To Touch Poison Page 3

  “At least it’s early May.” Her words slipped out on a sigh.

  The agent riding shotgun turned to her and hiked an eyebrow. “Nice weather where you’re going?” Again, there was that curiosity.

  “Questions can put you in a body bag, soldier. But no, they’re not sending me to sunshine and surf.”

  The memory of the heat and humidity was so intense that a line of sweat beaded along Kaimi’s spine. “There is no nice weather where I’m headed, but May is the cusp between the dry and wet seasons.”

  Their arrival at Andrews Field was obviously expected, as they were whisked through security, and her bodyguard hustled Kaimi onto a military plane, leaving her with nothing more than a brisk farewell nod.

  A disembodied voice suggested she strap in, told her the projected duration of the flight, and drew her attention to an ice chest with water and sandwiches. A good sign. They definitely wanted her alive. At least for now.

  When the plane hit cruising altitude, Kaimi changed out of her suit and heels, happy to replace them with camouflage gear and boots. She fastened the knife sheath around her thigh, and, after a few minutes of practice thrusts, had a feel for the blade they’d included in her duffle. It would do.

  With nothing but hours of flight time ahead of her, Kaimi focused on eating, hydrating, and sleeping. When they landed she needed to be ready for… anyone’s guess. And wasn’t that the perfect definition of working for a three-letter agency? Only she didn’t anymore. Now she was…military, but without a rank? Or maybe nothing at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE PLANE DIDN’T LAND IN Manaus. Kaimi’s first clue: a series of bumps that jarred her spine into a stack of rattling vertebrae. When the plane came to a stop, and her bones caught up with the rest of her, she shouldered her duffle and headed for the door.

  It was opened by a young woman wearing military-issue clothes that were similar to Kaimi’s. The woman grinned. With happiness. It wasn’t the kind of unexpected that Kaimi had prepared for, and every one of her nerves jumped to attention. Who the hell was this woman?

  “Fion Conner.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m team lead for the Megiddo Project.”

  Kaimi took Fion’s hand, and assessed her, ah, boss. Cool, firm grip, but her dark eyes held a large dose of panic. “Xola Muerte. I have no idea what I’m doing here.” It was a lie, partially. But her plan was to gather intel with fake stupidity.

  Fion stepped back. “Your dissertation, relationship with local tribes, and your rather pushy government.” The British accent that hadn’t been noticeable in her greeting was now dominant, but with a lilt of something else Kaimi couldn’t place.

  Politics. How interesting. “So, I’m working on a British project named after an ancient battle site?”

  Fion turned, motioned toward a motorized canoe moored at the edge of the murky, tan Rio Negro. “It’s actually an Irish project, which is why me. I’m half and half. Brit father and Celtic mum.”

  The military plane took off, drowning any chance of an audible response on Kaimi’s part. She climbed into the boat, noting the approximate location. Three hours, give or take, from the settlement where she’d done the on-site work for her dissertation, and at least a full day of travel from the area where the roots, bark, and other vegetation she’d need could be found. Which led to a few questions. “Where are we headed? And what, exactly, is my job here?”

  There was no better time for an intimate conversation with her new boss than during a ride upriver. Captive audiences had their advantages, or so Kaimi hoped. But she was twitchy. It always happened when situations that affected her went out of control. Not that she was a control freak, but… yeah, she was. And how was Fion’s mixed nationality tied in with tried-and-true American Fred? This entire situation reeked of week-old fish.

  Fion dipped her oar in the water, pushing a small log out of the way. “We’re headed to our lab. The English, Irish, and American governments created it in a joint effort to control catastrophic biological and chemical warfare.” She grinned, but without a trace of humor.

  A ball of the-shit-has-hit-the-fan energy erupted in Kaimi’s gut. “That’s—”

  “Impossible? Bloody well is, but there you have it. And now we have to work with it.”

  Kaimi’s head wouldn’t wrap around it. “I’m American. Military.” More or less, but there was no point in further confusing an already terminal SNAFU.

  Fion maneuvered the canoe around a pink dolphin. “Arrogant Yanks. You get into everything, but in this case, you’re welcome. I need your expertise with the indigenous people and with the flora. My background is chemistry, and I’m well-versed in political economics. Critical to our work, yes, but your double doctorates in both forensic anthropology and forensic botany,” she snarled the words doctorate and forensic, “plus your established relationship with the local tribes, make you indispensable. We all have to forgo any personal prejudices to get this done.”

  Apparently Fion wasn’t big on academic overachievers. Kaimi was used to that reaction, and had no problem with it, and she wouldn’t trade her uncontrollable thirst for knowledge for anything. Except Jayme. But it would never come to that, because his quest for knowledge equaled hers. But this thing about the Irish and English working together in harmony? Not at all likely. “If you’re the English, and I’m the American, is there someone representing Ireland? Or do you fill both roles?”

  “Eamon Grady. He’s on temporary sick leave. And there was someone else in the beginning. The original Irishman actually set our camp up, but was killed before Eamon and I arrived. I was never told who he was or where he was from.”

