Ice Storm

by user

  He was hoping he’d be able to leech some money away from this current job before it was over. Shutting down the Committee was a complicated business, but he was well on his way to success. He’d already broken the acting head, and after Toussaint’s defection and Madsen’s injury, they were sadly understaffed. It wouldn’t take that much to finish them off.

  Frigid. He let out a silent snort of laughter. What exactly had she been doing with herself during the intervening years that she’d managed to convince herself of such an absurdity? She would have had training in sexual techniques as part of her initiation into the Committee. No undercover operative could afford to be squeamish about such an effective weapon. And Stephan Lambert would have been certain to have given her a workout. While he was openly gay, he was also broad-minded, and could count any number of beautiful women among his former lovers.

  So what had turned Isobel off so completely that she’d shut down all her physical responses? The logical answer, absurd though it was, was that she’d been waiting for him.

  He wasn’t sure how he was going to use that knowledge. It was a useful weapon, but for the time being he’d keep it in reserve. He’d done what he needed to do, thrown her so off balance that her effectiveness would be compromised. His first step to taking down the Committee. It was enough for now.

  He got out of the bed, heading for the shower. She stirred in her sleep, making a soft, protesting noise, and it took all his determination not to finish what he started. The feel of her, the taste of her, hadn’t changed. The way he wanted her hadn’t changed.

  His self-control hadn’t changed. She was still the means to an end. And he couldn’t afford to forget it.

  Isobel was alone when she woke up. She pulled herself into a sitting position, looking at her hand. It was shaking. Her whole body was shaking. She stiffened, forcing the trembling to vanish. It was late morning, and they were due to land in the early afternoon. It was time to get on with her life.

  She hurt. Her entire body ached, as if she’d run for a very long time, The only part of her that didn’t hurt was between her legs, and that held its own particular fury.

  There was nothing of him to wash away. He couldn’t have used a condom—it had happened too fast. And she couldn’t remember him climaxing. She’d been too caught up with the overwhelming sensations to even think about the man who was providing them. Didn’t want to think about him. She’d been swept away, and he hadn’t even come.

  She washed thoroughly, including her hair. The auburn roots were just beginning to show beneath the blond: she’d need to get to her hairdresser as soon as she got back. That, and see how the new recruit. Hiromasa, was doing. She’d pass Killian off to Peter. or perhaps to someone else the Committee provided. Harry Thomason had never been a particularly effective interrogator—he tended to let his inherent violence get in the way. And violence wouldn’t work on a man like Killian.

  She wasn’t going to think about it. There was a pile of fresh clothes on the banquette, clearly for her, and while she would have liked to ignore them, her own clothes, torn and stained, were an even greater reminder of something she was determined to forget. It had happened; she couldn’t change that. But nothing on this earth could make it happen again.

  She was sitting on the banquette, cross-legged, making a list on the pad of paper she’d found in the little desk. She was crippled without her PDA. She looked up when he walked in, steeling herself.

  “I need my PDA.” she said, her voice flat.

  He gazed at her for a long moment, standing in the open door of the cabin, and she felt a moment’s fear that he was going to talk about what had happened in that room, on that carefully made bed.

  But he didn’t. “When we get to London,” he said. ‘I don’t trust your people.”

  “I do.”

  “But I’ve got the PDA.” he said. ‘We need to go pick up our little orphan or the nurse might report us for abandoning him.”

  Dealing with Mahmoud would at least provide a distraction. She pushed herself off the banquette, half expecting Killian to touch her, to say something. But he could have been a polite stranger, moving out of her way, walking beside her, but not close, as she headed for the elevator and the infirmary.

  Last night’s storm had vanished, leaving the water calm as the huge ferry plowed through it. People were out on the decks, children were playing in the sunshine despite the chill, lovers were kissing. They lived in an alternate reality, she thought numbly. One she could never find again.

  Mahmoud was sitting up, looking disgustingly healthy and surprisingly clean. He was wearing shorts and a long-sleeve T-shirt and sandals, his hair was washed and combed, and he looked oddly like a child, not the savage creature he really was.

  “You were able to get him washed...“ she said, grateful, and then her words trailed off. The nurse was filthy, bruised, her hair a (angle, scratch marks on her arms. She wouldn’t have looked worse if she’d met Mahmoud on the battlefield.

  She glared at Isobel “He’s stronger than he looks.”

  “We warned you.” Killian said mildly in that perfect Oxford accent. “Come along, my lad. We’ll be docking in a few hours, and I imagine you want to fill that empty belly of yours.”

  “Just clear liquids and a little toast,” the nurse warned.

  Killian looked at her. “I’m not about to get in a wrestling match with him in public. I expect he’ll eat what he wants, and his new family can deal with his stomach. If he starts throwing up again it’ll be someone else’s problem.”

  “Serve the little brat right,” the nurse muttered, clearly devoid of charity that morning.

  Killian said something in Arabic, and Mahmoud slid off the cot to follow him out the door. At the last minute he turned and directed a string of words to the nurse that sounded far from complimentary.

  “He’s thanking you for your kind assistance,” Killian translated helpfully. He was clearly lying.

