Only A Whisper

By Gayle Wilson

What words had he whispered?

Called in the night to transcribe the bedridden confession of a dying man, federal agent Rae Phillips lost her heart to a voice in the darkness, a hero whose face she never saw

What secrets did she keep?

Two years later, everyone from that night had disappeared, and Rae is hostage to a captor as mysterious as he is seductive. A man whose face remains in shadow but whose voice is hauntingly familiar His titillating touch gives Rae one choice: Betray everything she believes in or her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460877081

Gayle Wilson

Gayle Wilson is a two-time RITA Award winner and has also won both a Daphne du Maurier Award and a Dorothy Parker International Reviewer's Choice Award. Beyond those honours, her books have garnered over fifty other awards and nominations. As a former high school history and English teacher she taught everything from remedial reading to Shakespeare – and loved every minute she spent in the classroom. Gayle loves to hear from readers! Visit her website at: www.booksbygaylewilson.com

Book preview

Prologue

December 1993

Freezing rain glazed the pavement under the headlights of the black Mercedes. Their glow cut through the glittering darkness like twin swords, the hiss of the wipers and the click of ice against the windshield the only sound in the private light show.

The chauffeur threaded the car through the narrowing streets, the buildings on either side dark, their workers having long ago deserted the area and headed to the lighted safety of their own neighborhoods.

The two men in the back had not spoken since leaving the huge underground garage, but in spite of their individual tensions, the silence was not uncomfortable. With the soundproof glass barrier before them, they were virtually alone, each lost in his own thoughts.

The driver finally brought the Mercedes to a halt before one of the run-down warehouses that lined the street. He had doused the lights before he made the final turn into this block, and the powerful car glided silently as a ghost to the curb. The engine continued to purr.

You don’t have to do this, said a voice, breaking the silence. The speaker sensed rather than saw the amusement in response to his anxiety.

"Someone does. And I am, you must agree, the one who is better equipped." The answering voice was gently ironic.

There are other ways. Safer ways.

We’ve been through this. You said Hardesty was trustworthy.

As far as we can tell from the information that’s available. But who can know what men will to do for this kind of money? We’re gambling with your life. The voice was strained, trying to make long-discarded arguments convincing, trying to give them new life.

He could hear the patient resignation in his brother’s answer. "It is, after all, my life, and only one against so many others. The information I’ll provide to Hardesty tonight will bring down the cartel, which is why we began, and we didn’t embark on this without sufficient reasons."

I remember the reasons—all of them. And I believed, until now, that I could let you go, knowing that the outcome outweighed the risks.

Nothing will go wrong. All the arrangements have been made. There is no way to turn back now. It’s too important. You don’t mean what you’re saying. That’s your heart and not your head talking. Too many years of playing big brother.

And you outgrew the need for big brother long ago.

No, the other countered, laughing. No one ever outgrows the need to be loved.

The speaker turned his head, pretending to look out the window at the darkened warehouses. They were men uncomfortable expressing their deep affection for each other, but that didn’t mean they weren’t aware of it. It provided a guarantee of their instant rapport even when they had been separated by years or distance. The speaker turned back, having mastered the pull on his emotions. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to allow him to see the outline of his brother’s head and shoulders against the lesser blackness of the night.

It’s time, the younger said finally, reaching to touch his arm.

His brother took the outstretched fingers and brought them to his lips to kiss. Go with God. He whispered the traditional farewell, releasing the strong hand.

The familiar laughter almost broke his faltering control, and he heard the softly mocking voice in the stillness. Or to the devil.

The man who had spoken opened the door and, moving with an athletic grace, was quickly swallowed up by the waiting darkness.

Remembering his instructions, the brother he had left behind tapped softly on the glass. The chauffeur put the big car in gear, and it rolled silently along the deserted street, turning the corner to disappear.

Chapter One

Get your coat. Franklin Holcomb’s voice broke through Rae Phillips’s concentration on the information displayed on her computer screen. "The old man wants you. He asked specifically for you. It seems we need your particular expertise."

Rae understood the slight sarcasm. They were both aware that she had no particular skill that was not shared by each member of the task force for which they worked. They were all law-enforcement officers who had been selected based on their records and their well-documented abilities. Rae sometimes wondered if the fact she was Austin Phillips’s daughter hadn’t tipped the scales in her favor, but at more rational moments she put those doubts down to latent feminist suspicions. She was the only woman in the twelve-man group and, unless femininity counted as an area of expertise, she was as stumped by Paul Hardesty’s request as Holcomb.

Do you have a clue? she asked as she cleaned up the file she was working on and saved her material.

