Exit Strategy. Kate DonovanЧитать онлайн книгу.
a private landing strip where we had a plane waiting for him. He flew to Dallas and changed planes, using a fake identity to take a commercial flight home. It took precious extra time, but was necessary. Flight records will have to be doctored, of course. There are a million details,” Smith added, as though speaking to herself rather than Miranda.
Then she patted the younger agent’s hand. “When Ortega’s plane touches down, you’ll be there. You’ll ride back here with him and enter the building, pretending to be returning home from three dates. The cameras will record every move, then my team will splice the footage into existing tapes.”
“Three dates?”
Smith grinned. “One would seem too convenient. So you and Ortega are going to reenact a series of them. It’s all in the script we’ll provide for you. You’ll study it on your way to the airport. Be convincing. A great man’s reputation is riding on it.”
Ray Ortega. He was a great man. And a noble one, if half the stories were true. The thought of someone ruining him, negating all the sacrifices he had made for his country, not to mention all the great deeds he was still destined to accomplish, angered Miranda, and she insisted quietly, “I won’t let you down.”
Smith surprised her with an actual smile. “Your file is impressive for a rookie. I’ll use you again soon if I’m satisfied with your performance.”
“You mean, if Ortega’s satisfied,” the blond man interrupted with a lascivious chuckle.
When Miranda shot him a disgusted glare, Smith chided her. “If you’re going to succeed in this business, you’ll need to develop a thicker skin. And a sense of humor.”
Not waiting for a response, the older agent stood up and walked into the bedroom. Miranda trailed after her, watching as she began pulling clothes out of the closet. “First date, this. With jeans. Sexy, but not overwhelming.” She shoved a white eyelet shirt that was styled like a bustier into Miranda’s hands. “Second date…let’s see.” She rejected a series of items, settling finally on a medium-length black skirt and a black leather jacket. “With boots. And some sort of camisole or tube top.”
Miranda nodded.
“And for the big night, this is perfect.” She pulled out a short, sassy dress made of shimmering dark green fabric. “Green eyes, green dress, right? With sandals. No stockings. No bra. A signal dress.”
“Signal? Oh…” Miranda struggled not to flush. “Gotcha.”
“Remember, you’re doing it for your country,” the fair-haired man said from the doorway.
“Shut up,” Miranda advised him, adding to Smith, “I guess you’re right. I’ve got no sense of humor where this pig is concerned.”
Smith nodded, then turned toward the blond man. “Enough with the needling, Mark. Do something useful. Check to see if Ortega’s plane is on time.”
“I just called. It’s ten minutes ahead of schedule.”
Smith nodded again, then told Miranda, “Get dressed. Mark will drive you to the airport. You’ll study the script on the way there. You and Ortega can spend the ride back getting acquainted. And by getting acquainted,” she added dryly, “I mean, having sex in the limo.”
“What?” Miranda grimaced. “Is that another joke?”
Ignoring Mark’s laughter, Smith explained. “I want the camera to record two people who have been dating for a week and are just about ready to explode from repressed lust. Professional agents will be watching this tape to verify Ortega’s alibi, and I want them to either be too embarrassed to study it intently, or so caught up in the erotic elements, they won’t notice tiny imperfections in our work. Which means you and Ortega have to put on a convincing show.”
Miranda’s thoughts flashed back to her father, who had reacted with disdain when she had first announced her plans to join the CIA. “You’re too pretty,” he had informed her bluntly. “They’ll use you like a whore.”
Stung, she had reminded him about the awards that covered the walls of her childhood bedroom. Marksmanship and archery—the girl with the perfect aim. But he had just shaken his head, muttering, “You’ll see,” and she had vowed never to discuss it with him again, a vow she kept until the day he died, six months later.
“Is this a problem?” Jane Smith asked her now, her tone every bit as disdainful as Roger Cutler’s had been. “Do I need to find someone else?”
“No, it’s fine.” Miranda took a deep breath, knowing it was useless—and unwise—to argue with Smith. Better to wait until she met Ortega. Surely he’d understand that they could be convincing for the camera without such extreme tactics. And if he agreed with Smith, well…
“I’ll do whatever it takes to help Director Ortega,” she announced finally.
The older agent flashed a triumphant smile. “Smart girl. This could make your career, you know. So get dressed. We’ll clear out of here.
“And remember. When you walk through your front door and into the hall, the show starts. Don’t look up at the camera, but be aware of it. You’re a single girl—one who hasn’t gotten laid in a while. You’re headed for O’Leary’s hoping to find the guy of your dreams. Keep the act up until you clear the front walkway. Then go around to the Baker Street side. Mark will be waiting for you with the file. Study it on the ride. Once you hook up with Ortega, follow his lead. He’s a pro.”
“So am I,” Miranda assured her quietly. “Don’t worry about Ortega. He’ll be in good hands.”
During the half-hour ride to the airport, Miranda ignored the suggestive jokes and lame double entendres of her escort, concentrating instead on the script and discovering that this was really a fairly simple assignment. All she had to do was act naturally while keeping in mind the location of the four video cameras—one on the front steps of the apartment building, one in the lobby, the elevator camera, and the one positioned over the exterior of the elevator doors at the end of the hall leading to her apartment.
For the first “date,” she and Ortega were apparently just going to talk, and while the security system wouldn’t actually record their words, the script reminded them to get into their roles and stay in them. The date would end in the hallway, with Ortega kissing her respectfully.
The second date was also fairly mild. More talking for the cameras, but in an intimate fashion, with occasional nuzzling. A lingering kiss at the door, an invitation into the apartment, from which Ortega would be taped leaving after only a few minutes with a look of frustration on his face, as though he had been sure he was about to score.
Clever, she had to admit. Sounds like a real second date.
The third date was scripted as an inferno, complete with make-out sessions in the lobby, elevator and hall. Ortega would again be invited in, and this time he’d stay until early morning, when the cameras would catch him leaving, a satisfied expression on his face.
Most of the footage would be spliced into existing tapes, but this last bit—Ortega’s final exit—would be caught in real time, which meant he would actually spend the rest of the night with her.
It was already close to 4:00 a.m., and it would take at least an hour to get back to her place and film the three dates. They had to be finished long before 7:00 a.m., when the residents of her apartment building were first expected to venture into the hallways. Had it been a weekday morning, the timetable would have been almost impossible to plan, but this was Friday night—or more accurately, Saturday morning—and so they had a little more leeway.
“Time for your hot date,” Mark announced, slowing his black SUV to a stop on a dark stretch of road near the airport. “Ortega’s limo should be showing up any minute.”
She nodded. “I’m just going to leave this script with you if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Enjoy yourself.