Without A Trace

by Nora Roberts

  When I give an order, you're to follow it."

  To think she'd felt a flow of concern, Gillian thought, berating herself. She'd even felt a warmth at what she'd thought was his concern for her. Both those emotions froze quickly enough. "I hired you to find my brother, not to spend every spare moment shouting at me."

  "If you'd show some sense, I wouldn't have to shout at you. You've been cut once, sweetheart." He could only hope the memory of that would shake her as much as it did him. "Keep this up and I might not be around next time to make sure it's not any worse than that."

  "You're not my bodyguard. In any case, you're the one who went off without telling me where you were going or how long you'd be."

  He didn't care to be reminded why he'd left so abruptly, "Listen, sister, the only reason you're here with me is because I might be able to use you to get your brother out, You won't be of much use if they've already got you."

  "No one has me," she tossed back as she hurled her purse on the bed. "I'm here, aren't I?"

  He hated to argue with logic. "I told you to stay inside. If you can't do what you're told, you're going to find yourself on the first plane back to New York."

  "I go where I want, when I want." She planted her feet and almost hoped he'd try to put his hands on her again. "But, for your information, I did stay inside."

  "That's strange. I could have sworn I pulled you into the room a few minutes ago."

  "That you did, and nearly dislocated my shoulder in the process." She yanked a small bottle out of the bag she carried. "Aspirin, O'Hurley. There's a gift shop off the lobby downstairs, and I had a headache. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm about ready to take the whole hot tie." She stormed across the room. The bathroom door shut with a resounding slam.

  Women, Trace thought as he strode into the adjoining room. He rarely thought they were more trouble than they were worth, but he was making an exception in Gillian's case.

  After nearly a dozen years of fieldwork, he was still alive. And that was why he was considering retiring more and more seriously. The law of averages was against him. He was a man who believed in fate and believed in luck just as passionately. Sooner or later luck ran out. As it had for Charlie.

  Lighting a cigarette, he stood at the window and looked out at Casablanca. The last time he'd been here it had had to do with smuggling. He'd nearly gotten his throat cut, but luck had still been with him. He'd been Cabot then, as well, the French businessman who didn't mind a shady, if profitable—deal.

  His cover would hold. The ISS had invented it with the meticulousness they were best at. His nerve would hold, as long as he remembered that the woman in the next room was a means to an end and nothing more.

  He heard the water running in Gillian's bath and checked his watch. He'd give her an hour to stew. Then they had business to attend to.

  Gillian's temper wasn't the kind that flashed quickly and vanished. She knew how to hold it off, and how to nurse it along when it suited her. At the moment, she was reaping enormous satisfaction from keeping herself on the edge of fury. It gave her energy and blocked her fear.

  She told herself she wasn't the least bit concerned about what was going on in the room next door as she changed into a simple blouse and skirt.

  He probably intended to make her stay locked up in ha room, eating a solitary dinner from room service. She attached a wide leather belt almost as if it were a holster. She'd be damned if she'd hole up here like a mouse. She might not be sure what she could do to help with Flynn's and Caitlin's release, but there had to be something. Trace O'Hurley was going to have to accept the fact that she was part of this thing. Starting now.

  She moved to the door that joined the rooms and nearly ran into him.

  "I was just coming in to see if you'd stopped sulking."

  Her chin angled. "I never sulk."

  "Sure you do, but since you've apparently finished we can go."

  She opened her mouth, then shut it again. He'd said we. "Where?"

  "To see a friend of mine." Eyes narrowed, he backed up to look at her. "Is that what you're wearing?"

  Her automatic response was to look down at the wide circle skirt and blouse. "What's wrong with it?"

  "Nothing, if you're going to tea at the rectory." While she sputtered and slapped at his hand, Trace unfastened two more buttons. He stood back, frowned, then nodded. "Helps a little."

  "I've no desire to display myself for your benefit."

  "Personally, I don't give a damn if you wear a cardboard box, but you've got a role to play. Don't you have any gaudy earrings?"

  "No."

  "Then we'll get some. And darker lipstick," he muttered before he stepped back. "Can you do anything with your eyes?"

  "My eyes? What's wrong with my eyes?" Natural feminine vanity began to war with bafflement as Trace strode into her bath.

