Matt Drake Book 9 - The Plagues of Pandora Read online

  *

  Smyth exited the Pentagon soon after Lauren, stating to Hayden that he needed a few hours off. The team were in full information-gathering mode, not exactly Smyth’s strong suit, and nobody thought it unusual when he left. Besides, the others needed the odd break from his relentless, steady irascible snappishness, they all told him that often enough.

  Smyth took a car, a black nondescript Chevy, and tailed Lauren back to her place, then again in the cab. Traffic was mercifully light. All the while he was wondering just what the hell he was doing.

  Lauren didn’t need his help. She would beat him down—vocally at least—if she found out he was tailing her. The rest of the team hadn’t raised any major concerns, although Smyth had noticed Drake’s uncertainty. An unaccountable need to help reflected clearly in the Englishman’s dark eyes. But he hadn’t voiced anything: no promises, no requests. Clearly this team had evolved to the level where if you didn’t ask for help you didn’t get it.

  Smyth didn’t truly believe that. Real life always got in the way, and real life now involved trying to head off a major international crisis encompassing these Pythian assholes and something about Pandora. Quickly, he reined in his wrath, knowing it was unfounded.

  Why then did he feel the need to follow Lauren?

  Well, who wouldn’t? was his immediate, flippant answer. But that wasn’t it. Lauren was part of the team and the only one in danger tonight. Smyth just couldn’t allow himself to let her take this on alone. After the loss of Romero . . .

  Smyth gritted his teeth, fighting down an urge to strike the wheel. Quick to anger he was also quick to forgive, although kept that questionable value to himself. The image he portrayed was fine by him—it gave him solitude when he needed it and was always handy to end a tricky conversation. Conversely, it also allowed him to follow orders, which was Smyth’s highest goal in life. He would make a show of disliking them but would always fall in line, because that’s where he wanted to be—out of the limelight.

  When Lauren’s cab cleared the Dupont Circle and stopped outside the Plaza, Smyth allowed his Chevy to drift over to the opposite curb. Illegally parked and finding it hard to care he stalked across the road to her blind side. Concerned that he remain hidden from her sight, he needn’t have bothered. Lauren’s eyes were fixed firmly ahead, as much in an effort to avoid appraising glances as a way of getting her head in the game. Through the hotel doors they went, then Smyth saw his first major problem.

  Elevators.

  As Lauren headed across the large lobby, Smyth scoured the room for an ally. The first that caught his eye was a short bellhop, dressed in the hotel’s smart livery. With a bound Smyth was at the guy’s side.

  “The woman heading toward the elevators.” He didn’t need to elaborate. Judging by the bellhop’s eyes there was only one woman in the lobby at that moment. “I need to know the number of the room she goes into.”

  He flashed a twenty, then a second, secretly hoping the little ass would just get a move on.

  “Hooker?” the bellhop asked. “Or cheating wife?”

  Smyth wanted to slap him. “Both,” he hissed. “Now, hurry. You’ll be helping out a good man.”

  The bellhop, already sold, snatched the bills from Smyth’s hand and surged forward, pushing a half-loaded suitcase trolley. Smyth nodded in appreciation.

  The bellhop grinned. “Not my first rodeo.”

  Smyth didn’t smile back. His lips stretched thin and his eyes clouded as he watched Lauren enter the elevator.

  Something was going to ignite here, in this hotel, he was sure of it. Something big. Lauren was only fanning the flames, heading into the heart of the fire. For the first time that he could remember, he just hoped he would be proved wrong.

  *

  Lauren reacted fast. Luckily the bellhop was plodding by at that moment, pushing his half-loaded trolley. Her eyes flicked from Stone to the bellhop and she stayed silent.

  Thank God for the bellhop.

  The general winced a little, perhaps realizing he’d come close to being spotted, perhaps not caring one iota. In his game, at his level, any kind of publicity could be doctored, spun, and put to good use. He held the door open.

