Ice Storm (3 page)

The panic was fading, and she pushed her paranoia down. “I was going to do the same thing. I was told it was safe to hitchhike in
Europe
.”

“Not when you look like you do.”

It was a simple statement, not even a compliment, and there was no way she could respond. To her astonishment they were already at the door of her hostel, where a pool of yellow light surrounded the front door.

She held out her hand. “Thank you for helping me.”

He looked at her hand for a moment a smile quirking his mouth. She could see him better in the light—his hair was long, tied in the back with a leather loop, his face narrow and intelligent looking, his mouth the only anomaly. It was a rich, beautiful mouth in an otherwise austere face, particularly when he was smiling.

He took her hand and bowed low over it in an exaggerated gesture. “I live to serve. My name’s Killian, by the way.”

“Is that your first or last name?”

“Take your pick. I’m Thomas Henry Killian St. Claire, but I don’t care much for the other ones. And you are...?”

“Mary.”
He waited patiently, still holding her hand. “Mary Isobel Curwen’ she said finally, snatching it away.

“Well, Mary Isobel Curwen, it’s been an honor to have been of service. If you decide you want a ride to
France
just let me know.”

“I don’t think so. I’m fine on my own.”

“Of course you are. I’ll be at the ferry tomorrow morning—I’ve got a battered orange Citroën. If you want a ride, just show up. No strings attached. I’ve got a French girlfriend who’d cut my throat if I even looked at another woman. I’m just offering a ride to a fellow American.”

“I’m fine,” she said again.

“Suit yourself. I’m taking the ten o’clock ferry. In the meantime, stay out of dark alleyways, okay?
France
has even more of them.”

“I will.”

She half expected him to argue, but he simply walked away from her, down the deserted street, hands in his pockets, a man at ease with the world. She watched him go. The whole evening had taken on a surreal feeling, and the sooner she got in the shower and into bed, the sooner she’d get past it. By ten tomorrow he’d be on his way to
France
and she would have forgotten entirely about him. By ten o’clock she was sitting beside him in the disreputable orange Citroën, driving onto the ferry and wondering if she’d lost her mind.

She’d been a weakness; one Killian couldn’t afford to have. He’d only been passing through
Plymouth
, trying to find a good cover to get into
France
to complete his mission, and the noise in the alleyway was none of his business. He’d accepted long ago that he couldn’t save the world.

But something, probably simply the shitty luck that had currently plagued him, made him turn around and head back into the alleyway in time to stop some of the street rats from raping some stupid tourist.

