Strangers When We Meet. Merline Lovelace

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      This book is dedicated to the men and women of

       the Mighty Ninety, charged with the awesome responsibility of keeping 150 Minuteman III ICBMS on full alert 24-hours a day, 365 days a year. Impavide!

      Prologue

      The annual reception for foreign ambassadors was one of Washington D.C.’s premiere White House events. A string quartet floated exquisite background melodies above conversations held in a host of different languages. White-gloved servers passed among the crowd with silver trays of canapés and sparkling crystal champagne flutes. In addition to diplomats from dozens of nations, the guest list included cabinet members, key congressional leaders and high-powered U.S. agency heads.

      Tall, tawny-haired and elegant in his Armani tux, Nick Jensen stood with his wife, Mackenzie. To most of the elite in the room, Jensen was the president’s special envoy. The generally meaningless honorific had been bestowed over the years on a succession of wealthy campaign contributors. A mere handful among the glittering assembly knew Nick—code name Lightning—also served as director of OMEGA, an organization so secret that its operatives were activated only by direction of the president himself.

      Mackenzie had been active in OMEGA herself until giving birth to twins a few years ago. So had the two people who crossed the room to greet her and Nick. Mac’s eyes lit up at the sight of a couple who’d been both mentors and role models for her and her husband.

      “Maggie,” she said with a rueful smile, “you look too damned gorgeous to be a grandmother.”

      It was true. Maggie Sinclair Ridgeway showed only a fine trace of lines at the corners of her sparkling brown eyes and a mere touch of silver in her upswept hair. Her gold lamé Versace gown clung to a figure every bit as svelte as that of her daughters. One of those daughters had presented Maggie and her husband, Adam, with ready-made grandkids when she’d adopted two orphans from Hong Kong a few years ago. Soon Gillian would give birth to a third.

      The proud granddad slipped an arm around his wife’s waist. Adam Ridgeway, code name Thunder, wore his years as easily as Maggie did. His hand-tailored tux showcased a lean, athletic body, and his laser-blue eyes held the same penetrating shrewdness that had made him one of OMEGA’s most skilled and lethal operatives before he assumed duties as the agency’s director. He now headed the UN’s International Monetary Fund while Maggie served as an adjunct professor at Georgetown. The love between them still sizzled in the slow smile Adam gave his wife.

      “She looks damned gorgeous, period,” he said in response to Mackenzie’s observation.

      Their shared years at Omega had forged a bond between the two couples that could never be replicated by others who hadn’t experienced the chalky taste of fear or exhilarating thrill of pulling off an op against all odds. They reminisced about some of their hairier ops while sipping champagne and sampling the internationally inspired canapés served on silver trays by the White House staff.

      A megarich restaurateur in his non-OMEGA life, Nick had just given his stamp of approval to a savory glazed lamb minikebob with Moroccan carrots and tahini puree when he spotted the president with his head bent close to the Russian ambassador’s. Although both wore bland smiles, their body language suggested their conversation had veered away from the usual polite chitchat at soirees such as this one.

      So Nick wasn’t all that surprised when the president’s chief of staff made her leisurely way through the crowd some time later and headed in his direction. With a warm smile, the striking brunette acknowledged Maggie, Adam and Mackenzie. Her expression didn’t change when she turned to Nick, but the message she conveyed belied her relaxed pose.

      “If you don’t mind staying a bit after the reception, Lightning, the boss would like to chat with you.”

      She used his code name in a low murmur that only he and the other three could hear over the chatter and music. Nick nodded, and Adam facilitated the meeting by offering to drive Mac home.

      Nick met with the president in his book-lined study in the family residence. John Jefferson Andrews was still lean and fit and boyishly handsome, although the responsibilities of his office had added their share of creases to his face. He’d lost his wife to cancer before he’d run for the presidency. In the view of most of the country, he’d done a damned fine job of raising his teenaged daughter in the fishbowl of the White House. But he would always be grateful to Nick and OMEGA for spoiling a fiendish plot that had played his daughter’s mental stability in an attempt to get her worried father to resign during his first year in office.

      As a result, his professional relationship with Nick had ripened into a deep and abiding friendship. The ease between them showed in the way Andrews yanked loose his bow tie, let the ends dangle and popped the top button on his pleated shirt before splashing brandy into two crystal snifters.

      “I need something to wash down all that sparkling cider,” he admitted with a wry smile.

      As Nick knew well, the president never indulged in alcohol at social or political functions and rarely drank in private. Andrews flatly refused to risk impairing his judgment when he could be called on to make life-and-death decisions at any moment. That he would allow himself a few sips of the two-thousand-dollar-a-bottle limited-production special cuvée that had been a gift from the French president spoke volumes.

      He passed Nick a snifter and held his up in silent salute. The brandy slid down the men’s throats like liquid gold. Its mellow fire still lingered on the back of Nick’s tongue when Andrews broached the reason for this meeting.

      “The Russian ambassador reminded me that their team was gearing up for the first inspection under the new START treaty.”

      “As if you needed a reminder,” Nick commented drily.

      All of Washington knew how much political capital the president had expended to push through the new nuclear-arms-reduction pact and how eager his opponents were to see it blow up—metaphorically speaking!—in his face.

      “The team will arrive at Francis E. Warren Air Force Base next month.”

      The president met and held the eyes of his director of OMEGA, each slipping into their respective roles easily.

      “I need you to make СКАЧАТЬ