by Davis Bunn
He had never felt more isolated, more cut off from what other people called life.
He had always run toward danger. Risk was a part of life, something to assess and measure and analyze and overcome. He knew his strengths and he worked to overcome his weaknesses. In his own eyes, he managed to succeed where most failed. He survived.
And yet Kitra had managed to defeat him.
Only it was not Kitra. Nor was it their relationship. It was his fault. He could not control his feelings. He could not balance things out. He could not . . .
He lifted his espresso, then set it down untouched. There was only one answer. One solution.
Solitude had called to him for years. His wife had temporarily managed to keep him from turning that way, but she was gone. Stolen from him by a fate as cruel as what he now faced. He was never to love. He was a loner. Why fight it? Why allow himself to be hurt? His emotions were his. He was not powerless.
All he had to do was stop caring. Cut himself off from what made others weak and vulnerable.
Even as he formed the thought, he sensed the change. The strength he had taken for granted, the agility and the fierce power and the distilled rage all coming together. The force had been waiting for just such a chance. He clenched his hands in a reflexive response, as though his external body needed to reveal some tiny shred of what was happening inside. His heart did not freeze so much as gradually turn to steel.
He remained like that, locked in the act of shutting down his emotions, until his phone rang. He forced himself to breathe a long sigh and respond, “Royce.”
“This is Kitra’s contact in Tel Aviv. I thought now was a good time to introduce myself.”
Marc started to ask how the man had gotten his number, then decided it would not do any good. “Yes, thanks.”
“How were you planning to return to Geneva?”
“Sir Geoffrey has offered us his jet.”
“Inform your ally that you have made other plans. Then proceed to the airport. Your papers and your jet both are waiting.”
Most of Kitra’s younger years had been spent worrying that the kibbutz would not survive. Her parents had done their best to shield their two children from the pressures they faced. But the realities surrounded them—in the air, in the superheated summers, in the dry arid soil. They were seeking to do the impossible, to build a community for Messianic believers. And the government as well as most of Israeli society wanted them to fail. Judeans who had acknowledged Jesus Christ as their Messiah and Savior were shunned by the greater community. Some Israeli families disowned anyone who openly followed Jesus. Other families said the kaddish, the prayer for the recently deceased. Their sacrifice for their faith was total. Their need for a haven was equally great.
Now that the rare-earth operation in partnership with the Kenyan cooperative was coming online, the kibbutz’s future looked far more secure. And yet all the earnings would go to the community, not to the members. Kitra had no problem with this. She had always assumed that the world’s hunger for possessions had passed her by.
But now, as she tried on one astonishing outfit after another, she was no longer so sure.
The store manager treated Kitra as she would a teenager in to buy her first adult outfit. Which, in some respects, was very true. The manager steered Kitra away from anything loud and cutting edge, which was a relief. Together they picked out two classical designs, a linen day dress in ivory and a professional suit in a rough silk weave that was colored like polished gray pearls. The collar and the cuffs were of silk velvet, as were the buttons down the jacket’s front and the skirt’s left side. The hem was just below her knees, but opened up the side with the buttons. The result was an outfit that looked both alluring and youthful. Kitra managed to avoid even glancing at the price tags. Then there were stockings and two blouses and a pair of slacks and three pairs of Ferragamo pumps. Nothing, not even genuine claims of exhaustion, was permitted to halt the process.
Kitra was then led next door, where a hair stylist and cosmetician awaited her arrival. She was shampooed and cut and given a facial. A manicure and a pedicure followed. She had never experienced either.
She returned to the shop dressed in café au lait slacks and matching blouse, with the signature looped gold Lanvin belt and purse and shoes. Marc took one look and froze. “Whoa.”
She had never thought one word could cause so much pain.
Kitra noticed the change in Marc as soon as he recovered enough to announce, “We need to be leaving. Our plane’s ready.”
He hefted a number of Kitra’s bags and led her out to a waiting taxi. The store manager personally escorted them, carrying the rest of her purchases. All Kitra held was the slender purse, fashioned from the skin of some reptile and dyed the color of face powder, with a gold clasp and a shoulder strap of woven leather and gold. It sparkled as she crossed the walk and slipped into the taxi. Marc did not slide in beside her, as expected. Instead he shut her door and stepped around to the front passenger door. The driver started to protest in French, for he had a newspaper and a book and a bagged meal spread out over the seat. But one look at Marc’s stonelike expression was enough for him to shift the items into his lap.
Once they were under way, Marc said, “You understand why I’m up here?”
“Yes, Marc.”
He spoke swiftly, his voice low, in case the driver understood some English. “From now on, this is what the world needs to see.”
“Is something wrong?”
Marc hesitated. She had the impression he was sorting through various responses. “Our friend in Tel Aviv told me to cancel Sir Geoffrey’s jet.”
The taxi’s rear seat smelled slightly of suntan oil and stale perfume. “Why is that important?”
“Any change at this point is a possible concern. We’ll soon see.”
