Best Served Cold: Cold Play, #1

Chapter One

The pay phone at Syntagma Square rang at precisely midnight.

Keefe Pearson, covered from shoulder-to-toe in black, emerged from the darkness and hurried to answer. Without preamble she asked, Who is the new suit at the embassy? Is he a threat to me?

Dr. Pearson—

I hear he’s asking questions. Is he CIA? Keefe demanded from her source in the intelligence community.

He was but that’s all we know. Langley’s not talking.

At least one confirmation of her suspicions, but was that a good thing?

She sucked in a deep breath. Is he looking into someone at Pearson? Her biggest worry. Pearson Institute of Antiquities embodied her life’s work. She’d never let anyone threaten PIA, but could something be happening within PIA of which she was unaware? Afghan poppies came to mind. Or does he have a more specific interest? she asked. Had she been exposed? Her throat ached and her stomach churned at the possibility. If the CIA knew... God, she didn’t even want to think about the ramifications.

I’ll find out. Same time, seventy-two hours.

The line went dead.

Keefe hung up the receiver. She leaned her forehead against the pay phone and swallowed back the angst building inside. What was happening? She’d never been under surveillance before. Her scheme was still highly secret, but a few trustworthy people had mentioned Evan Jahnning’s casual interest—enough to make her suspicious.

Since she’d returned to Greece a week ago after her a three month sabbatical at the University of California, Keefe had started taking precautions—no office calls, no cell phone, no contacts at her home. An embassy employee asking questions meant only one thing—the CIA had picked up her trail. A CIA man could not only expose her, he could put her in grave danger. Danger she would gladly accept if the timing were right. At all costs, she had to ensure her purpose remained hidden. Should the slightest whisper of her intent reach Nazim Al-Shoka, she’d be dead. Nothing would get in the way of avenging her grandfather’s death. Nothing and no one.

The CIA might think they could use her connection to Al-Shoka, but this was personal and she wasn’t going to share. Nor would she allow the CIA’s bumbling, undisguised interference to expose her luck-or-nothing scheme to kill her worst enemy.

Glancing around, she walked toward the opposite side of the square in the direction of the Hotel Grande Bretagne. The disgruntled crowds of protestors had gone home for the day. Keefe glided around the white plastic coffee tables and passed the tall trees planted about the square. She removed her Dodger’s cap and shook out her hair. She wore a lightweight reversible jacket. Pulling it off, she stuffed the cap and covering into her oversized handbag. Underneath she wore a sparkly sequin top.

Keefe fought back the light panic. She’d come too far to fail now. She owed so much to her grandfather. While he would not have wanted her to put her life in danger, she had to do something to honor his memory and avenge his death.

But nothing would take away the intense pain of his loss. Even now, her breath caught hard in her chest just thinking of those awful days.

A soft, hot, late summer breeze blew across her face and rustled through the trees around the square. By the time she arrived at the front steps of the hotel, she looked as if she was going out to party.

She knew the doorman. Themi, could you call me a taxi? she asked sweetly. She’d snuck out of her home tonight. The green van parked at the end of her street was an annoying and obvious clue she was being watched.

Dr. Pearson, I didn’t know you were staying at the hotel this evening. Themi waved a hand and a taxi approached.

I’m not. Just a late-night appointment, she said. She used her smile to distract him from any other questions, then climbed inside the taxi. Themi slammed the door behind her.

Deep breathing didn’t help put her thoughts in order.

Jahnning wanted something from her. She needed to find out what—and soon.

She’d have to prepare for his first salvo. Would he be at the exhibit tomorrow night? Embassy personnel were always invited.

Keefe knew what she had to do, but she’d never been good at patiently waiting for the battle to come to her. She might not be able to do anything immediately about Al-Shoka, but she could go after Jahnning.

* * * * *

Tonight’s the night, Evan Jahnning muttered to himself as he looked in the mirror while clumsily knotting his black bow tie. He lifted his chin to examine the results. Shaking his head, he tugged the knot loose and started over again.

As Cultural Liaison to the U.S. Embassy in Athens, he had spent the last eighty days meeting every important person in the Hellenic Republic. Embassy staff had eagerly accommodated his needs and he spent large portions of each day attending meetings and greeting dignitaries. In other words, being a real embassy employee.

