“No, sir.”
Mpassi stood, offered a short nod of respect, and left the dining room without another word. Westcott didn’t watch him go. Instead, he stared at the last dark sip of coffee. He trusted Mpassi. The man was competent, he had good judgment, and he was loyal.
Still, there was something about the two operatives who had disappeared in Istanbul that made Westcott’s instincts itch. Loose ends, no matter how quiet, had a habit of unraveling entire empires.
And Westcott had no intention of letting anyone undo what he had built.
Chapter Thirty-One
Defense Intelligence Headquarters
Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling
Washington, DC
The migraine was a freight train. She had felt it coming. At first it had been distant, like a rumble on the tracks. And then it had become louder, sharper, and angrier. And now she could feel it drilling into her skull just behind her right eye. Her doctor had warned her.
“Too much coffee. Too little sleep, and too much stress, Samantha,” she’d said. “You need a break.”
A break. I wish.
It had been a long day. Ranger’s stomach growled. She glanced at her watch. It was well past dinnertime and the cafeteria’s closing time. Though she hadn’t eaten anything since the two reheated pizza slices she had for breakfast, she didn’t think her digestive system could handle another packaged burger from the vending machine. She reached into the top drawer of her desk, unscrewed the cap of a white-and-blue bottle with a snap, and swallowed four Advil pills using the dregs of her fifth coffee of the day. She then made her way to the espresso-colored leather armchair that she kept by the window and sat down, propping her legs on the matching ottoman. The number of nights she crashed here every month, a secure tablet still glowing on her chest, was embarrassing.
Her office was as no nonsense as she was. It was utilitarian, somewhat spacious, but definitely not modern. Apart from the armchair she slept in more often than her own bed, everything else in her office was government issue. Even the generic pictures of the Swiss Alps on the walls, though she had selected them herself. Ranger leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Despite the large amount of coffee she had ingested, she was dead tired. She, along with her team, had worked nonstop for the last twenty-four hours trying to figure out what had happened in Mallorca, and then in Turkey.
A knock at the door jolted her, and she looked at her watch again.
Shit. I fell asleep.
Her assistant, a young man with perfectly combed hair and orange-rimmed glasses, poked his head in.
“Nicklas Drescher is here,” he said.
“Yeah. Send him in,” she replied, getting to her feet.
Drescher stepped in a moment later, walking with a slight limp—the cost of a mission in Venezuela where he had saved Ranger’s life and lost his right leg. He was of medium height and build and wore a gray suit that wasn’t tailored but seemed to hang perfectly on him. His face was unreadable, almost bored, but Ranger knew better. Behind those eyes was a mind that never stopped turning.
“Nicklas,” she welcomed him with a genuine smile. “It’s good to see you.”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips, but didn’t touch the skin. It was a courtly habit she’d once found annoying. Not anymore.
“The pleasure is all mine, Sam,” he said.
“Coffee?”
He waved her off and sank into one of the chairs in front of her desk. “Did you hear from them?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I did. A colleague in Istanbul confirmed Caspian and Liesel made contact. They’re in a CIA safe house waiting for instructions.”
Drescher nodded, and she saw the relief on his face.
“If the BND can help in any way ...”
“I appreciate it. And I’ll make sure to ask if we do. But we’ve got it handled for now,” she said.
He gave her a skeptical look. “You do?”
Ranger arched a brow. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me I missed something?”