  "Cabot's woman hasn't come straight out of a convent, know what I mean?" As he began to root through her cosmetics, she shoved him aside.

  "No. Just what do you mean?"

  "I mean you need a little more paint, a little more cleavage and a little less breeding." He picked up a smoky green eye shadow, examined it, then held it out. "Here, try for tart, will you?"

  "Tart?" The word came out of her mouth with beautiful Irish indignation. "Tart, is it? Do you really believe I'd paint myself up so you can display me like a… like a…"

  "Bimbo is what I had in mind. A nice-looking, empty-headed bimbo." He picked up her scent and gave the atomizer a squeeze. It smelled warmer on her skin, he thought, and he quickly pulled himself back. "This is drawing room stuff. Is this the only perfume you have?"

  She unclenched her teeth only because it hurt to keep them clamped together. "It is."

  "It'll have to do, then," he decided and sprayed it at her. "The hair, Doc."

  She touched a hand to her wig almost protectively. "What's wrong with it?"

  "Mess it up. The guy I'm going to see would expect me to travel with a pretty, empty-headed and very sexy woman. That's Cabot's style."

  This time her eyes narrowed. "Oh, it is, is it?"

  "Right. And you have to look the part. Don't you have anything slinky?"

  "No, I don't have anything slinky." Her lower lip moved into a pout as she turned to look at herself in the mirror. "I wasn't coming on this trip to socialize."

  "I've never known a woman not to have something slinky."

  If looks really could have killed, he would have dropped like a stone. "You've never known this one."

  Taking it in stride, Trace reached for her blouse again. "Well, maybe one more button."

  "No." She pulled her blouse together. "I'm not parading around half dressed so you can keep up your image." Teeth gritted, she snatched the eye shadow from him. "Go away. I don't want you hovering over me."

  "Five minutes," he told her, and with his hands in his pockets he strolled out of the bath.

  She took ten, but he decided not to quibble. Anger had brought on a flush that she'd added to with blusher. She'd used shadow and liner liberally so that her eyes were big as saucers and had that heavy bedroom look.

  He'd wanted flamboyant, and she'd delivered. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why it made him angry.

  "Cheap enough for you, Monsieur Cabot?"

  "It'll do," he said, already at the door. "Let's go."

  She felt like a fool, and as far as she was concerned she looked the part. Still, she had to remind herself she wasn't being left behind to worry and fret while Trace went about the business of finding Flynn. Drawing a breath, Gillian told herself that if she was playing a part she should play it well.

  As they stepped out of the hotel, Gillian tucked her arm through his and leaned against him. He gave her a quick, wary look that had her smiling. "Am I supposed to be crazy about you?"

  "About my money, anyway."

  "Oh, are you rich?"

  "Loaded."

  She looked over her shoulder as she stepped into a cab.
"Then why don't I have any jewelry?"

  A smart aleck, he thought, and wished he didn't like her better for it. He put his hand firmly on her bottom. "You haven't earned it yet, sweetheart."

  The makeup couldn't disguise the fire and challenge that leaped into her eyes. Because he'd gotten the last word, he felt a great deal better as he settled into the cab beside her. He gave the driver an address, then turned to her. "Speak any French?"

  "Only enough to know whether I'm ordering calf's brains or chicken in a restaurant."

  "Just as well. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. You're not supposed to be too bright, in any case."

  He was telling her to keep her mouth shut too often for her taste. "I've already deduced that your taste in women runs to the type in men's magazines. Glossy and two-dimensional."

  "As long as they don't talk back. If you have to say anything, ditch the Irish. You've lived in New York long enough to have picked up the tone."

  They were driving out of the section of the city marked by hotels and large, modern shops. Inland from the port and harbor was the old medina, the original Arab town, enclosed by walls and mazed with narrow streets. At any other time, it would have fascinated her. She would have wanted to get out and look, smell, touch. Now it was only a place where a clue might be found.

  Trace—or Cabot, as Gillian was training herself to think of him—paid off the cab. She stepped out to look at the hodgepodge of little shops and the mix of tourists they catered to.