Nope, just meet him at the pad and he’ll explain later. It’s colder than a witch’s…Sorry, but that’s sleet you hear against the windows. That chopper’s going to be like a deep freeze. I don’t think the old man even notices, but my shoulders’ll be stiff into next week. I’m getting old, kid. Time to move on and leave it to you young ones.

He helped Rae into her navy wool coat, and she was grateful for the lined boots she had worn under the forestgreen sweater dress. She wasn’t looking forward to the helicopter ride any more than Frank was.

They were silent as they left the office, making their way to the elevator that would take them to the stairs at the top of the building, each imagining what might lie at the end of this late-night journey.

Rae could feel the thrump of the Huey’s rotor vibrating through the metal stairway before Holcomb opened the door. The icy wind took her breath, and her eyes watered even though she lowered her head as soon as she stepped out on the roof. She followed Frank’s scuffed wing tips to the chopper, never looking up, in an attempt to protect her eyes, cheeks and sinuses from the biting cold. She had grown up in El Paso and, like all desert creatures, she was most comfortable basking in the sun. She’d never made the adjustment to the D.C. climate.

The interior of the chopper was not noticeably warmer, but at least they were shielded from the wind. The fact that Hardesty himself was along on whatever mission they had undertaken was significant. He hadn’t been an in-field agent in years. The knowledge that this wasn’t going to be the land of assignment that ended in the possibility of danger was, as always, comforting, so Rae began to relax for the first time since she’d been summoned.

She heard Hardesty shouting instructions to the pilot. Although she didn’t catch the words, she knew by Frank’s raised eyebrows that he had and that they’d surprised him. She put her hand on his knee, expressing her question with her own brows. He leaned against her ear, speaking in an almost-normal voice, but still she had to strain to hear the words over the engine’s noise.

Hardesty’s worried about a tail. He told the pilot to watch and evade. Who the hell does he think he’s kidding? We’re the only ones crazy enough to be up in weather like this.

Apparently Holcomb’s assessment of their ownership of the air was correct, for after only the most cursory search for trailers, the Huey dipped nose and headed into the night sky to the south.

The flight lasted less than half an hour, and they landed on the back lawn of what appeared to be a 1920s mansion. Rae again signed her question to Frank, but he only shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. They all ran under the blades to the patio—a term too casual for the expanse of tile and the stone banisters that stretched across the back of the huge house.

The interior was almost as dark as the lawn had been, but Hardesty led the way through the dun rooms with unerring familiarity. Rae heard the chopper shut down, and the silence was broken only by the click of their steps on the dimly visible black-and-white squares of the hall. Hardesty led them into the library, finally turning on some lights. Rae realized then why he had chosen this room, lined from floor to ceiling with books, with no windows to betray their presence.

Sit down, Hardesty invited, but as always, there was no doubting the unconscious assertion of command. He was a man used to being in charge. He even looked the part, with his white hair and still-erect military bearing. Rae knew that he was only in his early fifties, but his decisive nature and premature graying had given him an advantage of looking in charge that he had parlayed into position years ago.

There’s liquor in the decanters. I know Frank’s wanting something. Do you drink, Rae?

Occasionally, but I’m fine.

Good, because we need you clearheaded. This is your show, and I’m afraid it’s going to be difficult and prolonged.

Paul Hardesty paused, allowing himself a moment to study the lovely ivory oval of Rae’s face. It was amazing that Austin and Elizabeth Phillips, the most ordinary-looking couple he’d ever known, had produced this woman.

Strands of dark auburn hair, helped by the wind outside, had escaped the low chignon to curl around her cheeks and temples. Rae waited for his explanation, her aquamarine eyes calmly resting on his face in spite of what he had just told her. She looked like a model or an actress—anything other than the steel-trap mind and finely coordinated body he knew Rae Phillips to be.

We screwed up, and someone else paid the price, he said finally. She watched the tightening of his lips, and knew that he hated to be fallible. Any blunder of the force instantly became Paul’s burden.

Rae simply waited, knowing that he would have to tell this in his own way, work around to what was obviously a painful situation. He took a long drink of the brandy Frank handed him, the light from the low chandelier reflecting off the crystal of his glass.

A man contacted us through diplomatic channels at the highest level indicating that he had information that would enable us to damage the financial operations of the Medellin cartel, to identify the distributors, the middlemen. He even offered us a blueprint of their money-laundering procedures, the banks and companies involved, the ownership structures. You can imagine our reaction. Mine was disbelief, but we checked through those same diplomatic circles from our end and found the source to be…exactly what he’d said.