  “Hummph.”

  And to Isobel’s shock, Mahmoud grinned—a normal, naughty-little-boy grin. He caught her expression of surprise, and it vanished immediately, turning him back into the sullen little creature she was used to. But at least he was clean.

  Killian was right—Mahmoud ate enough for the three of them, finishing the practically untouched food on her own plate, scarping down Killian’s last piece of toast. Isobel could only hope he wouldn’t get carsick once they landed in Plymouth. It was a long drive to London, and she didn’t fancy being trapped with a puking child. Whoever came for them would probably bring the Bentley—elegant and stately and armor plated. Just in case. If Mahmoud started heaving again she’d put him in the front seat with Peter. She’d suffered enough on this particular mission.

  At least it was almost over. Last night hadn’t happened: it was locked in a little box and thrown overboard into the icy blue-green Atlantic Ocean. She’d pass Killian on to Peter. go home and break something.

  They ate in silence. Killian perfectly at ease, leaning back in his chair drinking coffee, and watching as they pulled into Plymouth harbor. “We’ll be one of the first off the ferry,” he said. “We need to get through customs and be on our way. I’ve got a couple of ideas for transport to London, but I need to check out the lay of the land.”

  She really didn’t want to speak to him. But she was being silly—anything that had happened was immaterial, imaginary. “I’ve already arranged for someone to pick us up.”

  “What?” She hadn’t seen that cold anger before. He usually covered everything with an easy charm that made her crazy. “You couldn’t have. I took your PDA.”

  “I called before you groped me in the cafeteria,” she said, ignoring the fact that she was bringing up a subject that could lead to dangerous places.

  He swore, in half a dozen languages. “You’ve been in the business long enough not to have made such a stupid mistake. Unless you’re trying to get me killed. In which case you could have tried it long distance.”

 
“Maybe I want to be in at the kill,” she said in a silky voice. “Don’t be paranoid.”

  “Paranoia keeps me alive. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  She was impervious to his anger or his insults. “I took you seriously. Peter Madsen is the only one who knows we’re coming in, and whether you realize it or not, there are some people in this life that you can trust absolutely. The Committee has survived numerous attempts at infiltration—we’re invulnerable. And even if someone managed to get in, Peter would know.”

  “Whether you realize it or not, there’s no one in this life like that,” he shot back. He pushed away from the table, and Mahmoud uttered a protest. Killian’s response was short and sharp, and Isobel decided not to argue.

  “Why don’t you give me back my PDA and I’ll find out what arrangements have been made?”

  He shoved his hand in his pocket and handed the tiny thing to her. “We’re screwed, anyway. We might as well find out what we’re up against.”

  She started to move away from the table, but he stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’ll get a better signal from outside—”

  “You’ll call him while I can listen. No texting.”

  She sat back down again, pushing buttons on the compact machine. Peter answered immediately.

  “We’re coming into Plymouth,” she said. “My friend thinks we’ve got a problem in the office.”

  “Unlikely.” Peter’s voice on the other end was cool and detached. “In any case, I sent Morrison to fetch you in the Bentley. I need to stay here. You should be safe enough.”

  “What’s Morrison doing home from Germany?”

  “There are problems. We’ll talk when you get our friend back here.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.” He broke the connection, and Isobel looked up at Killian.

  “You may be right,” she allowed. “Something’s going on, and Peter wouldn’t be more specific. However, Charlie Morrison is just about as good as it gets, and he’s the one coming for us. The Bentley is armored—if someone decides to follow us it’ll take a rocket launcher to stop us.”

  Killian said nothing. For a moment she gazed at him, seeing him clearly in the bright light of day. Other women were noticing him, too. He was the kind of man women looked at, wanted. His gray-blue eyes were cool and flinty as they stared at her, his strong, lean body deceptively relaxed, his mouth...

  She wasn’t going to think about his mouth. It hadn’t happened. She could arrange reality to what was bearable. It hadn’t happened.

  He could have no idea what was going through her mind; she was too good at dissembling. And he seemed less than interested. He was surveying their surroundings with a casual air that belied his high level of alertness. She was just as cautious. If anyone made a move, she’d flatten Killian, taking him out of the line of fire. She’d come this far, and wasn’t going to let anyone get to him.

  But the passengers from the ferry seemed more interested in disembarking than watching the odd-looking family. Killian managed to get them to the front of the line, and, despite their lack of luggage, the customs officials barely glanced at their forged papers. It was a security breach that could cause trouble in the future. She’d have Peter pass on the word, Isobel decided. It could keep Thomason busy.

  The terminal was new and clean, and it took a sharp reprimand to keep Mahmoud from the cafeteria. Killian had them walk straight through the crowded building. There were short- and long-term car parks surrounding the facility, but he kept going, expecting her to follow him with Mahmoud taking up the rear.

  She recognized the Bentley from a distance, and beside it. Morrison’s sturdy body dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform that would have infuriated him, His father had been a chauffeur, and he had class issues that flared up at inconvenient moments. She knew how to handle her people, and once they were heading out on the A38 she could soothe his ruffled feathers.

  “There he is,” she said.

