The Lost Spear Read online

  “Hey, partner,” he said as he approached the bed.

  They’d been partners for three years. He’d argued like hell against having a female partner, especially one as attractive as Lauren. She would have said—what the fuck has that got to do with anything? She’d turned out to be the best partner he’d ever had. Smart and intuitive. Brave. She’d saved his life that day in Paris, probably at the cost of her own. He’d heard talk that her family were considering removing her life support. Apparently, the doctors believed there was zero chance of Lauren regaining consciousness. And if she did, she’d likely sustained considerable brain damage and would never be able to live a normal life. Would never walk again.

  And maybe her family was right—she wouldn’t want to live like that. Or like this, either.

  “I just hope if death comes, then it’s quick,” she’d once said to him. Well, she’d been dying for three months now, so not quick. She’d broken her back in the explosion. But it was the shard of metal embedded in her skull that had caused the worst damage.

  He wasn’t even sure why he came here. But he’d been doing some reading on the subject, and it was believed that people in comas could actually use limited senses. Maybe she was in there somewhere, listening to him.

  Or maybe he just couldn’t face going home to his empty house—his wife was long gone—and the hospital, however painful, was the better option.

  Crap partner. Crap husband. The only thing he’d ever been good at was his job. And he was no longer sure of that. His boss had accused him of seeing conspiracy theories where they didn’t exist.

  But he knew he was onto something big.

  Seemingly random acts of terrorism. Except they were anything but random. And a day after he and Lauren had gone to their bosses with what they had put together, they’d been caught up in one of those terrorist attacks.

  Had they been getting close and someone decided to take them out of the picture? If so, then they’d done a good job. Lauren was in a coma and he was on orders not to go anywhere near the case.

  Not that he’d had anything anyway. At least up until recently. Then two weeks ago, he’d gotten his first breakthrough since the attack.

  He dragged the single chair up to the bed and slumped down into it. If he ignored all the tubes and wires, she looked like she was sleeping. Her dark red hair had grown only an inch or so since it had been shaved off for the surgery, but she’d always had short hair, so that was normal. Her skin was pale, but she’d kept out of the sun—she’d said people with her fair complexion were too much at risk of skin cancer. And not wearing makeup was pretty much standard for her. He could see the slight rise and fall of her chest as the machines pushed air in and out of her lungs. She looked as though she could open her eyes at any moment and for the first few minutes in here, he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

  “I’ve found something, Lauren. I’ve got a lead at last. A Doctor Eve Blakeley.”

  He’d done some preliminary research into the Blakeley woman, with interesting results. At first sight, he had to admit she seemed an unlikely candidate as a terrorist. Over the years, he’d worked with numerous profilers. And she did not fit the standard profile. But there was a connection somewhere, and he was going to dig and dig until he found it.

  “She’s not a medical doctor,” he told Lauren. “She’s an archaeologist, teaching at Cambridge University, and she’s fucking la-di-da. Her dad is a hundred and twentieth in line to the throne or some such crap. I even found a picture of her as a debutante, when she was presented to the fucking queen.” Lauren would have hated that. She was a socialist through and through. “A lot of these upper-class kids become prime targets for radicalization, though. Maybe guilt over having too much when half the world is starving. Or just boredom. Though that doesn’t seem the case with Eve. Clever as shit apparently, and a hard worker—I called up some of her coworkers. Bit of a loner—I jumped at that one. But always willing to step in and help. She’s well liked.”

  He’d been out of the country most of the time since he’d dug up the lead—he suspected his boss was deliberately keeping him out of the way. But he’d appropriated some resources and had someone watching her. So far, they’d seen nothing suspicious.

  No response from Lauren. Now for the interesting stuff.

  “You remember Major Noah Blakeley? We worked together on that case in DC two years back. You thought he was hot.” She’d only admitted that on the plane coming back. Lauren didn’t get involved with anyone on the job. But maybe that had been about to change—with Zach. They’d been hovering on the edge of starting something.

  Noah Blakeley was military. Zach usually hated working with the military; they were too by-the-book, too used to taking orders and doing things the right way. This major was different. He was part of a specialized counter-terrorism tactical unit looking for alternative ways to fight terror. They’d talked, and he had similar theories to Zach’s; he also believed there was some central individual or organization choreographing many of the terrorist attacks, with no obvious connection to a specific race or religion.

  “It appears the hot major and the archaeologist were married. They got divorced five years ago, but they have three children. An eleven-year-old and six-year-old twins. Cute, huh?” Lauren hated kids. “But that’s not the really interesting part. Guess where they met. Nah, you’ll never guess. You want me to tell you?” He gave a dramatic pause because he knew it would irritate the hell out of her. “Okay, since you ask so nicely. Twelve years ago, the major—or rather, lieutenant, as he was then—was part of a rescue mission in Iraq. A team of archaeologists—a joint UK and US expedition—had been taken by a terrorist group. Some off-shoot of al-Qaeda. They were being held as suspected spies, and you know what that means.” Two of the team members had died while in the tender care of the terrorists. They’d all been tortured. But it was also a known fact that many victims of kidnapping come to identify with their kidnappers. Ideal conditions for radicalization. “I’m guessing you know where this is going. Yup, our little debutante, Eve, was one of them. She was only twenty at the time. And she had it rough. Pretty girl like that. Anyway, then the brave, ‘hot’ lieutenant comes along and rescues her, and they fell in love and got married. Okay—I embellished that a little. Actually, she got knocked up and they got married—at least it looks that way from the age of their eldest daughter—but I’m sure they were in love as well. Though clearly it didn’t last, because they’re divorced now. And he’s in DC and she’s in England, so no happily ever after.” He fell silent for a minute. Gave her a chance to process the information.

