Three

Jared MacIntyre slid onto a stool at O'Malley's Pub near Times Square just after ten. The pub was crowded, as expected on a Friday night, with the usual mix of singles and couples, many of whom were tourists staying at the nearby hotels. He'd picked the pub for that reason. There weren't a lot of locals. The crowd turned over every weekend, and no one would remember him being there. He ordered a beer from the bartender. When it came, he drank half of it before setting it down on the bar.

"Looks like you needed that," a man said, as he took the stool next to him.

"It's been a night." He turned to look at the thirty-nine-year-old man with the short, neatly trimmed brown hair and intelligent brown eyes. Although, they'd been in contact almost daily the last month, he hadn't actually seen him in person in over six weeks. "You look better than the last time I saw you."

"Considering I was in the hospital then, that's not saying much."

"I'm glad you've fully recovered. How has it been—being back in New York?" Gary Heffernan had been living overseas for almost three years, and until a few months ago had been sporting a full beard and long hair.

"Different," Gary said, then shrugged. "And yet the same. I'm happy I still have a job. Although, I don't know how long I'll have it if I keep helping you."

"Speaking of which, do you have something for me?"

"I do. But first I need a drink. I'll have what he's having," Gary told the bartender, then gazed back to him. "You're a little overdressed for this place."

"I didn't want to take the time to go home and change. I'll do that later. Do you have a name for me?"

Gary waited until the bartender set down his beer, then said, "Parisa Maxwell."

"She wasn't on the guest list."

"She was a last-minute entry. Her stepfather is Harry Drummond, longtime US diplomat. He was assigned to the embassy in Bezikstan eighteen years ago. He and his wife Riya, and his stepdaughter Parisa, spent three years there. They were close friends with the Kumars. Raj Kumar was the minister of commerce at the time that Mr. Drummond was stationed there, and the two men facilitated trade agreements with the US. Parisa went to school with the Kumars' daughters."

"Which was why she was at the party."

"I would think so. It might interest you to know that Drummond and his family left Bezikstan after an attack on the embassy fifteen years ago. Several staffers were injured, and a Marine guard was killed. They barely got away with their lives."

"I don't remember seeing her parents' names on the guest list."

"They weren't. Parisa's mother and stepfather arrived in Bali a week ago with an expected stay of at least a month. They're participating in a yoga meditation retreat, which involves complete isolation and technological disconnect—no phones, no computers."

"So, they probably haven't heard anything about their daughter."

"Doubtful."

"What about her biological father?"

"I only have the basics, but Doug Maxwell divorced his wife when Parisa was about three. He runs a residential moving company in Florida."

"What else do you know about Parisa? What does she do for work?"

"Like her stepfather, she also works for the state department, but she serves as a translator. She's been working in San Francisco for the last several months. She flew in last night and checked into the Parker Hotel, which is located about six blocks from the consulate."

"Where is she now? Do you know her condition?"

"She was taken to St. Paul's Hospital, where she has been receiving treatment and undergoing interviews with the local police, the FBI, and Bezikstani security."

"Any mention of me?"

"Not that I've heard."

"Good. Do you know her prognosis?"

"They're expecting a full recovery. She's lucky. The two security guards didn't make it."

His gut churned at that piece of information. He'd gotten to her just in time. "And my target?"

Gary shook his head. "I don't know. All of the party guests will be interviewed, but there were over a hundred people at the consulate and evacuation took priority over getting statements. It will take some time to get to everyone. What's your next play?"

"I'm not sure. This kidnapping has changed everything. I don't know if it's related to Paris, but I need to find out. I need more access to the investigation."

"You can't have it. You've been ordered to stand down."

"I'm aware of my orders," he said, anger running through him at the reminder. "But I'm on leave, so no one needs to know what I'm doing."

"That will be permanent leave if you don't behave. And there's only so much I can do without drawing attention. Look, I know April was important to you—"

"She was important to all of us," he said quickly. "Or she should have been. I just need to find another way in."

"How?"

