by Linda Howard
"I just put it away. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." There was a touch of awe in her voice.
"There's a transmitter behind the stone, hidden between the prongs of the set. Be careful and don't jostle it. See you in the morning."
The phone clicked as he hung up. Slowly she
replaced the receiver. His last words could be taken as a warning, considering his penchant for breaking into her house. She smiled, thinking of that small bathroom window.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Medina. I'll definitely see you."
Chapter Eleven
>
Bingo," John said softly, and hung up the phone. Ronsard had taken the bait. The message had gone to a computer in Brussels, as per his instructions; the message had then been relayed to a computer in Toronto, which he had accessed using a calling card. Calling cards were untraceable, assuming Ronsard would even make the effort. He wouldn't expect Temple's name and number to pop up on caller ID, or for the number to be traceable.
Now he had to finesse the timing. First he had to bring Niema to Ronsard's notice and see if she was invited to the villa. If not, he would have to adjust his plan. But if Niema bagged the invitation, he didn't want to arrive at the villa until after she was already there.
Niema. As much as he had enjoyed these past few days with her, she was driving him crazy. Teasing her, touching her during her self-defense "lessons"-he had to have lost his mind to subject himself to such torture. But she delighted him on so many levels, he couldn't bring himself to stop. She was so quick to learn, and so competitive she automatically rose to any challenge. He had quietly laughed to himself that morning while he showered in her guest bath, knowing she had raced full out in an effort to beat him back to the house-after already running for over an hour.
She was aware of him now, where she never had been before. She hadn't had a clue, in Iran, how much he had envied Dallas. But he had seen her watching him when he took off his T-shirt, seen the effort she made not to stare. It was still too soon to make a move, though, so he'd had to fiercely concentrate to keep from getting an erection every time he got close to her. She had just today fully realized her attraction to him, so she was nowhere ready for him to do anything about it.
It wasn't as if they had just met and begun seeing each other. Under those circumstances, he would have felt free to move at his own pace, or at least as free as he ever felt with a woman. But they had baggage in common, the two of them; the manner of Dallas's death was something that both linked them and stood between them. No other man had been able to scale that wall because no other man had been able to understand it; he was the one who had been in that cold, dirty little hut with her, the one who watched her white, still face as she listened to her husband's last words, saw the screaming in her eyes. He was the one who held her when she at last was able to cry.
And he was the one who was going to break down that barrier of disinterest she had installed between herself and the male sex. He could do it because he understood her, because he knew that beneath her ladylike exterior beat the heart of an adventuress. He could give her the excitement she needed, both professionally and personally. God, the way she had come alive these past few days! She literally glowed. It took all his willpower not to grab her and let her know exactly how he felt.
But there was a time for that, and it wasn't now. She still wasn't comfortable with the idea of wanting anyone who wasn't Dallas, in general, and him in particular. But she would be; he would see to it.
Restlessly he got up and paced the room, automatically avoiding the window. He couldn't remember any woman's response being so important to him, not even Venetia's.
He stopped and stared sightlessly at the unremarkable framed print on the wall. After what had happened with Venetia, maybe he didn't deserve Niema. And maybe Niema wouldn't want anything to do with him, if she knew about Venetia. Maybe, hell; it was almost guaranteed. If he were honorable, he'd tell her about his dead wife.
His mouth quirked in a humorless smile. If he were honorable, he wouldn't have done a lot of the things he'd done in his life. He wanted Niema, wanted her with an intensity that continually took him off guard. And he was going to have her.
Ville de Ronsard
"Could you trace the message?" Ronsard asked Cara, who was staring at her monitor while she tapped out commands on the keyboard.
Absently she shook her head, her attention focused on the monitor. "Only to the first relay; after that, it disappeared into the ether. Temple has a damn good encryption and switch system."
Ronsard strolled around the office. The hour was early, very early, but he didn't need much sleep, and Cara adjusted her hours to his. "I thought you told me that everything on a computer leaves its print."
"It does, but the print may be a dead end. He could have programmed the first relay with a self-destroy code after the message went through. The first relay may not even be a relay; it could be the destination, but you don't seem to think Temple would be that easy to find."
"No, he wouldn't be," Ronsard murmured. "Where was the first relay, by the way?"
"Brussels."
"Then he is likely in Europe?"
"Not necessarily. He could be anywhere there's a phone line."
Ronsard tilted his head, considering the situation. "Could you tell anything if you had the actual computer in your possession?"
Her eyes gleamed with interest. "You betcha. Unless the hard drive is destroyed."
"If this is his usual means of contact, then he wouldn't destroy the link. He would safeguard it with encryption, but not destroy it. If you can discover the location of the computer, I will have it brought here."
She turned back to the monitor and began typing furiously.
Satisfied that he would soon have the computer in his possession-or rather, in Cara's possession-Ronsard returned to his desk. Laure had had a difficult night, and he was tired. He had staff who saw to her care, of course, but when she was upset or didn't feel well she wanted her papa with her. No matter where he was or what he was doing, if Laure needed him he dropped everything and went to her.
