by Anne Stuart
Maggie stopped her babbling, pulled her pants back up, and caught Mack’s eyes. The stubbornness had vanished; they were warm with laughter. “Jeg ilsker dig,” she said one last time, reveling in the chance to say it, delighting that he couldn’t possibly know that the mighty had fallen.
“Ich liebe dich,” he said in his inappropriate German. And it didn’t take someone with Maggie’s gift for languages to know what he was saying to her. I love you, whether in German or in Danish, was only too easy to understand. And she could only hope it was a coincidence that made Mack say that to her. Perhaps it was the only German he knew, apart from jawohl. But somehow she doubted it.
Officer Ryan had managed to get a shirt back around her. It was Mack’s shirt, but that was a minor problem. The turquoise briefs were covered, and Ryan’s partner had brought out the handcuffs. Maggie stood there tranquilly enough as they handcuffed the two of them together, and she allowed herself a small glance at Mancini. All she saw was his narrow, beautifully tailored back as he left the airport, surrounded by his army.
She looked back at the handcuffs binding her to Mack, then up into his eyes. “Get out of this one, Mack,” she muttered under her breath. “I dare you.”
nineteen
Officer Ryan leaned against the door and glared at the unrepentant two. He’d brought them to a small, windowless room on the lower floor of the Honduro Airways building, dispatched his partner to phone in, and now he stood there glowering, his forehead still shiny with sweat.
Maggie casually began to button Mack’s shirt with her unhandcuffed hand. He’d taken their wallets, credit cards, identification and all, and his pink complexion had turned bright red when he realized his prisoners weren’t crazy foreigners at all. But he hadn’t asked a question or said a word apart from ordering them to sit quietly at the conference table in the air-conditioned little room.
And so they sat, their arms stretched across the table, wrists bound together. Mack looked comparatively peaceful, Maggie decided. The decision had been taken out of his hands, and for the moment he seemed to accept it.
The door opened, Ryan’s partner stuck his head in long enough to murmur something to the policeman, and then disappeared again after receiving his orders. And then Ryan did turn to them.
“Well, I hit the jackpot this time, didn’t I?” he said, more to himself than them. “Wanted for murder, the both of you, down in Texas. Not to mention arson and car theft. You’re a likely pair, the two of you.”
“Both of us?” Maggie shrieked, having innocently assumed Pulaski was the only suspect.
“Arson?” Mack said, sparing Maggie an amused glance.
“The two of you bombed a motel in Texas, stole a car, murdered a man named Peter Wallace, and then fled the country,” Ryan announced. “You care to make a statement?”
“You have the right to remain silent, Mack,” Maggie warned.
“Yes, but what the hell are we going to do about a lawyer?”
“I don’t know, kid,” she drawled. “You just fired me.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have much luck assembling our defense from a prison cell.”
“I don’t think we’re going to be in a prison cell,” she said.
“Why not? As far as I can tell, that might be the safest place,” he countered.
“Such innocence. Mancini could get to you faster there than anyplace else. Fortunately, I’m a damned good lawyer, and I can get us out of this before that happens.” She gestured toward the listening Ryan. “Better watch it. Little pitchers have big ears.”
“Don’t mind me, folks,” Ryan said affably. “This is all very interesting.”
“I’ll bet it is,” said Maggie, the lawyer in her reemerging. “What are we waiting for, Officer? The paddy wagon?”
“We’re waiting for word from my superiors. Then it’ll be off to Center Street with you, I expect. That is, if you don’t mind,” he added with exaggerated courtesy.
“I thought you said we weren’t going to jail, Maggie May,” Mack said, flexing his wrist in its metal casing.
“You aren’t.” A new voice entered the conversation, coming from the open door, and Maggie let out a cry of relief.
“Jackson!” she cried. “My savior. At least, I hope so.”
Mike Jackson, head of the Washington branch of Third World Causes, Ltd., ducked inside the door, followed by another man. “Not me, Maggie. Hamilton here is doing the honors.”
