Power of Persuasion

Chapter One

A.J. stared at the short, stern man, incredulous. The patience so antithetical to her nature and so necessary in her job was sorely strained this morning, and she was in no mood for even the most absurd humor. Certainly not the ludicrous story she'd just spent the better part of an hour digesting. The tepid coffee in the unmarked black mug sloshed a bit as she raised the rim to the soft mouth thinned into a line of disgust. She didn't have time for this . . . this farce. Anger warred with good manners as she stared at the older man, curbing her tongue with effort.

The morning had begun at four thirty a.m., the shrill summons of the bedside phone rousing her from a fitful sleep. She had tumbled into bed a mere three hours before, after spending most of the night in the laboratory. Bleary-eyed, she'd grabbed a plastic-wrapped suit from the closet and what she had luckily guessed were matching shoes from a jumble beneath the bed. The jet left the private hangar half an hour later, arriving in DC in time for a glossy obsidian car to spirit her to a nondescript building in Dupont Circle.

Early morning meetings were nothing new to A.J., but she had a firm policy against the unexpected. She despised the unknown; loathed surprises. Particularly those surprises that sprung up the day before the most important meeting of her twenty-five-year-old life.

On Monday morning, she would have to convince thirty people that cognitive science was the wave of the future and a natural complement to their product line. The brainchild she'd slaved over in secret for more than a year would be revealed. Even more, she'd have to cajole the board of directors for one of the world's most powerful corporations into turning over complete control of research and development to the youngest executive in Grayson Conglomerate International.

A.J. didn't doubt her capacity to handle the job. More than anyone, she was vibrantly aware of the responsibility she sought. R&D was the lifeblood of the GCI empire, particularly its advanced computer technology. Under her command, Poppet would be the next wave in artificial intelligence.

But instead of preparing her presentation to the board or fine-tuning her prototype, she was seated in a bureaucrat's office at an ungodly hour of the morning, listening to a preposterous tale about secret agents and international intrigue.

"Let me get this straight. You wake me at an unconscionable hour. Fly me five hundred miles in a rainstorm. Whisk me to a clandestine meeting all to tell me that my cousin is James Bond?" With a withering glance, A.J. pushed back her chair and rose. "Goodbye, Mr. Russell."

"Sit down, Athena," the man quietly instructed.

"No one calls me that," A.J. growled, but she sat immediately. Not that she was at all afraid of the man behind the desk. At least fifty years old, Russell had black hair sprinkled liberally with gray, a color that matched the thoroughly unnerving eyes.

"The name is A.J.," she grumbled. She crossed her arms in a petulant pose familiar to her family, and pouted full, glossed lips. "What other fairy tales do you want to tell me? That Adam and Raleigh met on a secret mission and fell madly in love?"

"Well, that's true, but beside the point." James "Atlas" Russell favored the young woman with a grin. "Of course, they broke up when she refused to save his partner, but yep, that's how it started." The Texas drawl revealed his amusement with the story. "Damnedest romance I ever saw."

"Raleigh's a spy too?" Now A.J. knew the man was a lunatic. Raleigh Foster, the newest member of the Grayson family, was entirely too sensible and, well, staid, to be Emma Peel to Adam's Mr. Steed.

Atlas leaned back in the massive leather chair and steepled stubby fingers on the jumbled desktop, with its odd ring of letter holders, files, and pencils carefully situated around the outer edge. On his left, what resembled a mangled bear claw sprawled next to a half-eaten donut. Amused by her perusal, Atlas grinned conspiratorially. "Yes, your cousin's new wife is also an agent with the International Security Agency. One of the best."

In response, A.J. pasted on her most engaging, placating smile and again rose from the chair. She slowly inched toward  the door, fully prepared to turn and run if necessary. "Mr. Russell, I don't know why Adam put you up to this, but I really don't have time for pranks. Please let him know that the next time he tries to pull a practical joke on me, he should pick a better time for it. Now, if you'll excuse me."

As her hand closed around the cold, metal knob, it twisted beneath her grip. She jumped sideways to avoid a collision. Her hip rapped smartly against a mammoth globe, which teetered on its pedestal. Clutching her hip with one hand, she steadied the globe with the other. And glared when she saw who had knocked her aside.

