by Gayle Lynds
“Big waves hitting big rocks below us. We must be on a cliff.”
As soon as her eyes adjusted, she saw they were in a small empty room. Cold sea air blasted in through two barred windows high in the wall. Asher had slumped on the floor. There was no source of heat, but two canvas cots stood side by side.
“We need to get you warmed up,” she said.
“You won’t get an argument from me. I’m colder than an extra-inning night game at Candlestick.”
She took his chilly hands and pulled as he struggled up. He leaned on her and she helped him to the nearest cot.
She picked up blankets. “Three for each of us. I guess they don’t want us to freeze to death, at least not yet. But they don’t want us to be comfortable either.”
His breathing was labored. “I better lie down before I fall down.”
She folded two blankets and spread them on the cot. He collapsed onto them, his teeth grinding against pain. She covered him with a third blanket. With his clothes, she hoped it would be enough. Bone-weary herself, she turned to the second cot.
She prepared it the same way and crawled in. “Where do you think we are?”
“Europe still,” his shivering voice responded. “Far enough north that it’s cold. Not a long-enough flight to be a summer night in San Francisco.”
She nodded into the gloom. Asher did not know how to despair or give up. “Maybe it’s Elsinore,” she suggested. “Hamlet’s castle in Denmark.”
This time he did not answer. She listened to his teeth chatter, worrying he was too cold and too tired and near shock. She reached out and found his shoulder. He was shivering uncontrollably. Afraid, she jumped up and spread her blankets over him.
“S-s-sorry, Sarah.”
“No need to be, darling.” She slid quickly under the blankets. “I just wanted an excuse to be close anyway.”
Worrying, she wrapped herself around him. When he said no more, she knew how badly off he was. A lump thickened her throat. She kissed his icy ear and held him. At last, his shivering ceased, and he fell asleep, his breath a ghostly mist above their faces.
Northumberland, England
Simon said, “Every time I look at Tony Brookshire’s name, I feel queasy. Disgusted. He’s an old friend of the family, for God’s sakes. How could he keep tabs on you in Santa Barbara and kidnap Sarah?” His expression dark, he sipped his whiskey.
“If the baron’s files are any indication, they do favors for one another,” Liz said. “Look at how many of the same boards they sit on. They’re already working together officially, so it’s not much of a leap to think they work together privately as well—consulting, informing one another, making mutually advantageous deals.”
“You’re right. But there’s more—Brookshire’s the only one in public service. The five others run multinationals richer than most small nations, and not one of them is in the same industry. So if they’ve decided to cooperate, their sweep and power are vast.”
She sat up straighter. “Does that ever sound like the ancient Titans! And look what they did with their power…. They laid out rules, delivered punishments, and handed out rewards so the world would move in a direction they conceived and where they remained in charge.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. Their vision. Their control.” Simon poured second glasses of whiskey.
“Democracy dies behind closed doors.” She repressed a shiver and packed the photo prints back into Simon’s portfolio.
As Simon put logs into the stone fireplace, he said, “If Nautilus’s meetings are secret, the code names indicate the Coil’s are even more so.”
“Afraid so.” She turned off lamps and settled onto the sofa, watching him thoughtfully as he built a fire, enjoying his company but wishing it were under happier circumstances. Wishing Sarah and Asher were with them.
At last, the fire burning strongly, he sat beside her, crossed his legs, leaned back, and threw an arm across the back of the sofa away from her. With his other hand, he cradled his glass to his chest. The shadowy room was warm and the fireplace comforting. The aroma of burning pine drifted toward them.
Modern humans were still cave dwellers, she decided, yearning for light and heat…atavistic, especially when threatened.
In the firelight, his hair was the color of rich mahogany. His nose seemed larger and more slapdash than usual. His head rested back as he stared into the fire. She liked the way the planes of his face were almost vertical, rounding down into his square jaw. His lids looked heavy and his face worn. He was spent, drained, and allowing himself to show it.
