SLEEPER (Crossfire Series) Read Online Free

tried to double-cross me? I thought she was the decoy, and it turns out she was the real thing. There I was at the summit waiting like an idiot when news got back to me that my nephew had been killed. What does the CIA have to say about that?”
    It wasn’t easy conversing in German for long periods anymore, and the man on the other side was irritating her. After all, it had been more than ten years. Of course he knew her background and must think that since she was German by descent, that was the language that came naturally to her. But she’d been recruited by the Soviets for almost a quarter of a century, so her language of choice would be Russian or Croatian. Nobody, however, knew that. They all still thought the Germans were behind this.
    “What, is it so surprising there is a double agent in the Agency?” She wanted to laugh. What did that make her? A double double agent? “I want everything you have on her ASAP. She’s responsible for Dragan’s death, so I’d like to handle her myself, if you know what I mean.”
    She studied her hand as she listened. She liked looking at her longer nails. It’d been such a long time since she had painted them her favorite pink. “Are you suggesting that I’m too old for the game?” she asked, injecting a note of politeness in her voice. She supposed they had a right to be concerned. After all, she was no longer in her prime as an assassin, but a woman didn’t like being told she was too old, even to kill. “My ten years away from the job hasn’t diminished any of my skills. After all, I’ve had to personally take care of a few of your little spill-ups in the States, remember? You owe me this, Gunth. Fax me all you have on her tonight.”
    She switched the cell phone to her other ear so she could inspect her other set of nails. Damn it, two were chipped. Her voice sharpened as she changed into English. “Tell you what. I’ll fly over to where you are and extract what I want from you. Then I’m going to send your favorite body part back to the top.” She smiled at the image. “Are you daring me? I may be old, but I still love a challenge. And Gunth, I’ll remember that you’ve insulted me. Verstehen?”
    Greta snapped her cell phone shut. She tapped it against her chin, as she stared thoughtfully out the train window, half-listening to the growl and rumble of wheels speeding over steel tracks. Usually she would be enjoying a good cup of espresso while she sat in her private compartment, doing a little bit of knitting, or playing solitaire. It was a good way to relax.
    She smiled again. Perhaps she was getting old. After all, she had played being old for so damn long. Her gaze fell on the knitting bag on the seat across from her. The knitting habit came from her other life, when she had projected the image of a harmless, grandmotherly older woman with ever-whitening hair, knitting peacefully in the corner of the bus or train, with her black pearl-handled knit bag. The CIA loved her. Nobody had given her more than a second glance.
    Ten years. Maybe she had really begun to believe that she was a sweet old grandma. Even now her hands itched for the soothing motion of one knitting needle looping a woolen thread from another. Loop, slide out, tighten.
    Greta looked at her hands. They always said one could tell how old a person was by looking at her hands. She didn’t think so. She had nice hands, but with short, unpainted nails and a simple gold ring, they had looked very normal. Now that she was out of DC, her hands were hers again—nicely manicured with long nails that would have looked ludicrous on the old lady in the bus. She frowned. She really didn’t want to give up knitting yet, but it wasn’t good on her nails.
    She put down her cell phone and smoothed her hands across the tabletop. It was that stupid bitch’s fault, of course, that her plans were delayed. If everything had worked out right, she would have been on her way home, happily retired—or semi,