Ice Storm

by user

  She half expected him to argue, but he simply nodded, vanishing into the morning mist, moving as quickly and as silently as the fog itself. She followed behind Bastien and Peter, hating the necessity, as they made their way into a whitewashed tunnel. The murky light of dawn made the only partway into the cavernous mouth, and she could see that a bare light bulb overhead had been smashed. They moved silently, the three of them, passing another body lying in the shadows. None of them Thomason.

  ‘What the hell is this place?” Bastien whispered.

  “An old bunker of some sort,’ Peter said. “They used them during World War II as hospitals or covert training areas. Thomason’s old man was a general. Rolling over in his grave, I expect.”

  “I expect not.” The voice came from behind them, and Bastien moved swiftly, slipping in front of Isobel.

  “Sir Harry.” he said in his deep, cool voice. What a surprise.”

  The old man stepped into the light, switching on the torch he was carrying. It illuminated his squat figure, dressed in tweeds and carrying a semiautomatic handgun. “The surprise is all mine, dear boy.” he said. “I thought you left the business.”

  “I had, until you sent someone to mess with my family.” he said.

  “I am sorry about that. It’s from a lifetime of tying up loose ends. I’m sure you understood the necessity. If one of our enemies found you they could torture you, make you tell them all the things you’ve learned over the years. And even if you could withstand the torture, you wouldn’t if your wife and children were threatened. You were a liability—surely you see that?”

  “Surely I see that,” Bastien echoed ironically.

  “Why don’t the three of you put down your weapons?” Thomason said in the amiable voice of a kindly uncle offering tea and biscuits. “My people are waiting in the room beyond, along with your recent failed mission, my dear. We should join them.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen Peter move and the blinding beam of torchlight fastened on him. “Another bullet in that leg would be both debilitating and painful, Peter,” Harry said. “I don’t think you want that. Put the gun down.”

  Peter set his gun down on the littered stone flooring, and Bastien did the same. Isobel wasn’t ready to panic—she expected they carried other weapons, and both of them were capable of killing with their bare hands. They still stood more than a fighting chance.

  “And you, my dear.” he said. “Put it down now, or I’ll put a bullet in your head this very minute.”

  She set it down, because she had no choice. “You’re planning on doing it anyway, Harry,” she said. Her voice sounded nothing more than bored. She’d learned her craft well.

  “Yes, we both know that, but as long as there’s life, there’s hope, and you’re not going to willingly take a bullet until you have no other choice.”

  “You’re very wise,” she said sweetly. She still had her Swiss Army knife, although it wouldn’t do much good against a semiautomatic.

  “After you, my friends,” Thomason gestured toward the circle of light farther down the tunnel. “And do be careful. I believe your friend Serafin—or should I call him Killian?—has cut a bloody swath on his way down here. I wouldn’t want you to trip over any more bodies. Hands on your heads, please.”

  Isobel’s back screamed as she put her hands on the back of her head. “Why are you doing this, Harry? Have you been behind everything? The car bomb in Plymouth. the pilot in Algeria, MacGowan’s disappearance?”

  “Of course. But don’t expect me to make some long confession full of braggadocio. I do what needs to be done. And what needed to be done was to take you down, Madame Lambert. You’re weak. You put the safety of the world in jeopardy because you won’t do what needs lo be done.”

  “That’s why you’re doing this. Harry? To save the world?” Peter murmured.

  “Sir Harry, my boy,” he snapped. “Remember, I was your mentor.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “This place is wired, isn’t it?” Bastien spoke suddenly. “You’re going to blow it.”

  “You always were quick, Toussaint. Practically psychic, except that I know you’ve been around explosives long enough that you can probably smell them. That’s exactly what I plan to do. But I’m not leaving a thing to chance—you’ll all be dead before I hit the switch. I’m a thorough man.”

  “So you’ve said.” Isobel kept walking. She could feel his eyes, his gun, trained on the middle of her back, and suddenly the tiny cuts from the glass seemed like the least of her worries. “Then I presume Killian’s already dead?”

  Harry sighed. “I fear my employees have not been as efficient as I might have liked. But you’ll find out soon enough. There’ll be time for a touching lovers’ farewell, and maybe I’ll even let you die in each other’s arms.”

