Frailty of Things Read online

  THE FRAILTY

  OF THINGS

  TAMSEN SCHULTZ

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2015

  COPYRIGHT 2015 TAMSEN SCHULTZ

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Sian Foulkes

  Edited by Julie Molinari

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-432-8

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-422-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014922023

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  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

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PREVIEW OF AN INARTICULATE SEA

  MORE FROM TAMSEN SCHULTZ & BOOKTROPE

  To Booktrope, because you let me do what I love

  CHAPTER 1

  KIT FORRESTER took a sip of her beer and eyed the man sitting across from her. Drew Carmichael looked every inch the business tycoon he was. At over six feet of lean muscle, his blond hair, blue eyes, and strong chin gave him a hint of New England aristocracy. And she knew that, truth be told, Drew could trace his family back to the Mayflower. But it was his presence more than his appearance that conveyed an inherent sense of authority.

  And authority was good, considering what Kit knew his other job to be.

  She set her glass down and leaned forward. “Drew, in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never, and I repeat never, asked me for a personal favor.”

  Her eyes stayed on his face even as he flicked a look out the window. Under normal circumstances, she might think he was just taking in the view of the beautiful winter night through the front picture window of the small restaurant in which they sat. But as charming as the Hudson Valley of New York, and particularly Old Windsor, was this time of year, she suspected Drew was being vigilant rather than appreciative.

  His eyes came back to hers. “I know, Kit. Believe me, I know. And you can say ‘no.’”

  “But you’d rather I say ‘yes,’” she said, finishing his thought, if not his statement. Drew gave very little away, but she’d known him long enough, nearly fourteen years now, that she could see in the shadows of his expression the unease she heard in his voice. “Tell me what you need,” she said.

  She watched some of the tension leave his eyes, but he paused before answering as a couple came through the door, followed by a gust of cold wind, and headed toward the bar. Once the new patrons were well away, Drew set his elbows on the table and moved closer to her.

  “Jonathon Parker is an agent with MI6, which, as you know, is the British version of the CIA.”

  Kit nodded. She traveled a lot for her job, met a lot of interesting people, knew a lot of interesting things—especially considering the fact that for the past eight years, she’d helped out Drew and his employer more than a few times.

  His position as one of the board members for his family’s multi-national conglomerate was a perfect foil for his real job with the CIA. And Kit, well, she was the high-flying daughter of a very wealthy, and very deceased, businessman. That, coupled with her own international success as an award-winning writer of modern literature, gave her easy access to people and places.

  “Jonathon was placed on probationary leave several days ago,” Drew continued. “They’re investigating his potential involvement in the release of information that compromised several key MI6 assets in the Middle East.”

  “That’s not good,” Kit said, leaning even closer to Drew. She knew what she did for him, for the agency, was potentially dangerous, but she never really gave it much thought. She knew Drew well, trusted him, and trusted that if he asked her for help, it was for a good reason. Still, she didn’t like the idea of anyone else knowing what she did on the side.

  Drew let out a little huff of air that could almost, but not quite, be called a sardonic laugh. “No kidding. It’s not good for anyone involved. Not Parker; not the assets.”

  “So, what do you want me to do?” she asked. “This sounds professional, but you said you needed a personal favor.”

  Drew took a sip of his own beer, set it down, and took a deep breath. “You’re already going to Rome later this week. I was hoping you could stop by London on your way through and hand off some information for me.”

  “Drop it to Parker?” she asked.

  Drew gave a single, sharp nod.

  Kit stared at her companion as her mind went through the logic. She didn’t know all the ins and outs of the CIA, but she was pretty sure that passing information from an active agent to an agent being investigated wouldn’t be looked upon kindly. Especially considering that the agent being investigated was foreign. She also didn’t know what would happen to Drew if he were caught, but she was certain it wouldn’t be good.

  “Drew,” she said, concern lacing her tone.

  “You don’t have to do it, Kit. And if you choose not to, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “But?” she prompted. Drew wasn’t the most straight and narrow guy she knew—she figured, in his job, he couldn’t be—but he was one of the most principled. If he wanted to involve himself with an agent under suspicion, he had to have a reason.

  Again, his gaze traveled out the window before returning to her. She could see he was debating whether or not to answer. Finally his eyes slid closed, and for a moment, he looked older than his forty years.

  “Drew?” She leaned forward and laid her hand on his arm. He opened his eyes.

  “I’m not going to lie, Kit. It got bad. Three of the four assets were killed within days of the information leak. Whoever did this deserves whatever justice the British decide to mete out. But it wasn’t Parker. He’s being framed.”