  Grady? Common name. And Jayme’d never mentioned any relatives. “How did he die?” An image of M6342CN popped into Kaimi’s mind. If he’d been here, the CIA was up to their asses in this…and so was the KGB. Everything she’d read seemed to indicate that the KGB was the only intelligence agency using spy dust. Too many questions with no answers.

  “No one said for sure, but the rumor mill has been running three-to-one in favor of poison. Fits, considering our mission.”

  Well, then. Kaimi tabled the incongruity of politics. She had bigger problems. Like if M6342CN was the dead guy, and how to retain control of the work, because no way was she going to turn a biological weapon this potent, and currently without an antidote, over to any government. First step, Kaimi—set up your groundwork. “Are there more people on our team?”

  Fion’s attention was entirely focused on navigating the river, her words flowing into the space between them with a touch of bitterness. “Just us three. Megiddo is deeply buried in the bottom of hell, and I’m guessing the three of us are scheduled for termination when the bastards pulling the strings decide they have enough toxin to destroy the earth. Unless we get to them first.” She twisted to stare at Kaimi. “Which of course we will. Because contrary to what your naively idealistic Native Americans say, far as I’m concerned, it won’t be a good day to die for a long, long time.” There was a definite sneer in her voice.

  Apparently Fion hated all Americans. Kaimi shrugged it off. “There’ll be no need to terminate anyone if it’s impossible to create the toxin.” But it was possible. That was a fact. And she wasn’t all that opposed to eliminating Fred if it became necessary. Some people simply shouldn’t be allowed survive, especially if their minds had been polluted with maniacal tendencies. But killing wasn’t Kaimi’s first choice…only if there was simply no other way.

  Fion pushed another small log out of the way. “The toxin is most likely a fait accompli. You’ve witnessed the native population’s practice of euthanasia.”

  “Yes. Individuals. But our governments are concerned about using the formula on a larger scale. The distillation process is complicated and expensive.” And she had to find some way to end this before it got out of hand. She’d have to take a chance on contacting Jayme, but… she barely suppressed a disgusted grunt. There weren’t a lot of communication options in the heart of the Amazo
n jungle.

  THE LAB WAS FIRST-RATE, and their living quarters would do. After Fion gave her a tour of the place, Kaimi stowed her gear, jotted a note to Jayme, headed to the lab, and poked her head in the door. “I’m going for a hike, see if I can make contact with anyone who remembers me.”

  Fion jumped up, pipette balanced in her hand. “Great. Let’s go.”

  “Not this time. They might not even let me find them, and for sure they’ll disappear if there are two of us.” And she needed to find a way to get a message to Jayme without an audience.

  “I don’t like it.” Fion set the pipette down. “We’re stuck with this.” She pointed back and forth between them. “With each other, and we’re not going to survive under these circumstances unless we share air space. All the bloody damn time.”

  “I understand that, and I agree. But there’s only a couple hours of daylight left and I need to let the tribe see me. How about I don’t make contact until tomorrow? I’ll just leave a trail this afternoon to eliminate any potential shock at my presence. Trust me, you don’t want to chance being hit with one of their poison darts.”

  Fion picked the pipette back up, rolled it between her fingers. “I’ll give you one hour.”

  It wasn’t much, but all Kaimi needed was brief contact with the one man who spoke English. He was the only tribe member who regularly traveled to Manaus and could get her letter to Jayme, and it was worth the risk of alienating Fion Connor. To say nothing of the fact that her life might well depend on alerting Jayme to her new handle and current location.

  The paths had changed since she’d last been in the jungle and it took most of her allotted hour for Kaimi to find signs of the local tribe. Dusk brought out a few mosquitos, so she pulled her shirt cuffs over her hands. There weren’t many of the pesky insects on the Rio Negro, but inland there were enough to foster caution, and she hadn’t been dosed with any jungle prep drugs. Just because Fred hadn’t bothered to prep her for this assignment didn’t mean he a right to drop her in like so much trash.

  He stepped from the bushes in front of her, eyes wide with recognition. “Kaimi.”

  She nodded in greeting. “I’m working here again. How is your family?”

  “In good health. Why you here, Kaimi?”

  “Working on the formula to undo your suicide potion. But I need your help.”

  He bristled.

  “Not with my work. I know you don’t approve.” She handed him the letter. “But, please, can you deliver this to Manaus next time you travel?”

  A knife flew through the air, speared the envelope, and attached it to a tree just beyond where Kaimi stood.

  A younger tribe member stepped between them, yanked the blade from the tree, and hissed in her face.

  The envelope fluttered to the jungle floor.

  Her friend spoke to the young tribe member in dialect, then to Kaimi. “Stay away. Keep woman tracking you away. Not welcome here.”

  They blended into the foliage, and Kaimi drew in a breath. The heavy scent of damp earth and pungent plants coated her nose, making it difficult to breathe. Or maybe it was the lump in her throat. These people had been kind to her. Friends in an unusual multi-cultural way. No one from the tribe had threatened her before, not even when they knew she was working on a way to counteract the poison they used for euthanasia. She’d earned their respect by completely accepting the suicides that were so common among tribal members. So, why the change?

