by Anne Stuart
She glared at the man, giving him her best patrician stare. The man simply shrugged. "Or you can make do with one of us." He ran a filthy hand down her bare arm, and she shivered. "A tourist would know better than to come into a place like this. Why should a man with a boat be here? The rich ones go to better places than this."
She yanked her arm away, stumbling backward into a table, knocking over several bottles of beer on disgruntled customers. It happened quickly, too quickly. Someone grabbed her purse, another swung a punch, and somewhere a woman screamed. Francey dived for her purse, landing on her knees on the dusty floor, her purse clutched in her hands. Landed in front of two pairs of uniformed legs.
She looked up, way up, into the shuttered expressions of two members of the local police. They didn't move, merely stared down at her as she struggled to her feet.
"That one," the bartender was suddenly more voluble. "She came in here, causing trouble with my customers. Said she was looking for a rich boat owner."
Francey glared at him in frustration. "Not a rich boat owner," she corrected him. "I'm looking for my cousin. I was told he was somewhere off the Costa Blanca, and I thought…"
"Your passport, señorita," one policeman said in a clipped voice.
She considered arguing, then thought better of it. She opened her purse, reaching in for her papers, when the man plucked it out of her hands.
"Hey!" she protested, grabbing for it, but the man simply knocked her backward onto the floor.
She was too shocked to move. She simply sat there, staring up, as the policeman pulled out a neatly wrapped white package from her capacious purse. A package she'd never seen before in her life.
"That's not mine," she protested.
This time they didn't leave her on the floor. The other man hauled her upright, hard hands digging into her arms. "That's what they all say," he muttered. "You Americans come here to buy drugs because you think we're fools. You'll discover we don't take kindly to drug smugglers."
"Drugs?" Francey shrieked. "I haven't—"
"Bring her along, Sandoval," the first man ordered. "If she gives you any trouble, silence her."
"I want to speak to a lawyer," she protested as he began dragging her from the bar. "I want to speak to the American ambassador."
"The nearest consulate is in Valencia. Word will get to them eventually. As for a lawyer, one will be appointed for you. Unfortunately most of our lawyers do not speak English."
"This is ridiculous!" Francey cried as she was shoved out into the blinding white sunlight. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"That will be for the courts to decide. Until that time, you will be a guest of the local government."
"For how long?"
Sandoval opened the back door of the patrol car and shoved her inside. "Spanish justice moves slowly, but it moves very surely. If I were you, I wouldn't expect to be going anywhere for a long, long time. " He threw her purse in after her, slamming the door.
She yanked at the door handle, but it was securely locked. The car started with a jerk, tearing off into the late-afternoon sunlight, and Francey swiveled around, looking at the bar behind her. Someone was standing out front, someone she hadn't noticed before. A short man, well dressed, his face obscured by dark glasses. Suddenly she remembered the man on the beach on Baby Jerome, the man who'd arrived with Daniel and disappeared with Michael. She was certain it was the same man, and then he disappeared from sight as the police car screeched around a narrow corner.
Francey sat back, trembling. "Calm down," she whispered to herself. "This is all a dreadful mistake. Things will be cleared up in no time." Then she looked down at the ransacked purse in her lap and wasn't so certain.
She pawed through it, looking for some clue as to who would do such a thing to her. Everything was still intact, her wallet, her passport, her aspirin and her makeup. Funny that they hadn't checked the pill bottle to see if she were smuggling contraband that way. She opened her wallet, looking in the secret compartment for the picture of Michael, wanting to touch it for strength, for anger, for some sort of courage.
It was gone.
The enormity of it hit her then. The drugs in her purse weren't some hideous mistake. The man standing outside the bar wasn't an idle tourist. And chances were Daniel Travers was on the other side of the world, and the obscure messages she'd been receiving at her hotels were nothing more than a wild-goose chase, meant to bring her to this current crisis.
She'd heard about foreign prisons and the Spanish attitudes toward drags. And she had no doubt at all that she was going to be out of reach for a long time.
