by user
A tall, thin Arab appeared out of the shadows. “My friend. I barely recognized you,” he said in greeting.
“Samuel.” Serafin climbed out of the Jeep and embraced the man. Isobel looked behind her, to see Mahmoud watching the two carefully, his hand on the weapon. They were going to have a hard time divesting him of the gun. Isobel was looking forward to watching the ensuing battle. She was keeping well out of it.
“This is the lady?” Samuel said, glancing toward her. “She looks like her passport photo. Unlike you, my friend. We’re going to have to do something about that.”
“How did you get a picture of me?” Isobel asked coolly. There were very few of her in existence—she was almost as hard to pin down as the Butcher himself.
“Samuel has the best resources,” Serafin said. “Come along, princess. We have a bit of a walk before we get to his house.”
“Please don’t call me that.” It was a weakness, admitting it bothered her, but if he called her that one more time she was going to scream.
“You don’t like it? What shall I call you?”
“Madame Lambert. Or even ‘hey, you.’ I’ve never been a princess in my entire life.”
He tilted his head, watching her. “Oh. I don’t think that’s true. I imagine you were quite the fragile little flower when you were young.”
That stung, though it made no sense. She cultivated her agelessness, considering it a triumph when people assumed she was well past her youth. But for him to say
it.
She wasn’t as immune to him as she’d thought, damn it. If it kept up like this she was going to have to shoot him out of self-preservation.
“You have a vivid imagination,” she said in a tight voice. Mahmoud had already scrambled out of the Jeep, keeping close to Serafin, the gun cradled in his arms.
“We need to get under cover quickly,” Samuel said, clearly impatient. “You can argue once we’re safely inside.”
“You’re not arguing” Isobel said.
“Just a lovers’ quarrel,” Serafin said easily.
That settled it—she was going to kill him. As soon as humanly possible. Maybe she could push him out of the airplane as they flew over the Mediterranean. Or wait until they got back to England, found out everything they needed to know, and then let Peter finish him off. Except she wouldn’t do that to Peter. Maybe Serafin would be the first mission for Taka’s mysterious cousin. Or maybe they’d just let him live, fat and rich and untouchable. In the meantime there wasn’t a thing she could do but follow the two men, like a good Muslim wife, ten paces back, with the lethal child taking up the rear. Assuming Serafin had no more surprises to inflict on her, they’d arrive back in England by the next morning, and she could pass him on to Peter. Never have to see the man again. Twenty-four hours, she promised herself. And then she could breathe.
6
It was almost full light by the time they managed to slip inside Samuel’s house. The place was large and rambling, with an inner courtyard, a fountain and a burked wife to greet them without a word.
“Take the boy,” Serafin said. “The sooner he’s safely locked away the better.”
Mahmoud had no idea what was coming. Samuel’s wife sidled up behind him, putting her small hand on his shoulder. He whirled around, trying to aim the gun at her, but collapsed on the floor before he could even speak, and the woman dropped the hypodermic.
Serafin walked over to his unconscious little form and kicked the gun away. Then he glanced up at Isobel.
“He looks so innocent, doesn’t he?’ he said. “I can see your heart bleeding for him.”
“Then you’re having hallucinations.” she said. “I’ve been telling you to ditch him for hours.”
Serafin reached down and hauled the small figure into his arms. “Where do you want him, Samuel?”
“My wife can carry him. She’s very strong.”
The silent woman stepped closer, her arms outstretched, but Serafin made no move to relinquish him. “That’s all right,” he said. “Just show me where you want him. You can take the first shower, princess.”
Isobel gritted her teeth, then smiled sweetly. “How very thoughtful of you. But I imagine Samuel and his wife have more than one shower in this lovely house.”
“We’ll be in a back bedroom, out of sight,” Serafin said, shifting the limp body in his arms. “Don’t be squeamish. Madame Lambert. I promise your virtue is safe with me.”
She bit back her instinctive snarl. “I’m relieved to hear it.”
