At the Edge of the Sun

by Anne Stuart

  Randall shrugged. He was wearing a crushed linen suit, looking as elegant as always, and his long, thin fingers were tapping the armrest. “Nine out of ten.”

  “That good?”

  “That bad. Nine out of ten we don’t make it,” he said.

  “Then why are we doing it? Sybil’s going to be fine, she doesn’t really need her jewels. Besides, he’s probably had them all cut and sold by now.”

  “Perhaps,” Randall said.

  “I don’t want to die, Randall. I want to go back to New York and live happily ever after. With you.”

  He looked down at her, his eyes dark and despairing. “There is no happily ever after for us, Maggie.”

  She held herself very still. “Why not?”

  “There are too many people between us. Pulaski, for one. Bud Willis, for another.”

  “I don’t believe what Bud Willis told me,” she said fiercely.

  “Don’t you?” He leaned back in the seat, and his eyes were bleak and distant. “Maybe you should.”

  Maggie shuddered. “What are you telling me?”

  “Not a goddamned thing. I’m just saying you shouldn’t be so trusting. Don’t believe what people tell you. Don’t believe what Bud Willis tells you, don’t believe what I tell you,” he said, and his voice sounded infinitely weary. “The world is full of con artists and liars, and you’ve known more than your share.”

  “Including you?”

  “Including me.”

  It was nerves, she told herself. It was getting psyched up for the coming confrontation, it was edginess. But damn it, she felt the walls building between them again, and she couldn’t see any way to tear them down.

  “Why don’t we turn around and fly back?”

  “Because,” he said. “Because of the women that weren’t as fortunate as your mother. Because of the twenty-five people who died in Champignons, the seventeen in Northern Ireland, the five in Lebanon. Because he enjoys it, and he’ll do it again. And the first people he’ll be after are you, your sister, and your mother. You can all identify him, and Tim Flynn doesn’t leave witnesses.”

  She sat in a despairing silence for a long moment. “All right,” she said. “You’re right, we have no choice. But at least we’ve got a plan.”

  “Even better than you think. Dr. Milhouse was coming over for a rush job, for an especially important client. I’m guessing that patient is Tim Flynn. Too many people can recognize him now—it’s time to alter that handsome Irish face of his.”

  “But then he won’t—”

  “Yes, he will. Safe or not, he doesn’t leave witnesses.” The last three words were a soft, deadly hiss as he turned to stare back out the window.

  Maggie knelt there, saying nothing. She had to clench her hands to keep from reaching out to him, but she was afraid she’d be rebuffed. At that moment she didn’t think she could take his rejection. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” she said finally.

  He nodded without looking. “Something’s not right, hasn’t been right all along. And I’m afraid I know what it is.”

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “No. I could be wrong. And if I’m right we’ll find out soon enough, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “Is it something to do with Flynn?”

  “Only marginally.” He turned and looked down at her. “I think I know the double agent who runs the place.”

  “Someone you’ve worked with in the past? Is he someone I might have met? Was he around when I worked for the Company?”

  “Maggie,” he said. “Leave me alone. There’s too much riding on this to play guessing games. Either our cover works or it doesn’t. And there’s nothing we can say or do at this point to influence matters. Go back to your seat.”

  Without a word she leaned forward, brushing her lips against his hard, worried mouth then pulled away, rose to her feet, and went back to her solitary seat.

  “What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Holly murmured.

  Ian’s green eyes narrowed as he took in the pair of them. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, it isn’t pleasant.”

  “No. Maggie looks like she’s about to cry. And Maggie never cries.”

  “Maybe he’s just told her how bad our chances are. Even if our fake identities get us into the fortress, getting out will be the real challenge.”

  “Not to mention taking Flynn with us,” Holly added.

  Ian grimaced. “You don’t need to mention it,” he said. “We’re not bringing him out.”

  “You can’t just kill him in cold blood.”

  “I can,” Ian said. “And I will. Or I’ll damn well die trying.”

