Touch of Magic

by M. Ruth Myers

  Out of habit he emptied his pockets, tossing down his wallet and rubbing his thumb across the old gold watch before he set it almost reverently on the nightstand. There might be a better way now than letting Channing do her sleight of hand, but the only chance to avoid it depended on uncovering the mole in their midst. Either that or they'd have to locate -- and get to -- the film.

  He opened the drawer and reached under a Gideon Bible.

  "Know how to load this?" he asked, handing her the small .38 and a box of ammunition.

  She nodded wordlessly. He knew she recognized the danger now.

  "A friend in La Paz insisted on teaching me once."

  "Smart man."

  For most of his adult years and beyond, he'd never let himself need anyone, because as a kid he'd never had anyone. Now his longing to reach for her was a growing ache. The way she answered his sharpness with teasing. Her laughter. The way she looked directly at him and didn't turn away.

  He gathered her to him and found her mouth. He could feel the self-control that had seemed such an integral part of her shattering with his. He wound his hand through the spicy tangles of her hair and knew this -- this moment -- was one of the reasons, maybe even the prime reason, he'd never wanted to be involved with her.

  His kiss was harder than any Channing had ever experienced. Nothing like Tony. Never had she thrown caution to the wind so defiantly. Her abandonment of all composure frightened her. Yet with Ellery, as they gripped and held each other, she knew a total freedom, the certainty of the universe, and her direction in it that had eluded her too long.

  Her fingers, pressed tightly against his back, touched the thin leather strap of his holster. In her other hand, turned carefully away, she could feel the menacing heaviness of the gun she held. Reminders that this might never happen again.

  She closed out everything but the present moment. This was what it meant being an adult, she thought, knowing how things changed and valuing their brief glimmer. It was Ellery who disengaged himself, still holding her tightly. His eyes fought to hide his vulnerability. He was as shaken by the collapse of discipline between them as she was herself.

  "I was right not to want you working on this," he said slowly. "But for all the wrong reasons." His fingers traced the side of her face. "Come on. I'll walk you back."

  She could tell by the tautness of his body that he wanted to make love to her. She leaned back in his arms.

  "Do you work at insulting me, Ellery, or does it come naturally?" The teasing caught in her throat.

  He shook his head, and she read in the gesture and the hard set of his face a self-denial.

  "Chances are at least one of us won't come out of this. Let's not make it worse."

  She remembered the pain of losing Tony. Except she knew now that having nothing to lose was more painful still.

  "Nothing's guaranteed. I learned that a long time ago. But it's not a reason to stop living. It's why every minute counts!"

  For a moment she thought she'd won. His fingers dug into her. He kissed her again. When he released her, she saw in the tightness at the edge of his eyes the discipline it cost him and matched it with her own. No words were needed between them.

  They couldn't allow themselves this luxury. It would make them both too vulnerable. Responsibility came ahead of personal desires. She'd known it but had yielded for a moment. Now her eyes tried to telegraph that she had herself under control. She didn't want to make things harder. She drew a breath.

  "Well. Do I go keep an eye on Max and Walker, or what?"

  Her voice had an artificial sound. Ellery still hadn't let go of her arms. He seemed to be rallying too.

  "I don't suppose you've ever been invited to go over computer forms in a man's hotel room," he said.

  "You'd be surprised what I've been asked to do."

  He grinned.

  "I'll bet I would. Just remind me never to let you drive a car of mine."

  "I thought you came from money, Ellery. Changed cars as often as flower arrangements."

  "Past tense. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime."

  "I saw a picture of your brother in the paper. He looks like a jerk."

  "He is a jerk."

  For a moment Channing wondered if she'd been wrong about that flash of urgency she'd felt between them earlier. Still, something had changed, and these words that were inconsequential on the surface were a part of it.

  Ellery stepped away to open a drawer.

  "There's some data to comb through that might put us ahead of Ballieu and whoever he's working with," he said, removing a stack of printouts. "Not exactly authorized, but I brought a computer and used it to get information on all the real estate that was rented or sold around here in the last three months. If we could find a place that might have a safe, or a name we recognized, we might be on to something. It'd go faster with two people."

