In Death 09 - Loyalty in Death

laid in."
    "Should I send for Captain Feeney?"
    "No." Eve rubbed her cheek. "I've got an expert only minutes from this location." She dug out her 'link and called Roarke.
    He took one look at the fried control panel and shook his head. "You'd only to call."
    "I got in, didn't I?"
    "Yes, but there's something to be said for finesse, Lieutenant."
    "There's something to be said for speed. I don't mean to rush you -- "
    "Then don't." He moved into the room, let his eyes adjust to the dim light. "Set up your night flash until I can get the room controls working."
    He took a slim penlight out of his pocket and, sitting at the controls, clamped it between his teeth in a technique favored by burglars.
    Eve saw Peabody's eyes register appreciation and speculation, and moved between them. "Take the vehicle and get to my home office. Get ready to receive data. We'll send through what we find here. Put the rest of the team on alert."
    "Yes, sir." But she craned her neck to see over Eve's shoulder. Roarke had removed his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. The man had fabulous definition in his arms. "Are you sure you don't want me to assist here?"
    "Beat it." Eve bent to dig a light out of her field kit. "I still see your shoes," she said mildly. "Which means the rest of you has yet to follow orders."
    Her shoes pivoted smartly and marched away.
    "Do you have to look so sexy when you do that?" Eve demanded. "You distract my aide."
    "Just one of life's little hurdles. Ah, I won't need that flash after all. Lights," he ordered and the room brightened.
    "Good. See if you can find the controls that open this paper file over here." She turned to a cabinet. "I'd blast it, but I might damage the data inside."
    "Try a little patience. I'll get to it. She had excellent taste in equipment. These are my units. Locks, yes, here we are." He keystroked and Eve heard the click.
    "That was easy."
    "The rest won't be. Give me some quiet here."
    She pulled out a drawer, hefted it, and carried it into the sitting room. She could hear the beeps and hums of the machines as Roarke worked on them. His occasional terse voice commands. Why she should have found it soothing, she couldn't say, but it was oddly satisfying to know he was in the next room working with her.
    Then she started going through the paper files and forgot him, forgot everything else.
    There were letters, handwritten in bold, sprawling script from James Rowan to his daughter -- the daughter he didn't call Charlotte. The daughter he called Cassandra.
    They weren't the sentimental or fatherly correspondence between parent and child but the rousing, dictatorial directives from commander to soldier.
    "The war must be fought, the present government destroyed. For freedom, for liberty, for the good of the masses who are now under the boot of those who call themselves our leaders. We will be victorious. And when my time has passed, you will take my place. You, Cassandra, my young goddess, are my light into the future. You will be my prophet. Your brother is too weak to carry the burden of decision. He is too much his mother's son. You are mine.
    "Remember always, victory carries a price. You must not hesitate to pay it. Move like a fury, like a goddess. Take your place in history."
    There were others, following the same theme. She was his soldier and his replacement. He'd molded her, one god to another, in his image.
    In another file she found copies of birth certificates. Clarissa's and her brother's, and their death certificates as well. There were newspaper and magazine clippings, stories on Apollo, and on her father.
    There were photographs of him: public ones in his politician suit with his hair gleaming and his smile bright and friendly; private ones of him in full battle gear, his face smudged with black and his eyes cold. Killer eyes, Eve thought.
    She'd looked into them hundreds of times in her life.
    Family pictures, again private, of James Rowan and his daughter. The fairylike little girl had a ribbon in her hair and an assault weapon in her hands. Her smile was fierce, and her eyes were her father's.
    She found all the data on one Clarissa Stanley, ID numbers, birth date, date of death.
    Another picture showed Clarissa as a young woman. Dressed in military fatigues, she stood beside a grim-faced man with a captain's hat shading his eyes. Behind them was a dramatic ring of snow-covered mountains.
    She'd seen that face before, she thought and dug out her