  Holly, looking at his determined expression, had little doubt that he would.

  The rest of the flight passed in silence. Three hours later they landed on a small airstrip in the midst of a shimmering desert. Heat surrounded them in waves as they walked into the African sunset, heat so intense that the sweat evaporated from their skin before it had time to form.

  “I thought you said Cul de Sac was in the grasslands,” Maggie whispered to Randall.

  “These were grasslands,” he replied. “Salambia’s been hit by the drought almost as badly as Ethiopia. Look nursely, Maggie. Here comes our welcoming committee.”

  A jeep was barreling down the roadway toward the waiting jet, whipping up whirls of dust in its wake. It slammed to a stop a few yards away from the four of them, and the two men who jumped out had bristling beards, soulful Arabic eyes, and Uzi machine guns trained directly at the newcomers.

  “Lazarus?” Maggie whispered. Randall shook his head.

  The older of the two moved toward them, machine gun at the ready, a welcoming smile on his ferocious face. “Welcome to Salambia, my friends. State your names and business.”

  “Dr. Irwin Milhouse,” Randall said, stepping forward and sounding marvelously officious. Once more Maggie had to admire his ability to take on protective coloring. She could readily believe he was a plastic surgeon from Scarsdale and not the dark, dangerous man she’d been sleeping with. “I’m here to perform surgery on several of your guests. This is my nurse, Maria Calderwood.” He held out the phony passports with a steady, slightly impatient hand.

  The first man grabbed the papers, glanced at them, and his smile widened. “You are expected, Doctor,” he said. “You and your assistant. And who are your friends?”

  It was Ian’s cue, and he played right up to it. He swaggered forward, and although his New Zealand accent sounded like a cross between Australia and Texas, the two Semitic strongmen didn’t know the difference. “I’m James Welcome, and this is my lady, Hilary. We’ve been told by mutual friends that there’s a place for us here.”

  “What friends?” The first man wasn’t half as friendly, though his smile remained undiminished.

  “The four horsemen,” Ian said.

  The men nodded at the recognized code word. “Lazarus will be glad to see you. Please to climb into the jeep. I’m sorry there isn’t more room, but we were only expecting two.”

  “That’s all right, mate,” Ian assured them. “Hilary and I can snuggle.”

  “As for you, Doctor, you couldn’t have come at a better time. We have three patients for you, at least, and maybe more.”

  “How gratifying,” Randall said icily, climbing into the jeep and pulling Maggie after him.

  The rest followed suit, the six of them cramped into a vehicle better suited for two. “I am Abu Hassan Mizal,” the older man introduced himself as the jeep roared to life. “And I’m your first patient, Doctor.”

  “Really?” Randall murmured coolly.

  Mizal nodded. “We know you are in a hurry to return to America,” he added. “All the arrangements have been made.”

  Maggie could see Randall’s slight frown of irritation. As far as she knew the real Dr. Milhouse hadn’t explained any arrangements.

  “That’s good,” he said noncommittally.

  “Yes.
You can operate the moment we get back,” Mizal announced cheerfully, and he began to hum.

  eighteen

  Randall could feel Maggie freeze up beside him. Her face was serene, unmoved, even as her muscles tensed. He touched her, a small, reassuring caress that surprised her almost as much as it surprised him.

  “No, I won’t be operating the moment we get back,” he announced in his iciest voice, and he caught Ian’s grin of amusement. “While I don’t wish to be in this pesthole a moment longer than I have to, I’m not about to perform surgery when I’m not properly rested. And I’ll take my patients in the order I choose, when I choose.”

  Mizal grinned over his shoulder, but his dark button eyes were vicious, and Randall felt Maggie shiver. “You’re the boss, eh?”

  “I’m the doctor,” Randall replied. “Someone is paying very highly for my services, and if you want the best I can give then you’ll do things my way. If I’m overtired or distracted I can’t do my best work.”

  Mizal chuckled. “I think I could inspire you,” he said, tapping the Uzi that rested between the seats.