  Lauren squeezed inside, distinctly conscious that Stone made no effort to move aside. When their bodies touched he grunted, licking his lips. These were the times when Lauren really had to rein in her true nature. The everyday New Yorker persona was confident, outspoken, streetwise and more than a little caustic. Her professional façade kept those qualities under wraps, preferring to express them in other ways once she got her most obnoxious subjects under lock and key.

  Or Saran wrap, she speculated.

  For now, Stone was the client. She jammed herself into the room, expecting and immediately seeing a lavish apartment. Would somebody like Stone charge this to the taxpayer?

  She almost laughed aloud. Stupid question.

  Fiddling with the buttons on her coat, Lauren drifted over to the ceiling-length windows, pretending to be entranced by the lights as she gathered her courage. Tonight, she was sure, she was working for the good guys against the enemy. And that simple adjustment to her standard Nightshade character made all the damn difference.

  In less than a minute, Stone was behind her, hands by his sides. “Before we get started,” he said. “Maybe you should meet my associate, Mr. Bell.”

  Stone placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her around. Nicholas Bell stood to one side, grinning. Lauren’s immediate thought was Shit, have we got this all wrong? Bell looked like a nice guy: great smile, hard body, laughing eyes. The complete opposite of Stone. Lauren was immediately drawn to the man, a rare event in her line of work. Was he really working with Stone? And what did the goddamn Pythians want with these two?

  Bell stepped forward, right hand held out. “Nicholas Bell. Builder. Pleased to meet you.”

  Lauren smiled and shook. The only chink to this man’s agreeable armor was that he had given her his real name and, possibly, occupation. Builder? Maybe not. Only those with ludicrous superiority complexes would give the game away at first contact.

  She remained on guard. “Nightshade,” she said with an arched smile.

  “The bane of many a good man.” Bell offered her a glass of champagne.

  Lauren never drank in a strange apartment. She declined with a wave of her hand. “Shall we get started?”

  Bell bowed. “I am yours to command.”

  Stone retired to the lounge, leaving them alone. Bell leaned in and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Thank God, I thought the old bastard was going to stick around and watch.”

  Lauren tried to hide the quick grin but failed. “Are you ready, Mr. Bell? Before we get started I always like to agree on a safe word. You know, if things get a little too . . . challenging? Does purple work for you?”

  Again the diverting smile. “Whatever you say.”

  Lauren hesitated. “Has Stone explained to you what I do?” Twice in the past she had visited clients that had been “set up” by their so-called friends, men that had run screaming when the nipple clamps came out.

  Bell only nodded.

  Lauren unbuttoned her coat, letting the material pool to the floor. Bell gasped appreciatively. Underneath she wore black stockings, a leather skirt that fell to mid-thigh, shiny boots that ended at the knee and a matching jacket with a shiny silver zip, undone to maximize her cleavage.

  “Lady,” Bell almost panted. “That’s—”

  Lauren cracked the whip. “Shut your mouth,” she said. “And get down on your knees.”

  *

  As she acted out her routine Lauren found her mind wandering. It wasn’t worth speculating on why a man like Bell would pay for her attentions. Men were complex beasts, impossible to ever fully understand, brimming with all sorts of primeval needs. Men buried their secrets deep and that was why Lauren found it difficult, impossible even, to form any kind of relationship with one. Yes, she was jaded, cynical, but then she had seen
the opposite sex in all its degradations.

  Take Nicholas Bell as a prime example. Rich, powerful, very good looking. No doubt he drove an expensive car, prowled the streets through the day and hit the clubs and private receptions at night, leaving with a girl draped over each powerful shoulder. A playboy. A celebrity in his own small world.

  Take away the wealthy trimmings and Lauren might have been attracted to him. Add the dash of darkness and every ounce of perception in her body screamed out in warning. The trouble was, where men were concerned they always did.

  Canned laughter drifted through from the lounge, Stone watching some kind of regimented comedy. Lauren straddled Bell’s back, scraping blood red fingernails down the length of his spine. The man shivered. Lauren swiveled and continued around the swell of his buttocks, the sensitive backs of his legs. With the tip of her whip she brushed the soles of his feet. Bell, confined, could only grunt and roll. Lauren climbed off and taught him the error of his ways.