“Samuel, why don’t you show her the room while I follow your wife?” Serafin said. “Because, much as I trust you, old friend, an Arab never allows his wife to be alone with another man. Particularly one like you.”
“I think your wife will be able to resist my charms.” Serafin said. But he handed Mahmoud’s limp body over to his friend. “I’ll show Madame Lambert to our rooms.”
Rooms? There was a plural there—a great relief to Isobel. She needed someplace alone, quiet, to sort things out in her head. Her meeting with the dead man hadn’t gone the way she’d planned, and she needed time to put things in perspective.
He was looking down at her, large, bulky and unattractive—despite Samuel’s concerns. And yet there was still some intangible something.... Maybe it was something inborn, something that had nothing to do with physical beauty. Because any beauty on Serafin’s part had been shot to hell a long time ago. Thank God. It left her coolly, totally immune.
“What did she do to Mahmoud?” Isobel asked.
“A simple tranquilizer. He’ll sleep for hours, wake up in his new life at the Christian school.”
“Poor kid,” she said reflexively.
“At least he’ll be alive. None of his friends or family has survived, and if I’d left him in Lebanon he wouldn’t have survived much longer himself.”
“He came from Lebanon? What were you doing there? I thought your last job was working for Fouad Assawi.”
“I get around,” he said, telling her absolutely nothing. “We need to get back to the apartments. It wouldn’t do for Samuel’s servants to see us. He runs a pretty strict household, but people would pay a lot to find out where I am.”
“And who could blame them?” she muttered, following him. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not that they’d finally gotten rid of Mahmoud. Particularly since Serafin had yet to give her a straight answer as to why he’d kept the boy with him, why he was indulging someone determined to kill him.
The rooms at the back of the house were cool and dark, the windows shuttered, with fans turning lazily overhead. There was a sitting area with a cushioned bench and not much else, and a bedroom. One bed, and not a very big one at that. There were fresh clothes lying across it, including a dark blue burka that would disguise her completely. As long as she kept her mouth shut and her eyes demurely downcast. There were men’s clothes, too, and she scooped hers up quickly, not wanting her clothing to be too close to his.
Serafin said nothing, but she could sense his amusement. “The bathroom’s over there. Take your time. We’ve got all day.”
She headed for the bathroom door. “You’d better see if Samuel’s got other clothes for you,” she said as a parting shot, “I don’t think those are going to fit you.”
And his laugh followed her into the bathroom.
She stripped off her clothes and stood under the shower, letting the hot water beat down over her weary, dusty body. She’d barely slept, and while she could manage for days without doing so, a few hours of rest would do wonders. Right now she didn’t have to stop and make sense of the situation she found herself in; her actions would be the same no matter what. Her mission was to get Serafin into England without one of his legion of enemies putting a bullet in his head, and she had no intention of failing. One foot in front of the other. He had just as much of an interest in getting out of this country in one piece as she had, and she could presumably trust any escape route he’d come up with.
Sometimes the smartest thing was to let go and let someone else control the situation. It was the hardest lesson she’d ever had to learn, but she’d learned it well. Though she didn’t have to like it. There were clean underwear, jeans and a T-shirt to wear under the burka. Isobel had contact lenses to make her eyes a muddy hazel, but even so the color might trigger some kind of warning, and she yanked her silvery-blond hair into a tight ponytail. She was better off under the enveloping robe—no one looked twice at Arab women in purdah, and with luck she’d never have to use the considerable firepower tucked in her waistband. She’d just follow Serafin at a discreet distance, like a good Muslim wife.
She didn’t want to leave the bathroom, face him again. She recognized the emotion, accepted it and pushed open the door to the bedroom. Serafin was sitting in a darkened corner, and there was coffee on the table.
“Bathroom’s free,” she said, trying not to stare at the coffee. She made it a practice never to take food or drink from an unknown source when she was on a mission, and she had absolutely no reason to trust Serafin’s friends. Samuel’s wife was far too familiar with knockout drugs, as Mahmoud’s unconscious body could attest, and Isobel had no intention of taking chances.