He’d shot one, just because he’d wanted to. He could have gotten rid of them without the gun, but the sight of those pathetic, evil hoodlums annoyed him. They’d scattered, including the one he’d winged, and he was even more annoyed he hadn’t killed him. And then he focused his attention on the woman. He’d put on his best American student affability, reaching out a hand to pull her upright. She was slight, medium height, looking a bit shell-shocked. Just an idiot woman who’d wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. Pretty, too, if he’d been in the mood to consider such things. She had a mess of red hair, and he’d never particularly liked redheads. In the moonlight he could see she had unbelievably blue eyes—almost turquoise— and the kind of mouth that could distract most men. It didn’t distract him. Maybe playing Sir Galahad hadn’t been such a stupid idea, after all. She’d provide the perfect cover—no one would be on the lookout for a couple of American students bumming around
France
. He’d said all the right things, of course, and she’d taken him at face value. He couldn’t fault her for that; most people looked at him and failed to see the wolf that lurked beneath his calm exterior.
He wasn’t going to be able to take the easy route and sleep with her. The best way to get a woman to do what you wanted was to luck her, but Mary Isobel Curwen had nearly been raped. She wasn’t going to want any man putting moves on her for quite a while. If he needed to seal the deal later, before he’d finished his assignment, then he would, but it was always better if he kept things simple. Sex tended to make a woman possessive, or at the very least, curious. Curiosity was a liability in his line of work.
But a platonic, protective friend was another matter, and she fell for it. It was child’s play—just the right amount of a sexual charm and nonthreatening promise, and she was sitting next to him in the beater of a car that hid an engine that could outrun a Ferrari. She’d never know ‘hat hit her. The wind was up and the ferry crossing was rough, but his newfound cover had a cast-iron stomach, and she stood up on deck, the wind whipping her wild red hair around her pale face, her eyes bright. Lively. Another point in her favor—she wasn’t easily frightened, either by storms or gangs of rapacious teenagers. As long as she stayed docile she’d be just fine. She wasn’t quite the perfect partner. If he’d been able to custom-order one he would have picked someone a little plainer, with dark hair, someone a little less complicated, who would enter into a sexual relationship without a lot of baggage. He liked sex, but he never let it get in the way of an assignment, and someone like Mary Curwen would definitely demand more than a vigorous workout. She’d get involved, making things a great deal more dangerous, so she was off-limits. It would have been more convenient if she weren’t so smart. That was mistake number one—thinking a cooking student would be less of a threat than someone attending the Sorbonne. Just because she’d been foolish enough to wander out alone didn’t mean she couldn’t put two and two together. He’d have to be careful.
Thinking it would be easy to keep his hands off her was the second mistake. And he wasn’t sure which was worse. But Killian was a man who took what was handed to him and worked with it. Mary Isobel Curwen. American student, had fallen into his lap quite nicely, and he had every intention of taking full advantage of her. Two weeks until his rendezvous in Marseille. Two weeks to burn around
France
, setting up an innocent front for anyone who happened to be on the lookout for him, and there were doubtless any number of people who wanted to get to him before he could complete his assignment. He always worked alone—no one would ever expect him to have a woman in tow.
Two weeks to keep an unfortunately bright woman in the dark as to who and what he was, without even the benefit of sex to keep her distracted. It was going to be a long two weeks
But worth it in the end. He’d make his meeting. complete his assignment and then disappear, and she’d never know her charming American buddy had just as assassinated General Etienne Matanga, the best hope for peace in his small African nation.
She never could figure out why she’d woken up early that morning, shoved her clothes and books into her knapsack and made her way down to the ferry. The Citroën had been easy to find, and Killian had been leaning against the car, waiting for something. Waiting, it seemed, for her. He’d looked up when she approached, and simply opened the back door for her to throw her knapsack in

“I’ve got a thermos of coffee,” he’d said by way of greeting. “Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.”

She just looked at him. “I don’t like sugar.”

He shrugged. “Well, if we’re going to be traveling together we’ll have to compromise. There isn’t really that much sugar in it.”

“I thought you said ‘sweet as love.”

“I find love bittersweet, don’t you?”

She opened the thermos and poured some into the cap, taking a tentative sip. “I’m not sure I find love at all,” she replied. The coffee was good—hot and rich with just a trace of sweetness. “And who says we’re traveling together?”

“That’s up to you. I’ve got two weeks to kill before classes start. My girlfriend’s stuck in
Berlin
on a photo shoot, and I’m just going to drive around the south of
France
. You’ve got a few weeks to kill as well, and you’re welcome to join me, no strings attached. Maybe I’ll even give up sugar in my coffee if you’ll pitch in for gas.”
“Your girlfriend’s a photographer?”

He shook his head. “She’s a fashion model.”

That clinched it. No man with a fashion model girlfriend could have any ulterior motives in messing with red-haired Mary Curwen. He was absolutely right—she had three weeks until she could get into the cheap apartment waiting for her, and the fun of wandering on her own had permanently vanished last night in the alleyway.
“Lucky you,” she murmured.

He laughed. “Hey, what about lucky her?”

He was right about that. Now that Mary Isobel could see him in the light of day she realized he was good- looking. Maybe beyond that. He was well over six feet tall, with long legs clad in faded jeans. He had a narrow, clever face and green eyes. And he was taken.
“Lucky her.” she agreed with a smile. “You’ll make very pretty children.”