She kept glancing at him, seeing something new each time, as if she were just discovering him. Finally, he sighed. It was not only a weary sound, but vulnerable.
It all crowded in on her—from his sudden appearance in the storage locker outside London to their flight here to visit Henry, never had he seemed vulnerable. Only headlong and impatient and often irritatingly right. She tried to see the little boy in him now but could not. No more than she could see the girl she had once been. She was an adult now, and so was this tired man weighed with responsibility. She felt drawn to him, as if she could sit here with him forever.
“I’ll tell you a secret, but you’ll have to tell me one, too.” He rolled his head to the side and peered at her, a quizzical expression on his face. “General’s Permission.”
It was a children’s game they had played, named after their great-uncle, Gen. William Augustus Childs, who had died at Dunkirk. His brooding portrait hung with others along the staircase at Childs Hall. The rules were simple: No lies, no excuses, and no dares. Always played in a closet with the lights out, where the secrets once spoken were left behind as soon as the door opened and they returned to the world.
“We’re not wrapped up in blankets in the closet with Mick,” she said.
He drank. “So?”
“All right. The general gives you permission to speak.”
He sat his glass on his knee. “You asked what had happened to me since I last saw you. A few years ago, I was sent into Bosnia to extract an asset. We’d had word his cover was blown.” He paused, his voice thickened. “My legend worked fine, but I said something inadvertently…. I was young and stupid, chasing a woman I’d met on the train.”
“Let me guess. She was a Juliet agent. Under the circumstances, expected.”
He did not look at her. “Beautiful, of course. I made her instantly. The problem was, I decided to play her.”
She waited.
“My cover was as a UN agricultural expert. I had money, so I fed her on the train, got her drunk, and tried to pump her. But she slipped me a mickey. Don’t know to this day what it was or how she did it. Of course, I was carrying passports for the asset and his family, a miniature camera to take their photos, and glue to paste them in. After I passed out, she found all of it in the special compartment in my carry-on, but that wasn’t enough to tell her his identity and where they’d be waiting. But when I was trying to worm information out of her, I’d mentioned a bombed salt factory in Tuzla. I finally woke up when the train slammed to a stop because guerrillas had ripped up the tracks. It threw me into the seat ahead, and I busted my nose.” He shook his head, disgusted, angry. “She was gone. By the time I got to the factory, our asset was dead. So was the whole family. Executed, bullets to the head. Just lying there. Even his baby.”
She inhaled. “You felt you’d caused it.”
“Bloody damn right I did. Hubris. Fucking hubris. Why didn’t I just lose her when I got to Tuzla? I could have. But no, I was going to get something from her first. The hero. Instead, she walked away clean with six British passports and enough of a clue from me that an entire family was wiped out.” Deep lines riddled his face. He looked a decade older, and the hand that held his drink trembled. He peered down at the whiskey, drained it, and stood up. “Want another?”
“I’m fine.”
She watched him stalk to the liquor cabinet and pour. He went to the window
, pulled back the drape, and gazed out at the night.
At last, she spoke to his back, “You haven’t forgiven yourself.”
“What I did was unforgivable.”
“And so you decided not to care anymore?”
“Of course I care. I just don’t get too involved.”
“Well, you’re involved now. And you might as well forgive yourself. You can’t fix it. You can’t bring them back. When you quit making mistakes—”
“I know. I’ll be dead, too. The problem was, I knew better.”
“It changed your life. That might not be so bad. You learned something. I’ll bet you’ve never made a mistake like that again.” She studied his rigid posture. Finally: “Your chief’s furious with you. She’s trying to send you to Florence. Something must’ve happened in Bratislava, too, didn’t it?” She recalled the headlines she had seen—the demonstration that turned lethal. “That young woman who immolated herself…you were there, undercover. What was her name?”
“Viera. Viera Jozef.” He heaved a sigh and turned. His face was stricken.
“You knew her.”
“Rather well.” From across the room, he related the story. “I don’t understand why she did it.”