  “Perhaps.” Randall kept his voice cool. “Or you could make me nervous. And when people are nervous, their hands shake.”

  Mizal shrugged. “You win, my friend. For now.”

  He felt some of the tension drain out of Maggie’s body, and he allowed himself a brief glance down at her. Mizal couldn’t see anything behind Randall’s mirrored sunglasses, wouldn’t see the weakness that assailed him whenever he looked at Maggie. Weakness and despair. If they got out of this alive, got back to the States in one piece, then that would be the end of it. A short, dreamlike sojourn that was doomed to end, sooner or later. And if what he suspected was true, if they found what he was horribly afraid they’d find, deep inside Cul de Sac, then it would be sooner.

  And even if he were being paranoid, if Lazarus was nothing more than some junior-grade operative who’d turned, then they still would only be buying time. Because if there was no one left alive to tell her the truth, he’d have to do it himself.

  Maybe it would be better if they died. Maybe he could make one mistake, one small, fatal flaw, and Maggie would never have to be disillusioned. The moment he toyed with the idea he dismissed it. He wasn’t that damned romantic. Much as he liked the fantasy of their being locked throughout eternity in a deathless love, when it came right down to it his sense of self-preservation was stronger. He’d lived without her before, he’d live without her when she left him again. He wouldn’t enjoy it, but it would be better than being dead. Maybe.

  “You look pretty grim,” Maggie whispered beside him.

  He looked down at her through the mirrored sunglasses. She had light-purple shadows under her eyes, and the bones in her face stood out too sharply. Her wheat-color hair was a tousled thatch, and her mouth was too pale as it managed to smile up at him. She was nervous, and edgy, and he wished to God they were back in Venice.

  “Jet lag,” he said briefly, and out of sight of Mizal’s watchful eyes, he put his hand on hers.

  He didn’t know what he was expecting from Cul de Sac. Some sort of palace, perhaps, like a restored version of the Arabian castle they’d spent the night in in Lebanon, maybe with a hospital wing amid all the Islamic claptrap. They could see it from a distance, shimmering in the dry, hot air as they approached it, a sand-color oasis that blended with the burnt-out grasslands around them. It was a fortress, all right, the thick walls surrounding the place were innocuous enough if you didn’t recognize the lethal electric charges placed strategically. It was bordered by trees, the first growing things they’d seen since they landed, making it look peaceful and welcoming. Randall could guess how much it cost to bring the water over the wastelands to keep those ornamental trees alive, water that could have grown crops that would have fed a town. His fingers tightened around Maggie’s, but she made no sound.

  Mizal’s silent companion pulled a small device from the glove compartment, punched a few numbers in, and the wide, steel doors opened to a tropical oasis of birds, flowers, fountains, and beauty. It looked like the Arabian Nights version of a Holiday Inn, Randall realized incredulously. General Hospital meets Ali Baba. This was going to be both easier, and harder, than he had imagined.

  Their rooms were pleasant, upper-class American motel modern. Just the sort of rooms he’d always hated. They had put Maggie in with him, with Ian and Holly just down the hall. It was late afternoon, with the sunlight pouring in the sliding glass door. Maggie was standing there, staring out into the courtyard at the crowded swimming pool, the tropical lushness in the midst of the arid drought.

  He came up behind her, not touching her, just close enough to absorb her body heat. He looked over her shoulder, out at the crowd of people eagerly soaking up the hot African sun, and he laughed, a short, unpleasant sound. “Quite a bunch,” he said. “I think I’d better stick to my room for the time being.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “You recognize anybody?”

  “I recognize at least half of them. There’s quite an elite crowd out there. Some of the most notorious members of the Baader-Meinhof gang, the PLO’s worst branches, the Red Brigade, IRA, and free-lance terrorists from Latin America, Libya, and China. You remember the airport attacks in Vienna and Rome last year? One of the men responsible for planning it is sitting at the bar down there.”

  Maggie shivered. “What about Flynn?”

