Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

Just as well, she decided. She preferred results over protocol. In fact, she preferred results over everything, including personal friendships, alliances and rules. This had made her something of an outcast in her years at the National Security Agency. It had also vaulted her up the chain of command as quickly as it made enemies. She knew her reputation. Few in the agency wanted to work with her. They were governed by fear, afraid to fail. Afraid to take a chance. In her opinion, it made them ineffective. Which made it far preferable to work with a man like Austin.

If she found the Nighthawk with his help, she would be untouchable. She could name her next position, most likely becoming the youngest department director in the agency’s history. And if she failed . . . well, the odds were stacked against her anyway. And she could always blame it on NUMA.

She spotted Kurt as he entered the restaurant and spoke briefly with the host. From there, he walked directly to her table, seeming taller and more handsome than his photographs. It wasn’t that his features were any different; if anything, they were a little more careworn and weathered, like a book cover that was slightly tattered and broken-in.

She put her phone away and introduced herself. “Emily Townsend. You can call me Emma. Pleased to meet you,” she said. “Finally.”

Austin sat down. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I was checking on the preparations.”

“How much equipment do we have?” she asked.

“I meant, in the kitchen,” he said. “I was making sure the chef was up to standards.”

He grinned at his own comment and Emma found his self-assurance a most attractive quality. One that could be used to manipulate, if need be. The small talk continued until the waiter arrived.

“Any preference?” he asked, perusing the wine list.

“Surprise me.”

He closed the list. “We’ll have a bottle of the 2007 Opus 1.”

“Excellent choice,” the waiter said, moving off to retrieve the selection.

“An extravagant bottle of wine on the first night,” Emma noted. “Your expense account or mine?”

“I’ll pay this time,” Kurt said. “Save yours for the big stuff.”

She couldn’t resist smiling at his easy way and had to keep reminding herself why they were there. Before anything else was said, she pulled a small device from her purse. It was triangle-shaped, several inches long. She placed it on the table. At the touch of a button, it began emitting an audible hiss of static.

“Active noise cancellation,” she said, easing the device to the edge of the table. “It listens to our words and distorts them with interfering frequencies as they pass out of this cozy little booth. Anyone trying to record or eavesdrop on us will pick up nothing but garbled static.”

“What about a bug on or under the table?” he asked.

“I’ve already swept for it. Trust me, we can talk freely.”

He seemed only half convinced, and based on their conversation throughout dinner, perhaps less than that.

She noticed that he kept glancing around, eyeing everyone in the restaurant, in particular a Chinese couple who had arrived shortly after he had and were now sitting directly across the main room. Every time she was about to get into specifics, he changed the subject to something innocuous. At one point, when she was ready to force the subject, he offered her a bite of his entrée, holding out a fork toward her.

She accepted and changed the subject. He must have his reasons.

“So how did you end up in NUMA after working for the agency?” she asked.

“Admiral James Sandecker shanghaied me,” he said. “That’s how he gathered all his best people.”

Sandecker was now the Vice President. She was impressed that Austin knew him well enough to joke about him. And that he hadn’t name-dropped him earlier.

“And how did a sworn pacifist end up at the NSA?” he asked.

“I see you have your own sources.”

“In low places,” he insisted.

“I was a pacifist,” she insisted. “That’s why I joined NASA. To better the state of humanity by exploring the universe in the name of peace. Unfortunately, life doesn’t conform to the ideas of a naïve twenty-four-year-old. Not for long anyway.”

“Something go wrong in paradise?”

“Doesn’t it always?”