JENNIFER LABRECQUE - Nobody Does It Better

She closed her eyes and tried to relax beneath the blanket. She was only partially kidding.

“WE SPOTTED HER ENTERING London under the name Holly Smith.” Gage Carswell leaned forward for a better look at the blurry photo enlarged from the airport-security camera as Mason continued his briefing. “She’s catching a connector to Venice. We’ll delay the flight out of London, which should give you ample time to get in place. We ran her schedule. She’s booked a room off of San Marco for a week. You’re going to be in the room next door. She’s arranged for a private tour guide, requesting an off-the-beaten-path experience. Your cover will be as that guide. Monitor her twenty-four/seven. We want to know where she goes, whom she sees, what she does. We need contact information. Names. Numbers.” Mason shrugged. “Set a honey trap.”

Ten years in the spook business and Gage still found all of the spy lingo amusing. Why the hell didn’t his handler just say don’t kill her, seduce her. He was not, however, amused at being tagged for a honey-trap assignment. Bloody bother, that. He didn’t mask his annoyance.

Mason’s clipped chuckle lacked any warmth. Sadistic bastard. “I know the seduction routine isn’t your preferred MO, but Eros is currently undercover.”

The legendary agent Eros who had never met a woman he couldn’t seduce to get what—or whom—he wanted. Kazbekistan? Poor sot. At least the food would be better in Venice.

Gage settled back in his chair in the windowless office. Paranoia and caution went with the job of managing covert operations, but it would drive Gage nutters to spend every day in this box, even if it was in London. However, windows meant the other side could use a telephoto lens or other high-tech methods of gleaning information on a desk or computer screen that didn’t want gleaning. Give him his field-operative position any day.

He glanced again at the photo of the woman Mason had included in his briefing papers. The Gorgon, aka Holly Smith. Five foot six. Weight listed at one-forty, but Gage figured that contained a fifteen-pound lie. Women couldn’t resist shaving down the number. Chin-length brown hair, and startling aquamarine eyes in an otherwise average face. From what he ascertained from the photo, she wasn’t a beauty, but she wouldn’t set small children off screaming, either.

“Why would she book a tour?” Gage asked. It didn’t make sense.

“As a cover?” Mason shrugged. “To be unpredictable? Because she’s a bloody female?”

Not for the first time, Gage thought Mason was something of a misogynist, but that wasn’t his problem. “There’s a tour itinerary?”

Mason flicked his wrist toward the file. “It’s in there, as dictated by the client.”

“It’s a private tour group? Isn’t there an office?”

“No. Your Way Tours is an Internet operation touted as being more low-key and personalized than trolling along with the blue-hairs. Consider it your lucky day that you won’t have to wear a natty polyester suit coat, too.”

“You’re sure she’s the one?” Gage ran a finger along the edge of the photo. He’d heard of the woman code-named the Gorgon. Dealing in black-market uranium, she’d proven to be an elusive target for years. But they’d been getting closer and closer. It was only a matter of time. One slipup, and they’d have her.

Mason steepled his fingers and regarded Gage across the expanse of desktop separating them, his pale green eyes cold despite his smile. “Holly Smith is either an alias or a stolen identity.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It’s her.” Mason shook his head. “She might as well have a tattoo across her forehead with those aqua eyes. They’re unique—her one identifying mark. She could easily mask them with colored contacts but she won’t. Female vanity. True, she’s never operated in Venice before, but if it looks like a Gorgon, walks like a Gorgon, smells like a Gorgon…”

“It’s a Gorgon,” Gage finished for him.

“There’s been some chatter indicating a substantial deal impending. With the Gorgon’s arrival in Europe, it appears imminent. We could be looking at a drop.” Did Mason always have to sound as if he had a stick up his arse? “If so, it’s imperative we intercept the package. By the way, you’re going in as an illegal. The Italians don’t like us poaching on their territory.”

“Not a problem.” It seemed a bit of overkill for a simple watch-and-monitor situation, but he’d gone in without diplomatic immunity before. If he was caught out, he was on his own.

“Unbeknownst to the ubiquitous Ms. Smith, her travel case has been misplaced at Heathrow. Pity that. It didn’t manage to make the connecting flight to Venice.”

“We’ve examined it?”

“We will soon enough. If there’s a package, we’ll find it. Even so, we’ll still want contacts. Holly Smith is being monitored now, but once she steps off the plane in Italy, she’s yours. You’re to initiate contact at 9:00 a.m. at her hotel tomorrow morning. Her tour includes three meals. She specifically requested a Venetian native, a middle-aged female preferred. Her assigned guide, Signora Ciavelli, however, has developed a sudden and most unfortunate gastric problem and you’re to be her substitute. You’re not a native but you lived there immediately following university.”

It’d require finesse to tail the Gorgon from the airport to the hotel. Even a glimpse of him could give away the game. Familiar anticipation surged through him. He looked forward to outfoxing his new opponent.

“Are we tipping our hand with the missing luggage and the suddenly sick guide?”

