Полная версия
Hot As Ice
Diana could only imagine what it would be like to wake up in an alien world, without friends or familiar landmarks.
Steeling herself, she fought the urge to lift a hand and stroke his cheek. He hadn’t asked for comfort or condolences, and probably wouldn’t appreciate either.
“Why don’t we sit down, Major Stone?”
She took a single step, only to come up short as two palms slapped the wall beside her head. His arms caged her. His body formed an immovable wall.
“I want a few answers first.”
“All right. But just so you know, this type of primitive behavior went the way of the poodle skirt.”
Stone remained silent for so long Diana had to fight the urge to fidget. He was too close and too…too male. To her surprise and considerable annoyance, her skin tingled under her silk long johns, and the queerest sensation gripped her belly.
Hot as Ice
Merline Lovelace
MERLINE LOVELACE
spent twenty-three years as an air force officer, serving tours at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world before she began a new career as a novelist.
Be sure to watch for Once a Hero, the next book in the exciting new CODE NAME: DANGER series, feturing Jack Carstairs, code name: Renegade, coming soon in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Merline enjoys hearing from readers and can be reached by e-mail via Internet through Harlequin’s Web site.
This is for my dad, who flew high and flew proud.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Prologue
“I hear her!”
The figure swathed from head to foot in bright orange Extreme Cold Weather gear whooped with joy. “She’s punching through!”
His companion spun in a circle, searching the endless, unbroken surface of the polar ice cap. A dozen different shades of white dazzled his eye, shielded though they were by protective goggles. The blue white of the ice. The downy, cloud-soft drifts of glistening snow. The hazy, gray white of the sky that merged with the horizon.
“I don’t hear anything!”
“Listen!”
The frustrated listener threw back his hood. He risked losing an ear to biting wind that dropped the outside temperature to almost thirty below but was too eager to care at that moment. Then he, too, gave a shout of glee as a series of sharp cracks rifled through the air.
Suddenly, a scant forty yards away, the ice cap erupted. Huge white slabs pushed upward. Groaning, they rose straight into the air before toppling over with a crash. A moment later, the tip of a black conning tower poked through the crack.
“How do you like that! She’s right on target.”
Both men grinned. Sophisticated navigational equipment had guided the USS Hawkbill from Hawaii, but good old-fashioned muscle power had provided her surfacing site…a large X shoveled in the ice.
The two oceanographers raised their hands and clapped fur-lined mitts in a jubilant high five. After months at the remote laboratory one hundred and sixty-five miles north of Point Barrow, Alaska, they were ready—more than ready!—for a fresh infusion of supplies and outside conversation. Still grinning, they watched as the submarine’s conning tower rose a foot. Two feet. Ten.
The hulking body of the sub appeared, rolling great chunks of ice off its sides. When the hatch atop the conning tower opened and a hooded sailor appeared, the two men rushed forward.
“Boy, are we glad to see you!” the senior scientist shouted. “We’re down to the last battery for the underwater observation buoy.”
“We brought the spares you requested.” Bulky and awkward in his protective gear, the seaman climbed down the iron rungs riveted to the conning tower. “We’ll start unloading immediately.”
“We’ll help. Jack, bring up the snowmobile.”
Eager to get the valuable equipment unloaded and hauled back to the collection of huts connected by air-heated tunnels that formed the United States Arctic Oceanographic Research Station, the lead oceanographer threw an impatient glance over his shoulder.
“Jack! The snowmobile!”
His partner didn’t move. Frozen in place, he gawked at one of the huge slabs of ice tossed up by the sub.
“What’s got into you, man?”
His breath clouding on the frigid air, the senior scientist stomped across the ice. Irritation creased his forehead under his ski mask.
“Why are you just standing there? We’ve got a hundred tasks to get done before we… Oh, my God!”
His eyes bugged. Disbelief rose up in great, choking waves to close his throat, cut off his breath. Stumbling to a halt, he gaped at the helmeted figure staring back at him through five feet of ice.
