leave, starting now.”

“C’mon, Jack, be reasonable. She probably just wants you to help her move or something like that. Or maybe to sign some more legal papers.”

The last comment was a not-so-subtle reminder that Kate had served him with divorce papers while he’d been in the middle of the most crucial assignment of his career.