He hadn't yet gone through the mail from the day before, though Cara had opened it and put the stack on his desk. He began leafing through the bills and invitations; as usual, the latter outnumbered the former. He was invited everywhere; connections were everything in the world of business, even when that business was not of the approved sort. A great many hostesses were thrilled to have him at their functions; he was single, handsome, and carried an air of danger about him. Ronsard was cynically aware of his own attractions, and of the use they could be to him.
"Ah," he said, taking a cream-colored vellum invitation from the stack. The prime minister cordially invited him to ... He didn't bother reading what function was involved, merely checked the date. Such social gatherings were invaluable. He had ceased being amazed at how many of the world's business, social, and political leaders found a need for his services. They felt free to approach him at a charity ball or political dinner, for after all that was their world, and they felt safe and comfortable there. Once that had been his world too; he was still comfortable there, but now he knew that nowhere was safe, not really.
"Got it," Cara said and gave him the address.
Brussels
The middle-aged man looked like any other in Brussels; he was average in height, weight, coloring; there was nothing about him to cause interest. He walked at a normal pace, seemingly paying more attention to the newspaper in his hand than to where he was going, until he came to a certain apartment building. He mounted the two stone steps and let himself in the door, then took the stairs instead of the creaky elevator, so he wasn't likely to meet anyone.
On the top floor, the third one, he unlocked the door to a certain room. It was empty except for the computer humming quietly on a wooden crate, cables hooking it to the electrical outlet and phone jack. There was no printer.
The lights were programmed to go off and on at random times. The window was c
overed with shutters. Sometimes he came in the mornings and opened the shutters, then returned in the afternoon to shut them, so it looked as if someone was living there. He didn't think anyone ever had; there was only the computer.
Per that morning's instructions, he walked quickly over to the computer and tapped a few keys on the keyboard, entering the program called Norton Utilities. On that program was a feature called "government wipe." He pressed a few keys, waited a moment, then pressed another one. He watched briefly as the computer performed as instructed.
He took his handkerchief and wiped off the computer keyboard, then the doorknob as he was leaving. He wouldn't be back to this empty room with its electronic inhabitant.
No one saw him arrive or leave, but then, he was so very average looking.
Later that afternoon, a white van stopped down the street from the apartment building. Two men got out and walked up the narrow street; they were dressed as laborers, in paint-stained coveralls, though their van bore none of the accouterments of painters.
They went into the apartment building and took the stairs up to the third floor. Once in the narrow, dingy hallway, they each took heavy automatic pistols from inside their coveralls and quietly approached the closed door to one of the apartments. One positioned himself to the side of the door, his pistol held ready. He nodded to his companion, who cautiously reached out and tried the knob. Surprise etched both their faces when the door swung open.
Quickly they peeked around the frame, automatically jerked back, then relaxed; the room was empty. Still, they held their pistols ready as they entered the room and quickly searched it. Nothing. Not only was the room uninhabited, it showed no signs that anyone had lived there in quite some time.
On the other hand, there was that computer. It sat on the crate, quietly humming. The screen was a pure blue.
The two men were professionals; they got down on their knees and inspected the computer, following the power and telephone cords to their outlets, looking for anything unusual. Not finding anything, one of them finally reached out and turned off the computer. The screen went blank and the quiet hum died.
They briskly unplugged the computer and carried it downstairs to their van. They didn't bother closing the door behind them when they left.
Ville de Ronsard
Cara was swimming when Ronsard sent word the computer had arrived. She hauled herself out of the pool and bent over from the waist to wring the water from her hair. She knew Hossam was watching her, his dark eyes hot with excitement. She ignored him and wrapped a towel around her head and another around her torso.
Poor Hossam. All that jealous lust was getting tiresome. Hossam was getting tiresome. Cara was quickly bored with her lovers, because once they got her in bed they all seemed to get possessive and territorial. Why couldn't they just be satisfied with good sex, the way she was? She didn't like hurting them because she cared for them all, just not the way they wanted. On the other hand, she wasn't going to spend her life with a man she didn't want just because she felt sorry for him.
Extricating herself from the relationship with Hossam could be tricky. She was well aware of the cultural differences; in the beginning, they had even been exciting. Now she felt stifled whenever she was with him.
What she needed, she supposed, was a nice boy toy for her to keep, someone who knew she was the boss, at least of herself. She wasn't into dominance, just independence.
The truth was, no man she had ever met, with the exception of Ronsard, was as interesting as her computers-and she was smart enough to know Ronsard wasn't the settling-down type. Not ever. She liked him, but he wasn't for her. Maybe no one was. Maybe she was going to end up one of those eccentric, world-traveling old ladies. She kinda liked the image that brought to mind.
Hossam approached and laid his hand on her arm. "You will come to my room tonight?"
"Not tonight," she said, moving away as casually as possible. "Mr. Ronsard has brought in a computer he wants me to investigate, so I'll be working all night."
"Tomorrow, then."
