SLEEPER (Crossfire Series) (3 page)

For her sake, she must focus on what was ahead and not let her past overtake her life like it had before. She would deal with her problem after she took care of the girls. That would be her atonement for all the wrongs she’d caused. She almost laughed out loud. When she had left Velesta behind, she had promised to be a different person from then on. She must be doing it right—atonement was scarcely a word the old Llallana Noretski would have used.

But then the old Lily hadn’t had the problems she had now. She was afraid again. Being on the run. Living life like there was no tomorrow. She’d never thought this would happen again to her after so many years. She didn’t like the insecurity and fear that engulfed her whenever she thought of the future. It was as if she was back to square one, when she’d been in those girls’ shoes.

Lily deliberately pushed those thoughts away again. Later. Not now. Instead, she focused on the girls and the rest of her plans. This was the final trip, with no problems in both runs. At least the first group, the ones who needed the most care, was already waiting for them in Tirana, Albania.

With everyone in one place, they would lay low while she tried to find out what was happening out there. She had already checked on Amber and Hawk. They were alive, thank God. Hawk hadn’t failed her. In her madness, she’d still found a way to save her friend.

Stop it. You have more important things to think about.
Like figuring out the different routes to ensure the girls get to where they wanted to go. And the downtime would help her recuperate too. She’d to get better with time, right? She wanted to thump on the dashboard in frustration. Again her thoughts had circled back to herself.

Lily heard the girls behind her whispering among themselves as their nervousness dissipated. It was good they had each other to talk to. They could help each other chase away the bad memories for a while.

She wished she had Amber to talk to again. Amber would know what to do with her problem. No one would better understand what they’d done to Lily, but Amber was now seriously ill in the hospital because of her. After what she’d done, her ex-friend probably hated her guts.

Lily glanced at the side-view mirror to check whether they were being followed. There had been no telltale signs back there, but she had been on these runs before. Mercenaries. KLA gangs. And this time it was just her and a bunch of women. Without the presence of any men, they would look very suspicious to anyone who might stop them.

If nothing else, at least she knew how to do this right. Knowing she had this one mission to do was like a rope thrown over the side of the cliff on which she was hanging desperately. She didn’t dare look down below her.
Long way down
. Maybe she would fall into hell, where she belonged.

That was just her being silly. She wasn’t going crazy.

*.*.*

“
Das macht nichts.
I’ll find it. She can’t be too far if she isn’t dead. No matter what, I’ll get this operation done so I can get back home.” There were nieces and nephews who had never met her whom she wanted to see. There was a nice country
dacha
waiting for her, with all the things she had missed so much. She tried not to sound too impatient as she interrupted her caller. “That makes two of us. Isn’t it your job to find out who activated her and tried to double-cross me? I thought she was the decoy, and it turns out she was the real thing. There I was at the summit waiting like an idiot when news got back to me that my nephew had been killed. What does the CIA have to say about that?”

It wasn’t easy conversing in German for long periods anymore, and the man on the other side was irritating her. After all, it had been more than ten years. Of course he knew her background and must think that since she was German by descent, that was the language that came naturally to her. But she’d been recruited by the Soviets for almost a quarter of a century, so her language of choice would be Russian or Croatian. Nobody, however, knew that. They all still thought the Germans were behind this.

“What, is it so surprising there is a double agent in the Agency?” She wanted to laugh. What did that make her? A double double agent? “I want everything you have on her ASAP. She’s responsible for Dragan’s death, so I’d like to handle her myself, if you know what I mean.”

She studied her hand as she listened. She liked looking at her longer nails. It’d been such a long time since she had painted them her favorite pink. “Are you suggesting that I’m too old for the game?” she asked, injecting a note of politeness in her voice. She supposed they had a right to be concerned. After all, she was no longer in her prime as an assassin, but a woman didn’t like being told she was too old, even to kill. “My ten years away from the job hasn’t diminished any of my skills. After all, I’ve had to personally take care of a few of your little spill-ups in the States, remember? You owe me this, Gunth. Fax me all you have on her tonight.”

She switched the cell phone to her other ear so she could inspect her other set of nails. Damn it, two were chipped. Her voice sharpened as she changed into English. “Tell you what. I’ll fly over to where you are and extract what I want from you. Then I’m going to send your favorite body part back to the top.” She smiled at the image. “Are you daring me? I may be old, but I still love a challenge. And Gunth, I’ll remember that you’ve insulted me. Verstehen?”

Greta snapped her cell phone shut. She tapped it against her chin, as she stared thoughtfully out the train window, half-listening to the growl and rumble of wheels speeding over steel tracks. Usually she would be enjoying a good cup of espresso while she sat in her private compartment, doing a little bit of knitting, or playing solitaire. It was a good way to relax.

She smiled again. Perhaps she was getting old. After all, she had played being old for so damn long. Her gaze fell on the knitting bag on the seat across from her. The knitting habit came from her other life, when she had projected the image of a harmless, grandmotherly older woman with ever-whitening hair, knitting peacefully in the corner of the bus or train, with her black pearl-handled knit bag. The CIA loved her. Nobody had given her more than a second glance.

Ten years. Maybe she had really begun to believe that she was a sweet old grandma. Even now her hands itched for the soothing motion of one knitting needle looping a woolen thread from another. Loop, slide out, tighten.

Greta looked at her hands. They always said one could tell how old a person was by looking at her hands. She didn’t think so. She had nice hands, but with short, unpainted nails and a simple gold ring, they had looked very normal. Now that she was out of DC, her hands were hers again—nicely manicured with long nails that would have looked ludicrous on the old lady in the bus. She frowned. She really didn’t want to give up knitting yet, but it wasn’t good on her nails.