  Two hours passed. Lauren alternated between pleasure and pain, always leaving Bell guessing as to what was coming next—the gentle tickling touch of her long dark hair across his chest or the sharp sting of the whip; the bite of teeth, human or otherwise; the delectable tip of her tongue. A time came when Bell barely knew which century they were in and didn’t care. The sounds of his elation finally drowned out the monotonous TV.

  Later, they lay on the luxurious couch together, one of them sipping wine. Lauren found Bell, now wrapped in a thick white robe, laid back and relaxed, taking time to listen to her as well as address her comments. For those moments she felt like she was the only thing on his mind, but she couldn’t help but know otherwise. The man was a consummate player, or an unwitting innocent. Lauren could only guess as to which. Again she was struck by how different he was to Stone—Bell lying around half-naked and growing gradually drunker whereas Stone was always reserved, inflexible, as taut as the suspension wires on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  It was only when the general walked in that Lauren fully remembered her mission. Hours had passed and she was no closer to any kind of truth. On the plus side both men seemed to be at ease with her.

  “In a moment,” Stone said. “I shall take a turn but in the meantime I need to talk to Mr. Bell here. Privately.”

  “Wait right here.” Bell patted her hip.

  “Oh, I don’t think she’s going anywhere,” Stone bellowed. “I think the girl enjoys our little trysts.”

  Lauren shrugged, pouring herself another glass of wine and stretching along the couch so that her long legs were revealed. The two men walked back into the lounge with lingering looks, mere clay dolls for her to manipulate. When they closed the door Lauren swallowed down her anxiety, tipped the wine into a nearby plant pot, and headed across the room.

  The best part of her job as Nightshade, she reflected, was that she didn’t actually have to lie with men like these. She was broad-minded to say the least, but some requests still shocked her and powerful characters like Stone and Bell acting out submissive role plays didn’t sit right. Now she placed her ear carefully to the closed door and thought a silent Yes! when she heard Stone mute the TV.

  “Enjoying my gift, Nicholas?” Stone’s voice was faint, but Lauren could still hear the superior tones. She pressed herself closer to the door, angered by his superciliousness.

  “Passes the dull hours of waiting,” Bell answered without any emotion to his voice. “I’m still at a loss as to why Webb suggested I should come down here instead of returning home.”

  Lauren remembered the name. Stone’s laugh was cold. “Perhaps it’s to keep you safe.”

  Bell didn’t have Stone’s deep sense of sarcasm and condescension. “You think? I thought he might be trying to keep an eye on me.”

  Stone didn’t respond. He went silent for a while, prompting Lauren’s heart to miss a beat. Was he approaching the door? If she left it too late she wouldn’t be able to make the couch in time . . .

  Then he spoke again. “Whilst you were . . . occupied . . . I took a call from Mr. Webb. Things have moved along.”

  Lauren heard footsteps. With a trusted instinct born of years of vetting clients she bounded back toward the couch, draping herself at the last second. The lounge door opened and Stone stuck his head out.

  “Have everything you need, dear? Don’t you fall asleep on us, now.”

  Lauren made a practice swing with her whip. “Just keeping it warm.”

  Stone withdrew, closing the door once more. Lauren immediately took her life in her hands and sprang across the room, again placing her ear to the smooth surface.

  “Can’t be too careful,” she heard Stone say. “Like I was saying—things have moved along.” Lauren now heard an entirely uncharacteristic and frankly bizarre tone of excitement enter his voice. “The factory,” he said. “It is finished.”

  “Really?” Bell sounded shocked. “That was fast.”

  Stone’s utter elation shone through in his raised voice. Lauren found the sound of it more than creepy.

  “The factory is finished. Pandora can now be weaponized!”

  “Shit.” Bell’s voice betrayed his fear.

  “What? Does that scare you?”

  “We don’t even have Pandora yet. It’s too early. There’s so much to do.”

  “Keep your goddamn panties on, Bell. Unless that whore stuffed ‘em where the sun don’t shine. Huh? Huh?”

  Lauren felt her hands clench into fists.