Rae wondered what the almost-indiscernible pause signified. That was something she had learned from her father. Use every clue, every facial twitch, every vocal nuance. Listen with your brain, not your ears.

We made contact and arranged for transport of the merchandise, set up the meeting, but somehow— again the pain intruded into the careful control "-somehow he was betrayed. The cartel got there before we did. They took some rather classic revenge before we arrived. They were brutal, but not very efficient. He was alive when we got to the pickup point. Barely alive, and obviously…" Paul paused again and shook his head.

Rae was grateful for the lack of details. She could only guess what the courier had suffered. She knew that even with her experience she was probably incapable of imagining the full extent of the damage the cartels committed without a moment’s thought.

And the information? she asked, as Paul seemed disinclined to continue. He looked up in surprise.

"I thought you understood. He has the information in his head. Some kind of freak memory. He’s committed it all to memory. He is the information. The doctor is trying right now to do what he can to help him hang on until you can take it down. He’ll let us know when we can go up."

‘The medium is the message,’ Frank quoted softly, speaking for the first time since their arrival.

Do you mean he’s here? Rae asked, incredulous.

"Of course. He was transported here while we were on the way. Why did you think we’re here?"

My God, Paul, you’re playing with a man’s life. He should be in the finest trauma center this country has. If we lose this man, we lose the possibility of finishing off one of the major cocaine suppliers in this country.

We’re going to lose him. He’s going to die. Accept that because I assure you it’s true. He wants to make that dying worthwhile. He came to give us information, and he’s holding on by sheer force of will until he can. Your job is to help him.

Why me?

Spanish is his native language. It’s easier for him to give the information as he memorized it. You’re the only one of us who is really fluent enough to do this under what will be, I’m afraid, very difficult circumstances.

The door to the library opened and a heavyset man walked in. He met Hardesty’s eyes, shaking his head.

Damned if I know how he’s managing, he said, and shook his head again. He’s as ready as I can make him. I’ve given him what locals I can, not that they’re going to make a lot of difference. Get her up there and let’s get this over. It’s against every principle I ever thought I had. I hope this is worth it, Paul. I hope you know what you’re doing.

Rae. Hardesty spoke the one-word command. As she stood, she could feel her knees tremble. She dreaded what she would witness as a dying man struggled to convict his torturers, but like Paul, she knew the necessity. He handed her the laptop he’d carried on the chopper, and she followed the doctor out of the warmth and light of the library up the dark, winding grand staircase that graced the front hall.

She thought about the scenes such a setting always accompanied in movies and on television. Floating ball gowns and romantic encounters. Rhett and Scarlett. Not death and pain. Not torture and murder and drugs. When they reached the top, the doctor hesitated, speaking to her directly for the first time.

There’s some trauma to the throat. I’m afraid a whisper is all he can manage.

I understand, Rae said, her sense of dread growing.

And he’s asked that there be no light. When he found out you’re a woman…Maybe he’s protecting you. Whatever his reasons, given what he’s willing to do for us, I thought…

Of course, Rae said, but an involuntary shiver not caused by the cold darkness touched her. The screen will be lighted. It’s all right. Will you stay?

Paul thinks it’s better if I don’t. Maybe the information’s too sensitive for my clearance. His slight laugh was ironic. I’ll be outside if you need me. He pulled a hall chair next to the unopened door to reaffirm his intent. Just call. I’ll come. Are you going to be all right? he asked, his long years of caring for those in distress telling him how much she dreaded what she would do, must do.

Rationally, Rae wanted the information as much as Paul. Through the eight years she’d worked in law enforcement she, too, had seen the trail of suffering left by the ghouls they were finally, with the help of the man inside this room, going to put an end to. She would be willing to die to bring about the final collapse of their empire, but it was going to be much more difficult to watch someone else make that sacrifice. This would take a different kind of courage, a cold-blooded courage that considered the end and ignored the means. She thought briefly of her father, and that gave her strength. She would do what she could to ease the way for this man to die, and before he did, she would help him repeat the names and numbers that would justify his death.

At her nod the doctor opened the door. She stood for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the blackness within. Gradually the light from the hall enabled her to see the small table close to the bed, whose occupant was simply a shape, a slight mound in the deep shadow. She closed her mind to the reality that this was a fellow human being, suffering agonies she could not afford to think about.

She walked to the table and, without looking at the bed, sat down and spent the few necessary minutes preparing her equipment. The routine tasks calmed her mind as she locked everything else away.

A voice, she thought. A voice in the darkness. That’s all he is.

I’m ready, she said in Spanish, speaking into the silent glow of the computer. She didn’t turn her head to send her words in his direction.