  “Don’t make me ill, Sir Harry,” she said coldly. “Have you ever known me to be sentimental?”

  “Not particularly. But you have a weak spot as far as this man is concerned, I know that much. Who would have thought the head of the Committee would be fucking a terrorist?” The word sounded strange in his elegant voice, clearly an obscenity.

  “But he’s not a terrorist, Harry,” Peter said. “You missed that one completely. He’s CIA.”

  “Preposterous!” the old man exclaimed.

  “And are you sure we’re all present and accounted for?” Bastien asked slyly.

  As a judgment call it was questionable. Harry didn’t need to know Reno was skulking around, but then, anything that dented Thomason’s self-assurance was an asset. “There’s no one else,” he said.

  “What about our new recruit?” Isobel murmured.

  The old man laughed. “He’s dead. My men saw to it. The nasty little punk killed one of them, and another one’s not going to make it, but he‘s dead.”

  “If you say so,” she said. The light was getting brighter, but there was no noise coming from the open doors ahead. Were Killian and Mahmoud already dead? Harry wouldn’t be nearly so sure of himself if he didn’t have the upper hand.

  Peter was holding back, and she knew he was going to try to get between her and Harry. To take a bullet for her, if he had to, and that was one thing she couldn’t let happen. Not and live with herself.

  She halted, turning to look at Sir Harry. He had always seemed a somewhat comical little man, until you gazed into his pale, blank eyes. She’d been a fool to underestimate him. A man who’d ordered as many deaths as he had over the years wouldn’t take to being marginalized with any grace.

  “Keep moving, Madame Lambert,” he said, waving the gun toward her. “And tell your friends to keep their distance. I see Peter looking for his chance, and I have time to blow his head off and still kill you.”

  “But that would leave me,” Bastien said in a silky tone.

  “I’m not alone down here. Move ahead.”

  She followed them through the doorway, into a large room. There were two low-wattage light bulbs overhead, and standing in the middle was Killian, wrapped in someone else’s coat. Slightly pale, but alive.

  He had no gun, and yet he seemed to be in charge. There were two more bodies on the ground, and three armed men watching him warily, like tourists watch a polar bear in a zoo devouring its meal. There was no sign of Mahmoud.

  Killian didn’t look at her when they stopped, focusing instead on Thomason.

  “What’s all this about?” Harry demanded, sounding querulous. He turned to one of his men. “Why are you just standing there? He’s not armed. Shoot him!”

  “Not exactly true, Fm afraid.” Killian said in his laziest drawl. She looked at his hands, and saw the blood running down his left hand, dripping onto the ground. He opened the coat, gingerly, and she could see the belt he was wearing. Packed with the latest fashion in lightweight explosives.

  “How did you get that?” The words came out before she realized she’d spoken.

  “Shut up!” Thomason snapped, his temper fraying. �
��Or I’ll shut you up!”

  “I don’t think you’d like the consequences,” Killian said. “You touch her, and we’re all going up.”

  “I think you’d best believe him,” one man said in a heavy Russian accent. “He’d do it.”

  Thomason fired, and the man collapsed on the ground, half his skull missing. “Does anyone else have something to say?” he inquired in a dulcet tone.

  “Your aim has gotten better, Harry.” Isobel said, her voice cold. “You didn’t used to be able to hit the broad side of a barn.”

  He swung in her direction, his face purple with rage. but Bastien had already tackled her, throwing her to the ground, covering her body, her head, as the gun rang out, over and over again. She could feel chips flying from the stone wall, stinging, and she wanted to shove Bastien away. but he was much too strong and determined, and too damn big, and then, shockingly, the gun was silenced, and he rolled off her.

  She kicked him. scrambling to her feet, to see Peter standing over Thomason’s huddled figure. Killian hadn’t moved—he was leaning against a table, seeming perfectly at ease, if it weren’t for the bomb strapped around his middle and the blood dripping from his hand. “She never was grateful,” he said to Bastien.

  Isobel wouldn’t look at Killian. She stalked over to Thomason’s figure. “Is he dead?”

