All the Queen's Men

by Linda Howard

  “No. I won’t do it.”

  “Once we’re in, I’ll have Ronsard introduce us. I’ll pretend to be smitten. That’ll give us an excuse to be together.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going to do it.”

  “You have to. I’ve already told you too much.”

  “And now you have to kill me, right?”

  He put his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes alive with amusement. “I wasn’t thinking of anything quite that James Bondish.”

  “That’s what this whole thing sounds like, something out of a James Bond movie. You need someone trained in cloak-and-dagger stuff, not me.”

  “You’ll have time to brush up on basic handgun skills. That’s all you’d need, though if everything goes right, you won’t even need that. We get in, you place the bug, I get into his files and copy them, and we get out. That’s it.”

  “You make it sound as easy as brushing your teeth. If it were that easy, you would already have done it. He—what was his name? Ronsard?—Ronsard must have a pretty good security system.”

  “Plus a private army guarding the place,” John admitted.

  “So the job would be a lot trickier than you’re trying to make it sound.”

  “Not if it goes right.”

  “And if it goes wrong?”

  He shrugged, smiling. “Fireworks.”

  She wavered. He saw it, saw the temptation in her eyes. Then she shook her head. “Get someone else.”

  “There is no one else with quite your qualifications. The fact that you haven’t been active in five years is a plus, because no one is likely to know you. The intelligence community is a fairly small one. I can build you an identity that will stand up under any investigation Ronsard does.”

  “What about you? You haven’t exactly been inactive.”

  “No, but I go to a lot of trouble to make sure no one knows what I look like, or who I am. Trust me. My cover is so deep sometimes I don’t know who I am myself.”

  She gave a little laugh, shaking her head, and John knew he had her.

  “Okay,” she said. “I know I’m going to regret it, but . . . okay.”

  “John,” Frank Vinay said carefully, “do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Probably not. But I’m doing it anyway.”

  “Ronsard isn’t anyone’s fool.”

  John was relaxed in one of the big leather chairs in Frank’s library. He steepled his fingers under his chin while he studied the chessboard. They had resumed the game that had been interrupted two days before, when an agent brought over the preliminary report on the crash of Flight 183. “You’re the one who brought her into it,” he pointed out.

  Frank flushed. “I was being an interfering fool,” he grumbled.

  “And a sneaky one, or are you going to tell me you didn’t have it in mind that I’d be a lot more willing to step into your shoes if I had an incentive to retire from field ops?” He moved a knight. “Check.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Frank glared at the board for a minute, then looked up at John. “You have to retire some time, and I can’t think of a better place for you to use your expertise than in my office.”

  “’Some time’ isn’t now. Until I’m compromised, I can do more good in the field.”

  “Taking Niema Burdock into the field might make that sooner rather than later. For one thing, she knows who you are. For another”—Frank gave him a shrewd look—“could you leave her behind if necessary?”

  John’s eyes went flat and cold. “I can do whatever I have to do.” How could Frank ask him that, after Venetia? “And Niema is probably the best choice I have available. I wouldn’t use her if she wasn’t. I need someone else in there with me, and she’s the one most likely to get an invitation from Ronsard.”

  “What if he doesn’t fall for it? What if he doesn’t invite her?”

  “Then I’ll have to do what I can, but the risks go up. With her, I have a good chance of getting in and out without being detected.”

  “All right. I’ll arrange for her to have an unspecified leave.” Frank nudged a bishop into place.

  “That’s what I thought you’d do,” John said, and moved a pawn. “Check and mate.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Frank muttered.

  * * *

  “I’m crazy,” Niema muttered to herself as she rolled out of bed before dawn. Yawning, she dressed: sweat pants and a T-shirt, then socks and athletic shoes. “Certified loony.”

  How had she let herself be convinced to help Medina on this job, when she had sworn she’d never let herself be sucked back into that life? Hadn’t losing Dallas taught her anything?

  But Medina was right about terrorism, right about the applications of such an explosive, right about the innocent people who would die. He was right, damn it. So, if she could help, then she had to do it.

  She went into the bathroom and washed her face, then brushed her teeth and hair. The face that looked back at her from the mirror was still puffy from sleep, but there was color in her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes that made her hate herself. She was looking forward to this, for God’s sake. Dallas had died, and she still hadn’t learned anything.

  “Niema! Get a move on.”

  She went rigid. Not quite believing what she’d heard, she opened the bathroom door and looked out into her bedroom. No one was there. She crossed over to the hall door and opened it. Light, along with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, spilled down the hall, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  “What in the hell are you doing in my house?” she snarled, stomping toward the kitchen. “And how did you get in?”

  Medina sat at the island, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked as if it were nine A.M. instead of four-thirty, his eyes alert, his lean body relaxed in black sweat pants and black T-shirt. “I told you that you needed a new lock on the back door.”

  “What about the alarm? I know I set the alarm.”

  “And I bypassed it. With a pocketknife and six inches of wire. Have some coffee.”