Chapter 1
An early June breeze frisked through the streets of Washington, D.C. Trees decked in bright chartreuse dipped and swayed like synchronized dancers in the afternoon sunshine. The hundred-year-old chestnuts lining a quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue, deep in the heart of the capital’s embassy district, whispered the same playful song. Their rustling branches almost obscured the facades of the Federal-style town houses that marched along either side of the brick-paved thoroughfare.
The town house halfway down the block presented a dignified front very similar to its neighbors. Three stories, with tall windows sparkling in the summer sunlight, the elegant one-time residence boasted a discreet bronze plaque beside the front door. The plaque confirmed that the dwelling now served as the offices of the president’s special envoy…a nebulous position created years ago as a reward for a campaign contributor with a yen for a fancy title and a burning desire to rub elbows with the political elite.
Only a handful of Washington insiders were aware that the special envoy also served as the head of OMEGA, an organization so covert that its agents were known within the highest government circles only by their code names. Just as OMEGA represented the last letter of the Greek alphabet, this organization represented the U.S. president’s last resort in a crisis. Its operatives were activated only when other, more conventional agencies like the State Department, the CIA, and the military, couldn’t respond to a crisis for legal or political reasons.
The president himself appointed OMEGA’s director. With great reluctance, he’d recently named a new chief, as the current head had requested an extended leave of absence. After directing the agency through three administrations, Maggie Sinclair had decided to take some time off to complete a ground-breaking book on infant phonetics. She also planned to add a third child to the large, chaotic household she shared with her husband, her two daughters, an overgrown sheepdog and a bug-eyed, blue-and-orange striped iguana with an appetite for paper and plants.
Her husband fully endorsed her decision and had recently resigned his own position as the U.S. ambassador to the World Bank. While Maggie worked on her book, the wealthy, sophisticated Adam Ridgeway had decided to try his hand at full-time fatherhood.
Every agent not currently on assignment or otherwise detailed had gathered in OMEGA’s third floor control center to wish them well. Ignoring the soft chorus of beeps and blips emitted by the electronic communications consoles, they toasted Maggie and Adam as they began the latest phase in their hectic, adventurous marriage.
“The betting is you’ll be back within a month,” a lean, lanky operative with the code name Cowboy predicted. “One or the other of you. Hunting terrorists or illegal arms dealers is a lot easier on the nerves than raising kids.”
“You should know,” Maggie retorted. “Most couples would have the sense to stop after two sets of twins.”
“What can I say?” Nate Sloan grinned. “This ole boy doesn’t shoot blanks.”
Amid the hoots and groans that followed, Elizabeth Wells calmly made the rounds to refill champagne glasses. The gray-haired, grandmotherly woman had served as personal assistant to the director of OMEGA since its inception. She was loved and respected by all for her many talents, not the least of which was her deadly skill with the 9mm SIG Sauer pistol she kept within instant reach at her desk downstairs.
Maggie waited until Elizabeth finished topping off the glasses to step forward. The irreverent grin that had both irritated and inflamed her one-time boss tugged at her lips as she tipped him a quick look.
“I’ll admit I’m looking forward to spending more than two nights in succession in the same city, not to mention the same country, with my husband.”
The answering gleam in Adam’s blue eyes was for Maggie alone. She melted inside, and the muscles low in her belly clenched in delicious anticipation.
“As the president stated when he approved my successor,” she said a little breathlessly, “I’m leaving OMEGA in good hands.”
Her glance shifted to the operative standing quietly to one side.
“Nick is one of our own. Adam and I would trust him with our lives. We have trusted him with our lives.”
Nick Jensen, code name Lightning, strolled forward and lifted Maggie’s hand to his lips with a charm that fluttered every female heart in the room.
“It was my pleasure, Chameleon.”
Straightening, Nick included her husband in his glance. Despite the differences in their ages and backgrounds, the camaraderie between the two men showed clearly in the smiles they exchanged.
“I’ll never forget that breakfast on the veranda of the Carlton Hotel.”
“Nor will I.” Grinning, Adam clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I believe the bill for that journey of gastronomic discovery ran to three figures.”