He had one idea, and it was probably a bad one…

* * *

It was almost one o'clock in the morning on Saturday when Parisa was finally released from the hospital. Damon escorted her to a black SUV parked just outside the hospital door, and she was relieved to have him by her side. She also wasn't going to complain about staying the night in a safe house. While she normally had every confidence in her ability to take care of herself, after the night she'd had, she was still feeling a little wobbly and off her game.

"I guess your vacation isn't going the way you thought it would," Damon said, as he started the car.

"Definitely not. This was actually the first party I've been to in a long time where I was just going as myself and not working an angle. And then I end up in the middle of a kidnapping. Thanks again for not blowing my cover."

"No problem. I just followed your lead."

"I was very happy to see you at the hospital. It made things a lot easier." She looked out the window at the city lights, wondering where Jasmine could possibly be right now. Turning back to Damon, she said, "I'm surprised there hasn't been some word from the kidnappers yet. Unless you heard something while I was getting my treatment?"

"There has been no word from anyone," he said tersely.

"Was anyone else taken ill by the toxins?"

"No. The third floor was on its own ventilation system."

"But how did the kidnappers know Jasmine would go to the third floor during the middle of her party?"

"Perhaps their plan was meant to occur later in the evening when she went to bed, but when she showed up earlier, they took the opportunity to act."

"Seems a little risky, considering the house was full of people. I don't understand how Jasmine could have been taken out of the building without anyone seeing her. I know they went down the back stairs and through the basement, but why wasn't there a guard there? And how did they make it into the basement without anyone in the kitchen seeing them?"

"The guard who was posted to the back stairwell has disappeared."

"So, it was an inside job."

"Looks like it."

"I wish the kidnappers hadn't left me behind. If I was with Jasmine now, I might be able to help her escape."

"If she's still alive," he said darkly, then immediately added, "Sorry, I forgot she's a friend of yours."

"Believe me, I'm aware of the odds."

"Did you happen to speak to Vincent Rowland at the party? He called me a half hour ago and said he was there, that he's Westley's godfather, and he wants to do whatever he can to help our investigation."

"I did speak to Vincent. I have to admit I was startled to see him there, especially in light of the warnings Bree and Wyatt sent us a few weeks ago." Two fellow FBI agents and close friends of hers had suggested that Vincent could be tied to some of the dangerous situations they'd recently been finding themselves in, and she should watch her back. "But when Vincent explained his relationship to Westley, it made sense." She paused. "What do you think of Bree's theory about Vincent wanting to get revenge on us?"

"I'm keeping an open mind. Each case, taken on its own, doesn't mean anything. But when you look at what happened to me, to Bree and Wyatt, it looks like there could be a pattern. Someone could be targeting our Quantico team. And the fact that our mentor and teacher, Alan Parker, is also dead, and Alan could have been held responsible for Jamie's death, it makes me wonder if someone—possibly Vincent—could be seeking revenge against the people who let his son die."

"But it has been four years. Why would Vincent keep inviting us to Jamie's memorials if he blames us for his son's death? And why would he wait so long to get revenge?"

"I don't know. It seemed ridiculous when I first heard it, but I trust Bree's instincts, and Wyatt also seems to be on board. Also, when I think about my own situation last year with Sophie, I wonder if we plugged all the FBI leaks. Vincent was an agent for twenty plus years. He knows how to work the system. He has friends all over the world."

"Or we could just be running into problems on our own. It's not like we don't do dangerous work and make enemies along the way. I can't imagine Vincent being as devious as everyone is suggesting. And why would he have an innocent girl kidnapped to get to me? He could have just kidnapped me. Or killed me."

"You might have been supposed to die tonight—just like the guards."

"Maybe." She frowned. "Jasmine did say something odd to me—she was happy that I'd reached out to the family for an invitation to the party and that I'd asked to speak to her. I didn't do, either. The invitation was forwarded to me from my stepfather's assistant."

Damon's profile tightened, as he thought about her comments. "It sounds like someone wanted you at the party."

"It might not be about Vincent; it could have to do with my ties to Bezikstan or even to my stepfather."

"Well, I'll call Vincent back in the morning and see what else he has to say. Any other interesting guests at the party?"

