Out-Foxxed. Debra Webb

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СКАЧАТЬ with another vehicle kept the ride interesting.

      So far, so good.

      Most of the street vendors had closed up shop. A hot dog cart on the corner of 45th still had a customer or two seemingly oblivious to the rain. The ambitious gentlemen who generally hawked knockoffs of designer purses, sunglasses and the like had already packed up their wares and headed home. The few who stuck it out offered umbrellas and ponchos for those who hadn’t watched the weather forecast the night before.

      The crush of pedestrians on the sidewalks reminded her again that there were only a few more shopping days until Christmas. She should pick up something for her niece and nephew. Overnighting the gifts would be her only option for ensuring they arrived on time at this late date. Maybe she should also pick up gift cards for the members of her team. Letting the holiday slip by unacknowledged by her wouldn’t sit well with her relatives or her colleagues. She’d learned that unpleasant lesson last year.

      When they hit 49th Street, the driver started to make his way toward Madison. Four blocks from her destination, they hit trouble—a one-way street with the first of two lanes blocked by a large delivery truck and the other clogged with an accident. The drivers of the two vehicles involved in the fender bender stood in the rain yelling at each other.

      Just what she needed. At least the rain had let up.

      “I’ll walk from here.” She checked the meter before passing her driver the second hundred as well as the fare. She had to give him credit; with superb driving skills and nerves of steel, he would have made it under the time limit if not for the accident. “Thanks.”

      He executed one of those half nods in acknowledgement of her appreciation and stuck the money into his shirt pocket. As she got out, he laid down on the horn, joining the unpleasant harmony of the other five or six drivers who were already expressing their displeasure with the delay in traffic.

      Sabrina ran the final four blocks.

      She slowed as she reached the grand entrance to the Omni Berkshire Hotel, took a breath and squared her shoulders. “Showtime.”

      The doorman flashed a wide, pleasant smile and opened the door for her entrance. “Good evening, madam, welcome to the Omni Berkshire Hotel.”

      She thanked him and entered the marble-floored lobby. Chandeliers glittered overhead, and a profusion of flowers provided a welcoming ambience. As she paused at the registration desk, the clerk welcomed her with the same enthusiasm as the doorman.

      Sabrina returned the pleasant smile. “I have a reservation. Cynthia Freeman.”

      A few clicks of the computer keys and he confirmed her reservation. “Yes, here we are.”

      She passed him the credit card embossed with the name Cynthia Freeman and about ninety seconds later she had a keycard to Room 608.

      The elevator car was waiting, another stroke of good luck. She boarded alone and was glad that it didn’t stop between the lobby and the floor she’d chosen. Outside Room 608 she slid the keycard through the lock, watched for the green light and went inside.

      The room was already abuzz with activity.

      “Agent Fox has arrived.”

      Sabrina winked at Benjamin Trainer as she dropped her briefcase near the door. He was the communications specialist attached to IT&PA, International Temps and Personal Assistants. He could do just about anything with a satellite link. She imagined there were a number of other things he could do quite well, but being coworkers precluded her investigation into the interesting possibility.

      “Trainer, you’re looking smart this evening.” She surveyed his lean athletic frame as she pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of her coat before shrugging out of the heavy outerwear.

      Evidently the man had a date tonight. In seven years, she couldn’t recall seeing him dressed in snug jeans, a pullover sweater that looked exactly like one she’d seen in a Gap ad, and classy loafers. This man never wore anything to work that wasn’t a three-piece suit. His dark hair and green eyes were icing on the cake. But then, this was Friday evening. A handsome young guy like him would certainly have plans.

      “Depends upon whether or not you wind this up in a timely manner,” he quipped, one eyebrow cocked in blatant skepticism.

      “No pressure, right?” she teased.

      Along with Trainer were two other support personnel on site. A control team would be close by, if not already in place.

      “This is your uniform, Agent Fox.” Costumer and disguise technician Angie Russell waved her arm to indicate the maid’s uniform, shoes and other accessories displayed across the elegant comforter on the king-size bed.

      “Thanks, Angie.” Sabrina was already stripping off her street clothes.

      “Nice shoes.” This comment came from operation coordinator Hugo Clay, aka Big Hugh. He stood six-four and weighed about two-fifty. Not the sort of guy one wanted to run into in a dark alley. But Sabrina had figured him out long ago. He was just a big, cuddly teddy bear who could also drop a man in his tracks with nothing but his hands.

      Sabrina toed off first one Nike sneaker, then the other. “I wore them just for you, Big Hugh.”

      “Let’s move it, people,” Trainer reminded. “Time is of the essence.”

      Sabrina’s suit jacket landed on the floor atop her coat. “Yes, sir, Specialist Trainer. We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”

      “Fox is prepping now, sir,” Trainer said into the mouthpiece of his commo apparatus, ignoring Sabrina’s dig. The sir he reported to was Director Anderson Marx. Talking to the boss or not, Sabrina didn’t miss the way the corners of Trainer’s mouth quirked as he spoke. He liked it when she used that official tone with him, even if she were teasing.

      As she wiggled out of her skirt, Big Hugh gently placed a listening device into her right ear. “This will provide you with a constant feed from Trainer and our esteemed Director Marx.”

      Sabrina kicked aside her skirt and peeled off her black tights. “Give me the details,” she said to Hugh as she straightened and freed the buttons of her blouse.

      “We have Namir Stavi on the 10th floor,” he began.

      “Israeli?”

      Big Hugh nodded. “He and his wife and two children are here for the Christmas holidays. The Agency picked up on reports that an attempt would be made on Stavi’s life while he was visiting our fair city. He and his family are to be executed, and the act is to be blamed on Muslim radicals who hold American visas.”

      “Nice,” she mused. Some jerk was always trying to make someone else look bad on American soil. She could see how the press would be all over that kind of international incident, creating even more tension between the American and the Muslim communities, not to mention the Israelis. Recent events already had Israel a little sensitive where the U.S. was concerned.

      “Our polite colleagues thought they had the situation under control,” Big Hugh explained, “but somehow the time line got moved up and the assassins hit twenty-four hours early. The agents doing preliminary surveillance couldn’t move into place swiftly enough to counter the attack, so here we are.”

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