Read Online CIA Fall Guy by Phyllis Zimbler Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: Phyllis Zimbler Miller
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the wind and unseen animals howling for good measure. Lance's insistence on reciting ghost stories had only worsened her fear.
Yet the CIA was nothing to sneer at. Given her choice, she'd take the unseen animals over the visible CIA representatives.
Poor Lance. He wouldn't appreciate being awoken so early. But she had to get out of here.
**
Kathleen lifted her left hand from the steering wheel and rubbed her eyes. It had been a hellish night. She'd been leery of using CIA contacts at first, worried that someone would alert George of what she was doing.
So for several hours she'd tried using her own resources to access credit card information. No such luck. She had to call the professionals. And, bingo, Beth's card number had surfaced at a motel near the airport.
And here was the motel itself. A nondescript clump of peeling stucco buildings with cars parked outside some of the rooms.
The lobby door slammed behind her. The clerk at the desk, a young guy with a ponytail, jerked upright.
“Hi. I'm Beth Parsons' friend. I was supposed to meet her here. What room is she in?”
The clerk gave her the once over. No sweat. She looked presentable. And she wasn't carrying, so no revealing waist bulge.
“Room 6 — around the corner on the first floor. But isn't it early to meet someone?”
“Not when you have an early flight. Thanks for the help.”
Kathleen approached room 6. The curtain was closed, same as in the rooms on either side of 6. Should she knock? That would put Beth on guard and who knew what she might do then. Besides, she was probably still sleeping. Why rudely awake her?
Kathleen unzipped an inner pocket in her purse and lifted out two delicate instruments, the main tools for lock picking. Hold one to spring the lock while fiddling with the other. She began the negotiations.
Damn! The pick slipped. She gripped it as tightly as her sweaty palms would allow. Sure, she had practiced this before, but she'd never done it for real.
She pried again for an opening — and the lock clicked open. She'd done it!
She slid the door open a crack. Her luck held — no giveaway creak. In the dark she could just make out a lumpy form on the bed.
She pushed the door wider and slipped through, tiptoeing to the bed.
“Beth,” she said. “Beth, time to wake up.”
She reached for Beth's shoulder, but the bedspread came away in Kathleen's hand, flopping onto her feet. Shit! Shit! Shit!
Kathleen spun back to the door, fumbling for the light switch.
The ceiling fixture revealed — no Beth in the bed!
A quick check of the bathroom revealed no Beth there either.
Kathleen sank onto the bed. She felt nauseous, the same as when she suffered her annual winter bout of the flu, complete with a pounding head.
It was so early in the morning. How could Beth be gone?
Kathleen grabbed the phone, calling a number that was answered on the first ring.
“Doug, it's Kathleen. I need a favor. Can you tell me if any calls were made from this number I'm on within the last few hours? I'll hold.”
Kathleen yanked open the drawer in the nightstand table. Nada. Not even a Gideon Bible. She stood up, cradled the phone against her shoulder, and felt under the bedframe. Her right hand came up with a condom in a foil package.
Shit again!
Doug was talking. “Repeat it once more.” Kathleen was good at remembering numbers; if she heard a phone number once or twice, it was usually hers for life.
“Registered to a Lance Edwards? Thanks. I owe you.”
She dialed again, first the calling card number, then the number Doug had given her.
It was now 6 a.m. on the East Coast. People should still be safely home in bed. Come on, come on, answer the phone.
On the third ring a male voice, befuddled with sleep, mumbled hello.
**
George ran his fingers over the edge of his desk. Solid. He liked solid things. Gave him a good feeling, a foundation on which to depend.
This current situation, with everything going to hell in a handbasket, was not
Yet the CIA was nothing to sneer at. Given her choice, she'd take the unseen animals over the visible CIA representatives.
Poor Lance. He wouldn't appreciate being awoken so early. But she had to get out of here.
**
Kathleen lifted her left hand from the steering wheel and rubbed her eyes. It had been a hellish night. She'd been leery of using CIA contacts at first, worried that someone would alert George of what she was doing.
So for several hours she'd tried using her own resources to access credit card information. No such luck. She had to call the professionals. And, bingo, Beth's card number had surfaced at a motel near the airport.
And here was the motel itself. A nondescript clump of peeling stucco buildings with cars parked outside some of the rooms.
The lobby door slammed behind her. The clerk at the desk, a young guy with a ponytail, jerked upright.
“Hi. I'm Beth Parsons' friend. I was supposed to meet her here. What room is she in?”
The clerk gave her the once over. No sweat. She looked presentable. And she wasn't carrying, so no revealing waist bulge.
“Room 6 — around the corner on the first floor. But isn't it early to meet someone?”
“Not when you have an early flight. Thanks for the help.”
Kathleen approached room 6. The curtain was closed, same as in the rooms on either side of 6. Should she knock? That would put Beth on guard and who knew what she might do then. Besides, she was probably still sleeping. Why rudely awake her?
Kathleen unzipped an inner pocket in her purse and lifted out two delicate instruments, the main tools for lock picking. Hold one to spring the lock while fiddling with the other. She began the negotiations.
Damn! The pick slipped. She gripped it as tightly as her sweaty palms would allow. Sure, she had practiced this before, but she'd never done it for real.
She pried again for an opening — and the lock clicked open. She'd done it!
She slid the door open a crack. Her luck held — no giveaway creak. In the dark she could just make out a lumpy form on the bed.
She pushed the door wider and slipped through, tiptoeing to the bed.
“Beth,” she said. “Beth, time to wake up.”
She reached for Beth's shoulder, but the bedspread came away in Kathleen's hand, flopping onto her feet. Shit! Shit! Shit!
Kathleen spun back to the door, fumbling for the light switch.
The ceiling fixture revealed — no Beth in the bed!
A quick check of the bathroom revealed no Beth there either.
Kathleen sank onto the bed. She felt nauseous, the same as when she suffered her annual winter bout of the flu, complete with a pounding head.
It was so early in the morning. How could Beth be gone?
Kathleen grabbed the phone, calling a number that was answered on the first ring.
“Doug, it's Kathleen. I need a favor. Can you tell me if any calls were made from this number I'm on within the last few hours? I'll hold.”
Kathleen yanked open the drawer in the nightstand table. Nada. Not even a Gideon Bible. She stood up, cradled the phone against her shoulder, and felt under the bedframe. Her right hand came up with a condom in a foil package.
Shit again!
Doug was talking. “Repeat it once more.” Kathleen was good at remembering numbers; if she heard a phone number once or twice, it was usually hers for life.
“Registered to a Lance Edwards? Thanks. I owe you.”
She dialed again, first the calling card number, then the number Doug had given her.
It was now 6 a.m. on the East Coast. People should still be safely home in bed. Come on, come on, answer the phone.
On the third ring a male voice, befuddled with sleep, mumbled hello.
**
George ran his fingers over the edge of his desk. Solid. He liked solid things. Gave him a good feeling, a foundation on which to depend.
This current situation, with everything going to hell in a handbasket, was not
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