  Fion Connor burst from the jungle and scooped the torn envelope from the jungle floor.

  She was the only change.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FION’S BREATH CAME IN HARSH gasps. She’d had to chase the bloody Muerte woman through half the jungle, but it was worth it. Now she knew her new research associate was a traitor. She handed the envelope to Kaimi. “Looks like you won’t be sending this. We have contact protocols that can easily be activated if you need to check in with your handler.”

  The warm color drained from Kaimi’s face, and a low growl erupted from her throat. “You followed me. Ruined any chance we had of keeping the tribe as allies. We can’t do this work without their help, Connor, and before we hand it over to any government, there needs to be an antidote.”

  Fion shrugged off the American woman’s ridiculous reprimand. “We don’t need the natives, never did. Let’s just get this toxin perfected so we can do whatever’s necessary to go home. I have an estate to help run, and I’m sick of jungle life.”

  She led the way back to their camp. How stupid could the American bitch be? Maybe she should ask. “Why in the bloody hell do you care about an antidote, Muerte? It’s not like our governments are going to try and save the people they want to kill with this stuff. That would defeat the purpose of biological warfare.”

  Fion had been doing just fine on her own. The research that had been stolen from Kaimi Maliu, aka Xola Muerte, had been safely in Fion’s hands for months. And she was making progress, albeit not fast enough for the politics involved. And it had slowed things down when Eamon needed to return to Ireland for medical treatment.

  But, honestly, how could they expect more from her? She was a chemist, a strategist, not a damn magician. The American had only been around for a few hours and had already tried to break protocol by contacting someone. Fion should have kept that letter, but it would have been a blatant threat, and she believed the more devious the kill plan, the better. Less chance of being caught. Now she’d have to make nice with Muerte, disgusting prospect that it was.

  And she’d have to get her handler to dig up intel on the Maliu family. Something to threaten Kaimi with. Yes. A smile blossomed beneath Fion’s breastbone. That would be perfect.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Langley, Virginia

  November, 1980

  JAYME GRADY TAPPED HIS PEN on the cipher he’d been stewing over for the last few hours. Kaimi had been missing for six months, and he’d been unable to cajole, threaten, or trick any information from his databases regarding her whereabouts. Both their bosses had fed him lines about her untimely death, but he’d spoken with her just before her meeting at the Pentagon, and that call had taken place after her supposed proximity to the explosion of a VW bus. Anger seethed, a low-level rumble that constantly kept him on edge, and he was damned pissed off that someone had managed to cover her trail so perfectly. He was very, very good with computers. But apparently the CIA had someone on staff who was better.

  He tossed his pen down. Six months was long enough for him to put up with bureaucratic paper shuffling. It was time to become underhandedly creative and...

  The phone on his desk buzzed, and he jabbed at the intercom button. “Front gate here, Officer Grady. There’s a gentleman requesting to see you. His identification says he’s Eamon Grady. Shall I send him on his way, or do you want me to hold him here?”

  Eamon? A sliver of unease skittered over Jayme’s skin. What the hell? Had something happened to their parents? “I’ll be right down.”

  Jayme hadn’t spoken to his brother for seven, no, eight years. What the fuck did Eamon want? He wouldn’t show up here unless he was in some kind of trouble. Jayme slipped into his jacket, shot the cuffs on his white shirt, and centered his tie. Habit. He’d obviously been working at Langley far too long, but he wouldn’t leave, couldn’t, until he found Kaimi.

  He took the stairs to the first floor, using the walk time to defuse his temper. It would take every one of the four flights to keep him from punching Eamon in the face. Crisp November air slapped at him when he exited the building, cooling the fever running through his veins. His pace picked up to a jog. Best to get the family reunion over with.

  Dusk had settled over Langley, Virginia, and the lights inside the guardhouse limned Eamon’s face. Pinched. Pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Jayme had seen the same look eight years before when he’d confessed to forging Jayme’s name on a withdrawal slip he’d used to steal a hundred thousand pounds from their parents’ bank account.

  When the
ir father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, their mother asked that the brothers share joint guardianship of both parents and signed the appropriate Power of Attorney to make it happen. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d also been suffering with early signs of dementia for some time, and it had been a shock to Jayme when, several months later, he learned of their rapid decline. It wasn’t a shock to Eamon. He’d considered them excellent prey.

  Jayme opened the door to the guardhouse, and stepped into the brightly lit interior. “Eamon?”

  It took Eamon too long to stand, and he’d braced himself against the chair, not letting go until he’d balanced on his feet. “Jayme, I…” He gaze darted from one guard to another. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Stark panic shot through Jayme. Had the dreaded threat of dementia started to affect his brother? No, impossible. Eamon’s issues were clearly physical, not that one precluded the other.

  Jayme had seen to getting the necessary blood tests, knew he carried the gene for dementia, and it rode the back of his mind every damn day. Eamon was only three years older. Sweet Jesus, was it going to happen to them this soon? “Yeah, sure.” Jayme turned to the nearest guard. “Can we use your office for a few minutes?”

  One of the guards waved his hand toward an open door. “Or if you want to sign him in, we can make up a visitor badge.”