She sat back, numb with the horror of it. The men in the front seat were solid, implacable. Not the sort to listen to convoluted tales, particularly when she didn't even know what she was talking about. Was this the work of the Cadre? Was Michael part and parcel of them? If so, why had he saved her life? Why had Daniel seemed to know him?
But Daniel also knew the man who'd set her up. Maybe Daniel was nearer than she thought, part of this scheme. Maybe Michael, or whatever his real name was, was part of it, too.
She shivered in the stifling heat, forcing herself to be calm. She needed to be very reasonable, very patient. They couldn't just take an American citizen and lock her away with no lawyer, no trial, no hope of a quick release.
Could they?
It took him three days to track down Daniel Travers, two days longer than normal, because Travers obviously didn't want to be found. The True Blue was anchored near Athens, its radio communications conveniently out of commission as it rode the Aegean under the bright sun.
He posed as a United States customs agent, using his best, flattest American accent to get a ride out on an official boat and then talk his way aboard. He left his real counterpart to argue with Travers's captain, while he went in search of the reclusive millionaire himself.
He found him a darkened room, watching an old Michael Caine movie on a big screen TV. He entered the room silently, sneaking up behind the old man and putting the barrel of his Beretta to his temple before Travers even knew he was there.
"Where is she, old man?" he asked softly.
Travers froze, and in the darkened, air-conditioned room sweat broke out on his wrinkled skin. "Who are you?" he gasped. "Who are you talking about?"
Michael decided, quite sensibly, that if he scared the old man into a heart attack he wasn't going to find out anything. Lowering the gun, he moved into the man's line of vision. "Where is she?" he said again. "Don't ask who I'm talking about—you know perfectly well. And don't make me ask again. I'm not in a good mood."
Travers's shoulders relaxed marginally as he recognized the intruder. "Michael," he said. "Or is it Charlie?"
"Take your pick. It can also be Nigel, James, Erik, Lester or Arvin. Anything but Cougar."
"I can't imagine you as an Arvin."
"Old man…" His voice held a wealth of warning.
Travers leaned over and flicked off the big screen television, plunging the room into momentary darkness. Michael remained alert, ready to kill the man if he made a wrong move. A moment later he flicked a switch, flooding the paneled room with light. "I don't know where she is," he said wearily. "I only wish I did."
"Is she with the Cadre?"
"Good God, no! Why would you think such a thing?" Travers was aghast.
"She turned over a large sum of her money to a cover organization. Maybe she wasn't the innocent victim she pretended to be," he said evenly.
"You spent more than a week with her," Travers said. "How can you believe that?"
"Old man, I can believe anything of anybody. If she's not with the Cadre, where the hell is she? Don't try to fob me off. You'd be rotten at intelligence work—you can't even begin to fool me."
"I'm telling you the truth, Michael. I don't know. He wouldn't tell me."
Michael lowered his gun carefully, still ready to use it at a second's notice. "Cardiff," he said flatly.
Travers nodded mi
serably. "She was asking a lot of questions, Michael. She went looking for you at Willingborough, and then at the hospital you'd mentioned. She even had a photograph of you."
"Impossible. There hasn't been a picture taken of me since I was in the army."
"She's got one, apparently. Or she had one. I gather they got it away from her."
"Who are 'they,' Travers?" His voice was alarmingly gentle, and Travers blanched.
"I've tried to get Cardiff to tell me. He just said he's put her someplace where she can't cause any trouble. As soon as things are settled with the Cadre, he'll see that she's released. He promised me."
"I see." Michael dropped down on one of the leather-covered banquettes, his gun held loosely in his hand. "And where is Cardiff right now, Daniel?"
The old man was no fool. He kept an uneasy eye on Michael's hands. "I believe he's in Gibraltar."
"Then we're just going to have to go see him, aren't we? If he won't answer your questions, I'm willing to bet he'll answer mine. How fast does this tub go?"