“We’ve calculated the risk,” Mason assured him. “We couldn’t chance the luggage going through. The most obvious place to hide something is right in front of one’s nose. And we need you with her constantly. Unfortunately, I’m not convinced your charm is such that you could sweep her off her feet. And if you try and fail to sweep her off her feet, then you’ll simply appear to be a nutter. Inserting you as the guide was a safer bet. She’ll be stuck with you.”

Gage took the insult in stride. Surveillance, not charm, was his forte. “That works.”

A brusque nod and Mason continued, “You’re the mate of a mate who owns the guide service. Given your flexible schedule as a gallery owner, you help out in a pinch.”

One of the first lessons in spook training—stick as close to the truth as possible. One was less likely to trip oneself up when one put forth the least amount of lies. Actually, owning an art gallery was not only financially lucrative for Gage, it also offered him the flexibility to extend the range of his spy activities, chiefly because Agnes, his second in command, was a paragon of efficiency and organization.

It amused Gage that spy novels and films often showed an agent simply rushing about, being an agent, whereas in actuality, a legitimate career offered the perfect cover and a measure of interest between assignments.

“And when I get the information?” It was only a matter of when , not if . What he lacked in charm, he made up for in determination and skill. He wasn’t arrogant, just sure of his capabilities.

And he knew he’d never have to worry about getting personally involved. There was a void inside him, the detachment that was a curse for him as a man but a godsend as a spy. He’d never cultivated the detachment. It’d never been a conscious decision not to let another human being touch him emotionally. It’d simply transpired. He’d lost his parents to an auto accident and been sent to live with a grandfather who wanted nothing to do with a nine-year-old lad in mourning. Within weeks, he’d been shipped off to boarding school. From that time forward, there’d always been a distance inside him that buffered him from everyone else, that kept him slightly removed, apart. It served him well in this business.

“Once you’ve verified the information, let her go and we’ll continue to watch her. Just make sure you’re not compromised.”

He didn’t need the reminder of what being compromised entailed. All operative positions were not created equal. His position demanded anonymity. For him, compromise meant, at worst, termination by the enemy or, at best, “retirement” by his agency.

Gage glanced down at the photo of the woman and tamped back a faint tinge of relief that he didn’t have to terminate the Gorgon afterward.

Maybe he was getting soft, but he hated it when that happened.

2

HOLLY STOOD WITH HER FEET braced in the vaporetto, Venice’s water bus, and stared ahead at the city etched against a star-scattered backdrop, enchanted by the centuries-old spires and domes that punctuated the skyline. She resisted the urge to pinch herself. She’d finally arrived, albeit several hours late.

Cool air whipped her hair behind her and she tugged her jacket more firmly around her middle. Her entire body tingled, as if caught up in an awakening. It was the oddest thing, but the sensation had started when she’d exited the Venice airport.

“It’s almost surreal, isn’t it?”

She turned to the young couple at the rail beside her. She’d met them while waiting to clear Italian Customs, much the same as when you struck up a conversation with someone in the grocery line. She knew they were art-history grad students from Boston who’d just married and were honeymooning in Venice, but she didn’t know their names. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

“Was it worth it?” the young woman asked with a smile.

“Probably. When I’ve had a little distance from this day.”

“You’ve had the trip from hell, haven’t you?” the new husband said with an earnest grimace. “Sitting three hours on the tarmac at Heathrow and then learning that your luggage didn’t make it to Venice.”

“The trip from hell about sums it up.” When Holly had finally figured out her suitcase was a no-show at Venice’s Marco Polo Airport, the woman behind the counter assured her it would be delivered to her hotel by early morning. It was frustrating, but if they’d deliver her bag bright and early tomorrow morning, it wouldn’t be too bad.

In the interim, Holly had no clean underwear, no clean clothes and no makeup. At least she had her travel toothbrush with her. No toothpaste, mind you, but a toothbrush. Cup half-full, cup half-full, she reminded herself.

She shrugged. “I’m looking on the bright side. The plane didn’t crash.”

“There’s always the trip back,” the young man quipped with a laugh.

His new wife elbowed him. “Mark! That’s a terrible thing to say.” Nonetheless, she giggled and wrapped an adoring arm around his waist.

God, they were so young and so in love. They barely looked older than the sixteen-year-olds that came through Holly’s classroom. Or maybe she was just getting old. Mark murmured something low and intimate into his wife’s ear and Holly looked away from what had become a private moment between the two.

Had she ever felt that way about anyone? Had she ever gazed at anyone with stars in her eyes? Uh, no. Did she want to? Despite Greg’s accusations to the contrary, of course she did, didn’t she? Well, not necessarily with stars in her eyes. It felt too much like being blinded, and that certainly wasn’t good. Her parents had been blinded and she knew how well that had worked out.

The vaporetto, much larger than many of the smaller craft they’d passed, slowed and navigated toward the landing. Her heart thumped harder in her chest as the boat docked with a slight jar.

Holly was literally awestruck. No travel guide, no video could have prepared her for this. The city was an entity unto itself. Elegant and beautiful with an air of mystery and sadness. Was this how her mother had felt all those years ago? Enchanted? Seduced by a place to the point that a husband and children back home became meaningless? Holly shook her head. That’s why she was here. She wanted answers. No more wondering. No more supposition.