  His eyebrows raised.

  Equals. A new stage. Channing pulled a chair toward the bed, kicked her shoes off, and sat down, propping her feet up.

  "I've always been a sucker for glamour."

  He tossed her the top half of the printout and pulled a chair up facing hers. Settling into it, he tipped back on the rear legs.

  "Yeah, well. When the glamour starts to overwhelm you, I'll order coffee."

  On the nightstand, the slender hands of Ellery's old gold pocket watch showed that it was after one A.M. Whatever success or failure they were destined for was going to have to come today.

  * * *

  At three a.m. Henri Ballieu rose to wash his face and slake a raging thirst. Sleep was eluding him. The scent of success, the moment when the task entrusted to him would be completed, was too clear in his nostrils for his nerves to unwind. And the pain inside him was rising, traveling a new, hot arc from the spot in his belly to his head. He stood and let himself experience it fully, its depth, its frequency. To become familiar with an enemy was to insure victory.

  In darkness he removed the gun hidden under his mattress, reduced it into assorted parts, and reassembled it, satisfied with its perfect cleanness. If a man couldn't work in the dark in Ballieu's occupation, he would not last long. Ballieu often rose by night, especially in new surroundings, and sat until his eyes could pick out minute details and his ears identify the slightest sounds.

  His nimble fingers fitted a silencer onto the tip of the gun, then removed it, testing, checking. There was no such thing as too much caution. He might well need to use the weapon several times by the time it turned dark again and the hired helicopter picked him up with the film in his pocket.

  The American agent, Ellery, was very good. He had gone belly-down in the ambush as well as Ballieu could have himself.

  What had gone wrong? Who had helped the American? It angered Ballieu that he had no answers. He had been promised that all the other Americans would be occupied. He was starting to lose confidence in the seller. But these were challenges, and Ballieu liked a challenge.

  He felt suddenly hungry. The dinner he had eaten had come up hours ago out there in the rocks. Bad meat. He ought to complain.

  Now his tongue craved eggs on a bed of asparagus with a rich sauce over it. Some freshly squeezed juice. Thoughts of food and other physical comforts had begun to possess him of late. He was starting to be tempted by mortal things. Why? What was making him greedy? There would be time enough to eat or stare at a painting or feel the sun on his back next week ... next year ...

  Ballieu felt a frantic, repetitive scratching at the edge of his brain that had nothing to do with the pain in his belly, nothing to do with the job ahead of him. The fire inside him traveled its circuit again, and he touched fingers to the cold sweat standing out on his upper lip.

  He could take something for the pain -- he had a packet of potent tablets in his shaving kit. But they would dull his senses. He had to remain alert. He had to keep a close watch on the female sent to help him. She pretended meekness now, but he didn't trust her.

  Pressing a hand
to his side, Ballieu picked up the telephone and ordered food. He felt a passing sympathy for Khadija. So young and intense. He remembered being like that, though he had disciplined himself where she did not. He remembered, too, the burden he'd borne as a child for being a bastard. It engendered a brief guilt in his mind. But then perhaps the situation was easier for a girl.

  He thought of his pampered cousin, Muhammed. What would have become of him by now?

  He thought about knowing a woman.

  He wondered why the past kept suddenly coming back to him.

  Ballieu rose, cursing the thoughts that distracted him. He stretched and squatted to loosen the spreading tenderness along his side. Years from now, students of revolution would study how Henri Ballieu had slipped through Americans' fingers in their own territory. He had proved himself at sixteen. Now, when some thought him too old, when his own body sought to betray him, he was going to prove himself all over again.

  Coolly Ballieu thought through, once more, every move remaining for getting the film. Today.

  * * *

  Bill Ellery stood, as the minutes of early morning ticked by, and looked at the woman asleep in his chair. He'd never wanted to make love to a woman so badly in his life. He wanted to hold her, to explore her with no barriers between them. The mysteries she performed on stage were nothing compared to the mystery of the woman herself.

