it does,” he agreed. “I know the FBI and the CIA have counterterrorism units that infiltrate groups like that.”
“Yes, and some of them die doing it,” Barbara recalled. She grimaced. “They say undercover officers in any organization face the highest risks.”
“The military also has counterterrorism units,” he replied. He sipped his cooling coffee. “That must be an interesting sort of job.”
“Dangerous.”
He smiled. “Of course. But patriotic in the extreme, especially when it comes to foreign operatives trying to undermine democratic interests.”
“Doesn’t the general’s former country have great deposits of oil and natural gas?” she wondered aloud.
“So we hear. It’s also in a very strategic location, and the general leans toward capitalism rather than socialism or communism. He’s friendly toward the United States.”
“A point in his favor. Gracie Pendleton says he sings like an angel,” she added with a smile.
“I heard.”
“Yes, we had that discussion earlier.” She was also remembering another discussion over the phone and her face saddened.
He reached across the table and caught her hand in his. “I really am sorry, Mom,” he said gently. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not usually like that.”
“No, you’re not.” She hesitated. She wanted to remark that it wasn’t until she asked about the lieutenant giving Gwen a rose that he’d gone ballistic. But in the interests of diplomacy, it was probably wiser to say nothing. She smiled. “How about I warm up that coffee?” she asked instead.
Gwen answered the phone absently, her mind still on the previews of next week’s episode of her favorite science fiction show.
“Yes?” she murmured, the hated glasses perched on her nose so that she could actually see the screen of her television.
“Cassaway, anything to report?”
She sat up straighter. “Sir!”
“No need to get uptight. I’m just checking in. The wife and I are on our way to a party, but I wanted to make sure things are progressing well.”
“They’re going very slowly, sir,” she said, curling up in her bare feet and jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt on her sofa. “I’m sorry, I haven’t found a diplomatic way to get him talking about the subject and find out what he knows. He doesn’t like me.…?”
“I find that hard to believe, Cassaway. You’re a good kid.”
She winced at the description.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Good woman. I try to be PC, you know, but I come from a different generation. Hard for us old-timers to work well in the new world.”
She laughed. “You do fine, sir.”
“I know this is a tough assignment,” he replied. “But I still think you’re the best person for the job. You have a way with people.”
“Maybe another type of woman would have been a better choice,” she began delicately, “maybe someone more open to flirting, and other things …”
“With Marquez? Are you kidding? The guy wrote the book on staunch outlooks! He’d be turned off immediately.”
She relaxed a little. “He does seem to be like that.”
“Tough, patriotic, a stickler for doing the right thing even when the brass disapproves, and he’s got more guts than most men in his position ever develop. Even went right up in the face of a visiting politician to tell him he was putting his foot in his mouth by interfering with a homicide investigation and would regret it when the news media got hold of the story.”
She laughed. “I read about that.”
“Takes a moral man to be that fearless,” her boss continued. “So yes, you’re the right choice. You just have to win his confidence. But you’re going to have to move a little faster. Things are heating up down in Mexico. We can’t be caught lagging when the general makes his move, you know? We have to have intel, we have to be in position to take advantage of any opportunities that present themselves. The general likes us. We want him to continue liking us.”
“But we can’t help.”
He sighed. “No. We can’t help. Not obviously. We’re in a precarious position these days, and we can’t be seen to interfere. But behind the scenes, we can hope to influence people who are in a position to interfere. Marquez is the obvious person to liaison with Machado.”
“It’s going to be traumatic for him,” Gwen said worriedly. “From the little intel I’ve been able to acquire, he has no idea about his connection to Machado. None at all.”
“Pity,” he replied. “That’s going to make it harder.” He put his hand over the receiver and spoke to someone. “Sorry, my wife’s ready to leave. I have to go. Keep me in the loop, and watch your back,” he added firmly. “We’re trying to get the inside track. There are other people, other operatives, around who would love nothing better than to see us fall on our faces. Other countries would do anything to get a foothold in Barrera. I don’t need to tell you who they are, or from what motives they work.”
“No, sir, you don’t,” she agreed. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“You always do,” he said, and there was faint affection in his tone. “Have a good evening. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir.”
She hung up the cell phone and sat staring at it in her hand. She felt a chill. So much was riding on her ability to be diplomatic and quick and discreet. It wasn’t her first difficult assignment; she was not a novice. But until now, she’d had no personal involvement. Her growing feelings for Rick Marquez were complicating things. She shouldn’t care so much about how it would hurt him, but she did. If only there was a way, any way, that she could give him a heads-up before the fire hit the fan. Perhaps, she thought, she might be able to work something out if she spoke to Cash Grier. They shared a similar background in covert ops and he knew Marquez. It was worth a try.
So Friday morning, her day off, Gwen got in her small, used foreign car and drove down to Jacobsville, Texas.
Cash Grier met her at the door of his office, smiling, and led her inside, motioning to a chair as he closed the door behind him, locked it and pulled down the shade.
She pursed her lips with a grin. “Unusual precautions,” she mused.
He smiled. “I’d put a pillow over the telephone if I thought there might be a wire near it. An ambassador’s family habitually did that in Nazi Germany in the 1930s. Even did it in front of the head of the Gestapo once.”
Her eyebrows arched as she sat down. “I missed that one.”
“New book, about the rise of Hitler, and firsthand American views on the radical changes in society there in the 1930s,” he said as he sat down and propped his big booted feet on his desk. “I love World War II history. I could paper my walls with books on the European Theatre and biographies of Patton and Rommel and Montgomery,” he added, alluding to three famous World War II generals. “I like to read battle strategies.”
“Isn’t that a rather strange interest for a guy who worked alone for years, except with an occasional spotter?” she asked, tongue in cheek. It was pretty much an open secret that Grier had been a sniper in his younger days.
He chuckled. “Probably.”
“I like history, too,” she replied. “But I lean more toward political history.”
“Which brings us to the question of why you’re here,” he replied and smiled.
She drew in a long breath and leaned forward. “I