A gleam of laughter leaped into her eyes, but she answered with a solemn nod. “By all means, Mr. Russo, let’s sleep on it. Your place or mine?”
His DC hotel room was modern and efficient but held none of the comforts of the gatehouse. Callie’s smiling invitation to share it with him kicked his pulse into overdrive. It was hammering hard and fast when he tumbled her back onto the sofa cushions.
“Yours, Ms. Langston. Yours.”
* * *
His internal alarm went off at its usual 5:00 a.m. He came instantly alert but had learned long ago to give no indication he was awake. That skill had saved his life several times, most recently in Curaçao.
Slamming the door on that memory, he kept his eyes closed and concentrated on recording sensory signals. He heard Callie beside him. Her breathy intake, her snuffling exhale. Not quite a snore but close enough to make him smile inwardly. He could feel her, too. Soft and pliant and warm against his side. Her scent filled his nostrils. The lemony tang of her shampoo. The faint, yeasty residue of their lovemaking. One whiff and he felt himself hardening. Only his self-discipline and years of brutal training kept him from rolling her over and burying himself in her hot, tight depths.
He lay quiet, mulling over everything they’d talked about last night. Callie wanted to expand her world. He could understand that. He’d explored damned near every corner of it himself, both in the military and out. Before she went traipsing off to Rome, though, he intended to make sure she wore his brand.
He disciplined himself to wait an hour. It was close to six before he eased out of bed. No sign of the December sun poked through the bedroom shutters as he dragged on his clothes. He needed coffee in the worst way but decided not to wake Callie. Instead, he jotted a quick note and propped it on the kitchen counter.
* * *
He hit a Starbucks drive-through and infused the caffeine as he negotiated the still-light traffic in the southeast corner of DC. As early as it was, he knew Frank Harden would be at his desk.
He and Harden had served in Delta Force together before going their separate ways—Joe as a mercenary for some years before starting his own protective services agency, Frank as a civilian analyst with the Defense Intelligence Agency specializing in African affairs. Whip-smart and not shy about voicing his opinion, Harden had progressed steadily up the ranks at the DIA. His current senior executive service rank equated to that of a major general, but neither he nor Joe let that get in the way of the friendship they’d forged all those years ago.
Joe called Harden’s private extension when he was almost to the sprawling complex now known as Joint Base Anacostia–Bolling. The base had been formed a few years back by cobbling together the Anacostia Naval Support Facility and Bolling Air Force Base. Since the two installations sat side by side and ate up a big chunk of this corner of DC, Joe guessed the consolidation made sense.
As he’d anticipated, his workaholic pal picked up on the first ring.
“Russo, you mangy dog,” Harden drawled in that laconic, down-home Mississippi twang that disguised his needle-sharp instincts and encyclopedic knowledge of all things African. “Where the hell are you, boy?”
“About two blocks away.”
“Hot damn! I’ll call down to gate B and clear you in.”
As promised, Harden got him cleared through the main gate leading to the massive complex that housed DIA headquarters and a slew of other intel activities, like the headquarters of the National Intelligence University and the Joint Functional Component Command for Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance.
Harden had an underling waiting to escort his guest into the inner sanctum. Joe surrendered the lightweight Ruger LCR-357 that nested in his ankle holster, accepted a signed receipt for it, clipped on a visitors’ badge and passed through the metal detector.
Harden’s office reflected his exalted pay grade, but Joe had little time to enjoy the view. Rail-thin and every bit as gaunt as the day the two of them had tunneled their way out of a Sudanese prison, the bureaucrat delivered a bone-jarring thump to Joe’s shoulder.
“Haven’t heard from you since the cows came home. What’ve you been doin’?”
“Had a job in the Caribbean earlier this year.” Joe could feel his insides curl but kept his tone casual. “Most recently at a NATO base north of Venice.”
“Yeah, I heard something about that.” Frank gestured to one of the armchairs facing his desk. “Rumor is your pal Ellis got a fat contract out of that gig. Some new avionics package for the entire NATO airlift fleet.”
“Could be.”
Joe knew damn well it was more than a rumor. He’d gotten to know Brian Ellis well during that NATO gig and at his request had recently completed a top-to-bottom scrub of his company’s physical, industrial and cyber security. What had begun as a business association, however, had morphed into friendship.
“So what can I do you for?” Frank asked. “Or did you just come to gloat ’bout me being chained to a desk?”
“I need some info.”
“Figured. Shoot.”
“What can you tell me about a Rome-based charity called International Aid to Displaced Women?”
* * *
Joe left the Defense Intelligence Agency feeling marginally better about Callie’s decision. Although Frank wasn’t personally familiar with IADW, he had his people run a quick screen.
He also made a call to a contact at the State Department responsible for overseeing the US Refugee Admissions Program and the 6 billion dollars provided through the combined efforts of the Bureau of Population, Refugees and Migration and the US Agency for International Development. The contact’s people in turn worked closely with a host of other agencies, including the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, the UN World Food Programme, the International Red Cross, the UN Children’s Fund and the International Organization for Migration. Most of these organizations had special programs in place to protect the most vulnerable sectors of the population, including women and girls.
Harden’s contact had verified that the Rome operation was legit. Equally important, there’d been no documented reports of terrorists or hard-core criminals infiltrating the population the agency cared for. That wasn’t to say they couldn’t. Given the growing number of women being recruited by groups like ISIS, the PLF and Sri Lanka’s Tamil Tigers, programs that helped women enter or resettle in other countries made tempting conduits.
Joe intended to go over the agency’s refugee screening process with Carlo in some detail before Callie started work there. He made a quick call to his twenty-four-hour operations center and instructed the on-duty controller to check on an evening flight. The controller clicked a few keys and said there was a flight leaving Dulles at 5:40 p.m. Joe would have to hump to get everything done and be at the airport the required three hours early for international flights, but he figured he could make it.
“Okay, book it.”
He then contacted the office of the director of the Naples film festival. Marcello Audi was worried that allowing a certain entry to be shown at this year’s festival would put them on radical jihadists’ hit list. He’d requested a thorough security assessment of all venues. Joe had planned to pass on the job, but Callie’s little bombshell last night had triggered a swift reordering of his schedule. The Naples job would only take a few weeks, and it would put him less than an hour south of Rome. After that...
After that, he promised himself, he and Callie would settle on a permanent arrangement. One that gave them both a safe, comfortable haven. With that goal in mind, he steered his rental to the next stop on his hastily constructed agenda.
Callie