Donald Wilson. A man shrouded in mystery. She’d often wondered what his real name had been before. Not that it mattered. The name had been extinct for more than a half century, and probably meant nothing to him at this point. It certainly meant nothing to her beyond a curiosity. Helen was far more interested in his connection to the extensive conspiracy she’d uncovered.

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

The cocktail was a lie. Water with a generous pour of olive juice to cloud the mixture, and two plump, blue cheese–stuffed olives held together by a stainless-steel cocktail pick. The bartender had even shaken it like a real martini, without him asking—seemingly all too familiar with the ruse. He took a long sip, casually scanning the crowded rooftop bar over the rim of his drink. The night’s endgame loomed. Devin Gray tipped the glass back and emptied it.

“Any minute now.”

He spoke loudly enough to be heard through the microphone, but softly enough to avoid drawing a glance from either of the politicos flanking him. Devin barely heard the team’s acknowledgment over the ever-rising din of brash words and forced laughter. He resisted the impulse to fiddle with his earpiece. It may or may not help him, but it would most certainly give him away to a reasonably competent countersurveillance team.

Devin hadn’t detected one, but his target gave no indication of being surveillance conscious. He’d been doing this long enough to read even the most subtle body language—and she wasn’t concerned with anything but seducing her mark. Her mannerisms broadcast the kind of genuine calm and confidence that came only with trusted security in her line of work. She had backup close by.

He set the glass on the black polished-granite bar top and caught the bartender’s attention, signaling for another. While waiting for his fourth drink of the night, Devin finished the seared salmon he’d ordered to nurture his cover—tasting nothing. He was singularly focused on the job at hand, his senses diverted accordingly.

A few minutes passed before his drink arrived, each second stretching into the next as he casually watched the scene come to its seemingly inevitable conclusion. The honey trap, a petite woman with straight jet-black hair, was a smooth, seasoned operator. Unhurried but moving things along just fast enough to seal the deal. She’d already managed to separate her mark from his three colleagues and isolate him at the bar, where they’d each downed two real manhattans. He’d watched the bartender closely. As their hushed conversation progressed, her hand spent more and more time petting his arm. Definitely a professional. Any second now.