She put down her cell phone and smoothed her hands across the tabletop. It was that stupid bitch’s fault, of course, that her plans were delayed. If everything had worked out right, she would have been on her way home, happily retired—or semi, she hadn’t quite decided that yet—and she would have been on her way to meet the nieces and nephews she hadn’t seen in over a decade.

Family. She’d thought about them often while she had been away. Impossible to have stayed in touch, of course. She’d spoken briefly on the phone several times in ten years, but most of the conversations had been too short and not satisfying. If everything had gone according to plan, that last operation would have been a nice wrap-up of her career.

She shook her head. All right, at least for a while. She wasn’t quite ready to fade into nothing yet. Let’s face it. If she’d succeeded in assassinating the current newly elected premier of Slavinistan, then the international summit would have been a failure and the powers-that-be would have been very happy with her homecoming. Now they were just pleased. After all, she’d given them ten years of her life. It would have been nice, though, if she’d returned with that little present she’d promised them, the tiny explosive device trigger, so they could copy its technology. It would have been very nice if she’d been able to demonstrate its effectiveness with Liashenko’s assassination.

But that was the fun of being out in the field, something for which she’d yearned when she’d walked into the CIA building and headed to the same office every day. Being a handler to several American traitors was boring, boring work. Not at all challenging. If not for her, these stupid men would have been caught and killed off a dozen times already. As it was, the whole charade at that office had lasted ten years.

She knew she’d done well even without this final victory. She was already achieving legendary status among the covert world, and especially with the operatives back home, for all that she had accomplished. The whole big scandal in DC right now, with all their internal investigations and Intelligence committee hearings, was because of her doing.

Greta couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Ah, that little old white-haired grandma had wreaked havoc for the CIA all right. And it was all her, Greta Van Duren’s, doing.

She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of accomplishment. It would be easy to trace a stupid thing like Llallana Noretski. She was just another greedy loser being used by the agencies.

There were still people in the CIA she could contact besides Gunther. She sniffed at the memory of how supercilious the other agent had been to her on the phone. As if she were a washed-out old operative, running away from DC. She frowned. That was not the perception she wanted to end her career with.

She would get the files on Llallana Noretski. Someone had thought of using her as a human bomb to kill off an entire summit filled with world leaders. There must be more to this. They must have something over the Noretski girl. What?

The ambitiousness of that plan had astounded Greta when she’d figured out what was happening. One hit, she could understand, but an entire board of world leaders? That would have certainly been someone’s career icing. But who? And why?

She was intrigued. That was why she didn’t actually want to truly retire. That would mean she would be out of the loop, and after playing secretary at the great CIA office, handling secrets back and forth between deputy directors, she was addicted to the power of knowing everything.

Langmut
. One thing at a time. After ten years dawdling around CIA red tape, she had learned the patience of the old man at the sea. There went that stupid word again. She opened her eyes. Old. She didn’t want to look old when she returned home. She wanted to look beautiful and sophisticated, the way she’d been when she’d been the number one assassin.

Langmut
. Greta released a long sigh, then cracked her neck to release the tension. She would knit and think of a plan to teach Miss Noretski and her handler a lesson about double-crossing Greta Van Duren.

CHAPTER 2

Six weeks later

There’s nothing wrong with me.

Lily stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. There were smudges under her eyes from lack of sleep, but, apart from that, she felt and looked perfectly fine. Just a little stressed out, that was all.

After all, she was living with a bunch of moody teenagers, for heaven’s sake. There were enough catfights around here to last her a lifetime.

She welcomed it, which was ironic. She wanted to be alone, had always preferred to be alone, and now she was afraid of it. That was because when she was by herself, she started to think, and thinking made her afraid.

Lily ran a comb slowly through her hair. The back was curling out softly around her shoulders. She needed a haircut; she liked the short, easy style she’d kept for years. All she needed was a pair of scissors and a few quick snips.

She stared down at the scissors by the sink. There was no logical reason for it—she just couldn’t make herself cut her own hair. It was as if staring at her reflection scared her. What if something inside had been programmed that Lily must have short hair? Maybe she was being prepared for another task.

She shook her head and quickly turned on the tap. Leaning down, she splashed her face with cold water, welcoming the sharp, icy slap.

It’d been over two months since she’d run away with the girls, and except for one time, she still hadn’t been able to say the words out loud. The only person who knew about her condition was Tatiana, and even she wasn’t too sure what was wrong with Lily. Hell, she wasn’t too sure herself. She could only remember up to a point, and then everything was a jumbled mass of images. After that she was just…herself. Right?

She bit her lip, drawing her teeth slowly over the lower one. How could she explain brainwashing to a teenager when she didn’t even know how it’d been done to her? But at least Tatiana had accepted the story and had kept an eye on her to make sure she didn’t go anywhere without a reason. That was important—she couldn’t disappear without permission.

She wanted to laugh at the incongruity of that thought but couldn’t. These days the things going round and round in her head were bizarre. If she were programmed to disappear, how would she or anyone else be able to stop her?

Lily leaned closer to the mirror, looking deeply into the dark irises of her eyes, trying to find answers to her unspoken questions. Who was in there? She felt like one of those people who had multiple personalities. Could she really have undergone some kind of brainwashing? It had taken years before the CIA had activated her, and even though she’d somehow stopped herself in time, something inside her was still ticking. What if there were other things she’d been told to do?

The notion horrified her. She blinked back the sudden swell of tears. She’d worked so hard all these years to be in total control of her life, and to find out that she had never been—ever—both devastated and pissed her off. Like this crying. She’d been doing that a lot lately. As if tears could change her situation and what she’d done. As if self-pity would make her feel less lonely.