  The charm was there, the age, the Arab flavor. Exotic colors, open bazaars, men in robes. The avenue was shaded, the shop windows were crammed with souvenirs and silks and local crafts. The women she saw were for the most part European, unveiled and trousered. The wind was mild and carried the scents of the water, of spice, and of garbage left too long.

  "It's so different." With her arm tucked through Trace's again, she began to walk. "You read about such places, but it's nothing like seeing them. It's so…exotic."

  He thought of the bidonville he'd visited that afternoon, the squatters' shacks, the squalor hardly a stone's throw away from charming streets and neat shops. A slum was a slum, whatever the language or culture.

  "We're going in here." Trace stopped in front of a jeweler's with gold and silver and brightly polished gems in the window. "Smile and look stupid."

  Gillian lifted a brow. "I'm not sure I'm that talented, but I'll do my best."

  The bells on the door of the shop jingled when it opened. Behind the counter was a man with a face like a burnt almond and hair growing white in patches. He glanced up, and recognition came quickly into his eyes before he went back to the customers bargaining over a bracelet. Trace simply linked his hands behind his back and studied the wares in a display case.

  The shop was hardly more than ten feet by twelve, with a backroom closed off by a beaded curtain. There was music playing, something with pipes and flutes that made Gillian think of a tune shepherds might play to their flocks. The scent in here was all spice—cloves and ginger—and a paddle fan lazily twirled the air around and around.

  The floor was wooden and scarred. Though the jewelry gleamed, most of the glass was dull and finger-marked.

  Remembering her role, Gillian toyed with necklaces of blue and red beads. She sighed, thinking how delighted little Caitlin would be with a few strands.

  "Bon soir." His transaction completed, the shopkeeper cupped one hand in the other. "It's been a long time, old friend," he continued in French. "I did not expect to see you in my shop again."

  "I could hardly come back to Casablanca without dropping in on an old and valued friend, al-Aziz."

  The shopkeeper inclined his head, already wondering if a profit could be made. "You have come on business?"

  "A little business…" Then he indicated Gillian by turning his palm upward. "A little pleasure."

  "Your taste is excellent, as always."

  "She's pretty," Trace said carelessly. "And not smart enough to ask too many questions."

  "You would purchase her a bauble?"

  "Perhaps. I also have a commodity to sell."

  Annoyed with being shut out of the conversation, Gillian moved to Trace. She twined an arm around his neck, hoping the pose was sexy enough. She tried for the clipped New York accent of her assistant at the institute. "I might as well have stayed back at the hotel if you're going to speak in French all night."

  "A thousand pardons, mademoiselle," al-Aziz said in precise English.

  "No need to apologize," Trace told him after giving Gillian's cheek a light, intimate pat. The trace of Ireland was still there, but he doubted anyone who wasn't listening for it would have noticed. "There now, cherie, pick yourself out something pretty."

  She wanted, quite badly, to spit in his eye, but she fluttered hers instead. "Oh, Andre", anything?"

  "But of course, whatever you like."

  She'd make it good, Gillian decided as she bent over the display counter like a child in an ice cream parlor. Good and expensive.

  "We can speak freely, mon ami" Trace went on. He too rested against the counter, but he moved his hands quickly, competently, then folded them together on the glass top. "My companion understands no French. I assume you're still… well connected."

  "I am a fortunate man."

  "You'll remember a few years ago we made a deal that was mutually profitable. I'm here to propose another."

  "I am always happy to discuss business."

  "I have a similar shipment. Something that was liberated from our capitalist friends. I find the shipment, shall we say, too volatile to store for any length of time. My sources indicate that a certain organization has relocated in Morocco. This organization might be interested in the supplies I can offer—at the going market rate, of course."

  "Of course. You are aware that the organization you speak of is as volatile as the supplies you wish to sell?"

  "It matters little to me, if the profit margin is agreeable. Are you interested in setting up the negotiations?"

  "For the standard ten-percent commission?"

  "Naturally."

  "It's possible I can help you. Two days. Where can I reach you?"

  "I'll reach you, al-Aziz." He smiled and ran a fingertip along the side of his jaw. It was a trait peculiar to Cabot. "There is a rumor I find interesting. A certain scientist is, let us say, employed, by this organization. If I had more information about him, the profit could very well increase, by perhaps twenty percent."

