Point of Contact

Come to think of it, Jack looked like he’d been through it the day they met with Rhodes and got the assignment. He swore Jack had a black eye he was trying to cover up with makeup. Jack’s excuse — that he’d been on vacation and fell on a hike — didn’t smell right at the time, but Paul had shrugged it off.

Paul limped off the last stair riser and padded toward the kitchen. He’d never known a financial analyst to get into so much trouble or get injured so much in such a short amount of time. He was acting more like an operator than an auditor.

Paul stopped in his tracks. A cold lump of ice spun in his gut, like the floor had suddenly fallen out from under his feet.

Was he being played?

Paul scratched his thinning, uncombed hair. Jack? An agent? If so, for whom?

He headed toward the cabinet with the coffee and filters.

If Jack was CIA, was he working for Rhodes? Rhodes was working with Langley — technically, so was he, through Rhodes. So why wouldn’t Rhodes have told him Jack was CIA?

He would have, unless Jack wasn’t CIA. But then who was he working for? DIA? DOJ? FBI?

Paul scooped black Sumatran coffee into a filter and poured water into the coffeemaker.

No. Jack worked for Hendley Associates. He knew that for sure. He wasn’t on the government payroll.

But then again, neither was he, and he was working for the CIA.

“Right?” Paul asked himself. “The CIA. That’s what Rhodes said.”

Unless Rhodes was lying.

And if Rhodes wasn’t CIA, where did that leave him?

Paul shook his head to clear the confusion. Big mistake. He felt his brain rattle against his skull, exploding his headache.

Coffee, then shower, then think.

“In that order,” he told himself, watching the steam rise from the wheezing coffeemaker.

“And then talk to Jack.”

* * *

Paul was dressed and ready to go when Jack finally came downstairs, limping stiffly into the kitchen. Paul thought he saw a few more bruises on his face and hands.

“I’ve got hot coffee in a carafe,” Paul said. “Or I can make tea.”

“Just a cup of coffee. I need to hit the shower so we can get going.”

Jack followed Paul into the kitchen. Paul poured him a cup of dark brewed coffee, black as motor oil but smooth as silk.

Jack looked pretty rough, Paul thought. Worse than he remembered. A swollen bruise had formed on the hand with the red knuckles. He looked like he’d spent the night bear-wrestling.

“You okay?”

Jack shrugged. “Yeah, fine. Considering.”

“Considering… what?”

Jack shook his head and rubbed his face. “Oh, crap. I forgot to tell you. I was in a hit-and-run accident last night.”

Forgot to tell me? That’s a load of bull. Paul swallowed his anger. “Where? When?”

“Across town. Checking out the warehouse we talked about — actually, a different one.”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“Nah. Just a couple of bruises. The airbag hit me hard after the truck rear-ended me, and I got knocked around pretty good. I guess I blacked out for a little bit.”

Paul frowned with worry. “You really should get to a doctor.”

“Not here.” Jack took a sip of coffee. “Maybe when I get back.”

“Is that why you have a black eye?”

“What?” Jack turned around and searched the counter. He found the shiny silver toaster and picked it up, examining his face with it like a mirror. It was a small black eye, in nearly the exact same place as the one he got when he slammed his head against the steel ladder in the North Sea. Was it the same bruise? Or a new one? Or did he make the old one worse again? He had no idea.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Any idea who hit you?”

“No.”

“Did you get a license-plate number?”

Jack lied. “No.”

“I guess the Audi’s totaled. Too bad. That TT was a sweet ride.”

Jack shook his head. “I wasn’t in the Audi.”

“Oh?”

“I borrowed a van from Dalfan.”

“Why?”

“Long story.”

“We’ve got time.”

“No, we don’t. It’s nearly ten o’clock. I need to grab a shower so we can get to work.” Jack finished the rest of his coffee and dropped the cup in the stainless-steel sink.

Paul’s eyes narrowed at the blow-off.

Jack turned around, scratching his stubbly beard. “Question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“That file you found, marked ‘QC.’ Did you download a copy?”

“No. Didn’t think about it. Why?”

Jack’s face soured. “Why not?”

“Just forgot. Why?”

“I’m not convinced there isn’t a problem at Dalfan, and I’m afraid that file is all we have to prove it.”

“Okay. We’ll grab a copy when we get to the office.”

Jack rubbed his aching neck. “Any Tylenol around here?”

“There’s Advil in the third drawer on the left.”

“Thanks.” Jack yanked open the drawer, popped open the bottle, and tossed a couple pills into his mouth. He leaned over the sink and drank a few big gulps of water straight from the tap, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You should see a doctor,” Paul said.

“Heard you the first time, Mom.”

Paul forced a smile. “I hear you.”

“Heading for the shower.” Jack shuffled achingly toward the stairs.

“You sure you’re all right?”

Jack called over his shoulder, “Never better.”