"You know I can't promise that when I don't know what my schedule is."
"Marry me, and you will not have to work."
"I like working," she said. "Good night." She hurried away before he could stop her again. Yes, this situation with Hossam was definitely getting tricky. Perhaps she would ask Ronsard to reassign Hossam, though she hated to do that; after all, Hossam was only being himself. He shouldn't be punished for that.
She stopped in her room to get dressed and pin up her hair. In the States she would have hurried to the office in her bathing suit, but Ronsard was very European in his dress standards. She liked that, actually. It was nice to have standards.
He was waiting for her, his long dark hair pulled back in its usual style, giving his lean face a more exotic slant. He was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, which was as informal as he got. "Your gift," he said, nodding to the unit that now occupied her desktop.
Quickly she hooked up the machine and sat down in front of it. She turned it on and waited for it to boot.
Nothing happened. She tried it again. The screen still remained a blank blue.
"Uh-oh."
"Is something wrong?" Ronsard asked as he approached.
"It's been wiped."
"Erased?"
"Yeah. Maybe he just used a C-prompt command. If he did, there should still be some information on the hard drive."
"And if he didn't?"
"If he used a government wipe, then there's nothing left."
'A government wipe ..."
"It's just what it sounds like. If there's anything you don't want the government to see, you use a government wipe. It's in Norton Utilities-"
He held up a hand. "Details aren't necessary. How long will it take you to find out which type of erasure he used?"
"Not long."
He waited patiently while she got into the hard drive and began searching for bits of data. There was nothing. The drive was as pristine as the day it came off the assembly line.
"Nothing," she said in disgust.
Ronsard put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "That is what I expected, really."
"Then why get the computer?"
"Because I want to know Mr. Temple. If he were careless enough to leave data on the computer, then perhaps I shouldn't deal with him. As it is-" Ronsard hesitated and gave a thin smile. "I've learned that he is almost as careful as I."
'Almost."
"I'm not going to him," Ronsard said gently. "He is coming to me."
Chapter Twelve
Your name is Niema Jamieson," Medina said, handing over a passport, driver's license, and social security card.
She looked down at them in both interest and disbelief. "Niema?" she questioned.
"Your name is so unusual you'd probably slip up if you had to answer to anything else. It's always best to stay close to your real name."
"Is that so, Mr. Darrell Tucker?" she murmured.
He gave a faint smile in acknowledgment of the hit. "I've used so many names, I ran out of similars."
She opened the passport. Her photo was there, as well as several pages of stamps. According to her passport, within just the past year she had been to Great Britain twice, once to Italy, once to Switzerland, and once to Australia. Niema Jamieson was certainly well-traveled.
The driver's license looked just as authentic. She was a resident of New Hampshire, evidently. Niema Price Jamieson.
"My middle name is Price?" she asked in disbelief.
"That's your maiden name. Your family is old friends with the ambassador's wife's family."
"So I'm married?"
"Widowed." He gave her a steady, unyielding look, as if expecting her to object to a cover line so close to her own life. "Your husband, Craig, was killed in a boating accident two years ago. The ambassador's wife-her name is Eleanor, by the way-persuaded you to join them in Paris for a vacation."
She was silent. Of course
so many of the details paralleled her own life; that way the story was easy to remember.
"And if Ronsard does invite me to his home and does a background check on me, he'll find. . . what?"
"He'll find that you're exactly who you say you are. He'll find society page articles mentioning you. He'll find an article on Craig Jamieson's death that mentions his grief-stricken widow, Niema. Don't worry; your cover will stand up to any scrutiny."
"But what about the ambassador and his wife? They obviously know I'm not an old family friend."
"Yes, but they're accustomed to covers. You know how many Agency personnel are in our embassies. It's standard."
"Then why won't Ronsard suspect me?"
"Because you aren't staff. Believe me, they know, or have a good idea, who is Agency and who isn't."
She took a deep breath. "When do I leave?"
He pulled a ticket folder from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Tomorrow, on the Concord."
"Cool." Her eyes lit. She had always wanted to fly on the supersonic jet. "When will you get there?"
"You won't see me until we're both at Ronsard's villa. If he doesn't invite you-" He broke off and shrugged.
"Then I won't see you again." She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact, but inside she didn't feel that way. In just a few days he seemed to have become the central element of the excitement she felt. But she had known from the beginning how things would be, known that he would leave as abruptly as he had appeared.
"I didn't say that."
"No, but I've worked with you before, remember? When the job's finished, you disappear. And now that I know who you are, I know why."
"Niema ..." He put his hands in his pockets, looking oddly ill at ease. Medina was always in such control of himself that his expression diverted her. "I'll be back. That's all I can say now."
She was immediately intrigued, and alarmed. Did he mean he wanted to use her on another job? Part of her wanted to shout "Hell, no!" but deep inside was a yearning, a craving for more.
Common sense took the upper hand. "This is a one-time deal, Medina; don't bank on sucking me into another job. I don't get hazardous-duty pay, you know."