They had no reason to want to drug her. There was no reason to lure an agent of the Committee here just to incapacitate him or her, and they hadn’t even been expecting her. Serafin had been expecting Bastien; her arrival had been a surprise.
And sweet Jesus, the coffee smelled divine. It was almost worth courting death and disaster for one small sip. Almost.
“Shiraz brought us coffee,” Serafin said.
“No, thank you.” There was another chair at the table. She could sit there, close to him and the smell of coffee, or she could sit on the bed. She chose to stand.
“It’s not drugged or poisoned. I need you alert if we’re going to get out of here in one piece.” He took a sip of his own coffee, and Isobel wanted to weep. “No, thank you,” she said again, her voice perfectly expressionless. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take a drink of yours as well. If it’s drugged then I’ll be the one to show symptoms first. Samuel has no reason to drug either of us. He’s here to help.”
“But what about you? Maybe you think you’re better off without me, that you can handle this on your own and that I’m just in the way. It’s certainly how you’re operating. I seem to be along for the ride.”
“What can I say? I’m a man who likes to be in control of a situation. As soon as we leave Algerian airspace I’m putty in your hands. In the meantime these are my contacts, my people. You’d be wise to trust me.” How many people had trusted the man calling himself Serafin, and survived? If she thought about that she’d be sorely tempted to put a bullet in his brain right now. She wouldn’t trust him, any more than she’d trust Killian. But then, she trusted very few people in this life, and wasn’t about to start widening that exclusive circle now.
He reached for the second cup of coffee, took a deep swallow and set it back down as he rose. The passing years had changed almost everything but his height, and she took a step back, because she didn’t like it. Didn’t like the feeling of him looming over her. It reminded her of when she had liked it.
“Do I make you nervous, Madame Lambert?”
“No. I just prefer to keep my distance.”
“Evil isn’t contagious.”
“I thought you said you weren’t the most evil man in the world?”
“I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I’m a good man.”
“I don’t think anyone would argue with that.”
“Not even my mother,” he said wryly. “It’s a sad thing, don’t you think?”
“That your mother didn’t love you? Not particularly. Go take your shower.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with mock humility. “The pastries are good, too. Shiraz is an amazing cook.”
Isobel hadn’t even seen the honey-soaked pastries behind the coffee cups. “I’ll pass.”
She waited until he’d closed the bathroom door behind him, waited for the sound of the shower. There was always the chance that the coffee was drugged or poisoned and that he’d already taken an antidote, but right now her need for coffee was stronger than her reasonable paranoia. She reached for the second cup and sniffed it, then took a sip.
It was rich, strong and creamy. Just the way she’d always liked it. In the last few years she’d tried to wean herself to black coffee, but this was an unexpected treat. Double cream, with just a dash of sugar. It had been years since she’d had it that way, years since...
She wanted to throw up. She set the half-empty cup back down on the table. It was nothing but a coincidence. Coffee was very strong in the Arab world. There was nothing unlikely about the way this was served. And yet she still felt sick.
He was taking forever in the bathroom. The shower had stopped awhile ago, but the water in the sink had been running steadily, and she wondered what the hell he was doing in there. It didn’t matter. It was only morning, and they weren’t getting out of this place before nighttime. She was going to have to spend hours trapped in this room with her worst nightmare. The longer he spent in the bathroom, the better.
She was so weary, but the last place she was going was the bed. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and rested her arms on her drawn-up knees. How did the song go—“I’ll sleep when I’m dead”? She felt half-dead already. But that meant half-alive, and it was going to take a hell of a lot to get past that other half. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the water, tasting the rich, creamy coffee on her tongue. Remembering things she wished she could have forgotten forever.
7
Then
“No room at the inn,’ Killian said. “The entire town is booked. Some kind of religious festival, I think. We’ve got two choices. Push on, drive until we find a town with some space, or spend the night on the beach. The problem is, it’s supposed to rain, and apparently every town for miles around is booked solid for the weekend.”