The spying he slipped in when no one was looking. Oh, not the kind of spying he’d done in Russia. That was the kind of government intelligence work that got men killed. That almost got him killed. The spying he did now was more like Peeping Tom work—schlepping around Athens, snooping into Dr. Pearson’s business, trying to discover who she met and where she went. He probably should have been insulted, but he was just thankful for something to do.

At thirty-five, Evan wasn’t ready to be put to pasture yet. Though he was on leave from the most arduous duties, the government chose to humor him after his years of dedicated service. Undoubtedly his super spook boss David Freeman had rigged the embassy job both for Evan’s peace of mind and for the convenient access to Freeman’s newest project.

The lack of specifics didn’t concern Evan. Freeman’s motives were governed by a mind that was hard-wired for complication and discretion. No assignment was what it seemed. What Freeman knew and what he told Evan were often at odds, but Freeman had never burned him. Never.

Whatever his assignment, he would do it to the best of his capabilities and right now, his assignment involved the suspicious activities of one well-connected archeologist and what she was whispering into the ears of American enemies.

While he appreciated having something to do, he hated reminders that his last assignment had been a dismal failure and that his new project was a huge step down from his previous work for the CIA. Perhaps he hated it more because he had no one to blame but himself.

And three months hadn’t changed his mind—he was not going back to Russia and he was not taking another wet work assignment for Freeman or the CIA.

It felt strange to use his real name—a definite indication of his fall in rank. He hadn’t used his real name once in Russia, as if he hadn’t existed at all.

It felt stranger still to know that tonight he would finally meet Dr. Pearson. His palms were slightly damp and he hadn’t experienced such an annoying, stomach-turning sensation since he performed in college plays. He shouldn’t be nervous, but damned if he wasn’t a little edgy. Dr. Pearson was finally within his reach.

Had anyone asked, he would have told them he had no feelings, edgy or otherwise. Exposing Dr. Pearson was an innocuous assignment any first-year spook could handle. Yet he hungered for the chase. He savored the odd sense of anticipation.

He had waited all summer for this day. Tonight would be the first opportunity he would have to speak to her. Considering he had studied her life in detail the last three months, it would be an odd contrast of expectation versus reality. An enlarged picture of her hung on the back of his office door. He was fascinated by her. She who had had every opportunity. She who would be remembered in history for her brilliant work as a humanitarian.

She who, it was whispered, was a traitor.

She was also a temptation.

He’d seen her once in real life at the onset of his assignment.

From the back of the lecture hall at the University of California—Berkeley. She had given a lecture on the Bet She’an archeological site in Israel. Evidently, the Pearson Institute had supplied several specialists to help with an updated survey and as such, had access throughout the planned dig.

He had tried to study Dr. Pearson through the entire lecture, but several times during the talk he was distracted. He caught only snatches of her presentation. Recovery. Nice ass. Documentation. Is she wearing lipstick? Analysis. What is she hiding underneath that suit? Material remains. Shit, what the hell was she even talking about? When he had realized he was leaning forward with his forearms propped on his knees, and maybe his mouth hanging open, he straightened. He’d glanced around the room and found he wasn’t the only lecherous bastard in the group. He refocused. Studied her every move. Listened to every word. Halfway through the lecture, he wished he’d snagged a seat closer to the stage. It wasn’t like him to miscalculate his advantage.

She was demure and decidedly feminine, but Evan couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t a role she played for her captive audience. Slender and muscular rather than thin. And that skin! He thought he could smell the sunshine bouncing off her. She was woman personified.

He wasn’t a coward but the idea of knowing her, meeting her, had scared him shitless. Women couldn’t be trusted—he’d learned that the hard way. A female quisling—that made her all the more dangerous. Wrap that traitor up in high heels and lipstick and anyone would have their hands full.

Evan had to look twice when she came out of the lecture hall.

He could remember her as though it was yesterday. Dr. Pearson was barely recognizable. Unbuttoned, the gray jacket revealed a pink camisole top. Flowing, wavy black hair hung loosely over her shoulders and down her back. All woman.

He nearly had to wipe the saliva from his chin.

The insane urge to run his fingers through her hair, to smell her shampoo and her skin had made his groin throb and his eyelids droop. He had shoved away the fantasy blossoming in his head—the erection blossomed anyway. Full, intense, so hard he ached. So welcome, he wanted to laugh.

He wasn’t laughing now.