Maggie took one look at the man, at his nondescript three-piece suit, his forgettable face, medium coloring and middle age, and recognized him for what he was. “And why is the CIA saving us?” she questioned coolly.
Hamilton’s nod of approval recognized her perception. “Orders, Miss Bennett,” he said in a voice that matched his bland exterior as he flashed his identification at Ryan. “Thank you, Officer,” he said. “You’ve done an excellent job today, and I’m sure we can count on your discretion in this matter?”
Ryan looked torn. On the one hand, having made such a glamorous collar was more excitement than he usually had in months. On the other hand, his shift was almost over, and the paperwork involved in an arrest like this one was monumental. Not to mention the hassle of going up against the U.S. Government. He shrugged, accepting his dismissal. “Sure thing,” he muttered. “But tell ’em to keep their clothes on in public next time.” He glowered at everyone in general. “You still want ’em cuffed?”
“That won’t be necessary, Officer Ryan,” Hamilton said. “They won’t be going anywhere until we’re ready.”
Ryan slammed the door shut behind him. Hamilton took a seat at the table, Jackson followed suit, and Mack just watched them. Maggie felt oddly distant and removed. Things were out of her hands, finally, and for once in her life she was ready to give up control. Let the CIA figure it out this time; let Jackson, Peter Wallace’s heir apparent, deal with it.
“We need your help,” Hamilton said without preamble.
“Fancy that,” Maggie said lightly, sparing a glance at Mack’s stony profile. “Mine or Pulaski’s?” She knew the answer. She just wanted to make certain Mack heard it from the source.
“Both, I’m afraid. Van Zandt won’t have it any other way.”
“God knows, we have to please Van Zandt,” Mack said. “What do you want us to do, and what are you willing to give us in return?”
“I wouldn’t say that now is the time for bargaining,” Hamilton said sternly. “You’re in enough trouble as it is. Your only chance of clearing things up is doing as we say.”
“Mr. Hamilton”—Mack had leaned across the table, and Maggie could see the barely leashed temper ticking away in his eyes—“I have not done one thing wrong, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let some shady branch of the government blackmail me so that I can get my basic civil rights.”
“Basic civil rights in this country aren’t worth a pig’s ass,” Hamilton said. “If we wash our hands of the situation, you’ll be tied up in courts and trials for so long you’ll be senile by the time you’re free. And then Mancini and his friends will be waiting.”
He grinned, a savage semblance of a smile. “Maggie assures me Mancini won’t have to wait that long.”
“Probably not. The CIA doesn’t owe you anything, Pulaski. You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble, but we’re willing to overlook that and help you if you’re willing to help us.”
Mack managed an obscene snarl, and Maggie decided it was time to intervene. “Exactly what do you want us to do, Mr. Hamilton?”
“We want you to meet with Jeffrey Van Zandt and find out what he wants from you. And then we’d like you to kill him.”
Dead silence reigned in the climate-controlled room. Maggie looked at Jackson, but he showed no surprise. Hamilton still had that bland, nondescript expression on his face, and Mack merely looked cynical.
“Why?”
“He’s a traitor,” Hamilton said promptly. “God only knows what disasters he’s been responsible for during th
e last few years. He’s been arranging drug sales between the rebels and the mafia and then raking off most of the profits. But he hasn’t been doing it alone, he’s been answering to somebody. We want to find out who that somebody is, and we suspect that whatever Van Zandt wants you for has something to do with it.”
“I hate to bring reality into this Le Carre fantasy you’re living,” Maggie drawled, “but I must point out that your organization is equipped to handle this sort of thing. Why don’t your people track him down, find out what’s going on, and then take him out? All in a day’s work for you guys. We’re sort of new at this stuff.”
“Don’t you think we would have if we could?” Hamilton said, irritation breaking through his determined blandness. “Jeffrey Van Zandt is one of the best. No one’s going to get near him unless he wants them to. We’ve been working on this for months and we’ve had no luck whatsoever. For some reason he wants the two of you in Switzerland, and you’re our only chance.” He leaned back, a faint smile playing around his thin lips. “And I might add, we’re your only chance.”
