Guidebook in hand, Mallory took in the richness of the altar and choir before exploring the side chapels. The musky scent of incense lingered in the alcoves and mixed with the smoke from hundreds of flickering votives. She stood for long moments before a bank of votives dominated by a stained-glass window depicting Saint Michael slaying a dragon.
Part of her ached to drop a franc in the slot, light a candle and pray for the strength to forgive Congressman Kent and everyone in the media who’d slandered her. The rest of her was still too bruised and hurt. She wasn’t ready to forgive or forget, and she figured God would recognize a fake prayer quick enough.
Sighing, Mallory followed the signs pointing to the stairs that wound down to the crypts. There were two of these subterranean chambers, one under the north transept, one under the south. The first was big and ornate and contained the sarcophagi of previous bishops and abbots. The second was much smaller and plainer. Barrel-vaulted and constructed with Romanesque simplicity, it had the dank smell of centuries long past.
There, in the south crypt dedicated to Saint Martin, Mallory founded a semblance of the serenity that had eluded her upstairs. It was so quiet in the crypt, and so empty. The only objects in the round-roofed chamber were a plain altar topped by a wrought-iron cross and a narrow wooden prayer bench set alongside one wall.
Mallory eased onto the bench and leaned her shoulders against the granite wall. A chill seeped through her navy blazer, but she barely noticed it.
Why couldn’t she forgive and forget? Why had she let Congressman Kent destroy her pride along with her reputation?
Her friend, Dillon Porter, had tried to warn her. In his serious, no-nonsense way, Kent’s senior staffer had reminded his coworker how Jennifer Flowers and Monica Lewinsky had become the butt of so many vicious jokes. Yet Mallory had plowed ahead, convinced she had right on her side.
Yeah, sure.
With another long sigh, she tilted her head against the granite and closed her eyes. Maybe if she just sat here a while, the utter calm of this place would leach into her troubled soul.
What the hell was she doing?
Cutter lounged against a stone pillar, pretending interest in a brochure he’d picked up at the entrance to the abbey. The brochure happened to be in Japanese, a fact that had escaped his attention until he’d been forced to hide behind the damned thing for going on twenty minutes now.
Was she waiting for someone? The Russian? The obnoxious tourist?
Or had the woman fallen asleep? Sure looked like it from where Cutter stood.
Her head rested against the granite wall. Her lashes feathered her cheek. The arms she’d hooked around her waist had loosened and sagged into her lap.
She’d stirred, blinking owlishly when the muted sound of an announcement drifted down the stairs. They were too deep in the bowels of the church to distinguish the words, and she was too lethargic to do more than turn her head toward the distant sound. Moments later, her lids had dropped and she was breathing deeply again. This time a small smile played at the corners of her lips.
Sweet dreams, Dawes?
Thinking about all the goodies you’ll buy when and if you sell the data you stole?
Frowning, Cutter shot a quick look at his watch. The warning signs posted around the island were vivid in his head when the cell phone in his pocket began to vibrate. This motion had a different pattern from that of the GPS tracker attached to the disk in Dawes’s suitcase.
That was Mike Callahan signaling him. He must have IDed the fleshy tourist. Keeping the entrance to the small crypt in sight, Cutter retreated into the dim recesses of the subterranean vault and screwed the phone’s earpiece into his ear. A click of the receive button brought Callahan’s face up on the screen.
“What have you got?”
His voice carried no more than a few feet in the dank, gloomy stillness. Callahan’s came through the earpiece clearly.
“Your friend is Robert Walters.”
A photo of the paunchy tourist replaced Mike’s face. This shot showed him in a business suit, smiling for the camera as he gestured toward a warehouse with a sign announcing Walters Products.
“Age,” Hawkeye reported succinctly, “fifty-three. Born, Sterling, Indiana. One hitch in the Navy. Made three trips to the altar, the same number to divorce court. Owns a siding-and-storm-door installation company in Indiana. He and two buddies are on a tour of the Normandy beaches, sponsored by their local American Legion.”
