Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(10)
That’s why sometimes he needs me.
We go through another door and pass several staff members in various uniforms who smile and nod but otherwise remain part of the backdrop. “Have you been back to California since—”
“No.”
He nods but he doesn’t press it any further, reaching for the willowy, pale blonde who rounds the corner. She looks exactly like her pictures in the newspapers and magazines, the Finnish wife of an influential U.S. Navy SEAL officer turned businessman, who likes to dress in white to match her hair and throw cocktail parties.
“This is Tuuli.”
Her cheekbones protrude with a bold smile, her deep-set chestnut eyes flashing with interest as they size me up. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. . . .” she probes, her English perfect, trace amounts of her origin detectable. She’s been in California for only four years, when Bentley married and imported her, so I’m guessing she’s had the help of a linguistics trainer.
“White,” Bentley answers for me, not giving me a chance to use my real name. He obviously wants to keep his beautiful wife in the dark where I’m concerned.
If she senses any deception, it doesn’t show. “Well, I hope you’ll be staying with us, Mr. White? I can have a room made up for you.”
“I need to get back to San Francisco tonight. But thank you.” As nice as a few nights watching California put its vines to bed for the winter would be, I have big plans for a hole-in-the-wall motel that accepts cash payments and asks no questions.
Leaning in to plant a kiss on her cheek, Bentley murmurs, “I’ll come find you when we’re done.”
She looks at the diamond-encrusted watch that decorates her slender wrist. “Don’t forget that we have that dinner tonight, right?”
“I’ll be in my suit and waiting by the door at six p.m. sharp,” he promises before continuing on, forcing me to trail, Tuuli’s curious gaze on me as I pass. I wonder exactly how much he keeps from her. I wonder if she’d be looking at me like that—and inviting me to sleep under her roof—if she knew the kinds of things I’ve done for her husband.
Maybe. Obscene wealth has a way of making people view the dark side of reality differently.
Bentley leads me into his office—a grandiose room with vaulted ceilings and Persian rugs and even an American flag in the corner—and gestures to a chair with a perfect view through the French doors of a balcony and, beyond that, hundreds of rolling acres of vineyard.
“How do you cope with such poor work conditions?”
He smirks. “Not exactly the Aegean Sea, but it’s a decent view.”
Of course he traced our call.
He settles against a hefty walnut desk in the center of the room, resting his arms on his chest. “How have you been, Sebastian? It’s been a while.”
It has been a while, both since I saw him and since someone has called me by my real name. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday that I was squatting behind blown-out walls with this man—my team’s leader—doing nothing but waiting. To live, to die, we were never sure what the long hours would bring. It was during those times that our friendship grew, that our mutual trust solidified.
A lot has happened since then. Things that cannot be forgotten.
Things that have left permanent scars.
“Fine.” I roll my eyes over the shelves, artfully decorated with books and vases and record albums. Bentley always was a sucker for a good record. My attention zeros in on the gold SEAL trident resting in a glass case. It’s identical to the one stored in my safety-deposit box in Zurich.
He sighs, stooping down to access a false panel in one of the bookcases and opening it to uncover a safe. “Still a man of few words, I see.”
“Always the ones you need, though.”
He nods, more to himself. “Yes, that too.” Spinning the dial with deft accuracy, he pops open the door and pulls out a silver briefcase. It’s the kind of case I normally open at the start of an assignment, locked by a combination and waiting for me in a secure location, left by one of a few highly trusted Alliance employees who won’t ask questions and have no information to share. “We have a situation in San Francisco that needs sorting out. A search and recovery, and potential target elimination.”
It has always been so easy to talk to Bentley. We speak the same language.
He sets the case on the coffee table in front of me and pops the latches. I don’t even need to look to know that there’s a Beretta Px4 inside. It’s my model of choice, what I’m most comfortable with, and Bentley always ensures I have one. Next to it is a suppressor, a Gerber multi-tool, a fixed-blade knife, and a new burner phone. Beneath is a folded copy of the San Francisco Chronicle and an unmarked tan folder.
I don’t make a move for the folder just yet.
“There was a . . . complication recently,” Bentley begins, choosing his words carefully. I never get all the details, but I always get enough to do my job proficiently. “It involves an ex-employee of Alliance, giving explicit details about an assignment in Afghanistan.”
“What kind of assignment exactly?”
“Intelligence collection. Marine Corps captured an insurgent and allowed my guys to question him. It was highly successful, leading us to the capture of Adeeb Al-Naseer.”
A terrorist on the most-wanted list who bombed an office building in Seattle, killing almost a thousand people.