Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  “And are you wearing a burka as well?” she inquired sweetly.

  “I’ll be a retired British Army officer and you’re my Algerian wife. Not the best possible scenario—most cultures don’t like it when you take their women.”

  “Something I expect you’re more than familiar with,” she muttered.

  “I’m a man of strong appetites,” he said lightly. “Anyway, Colonel Blimp and his wife won’t attract that much attention in this little village—they’re used to strangers. It’s a center of the smuggling trade.”

  “And what are we supposed to be smuggling?”

  “Mahmoud. The child sex trade is a very lucrative one, and beneath all that dirt he’s quite pretty. We could get at least one hundred pounds for him.”

  She wasn’t going to show how sick she was. “Only one hundred?” she said. “Hardly worth the effort. Though it is a good way to dispose of him.”

  “Don’t bother. You aren’t going to let me sell him, and I have no intention of unleashing him on an unsuspecting pedophile. Mahmoud would carve him into ribbons.”

  “You almost convince me. But no. I hope your contact has a plan for his safe disposal, because he’s not coming to England.”

  “Samuel will do his best. I think he’s got some Christian school lined up. But trust me, sooner or later Mahmoud will get his scrawny butt to England and to my door, no matter how well you hide me. One should never underestimate a zealot.”

  “And what happens then?”

  “Then I’ll kill him.” His voice was light, sure.

  It didn’t make sense. He’d yet to give her a straight answer. A man like Serafin—like Killian—could kill a small boy quite easily, no matter how fanatical and well armed. Why didn’t he put an end to this particular threat? Someone couldn’t live the life Serafin had lived and have any qualms about killing a child.

  It probably didn’t matter. She wouldn’t let him do it, but it was an anomaly. And anomalies made her nervous.

  “When and where do we catch our plane?”

  “You’re not arguing?”

  “About what? Killing Mahmoud or the burka?”

  “Killing Mahmoud isn’t on the table. I’m talking about the latter.”

  “Burkas are excellent for concealing weapons. I don’t have any problem with it.”

  “A reasonable woman,” he murmured in mock awe. “Mahmoud.”

  His response was instant. The child was awake, and clearly had been for quite a while.

  Serafin’s orders were brief and to the point, and Isobel once more cursed the fact that she couldn’t understand more than a word or two of what he was saying. Not that further studies would have helped; it wasn’t standard Arabic, but some sort of obscure dialect.

  “Does he understand any English?” The ground had leveled out, and they were drawing closer to the edge of town. As the sun slowly rose the chill began to seep out of her bones. A stray shiver danced across her skin and then was gone.

  “No. He has no idea that in twelve hours he’ll be disarmed, scrubbed clean and praying to Jesus.”

  “If he didn’t want to kill you already, then that would do it.”

  “I wouldn’t blame him,” Serafin said.

  Mahmoud muttered something in a sharp voice, and he replied, then turned to her. “Actually, I lied. There is one word he understands—kill. He wants to know if he should kill you or if I should.”

  She glanced back at the empty eyes and blank face of the lost child. “And what did you tell him?”

  “That you’re my business. If you needed killing I’d see to it, but right now, you’re more valuable alive.”

  “I’m thrilled to hear that.”

  “I’m sure you are.” They’d reached an abandoned storage building, and he pulled the Jeep behind it, turning off the engine. “Darling, we’re home.”

  Her body was cramped and stiff from the long ride, but she made no attempt to climb down. “And when is our plane?”

  “Tonight, if we’re lucky. Otherwise, tomorrow night at the latest. Trust me, I’m ready to get back to the world of hot running water and single malt whiskey.”

  “And where will we be until then?” The light of day was strong and clear, bringing blessed respite from the elusive cover of night. She could see him clearly—the puffy face, the balding head, the blackened teeth and middle-aged paunch.

  “Samuel’s house is quite well-equipped for this part of the world, and he has reasonable guest quarters. We’ll be able to freshen up there, and if it becomes too dangerous we can always find a hotel and spend the night.”

  She bit back the impulse to say “lovely.” She shouldn’t care enough to be hostile. She’d made her reputation as the Ice Queen, a cool, emotionless creature that nothing touched. Every time she reacted to him she was betraying all her hard work.

  Besides, it didn’t matter. So she’d known him a lifetime ago. He’d been a bastard back then and was a triple bastard now. All that mattered was getting the job done, seeing it through to the end. And she had every intention of doing so.

  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.”

  “We’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 w
as 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 burka’d 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.