He sighed before smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt and then he reached for his jacket. His beautiful, painful hard-on from three months ago had been an one-time anomaly. The few times he allowed himself to fantasize about his traitor had resulted in failure. Not surprising since he hadn’t been able to get it up at all since Russia. Only his morning wood came to visit. The doctor said it was all in his head. He believed that, he just didn’t know what to do about it.

Still, there was something about her that made him ache.

He’d refocused his efforts, his initial obsession now a clear patriotic duty. A stunning woman, yes, but he could not, would not, trust her.

His simple plan had potential. An intelligent woman like Dr. Pearson would appreciate directness. He really didn’t believe any further sneaking around would yield credible results. If he told her the truth, she would react. If he lied to her... Well, he couldn’t predict what she would do in that case. Even though lying and deceit were his stock in trade, his instincts told him this wasn’t the time.

This very afternoon James Unruh, an assistant ambassador at the embassy, had laughed in his face. Jahnning, prepare yourself to be broadsided. All day, Unruh had made sly innuendos and coarse jests about Evan meeting up with the intriguing doctor.

Evan had ignored him. How many from the embassy will be there? he had asked.

The ambassador, of course. Your sidekick, Costa Demos. Along with a couple of others. Unruh sighed. I really should go. It might be worth it just to see you stumble through your first meeting with Dr. Pearson. You’ll need someone there to mop you up off the floor afterward. But I haven’t decided—those black-tie affairs are all the same.

Costa can mop pretty well, Evan said. Costa Demos was the nearest thing Evan had to a friend at the embassy. He was an insolent kid who grew up in a tough Greek neighborhood in the Bronx. When his parents returned to Greece, Costa came along. He was always useful—he had his own network of friends around Athens that Evan had tapped into during the past three months. He might come in handy tonight.

Evan spent the afternoon trying to walk off the stiffness in his leg. It had been bothering him again. He didn’t want to go into the exhibit with a single weakness. His advantage tonight would be that he knew almost everything about almost everyone in the room. Or at least those things freely known to people with an inquiring mind. There were still secrets to discover.

He glanced at his watch. His first face-to-face meeting with Dr. Pearson would occur at the National Archeological Museum at seven o’clock. The crowd would be formidable, but he had done his homework.

He brushed his dark-blond hair back formally with a perfect part on the side. One last glance confirmed he looked the part of a stuffed shirt. He made the final adjustments to his tie and slipped on his black tuxedo jacket. Yes, Dr. Pearson. Tonight is the night.

The embassy car dropped Evan off in front of the museum, which was lit with flashing and colored lights beaming against the outside walls. Several long white banners hung between the Doric columns and flapped in the hot night wind. The printed pennants announced the new Egyptian display—an exhibit Dr. Pearson’s personal clout helped arrange. Any interaction between Greece and an Arabic partner was considered a significant achievement. It was good to know Dr. Pearson was doing her part for world peace, while subverting U.S. interests at the same time.

His investigation prepared him to believe the worst. In fact, he’d convinced himself the evidence all pointed to her guilt. Frequent trips to the Middle East, a closed-door meeting with the President of Syria, crates from a PIA dig full of Afghan poppies—those poppies turned into a fine blend of the best opium in the region. Some underling had taken the fall for that indiscretion, but the big red flag—her grandfather’s connection to the PLO and Yassir Arafat.

Dr. Pearson had the perfect cover. And, contrary to United States laws, in his line of work a person was guilty until proven innocent. Believing the worst had saved his life more than once.

The large museum galleries were filled with dignitaries and politicians. Evan had spent the last three months cultivating those relationships and smoothly worked the room, switching back and forth from English to Greek with practiced ease. Occasionally French.

He covertly watched Dr. Pearson as she accepted greetings and congratulations. This was as close as he’d been to her. From across the room, her dark hair glistened. The coppery-colored material of her dress appeared to be draped over her with nothing more than a belt to hold it in place. When she walked, he could see a flash of leg nearly to her bellybutton.

At his side, his fingers twitched with the urge to feel the silken strands of hair slide over his flesh.

There’d be no place to hide a secret in that dress.

One of her assistants never left her side. Evan knew exactly who he was—a graduate assistant from DePaul—Jeff Morrel. He’d been with Dr. Pearson at Pearson Institute of Antiquities for eighteen months.

He wondered how Morrel could keep eye contact with anyone when Dr. Pearson’s breasts appeared to garner more attention than the displays around her.

The pleasant hum of conversation and the tinkling of glasses surrounded him. The pleasant hum of anticipation made the hair on his arms bristle and his skin tingle. Wasn’t anticipation the better part of foreplay?