Mary Isobel was exhausted, bone weary. It seemed as if they’d been in the rickety old Citroën for centuries, and lunch had been nothing more than bread and cheese and fruit. She was grumpy, she was hungry and she was in love. Not the best possible circumstances.
“How far would we have to drive to find a hotel?” she asked. It was already after ten, and a light rain had begun to fall, fogging the windows of the small car.
Killian shrugged. He’d been quiet all day. She knew it had to be Marie-Claire, and she felt that familiar-unfamiliar knot of guilt and longing. He’d used a pay- phone just after lunch, and though he’d said nothing, she could guess there was trouble. “Probably two or three hours on these roads. And then only if we’re lucky.”
“Do you want to head straight to Paris?”
He turned his head, looking at her out of those mesmerizing green eyes, clearly surprised. “Why would we do that? Neither of us is starting classes for another week, and we wanted to see Marseille.”
“I thought you might want to get back to Marie- Claire and patch things up. You’ve been quiet all day, and I know you’re thinking about her. You could leave me here and I’ll hitchhike to Paris. I’m sure I can find some cheap hotel to stay in until I get my student housing, and you’ve spent far too much time—”
“She’s not in Paris.” His voice was quiet, unemotional.
“Where is she?”
“In Austria, with someone named Wolfgang. Apparently she’s fallen in love.”
“Oh, Killian, I’m so sorry,” Mary Isobel said, her heart aching for him. He looked out into the rainy night. They were parked on a side street of the small village, the motor running, and she watched his profile in the dim light. “I’m not sure I am,” he said. “We’d been drifting apart for months now.”
“But you loved her!”
“Maybe. Maybe it was just really good sex. It doesn’t matter—it’s over now. And you can find really good sex anywhere.”
She
wasn’t going to argue with that. Maybe it was easy for him. He was tall, strong and gorgeous, and not cursed with a crazy mane of red hair and a few too many pounds. She’d never had all that much luck with men and sex.
But talking about sex with Killian was something she intended to avoid. Particularly since every time he touched her, brushed against her, her nerve endings sang and her stomach clenched and she wanted to cry or fling herself at him.
“And I don’t expect you’re in any hurry,” she said, trying to sound tranquil, and almost succeeding.
“No hurry,” he said. “Since I’ve fallen in love with someone else, myself. This just makes it a little easier.”
She’d been able to deal with Marie-Claire fairly well—after all, she’d been in place when Mary Isobel first met Killian, before she’d fallen deeply, hopelessly in love with him. But someone else, someone new, was a little harder to deal with.
She’d been around boys who were madly in love with other people, had listened to them pour out their hearts, oblivious to her. Killian was no boy, and he wasn’t about to do that. But they were friends. They’d talked about everything over the last two weeks as they’d traveled around France. Of course he’d want to talk about the new woman in his life.
Funny that he hadn’t mentioned her. He’d told Mary Isobel enough about Marie-Claire to make her sickeningly jealous. She didn’t want to hear about the new one. She knew he was out of her league—a good friend and nothing more—but that didn’t mean she wanted to listen to him.
“Oh,” she said, knowing she sounded idiotic. Not caring. “So we don’t bother with Paris. Where are we going to spend the night?”
“Let’s head for the Camargue. We both wanted to see it—how many times do you get to see French cowboys? If we don’t find a place to stay we can always sleep in the car.”
The rain grew harder, steadier, streaming across the roads as he drove into the night. The Citroën was small and boxy—she could always curl up on the backseat, but he’d have a harder time folding his tall, lanky frame into any kind of comfortable position in the cramped quarters. At one point she fell asleep—easy to do with the sound of the rain beating against the canvas roof of the car, the even click of the windshield wipers, the absolute peace and safety she felt beside Killian. As long as she was with him nothing bad could happen. He’d saved her once, and he looked out for her. She’d put up with the ache of longing in return for his friendship, which was as solid and real as anything in her life.