Maggie caught the curious looks the other operatives traded. Only she, Adam, and the couple who’d adopted Nick knew that this cool, imperturbable agent had once roamed the back streets of Cannes.
Surveying him now, Maggie found it hard to believe that a skinny, half-starved pickpocket with the improbable name of Henri Nicolas Everard had once graciously offered to serve as her pimp. Or that the bone-thin street tough kid would grow into such a hunk!
His boyish shock of red hair had softened over the years to a burnished gold. The wide, muscled shoulders covered in whisper-soft gray cashmere could have belonged to a linebacker. In fact, he’d traded his shorts and beat-up soccer shoes for a football uniform when Page and Doc Jensen had brought him to the States.
Fiercely loyal to his adopted country, Nick Jensen had been educated at UCLA and Stanford. After graduation, he’d parlayed his early, ravenous hunger into a string of world-class restaurants that had made him a millionaire many times over. The outrageously expensive watering holes attracted movie stars and princes. They also allowed Nick to roam at will between the glittering world of the superrich and the dark underworld of terror and intrigue.
Which, in Maggie’s rather vocally expressed opinion, made the tall, wickedly handsome operative the perfect choice for acting director of OMEGA. Happy to be leaving her team in such capable hands, she lifted her glass.
“Bonne chance, Nick.”
“Thanks, Chameleon,” he said in the rich baritone that gave no hint of his French roots. “I’ll need more than luck to manage this crew.”
“You’ve got that right.”
Nick’s gaze traveled over the small crowd. He’d gone into the field with most of these operatives at one time or another, had depended on their unique talents to get him out of some decidedly uncomfortable situations. Now he’d be the one to send them into harm’s way.
He rolled his shoulders under his hand-tailored jacket. Nick hadn’t asked for the director’s job, wasn’t sure he wanted it. He’d been his own man for so long that he’d balked at the idea of assuming responsibility for the dozen or so highly skilled and very independent OMEGA agents. But as Maggie so bluntly put it, the order to put your life on the line went down a whole lot easier when it came from someone who’d done just that countless times.
“Just don’t take too long to write your book,” he urged. “I’m opening a new restaurant in Lima in a few months, another in Acapulco later this year.”
“Strategically placed to cover the Pacific drug routes,” Adam murmured approvingly.
“Among other activities.”
Maggie’s brown eyes sharpened. She might have one foot already out the door, but the other was still planted firmly in OMEGA’s control center.
“What kinds of activities, Lightning?”
He’d opened his mouth to relay the rumor of a high-seas pirating operation based in the Chilean capital when a shrill buzz cut through the air. Everyone in the control center spun around. In a room crammed with the latest in high-tech electronic wizardry, only one device broadcast that particular signal.
“I’ve got it!”
Mackenzie Blair, OMEGA’s chief of communications, leaped for the central console. Slapping her left hand down on a flat surface, she snatched up a receiver with her right. Instantly, a complex double helix appeared on the screen above the console. Like colorful snakes performing some exotic mating ritual, the two strands writhed and danced for several seconds before confirming Mackenzie’s DNA signature. Only then did the unscrambler built into the receiver activate.
“OMEGA control.” Shoving a strand of her thick, unruly sable hair behind her ear, she listened for a moment. “Yes, sir. She’s right here.”
Turning, she offered the receiver to Maggie. “It’s the president. He wants to speak to the director.”
Maggie caught herself just in time. With a wry grin, she gestured to Nick. “It’s for you, Nick.”
“So it is.”
He strolled across the room. OMEGA’s chief of communications hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before handing him the receiver. Hiding a frown, she stepped aside.
Maggie Sinclair, code name Chameleon, had hired Mackenzie fresh out of the navy over the objections of some of OMEGA’s older heads. Even more to the point, Chameleon had given her new Communications chief a blank check to procure the latest in high-tech gadgetry. She’d even sent Mackenzie into the field to experience first-hand the challenges of communicating with headquarters while dodging bullets or burrowing into burning desert sand to escape detection. Mackenzie considered Maggie her mentor, her role model, her friend. She still hadn’t recovered from the shock of hearing that her idol was turning over OMEGA’s reins for an indeterminate period.