"I told you to let me tell her," Adam announced as he entered the room, his arm draped around his wife's waist. Raleigh crossed to A.J. and brushed her cheek with a kiss. Adam soon did the same, and he steered A.J. to her recently vacated chair.

"Adam? Raleigh? What's going on here? Who is this man? What is the ISA? Why does he know so much about GCI?" A.J. demanded in rapid succession. "And don't tell me that nonsense about you two being secret agents."

Raleigh dropped into the chair beside A.J., and Adam perched on the arm. Raleigh spoke first. "A.J., I know this is a lot to take in, but we needed to tell you."

"Yeah, kiddo. This is rather important, and you're the only one we can trust," Adam said as he patted her hand. "Just hear us out."

Right before I kill you, she imagined happily. Then she'd hide the bodies, check in to a hotel for a few hours of sleep, and head back to Atlanta. "I'm listening," A.J. lied.

Adam smiled despite the distrust. "As Atlas has told you, Raleigh and I work for an extra-governmental organization known as the ISA. I've been employed by them since law school. Raleigh joined a few years later. The ISA collects intelligence and runs counterterrorism missions, among other things."

"Other things?" Oh, this is just getting better and better. Perhaps she was still in bed in Atlanta, engrossed in a bizarre nightmare. She had been getting very little sleep lately, and it was bound to take its toll. With a surreptitious gesture, she pinched a length of skin exposed by her skirt. And yelped.

"You okay?" Adam asked with concern.

"I'm fine," she replied, not at all convinced. But this was no dream.

Adam looked at Atlas then. "GCI has a strong working relationship with the ISA. It's primarily information sharing, but we occasionally develop technology for them."

"So you're like Q?" The legendary British gadget maker had fueled her childhood fantasies. A.J. could easily recall marathon sessions of the 007 movies. She had little interest in the espionage, but she lived for the introduction of the newest toys. Mission: Impossible. The Avengers. Alias. She'd never dreamed of living the life of the secret agents. It was the thrill of invention that caught her imagination. "GCI makes equipment for spies?"

"Not exactly," Atlas interjected. "But we're veering way off course here." He lifted a sheaf of papers and extended the pages to A.J. "Take a look."

A.J. accepted the packet warily. On the first page was a dossier. Name: Athena Josephine Grayson, née Calvin. Age: 25. IQ: 167.

The page continued, laying out the bare facts of her life in stark phrases. "Parents killed in a train accident, subject unscathed. Responses to parental death include irrational reactions to mild exposure to fire, including candles, fireplaces, and other controlled flammable devices. Attempted therapy to overcome phobia unsuccessful. Displays initial signs of compartmentalization. Tends to relegate upsetting or discordant aspects of life to a separate mental place-may find it difficult to assess the impact of work life on personal life. May overcompensate or disregard incompatible emotional responses."

Mortified by the report and its implications, A.J. leapt from her seat, tumbling the chair to the floor. She threw the offending papers across the desk and darted to the door, intent only on escape. The weakness shamed her, and she'd tried everything to combat it. To have her failure documented for a stranger's eyes, and to know he'd have access to other, more personal records, overwhelmed A.J. Embarrassment galvanized her, and she blindly hunted for an escape.

"A.J.," Adam began as he intercepted her at the entryway. "Wait a minute. What are you so angry about? It's just a dossier. They have one on all three of us."

A.J. poked him in the chest, embarrassment melting into indignation. "You told him?"

"Of course. I gave him your file." Adam ran a placating hand along her arm. "It's an informational tool. They needed to be sure we could trust you."

"Trust? You bastard. Take your hands off me." The words were low, husky, deadly.

Confused, Adam squeezed her captive wrist. "Sweetheart, hear me out. There's nothing to be upset about. The information is public record."

"Public record?" A.J. whipped her head around to look at Atlas. "You stole medical files that were none of your business. As soon as I get back to Atlanta, I'll slap you with a lawsuit so quickly, your head will spin." She impaled Adam with a deadly glare, and Adam recoiled as though struck. "You'll have my resignation on your desk in the morning. I'll explain it to the family, but I don't ever want to speak to you again."

"Why the hell are you resigning? Because of a few medical records? For goodness' sake, don't be ridiculous." Adam shook his head, irritation plain. "If you don't want to help us, fine, but don't overreact."

A.J. jerked her arm, trying to free herself. "Take your hands off me, Adam."