  He thought of waking her, then knew it would only make it harder to leave. It had been hard enough saying no to her last night, worse still saying no to himself. For he'd known if he held her, if he had her even for an hour, it would make up for all the things he'd missed in his life.

  She was warm. Unpredictable. A thousand things he didn't understand. He brushed the hair back from the scratch on her temple, let his fingers linger, and debated moving her onto the bed.

  If he left her where she was, she'd have one hell of a crick in her neck when she woke up. If he lifted her, he might wake her. She'd worked like a trooper, cool and rational when he'd valued that most. They'd narrowed his list down to a few leads he could follow up. He hadn't even realized she'd fallen asleep till he'd asked a question and she hadn't answered. Now he was due at the listening post, and she deserved some decent rest.

  He stooped and lifted her and found her lighter than he'd expected. It must be the loose clothes she favored. Or the fact that she didn't make a point of being delicate, so the slightness, the slenderness, of her form escaped notice. She moved with such competence and had so much pepper about her, the fact that she was a desirable woman was easy to overlook sometimes. She probably planned it that way. He grinned.

  She stirred in his arms but didn't awaken. Ellery thought how he'd like to take care of her precisely because she didn't seem to need it; how loving her would be an act between equals.

  He thought how he'd like to see this day over, even with Ballieu escaping. His mouth pulled down at the traitorous thought. He'd keep reminding himself of Sam's death -- even though Sammy, of all people, would have understood this opposite tug he was feeling.

  It was light outside.

  Channing should be as safe in this room as she'd be anywhere else here, especially with him out and visible. Just to be certain, he loaded her .38 and put it behind a rumpled-up fold of the bedspread. It was where she would see it immediately. And it pointed toward the door.

  Twenty

  Channing had floated up several layers, away from the deepest part of sleep. Her brain, still in a lazy state, nonetheless recorded sounds nearby. Her door was being opened carefully, almost stealthily. She came alert, remembering where she was, remembering danger. Her opening eyes saw the gun. She reached for it.

  "Channing?"

  It was Serafin. Whispering.

  "Brought you some coffee."

  Still prone, she felt relief dampen her skin and eased her finger away to safety. She buried the gun in a fold of bedspread, out of Serafin's sight.

  Nice work, Ellery, she thought wryly. Except you gave me credit for better reflexes than I have.

  Groggily she sat up, not much worried by the thought of what might have happened if her reflexes had been better. Nothing would have happened. She couldn't use a gun unless she knew herself to be in mortal danger. It was a fact she simply knew about herself.

  "It's after eight," she said in disbelief. "How'd you know where to find me? How'd you get in?"

  Serafin looked pleased with himself as he moved toward the bed with a tray held before him.

  "Just told the desk I needed the key for this bungalow. The day clerk's not as swift as the night clerk. Didn't even look suspicious. I'll have to mention it to Wilbur. Sloppy security."

  "I see you're really soaking up the hotel management," she said, taking the tray with an enthusiasm she didn't try to contain. She lifted a lid, and the robust fragrance of coffee began to revive her. She sighed.

  Serafin was eyeing her clothes.

  "You and Ellery worked all night, huh? Too bad."

  He sounded disappointed.

  Channing gave him a narrow look over her coffee cup. He perched on the foot of the bed and reached for the second pot of coffee. She smacked his hand.

  "Aw, Channing, don't give me that line about coffee stunting my growth. Don't you know nothing about Third World countries?"

  "Anything. And yes, I'm aware you probably had it in your baby bottle because it was cheaper than milk. But you don't need it at your age. And I do."

  He shrugged and let the subject drop, which reassured Channing that he must have had breakfast already. Most likely more than once, in view of the hour.

  "So who's winning?" he asked, flopping back easily. "Us or the bad guys?"

  It disturbed her a little, the way he zeroed in more than he should on what was happening. He veered back and forth between precocious and typical twelve-year-old. She decided not to discard the reply that sprang to her lips.

