Code Name: Dove. Judith Leon

Nova agreed.

      At seven in the evening Nova heard the expected knock on her door. They would soon attempt their first meeting with König. She slipped on her high heels, crossed the wooden floor to the door and opened it.

      Cardone looked stunned, then dramatically grabbed his chest over his heart. “My God, Blair! You look—well.”

      She had wondered what his response would be when he saw her all dressed up. In front of him, wearing regal crimson trimmed with black, stood a woman of utmost sophistication. At least, that was the intended effect. With the help of an agent who specialized in disguises, Nova had brought clothes, makeup and jewelry—including the beautiful swarovski crystal chandelier earrings she had on—to create an image few men would be able to resist.

      “I heard all those tales in Virginia about a woman who could become any man’s most addictive fantasy.”

      She grinned. “Ready for battle.”

      He bowed. “I pity the enemy.”

      At five after eight, she walked beside Cardone into the Hotel Intercontinental Palace. The two of them were now, as planned, only slightly late. With her hand resting lightly on his arm, they strolled through the lobby and down a brilliantly lit, golden-carpeted corridor. Every eye turned in their direction.

      “Fancy place,” Cardone said. “But maybe fancy like this is old hat for you?”

      She let the question pass. “It really is beautiful, isn’t it? I love crystal. I love light.”

      The doors to the ballroom stood open. Their planners had assumed the banquet would not begin on schedule and, true to human nature, a number of couples and foursomes continued to filter in.

      “I’ll wait,” she said. “See if König’s arrived.”

      Nova detected just the slightest hesitation from her partner. Perhaps she had been too abrupt. Men could be so damned sensitive when a woman spoke firmly or ordered rather than asked. Cardone had seemed uncomfortable from the beginning with her, but she had thought they were past that now. Apparently not.

      The space vibrated with the hum of over three hundred people with nothing to do but talk. Waiters were pouring water and slapping down silver trays of butter.

      The long head table dominated the room’s opposite end. Joe spotted König, one seat off center, his attractive blond wife, Ilse, to his right and the slightly stooped German Homeland Party president, Detlev Kleitman, to his left.

      He returned to Blair’s side. She pivoted in his direction and the scarlet gown flared around her ankles with the elegance of a matador’s cape. His heartbeat did a neat flip. Her hair was down but pulled back over one ear and long, dangling crystal earrings swayed and glittered in the artificial light. His thought, ice cascade against black silk.

      He imagined himself starting to unzip her gown. They were together in a darkened room in front of a fireplace and soft music was playing. What might be this beautiful woman’s favorite music—

      What the heck was he doing unzipping her dress! My god. They were partners in a dangerous game. And she had never once hinted at any sexual interest in him.

      “König’s there,” he said. “He’s seated at the head table at the opposite end of the room.”

      With Cardone at her side, Nova entered the ballroom. She felt a grim exhilaration. König must grant her an interview. Fleeting panic rushed through her as a tumult of thoughts bombarded her. Could she do this right, say the right thing, be the right woman for this mission? But just as quickly as the logical fears had quizzed her, they were gone. She had years of experience charming men. This was not going to be any different, even if he was a mass murderer. She would succeed again.

      Her hand on her partner’s arm, she strolled to the center of the ballroom. They turned and aimed for the head table down what suddenly felt oddly like a church aisle.

      Heads turned to look at them. After a promenade that seemed the length of the coast from La Jolla to Los Angeles, they reached their destination. Jean Paul König had been talking to Detlev Kleitman but he turned his piercing blue gaze toward her. She quickly looked away, but as Cardone pulled out her chair and she glided onto it, she sensed König’s appraising gaze touch her skin.

      The waiters started the first course: pâté de foie gras. Introductions at their table commenced in German. She and Cardone stuck to English. Cardone did an admirable job of engaging the woman to his right—a white-haired matron having passable English—in small talk. Nova chatted with the man to her left, the editor-in-chief of Der Zeitgeist.

      Eventually waiters delivered the main course. The editor’s attention shifted to his plate. Nova, who had never taken her attention completely from the head table, used the lull to scrutinize König’s wife. Ilsa König had a distant look, as though her body was present but her mind was somewhere else. Nova had read that the couple had married when quite young and had two sons. Their marriage was no longer close, if it ever had been, according to the Company profile. But König was faithful to his wife. Always skeptical of that bit of info, Nova was even more so now after seeing the living man in action. König, in her opinion, could have virtually any woman he wanted.

      The Company’s psychological profilers had said the key to ensnaring him lay in deciphering the reason for his strange fidelity to his wife despite their tepid union. If Nova could, the profilers were confident König was emotionally ripe for the picking. Nova wasn’t in the business of breaking up marriages. Or sleeping with her marks. But Price had reminded her that this man could be a terrorist and thousands of lives were at stake. And resting on her shoulders.

      Cardone leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “König’s wife looks bored out of her mind.”

      Nova snapped out of her thoughts and focused on the task at hand. “From the look on her face, I suspect you’re going to be the most exciting thing in her whole evening.”

      “Listen, a beautiful woman tied into that kind of marriage will be easy to please.” Cardone flashed her a grin, then added, “I don’t know if I told you. I’m a great dancer.”

      So terribly confident the young agent was. “I’d love to make an independent judgment. Before we leave tonight, a long twirl around the floor is a must. Okay?”

      Cardone started to answer but a waiter materialized behind König and handed the politician a note. Horrified that König might be called away, Nova stared while her heart thumped over speed bumps. König read the note, said something to Kleitman and something even briefer to his wife, then rose and left, following the waiter.

      “Uh, oh,” Cardone muttered. “What the hell will we do if—”

      “He’ll come back,” she said calmly. “Think positively.”

      She started counting every second while stirring food around her plate. She believed absolutely in the power of positive thinking. It was what had gotten her through the darkest days and hours of her life. But, if König had been called away, that was beyond their control. Positive thinking wasn’t going to bring him back, but it would help them think of a Plan B, rather than focus on their frustration and negative energy.

      Mercifully he reappeared and took his seat.

      She heard Cardone exhale slowly. She felt her heart rate settle as she suffered through several brief speeches. Finally, Kleitman announced that dancing would begin. Waiters folded back a paneled partition and an orchestra began to play a waltz.

      She and Cardone were prepared to approach the Königs at the head table if necessary, but Nova knew a move that forward ran a tremendous risk of offending. Minutes ticked by. König and Kleitman seemed deep into some subject.

      “I wonder what can be so important,” Cardone said, his impatience obvious. “König is supposed to like to dance.”

      Nova watched as König turned to his wife. The pair rose and König escorted her