Captive Dove

All gazes switched to Nova, and enthusiastic applause showered her. She felt the warming glow of a blush of pleasure and surprise.

Deirdre finished. “Now please, do continue to enjoy your evening.” She stepped down and slipped her arm around Nova’s waist. Deirdre’s perfume, Llang Llang Myrrh, enveloped them. The quartet resumed its mood-setting, Canon by Pachelbel.

“Nice surprise, huh?” Deirdre enthused. “Come, I want to introduce you to the mayor’s assistant. She loves photography and her husband is a nature freak. He’s always off on wilderness trips. Do what you can to sell her a photo and maybe you can sell her hubby a tour as an added bonus.”

They were halfway across the room, the two of them smiling, shaking hands and kissing cheeks as they walked, when Deirdre’s assistant, Donnie, approached. He said, “There’s a call for you, Ms. Blair. He says to tell you it’s Smitty.”

The pleasurable fizzing of her spirit flattened immediately into alarm. She grabbed at a straw of hope. Maybe it’s nothing serious.

But of course it was serious. The CIA never called her when there was “nothing serious.” To her surprise, she also felt a quick burn of excitement. Over five months had passed since her last Company assignment, and her subconscious was apparently eager for action.

“Where can I have a little privacy?”

Donnie led the way. Over the phone and sounding tense, Smith said they needed her as quickly as was convenient this evening. He gave her the name of the hotel and the room number where he would be waiting. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

“I can finish up here in thirty minutes. I’ll see you within the hour.”

She left hearing good news. “I’ve sold three photos,” Deirdre said, looking relieved. “We’ll for sure make expenses, and probably then some.”

“There were nine tourists and a guide,” Leland Smith said. “The boat captain was knocked out and tied up.”

Smith lounged in a green wingback chair opposite Nova, a hotel table between them, a Scotch and soda in his hand. He wore a plain brown suit and white shirt, tieless and open at the neck. Plain brown shoes. Plain brown hair. She had met in person with “Smitty” twice before, and each time she had had a hard time afterward remembering exactly what his face looked like. The perfect CIA field agent or controller.

Smith’s assistant, Marvin King, sat propped up in the queen-size bed with his back against the headboard. Marvin, a light-skinned black man who wore elegant gold-rimmed glasses, would never be nearly so invisible.

Smith continued. “The note that came with the severed hand says that the hand belongs—belonged—to Ellis Stone, Colette Stone’s husband, and that he’s dead.”

“The Colette Stone?”

“Exactly. So what the bastards have is nine tourists and the guide, ten hostages in all, one of them the rather famous niece of the U.S. vice president.”

“You know, I think I will have that drink,” Nova said to Marvin. He rose. She detested the vice president, who had never seen a forest he didn’t feel needed harvesting or an oil field that didn’t beg to be drained. She added, “Is the hand Stone’s?”

“Yes. Confirmed by fingerprints and DNA.”

“Who received the package?”

“Came by express mail to the secretary of defense with instructions to forward it to the office of the vice president. We might not be able to pin down the actual origin.”

“Fifty million is a lot of dollars.” She took the Scotch and soda from Marvin and sipped. Chilled. A nice burn. Marvin returned to his perch on the bed.

Smith said, “They hold major bargaining chips. In addition to Colette Stone—well—” He reached into a leather briefcase on the table beside his chair, extracted a sheet of paper from a folder and handed her a list of names. She read them, sipping the drink, as he continued. “You see Colette’s and Ellis’s names at the top. Kimball Kiff is the birding tour’s leader. Kiff’s the curator of birds at the Los Angeles County Museum of Natural History and has taken other clients on the same trip three times before.

“Redmond Obst, it seems, is what they call a world-class birder. He keeps a list of all the species he’s seen, a world list, because he’s been to so many places. He’s a personal friend of the leader, Kiff. Ronnie Obst is his sixteen-year-old son and is also considered a serious birder. Alex Hailey Hill is the grandson of our Supreme Court Justice, Suleema Johnson. He likes the outdoors but isn’t an especially big fan of birding. He and the Obst boy are best buddies.”

“I like Justice Johnson. This will certainly be frightening for her.”

Seeing the next two names, she caught her breath. Nancy and Otis Benning were among the most enthusiastic collectors of her work. Smith saw her reaction. He said, “You know the Bennings?”

Nova had first met the famous Washington, D.C. socialite, Nancy Benning, about six years ago at a party at the French Embassy. Nova had been undercover as a cocktail girl, tailing the wife of a Saudi diplomat newly arrived from Saudi Arabia and due to return to her home within the week, Nova still on her tail. Nancy Benning had spilled a Bloody Mary on her dress and Nova had helped with a cleanup in the ladies room.

Their second meeting, the one Benning would remember, happened at Nova’s second D.C. photo showing. Nancy Benning had purchased a scene of thousands of pink and white flamingos lifting off from a remote, unnamed lake in Kenya. “I’ve met Mrs. Benning. She loves birds. She’s purchased at least one of my photos.”