  He watched the steady rise and fall of Lauren’s breaths, listened to the rhythmic beeping of the machine monitoring her artificial heartbeats. No change. No magical awakening. “So what do you think?”

  Nothing.

  His chest ached, but he kept his tone positive. She didn’t need to hear him whine.

  “I took it to Brody.” Their asshole boss. “But he said I’m still off the case. Apparently, I’m too fucking emotionally invested to see things clearly. Load of fucking crap. They haven’t got a clue.” Or maybe they did have a clue but were being paid off by someone to keep quiet.

  Now he wasn’t sure what his next move would be. Continue to watch Eve Blakeley? Wait for her to commit some act of terror? How long was he supposed to wait? He was fucking fed up of fucking waiting. Besides he couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out. That something big was going to happen and soon.

  The anger and frustration built inside him and he fisted his hands at his sides to stop himself from lashing out. They’d probably ban him from seeing her again if he started wrecking the place.

  Jesus, he needed to do more. He couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what I always say: if you don’t know how to move forward, then work out what you really shouldn’t do, and do exactly that.”

  They�
�d told him to drop it.

  Instead, he’d go and introduce himself to Eve Blakeley.

  And find out what she knew about the terrorist organization that had killed his partner.

  Chapter Three

  Eve sat at her desk and stared at the blank screen of her computer. She had work to do but couldn’t settle.

  It had been six days since Mr. Tuul had made his offer.

  Tomorrow would be her last chance to accept. Which of course she wasn’t going to do. She had her children to consider. Then there were her students. But she was fooling herself. Her decision to not go had nothing to do with students or children. The term was nearly over, with lectures finished for the academic year. And her mother and father would love to have the children stay with them for a while. Their house had fifteen bedrooms, so there was plenty of space. And while her parents were getting a little old to be running after two very active six-year-olds, they had a household staff of five, and the children’s nanny would go with them.

  No, she really had no excuse other than the fact that she was a wimp and a coward and absolutely terrified.

  Apparently, she had a classic case of PTSD. Post traumatic stress disorder. Who would have guessed it? But giving it a name didn’t make it go away, just made it more real.

  Her therapist had said her fear would lessen with time. For a while it had, but just recently, it had reared its ugly head again, and she was paranoid about everything.

  Her phone buzzed. It was Janis, and she picked up. “I have your four o’clock meeting here.”

  Something to distract her. “Send him in.”

  Zachary Martin was from some government monitoring agency. Monitoring what, she had no clue. He’d apparently been very vague when he’d set up the meeting with Janis the previous day. There was a tap on the door before it was pushed open.

  A man stepped into the room, and she rose to her feet.

  Around six-foot-two, with short sandy-colored hair and perceptive gray eyes. He must have been around forty, but he was lean and moved with the ease of a trained fighter. She recognized the type. She’d been married to one for six years. She stepped around the desk. “Mr. Martin?”

  “Zach,” he said, and held out his hand.

  She took it, shook briefly, and then gestured him toward a seat. “How can I help you? I heard it was regarding some government monitoring issue.” What did that even mean? “But I have no clue other than that.”

  He ignored the chair and wandered around the room, peered out the window, then came back to her. “I’m afraid I came here under false pretenses, but I didn’t want to discuss my business over the phone.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she moved back to her desk so she could reach for her phone if she needed it. “So what is your business?”

  “I’m with MI6.”

  A spy then. “And what do you do at MI6?”

  A small smile flashed across his face but disappeared quickly. “I deal with terrorist activity mainly arising outside the country.”

  She swallowed. Had something happened to Noah? But why would MI6 be involved? Was this to do with her kidnapping?

  Her legs shook and she sank down onto the chair behind her.

  Why now? Most of her kidnappers had been killed during the rescue, but a couple had escaped and never been apprehended. Had that changed? She wasn’t sure that would be a good thing.

  He was studying her reaction with those calculating eyes as though she were some specimen he wanted to cut up and discover what was inside. Or a terrorist he wanted to interrogate. A shudder passed through her. Been there. Done that. “So how do you think I can help you?”

  He took the seat opposite her. “I have to admit I was unsure how much to tell you. But I’d like your take on something, given your own terrorist experience.”

  “Me? Why?” So he knew about her kidnapping. Obviously. She closed her eyes and was back in the heat of the desert. The shots. Someone shouting “run!” But she hadn’t run fast enough. She’d stopped and turned back and…

  A bullet had taken her in the shoulder, throwing her to the ground. She could still feel the hot sand burning her cheek.