And to Nick Jensen, of all people. An unabashed, unapologetic sensualist. An epicure, whose sophisticated palate demanded the finest wines, the freshest delicacies, the most glamorous dinner companions. In Mackenzie’s mind, those qualities tended to blur the fact that Nick, code name Lightning, was also one of the most experienced operatives in the agency. She’d wasted two years of her life on a man with similarly varied, if decidedly less discriminating, appetites. Her ex had forever turned her off too-handsome, too-charming rogues.
Still, when OMEGA’s new director pinned her with an intent stare, it took her a moment to get her breath back. And to realize he wasn’t looking at her, but through her.
“Where’s Artemis?”
Her glance flicked to the computerized status board projected onto the far wall. One of her unit’s main challenges was keeping track of OMEGA’s agents twenty-four hours a day. A single glance confirmed the status of Dr. Diana Remington, code name Artemis.
“She’s at John Hopkins, teaching a class on antipeptide antibodies…whatever those are.”
“Contact her. Tell her I want her in my office in thirty minutes.”
Mackenzie’s brows lifted at the preemptory order. It hadn’t taken Lightning long to shift from operative to director mode.
“Aye, aye, sir!”
A glint appeared in Nick’s dark eyes. Deliberately, he planed the brusque edge from his voice. “While we’re waiting for Artemis to arrive, get the Field Dress folks working on Arctic gear for her. Also, pull up everything in the computers on the U-2.”
“The spy plane?”
“The spy plane.”
Adam Ridgeway smiled as another “Aye, aye, sir,” rifled through the control center. Sliding a hand under his wife’s arm, he squeezed gently.
“Strange how much that woman reminds me of one of my very best agents,” he murmured.
“She should,” Maggie replied smugly. “One of your very best agents personally trained her.”
She took a last look around the control center, then set her champagne aside. Laughter danced in her eyes when they locked with her husband’s.
“Let’s blow this joint. The new team has work to do, and we’ve got a book and a baby to make.”
A half hour later, Diana Remington faced Nick across an expanse of polished mahogany. In her ivory silk blouse and navy blue suit with its slim, calf-length skirt, she defied the stereotypical image of a molecular biologist. In Nick’s considered opinion, she looked even less like an undercover operative.
As her code name suggested, however, Remington’s silky, silvery blond hair and elegantly tailored suit belied her unique talents. Artemis was the Greek name for Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt. The modern-day incarnation seated across from Nick was every bit as skilled as her mythical counterpart at tracking and bringing down her prey. This time, it appeared, her prey had already been found.
Diana’s green eyes were wide with astonishment as she stared across the table at Nick. “They discovered what in the ice?”
“The body of an air force pilot.”
“One of ours?”
“We think so. There are no identifying labels of any kind on his flight suit or helmet. That’s a significant factor in itself. Additionally, the age of his equipment helped pinpoint his identity. All evidence indicates he’s Major Charles Stone, whose plane disappeared from radar screens at 2235 Zulu on November 2, 1956.”
Diana let out a low whistle. “He’s been lost for more than forty-five years?”
“Apparently so. No trace of him or his plane were ever found.”
“Didn’t the air force mount a search and rescue operation when he went down?”
“They couldn’t.” Nick’s dark eyes held hers. “His aircraft had just entered Soviet airspace when it disappeared from radar.”
“Oops.”
“Exactly.”
The tip of Nick’s twenty-four karat gold Mount Blanc pen tapped the cover of a plain manila folder. The pen was a gift from Maggie and Adam. The folder contained the data Mackenzie Blair had hastily milked from the OMEGA’s supercomputers.
“If this pilot is in fact Major Stone,” he continued, “he was flying a U-2, known in the air force by the nickname of Dragon Lady. It’s a high-altitude, all-weather surveillance aircraft developed in the early fifties to collect data on Soviet ICBMs.”