  Al-Aziz's face was as bland as his voice. "Rumors are unreliable."

  "But simple enough to substantiate." Trace drew out a money clip and extracted some bills. They disappeared like magic into the folds of al-Aziz's cloak.

  "Such things are rarely impossible."

  "Oh, darling, can I have these?" Gillian grabbed Trace's arm and drew him over to a pair of long gold earrings crusted with red stones. "Rubies," she said with a long, liquid sigh, knowing perfectly well they were colored glass. "Everyone at home will simply die of envy. Please, darling, can I have them?"

  "Eighteen hundred dirham," the shopkeeper said with a complacent smile. "For you and the lady, sixteen hundred."

  "Please, sweetheart. I just adore them."

  Trapped in his own game, Trace nodded to al-Aziz. But he also managed to pinch Gillian hard as the shopkeeper drew the earrings out of their case.

  "Oh, I'll wear them now." Gillian began to fasten them on as Trace took more bills from his clip.

  "Two days," Trace added in French. "I'll be back."

  "Bring your lady." The shopkeeper's face creased with a smile. "I can use the business."

  Trace steered her out to the street. "You could have picked out some glass beads."

  Gillian touched a fingertip to one earring and sent it spinning. "A woman like me would never be satisfied with glass beads, but would probably be foolish enough to believe paste was rubies. I wanted to do a good job."

  "Yeah." The earrings glittered with a lot more s
tyle on her than they had in the case. "You did okay."

  With a hand on his arm, Gillian pulled up short. "Wait a minute. I'm nearly breathless after that compliment."

  "Keep it up."

  "There, that's better. Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?"

  "Let's take a walk."

  Chapter Five

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  At least she wasn't cooped up in a hotel room. Gillian tried to comfort herself with that as she sat in a noisy club that was fogged with smoke and vibrating with recorded music. Nursing a glass of wine, she sat observing the life around her. The clientele was young, and again mostly European. Though her traveling had been limited by her work, Gillian thought you could have found an almost identical place in London or Paris.

  It occurred to her that she'd seen more of the world in the past two weeks than she had in all her life. Under other circumstances she might have enjoyed the noise and confusion, the edgy party atmosphere. Instead, she leaned closer to Trace.

  "You have to tell me what was said, what's being done."

  He'd chosen the club because it was loud and the clientele were self-absorbed. Whatever they said wouldn't carry beyond the table at which they sat. He'd chosen it for those reasons, and because he was postponing going back to the hotel, where he would be alone with her.

  "Al-Aziz is a businessman. So is Cabot." Trace nibbled on a stale bread stick. "I made him a business proposition."

  "What does that have to do with Flynn?"

  "I get al-Aziz interested. With any luck he gets Hammer interested. We set up a meeting and I find out a hell of a lot more than we know now."

  "You're going to meet with those people?" For some reason, her blood froze at the thought. For him, she realized. She was afraid for him. "But they know who you are."

  Trace took a sip of his whiskey and wondered how long it would be before he was back in a country that served a proper drink. "Abdul knows who I am. Goons like him aren't generally in on arms transactions."

  "Yes, but—Arms?" Her voice dropped to a passionate whisper. "You're going to sell them guns?"

  "They damn well better think so."

  "That's crazy. Setting up business transactions, pretending you'll be selling arms to terrorists. Certainly there has to be a better way."

  "Sure. I could have walked into al-Aziz's and told him you were Dr. Gillian Fitzpatrick, whose brother had been kidnapped by Hammer. I could have appealed to his humanitarian instincts. Before the sun came up in the morning you'd be in the same position your brother's in now. And I'd be dead."

  Gillian frowned into her wine. "It certainly seems a roundabout way of accomplishing something."

  "You stick to your equations, Doc, I'll stick to mine. In a few days I should be talking with the general himself. I have a feeling that wherever he is, your brother's close by."

  "You really think Flynn's near here?" As she leaned closer, her fingers gripped his. "I wish I could be sure. I wish I could feel something."

  "The computer said Morocco. Rory confirmed that the plane was logged for Casablanca. Wherever he is now, he was here. So we start here."