The taxi wound its way up the Corniche and joined the autoroute. The rear seat felt empty to Kitra. The blue sky and the sparkling waters and the palms and the lovely houses all lost a touch of their allure. She knew she should not care that he had drawn away from her. They were headed into danger. People’s lives were held in the balance.
These were the important things. This was why she stayed. So that they could help save lives.
Without turning, Marc said, “You look nice.”
“Thank you, Marc.” There was no reason why his words or the flat way he spoke them should hurt like they did. None at all.
As they approached the Nice Airport, Marc said, “Tell the driver we’re going to the private jet terminal.” She translated into French, and the man turned toward a small building on the north perimeter. Marc went on, “Someone should meet us at the gate.”
The driver proceeded down the long palm-lined lane and halted by a uniformed official and another man in a short-sleeved white shirt bearing pilot’s wings. The pilot grinned and offered them a two-fingered salute. Marc rose from the car and told her, “Please wait here.”
She watched through her open window as Marc approached the pair. The pilot was lean and taut and probably in his fifties. Something about him left Kitra certain he did far more than fly jets. He shook Marc’s hand and said something that Kitra could not hear. Marc responded, and the man’s features turned feral. The pilot had sunglasses dangling from his shirt pocket. His eyes were gray and blank.
He walked back over and held her door. “The pilot’s name is Carter Dawes. I’ve worked with him before.”
She accepted his hand and rose from the car. “When was that?”
“A while ago, back in Iraq. Carter flies for a government contractor. Having him meet us is your Israeli’s way of saying that he is in the loop. Right to the top.”
When Kitra walked over, Carter saluted and handed the customs officer a French passport. The documents were neither old nor new. The officer checked her against the photograph, inspected Marc’s documents, handed them back and wished them a pleasant flight. Marc told Carter to give him a hand, and together they returned t
o the taxi for her purchases. Carter then led her across the tarmac while Marc followed. Both men kept their gun hands free. She had no idea why that should frighten her so.
The plane was a Lear, smaller and tighter inside than Sir Geoffrey’s Gulfstream, and the interior showed signs of wear. Kitra settled into a middle seat and felt an unexpected wave of longing. For what, she could not say. Marc slipped into the opposite seat and handed her the false passport. “Memorize the name.”
She opened the cover and read, “Dominique Deschamps.”
“The family name is real. Your details have been inserted into the federal system. You are from Nantes. It’s a safe sort of city. Very conservative, very rich. And it’s too far off the beaten track for anyone to check you out on the ground. A stranger asking questions about a wealthy family in Nantes will be noticed.”
“How were they able to do this?”
He glanced out the window as the jet taxied toward the runway and took off. When the engines’ noise became muted, he replied, “Governments call these a cover. They are developed over time. It takes a lot of resources. The wealthier the identity, the tougher it is to pull off. My guess is, either Mossad or CIA have allies within the family. If this is the case, Dominique is real, and she’s agreed to go off grid until we’re done.”
She watched Carter Dawes step through the cockpit doorway and move down the aisle. He slipped into the seat beside Marc and asked, “Where are we at?”
“She was asking about her cover.”
“To have the French offer you a clean cover means there are a lot of people who are taking this threat very seriously,” Carter told her. “You do speak their lingo, right?”
“Yes. My mother is French.” She asked Marc, “What about you?”
“I’m Marc Royce, fired from State Department Intel, hired as an operative by Lodestone Security, contracted out as your bodyguard.” His smile held no humor at all. “Nice to meet you.”
Carter asked Marc, “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“It’s a fishing expedition. You didn’t know?”
“Only that I’m on standby for the duration.” He handed Kitra a sealed envelope. “This contains your brief.”
She opened the flap and slid out a one-page overview, detailing family background and company holdings and addresses. There was also a pair of diamond-level credit cards and a French driver’s license. “She’s very rich.”
“You certainly are,” Marc corrected. He said to Carter, “We need a booking at some lakefront hotel.”
“You’re set for the de la Pais. I hear it’s nice. They don’t let help like me through the door.”
“We also need a ride. Something flashy.”
“Already taken care of.”
Marc studied him. “You know the guy who calls Tel Aviv home?”
“We’ve met. Briefly. Once.”
“You think maybe you could tell me who he is?”
Carter grinned. “I sort of figured having the dude draw me in was all you’d ever need in the way of establishing his creds.”
Marc nodded. “Just asking.”
“I expect the man will decide when you need to know something more. Right now, what you haven’t heard can’t be told to somebody else.” Carter cocked his head. “Something else bugging you?”
“No.”
“It’s just . . . you strike me as a man headed into a free-fire zone. I always thought of Geneva as a place to get away from all that. You know something I don’t?”
“We’re five by five.”
Kitra understood the flat tone behind Marc’s words. He had gone cold. Carter thought it was because they faced an unseen threat. She knew better. It was not some immediate danger. It was her.
Carter rose to his feet, studied Marc a moment longer, then said, “Just so you remember, when things get noisy, I’m your man.”