  Morrison caught her eye and nodded almost imperceptibly, climbing back into the heavy car, preparing to come pick them up.

  The blast hit them like a heat wave, several seconds ahead of the noise, and Isobel barely had time to fling her arms around Mahmoud, throwing him to the ground and covering him as debris rained down on her.

  Not that the little beast was grateful. He was using all his deceptive strength to try to dislodge her, but despite her unimpressive weight she could flatten a full- grown man if she needed to. A tiny twelve-year-old was no problem.

  Noise and smoke were everywhere. She could hear people screaming, crying. the crackle of fire, but she was busy trying to keep the squirming kid out of harm’s way when strong hands caught her shoulders and yanked her to her feet.

  Her back stung, but she couldn’t afford to pay attention and keep hold of Mahmoud at the same time.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Killian said mockingly. He had a cut over one eye, oozing blood, but apart from that he seemed to be in one piece. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the police show up.”

  “Morn son...” She tried to look past him, but Killian blocked her.

  “You don’t need to look,” he said.

  “Oh, bite me,” she snapped. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.” She pushed him out of the way, then paused.

  It wasn’t pretty. The Bentley had exploded, sending shrapnel spraying through the crowd. There were at least seven people down, and she could thank heaven it was the off-season, or the body count would be far worse.

  She recognized what was left of Morrison by the uniform. He’d been a good man, loyal and brave. He would have hated to die dressed like a chauffeur, she thought, dazed.

  Killian had an iron grip on her arm, and the pain pulled her back into reality. In turn, she grabbed Mahmoud’s hand, hauling him after her. The place was in chaos, but ambulances and police were already on their way, and the sooner they got out of there the better.

  They ran. Into the heart of the city, past people rushing in the opposite direction. “Hold on a minute,” Killian muttered, pulling them toward a tea shop. He yanked off his jean jacket. “Put this on.”

  She wasn’t wearing anything of his, particularly something still holding his body heat. “Forget it.”

  “Put it on,” he said. “Or people will see the blood on your back.”

  She didn’t question it, didn’t think about it. There wasn’t time. She took the jacket from him and pulled it on. She didn’t wince at the pain in her back, simply pulled the damn thing close, ignoring the crazy fact that it felt as if he was putting his arms around her.

  Mahmoud said something, and she glanced down at him.

  “Mahmoud says you’re a warrior woman.” Killian translated. “Worthy of being a suicide bomber.”

  “Charming.” Isobel responded, chilled. “Tell him I’m flattered.”

  “Later’ Killian said. “Keep your head down.”

  She stopped thinking at that point. The sunny day had vanished, and a cold rain began to fall. All she could do was follow him, the child trotting beside her, and hope Killian wasn’t leading her into a trap.

  16

  Harry Thomason lit a cigar, leaned back in the leather chair that had cradled the backsides of generations of English civil servants, and contemplated the goodness of life. The glass of whiskey in front of him was just the right blend—no single malts for him, thank you very much. He was a traditionalist, and he liked his whiskey blended, his cigars Cuban and his power absolute.

  A street

  rat like Peter Madsen didn’t belong in a gentleman’s club like this, he thought. In these sorry times Peter could probably get membership, but at least they drew the line at a bitch like Isobel Lambert. Sooner or later some idiot in the government would try to change that, as well. But by then Sir Harry would have regained enough power to see that sort of bullshit never happened.

  The first thing he was
going to do was get rid of that Oriental freak Madsen had brought in. Were they out of their minds? Takashi O’Brien had been bad enough— there was no room for third world operatives in their line of work. He’d proved useful, there was no denying it, but it would have been just as well if Van Dorn had finished him, and he could have been replaced by any one of the shadow agents Thomason was still running.

  He should probably dispense with Madsen, as well. The fellow knew too much. Harry had picked him up in the first place, trying to murder an MP’s son, no less. A bloody, violent little brat who’d cleaned up well enough, he’d now outlived his usefulness. Besides, he was unfit for duty, a cripple, and only a sentimental fool like Isobel Lambert would keep him on. Maybe he could just be retired out to that place in Wiltshire with his obnoxious American wife. Then again, Peter never did listen to warnings.

  At least Bastien Toussaint and his family would be gone. He’d always been a thorn in Harry’s side: had it not been for Toussaint he never would have been replaced. The knowledge that he had, at last, made it right, was sweet indeed. Sending three of Stolya’s men was probably overdoing it, but he didn’t like to take chances. Word hadn’t filtered over to this side of the Atlantic, but it would soon. It was something he was looking forward to.

  He took a sip of the whiskey, letting it roll around on his tongue, blend wash the taste of the cigar. It had been a frustrating few days, but he’d learned to be patient. Good things seldom came without drawbacks. The Serbs had screwed up the information he’d carefully leaked, and Serafin and the bitch had gotten away. The pilot had screwed up, as well—they’d found the plane and the body on an airfield just outside of Zaragoza, with no sign of his passengers.

  But by now it should be finished. The incendiary device on the Bentley had been precisely timed, set to blow the moment the ignition was turned a second time. Just when Serafin and Isobel and the child they were dragging along with them got in the car.