“If I can ever talk her into ruining her figure:’ he grumbled. “Got your passport? They’ll be checking them.”

“Of course.”

“Hand it to me. It’ll go faster if they know we’re traveling together.”

The nonchalant request bothered her. There was no reason for it, but it bothered her anyway, even as she put the dark navy passport in his outstretched hand. But he smiled at her, a warm, dazzling smile in the sunlit morning, and she knew she was being ridiculous. He was a fellow American. Looking for company and someone to share the gas expenses, and she had nothing else to do for the next few weeks.
So she smiled back at him. “Very practical.” she said, as he pocketed her passport. And she took another sip of the hot, dark coffee and ignored her misgivings. The worst mistake of her life.

3

Now
The Moroccan sun was blazingly bright, a shock to the system after the dark rain of a
London
winter. Isobel Lambert drove very fast over the rutted roads. She was blessed with an unerring sense of direction, something that had saved her life on numerous occasions, and she knew shed make her destination by nightfall. She ignored the fact that she didn’t want to; she wasn’t ready to face who and what was waiting for her in a tiny North African village at the edge of the desert. At least he wouldn’t have the faintest idea who Isobel Lambert was. She didn’t know how he’d survived that night, but since he clearly had, he’d know that she, too, should have died. He would have forgotten all about the gullible young woman he’d used and tried to kill, even though she’d turned the tables and shot him. And he’d never connect cool, pale Isobel Lambert with the wild child he’d spent two short weeks with a lifetime ago. And thank God that was who she was. An elegant, ageless automaton, with no desires, needs or emotions. Those had been scrubbed out of her over the long years, and after the initial shock of recognition, she could view her current mission with equanimity. Josef Serafin would be out of commission, and the world would be a marginally safer place.
The winter sun was blazing down on her open- topped vehicle. But the Jeep was the fastest, most rugged conveyance she could find, and if someone managed to track her, or Serafin, even an armored tank wouldn’t keep them safe. The tires were kicking up too much dust, but during the seven-hour drive from Agadir she’d seen only a handful of sheepherders and a few nomadic encampments. There was a good chance she was being tracked by satellite, but there wasn’t much help for it. Killian, Serafin…. was hidden in a deserted village near the Algerian border, and there was enough trouble in the neighboring areas that she had every confidence they’d manage to get away. But then, she never went into a mission without being convinced of its viability. She could get Josef Serafin out of
Morocco
, back to
London
, without someone blowing his head off, no matter how many people wanted to do just that. Including his unwilling savior. The sun was starting to set by the time she reached the outskirts of the deserted
village
of
Nazir
, and a shiver danced across her skin. It was getting colder, as it did in the desert, the blistering daytime heat turning to a bone-numbing chill.

It looked as if no one had lived in the town of
Nazir
for years, perhaps decades. The doors with their faded blue paint were shut, the dusty streets empty, and for a moment she wondered if she’d come to the wrong place. Had her Intel been faulty? Or was she walking into a trap? No trap—her instincts, on high alert, told her nothing worse than Killian would be waiting for her in the abandoned rubble. Though she wasn’t sure there
was
anything worse. She pulled the Jeep behind the ruins of an old mosque, climbing out and stretching. She was a tourist who’d gotten lost—if she ran into anyone asking uncomfortable questions she could fend him off quite easily. If she had any sense, she would have come in disguise. Someone younger, dizzier, so that her tale of getting lost on the road to
Mauritania
would seem plausible. But young and foolish was just a little too close to the woman Killian had known long ago. Even so, he would never recognize her. But she’d know. It would make her vulnerable. Leaving the Jeep, she moved aimlessly down the deserted street. She had a knife at her ankle, a handgun at the small of her back, and the ability to kill swiftly and silently with her bare hands. No one would touch her, no one would get the upper hand....