The flight to Geneva was so brief, the need for altitude over the Alps so great, as soon as they finished ascending they began their descent. The Lear dropped like a bird of prey. Kitra gripped her armrests against the sudden loss of weight. They landed so smoothly it was almost like kissing the earth. The plane taxied over, the stairs descended, and Marc gestured for her to remain where she was as he scoped the terrain. Then, “All right, we’re ready.”
Carter Dawes took a double handful of her shopping bags before stepping out. He followed them across the tarmac and waited while the customs officer checked their papers. The officer showed no surprise at a young woman accompanied by a pilot and a guard and no luggage other than multiple shopping bags. Carter followed them through the private-jet terminal and out into the evening. The day’s final light was a faint glimmer that turned the western hills into purple silhouettes. Marc asked, “Any idea which ride is ours?”
“All I was told, the ride is red and the keys are in the ignition.”
Marc pointed. “I see only one red car.”
Carter Dawes laughed out loud. “That’s not a car. That’s a rocket.”
The Ferrari was long and liquid and very low to the ground. Marc tried a door, and looked inside. “This must be it.”
Carter laughed a second time. “Someone sure is trusting, leaving the keys inside a half-million-dollar ride.”
Kitra gaped at the vehicle. “That car cost five hundred thousand dollars?”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Marc warned. “This is only a loaner.”
“What is it?”
“Ferrari F12 Berlinetta,” Carter told her. “They call it a tourer, which means it won’t rattle your bones as hard as the rear-engine models.”
Marc found the lever beside the driver’s seat and opened the trunk. “You know this how?”
“What can I say? I’ve been a petrol head since before I could walk.”
Marc finished stowing the shopping bags and then shut the trunk. When he started for the driver’s door, Kitra said, “Stop right there.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You think I’m going to let you drive this?”
“I’m your security, remember?”
“A lady doesn’t have a car like this so she can be chauffered. Get real.”
“Kitra, I think . . .”
He stopped because she showed him the flat of her hand. “First of all, it’s Dominique you’re addressing. Second, I am the decision maker. Me. And I say, I drive.”
Carter watched this exchange with a smile that almost split his face. “Now I see why the man was so tense. You folks play nice now, you hear?”
Kitra slipped behind the wheel, shut her door, and halted any further discussion by hitting the ignition button and letting the engine scream for her. He climbed into the rear seat.
The car was so much fun to drive, she waited through half an hour of heart-stopping speed to ask, “Where are we going?”
“Geneva. Back that way.” Marc waited until she had turned the car around to ask, “Think maybe you could slow it down?”
“Most certainly,” she replied. “But why?”
She waited for Marc to answer with some lip. But he merely glanced over his shoulder, back through the narrow rear window, and said, “At least we don’t have to worry about anybody following us.”
When Kitra pulled into the forecourt of Geneva’s most exclusive hotel, the bellhops sprang into action. They pulled away a cone blocking an empty spot directly in front of the hotel restaurant’s flower-lined balcony. Diners craned and ogled as she pulled into the spot, punched the gas one more time, then powered down.
Marc opened his door and said, “Wait for me to come around.”
She could feel eyes on her as he shooed away the bellhop and opened her door, blocking her from the street with his body. She turned away from him, as though she had been doing it all her life, nodded to the bellhop, and started up the front steps. The majordomo was there to bow and push the revolving doors and welcome her in both French and English. She swept into the palatial lobby, stopped for one brief gawk, and decided
that a girl could definitely get used to this.
She sat on a gilded settee while Marc signed them both in. He waited as she took her time deciding whether to accept the hotel manager’s offer of coffee or champagne. Kitra declined both, then started toward another bellhop holding the elevator doors open. Two more attendants followed with her shopping bags. Marc trailed behind as the manager escorted her into the lift and spoke about the weather. On the way up she decided the last thing she wanted was to sit across from this stone-faced man over dinner. “I’m tired.”
The manager spoke to her in French, “Mademoiselle can order anything she wishes from the restaurant and dine in her suite.”
“Splendid,” she replied. A suite, no less. “Thank you.”
Their destination was a pair of double doors that opened at the end of the corridor. She had to remind herself not to gape, for when the manager unlocked the doors and bowed her through, the first thing she saw was the harbor fountain, burnished by massive lakefront spotlights, rising directly in front of her balconies.
Balconies. Plural. Two off the living room, another off her bedroom. Which was five times the size of her apartment on the kibbutz.
The living room of her suite was so large, and held so many flowers, she almost missed the baby grand piano in the corner.
Marc tipped the various attendees, checked every room and closet, then said, “I’m next door in six-fifteen.”
“Fine.”
“Do I need to tell you to contact me if you want—”
“No, Marc.”
“Right.” He walked to the door. “Double lock the door after I leave. Ditto for the balconies.”
“Wait.” She watched him turn around, searched his face for any scrap of emotion, saw none. “What time do we need to start?”
“We’re waiting for a green light from someone in the know. And a direction we should take in the hunt. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”
She nodded, accepting the unspoken. Wishing it did not hurt. Willing herself to be as impersonal and distant as he. “Good night.”