“Or why you didn’t guess and stop her. But this time you really are clear, Simon. In Tuzla, you made a tragic mistake that you’ll live with the rest of your life. That’s piggybacked onto all the other errors you make every day just because you’re alive. All of us make them. Then Viera killed herself. That made her loss even deeper for you.”
“I don’t need a psychologist.”
“No. But you could use a friend.”
He gave a brief smile. “Perhaps you’re right. Partly, I feel guilty because I didn’t love her. If I had, I might’ve seen what she was up to.”
“Now you’re bringing out the old crystal ball. There’s no way you can predict that. Are the murders of that family in Tuzla why you never got your nose fixed?”
“A reminder.” He rubbed a finger along it. “Every time I look in a mirror.” He turned his head away.
“Extreme, but understandable. For whatever it’s worth, I forgive you.”
He glanced at her. Gave a small smile. “Believe it or not, it helps.”
She smiled in return. “Not only that, I forgive you for using me as a business, back when we were young.”
He returned to the sofa, drank deeply, and leaned back heavily. “I’ve never told anyone about Tuzla. Of course, MI6 knows. I was sidelined on a desk until I convinced them to send me into the antiglobalization movement. HQ needed someone, and I had the requisite skills. I suppose I was trying to redeem myself.”
“Three years is a long time to give up everyone and everything, including your own identity. I’d say you’d done something useful and fine.”
She liked the compassion she saw in Simon. Admired it. She felt vaguely guilty for having assumed he was a lightweight. She could hear her father’s voice. Never assume. The room was filled with the warmth and fragrance of the fire and with an oddly serene sense of intimacy. There was that feeling about him again, the trust, the attraction.
“My turn,” she said.
“The general gives you permission to speak.”
“It’s nothing as dramatic as yours. Did you hear how my father died?”
“Never could ferret it out. Hush-hush and all that.” He shifted on the sofa again so he could watch her. She wore no makeup, her skin scrubbed clean back at their Paris hideout. Her face was spectacular—large eyes and generous mouth, high arching brows, and of course that mole beside her lips. But now as he looked at her, each feature seemed more delicate than dramatic. The way her eyelashes brushed down when she lowered her gaze. The single silky curl that rested against her jaw. The blush of weariness on her cheeks. She had been kind to him just now. She had listened. It had been years since he had wanted to talk honestly about himself—or anyone had really wanted to hear.
She was saying, “After the failure of Bremner’s scheme, all of us were sure the Carnivore was dead, but Sarah tracked him to Sicily, near where his grandmother was born. He’d been living there, holed up with his books. Mother told me later he’d returned there occasionally over the years because he felt an affinity for the land and the people. Anyway, Sarah believed he should be brought in to be debriefed, because he’d promised he would, and because she didn’t trust him to stay retired. She didn’t tell me. Only Asher knew. They arranged with the CIA to helicopter them and some troops to his estate. What they didn’t know was he’d rigged his house and land. When he saw them, he set off a string of underground explosions.”
“That’s how he died?”
She gave a slow nod. “Sarah said it was horrible. Like a series of earthquakes. Anyway, there wasn’t even a body for a funeral, and I’d lost my last chance to see him. When Sarah told me, I didn’t speak to her for months. I was furious because I thought—I still sometimes think—that if I’d been there, he wouldn’t have done it. But then Mom died, and I was alone. What a mess. Of course, Sarah was right to try to bring him in, but she should’ve told me. I think she was worried I wouldn’t agree.”
“He didn’t give himself up in Paris with your mother, even after you made the arrangements.”
“I know. I think about that, too. So when Mom died, I realized I had to get on with my life, and I apologized to Sarah. We owed her for what she went through with Bremner, and I owed her again for my anger.” She frowned, fell silent.
“There’s something about it that’s still bothering you.”
“My husband. He…he was violent, too.” She hesitated. “He’d go through dark periods, and he’d hit me. It was only later that I figured out it didn’t matter what I said or did. That he’d always find some new excuse to beat me.”