“I saw something about it on the History Channel a few weeks ago,” Diana said. “Isn’t that the plane Francis Gary Powers was flying when he was shot down over Russia in the early sixties?”
“It is,” Nick confirmed. “Although the U.S. insisted the U-2’s were only collecting weather data, the Soviets put Powers on trial for espionage. He was convicted and sentenced to ten years in prison, but exchanged after serving only two. The incident gave Eisenhower a political black eye and put Kennedy at a real disadvantage in the court of world opinion when the Cuban missile crisis came along.”
Diana leaned back in her chair and played with a strand of her shoulder-length blond hair. Far too busy to waste time primping in the mornings, she’d be forever grateful to the savvy stylist who’d talked her into a wash-and-go spiral perm and a few age-defying highlights.
Not that she worried unduly about her age. At twenty-nine, she was one of the youngest biologists at the prestigious Harrell Institute, a private, nonprofit consortium of scientists chartered to help define medical and moral standards for genetic research.
It was her other job that had carved the character lines at the corners of her eyes, she thought wryly. OMEGA tended to plunge its agents into situations that sent the pucker factor right off the charts. From the expression on Nick’s face, she had a feeling his first official act as the new director of OMEGA would definitely have that effect on her.
Sure enough, Lightning tapped his shiny gold pen once, twice, all the while shooting her a considering look. When he tucked the pen into his suit pocket, Diana braced herself.
“The president is scheduled for a summit meeting with the new Russian premier next month. He isn’t particularly anxious to reopen an old, embarrassing chapter in U.S.-Russian relations prior to the meeting.”
“No, I can see he wouldn’t be.”
“Nor does he want to unnecessarily inflame certain right-wing groups in this country who still see Russia as the evil empire and are looking for any excuse to resume the Cold War. If the Soviet Union shot down Stone, as they did Powers, relations between Russia and the U.S. could get real tense, real fast.”
“No kidding,” Diana murmured.
“That’s why you’re heading north. Your civilian credentials give you the perfect cover to take part in the recovery operation. If the team of other scientists already en route to the Arctic Circle succeeded in breathing life into this iceman, we want you there to—”
“What!” Diana bolted upright. “They’re going to thaw this guy out?”
“They’re going to try. Apparently the body is perfectly preserved.”
“It can’t possibly be that well preserved! Cyrogenics isn’t my specialty, but I know frozen cell technology hasn’t advanced far enough yet to undo damage caused by forty plus years buried in ice.”
“The Dragon Lady flew at such high altitudes that their pilots wore the equivalent of space suits. Dr. Irwin Goode, who worked the U-2 program during its inception, thinks the pressure suit may account for the remarkable state of Major Stone’s body.”
Since Goode had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize some decades ago for his pioneering work in the superoxygenation of living microbes, Diana refrained from arguing the point.
“Is Goode part of the team headed for the Arctic?”
“He is. So is Dr. Gregory Wozniak, who, I’ve been informed, recently cloned an ice-age mouse found in a cave in northern Siberia from a single strand of its fur. If Goode and company can’t revive Major Stone, Wozniak wants to try cloning him.”
Diana shook her head, both repelled and excited by the possibilities. Tremendous advances occurred in the field of genetics every day. Just last year paleoarcheologists had unearthed a frozen, stone-age mammoth and had hopes of crossing its DNA with that of a modern-day elephant. Still, for every step forward, there were a number taken back.
“Best I recall, Dr. Wozniak’s clone lived all of two days,” she said slowly.
“If this one lives two hours, you’re going to be right there beside him, holding his hand.” Nick’s gaze drilled into hers. “The president wants everything about this man kept absolutely secret until we ascertain the facts surrounding his plane’s disappearance. In the remote chance they actually bring Major Stone—or some version of Major Stone—back to life, we want you to act as his handler.”
“But…”
“He’ll be confused, frightened. Your job is to get next to him, Artemis. Win his trust, find out what happened all those years ago.”
“All right. When do I leave?”