"A.J., stop being stubb-"

Adam doubled over in pain as she landed an elbow in his solar plexus. She whirled around and shot a fulminating glare at the gasping man. "I'm not overreacting. I quit." She tore open the door of the office and rushed out.

Inside Atlas's office, Raleigh stood behind her husband, gently stroking his back as he tried to catch his breath. Assured that he was merely winded, she said matter-of-factly, "I told you she wouldn't be impressed by this cloak-and-dagger stuff, Adam. You have always been so melodramatic."

Adam scowled at his wife of eight months, eager to retort but unable to form the words. The blow had been solid, delivered exactly as he'd taught A.J. when she was fourteen and being bullied at school. He simply never expected her to use the maneuver on him, he thought as he rubbed the point of impact. But neither his ministrations nor those of his bride soothed the initial pangs of guilt forming in his gut. Raleigh was right about the meeting.

He'd remembered his introduction to the ISA fondly, blithely ignoring how intrusive the entire interview seemed at the time. Atlas had detailed his family history, his hobbies, moments in his life to which few were privy. It made him angry, but not violent. Adam lifted the dossier, interested in seeing what had caused A.J.'s temper tantrum.

The psychiatric profile narrowed his eyes. "Damn it, Atlas," he cursed, shaking his head. "You should have warned me." He passed the page to Raleigh.

She skimmed the words quickly, then looked at Atlas across his desk. Atlas sat stiffly, arms folded. "That wasn't necessary, Atlas," she admonished.

"You above all people should know it was," he coldly replied. "Childhood traumas interfere with judgment. I needed to see her reaction."

"And?"

"And I think we need to rethink this mission. She skittered out of here like a frightened doe. This is too delicate to leave to an amateur."

"We don't have a choice," Raleigh reminded him. But to Adam, she said, "And he is right. This could be dangerous, and if A.J. is unstable . . ."

"She's not unstable! She's angry and justifiably so. What if you'd read about your father on a sheet of paper handed to you by a stranger?"

Raleigh became rigid, her eyes clouding over with memory. She'd finally come to terms with her father's death, but only after years of avoiding the matter. Had she been confronted with the truth of that night by an outsider, her reaction would have been just as violent.

"What do we do now?" she asked as she gave Adam the sheet.

"Let me handle it," Adam demanded of Atlas. "She's still our best chance. I'll talk to her."

Adam reread the cold summary of the phobia caused by the most devastating night of A.J.'s life. He still remembered the crisp winter evening that brought her fully into their lives. The nine-year-old had shown up at the Grayson house after a commuter train derailed and collided with the family car. The impact threw A.J. from the vehicle, but the resulting explosion killed both of her parents. The police had brought the skinny, traumatized child to her only living relatives.

For weeks, she'd been nearly catatonic, a reaction the therapists described as survivor's guilt. It had taken time and patience to coax her out of her room, to help her find her place in the Grayson household. And now, she thought he'd shared her darkest fears with a complete stranger.

Adam rubbed the spot where she'd belted him, and sighed.


In the plush antechamber to Atlas’s office, A.J. struggled to calm herself. Sensible black pumps lay discarded on the Chinese rug that covered pale hardwood floors waxed to a high shine. Anguish twisted her stomach as she huddled in a butter-soft leather chair, slim legs drawn beneath her. Long, slender fingers trembled as she pressed them together to control violent tremors.

"How could he?" she whispered in a pained voice to the thriving rhododendron in the corner. How could Adam betray her so easily to strangers?

She longed to flee the building, with its dark panels and callous secrets. Unfortunately, her original plan to rush out and catch the next flight to Atlanta had been thwarted by a keypad that secured the door. The presence of the security system did not pose an insurmountable obstacle; with concentration, she could decrypt the system in under ten minutes, fifteen on the outside. But at the moment, running number permutations in her head seemed beyond her reach.

Instead of the poised, brilliant A.J. Grayson she'd painstakingly created, she curled into the chair, a mass of insecurity and fear.

For years, she'd carefully repressed the night of the fire and its myriad meanings. Like her namesake, A.J. imagined she'd emerged from the ruins of her childhood a tiny adult Adam nicknamed A.J., forever abandoning her parents' preferred name "Athena." Yet, in mere seconds, a single sheet of parchment destroyed the carefully constructed fantasy she'd so meticulously built.