"She's surprisingly speedy, as a matter of fact."
Michael smiled thinly. "Fortunate for you. We'll get under way in two hours."
"But, Michael…"
"You don't know Cardiff the way I do," he said. "He's not a man who's overly troubled with the niceties of decent behavior. Francey's been at his mercy for far too long already. I'm not willing to wait a moment longer than we have to."
For a moment Travers didn't move. And then he nodded, his face gray. "I was hoping it was simple paranoia on my part," he said heavily, reaching for the phone. "I'll tell the captain to make it one hour."
One thing about the Spanish, Ross Cardiff thought with the usual disdain he felt for all foreigners, at least they knew when to eat. He could get a respectable meal at ten o'clock at night in Gibraltar, even if he couldn't bring his personal chef with him. It had been a long day, a long week, a devilishly long year, and it was all coming to fruition. If he could just hold all the pieces together long enough, he was going to emerge triumphant.
He didn't mind the juggling of people's lives. In fact, he preferred it. He liked the sense of omnipotence, knowing he could maneuver things to his satisfaction with just a simple order. He also liked the sense of danger, the knowledge that everything could all come crashing down with just the wrong move. Otherwise life would get deadly boring.
He'd even managed to find a decent Spanish winery, though he usually despised anything but French wine. He settled himself into the carved chair, placed the damask napkin over his lap and reached for the Waterford crystal his aide had packed for him.
He dropped the glass. The red wine spilled out over the white linen tablecloth, like a pool of blood. The lead crystal shattered, and the candlelight glittered on the shards like diamonds.
"There must have been a flaw in the glass," the man sometimes known as Michael Dowd said. He sat down in the chair opposite Cardiff. "Interesting, isn't it, how a piece of such beauty, such strength, can dissolve if you simply find the hidden weakness? But then, you know a great deal about hidden weaknesses, don't you, Ross? They're your stock in trade."
"What the hell are you doing here?" Cardiff managed to demand, controlling the urge to look back over his shoulder to see if another, even more dangerous, nemesis was lurking behind his back. "You're supposed to be chasing down wild geese in Malta. Or have you finally come to your senses and realized there's nothing going on there? If the Cadre are active in this part of the world it will be here, on Gib."
Michael smiled faintly, and Ross could feel his ulcer kick in. He didn't need to look behind him. There was no danger worse than the man confronting him. It was part of the man's charm.
"You're wrong, Ross. But then, you've been wrong before, haven't you? Isn't that why you were passed over last year when you were so bloody certain you were going to get that undeserved promotion? I was rooting for you, Ross. I wanted you gone, out of my hair, immured in the hallowed halls of bureaucracy so that I never had to see you again in whatever time I have left to me. But it didn't work out that way, did it?"
"I don't like your tone," Ross said stiffly.
"Too bad," Michael said. "I left things hanging in Malta when I couldn't afford to leave."
Ross's panic left him. "You've found something?" he demanded, leaning forward over the stained tablecloth. "You mean you were right after all?"
"I want the girl, Ross. I want her right now, safe and sound. I'll pass her on to her cousin, and then I'll get back to work. But not a moment before."
Ross didn't bother to lie. "You can't just walk out in the middle of an operation, especially if something is happening. This is too important."
"I can do what I damned well please. Up to and including inflicting a great deal of damage on you, Ross, my boy. No one knows I'm here but Travers, and he's not too fond of you right now, either. No one will believe I came over here just to beat the bloody hell out of you. Now, where is she?"
Ross licked his lips. "In Mariz."
"Where's Mariz?"
"It's a small town on the Costa Blanca. She's entirely safe, Michael. The Cadre can't find her. Just let her be for the time being and get on with—"
"Where in Mariz? And how did she get there in the first place?" He was implacable.
Cardiff shrugged, dreading the inevitable. ' "These things are easy enough to manage. A paper trail leading to Travers. She thought her cousin would have the answers."
"And instead she found you."
"Not exactly."
