Chapter Twenty-Two
Nomad
Red haunted Nomad’s thoughts.
Ever since he’d looked through the window of that Lebanese hotel, something about that woman had caught hold of him. That sensation stayed with him even as her ambulance roared away amidst flashing lights and blaring sirens. There, left standing in the shadows, Nomad felt raw and strangely directionless.
Command deemed the mission a success because the team met their objective: Find Johnna Red and get her back into American hands.
Nomad didn’t know, from her point of view, if Red would consider the mission successful or not.
Had the operation prioritized institutional needs over basic human care by insisting they avoid Lebanese doctors and hospitals?
Had she survived those choices?
Yeah, ever since he’d watched the ambulance pull away from him, the only word that seemed close to describing his emotions was bereft.
Wasn’t that funny?
Not only that but now Nomad found himself looking for her. It was as if she was near, and he should have been able to reach out and touch her and take her back into his arms.
He was seeing Red in the women in his sphere.
Long black hair caught his attention, full lips. Anyone around five foot seven.
Even that woman who had descended the stairs under the name Mrs. Bland brought Red to mind. Nomad was simply associating the code name with the beautiful red gown that drew his attention to Mrs. Bland like a spotlight.
Not -Mrs. Bland.
Frau Leitner said the woman wasn’t, in fact, the U.S. ambassador’s wife, and the man offering his arm wasn’t Ambassador Bland.
“Who do you think they are?” Nomad had asked. Perhaps other socialites had traded something of significance for the tickets.
Frau Leitner sent him a secretive smile.
Yes, she knew who they were. Maybe it was just the number of ears around them that made her keep those names to herself. He’d press her later when he was driving her home.
Frau Leitner was a date that required little of him. She’d been napping on the sofa almost from the beginning. Nomad had felt free to function, though he kept an eye on her.
Nomad had danced with Elena three different times. She danced effortlessly and wordlessly while her mind was clearly elsewhere. She seemed to be using him as a means to keep moving. And he thought she was either looking for someone or actively avoiding someone.
Though he’d made no headway as a honeypot, he’d try not to let that bruise his ego.
Throughout the evening, there was only one man that she might have connected with. They’d pulled out their phones and seemed to be following each other’s social media or maybe even getting each other’s phone numbers. But they only danced the one dance and ignored each other the rest of the evening. On the other hand, Nomad spotted plenty of eyes following Elena. There were not-Ambassador and Mrs. Bland, though that was really subtle, and again, Nomad might just be extra attracted to the color red right now. There was a group of four men that he thought might be her security by the way they formed a box and kept their rabbit inside of it.
As for rings? She had one on every finger. None of them looked particularly remarkable to him. But rings weren’t really Nomad’s expertise.
The one thing he’d accomplished was the application of various electronics to Elena’s shoes, rings, dress, and tiara. Each dance, more electronics.
He worried he was underperforming because he was so distracted by that low-level hum of worry about Red. It irritated Nomad that he couldn’t clear his mind of her. It was his own fault for becoming emotionally invested. He had never held precious cargo against him before. Nomad used the phrase that was supposed to keep the survivors at arm’s length, but in this instance, it was too late in the game for that to help. During rescues and extractions, he’d tended to people with vigilance, but there was a difference between caring for them and caring for them in all the definitions of that word.
Red was messing with his circuitry.
She was making him see ghosts. He had no idea who that woman in the red gown was. But since she seemed to be circling Elena all evening, Nomad gave himself permission to approach her when it seemed natural to find out if she spoke English with an accent, to cleanse his pallet of the niggling desire to be physically close to her. He thought if he could just verify that this was no one of interest, he could refocus.
Nomad tapped the comms button that he’d placed under his lapel and connected with the encrypted channel patched into the command center. “Glad you’re checking in,” T-Rex said. “From the photos you’ve been sending in, we’ve made an interesting connection for you to be aware of.”
“Listening.” Standing in a shadow shielded by a column, Nomad’s gaze settled on Elena, fixing herself in the mirror and the absolute uniqueness of the woman dressed like a feathery egg.
“The photos of Elena’s dance partners are of no consequence except for one. His name is Joel Brighton. He’s the right-hand man of Zayd Ali Kamal.”
“Middle Eastern multi-billionaire.”
“That’s the one. Zayd Ali Kamal became engaged last year. At that time, he set up a reward for anyone who could find his fiancée’s great-grandmother’s ring. It’s a two-carat red diamond stolen from the family by the Gestapo in Morocco during WWII.”
“That’s the ring? Elena found it?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps she’s the middleman.”
“How big is that prize?” Nomad asked. “It’s got to be substantial.”
“Forty million euros.”
Forty million could fund extremism in a big way. “She has red rings on all her fingers. One of them could be it. Or she might have handed it to this Joel guy already.”
T-Rex said. “Asad and his team at the DIA are monitoring the mic you placed before their dance. Outstanding effort.”
It didn’t feel like an outstanding effort to Nomad. It was pretty rudimentary stuff. “Should I get the rings? Or is the plan still to entice the woman? Because I’m going to be straight with you. I don’t seem to be her type.”
“It’s being debated by the brass. Right now, the job is to keep eyes on.”
“Speaking of which, I’m not the only one interested in this woman. Do you know this couple?”
Nomad pulled his phone from his pocket and held it by his leg as he pulled up a photo of the not-ambassador and the back of the woman in red. He’d tried a few times to get not-Mrs. Bland in a photo, but it seemed she had a sixth sense and kept her face averted.
“I can’t tell from the woman’s back, but the guy is John Grey from the Color Code,” T-Rex said as soon as the photo pinged into his messages. “Interesting that you’re in the same sphere.”
“And focused on the same woman. I mean, he’s subtle, but once you’ve seen how a magic trick is performed, you know how the CIA handles their rabbits.”
So that was the legendary John Grey, pulled from the upper cell of a prison before his secrets could be tortured out of him.
“Grey,” Nomad pitched his voice so that it could be picked up by his comms but wouldn’t carry to others around him, “He’s good people? Trustworthy?”
“All his team were handpicked for skill and ethic,” T-Rex explained.
“Should I let him know I’m here?”
“Not the assignment,” T-Rex said. “You do you.”
“Right now, I’ve accomplished Plan A. The electronics have been planted. Elena’s obviously working tonight and focused. I’m not going to be able to offer to whisk her away on my helicopter into the sunset. I think we need to take that off the table. What’s our next move?”
Colonel Watts’s voice joined the conversation. “I’ll have the DIA reach out to the Color Code leader at Langley and see if they’ll tell us why Grey is at the ball. If the CIA, Interpol, or anyone else is interested in Elena, you might need to get more aggressive. We need Elena more. Poole is our guy. We need our questions answered without dicking around.”
“Copy.” He was in Vienna, Austria. What did Watts mean by ‘get more aggressive?’ “Wilco.”
“For now,” Colonel Watts finished, “keep an eye on Elena. We’ll work out a strategy and get back to you.”