The four large, marble-floored galleries housed the entire exhibit excavated from a new dig at Valley of the Kings. Numerous linen-covered tables lined the walls holding large trays of hors d’ouevres along with delicate-stemmed champagne flutes. The almond hummus was particularly satisfying.

He recognized several PIA employees standing near the major exhibits providing information about the displayed antiquities. A large vinyl banner with the PIA promo line hung at the back of the largest gallery Preserving the legacy of the past for future generations. What political kiss-ass bullshit.

Evan stood beside a display case of amulets while he conversed with several acquaintances but his thoughts were on Dr. Pearson. He waited a full hour before he approached her. Mary Blankenship, the ambassador’s administrative assistant, and Costa Demos stood in the small circle talking with Dr. Pearson.

He approached with practiced confidence. Mary, I’m sorry to interrupt, but the ambassador is looking for you. He spoke the lie smoothly. Costa looked Evan in the eye, acknowledging the unspoken command to get lost. Without saying a word, Costa escorted Mary gracefully away, allowing the newest agency man the room he needed to maneuver.

Evan turned back to the group and faced Dr. Pearson.

His quarry. His beautiful, enigmatic quarry.

One might call it cautious curiosity. One might call it blatant foolishness. Whatever it was, Keefe had watched the tall, broad-shouldered blond all evening when she should have run as far and as fast as her feet would take her.

While the crowd in the room was large, Keefe knew every dignitary in attendance. Except him.

He was new. Like a shiny penny in a batch of old copper. His tux was impeccable. Distinguished yet unobtrusive. He moved with grace, sliding in and around without disruption. Invisible. Dark-blond hair perfect for him but totally indistinct. His face a beautiful sculpture but a faultless mask, unremarkable in its features. Classical.

A golden Adonis walking among mortals. The cold perfection of the heavens walking in harmony...

Keefe blinked away her thoughts—controlled her rioting, wayward notions. This man was the enemy.

So he was handsome. That fact did nothing to soften her feelings toward the walking interference she studied across the room.

He wasn’t necessarily an enemy though. He was an opponent and she’d always liked games. Nazim Al-Shoka is the enemy, she reminded herself.

She had to find fault, weakness, imperfection. To her watchful eyes, he was too obvious and too purposeful, but then she had been expecting him. No one went to the show and ignored the star. While everyone else in the room had fawned over her and her accomplishments all evening, he had tenaciously avoided her. That alone tipped his hand. He couldn’t know she had her own sources of information and had been keeping a vigilant watch for his first appearance.

Keefe peeked at him through lowered lids.

So the reports were true—the CIA was curious and here was its envoy. She no longer had to wonder about his identity.

This was Jahnning.

A walking stiff. She almost snorted. He had CIA written all over him. She knew his type—arrogant, disdainful and opinionated. And she was fully prepared to dislike him. She already disliked him because of the heartburn he’d caused. She disliked him because he was here to disrupt her carefully arranged plans. She disliked him because he appeared to be the type of man to get what he wanted.

Men like him didn’t just fade into the background hoping for chance introductions. Men like him took what they wanted, when they wanted it. And right now, he wanted to play cat and mouse across the room while he studied her.

Keefe sensed him approach with slow, deliberate forays in her direction, inching closer. She chided herself for her display of nerves. Her mouth was dry and she had a constant need to lick at her lips, which in turn made her dab at her lipstick with her small finger.

She had been in turmoil when she’d returned to Greece and found out about his interest. She wasn’t by nature an anxious person, but she’d had a gnawing in the pit of her stomach since the revelation of his inquiries.

Maybe he didn’t know about her connection to Nazim Al-Shoka. Maybe.

It would be a relief to get the first encounter behind her. And there would be an encounter. No maybe about it. She should meet him head on—put a quick point to his snooping and let him know she wouldn’t be intimidated by any government agency.

But instead of enjoying the success of her exhibit, she fretted. Each compliment she received about the unique antiquities, the bold nature of the joint Greek-Arabic venture and the efforts of PIA as an international tour de force was greeted with less than her best response. The display was dazzling—she should have been nothing less.

Keefe wasn’t at all surprised when he casually showed up in front of her. In fact, she was irritated that it had taken him so long to putter ineptly around the room. Perhaps she was supposed to be surprised by this chance meeting. Yes, that’s what he wanted—to take her off guard.