Michael smiled, and a small frisson of panic scampered down Ross's spine. "Why don't you tell me exactly?" he suggested.
"I had her arrested. I paid someone to plant drugs in her purse, inform the locals and let them do the rest."
"She's in a Spanish prison? For drugs?" His voice was cool and emotionless, and Ross wondered absently whether Michael was going to kill him.
"Yes." His voice came out nervous and high-pitched, but Michael didn't notice.
"For how long?"
"Two weeks."
"Get up."
Panic bubbled over. "Don't kill me, Michael."
"I wouldn't waste my energy. You're going for a boat ride, Ross."
"Michael…"
"Daniel Travers is waiting for us on his yacht. We'll sail up the coast to Mariz, and you will wade in with your full diplomatic regalia and get her out. Immediately."
"I can't. These things take time, Michael. You know how these foreigners work. Everything at its own pace…"
Michael leaned across the table and hauled him out of the chair, and it was all Ross could do to keep from babbling in sheer panic.
"Immediately, Ross. If you don't want to end up feeding the fish."
"I'll do my best. But it's going to have to be tomorrow. We won't even make Mariz until midday, and then everyone will be having their blasted siesta, and—"
"And you'll wake them up," Michael said with deceptive softness.
Ross looked up into the bleak darkness of his eyes. "And I'll wake them up," he said, trying to pull together some of his dignity. "Honestly, Michael, I had no idea you were so fixated on the girl. I expected you to be more professional about the entire thing. You know we have to make unpleasant choices for the good of the nation. She must have been some lay."
For a moment neither of them moved, and Ross knew with complete certainty that he was closer to death then than he had ever been in his life.
"We're going to Mariz," Michael said, his eyes narrow pinpoints of rage. "We are getting Francey released from prison, and then, if you're very lucky, I won't feed you to the bloody sharks. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut unless you've got something useful to say."
"Might I remind you that I'm your superior officer and I…" His voice trailed off as he got a good look at Michael's expression. "And I have nothing more to say," he finished lamely.
"Good," Michael murmured, suddenly affable. "Then I won't have to cut out your tongue."
I
t was dark and cold in the cell, but Francey had grown used to it. Used to almost anything. The company of rats. The taunts of the other prisoners. The touches of the guards' filthy hands pawing her, mostly for the amusement of their fellow workers. She'd been able to bear it without screaming, knowing the touches weren't going to go further.
But now she was no longer so certain. There was a new guard, one who didn't speak much, who'd already garnered a certain reputation. One who didn't seem to possess mercy, or sympathy, or even reason.
In the countless days since she'd been thrown into jail Francey had carefully hoarded bits of comfort. Whoever was behind her incarceration hadn't abandoned her completely. She knew the guards were being paid, knew that the intimidation and harassment would go so far and no farther. She was alone in the cell, while there were three and four prisoners in those nearby.
It was small comfort. The food, what there was of it, was inedible. The showers were cold and infrequent, and they made her beg for them. Keeping clean was the only thing that kept her calm. If they'd taken away the showers, the change of laundry, she would have collapsed.
Tonight, though, most of her hope had faded. The new guard, Juan, wasn't being paid off as the others were. Or maybe her mysterious benefactor-imprisoner had simply shut off funds. Juan's touches were brutal, direct and quite clear. Sooner or later she wasn't going to be able to keep away from him.
It had happened once already. She'd hidden in her cell, holding her ears, keeping her eyes tightly shut, while one of the female prisoners had been raped, with the other inmates cheering the action. The thought that sooner or later it would be her turn was the worst terror of her life.
She leaned against the hard wall for a moment, ignoring the danger of bugs. And then she hunched forward, huddling in on herself. Looking for Michael Dowd had gotten her into this mess, one she seemed incapable of extricating herself from. She needed rescuing, and there was only one man, unlikely as it seemed, who could do it.
"Save me, Michael," she whispered to the damp, cold cell. "For God's sake, get me out of here."