  “Framed?” She couldn’t help the single eyebrow that shot up. When spooks started framing each other, it was bound to get messy.

  One side of Drew’s mouth ticked up into a smile. “I know, it’s like a bad version of Who’s On First when spies start playing these games. If it ever gets unraveled, it will be a miracle.”

  “But you know Parker wasn’t involved?” she pressed, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

  “He wasn’t,” Drew answered with certainty.

  “And why can’t this go through official channels?”

  Drew let out a sigh. “Because th
e information I have isn’t information that we, the Agency, want to share with MI6. And before you ask,” he said, raising a hand to stave off her question, “the official Agency answer is still ‘no,’ even when we know that it will likely ruin the life of a great agent.”

  Kit sat back in her chair and, for a moment, regretted getting into this conversation in the first place. There wasn’t any doubt in her mind that she would help Drew, she’d just been so stunned when he’d asked for a personal favor that she’d started asking questions. And, not surprisingly, she didn’t like what she’d ended up hearing. She didn’t like that her own government seemed to value life so little. She wasn’t naïve and knew that there might be a very good reason why the CIA didn’t want to share whatever information Drew was referring to, but still, the thought that they might have information that could help someone and choose to not use it didn’t sit well on her shoulders.

  “If you don’t want to—”

  “Of course I’ll do it, Drew. I was just thinking that I’m glad I’m not the one who has to make these decisions. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to weigh the value of sharing information against the lives it might help or harm.” She took another sip of her drink and set it down with a small smile. “I’d totally suck at it,” she added.

  Drew smiled back—a real smile. “That’s because you have a heart and you’re human.”

  Kit rolled her eyes. She was a softy; she’d freely admit to that. But Drew wasn’t giving himself any credit. He had a tough job, and she knew how much he cared about just about everything. Maybe too much.

  “So then,” she continued. “Now that we’ve settled that, what are the particulars?”

  Drew slid two business cards across the table to her. Both were printed with her name and generic contact information. One had a small, Celtic design in the upper right corner, a design taken from her first book, Celtic Shelter, and the other had a similar design, only it was in the upper left corner. The cards looked normal and bore nothing unusual that would draw attention to them.

  “This one,” Drew said, his finger tapping the card with the mark on the right side, “is for Ambrose.”

  Fabio Ambrose was a diplomatic liaison located in Rome. She’d met him on numerous occasions and had already been planning to see him, at Drew’s request, on her upcoming trip to Rome. Ambrose was her official assignment.

  “And this one,” Drew said, sliding the other card over, the card with the design on the left, “is for Parker.”

  “And how will I meet Parker?” she asked, taking the cards and tucking them into her purse. She wasn’t sure what information was on them or how the intended recipients would retrieve it, but she assumed it was some sort of old-school dot technology where information was encoded in tiny pixels that made up the print.

  “That’s easy,” Drew said, leaning back in his chair, looking a little bit more relaxed than he had just a few moments before. “His sister is a journalist who covers financial news.”

  Kit laughed. “And, let me guess, financial crimes as well?”

  “The two do tend to go together,” Drew answered with a grin.

  “How fortuitous then, that the book I’m currently working on revolves around the impact such a crime has on a small community.”

  Drew’s grin widened into a smile. “I thought so too. Isabelle Parker would make an excellent interview subject. She’s older than Parker by several years and has been on the beat forever. A request from you to meet wouldn’t be unusual.”

  Kit shook her head and smiled. “I’ll do some research on her and have my publicist contact her tomorrow. Provided she’ll be in town, I can fly through London and spend a few days there before heading to Rome for Marco Baresi’s party.”

  Marco was a fellow writer and her mentor. He was also, at one point years ago, something more. Marco had recently received a very prestigious European book award, and his publisher was throwing him a huge party to celebrate. Of course she would be there. And when Drew had found out, he’d asked her to contact Ambrose while in town. It would seem she was adding Isabelle Parker to her list now as well.

  She looked down at her purse and contemplated the two business cards inside. One was Drew doing his job. But the other, well, thinking of it gave her pause. She wasn’t about to back out, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t concerned.

  “Drew? Are you sure?” she asked, bringing her gaze up to his.

  She knew he saw the seriousness of her question and her concern for him. His expression softened even as a world-weary look stole across his face.

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m certain. He’s a good agent and I’ve known him for years. When I heard what was happening, I knew it wasn’t him. And when I found the information that could prove it, well, that just made it all that much more clear in my mind. But,” he said, taking a deep breath and then letting it out, “as much as I hate to admit it, I can see why we don’t want to share what we have with our counterparts in England. I even agree with the decision.”