  “He’s over by the diving board. With the skinny little redhead rubbing suntan oil on his back.”

  She nodded, catching sight of him. “So what are we going to do next?”

  Randall moved away, dropping down in the comfortable chair that overlooked the courtyard. “I haven’t decided yet. We could find out where his rooms are and then kill him.”

  “How easy will that be?”

  “Easy enough. We can watch him when he decides to leave and get a fairly good idea what part of the compound he’s in. Between the four of us we’ll be able to find him.”

  “Not if you stay in the room.”

  “Oh, I’m just waiting till after dark. Besides, I think Ian will find him, by sheer animal instinct if nothing else.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him he killed Maeve?”

  Randall shrugged. “I didn’t want to distract him. He’s got enough motivation.”

  “He’s going to have to find out sooner or later.”

  “I think he might already guess.”

  Maggie turned away from the window, and looked at him. “What else do we do?”

  “We wait,” he said. “We wait, and we watch.”

  A remnant of a grin warmed her face. “Rats. I was hoping we could take a little nap. Jet lag, remember?”

  He managed an answering smile. There’d be too few chances in the future, but they didn’t dare take this one. “Curb your appetites,” he said. “Business first.”

  “Yes, sir.” She sank down on the bed, kicking off her sandals. “Wake me when something happens.”

  She was asleep almost instantly. He sat there, half his attention trained on the jovial, charming Irishman out by the pool, half his attention on the sleeping figure not four feet away, wishing he dared have a good, stiff drink. If he kept up being distracted he wouldn’t have to worry about making a tiny, fatal mistake. It would happen anyway.

  It was almost an hour later when Flynn finally lifted his tanned, muscled body from the chaise and wrapped a burly arm around the skinny redhead before starting toward the east wing of the building. Randall sat there, watching, unmoving, intent. His patience was rewarded. Moments later he saw them pass by the third-floor hallway opposite them. They passed by the first, but not the second window, which narrowed them down to one of three suites, if the building’s layout was the same on both sides of the courtyard. Slowly he leaned back, breathing a sigh. He looked over at Maggie, still sound asleep, and he began to untie his tie.

  The bed sagged beneath his weight as he eased himself down beside her. Her breathing wa
s slow and shallow, and he could see the faint web of veins beneath the translucent skin of her temples, the beginnings of lines fanning out from those beautiful eyes. They weren’t from laughter, and he had to take some responsibility for that. She hadn’t seen enough laughter in her life, and she wouldn’t find it with him. He had to let her go.

  He touched her, gently, his long fingers whispering against her vulnerable neck. This might be the last time they had together—he ought to make the most of it.

  But making the most of it wasn’t stripping off her clothes and losing himself in her warmth and fire. All he wanted and needed was to touch her, to steal some of her softness and comfort. Moving carefully, he rested his head against her breasts.

  She sighed, stretching her arms around him, never waking. The white-gold light of the merciless African sun blazed down on them, stretched out on the queen-size bed, as Randall followed her into a temporary respite that would last too short a time.

  Ian was pacing the room repeatedly. Holly sat curled up by the balcony that looked out over the fortress walls, out into the burnt-out wasteland, and sighed. “You aren’t going to help matters, Ian,” she said in her most practical voice.

  Ian glared at her. “Where the hell are the others? We’ve been waiting here for over three hours and there’s been no word.”

  “I’ve been waiting over three hours. You got to go see Lazarus.”

  “Much good that did me. He was worse than useless. I was hoping he might be someone I knew, but I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “You did manage to fool him, didn’t you?”

  Ian looked affronted. “Of course I did. Do you think he would have let me come back if I didn’t?”

  Holly shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Who knows? We’ve been set up all along the way—maybe this is just part of some major trap.”

  “Maybe,” said Ian. “And maybe we’re fools to sit here like rats.” He stopped his pacing as a sudden, decisive expression darkened his green eyes. “And maybe I won’t just sit here. I’m going out to reconnoiter.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Holly shrieked, leaping upright.