The plaque identified the town house as home to the offices of the president’s Special Envoy. Most Washington insiders knew that the Special Envoy was one of those meaningless positions created several administrations ago to give a wealthy campaign contributor an important-sounding title and an office in the nation’s capital.
Only a select few were aware that the Special Envoy’s offices occupied just the first floor of the town house. Fewer still knew that the other floors served as the headquarters and home base of a covert government agency. An agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet. An agency whose operatives were sent into the field only as a last resort, when all other government remedies had failed.
One of OMEGA’s agents was preparing to go into the field now. The director had yanked her out of New York and was personally conducting her mission pre-brief.
A former operative himself, Nick Jensen was the owner of a string of outrageously high-priced watering holes for the rich and famous. His international contacts—and hefty contributions to several presidents’ campaign chests—made the tall, tanned sophisticate a natural choice for Special Envoy. His years as a field operative gave him the experience and edge to take over as director of OMEGA.
Initially, Nick had chafed at being tied to a desk. His subsequent marriage to Mackenzie Blair, OMEGA’s chief technical adviser, had reconciled him—somewhat—to his current duties. He felt the weight of those responsibilities now as he clicked a remote and brought up a slide on the floor-to-ceiling screen dominating OMEGA’s high-tech Control Center.
“This is the Star of the East.”
Jordan Colby, code name Diamond, slid her half glasses to the tip of her aristocratic nose. A one-time model turned eyewear designer, she studied the oval-cut emerald with a coolly assessing eye.
“Quite a rock. I’ve read about it. Nine hundred-plus carats, isn’t it?”
“Nine hundred and seven,” Nick confirmed. “It was mined in Zambia in 1963 and purchased by the then sultan of D’han for a cool five million. The current sultan presented it to his bride as a wedding gift.”
The next slide was a digitized security-camera shot of the sultana entering the Palm Beach soiree.
“I’ve read about her, too,” Diamond commented. “She’s come a long way since graduating from Yale.”
“Where she happened to share a dorm room with the president’s sister-in-law,” Nick added dryly.
With a slither of silk crepe, Diamond uncrossed her legs and tipped her boss a droll look over the rim of her glasses. “Is that why OMEGA got handed this op? Silly me, I thought it had something to do with the millions of barrels of oil we import from D’han each year.”
“Let’s just say the president is extremely displeased that the wife of a friend and ally sucked in a lungful of benzilate gas at a charity event held on American soil and woke up twenty minutes later minus her wedding present.”
“And that’s the only item that was taken? The Star of the East?”
“The only item.”
Shifting in his seat, Nick studied the operative he’d assigned this mission. Jordan still looked and carried herself like the model she’d once been. Long-legged, slender, she surveyed the world through gold-flecked amber eyes framed by a mane of shoulder-length auburn hair.
As Nick knew all too well, however, external appearances could be and often were deceiving. His gaze settled briefly on the logo embedded in one lens of the half glasses perched on the tip of her nose. That tiny diamond butterfly was more than a trademark. It represented the brutal cocoon the woman known to the world as Jordan Colby had emerged from.
The details were sketchy. Diamond never talked about her past. Only a few trusted insiders with access to her highly confidential background dossier knew she’d once laid into her stepfather with a tire iron and escaped into the icy night, a bruised and frightened fifteen-year-old.
The dossier included only vague references to where or how she’d lived until she burst into the limelight as a sultry-eyed runway model for a top New York designer some years later. After several seasons under the lights, she’d opted out of modeling to design high-end eyewear. Her jeweled sunshades and reading glasses now sold for more than three grand a pop.
Nick had recruited her to work for OMEGA. He’d trained her himself, knew her lethal skills. He also knew the stakes for this particular mission.
“We’re talking more than oil and emeralds here, Diamond. We’re talking a possible link to a man suspected of laundering billions in drug money.”
Another click brought up a glossy PR photo of an internationally renowned psychotherapist and self-styled guru of Greene Tranquility, a multimillion-dollar industry that promoted the healing power of emeralds.
“Ahhh,” Jordan murmured, studying the boyish face that smiled back at them from behind a lectern. “I should have guessed Bartholomew Greene would be involved in this. He has a thing for pretty stones the same color as his name.”
“More than a thing. Greene tried to buy the Star on two separate occasions. He also tried to purchase the 600-carat Patricia Emerald, currently residing in the American Museum of Natural History in New York.”
Nick zoomed in for a head-and-shoulders shot.
“According to what we’ve dug up so far, Greene was born Bartholomew Crynyk. He reportedly suffered from epileptic seizures as a boy. During one of the seizures, his grandmother draped a rough-cut Russian emerald around his neck. The fit subsided. Miraculously, he claims. He believes the gem’s soothing qualities cured him and he became an instant convert. Eventually he even changed his name to reflect his absolute belief. He now preaches a combination of transpersonal meditation and stone therapy as a remedy for every illness.”
Diamond’s lip curled into the closest thing to a sneer her perfect features could achieve. She didn’t comment, but Nick guessed what she was thinking. There were some sicknesses only a tire iron could cure.
“We theorize Greene’s fixation with emeralds was what got him into the money-laundering business,” he said. “Colombian mines produce the finest-quality emeralds in the world. Greene requires a steady supply of stones to sell to his millions of followers. The deals he’s negotiated with sources in Colombia look legit on the surface, but…”
“But we both know nothing’s legitimate in that corner of the world.”
Frowning, Diamond hooked her reading glasses atop her head. The graphite frames caught her hair back in a tumble of red-gold.
“I take it you want me to infiltrate Greene’s inner circle, sniff out his system for helping his pals in Colombia convert their drug dollars to pesos and, oh by the way, retrieve the Star of the East.”
“That about sums it up.” Nick’s tanned, handsome face creased into a frown. “You won’t be the first undercover operative to attempt a penetration. DEA tried to insert an agent last year. According to our friends in the Department of Justice, he’s dropped off the radar screen.”
Diamond took the news with a nod. This wasn’t her first op. She understood the risks.
“I see why you pulled me in for this mission. I have the perfect cover. I can approach Greene about a line of glasses for his thousands of disciples.”
“With a butterfly logo.”
One delicate brow arched. “Of course. But done in emeralds instead of diamonds.”
“We’ve pulled together a detailed briefing on Greene’s Tranquility Institute in Hawaii. Floor plans, security system, employees, a complete dossier on the master himself. I’ve got Claire Cantwell standing by to brief you on Greene’s modus operandi. She’ll act as your control for this op. Also, the wizards in the field dress and technology units have devised an interesting suite