  “No, Bill. I mean the factory is everything. The hub of our Pandora operation.”

  “My operation,” Stone cut in.

  “Yes, and the factory’s on the other side of the world. Beyond our control. Is Webb sure they got it right? For an operation that started off so slow it sure is gaining ground at warp speed.”

  “If you were a military man you would know operations do that,” Stone said. “Slow to start, then a magnificent rush and you’re done. Every one fluid, ever-changing. You have to go with the flow, ride the treacherous waves. Christ, man, that’s the fun part.”

  “If you think I see this particular operation as fun then you’re vastly more screwy than I first believed.”

  “Well, Miranda’s up soon. Imagine what wonders that perverted bitch can conjure up. Between you and me, I’m looking forward to her offering.”

  Again, Lauren stored the name away. Whatever these people were up to it clearly wasn’t a shopping trip to Macy’s and they appeared to have associates. Then she heard a comment that almost stopped her heart.

  It was Stone’s callous voice. “If the governments don’t fall into line thousands will die. Hundreds of thousands. This Pandora plague . . . it will make us.”

  Lauren didn’t hear what else was said for at least thirty seconds. That single word, despite its apparent absence in any standard worldwide form for centuries, still struck a hot white lance into most people’s hearts.

  Plague.

  The word conjured rotting bodies in the streets, horrible, agonizing pustule-based death, no chance of immunity and that dreaded waiting . . . waiting to see if you or your loved ones contracted it.

  Lauren pushed the terror aside, forcing herself to concentrate on what was being said inside the lounge. Now more than ever the information she gleaned tonight was imperative.

  “. . . time to find the three plague pits,” Stone was saying. “If we fail there we fail with the entire operation.”

  Good to know, Lauren thought.

  “And then Miranda?” Bell’s voice shivered.

  “Maybe. I heard Clifford’s looking hard for this lost kingdom,” Stone said, unreserved in his glee. “But first—it’s my turn. The factory will start up in earnest as soon as we provide samples. So let’s get to it. Our network of soldiers is immense, and each regiment, even each cell, believes it is working for somebody else, and that that person works for the Pythians. Ingenious, yes?”

  Again Lauren missed Bell’s response. Pythians? Was that why the secret group were int
erested in Stone and Bell? Because they were besmirching their notorious name?

  Then Stone said, “Back to our pleasures.”

  And Bell answered. “I’ll leave you to it. We are the Pythians.”

  Stone’s answer was just as reverent. “We are the Pythians.”

  As footsteps came toward the door, Lauren’s jaw hit the floor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Excuse me, my dear, but I think we can double your money.” Stone exited the room whilst speaking, then locked eyes on to her position. “What are you doing?”

  Lauren turned from the window, empty glass in hand. “Admiring the view, Mr. Stone. Would you like to do the same?”

  She struck a pose with the lights of DC shining behind her, the handcuffs hanging from her belt and brushing her thigh, the jacket now fully unzipped.

  Stone indicated the bag containing the tricks of her trade. “Want to do both of us at the same time? That’s five grand for you.”

  It took all the years and every ounce of Lauren’s experience to affect a lascivious smile. “Nightshade would be pleased with that.”

  Stone advanced, followed by Bell. Lauren noticed a wide smile replacing the sick look coating his face. “Round two?” he asked.

  “The final round.” Lauren couldn’t help but return the smile.

  *

  Hours later, Lauren walked away as the two tired, sore men shrugged into luxurious dressing gowns. Seeing another opportunity she swigged from a champagne bottle, draining it dry so that they would think she’d consumed more than an entire bottle that night. The three sat and talked quietly, now breaking out the Bourbon, Stone with his typical conceited reserve, and Stone with his open charm. Lauren had to admit that together they made a very complex team. What did that mean for the rest of the Pythians?

  Feigning exhaustion, she mentioned leaving and then sleep, taking a full double-shot of Bourbon and pretending to pass out right there on the couch. The ball was in their court. They would either make her comfortable, call her a cab, or take some kind of advantage. Lauren was covered in every way, she could always feign waking up. Not only that but she believed Bell would protect her honor.