Lovers In Hiding. Susan Kearney

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      Prologue

      Clay Rogan had never before been ordered into the director of operation’s office of the CIA. Although he worked daily at the imposing building in McLean, Virginia, the prospect of meeting the director had him curious and edgy. The legendary director was responsible for all covert operations—far from Clay’s normal turf in cryptanalysis.

      After the D.O. had left an urgent message in the Hot Inbox file on Clay’s computer, he’d hoped he wasn’t about to be transferred to another division. Clay loved his work, took enjoyment in eighteen-hour days. He loved solving puzzles and breaking codes and, while his six-foot-six frame made him seem more suited for active pursuits, nothing provided him with as much pleasure as giving his brain a good workout. A ride on his motorcycle came in only a close second. Although Clay had trained at the renowned Farm in Camp Peary with other CIA recruits, he led a relatively normal life. He worked in an office, in front of a computer screen, scrutinizing bursts of satellite transmissions in an attempt to decode messages sent by foreign agents’ transmitters.

      As a master in his field, Clay had worked his way up from rookie and whiz kid to head of the cryptanalysis division. Early on, his superiors had recognized his linguistic abilities and intuitive knack for breaking code by spotting patterns where others could not. He’d earned the nickname Viper when he’d broken a Chinese code that had been composed of snakelike curves that had mystified other experts for years.

      But to Clay, going into the field was as far-fetched an idea as dogs barking in Morse code. Sure, he’d taken the same basic courses required of all operatives—in detecting explosives, carrying out surveillance and countersurveillance operations, mastering a variety of weapons, and running counterintelligence, counternarcotics and paramilitary operations—but those activities were far outside his primary area of expertise.

      So he had no idea why he’d been ordered to the D.O.’s office. Under normal circumstances he’d hesitate to venture onto the super-secret fifteenth floor, but the message in his Hot file this morning had left him no alternative.

      He was to report to the D.O. himself. And tell no one.

      Highly unusual. Highly irregular. Orders normally came down through channels.

      The moment Clay arrived, the D.O.’s secretary ushered him into the opulent office. Although he’d never met the head of one of the most important departments in the government, he’d seen the director on television many times, reporting to Congress and briefing the Senate.

      Up close, Lionel Tower’s pit bull face looked even more tenacious than on the little screen. The man leaned aggressively forward, making Clay think his bark could be as bad as his bite. Yet, the moment Clay entered, the director graciously rose and came around his desk to shake hands, his spit-shined shoes squeaking.

      “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

      Clay saw no reason to respond to the rhetorical comment. Both men knew he hadn’t been given a choice. When the director commanded, his agents obeyed with an extra snap in their step. Obeyed not just because the director was in charge; the man was famous for turning more foreign spies into double agents than any other operative in the agency’s long and convoluted history. He had earned their respect.

      The hand that grasped Clay’s had short, ragged nails, bit low on the fingertips. The palm was hard, cool and powerful. The director gestured for Clay to sit and then, surprisingly, pulled up a chair alongside him instead of returning behind his desk—a friendly action that made Clay even more wary.

      “I’m sure you’re curious about why you’re here, so I’ll get right to the point.” Tower peered at Clay with a hopeful expression. “I’d like your help in a little matter.”

      Little? The D.O. didn’t involve himself in little matters. He left that for underlings. But Clay kept his expression neutral. “Yes, sir?”

      “Almost thirty years ago, a married couple worked for the agency. Both of them were operatives. The woman was killed and a short time later, her husband died in a mysterious car accident that we think was a hit. Their three children survived, and the agency hired a lawyer to find homes for the kids. Those children are now adults. I believe they’re in danger.”

      “Sir?” Was the D.O. asking Clay to protect them? That was so far from his area of expertise, he had trouble believing that someone who had access to his file would have chosen him for the job.

      “The name of the eldest, their only son, is Jake Cochran. Ever heard of him?”

      “Should I have, sir?”

      “Jake grew up in foster homes. When he graduated from high school, he tracked down the attorney we hired decades ago and tried to find his sisters.”

      “The kids were split up? I thought Family Services tries to keep them together.”

      “Together they would have been easier to track. Since we feared for their safety, it was decided the kids would be separated.” Tower paused, no doubt regrouping his thoughts. “The parents were damn fine operatives, the best, so it’s not surprising that Jake Cochran established one of the premier detective agencies in Florida. All the while, he kept searching for his sisters.”

      “Did he find them, sir?”

      “He only just located them.”

      Clay frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”

      He didn’t like the idea of children being separated. Families should stick together, and he sincerely hoped the D.O. didn’t want him to have anything to do with keeping the siblings apart.

      “Jake found adoption records with his sisters’ new names and addresses. He mailed them each a letter with old photographs and copies of his mother’s papers. He also hired bodyguards to protect both his sisters.”

      Clay put the pieces together quickly. “The siblings are in danger because of the mother’s documents?”

      “You catch on fast. Jake and one sister have already gone underground. I want you to befriend the third sister, get her to trust you.”

      “Am I permitted to know why?”

      Tower chuckled. “Absolutely. I need you to decode the documents.”

      Clay finally understood why he’d been chosen for this mission. He currently worked with the newest state-of-the-art codes, but his hobby was deciphering old codes like the one the special agent might have used almost thirty years ago. Information on his hobby was most assuredly right in his file along with his favorite flavor of chewing gum, cherry; his preferences in women, model-thin blondes with small, high breasts СКАЧАТЬ