Good evening, I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. I’m Evan Jahnning, Cultural Liaison from the U.S. Embassy. Jahnning’s gaze scanned the group as if he had no particular interest in any of them. Her assistant, Jeff Morrell held out his hand then quickly introduced her and another Greek associate, the Director of the Museum, John Dimitrios. Jahnning chatted with John as if he were an old friend.

Keefe didn’t react to him. Pretending boredom and complete disinterest, she moved closer to Morrell to make a statement, her arm touching his. Jeff looked at her with a nervous, questioning gaze.

Would you gentlemen excuse us? It happened so quickly. Mild shock buzzed from her arm to her toes at the touch of his firm hand against her elbow and the manner in which he cut her from the small crowd. His hand against her skin radiated warmth, which surprised her given her assessment of his cold, calculating manner. He led her a few steps away and loosened his hold. Her body cooled at the loss of contact.

Dr. Pearson, everyone speaks so highly of your work. The exhibit is magnificent. Jahnning gestured with a wave of his hand. The compliment surprised her, but honeyed words weren’t going to soften her. If he was a threat, she would go on the offensive.

She didn’t mince words, but took the time to disguise her simmering anger with a keen edge and a direct look that announced she wasn’t fooled. Alone with him, she answered honestly. And yet you haven’t looked at a display all evening. I wonder to what magnificence you refer?

Keefe noticed when her work was ignored, and if she were in a better mood, she would have complimented him on rousing her interest. She noticed when she was ignored and he’d done a thorough job of it.

Her attack had no effect other than a slight smile and a single small tic of his eyelid that he quickly controlled. A couple from the Spanish Embassy walked by, nodding as they passed. He returned her riposte in perfect Greek. I found the Heart Scarab of Hatnofer particularly interesting. But that wasn’t from the Valley of the Kings, was it?

No. Western Thebes. It’s on loan from the Metropolitan Museum.

He shrugged. See there—an impossible amateur—I should have known. Rather than stumble through the unknown, I actually hoped for a personal escort to explain some of the exhibits in more intimate detail.

His Greek was fluent. His voice manly, confident. His posture and composure a study in perfect harmony. He hid his feelings—no emotion, no anxiety, no fear. No hint of softness. She was the one flustered in spite of believing she came tonight prepared to tackle the dilemma he represented. Keefe wouldn’t underestimate him again.

Very few men were in her league. She found most men were intimidated by her, but this Evan Jahnning was cut from a different cloth—a crisp blanket of ice. His manner confused and intrigued her—he gave nothing away.

No, that wasn’t it. It was mystery that surrounded him. The psychologist in her yearned to peel back the layers and find out what was underneath his polished, poised exterior. But how to do that when he so obviously had an agenda?

My friends call me Evan. He held out his hand, but when she didn’t accept it, he unobtrusively lowered it to his side. His approach at friendliness made her suspicious.

She smiled falsely, returning his feigned, friendly interest. Well, it’s good to know you have friends. She spoke in soft, beguiling tones, leaning toward him. And what exactly is a Cultural Liaison, Mr. Jahnning? Is that a fancy way of saying CIA? she asked. Anything to shake the truth loose. She hadn’t stopped her gentle inquiries about Jahnning.

She’d called James Unruh at the embassy and asked who’d be in attendance, which gave her an opening to ask about the new Cultural Liaison.

Wet work? A CIA assassin? That seemed like overkill.

She wasn’t ready to believe a man with Jahnning’s skill set would be called up to inquire after her because it made no sense. He wasn’t the type of man to be interested in or assigned to a project that involved her or PIA. Or have any reason to get close to her. So why then?

Josef Mazouly, her chief archeologist in Cairo, approached. She shook her head to indicate she didn’t want an interruption. The crowd hemmed her in from all sides, yet they stood alone in the midst of the throngs.

Jahnning noticed. He gazed at her, then leaned toward her left ear, invading her space, trying to intimidate her. In German, he answered her. Daring her. Your words are most imprudent, Dr. Pearson, and you don’t seem the imprudent kind, he replied smoothly, moving away as if he’d been but whispering some enchantment in her ear and then standing straight in front of her, apparently unaffected by her unprovoked attack. The crowd around them was unaware of their verbal sparring.

Keefe raised one brow. Why was she not surprised when he responded to her words in perfect German? Oh yes, he was clever—and blithely demonstrated his intimate knowledge