  “No thanks.” Furious, she contemplated dumping the coffee on him. She had always felt safe in her house, and now, thanks to him, she didn’t. “Do you know how much I paid for that alarm system?”

  “Too much. Get a dog instead.” He stood up from the stool. “If you aren’t going to have coffee, let’s take a little run.”

  Thirty minutes later, she was still matching him stride for stride. Talking while jogging wasn’t easy, but they hadn’t even tried. They had run down the street to the park half a mile from her house, then along the silent path lit only by the occasional street light. The mood she was in, she almost hoped someone tried to mug them, not that muggings were a common occurrence in this neighborhood.

  Gravel and dirt crunched under their pounding feet. The early morning air was cool and fragrant. She was still breathing easily and there was still plenty of spring in her legs. She loved the feel of her muscles bunching and relaxing, and gradually she began to cool down and concentrate on nothing but the running.

  Beside her, he ran as if they had just started. His stride was effortless, his breathing slow and even. Dallas had run that way, she remembered, as if he could go on at this pace for hours.

  “You run like a SEAL,” she said, irritated that she was panting a little.

  “I should,” he said easily. “If I don’t, then I wasted the toughest six months of my life.”

  She was so surprised she almost stopped. “You went through BUD/S?”

  “I lived through BUD/S,” he corrected.

  “Is that where you met Dallas?”

  “No, I was a few classes ahead of him. But he ... ah, recognized some of the stuff I did the first time we worked together.”

  “Did you use your real name during training?”

  “No. The Navy didn’t do me any favors, either. They agreed to let me take the training only if I made the physical conditioning cut, and then I was in only as long as I could make the grade.”

&nb
sp; “What was the criteria for being accepted into the class?”

  “A five hundred yard swim using a breast or side stroke, in twelve and a half minutes or less, then a ten minute rest, then forty-two pushups in two minutes. There was a two minute rest after the pushups, then fifty sit-ups in two minutes. Another two minute rest, then eight pull-ups, with no time limit. After a ten minute rest, then came a mile and a half run, wearing boots and fatigues, in eleven and a half minutes. Those were the minimum requirements. If a guy wasn’t in a lot better shape than that, he didn’t stand much chance making it through the real thing.”

  He had said all of that without gasping for breath. Impressed despite herself, she asked, “Why did you do it?”

  He was silent for about fifty yards. Then he said, “The better I was trained, the better my chances were for staying alive. There was a particular job where I needed every edge I could get.”

  “How old were you?” He couldn’t have been very old, not if he was a few classes ahead of Dallas, which meant he had begun black ops work at an early age.

  “Twenty-one.”

  Twenty-one. Not long out of his teen years, and already so dedicated to his job that he had put himself through BUD/S, a training program so tough only about 5 percent of the men who began it made it all the way through. Now she knew why he and Dallas had been so much alike in so many ways.

  “How much longer are we going to run?”

  “We can stop whenever you want. You’re in great shape; I don’t have to worry about that.”

  She began slowing. “Are we likely to have to run for our lives?”

  He dropped into step beside her. “You never know.”

  That was when she knew she was crazy for real, because she wasn’t scared.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  How did you know I run every morning?” she asked as they returned to the house. The run had mellowed her considerably; early morning was her favorite time of the day. The sky was beginning to turn shades of pearl and pink, and the birds were awake and singing. She felt tired but also energized, the way she always did after a run.

  “I told you, Frank kept tabs on you over the years.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He burst out laughing. She gave him an irritated look as she fished the house key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. “What’s so funny?”

  “Hearing you curse. You look like such a madonna—”

  “What!” She stared at him in amazement.

  “Angel, then. It’s that sweet face of yours.” Grinning, he stroked one finger down her cheek, then deftly maneuvered past and stepped into the house ahead of her. She hadn’t seen him reach for it, but a pistol was in his hand. “You look as if you wouldn’t understand most swear words if you heard them.” He was moving, examining the house, as he spoke.

  She rolled her eyes and followed him inside. “I’ll try to stick to ’gosh’ and ’darn,’ then, so I won’t shock you. And don’t think you can change the subject. Mr. Vinay hasn’t just ’kept tabs’ on me, has he? I’ve been under pretty close surveillance. Tell me why.”

  “The surveillance isn’t constant. It was at first, to establish your routine. Now it’s just often enough to make certain you’re okay and to see if anything’s changed.”

  “Tell me why you’ve wasted Agency time and manpower like that.” She had to raise her voice because he was down the hall checking the bedrooms.

  “I haven’t. Frank used a private agency.”

  Before, she had been irritated and disbelieving; now she was downright astounded. She slammed the door with a thud. “You paid for a private agency to watch me? For God’s sake, Tucker, if you wanted to know, why didn’t you just pick up the phone and call?”

  He was coming back up the dark hall toward her. Because he was wearing black, he was difficult to see; only his face and bare arms and hands made him visible. Part of it was the way he moved, she thought absently. He was fluid, noiseless; you had to rely only on your eyes to detect him, because he was utterly silent.