“And if we don’t choose to take it?” Maggie said.
“Well, then I’m sure Mr. Jackson will do his best for you. But when the government doesn’t care to be helpful, things can take a very long time.”
Maggie looked at Jackson. He was a beefy, balding man in his early fifties, with soulful eyes and the instincts of a barracuda, coupled with an intellect Wallace had once termed frightening. When he shook his head Maggie knew they had no choice whatsoever.
Mack had clearly come to the same decision. “I go alone or not at all,” he said suddenly.
Before Maggie could protest, Hamilton shook his head. “That won’t do. He wants you both there. If you show up alone, he won’t come near you.”
Mack’s fist clenched, and his eyes met hers across the table. She smiled, a rueful, faintly triumphant smile. “You’re stuck with me, Mack,” she murmured. “Listen, you never know when a Mata Hari might be useful.”
“She’s very good with a gun,” Jackson offered. “And she thinks on her feet. You couldn’t do much better—”
“Thanks,” Mack broke in. “But I’ve been traveling with her for more than a week now. I know how good she is. I also know that I don’t want any more deaths on my conscience. I’ll take jail.”
Maggie controlled her temper with a great effort. “Then I’ll just have to go alone,” she said sweetly. “He may or may not refuse to see me. He may decide to have me killed if he doesn’t get what he wants, but that’s all right, you’ll be safe in jail. Until Mancini gets you.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I would. And you know it, Pulaski.”
Hazel eyes glared into the famous Bennett aquamarine eyes, and the two men sat by, watching. Finally Mack sighed, leaning back. “You would, wouldn’t you?” he snarled. “Okay, Hamilton. I guess we go to Switzerland. When?”
“Seven-thirty tonight. You’ll arrive in Zurich tomorrow morning around eight. We’ve made reservations, gotten your passports, clothes, luggage—”
“My passport blew up in my apartment three weeks ago,” Mack interrupted.
Hamilton held up a restraining hand. “Please, Mr. Pulaski. We’ve taken care of that. You have three hours before departure, and I’ve made arrangements at one of the airport hotels where you can bathe and change and have something to eat. But I suggest we hurry. If you miss tonight’s flight, it’ll be another twenty-four hours.”
“Why don’t you just send us over on Air Force One?” Mack snapped.
“It’s in use,” Hamilton replied, unfazed.
“What about guns?” Maggie broke in. “Can you arrange to have us carry our own through customs or at least find us some once we arrive?”
“The latter. Your contact will arrange all that. When you arrive in Zurich you’ll check in to the new Zurich Holiday Inn—”
“God, no!” Mack groaned.
“Perfect,” said Maggie.
“The Zurich Holiday Inn,” Hamilton continued with a prissy little glare. “Our man will make contact there.”
“How will we know him?” Mack demanded. “Will he wear a red rose in his lapel?”
Hamilton ignored his sarcasm. “You’ll know him. He’ll bring you any weapons you might need. Any questions you have at that point you can ask him. He’ll be briefed on the entire affair.”
“Let’s hope so,” Maggie said. “No further questions, your honor. Just one small point. We won’t kill him for you. We’ll find out what he wants, find out who he’s working for, and we’ll do our damnedest to hand him over to you. But we’re not going to be your executioners, no matter how much he deserves it.”
Hamilton smiled faintly. “Suit yourself, Miss Bennett. I suspect you won’t have any choice in the matter when it comes right down to it. With Van Zandt it’s going to be a case of kill or be killed. I trust that it will be the former.”
“We’ll see,” Maggie said, hiding the gloomy conviction that he was right.
Mack’s glare took in the three of them. She could see the hesitation still lingering, but then he shrugged, accepting his fate. “I guess it’s our funeral,” he said succinctly. “Let’s go.”