"I spoke to Neil Langdon, an old teacher of mine, and his son Ben. I also talked to Jasmine's sister Anika." She paused, debating her next words. Maybe she needed to say them out loud to see if they made sense. "There was a man at the party. He was watching me. I don't know if he was just flirting or if there was more behind his smile, but I felt myself not wanting to look away."

He glanced over at her. "Did you speak to him?"

"Not then." She cleared her throat. "I honestly don't know if I dreamed this, but it's possible he might have pulled me out of the bedroom and into the stairwell."

"Seriously? Why didn’t you say that before?"

"Because my brain is foggy. Everything feels very dreamlike in my head. I don't know his name, but I'm also pretty positive he didn't have anything to do with the kidnapping."

"How can you be sure of that if you don't even know if you dreamed him up?"

"I guess I'm not sure, but if my dream was real, then I can say he was shocked to learn Jasmine had been taken. He didn't know what was going on."

Damon sent her a concerned look. "What did he say to you?"

"He asked me what had happened, but I couldn't really speak. He dragged me into the stairwell and opened the window. Then he told me to wait until help came, and he left."

"Why wouldn't he have waited with you? He clearly didn't want to talk to security."

"No, but why would he rescue me if he was one of the kidnappers?"

"I can't answer that. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

His handsome face and compelling green eyes flashed through her head. "Yes. I think so."

In fact, she didn't think she would ever forget him, and that bothered her more than a little bit.

"It's possible one of the security cameras caught a glimpse of him as he moved through the party. Maybe you can come down to the office tomorrow and take a look."

"I will do that. I just wish I could do more. I'm really scared for Jasmine. The kidnappers murdered the two guards. They won't be afraid to kill Jasmine."

"They could have left her in the room to die and just taken the ring. So, I'm going to go with the assumption that they want to use her in some other way—ransom, more than likely."

"Then why haven't they made contact yet?"

"I don't know," he said grimly.

She didn’t, either, and her gut told her no news was probably not good news in this case.

A few minutes later, Damon pulled up in front of a two-story brownstone in Greenwich Village. "There are two flats in this building. The bottom apartment is empty. You'll be on the second floor. We'll have an FBI police officer posted downstairs for extra protection."

"Okay." She'd spent time in FBI safe houses before. She knew the drill. She just wasn't used to being the person who was in danger.

Damon walked her up the stairs and into the building. A uniformed male with sandy-brown hair and brown eyes, who appeared to be in his early thirties, was waiting in the lobby.

"Officer Briggs," Damon said with a nod. "This is Special Agent Parisa Maxwell."

"Pleased to meet you," the officer said. "I'll be here all night."

"I appreciate that," she said with a tired smile, then followed Damon up the stairs.

Damon unlocked the apartment with a code and waved her inside.

The living room had a card table and four folding chairs. The bedroom had a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and an armchair. Her suitcase was on the floor by the bed.

"It's not much," Damon said. "Sorry."

"It will be fine."

"Maybe I should stay with you."

"You don't need to do that."

"I would have taken you home, but Sophie has a friend staying with us."

She let out a breath and sank down on the edge of the bed, kicking off her high heels. "It's fine. I'm fine. I have a gun in my suitcase, and I'm well trained. Plus, the officer is downstairs. You don't have to worry about me."

"I know you're capable of taking care of yourself. But you almost died tonight, Parisa."

"I'll be okay. I'm more concerned about Jasmine. I want to talk to the Kumars again tomorrow."

"That's a good idea. They may speak more freely to you as an old family friend." He paused. "When were you last in Bezikstan?"

"When I was sixteen years old. I'm sure the country has changed a lot since I was there."

"Yes. The Bezikstan government is currently under attack from a couple of rebel groups, who are growing in strength and radical thought. That diamond could buy a lot of weapons."

"I know. I also know that Raj Kumar is very close to the government leaders. Perhaps Jasmine's kidnapping is part of a bigger play."

As she yawned, he said, "I'll let you get some rest. We can talk tomorrow."

"Thanks." She walked him back out to the living room, turning the dead bolt after he left the apartment. Then she returned to the bedroom, opened her suitcase and pulled out her gun.

Just as a precaution, she took it into the bathroom with her. She would take a hot shower and then go to bed. When she woke up, maybe she'd remember something important, something that would help Jasmine.