“Doesn’t sound like the profile of someone with ties to an international thug like the Russian.”
“Didn’t to me, either,” Hawkeye agreed, “until I dug into his financials and discovered our boy Walters is six months behind in alimony to wife number two and wife number three. He also owes a cool hundred thou to his bookie. Seems he has a weakness for the ponies.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah, it is. I’m working authorization to run his cell, home and business phones. Will get back to you as soon as … Hang on!”
The terse admonition came at precisely the same instant the instrument in Cutter’s hand began to vibrate to a different pattern. Smothering a curse, he recognized the signal before Mike’s voice cut back through his earpiece.
“We’ve got movement on the disk, Slash.”
“Yeah, I’m receiving the signal.”
“Is the target back at her vehicle?”
“No.”
She hadn’t moved, dammit! Not so much as an inch. She still dozed on that bench. Or pretended to. The perfect decoy.
Swearing viciously under his breath, Cutter took the stairs from the crypt two at a time. Tourists sent him startled looks as he raced through the cathedral, his footsteps echoing on the granite blocks.
Dodging a group of Chinese visitors, he burst through the abbey doors onto the small terrace. The western side looked to the sea. The south edge, he saw when he pushed through a gawking, pointing crowd, looked down over the causeway and what used to be the overflow parking lot.
The sand flats on either side of the causeway were empty now except for a single tour bus with its wheels awash in seawater … and Dawes’s rented Peugeot, floating on the tide. As Cutter watched, tight-jawed, the little car bobbed farther and farther from the causeway.
Loudspeakers blared, slicing through the tourists’ excited babble. An urgent message was broadcast first in French, then English, then in Japanese.
“Attention! Attention! The driver of Tour Bus Number Fifty-Seven must return to his vehicle immediately! The storm at sea has created a severe riptide. Your bus will soon be afloat.”
So that was the muffled announcement that had failed to penetrate to the subterranean crypts! The off-shore winds had churned up a vicious riptide and sent it rushing in, well ahead of the posted times for normal high water.
Drivers alerted by the announcements had managed to clear most of the vehicles parked on the sand. Only two hadn’t been rescued—the heavy tour bus with gray-green water now swirling up to its fender skirts and Mallory Dawes’s lightweight Peugeot, at present floating on the outgoing current.
“Omigod!”
The shriek came from directly behind Cutter. He edged to the side to make room for the woman who elbowed her way through the crowd.
“That’s my car!”
Her dismay spiraled into panic. Cupping her hands to her mouth, Dawes screamed at the ant-like figures on the causeway far below.
“Hey! You down there! That’s my car floating away! Do something!”
Even she could see it was too late for anyone to save the little car. The fast-moving tide had already carried the vehicle a good half mile and it was starting to take on water. As she watched, horrified, the little car tipped to one side, rolled over and went wheels up. Like a puppy begging to have its stomach tickled, it floated a few more yards before slowly sinking into the sea.
Utter silence gripped the crowd. Cutter could swear he almost heard the gurgle of the bubbles that rose to the surface as the
mini disappeared.
Sympathetic clucking noises from several of the Japanese tourists broke the stillness. Their tour guide approached a shell-shocked Dawes.
“Your car, yes?”
“Yes,” she whispered raggedly.
“You must tell them, at the visitors’ center.”
Dawes couldn’t tear her gaze from the gray-green water. She kept staring at the spot where the Peugeot had disappeared. One white-knuckled hand gripped the other, as if she were praying that the statue of Saint Michael perched on the steeple above her head would command the seas to part and the car to miraculously reappear.
“You must tell them,” the tour guide insisted. “At the visitors’ center.”
Cutter’s mind had been racing since he’d first spotted the bobbing vehicle. Whatever else Dawes might have intended to do with the data disk, his gut told him this little drama hadn’t figured into her plan. It hadn’t figured into his, either, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity that had just been handed to him on a big, golden platter.