  Eve rubbed the scar. As soon as she realized she was doing it, she dropped her hand to her side, her fist clenched. She didn’t want to give anything away to this man whom she suspected saw everything and read meaning into the simplest of actions.

  It hadn’t hurt at the time. Shock, she supposed, and terror and adrenalin. All those things had worn off too quickly, and it had hurt like hell’s fire. She’d had no proper medical treatment; later, the doctors had told her she’d been lucky not to lose her arm, or worse. One of her colleagues had died. Trying to protect her. She still had nightmares—they’d slit his throat. So much blood.

  The bullet had gone straight through her shoulder. These days, it only ached in the cold weather, but she often found herself rubbing it when she was…unsettled.

  She blinked to dispel the memory. Zach Martin was studying her. “I don’t see how I can be of any help to you, Mr. Martin.”

  “Why don’t you hear me out first and then decide.”

  She wanted him out of here but had a suspicion he wouldn’t leave until he was ready. “Go on.”

  “Three months ago there was a terrorist attack on a hotel in Paris.”

  “I remember.” It had been a mess. “Wasn’t it a suicide bomber?”

  “Yes. She died in the attack, but we traced a large payment made to a family member.”

  She still had no clue where this was going, how it could be connected to her.

  “We’ve been monitoring the account that payment was made from,” he continued, “and two weeks ago, a large amount of money was transferred to a UK bank. You, Dr. Blakeley, are the only name listed on the account.”

  “What?”

  He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And that makes you my only lead.”

  Chapter Four

  She knew something. Zach had seen the flicker in her eyes when he’d mentioned the money.

  In his experience, the actual terrorists were usually of little consequence. They knew nothing and were expendable. But they usually had to be paid, and following the money was often the only lead they had. The woman who had blown herself up in that hotel bar in Paris had never intended to survive, but they’d traced payments made to her family back to a bank account in the Cayman Islands. He’d been monitoring the account ever since. And it had led him to Eve Blakeley.

  She glanced away, then back. What she did next would be interesting. Would she lie?

  “Have you been watching me?” she asked.

  Not the question he’d been expecting. “Why would you think that?”

  She shrugged, then wrapped her arms around herself. “Just…this past week I’ve sensed someone watching me. I thought I was being paranoid. But maybe not.”

  How the hell had she picked up his surveillance? “You weren’t supposed to notice.”

  “I’ve been a little…sensitive since…” She waved a hand in the air. He presumed she meant since the kidnapping; she was clearly not happy talking about it. She had a fragile air that he’d often seen in survivors of similar ordeals. And shadows under her blue eyes; looked like she wasn’t sleeping too well. “I suppose it’s a relief,” she said. “At least I’m not going crazy.”

  “I needed to find out whatever I could about you before we had this talk.”

  Her lips were pressed into a tight line, then she gave a small nod and pulled a file from her desk drawer, handed him a piece of paper. “Is this the account?”

  He glanced down, read the details and the amount. “Yes. So you know about the money?”

  “Of course. But not that it’s from an account you’ve been monitoring. And I think you’ve made a mistake. The money is from the organization that funds my research here at the university. I’ve worked with them for six years, ever since I moved back to the UK. I assure you; they haven’t asked me to do anything against the la
w.”

  He raised the piece of paper. “So if this is just a regular payment, why the new account? And it’s a lot of money.”

  “It’s for a special project. They want me to head an expedition to Mongolia to find a relic I’ve been researching.”

  “A relic?”

  “The Spirit Banner of Genghis Khan. It’s a spear he carried into battle. Some people believe it’s the embodiment of his soul. And it’s been lost for about eighty years. I think I might have discovered a way to find it.”

  He pressed a finger to his forehead, trying to determine how this fitted into the pattern. What the hell did a relic have to do with terrorism? He had no fucking clue. But there had to be a connection. He just couldn’t see it yet. Or where this woman fit in. He pushed himself to his feet, walked to the window, and looked down at the manicured lawns. This place was so goddamned civilized it was hard to believe it was within the same world as the one he inhabited. He turned back to Eve Blakeley. She was chewing on her already non-existent fingernails.

  “So are you going? To Mongolia?”

  She flinched, then gave herself a little shake. “No. I don’t do field work.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you always this…nosey?” She gave a tight smile. “Of course you are. It’s your job.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve suffered from PTSD since the kidnapping—though I’m sure you know that, if you’ve been looking into my background. Just the thought of doing field work…out there…exposed…” She gave a shudder. “I can’t do it.”

  He was pretty sure her fear was genuine. He turned away—trying to work out his next move—and studied the bookshelf beside him. He pulled one of the books from the top shelf and read the cover. Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World. He slid it back and turned to her.

  “Why Genghis Khan?”

  “My father gave me a book about him when I was six. It made an impression. Genghis Khan is a fascinating man. He came from almost nothing, and by the time of his death he ruled the biggest empire the world has ever known. Some people think he was the most effective terrorist to ever live.”