His hand clenched on his glass. “You let him beat you?” And realized that was where the story about her father had been heading.
“It’s more complicated than that. I know…who’d believe I was a battered wife, right? Tough Liz. Karate-trained Liz. CIA Liz. But I never reported him, and I never fought back. I wonder whether there was something in the air when I was growing up that enabled me to live with his violence. Children sense things, but they don’t have the words to express the unsaid. It’s the thousand-pound gorilla hulking around the family room that everyone ignores. Oddly, I knew I’d never let anyone else treat me that way. Then, of course, he died. So I lost the chance to develop some backbone and leave him.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“Maybe some of the guys at Langley guessed.” She glanced at him. “I went through therapy while I was getting my doctorate. That helped. I can give you all the jargon for it, the analysis, but who cares? In the end…I allowed myself to be his victim. And no, I don’t think I ‘loved him too much.’ I quit loving him in there somewhere, but I was too damn stupid and needy to do anything about it.”
“And you’re still not at peace with it.”
“Apparently not. Since I just told you.” She gave a wan smile.
“Are you feeling your mortality right now?”
“You bet I am. God knows what today will bring.”
“Nothing like trying to make up for one’s mistakes at one blow, right? We’re a pair. I liked you a lot as a kid. I think I like you even more now.”
“Thank you. It’s mutual.”
“Are you as tired as I am?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.
“Maybe. Probably. I have an alarm on my watch. I’ll set it, and we can sleep for a couple of hours. Then we should leave for Dreftbury and make plans.”
He checked the hallway outside and locked the door. As she placed one more log into the flickering flames, she decided she liked the sense of safety in this room…in Henry’s house. They met at the sofa. She sat, and he sat beside her again. Closer. Hesitantly, he took her hand. She let him, then his in both of hers. His skin was warm and dry, the muscles and tendons powerful. They leaned back, still holding h
ands, as the fire flickered and spat, and fell quickly into troubled sleep.
Henry Percy detested the fact that the younger servants kept the fire high in his new bedroom all night. Still, July was often cold here, and at his advanced age, the chill could easily carry him off. He did not intend to die just yet. The problem was that the heat often made him fall asleep in his wheelchair as he read.
He groaned and stretched to ease the pain in his shoulder. What had awakened him? He remembered dreaming of his motorcycle, the old army bike he had brought with him from the war nearly sixty years ago. Or had it been a dream?
He frowned and listened but heard nothing. Yet…had a motorcycle come to a stop somewhere nearby? As a faint click sounded in the silent room, he immediately felt a quick draft of air, there and gone. He whirled his wheelchair around, staring at the long drapes that covered his French doors. Had they moved?
His pulse raced, and fear shot through him. His gun was in his bedside table. He was half out of his wheelchair when a man stepped from behind the drapes.
“Good evening, Baron.” He aimed his pistol.
Henry Percy stared at the weapon, then raised his gaze to the man’s face. “You!”
Forty-Five
As the noise of a motorcycle engine stopped abruptly, Liz forced herself awake, her eyes still closed, not sure what she had heard. She listened to the mutterings of the old timbers in Henry Percy’s mansion, aware of Simon beside her on the sofa. Her head lay on his shoulder, his cheek resting against the crown of her head. She wanted to stay here forever. He smelled good, irresistible, like walnuts and raisins with a soupçon of fine malt. She listened to his light snore, a heavenly sound, and turned to nuzzle his shoulder…until she recalled—
Her eyes snapped open. Had there been an engine—a motorcycle—that had quit before it reached the house? She settled back, considering. Maybe one of Henry’s servants had returned from a tryst. Or maybe one of the gardeners had arrived early for work. She waited for whispers, giggles, voices, a door closing. Nothing. But then, Simon and she were at the back of the house, on the second floor. Anything that occurred at the front or in the main rooms or even in the kitchen was difficult to hear.
