about this at all. “Later.”
She frowned down at her desk, at her files there, at the page of notes she had written—in Danish. About . . . moving to Israel? Notes about safeguarding Mutti’s furniture, some of which miraculously had been kept in perfect condition by neighbors while they’d been—
Oh, dear.
She pulled another file on top of it, and Des stood up. As her personal assistant for years, he knew enough not to press. “All right. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I do need something. I need to find Marte Gunvald.” Helga looked at him. “I’ve tried before, but now . . .” Maybe if she located Marte, found out about Annebet, made some kind of physical connection with the part of her past that she’d avoided for so long, she’d stop being haunted by these vivid memories that sucked her back in time and disoriented her so. “Can you help me find her? I know you still have some intelligence connections.”
That was putting it mildly.
A former member of a U.S. Air Force elite rescue squad, Desmond had come to Israel in the early 1980s after marrying an Israeli woman and converting to Judaism. Those first few years, he’d worked with the unrivaled Israeli intelligence agency, Mossad. When he’d been appointed as her personal assistant several years later, Helga had suspected he’d been given the assignment because, with her, he could do things—go places and observe people—he otherwise wouldn’t have been able to do, standing out rather visibly as a black man in a predominantly white world.
In all the years they’d been together, Helga had never asked Des a favor like this. She’d never played the intelligence card.
Until now.
It had never been this important.
He nodded. Got out the little leather-bound notepad he always carried in his inside jacket pocket. “Marte Gunvald,” he said as he wrote. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you,” she said as he went out the door. “Give Rachel my love.”
Des stopped. “Rachel’s been dead for two years.”
Merde. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Tired,” he said. “Yeah, I know. I’m tired, too.”
Stan watched Joel Hogan follow Teri Howe out of the fast food restaurant, swung his legs clear of the booth, and stood up.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, briefly meeting Tom Paoletti’s eyes. Nodding to the other officers at the table, he headed for the same door through which both Howe and Hogan had exited.
Hogan was married, but men and women on the base sometimes had extramarital affairs, same as in the civilian world. And it was possible that what he’d just seen was some kind of kinky game Teri Howe was playing with the movie-star handsome lieutenant commander.
If that was the case, he’d find them in some closet, with Hogan’s tongue in her mouth and his hand down her pants, breaking every rule in the book on appropriate behavior for an officer and a gentleman while on base.
That was if he found them at all.
But on the other hand, the tension he’d seen on Teri’s face and in her shoulders and in the way she clutched her tray sure didn’t look as if it came from playing some sex game. When she’d pulled away from Hogan back in the Mickey D’s, every fiber of her being had been shouting for him to get his fucking hands offa her.
Of course, maybe that was just what Stan himself had felt like shouting.
God damn, the woman deserved a little respect. She was one of the best helo pilots he’d ever worked with, and he’d worked with plenty. But Howe was beyond solid. She was reliable. Efficient. Self-confident. Unshakable. Fearless in the air.
He’d seen her take her helo down and hover nearly motionless within yards of the radio tower on an oceanographic research vessel, a ship called the SS Freedom, out in the middle of the Pacific.
When the call from the Freedom had come in, she’d been transporting the Troubleshooter Squad home from a training op. They’d just spent three weeks
She frowned down at her desk, at her files there, at the page of notes she had written—in Danish. About . . . moving to Israel? Notes about safeguarding Mutti’s furniture, some of which miraculously had been kept in perfect condition by neighbors while they’d been—
Oh, dear.
She pulled another file on top of it, and Des stood up. As her personal assistant for years, he knew enough not to press. “All right. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I do need something. I need to find Marte Gunvald.” Helga looked at him. “I’ve tried before, but now . . .” Maybe if she located Marte, found out about Annebet, made some kind of physical connection with the part of her past that she’d avoided for so long, she’d stop being haunted by these vivid memories that sucked her back in time and disoriented her so. “Can you help me find her? I know you still have some intelligence connections.”
That was putting it mildly.
A former member of a U.S. Air Force elite rescue squad, Desmond had come to Israel in the early 1980s after marrying an Israeli woman and converting to Judaism. Those first few years, he’d worked with the unrivaled Israeli intelligence agency, Mossad. When he’d been appointed as her personal assistant several years later, Helga had suspected he’d been given the assignment because, with her, he could do things—go places and observe people—he otherwise wouldn’t have been able to do, standing out rather visibly as a black man in a predominantly white world.
In all the years they’d been together, Helga had never asked Des a favor like this. She’d never played the intelligence card.
Until now.
It had never been this important.
He nodded. Got out the little leather-bound notepad he always carried in his inside jacket pocket. “Marte Gunvald,” he said as he wrote. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you,” she said as he went out the door. “Give Rachel my love.”
Des stopped. “Rachel’s been dead for two years.”
Merde. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Tired,” he said. “Yeah, I know. I’m tired, too.”
Stan watched Joel Hogan follow Teri Howe out of the fast food restaurant, swung his legs clear of the booth, and stood up.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, briefly meeting Tom Paoletti’s eyes. Nodding to the other officers at the table, he headed for the same door through which both Howe and Hogan had exited.
Hogan was married, but men and women on the base sometimes had extramarital affairs, same as in the civilian world. And it was possible that what he’d just seen was some kind of kinky game Teri Howe was playing with the movie-star handsome lieutenant commander.
If that was the case, he’d find them in some closet, with Hogan’s tongue in her mouth and his hand down her pants, breaking every rule in the book on appropriate behavior for an officer and a gentleman while on base.
That was if he found them at all.
But on the other hand, the tension he’d seen on Teri’s face and in her shoulders and in the way she clutched her tray sure didn’t look as if it came from playing some sex game. When she’d pulled away from Hogan back in the Mickey D’s, every fiber of her being had been shouting for him to get his fucking hands offa her.
Of course, maybe that was just what Stan himself had felt like shouting.
God damn, the woman deserved a little respect. She was one of the best helo pilots he’d ever worked with, and he’d worked with plenty. But Howe was beyond solid. She was reliable. Efficient. Self-confident. Unshakable. Fearless in the air.
He’d seen her take her helo down and hover nearly motionless within yards of the radio tower on an oceanographic research vessel, a ship called the SS Freedom, out in the middle of the Pacific.
When the call from the Freedom had come in, she’d been transporting the Troubleshooter Squad home from a training op. They’d just spent three weeks
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