  The old man looked up at her, hatred in his milky eyes. “Only slightly damaged. thank you,” he said in a voice thick with loathing.

  She kicked him, too, just for good measure. “Where’s Mahmoud?”

  “He’s locked in one of the rooms, but he’s fine,” Killian said. “Reno can take care of him.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” she said in her iciest voice. Peter was holding the handgun that she’d handed over to Thomason. the one that would stop an elephant in its tracks. “Too bad you’re wearing that belt or I’d shoot you where you stand.”

  “Be my guest:’ Killian said gently. unfastening the belt and setting it down on the table behind him, very carefully. More blood on his hand: he’d obviously been shot. She didn’t care, she absolutely didn’t care. He could die for all it mattered to her, and she’d dance on his grave.

  “I’ll get him,” Peter said, limping past Thomason’s unmoving figure. A moment later Mahmoud came flying out of the room, his video game clutched in one hand. To Isobel’s amazement, he flung himself at Killian.

  Killian grunted, falling back for a moment at the child’s onslaught. A child who weighed very little, and Killian was very strong. How badly was he hurt?

  He put his hand on the boy’s hair, ruffling it with affection. speaking to him in Arabic. Is Reno here?” he asked Isobel. “He wants Reno.”

  “He’s here. Come along, kid,” Peter said. “I’ll take you to him.”

  Mahmoud was already racing ahead of him, but he paused for a moment to look at Isabel. He said something to her, something long and incomprehensible, and then took off, Peter trailing behind him.

  Bastien made a choking sound, and she remembered he knew Arabic. She wasn’t about to ask Killian, who was looking strangely amused beneath his pallor. “What did he say?”

  “Just good wishes for your future health and happiness,” Toussaint said.

  “Vermin,” Harry said, struggling to his feet.

  “Bastien,” she said, “do something about these two. would you?” She gestured toward the remaining men Harry had hired.

  “What about Thomason?”

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  “You sure?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You think I can’t handle a pathetic old man, Bastien?”

  “Of course you can, Cherie. You’re The Ice Queen.” He glanced toward Killian. “What about him?”

  She had no choice but to look a him. He still had that vaguely ironic expression on his face. “Get out,” she said in a low voice. “Go back to Langley and tell them that if I ever see you again you won’t be left standing.”

  “Not the forgiving sort, are you?”

  “Get.. .out,” she said.

  He started after Bastien, moving slowly but with no particular limp. Maybe it was someone else’s blood on him. Maybe it was a flesh wound. Maybe he was dying.

  She didn’t give a flying luck.

  She ignored him. turning back to Harry. “So what am I supposed to do with you?”

  “There’s nothing you can do. You can’t prove anything. not without bringing our entire business to light, and you wouldn’t want to risk the few operatives that are still alive. Though I’m not sure quite how many there are.... I’ve got someone in Japan about to take out Takashi O’Brien and his new wife, and the operation in Somalia is in ruins. My men must have got to MacGowan, as well. They’re going to take your toy away from you, Isobel. and there’s nothing you can do. You were too weak to run an organization like the Committee. You couldn’t do what needed to be done, so in the end I win. I may not have control back, but you can’t touch me without getting yourself dirty. The Committee will replace you, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they put me at the helm, after all. We’re run by some very pragmatic people, and the end justifies the means. I’ll be ready to accept your resignation, of course.”

  “They’re not that stupid.”

  “Not stupid. Just not bothered by sentimental nonsense about human rights and fair play. We’re fighting the forces of evil, Isobel. and you haven’t got what it takes to wage that war. You haven’t got the stones to do what needs to be done.”

  “Yes, Harry, I do,” she said. And she pulled the trigger.

  The expression on his face was shocked, almost comical, as he slid to the floor. A head shot, quick and silent, as Bastien had taught her. His body splayed out. and something slipped out of his pocket. a gold watch falling onto the stone floor, the engraved cover flying off as it dropped into the pool of blood, the glass face shattering on impact.

  She didn’t move. The gun was heavy in her hand. shaking. and someone came up behind her. She knew who it was. He took the gun away from her with his bloody hand. “I would have killed him for you, princess,” he said softly.