  “John,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You called me Tucker. My name is John.”

  He stood directly in front of her, so close she could feel the animal heat generated by their run, smell the hot odors of sweat and man. She took a step back and tilted her head so she could look at his face. “I haven’t quite adjusted yet. You were Tucker to me for five years, whether or not I ever saw you. You’ve been Medina for less than twelve hours.”

  “Not Medina. John. Call me by my first name.”

  He seemed strangely intent on this name business, standing motionless, his gaze fastened on her face. “All right, ’John’ it is. I’ll probably slip, though, especially when I get pissed at you—which so far is averaging at least once an hour.”

  He grinned, and she wondered if it was because he so easily irritated her or because she had said ’pissed.’ What did the man think she was, a nun? He was going to make her uncomfortable if he kept laughing every time she said something the least bit blue.

  She poked him in the chest with one finger. It was like poking a steel plate, with no give beneath the skin. “Since you’ll be using another name when we get to France, shouldn’t I be getting used to calling you that? What if I slip up then?”

  “I’ll be careful not to piss you off.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me?” she asked incredulously.

  “Not yet.”

  She pushed past him. “I’m going to take a shower. Lock the door behind you when you leave.”

  She fumed as she showered. There was no reason for him not to give her his cover name. He just loved being contrary and secretive, though it was such a habit for him now he probably didn’t realize—no, of course he realized. He did everything deliberately; she had noticed that about him in Iran.

  It followed, then, that he had intentionally revealed his own name, rather than being so surprised to see her that he blurted it out. John Medina didn’t blurt out anything. He couldn’t have lived this long if he did. The question was—why? He could have posed as Tucker, and she would never have known any differently. Mentally shrugging, she put the question aside. Who knew why Medina did anything?

  She took her time in the bathroom, indulging in her morning ritual of moisturizing her skin, then smoothing on a body oil with a subtle scent that lingered all day. She didn’t have to be at work until nine, so she didn’t have to hurry. That was one reason she got up so early; she didn’t like rushing around and arriving at work already frazzled. Of course, she usually got more sleep than she had last night, but Medina hadn’t left until well past her normal bedtime.

  Going into her bedroom, she took out a matching navy blue set of underwear, but only put on the panties. She wore a bra while she was jogging and at work, but didn’t bother while she was at home. She put on her terry-cloth robe and snugly belted it, pulled her wet hair out from under the shawl collar, and walked barefoot down the hall to the kitchen to see if the coffee Medina had made was still drinkable.

  He was sitting at the island bar, drinking coffee, much as he had been before. She checked only briefly, then went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. “I thought you were leaving.”

  “Why?”

  She turned to face him, leaning against the cabinet and cradling the cup in her hand. His hair was wet, she noticed.

  “I used your other bathroom for a shower,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind. I had to put these clothes back on, though.”

  “No, I don’t mind. But I still thought you were leaving. I have to go to work.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re on indefinite leave.”

  She sipped her coffee, hiding her shock—and, yes, her irritation. “That’s news to me.”

  “Frank took care of it last night. Until this job is finished, you’re mine.”

  She didn’t know if she liked the sound of that. A funny little pang tightened her stomach. She took refuge in her coffee again, hiding h
er expression.

  He looked so pantherish and male, dressed all in black, lounging at his ease in her cheerful kitchen. The T-shirt he wore clung to him, revealing the breadth of his shoulders and the flatness of his stomach. He was tall and lean, but more muscular than he looked when wearing street clothes. He had meant his words one way, but his physical presence was so strong she couldn’t stop herself from a brief sexual speculation. Did his stamina extend to lovemaking? If so . . . wow.

  Immediately she pulled her thoughts away from that direction; nothing but trouble there. “So what am I supposed to do with my time until we’re ready to leave? When do we leave, anyway?” she asked briskly.

  “About a week. It takes time to set up a cover as foolproof as yours will be. In the meantime, we train. How are you with a handgun and self-defense?”

  “Rusty.”

  “Have you had any formal self-defense training?”

  “No. Just a rape-prevention course, the usual self-defense stuff.” And the rudimentary training Dallas had begun with her, but that was five years ago, and she hadn’t kept it up.

  “Okay. We won’t have time for anything in-depth, but in a week’s time I can have you at a level where you can hold your own with most men. You’re in good shape already, so that helps.”

  Great. It looked as if she was going to be in his company nonstop for a week. She sighed and took a skillet out of the cabinet. “I’m not doing anything else until I eat. What do you want for breakfast?”

  * * *

  “Take your pick,” Medina said, indicating the small arsenal he had laid out on a bench. They were in a private firing range, used by CIA personnel. The huge, barnlike building was empty except for the two of them.

  It wasn’t anything fancy, having been built more for use than looks. The far wall of the range was stacked with sand bags and bales of hay, so no rounds of ammunition went through the walls to do damage to anything or anyone outside. The walls themselves were lined with what looked like pegboard, to contain the noise. Big industrial lights hung overhead, but they were individually controlled so that the lighting conditions could be adjusted