She should be feeling better, Maggie thought, leafing through Vogue in her luxurious first-class seat on the 747 currently soaring over the Atlantic. She was clean, well-dressed, well-fed, even reasonably well-rested. Mack was beside her, immersed in the CIA file on Van Zandt and looking quite glorious in a cream linen Armani suit. Her own St. Laurent jumpsuit was a perfect fit—no mean feat when the wearer came close to six feet tall. They were as far away from Mancini and his men as they could be, and the charges from Texas were being dropped. All they had to worry about was Jeffrey Van Zandt.
That was more than enough to worry about. All her instincts about Jeffrey Van Zandt had proven true, and God only knew what they would face when they reached Zurich. And what he would want from them.
It was three in the morning, Zurich time. Maggie had already adjusted her watch, the scratched and dusty Rolex, her one constant through this entire adventure. The watch, and Mack.
She still couldn’t quite believe what had escaped from her when she’d been babbling in Danish. Once the words were out in the open, she couldn’t call them back.
It was a strange notion, to be in love with Mack. Whenever she thought of love she thought of that twisted fascination she’d had for Randall. Or she thought of some idealized, pleasant cloud of emotion where all was gentleness and smiling peace. With Mack it was neither. It was vast irritation, ridiculous humor, tenderness, warmth, and passion that turned her blood to fire. There was no pleasant cloud of forgetfulness with Mack—it was real and solid and overwhelming. But would it hurt as much as it had with Randall? She had the nasty feeling that if Mack were to betray her as Randall had, she wouldn’t recover. A part of her would wither and die.
Well, she didn’t have any spare parts, she thought briskly. And Mack had offered her nothing, promised nothing. Granted, they couldn’t really talk about the future when they were running for their lives. But the man had been married twice already. Not a good omen.
Who was she kidding? She and Mack had shared a bed and some blissful passion. But when the danger was finally over, when they went back to a semblance of their normal lives, then their relationship would doubtless be over too. It would be better for both of them, better than eventual disillusionment.
But in the meantime she was going to keep him alive. Between the two of them they’d track Van Zandt down and hand him over to the CIA contact in Zurich. And then they could worry about the future.
“What’s that expression mean?” Mack’s rasping voice broke through her abstraction. “You look like you just realized what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”
She turned to look at him. His eyes were still slightly bloodshot, and she could see the traces of the black eye she’d given him centuries ago in the hotel room in Tegucigalpa. “I know what we’ve gotten
ourselves into,” she said quietly. Jeg ilsker dig, a little voice echoed in the back of her brain, and she squashed it down.
“I’m glad you knew what you were doing,” he said wearily. “You want to tell me why?”
“Why?” she echoed.
“Why you wouldn’t let me rot in jail? It wouldn’t have been that long—Jackson could have gotten me out.”
“Maybe. But Mancini would have gotten you. You should know that as well as I do. That’s a major reason you were hiding out in Moab, Mack. And if the mob wants to get you, there’s no real way to stop them.”
“Are our chances any better in Zurich against someone like Van Zandt?”
“I think so. He wants something from us. Mancini only wants us dead,” Maggie said.
“What’s this ‘us’? Mancini wants me.”
Maggie shook her head. “Not anymore, I suspect. He saw the two of us together, he’ll know we’ve been traveling together for the last week. I’m sure he’ll decide to have me taken care of as well as you.”
“No,” he said, and there was anguish in his raw voice.
“Maybe not. Do you want to take a chance on it?” He didn’t say anything, and she leaned back in the seat, stretching her long legs out in front of her. “I didn’t think so. Take a nap, Mack. We’re going to make it.”
But it was she who slept the rest of the night, waking only when they landed in Zurich. It was a warm, sunny day, and Mack’s despised Holiday Inn looked massive, comfortable, and very Swiss. They were settled into their large, spotless suite by eleven, with nothing to do but pace and wait.
Maggie ordered a huge breakfast for both of them, and neither of them could eat more than a few bites of fruit. Of course Mack turned on the television, only to turn it off when he discovered they got only two channels, and both of them were in German.
“German soap operas are almost better than this,” Maggie said, dropping down on the huge bed.
“Better than what?” he said, pacing.
“Better than waiting. Better than staring out the window at Zurich, better than wearing a path in the carpet. How long are we supposed to wait here?”