The voice that answered out of the blackness was low, above a whisper only by the sheerest determination. His accent was classic, like a language tape, and she was surprised. The grammar and syntax of the short instructions he gave her marked him immediately as educated. She remembered Hardesty’s remark that he had used the highest levels of diplomatic circles to transmit the original offer. She wondered briefly how he had gotten involved in the struggle against the men who had made their country’s name an obscenity to law-enforcement agencies all over the world.

She blocked further speculation as the soft voice began to reel off names and companies, accounts and codes. The lists seemed endless. As she struggled to keep up with the flow of information through the long minutes, she wondered how he knew to dictate at the exact speed she was capable of handling.

Because he’s used to dealing with good secretaries, she thought suddenly. That momentary flash of insight about this man she had been determined to consider only a voice gave her instead the image of a dark-haired executive seated behind a desk, quickly dictating some business communiqué. The picture was so clear that she strained to see the face in her vision and realized that she had lost whatever he was saying.

I’m sorry, she whispered, and knew that he hadn’t heard her when the low voice continued. She repeated the apology, speaking more loudly over his words. His voice faded, and she heard a soft movement. She knew somehow that his eyes were now on her face. She forced herself to stay focused on the screen that would clearly illuminate her own features for the man in the bed.

I lost you. Let me read back the last I have and start from there.

Wait, he said, the voice truly only a whisper now. May I have some water. Since we’ve stopped…

Of course. She rose and then thought better of it. I’ll have to check with the doctor. I don’t want to do anything that might… Her voice faded at the very definite, if pained, laugh that interrupted her words.

Of course, he said softly, and she could still hear the amusement threaded in that racked voice.

The doctor agreed with his patient’s assessment. What the hell difference do you think that could make? he asked irritably, moving to minister to the dying courier and leaving Rae feeling foolish for her question. Since her self-esteem wasn’t fragile, she mentally shrugged away his annoyance with her concern for the man she had listened to for the last half hour.

The worst consequence of the entire episode was that his amusement had now made him real to her—someone who could laugh in spite of all he had been through. He was no longer only a voice from the darkness, and she knew that she would never again be able to fit him back into the mental box she had tried to create.

He can have water whenever he wants. Call me if he asks again, the doctor instructed before he returned to his vigil in the hallway where she’d been waiting. He added the afterthought, He was distressed that you’re worried about him. He says you’re too beautiful for this filth.

Is he—?

He’ll last, the doctor interrupted almost abruptly. He’ll do what he has to do, if only from sheer hatred. Go in and help him.

When they began again the careful dictation of information, she knew that he now watched her face as he talked. She could not have told why she was so sure of that fact. Perhaps a difference in the timbre of the softly spoken words. Perhaps a slight improvement in clarity since he had turned toward her. Whatever had given it away, she had no doubt that he was as focused on her face as she was on the screen.

She fought an almost-irresistible urge to turn her head to catch a glimpse of him in the darkness, but she knew he was already too real to her. No longer a phantom, but a man. A man who had walked and talked and laughed. Who had loved and made love. A man who did not deserve to die like this. Away from his country, his family, among strangers.

She coldly blocked those thoughts and typed. How much longer? she wondered, but she knew that the more information she put down, the wider would be the devastation they wrought.

His voice faded, and she heard the shuddering breath he took before he spoke again. A moment, he asked. A moment and then we will go on.

She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat at his linking of her into this effort. They would go on together. She was making it possible for him to do what she now had no doubt he wanted. She lifted her fingers from the keys, becoming aware of the stiffness, the dull pain across her shoulders from the too-long day. She flexed them, lowering and then raising her chin to ease the soreness in her neck. She rotated her head and finally interlaced her fingers and pushed them to stretch the cold joints. The noise was too loud in the quiet room, a desecration of what was happening here.

You’re tired, he said in his beautiful Spanish. We can rest. Ask them to bring you coffee. The hoarseness of the whisper attested to his own exhaustion, and she felt emotion again tighten her throat and prickle behind her eyelids. He was concerned for her. It broke her resolve so that finally she turned toward him in the darkness. Perhaps her eyes had stared at the screen too long, but in the dimness she could see nothing of the man on the bed.

No. The denial was harsh, and then, more softly, pleading with her, he whispered, Please.

She turned back to the screen, feeling tears threaten again. Rae Phillips never cried. She lived in a world of men who expected the same level of control from her that they themselves exercised and, right or wrong, it was what she expected of herself. She swallowed the lump that had been building and lowered her head. If she could not control the burning tears, she would not let him see them fall. She would not weaken him by exposing her pain for him.

Don’t, he said, revealing that he knew the