  "I think it's what's commonly known as a Mexican standoff," she said, and hid behind her coffee cup before her mouth twitched.

  Serafin looked at her with disdain.

  "You're not gonna bug me with that. I'm as Yankee as they come now. Legal and everything."

  "Where's Rundell?"

  "Sunning himself. Boy, his toes are as crooked as that beak of his. He thinks you shacked up with Ellery. Hasn't even called your room yet. He's being discreet. Hey -- where are you going?"

  He jackknifed up as she slid off the bed, stepped into her shoes, and stuffed her gun and extra ammunition into a dry-cleaning bag. Channing picked up the second pot of coffee and the key to her own room.

  "Up to shower and change. Then riding."

  "Riding -- you mean horses?"

  All evidence of Ellery's computer and the printouts they'd pored over last night had vanished, but she had several nearby locations fixed in her mind.

  "That's right."

  "Can I come?" asked Serafin, trotting at her heels. Any thoughts of danger had vanished for him now, lost in the prospect of a good time.

  Channing considered. It might be a good idea. It would look more innocent than her going out alone. If she found anyplace that looked promising, she could send him on back.

  "Yes," she said, "but first find Rundell. Tell him if he sees Ellery to pass the word we'll be out to the north of here. And have Rundell rustle me up a camera and a telephoto lens."

  She started to heft the small coffeepot she'd set down momentarily, but it crashed to the floor as her right hand convulsed with a cramp.

  "What's wrong?" Serafin's eyes were wide as he followed it.

  "Nothing." She ground the word out. "Just clumsy."

  Her tendons had jerked a second, a third, half a dozen times. She was suddenly clammy. Nothing had ever afflicted her hands before. Had her practice been too intense? Was something wrong? Could it happen again?

  "Do the bit with Rundell. Then bring me some more coffee, will you? And toast and an egg."

  The calm of her voice swirled in her ears.

&n
bsp; As she turned away from Serafin she opened and closed her hand. It caused a small ache.

  It would pass. It had to pass, she told herself. Too much depended on her. She had to help Ellery. She had to perform the job she'd been sent to perform. She had to prove to herself that she was a Stuart.

  * * *

  The foothills around the resort were bleak and dry, hardly scenic by the stretch of anyone's imagination. Half an hour's ride north of the resort, just across a dusty asphalt road, the terrain grew rough. Harder to reach than some of the pieces of property on Ellery's list that were on the highway to the nearest town, and more isolated. Channing couldn't think why anyone would erect a building in such a locale unless they had terminal asthma or were running drugs. Yet according to Ellery's information there must be a few plots of real estate hidden away back here. Vacation homes. Year-round homes, maybe, for those after lower taxes than they'd pay in a city.

  She reined in her horse. Her right hand rested loosely on her thigh, and it felt almost normal. Almost. Not completely. The camera, with its long, heavy lens, was leaving a sweaty streak under the band that held it. They'd been out for over an hour. Serafin squinted at her, his nose wrinkling.

  "Come on, Channing. What're we hunting?"

  Deliberately -- and out of wariness -- she'd been keeping all her senses tuned to the surroundings, leaving little room for thoughts about the object of her search. Now she sighted through the camera again, as she'd done periodically.

  "I thought you read minds," she said.

  He cocked his head.

  "You're doing something to make it hard."

  She still didn't answer. Was that a deliberate line she saw winding in the distance?

  Letting the camera down, she nudged her mount.

  "Let's ride up that way."

  They climbed higher, Serafin's horse resisting the effort at times. He wasn't an expert rider. Channing started to wonder if she'd been grasping at straws coming out here. Then the horses wheezed up a dusty ridge, and ahead of them lay a rough private drive. It twisted still higher. Whatever might wait at the top was screened from the probing of Channing's camera by the landscape itself, a hodgepodge of boulders and steep angles. Hiding frustration, she assessed the drive again. It gave an obvious vantage point to anyone at the top. She was turning her horse when a metal plate fixed in one of the near boulders caught her eye.