  “But?”

  “But Parker will know what to do with it. I trust him not to share it, but to use it to clear his name.”

  “That’s a lot of trust to put in someone, Drew,” she pointed out.

  He gave her a wry smile. “Ironic, isn’t it? Spies aren’t supposed to trust anyone with anything, yet I’m entrusting him with information that could not only pose a threat to the US but also get me fired and likely imprisoned too.”

  Kit studied him for a moment and saw the resolve in his eyes. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m not sure of the wisdom of your decision either, but I do trust you.” She took the last sip of her beer and looked around the room. It was sometimes surreal meeting with Drew, knowing the shady world he operated in, then looking around and seeing couples laughing, families dining together, and the world going on.

  “Is there anything else I should know?” she asked, bringing her attention back to her companion.

  Drew finished his drink and set the glass back down on the table. He didn’t look up as he answered, but kept his focus on his fingers as they caught the moisture gathered on his glass. “I’m not going to lie and say this meeting with Parker is like all the others, because it isn’t. I haven’t heard anything that would indicate that there could be problems, but just be safe, Kit. Be aware of what’s going on around you. You have good instincts; use them. If something doesn’t feel right, trust that feeling.”

  Kit frowned. Drew had given her this same speech any number of times when she’d first started shuttling information for him. But he hadn’t given it in years. That he felt the need to now came as a surprise.

  It made her want to ask, yet again, if he was sure he wanted to go forward with his plan. But remembering the look of certainty in his eyes the first time she’d asked, she knew she already had her answer. And so she nodded in response to his warning.

  “Always,” she said.

  His eyes watched hers for a moment, then traveled down to her empty beer glass. “Shall we?” he asked, nodding toward the door, ending the meeting.

  “You go on ahead,” she said, suddenly feeling like she wanted a little time alone with a glass of whiskey. Drew frowned. She smiled. “Really, Drew, please. I know you have to drive back to New York City tonight, so go on ahead. I’m just going to have another drink, enjoy this view,” she said with a gesture toward the picture window, “and then head home.”

  “You sure?” he asked, concern still lacing his tone.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Go. Drive safe. The roads are cleared from the snow last night, but they still get icy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Drew said, rising with a smile of his own and donning his black cashmere scarf and coat. “I know, the Taconic Parkway is winding, ice builds up, and people don’t drive safely.” He mimicked what she told him nearly every time he visited during the winter months.

  “Just call me ‘Mom,’” she said with a laugh as he pulled on his leather gloves.

  Dr
ew rolled his eyes, then bent down and kissed her cheek. “You’re almost decade younger than me, but you do give my mom a run for her money in the worry department.”

  “Just be safe,” Kit said, grabbing his scarf and stopping him from straightening away. He might joke, but she meant every word and wanted to make sure he knew it. His face was a few inches away from hers, and it occurred to her that the position was an intimate one. Though it had never been like that between the two of them, she knew that if anyone she knew saw them, gossip would ensue—the joys of a small town.

  “Be safe,” Kit repeated, quietly.

  Drew’s eyes held hers for a moment, then he gave a tiny nod. “You too,” he said, then dipped his head and gave her one more kiss on the cheek. Reluctantly, she released him and watched him walk out the door.

  Through the window, she saw him climb into his silver Mercedes SUV and back out of the plowed parking lot. She glanced down at her purse again, hoped like hell Drew knew what he was doing, then ordered a shot of whiskey.

  ***

  It was just after ten when Kit finally made her way to her car. Consisting of a post office, a general store, and Anderson’s, the restaurant she’d just come out of, Old Windsor, was never a very happening spot. It was even quieter on this cold, Sunday evening.

  Her boots crunched the snow as she crossed the street toward her car. Kit loved the winter, but in temperatures hovering around zero this time of night, she was glad for her gloves, hat, and scarf, not to mention her long down coat that nearly reached the top of her boots. A small gust of wind blew, and the frigid air snaked under her scarf and down her neck. She hunched her shoulders in protection as she reached into her pocket for her keys.

  Concentrating on where she was putting her feet, Kit was startled to hear the sound of a car door opening. Her head shot up and her step faltered. Parked next to her own vehicle was a black Range Rover. She knew a lot of people who drove Range Rovers, especially this time of year, but only one who would show up like this. Despite the cold, she paused about ten feet from her destination and watched as a jacketed figure unfolded itself from the ominous-looking car.