“This hasn’t been your day, has it?”
The comment jerked Dawes’s head around. She’d whipped off the sunglasses she’d used as a shield up to now, so this was Cutter’s first glimpse of her eyes. Caramel-brown and flecked with gold, they were flooded with dismay … until they dropped to the puckered skin below his chin. Then the emotions Cutter had seen too many times to count clicked across her face. Curiosity came first, followed quickly by embarrassment at being caught staring.
Apparently Dawes was made of tougher stuff than most. Either that, or she understood how it felt to be gaped at. She didn’t color up and quickly look away. Instead, her gaze lifted to his.
“No,” she admitted, raising a hand to hold back her wind-whipped hair, “it hasn’t.”
Cutter had grimaced when Field Dress had saddled him with this bland businessman’s cover but decided it would work like a charm in this situation.
“Maybe I can help. I have some contacts who know this area.”
Like Nick Jensen, aka Lightning, who’d grown up in the back alleys of Cannes before being brought to the States and adopted by one of OMEGA’s top agents. Any strings Mike Callahan couldn’t pull through official channels, Nick could through his own.
Mallory struggled to hold back her hair and the hot tears stinging her eyes. Any other woman in her situation would have jumped at the offer. Any woman, that is, who hadn’t been savaged by the media and made into a walking bull’s-eye for predatory males.
Granted, this one had already come to her aid once. Yet those cool gray eyes and powerful shoulders didn’t exactly put him in the tame category. Then there were those scars.
“Do you always go around rescuing women?”
The question came out sounding more suspicious and hostile than Mallory had intended. He answered with a raised brow and a shrug.
“Only those who seem to need it. Obviously, you don’t. My mistake.” With a nod, he turned away. “Good luck salvaging your car.”
God! That mess with Congressman Kent had turned her into a real bitch! Disgusted with herself, Mallory stopped him with a brusque apology.
“I’m sorry. It’s just … Well … ”
She decided he didn’t need to know the sordid details behind her recent distrust of all things male.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I, uh, appreciate the way you handled that jerk down in the village and I’d welcome any help retrieving my car. My suitcase is in the trunk. And my passport,” she remembered on a new wave of dismay. “And all my traveler’s checks!”
Stunned all over again, Mallory spun around to stare at the spot where her rental had disappeared. The sea now completely covered the mud flats. Except for the causeway, the island was cut off from the mainland.
As it had been for hundreds of years, when pilgrims had dared the treacherous sands to buy indulgence for their sins. Mallory was in no condition to appreciate the irony.
“Do you think … ?”
Gulping, she tried to swallow her panic. All she had with her was a single credit card and the few francs tucked in the purse slung over her shoulder. Like a fool, she hadn’t even carried her receipt for the traveler’s checks on her person. The past weeks had shaken her to her core, it was true, but that was no excuse for sheer stupidity!
“Do you think they can get my car back? Or at least retrieve my passport and traveler’s checks?”
“Maybe. Depends on how strong the riptide is and how far it carries the vehicle.”
She whirled again, grabbing at the fragile hope he’d offered until he gently shattered that.
“I suspect you aren’t the first tourist to lose a car to the tides, so I’m guessing there are probably a number of salvage companies in the area. It’ll take time to mount that kind of an operation, though, and some big bucks. You’d better check with the rental company to see what their insurance covers.”
Mallory’s stomach took another dive. She’d barely glanced at the half dozen or so insurance clauses she’d initialed when she’d rented the Peugeot. Now phrases like negligence, collateral damage, and criminal acts popped into her head.
Surely the rental company couldn’t hold her responsible for the loss! Okay, there were signs posted all over Mont St. Michel. And yes, she’d heard the muffled sounds of what might have been a warning announcement.
But. But.