  She wouldn’t look at him. And after a moment he walked away, slowly. down the empty corridor stained with blood, never looking back.

  24

  They got back to Golders Green by five. Cleanup had been no easy matter, but Isobel had simplified things by ordering Peter to blow the charges when everyone was at a safe distance. The ensuing explosion had been a bit of overkill, but Harry Thomason and the bodies of five Russian mercenaries disappeared in a collapsed field and tons of rock. By the time anyone got around to excavating, there would barely be enough left to trace their DNA. No one would look too hard—the Committee would see to it.

  Peter was exhausted. He needed a shower, a meal and a good night’s sleep. But most of all he needed his wife. Bastien had been silent since they dropped Isobel off at her flat; she’d refused to come with them, and he’d been wise enough not to push. Bastien would be taking his family back to the States as soon as they could get a flight, and Peter had every intention of dragging Genevieve back to Wiltshire as soon as she was willing to go.

  And if she argued. he’d throw her over his shoulder and haul her there.

  He’d had a few rough moments during the last twenty-four hours, one of the absolute worst being when he’d dragged Reno to the hospital and the admitting nurse had asked, “Your son?”

  “Christ, no,” Peter had replied in total horror, earning a smirk from Reno. But he’d done a good job, coolheaded in a crisis, deadly when he needed to be. He’d make an excellent operative. If they could get him to cut his ridiculous hair.

  In the meantime, someone needed to warn Takashi O’Brien that all of Harry’s stratagems hadn’t died with him. Taka was more than capable of taking care of himself and his wife, but a heads-up wouldn’t hurt.

  Mahmoud had refused to leave Reno’s side and in the end Peter had dropped them off in Kensington. They were both kids, outlaws
. brats. brothers. For the time being he didn’t have to worry about them. They could play video games and drink Red Bull to their heart’s content. With Reno’s arm in a cast, Mahmoud might actually be able to beat him. No, Peter didn’t have to worry about them.

  Isobel was a different matter. She was cool, calm, the Ice Queen personified. She hadn’t even asked where Killian had disappeared to. Which was a good thing, because Peter had no idea. He was simply gone by the time they’d left the bunker.

  Genevieve was sitting in a chair by the fire, Bastien’s daughter Sylvia in her lap. She only looked half-ready to kill Peter—maybe there was hope. after all. She looked up when he walked in. and then for a moment all was chaos as Bastien followed him. to be inundated by his wife, his baby son and his daughter.

  Peter moved past them, to Genevieve’s side, and knelt down beside her. Which hurt his bad leg like hell, but he figured she was going to demand some serious penance for disappearing on her.

  “I love you.” he said. hopeful.

  She gave him a look. “Is it over?”

  “Yes.” he said.

  “Is Isobel all right?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it. either.”

  “No.” she said thoughtfully. “I expect not. By the way. I don’t have the stomach flu.”

  He had to tread carefully. “You don’t?” he asked, trying to look innocent.

  She laughed at him. “Why is it you can lie to everyone on earth except me? You already know. You probably knew before I did.” She took his hand and put it on her still-flat belly. “Are you going to stop trying to get yourself killed?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Humph,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  And it was that easy.

  Isobel walked into her apartment, dropping her purse. kicking off her shoes. It was dark outside, but she didn’t turn on the lights. She walked through her flat, straight into the bathroom, and climbed into the bathtub. still wearing her tailored slacks and her cashmere sweater. They were stained with blood. Her soul was stained with blood. She sat in the tub and turned on the shower. The water was icy, but she didn’t flinch. It quickly grew warmer, but she didn’t move, letting the water soak into her hair. her clothing, her skin. She sat until the water grew cold again, then she rose, stripping off her clothes and moving through her darkened apartment to her bedroom. She pulled back the duvet and climbed into bed, her hair soaking wet, the room cold. Sooner or later the heat would come on by itself. If it didn’t, she could always freeze to death. They’d replace her, thank God. She’d have to face the Committee, and there was no way she’d flinch from what had happened. She’d done the right thing, the necessary thing. and she’d do it over and over again if she had the chance, with the memory of Charles Morrison, of Finn MacGowan, of all the other operatives keeping her company. Their hands had held the gun along with her.