Captive Dove. Judith Leon

or even tense. He’d always impressed Escurra as one very fucking cold Americano.

      Escurra said, “I haven’t heard from my operative yet.”

      “Has something gone wrong?”

      “How can I know? I told you, I haven’t heard from him yet.”

      “I don’t like it.”

      “I can’t help that. I sent my best people, led by the man you usually talk to. When I hear from him, I’ll call.”

      A long silence stretched to the point where Escurra said, “You still there?”

      “I’ll be waiting.”

      The connection went dead.

      Escurra sat thinking about that strained sound in Red Dog’s voice. Maybe Red Dog was the top man in Washington. Maybe not. Maybe he reported to someone with even more power. Escurra would have to do a lot more thinking about that. But one thing for certain, Red Dog wanted those hostages much more than he had ever wanted profit from drugs. Somehow, for some reason, Red Dog was vulnerable. If all went well, Escurra would demand more money.

      Just as he reached the main house his other phone vibrated. He answered.

      Felipe said, “Your packages have been picked up and are on their way. Anything new for me?”

      “No. Just get your ass back here.”

      Chapter 6

      T he priest was explaining to Joe’s brother, Manuelito, and his bride-to-be, Susa, exactly where to stand and what to say tomorrow during the actual wedding. Joe, along with the rest of the wedding party, stood in places lined up near the altar.

      Joe’s youngest brother, Diego, and two other friends of Manuelito’s who would serve as ushers, stood on one side of Joe. On the other side of the bride-to-be, the bridesmaids were whispering among themselves, but the priest, Susa and Manuelito seemed not to notice. Joe stood facing the entry.

      For a moment, as he looked down the rows of pews toward the door, he imagined the seats filled with people, the bride’s processional music playing and Nova dressed in a white gown and veil walking down the aisle toward him. He chuckled to himself. Actually, in his mother’s worldview, white would be entirely the wrong color for Nova. No virgin there. Light-years from being a virgin. Maybe Nova, the seductress, should be wearing red. Or maybe even black. Nova had eliminated bad guys, and more than once.

      Then a different image replaced the wedding scene, a memory of sitting across the table from her in a funky little restaurant smelling of cinnamon. Their last weekend together. She’d picked a bed-and-breakfast in a tiny mountain hamlet called Julian, northeast of San Diego, a place famous for apple pie and the orchards that produced them. A place where the two of them could be assured of anonymity. He was holding her hand across the table.

      He had presented her with an engagement ring, fully expecting her gorgeous green eyes to light up with joy. Instead they had dimmed as though a gray cloud had suddenly covered his sun. Nothing he’d said could change her mind. She’d quickly grown angry, saying he’d agreed they would be lovers. But no big commitment like marriage. He’d grown angry in response. They had locked in a test of wills. He’d finally said, “Either marry me, or I’m outta here.”

      Her reply, as she’d pulled her hand out of his, her tone both sad and final had been, “Then, I guess it’s over.”

      Now, clenching his fist, Joe swallowed down a golf-ball-sized lump and forced his attention to the priest. A dumb phrase popped into his head—“Real men don’t cry.”

      He had actually found and loved a woman like no other. He would never love another woman because in his eyes, none would ever compare to Nova in beauty, intelligence or courage. So why the hell had he insisted on marriage? Why the hell had he let her push him away? And just when the hell was he going to swallow his pride and call her?

      Chapter 7

      N ova’s photo agent, Deirdre LeDoux—her name matched her flamboyant looks—stepped onto the squat platform at the Franke Gallery of Fine Photography. She’d piled her blond hair up in dramatic swirls and wore a purple, floor-length Dolce & Gabbana that would also be smashing on her look-alike, Charlize Theron. The string quartet had just finished playing Vivaldi’s “Spring” Concerto and fell silent. Deirdre said huskily into the microphone, “May I have your attention, please.”

      The one hundred invited guests cruising the gallery floor, most of them dressed in black tie or a gown equal to Deirdre’s, turned toward Deirdre and wound down their chitchat. A last sip of champagne. A final bite of foie gras or Russian caviar.

      Deirdre had explained that half the guests were already Nova Blair collectors, eager to meet the photographer and perhaps buy something new from Nova’s collection of Scenic Ocean Drives of the World—at prices ranging from one thousand to fifty thousand dollars. Nova always felt squeamish about the prices Deirdre insisted upon. Taking the pictures was its own payoff in the pleasure she derived from it, even when capturing the image involved danger or hardship. Especially then. But, as Deirdre relished repeating, when hazard and beauty were brilliantly combined they merited very special recognition. Such works always brought the highest prices, and Deirdre, from the beginning of their seven-year friendship, had put Nova in that elite class.

      “I see you are all enjoying yourselves,” Deirdre said. “I’ve interrupted just briefly because I want to share with you, and with Nova, the announcement that her photo of A Boy and Butterflies has just been awarded The Nature Conservancy’s photo of the year. Their top prize.”

      All gazes switched to Nova, and enthusiastic applause showered her. She felt the warming glow of a blush of pleasure and surprise.

      Deirdre finished. “Now please, do continue to enjoy your evening.” She stepped down and slipped her arm around Nova’s waist. Deirdre’s perfume, Llang Llang Myrrh, enveloped them. The quartet resumed its mood-setting, Canon by Pachelbel.

      “Nice surprise, huh?” Deirdre enthused. “Come, I want to introduce you to the mayor’s assistant. She loves photography and her husband is a nature freak. He’s always off on wilderness trips. Do what you can to sell her a photo and maybe you can sell her hubby a tour as an added bonus.”

      They were halfway across the room, the two of them smiling, shaking hands and kissing cheeks as they walked, when Deirdre’s assistant, Donnie, approached. He said, “There’s a call for you, Ms. Blair. He says to tell you it’s Smitty.”

      The pleasurable fizzing of her spirit flattened immediately into alarm. She grabbed at a straw of hope. Maybe it’s nothing serious.

      But of course it was serious. The CIA never called her when there was “nothing serious.” To her surprise, she also felt a quick burn of excitement. Over five months had passed since her last Company assignment, and her subconscious was apparently eager for action.

      “Where can I have a little privacy?”

      Donnie led the way. Over the phone and sounding tense, Smith said they needed her as quickly as was convenient this evening. He gave her the name of the hotel and the room number where he would be waiting. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

      “I can finish up here in thirty minutes. I’ll see you within the hour.”

      She left hearing good news. “I’ve sold three photos,” Deirdre said, looking relieved. “We’ll for sure make expenses, and probably then some.”

      “There were nine tourists and a guide,” Leland Smith said. “The boat captain was knocked out and tied up.”

      Smith lounged in a green wingback chair opposite Nova, a hotel table between them, a Scotch and soda in his hand. He wore a plain brown suit and white shirt, tieless and open at the neck. Plain brown shoes. Plain brown hair. She had met in person with “Smitty” twice before, and each time she had had a hard time afterward remembering exactly what his face looked