Mallory forced her mind to stop spinning in empty circles. She wasn’t completely irresponsible. Nor was she helpless. She’d worked for the Commerce Department for several years before accepting the offer from Congressman Kent to join his staff. She understood bureaucracy, knew she had to get the wheels turning. Buttoning down her panic, she constructed a mental list.
First, she’d verify with the authorities here on Mont St. Michael that she was the driver of the vehicle that had been swept out to sea. She’d need statements from them and other witnesses as to what happened to the car when she contacted the rental agency. Then she’d call the U.S. embassy and find out how to obtain a temporary passport. After that, she’d get American Express to replace her lost traveler’s checks. She’d also check with them about travel insurance and coverage for her lost suitcase and clothing.
Relieved to have a plan, Mallory turned to the man beside her. “Would you be willing to provide a written statement detailing how I, uh, lost the car?”
“Sure.”
She swept a hand toward the stairs leading down to the village. “I need to let whoever’s in charge around here know that was my vehicle. Then I need to make some calls. You don’t happen to have a cell phone with you, do you?”
Something flickered in his cool gray eyes. Mallory thought it might have been amusement, but it was gone before she could be sure.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Would you mind if I use it?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks. Again,” she added, embarrassed now by the memory of her less-than-cordial response when he’d tossed the tipsy tourist into the horse trough.
If he remembered it, he gave no sign. Matching his stride to hers, he accompanied her to the stairs leading to the exit from the hilltop abbey.
“My name is Cutter Smith, by the way.”
Mallory hesitated. She could hardly refuse to provide her name after all he’d done for her, but anticipation of his reaction when he connected her to the headlines made her cringe inside.
“I’m Mallory Dawes.”
“Nice to meet you, Mallory. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”
His grip on her elbow was warm and sure and strong. His expression didn’t telegraph so much as a flicker of recognition. Relieved, Mallory flashed him a smile.
“You and me both.”
Chapter 4
Cutter had suspected she’d be a looker when she jettisoned her sour expression, but he’d underestimated the result by exponential degrees.
When Mallory Dawes smiled, sh
e was more than mere eye candy. She was all warm, seductive woman. The smile softened her mouth and gave her cinnamon eyes a sparkling glow. It also damned near made Cutter miss his footing on the steep stairs.
Feeling as though he’d taken a hard fist to his chest, he recovered enough to escort her down a million or so zigzagging stairs and through the village to the main entrance. Mallory halted just outside the massive barbican gate, surveying the scene.
“I can’t believe this. It’s so … so surreal.”
Cutter had to agree with her. The tide had swept in with a vengeance. Beyond the gate, the causeway shot straight and narrow across a broad expanse of silver-gray water. Except for that man-made strip of concrete, Mont St. Michel was completely cut off from the rest of France.
A large crowd lined the western edge of the causeway. Most were tourists busy clicking away with their cameras. Others looked like locals. Gesturing extravagantly, they shouted encouragement as a wrecker battled valiantly to keep Tour Bus 57 from being swept out to sea. They’d managed to attach tow chains to the bus and had it strung like a giant whale while it slowly took on water.
As Cutter and Mallory watched, transfixed, the sea reached the level of its windows and poured in through several that had been left open. The bus sank right before their eyes and settled in eight or ten feet of water, with only its top showing.
The tourists continued to shoot photo after photo. A man whose white shirt and nametag suggested he was the tour bus driver paced back and forth. Flinging his hands in the air and gesticulating wildly, he poured out a stream of impassioned French to a uniformed gendarme.
The officer took notes in a black notebook, somehow managing to look sympathetic and supremely bored at the same time. Cutter guessed he probably dealt with drivers of sunk or missing vehicles several times a week and had little sympathy for idiots who ignored warning signs and loudspeaker announcements.
Mallory had obviously formed that same impression. Chewing on her lower lip, she turned to Cutter. “This could get dicey. How’s your French?”
Ready for Anything, Anywhere! Page 23