“Well then you may know that her husband, Otis, owns Benning Corp. Big into plastics. Rolling in dough, the both of them.”

“Fifty million dollars is suddenly sounding like peanuts. Or like the kidnappers don’t really know the identity of all the fish they’ve caught. Something’s strange. Have they not contacted anyone else, just the vice president?”

“Maybe it’s still too early. But to answer your question, the only ransom demand so far is the one centered on Colette Stone.”

Nova looked at the remaining names. “Who are Linda Stokes and Annette Coulson?”

“Stokes is a librarian from San Diego. Coulson is a dance teacher, also from San Diego. They’re friends and enthusiastic bird watchers. Dennis Chu, the last on the list, is an entomologist from NMNH, the National Museum of Natural History. Apparently pretty famous in his own world.”

Seeing her frown of puzzlement, Smith added, “Insect expert. According to the NMNH people in Washington, he took the trip because he wanted to collect bugs in the Amazon. He has no real interest in birds.”

“Clearly they’re holding some pretty important people, but what do you want with me? If you pay the money, you’ll probably get them back.” In truth she was skeptical of that last statement and knew that Smith would discount any such hope as well.

Smith leaned forward, eager to reach her with his argument. So far, only one man was dead. This wasn’t the kind of op Nova normally considered working and Smith knew it. In every case that she had worked, multiple innocent people had already been killed or the threat posed was the kind that could result in the deaths of many people. In her last case, in Amalfi, thousands if not million of lives had been on the line, justifying, in a way, the dirty work that Company jobs too often entailed.

“The State Department has already put together an FBI team,” he said. “They are on their way to Manaus and will officially work with the Brazilian authorities. But these hostages are high profile. The vice president wants us to do more, much more, than that. Christ, Nova, they have his niece! We have orders to send down a crack undercover team. At least undercover in terms of being U.S. government. We want someone who can go down there saying they are looking to find a relative, one of the hostages, and be convincing. We want you.”

She said nothing, just took another sip.

“No one in this government is going to depend on the Brazilians to get our people out. And no one is going to sit around hoping that when the money is paid, the bastards will keep their word and let everyone go. The plan is to locate the hostages and then send in a special operations team to extract them. You know Brazil. Even better, you know Manaus and the Rio Negro. You’ve been there, how many times?”

“Seven trips to Brazil, four of them included stops in or around Manaus.”

“You speak Spanish fluently, and some Portuguese, right?”

“No real Portuguese.”

“And then there is your main advantage, always your strongest asset. You’re a woman, who can put on a great act of being helpless and nonthreatening.”

She smiled, feeling a bit devilish and wanting to tweak Smith a bit. “Well, there’s something else to consider. I detest vice president Ransome. I have no desire to do anything to help that SOB.”

Chapter 8

S ixty-three-year-old U.S. Supreme Court Justice Suleema Johnson stooped slowly to the sofa. She picked up and cradled her calico cat, Hypatia, and headed for her bedroom. “I’m tired, my dear. It’s been a long one,” she said, bone-weary but smiling. Hypatia was named for the famous mathematician who had lived in ancient Alexandria and was stoned to death by a mob led by the Catholic priest, Cyril. She was Suleema’s closest confidante, privy to Suleema’s most private thoughts and desires. Suleema considered Hypatia to be as wise as the woman for whom she’d been named.

After an especially tedious, work-filled day, Suleema had decided to retire early. Tomorrow she would hear arguments in the case of Wade v. Lemonn—very technical stuff on the patent rights of biopharmaceutical companies. Although it was barely eight o’clock, the arthritis in her hips and lower back cried out for her to lie flat.

Fortunately, this house suited her aging body perfectly, since the previous owners had redesigned it to place the master bedroom on the first floor. She’d purchased the house a little over a year ago, just before her swearing in as the first black woman to serve on her country’s highest court. The location was ideal for getting to and from her office at the court and was only an hour and a half’s drive from her daughter’s lovely home right on the Chesapeake Bay.

Suleema had calculated that on occasion, Regina and Clevon might want to stay in Washington for an evening at Lincoln Center for a fancy dinner or show, so in her home, they had an upstairs bedroom to themselves. But sixteen-year-old Alex was getting too old to visit Grandma anymore.

She flicked off the living room floor lamp and eased down the hallway. Alex was, at this very moment, off someplace in the Amazon birding with his buddy, Ronnie Obst. Suleema had met the young Obst once, at Regina’s house. She had liked him, and thought him a good friend for Alex. Alex, so exceptionally bright and mature for his age, was too serious. Ronnie was outgoing and adventurous and had traveled all over the world with his rather famous father. Ronnie encouraged Alex, who had been more devoted to his computer than to nature before their friendship, to get out and explore life.

She used the wall switch to light her nightstand lamp. Another night of sleeping alone. Her gaze was drawn to her favorite photograph of Raymond, gone from a heart attack for just over five years. He’d not lived to see her elevated from the Ninth Circuit Court, but he’d always believed she had a good chance to be “the one.”