her part in the mess. If anything, she seemed to take a disproportionate share of the blame, and that left Cutter quietly seething.
He’d crossed paths with Ashton Kent. Twice. Once while Cutter was still in uniform and Kent had been part of a Congressional junket touring the Middle East. Again at Nick Jensen’s high-priced D.C. restaurant, when Kent had disappeared into one of the private rooms with the well-endowed widow of a wealthy campaign contributor. Both times the old goat had struck Cutter as a walking, talking prick.
He didn’t doubt for a minute Kent had felt up his bright-eyed new staffer. What really pissed Cutter off was that Mallory appeared to have taken most of the heat for it.
Had that made her bitter enough to walk away with a disk containing personal financial data belonging to millions of government workers, up to and including the President of the United States?
No way in hell!
His conviction grew firmer by the hour. Problem was, it was still based more on gut feeling than fact. He needed something definitive to eliminate her as anything more than a possible unwitting courier.
He waited until they’d finished dinner and agreed to Gilbért’s suggestion they take coffee and dessert in the conservatory before steering the conversation back to the subject of retribution.
“So you think Kent may be retaliating against you by asking a pal to hold up your replacement passport?”
“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”
“How would he know you lost it in the first place?”
“Good question.”
Mallory drifted to the tall windows, her gaze on the moonlit seascape outside. Cutter did his best to ignore the play of light and shadow on her profile as she scrunched her forehead and considered the possibilities.
“Maybe the State Department contacted my place of employment to verify my identity before issuing a temporary passport. Or maybe,” she said slowly, “the contact came from American Express. They said there was a flag on my account. Congressman Kent chairs the House Committee on Banking and Trade. He exerts tremendous influence over the entire industry. He also works closely with NSA and Homeland Defense. I wouldn’t put it past him to have flagged the financial records of everyone on his staff. Maybe everyone on the Hill. All in the name of national security.”
“He wields that kind of power?” Cutter asked with a carefully manufactured blend of curiosity and outrage. “What happened to our right to privacy?”
The answer came swiftly and without the least hesitation.
“9/11.”
Abandoning the moon-washed cliffs outside, Mallory turned and jammed her hands in the pockets of her lace-trimmed jacket.
“We’re at war. An undeclared war, some argue, but everyone agrees that it threatens all Americans. Desperate times call for desperate measures. By following the money trail across international borders, we’ve located countless Al Qaeda cells and their financiers.”
He didn’t miss the collective we —or that Mallory Dawes identified with the good guys.
“I can’t speak for anyone else,” she continued, “but I’m more than willing to let Uncle Sam peek into my personal financial dealings if it will help take down bin Laden and his thugs.”
Cutter and the rest of the OMEGA operatives served in the front lines in the war against terror. Personally, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the rights of a suspected suicide bomber. Professionally, he’d respect those rights for the simple reason that violating them might screw the case against the suspect. He made no comment, however, until Mallory came off her soapbox with a look of embarrassed chagrin.
“I guess I’m just not real thrilled that Kent may be one of the ones doing the peeking.”
“I can understand why.”
As Cutter studied the moonlight dappling her upturned face, he had to admit there was something seriously wrong with this picture. Here they were, surrounded by the earthy perfume of the
He’d crossed paths with Ashton Kent. Twice. Once while Cutter was still in uniform and Kent had been part of a Congressional junket touring the Middle East. Again at Nick Jensen’s high-priced D.C. restaurant, when Kent had disappeared into one of the private rooms with the well-endowed widow of a wealthy campaign contributor. Both times the old goat had struck Cutter as a walking, talking prick.
He didn’t doubt for a minute Kent had felt up his bright-eyed new staffer. What really pissed Cutter off was that Mallory appeared to have taken most of the heat for it.
Had that made her bitter enough to walk away with a disk containing personal financial data belonging to millions of government workers, up to and including the President of the United States?
No way in hell!
His conviction grew firmer by the hour. Problem was, it was still based more on gut feeling than fact. He needed something definitive to eliminate her as anything more than a possible unwitting courier.
He waited until they’d finished dinner and agreed to Gilbért’s suggestion they take coffee and dessert in the conservatory before steering the conversation back to the subject of retribution.
“So you think Kent may be retaliating against you by asking a pal to hold up your replacement passport?”
“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”
“How would he know you lost it in the first place?”
“Good question.”
Mallory drifted to the tall windows, her gaze on the moonlit seascape outside. Cutter did his best to ignore the play of light and shadow on her profile as she scrunched her forehead and considered the possibilities.
“Maybe the State Department contacted my place of employment to verify my identity before issuing a temporary passport. Or maybe,” she said slowly, “the contact came from American Express. They said there was a flag on my account. Congressman Kent chairs the House Committee on Banking and Trade. He exerts tremendous influence over the entire industry. He also works closely with NSA and Homeland Defense. I wouldn’t put it past him to have flagged the financial records of everyone on his staff. Maybe everyone on the Hill. All in the name of national security.”
“He wields that kind of power?” Cutter asked with a carefully manufactured blend of curiosity and outrage. “What happened to our right to privacy?”
The answer came swiftly and without the least hesitation.
“9/11.”
Abandoning the moon-washed cliffs outside, Mallory turned and jammed her hands in the pockets of her lace-trimmed jacket.
“We’re at war. An undeclared war, some argue, but everyone agrees that it threatens all Americans. Desperate times call for desperate measures. By following the money trail across international borders, we’ve located countless Al Qaeda cells and their financiers.”
He didn’t miss the collective we —or that Mallory Dawes identified with the good guys.
“I can’t speak for anyone else,” she continued, “but I’m more than willing to let Uncle Sam peek into my personal financial dealings if it will help take down bin Laden and his thugs.”
Cutter and the rest of the OMEGA operatives served in the front lines in the war against terror. Personally, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the rights of a suspected suicide bomber. Professionally, he’d respect those rights for the simple reason that violating them might screw the case against the suspect. He made no comment, however, until Mallory came off her soapbox with a look of embarrassed chagrin.
“I guess I’m just not real thrilled that Kent may be one of the ones doing the peeking.”
“I can understand why.”
As Cutter studied the moonlight dappling her upturned face, he had to admit there was something seriously wrong with this picture. Here they were, surrounded by the earthy perfume of the
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