Ice Storm (5 page)

“I don’t wish to be inhospitable, but I have a meeting.”

“Don’t let me keep you. I’ll be fine here at the office, catching up on things. And don’t think for a moment you can kick me out. I’m your boss, as I always was. Just one step higher up. I have access to all the information in this office anytime I want it.
“Then what are you doing here? Why don’t you go back to your country house, have a brandy and ferret through our Intel at your leisure?”

Thomason’s smile was slow and annoying. “You don’t like me, Madsen. You never did, and I expect my ordering you to terminate Bastien Toussaint was the final straw. I didn’t realize you went both ways for pleasure as well as duty. I don’t imagine your wife or Bastien’s little hausfrau would be pleased to hear about that.”

Peter merely looked at him. ‘Do you seriously believe you’ll annoy me with something a puerile as that? You’ve lost your edge in your retirement.”

The pale pink in Thomason’s plump cheeks darkened. “Hardly retirement, dear boy. And your sexual activities are of no interest to me.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. I’ve given up fucking for the Committee, so I’m afraid I’d have to turn you down.”

That last was possibly a mistake. Thomason was a vindictive, petty man, and he wouldn’t like having his virility questioned, particularly since he was so well closeted he was practically immured. But he was an old hand at this game, a worthy opponent, and he barely blinked, his pouchy eyes darting like a lizard’s. “Let’s keep this civilized, shall we’? I know the veneer of breeding is particularly thin in your case, but I would hope it wouldn’t crack so easily. You aren’t so far removed from that bloody little brat who almost beat another child to death with his bare hands. Your talent for violence started early on, long before your pretensions to gentility. Just because your carelessness got you crippled and stuck in an office doesn’t mean your killer instinct is gone.”
“You should keep that in mind,” Peter said, unmoved by Thomason’s taunts. “In the meantime, whether or not you’re my superior, I’m not leaving this office unlocked. If you’re allowed access to our files, then you should be able to bring them up on your own computer.” Thomason had always been a notorious technophobe, but it was also unlike him to trust anyone enough to help him. The life expectancy for his secretaries and personal assistants had been appallingly short. Thomason made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snarl. “Then I take it you’re not interested in the mess Isobel has gotten herself into?” “In the years I’ve known Isobel I’ve never seen her unable to deal with what has to be done.” Peter wasn’t sure just how much Thomason knew about her current assignment, and he wasn’t about to offer any information.
“Josef Serafin isn’t only the most dangerous man in the world,” Thomason said, watching him. “He’s also someone from Isobel’s past.”

Peter didn’t blink. “Indeed. And you think she didn’t know that, going in?”
“Did she?”

“It’s always a mistake to underestimate your enemy, sir,” he said with exaggerated politeness.
“And you don’t think Isobel made that mistake with Serafin?”

“I think you’re making that mistake with her.”

“She’s hardly my enemy” he said loftily. “She’s my employee.”

“She’s your replacement,’ Peter corrected him bluntly. “And you’re not the sort of man who takes forced retirement in stride.”

“No. I’m not. But I don’t expect I’ll have to worry about it. Isobel is in over her head, and when she fails to complete her mission, there will be no one to turn to but me to fix the mess you’ve made.”

“In the meantime I have work to do,” Peter said, unmoved. “These are new offices since your tenure, but I’m sure you can find your way out.”

He rose, ever the polite recruit. He was a long ways from the hybrid street rat Thomason had brought in, and he knew manners better than those who were born to it. Harry Thomason’s jibes fell on deaf ears—if it were up to Peter he might have chosen his old life, not the bloody warfare thrust on him, along with the manners. But then he wouldn’t have run afoul of Genevieve Spenser, Esq., and despite everything he had done, she loved him. And sorry excuse that it was, I still made everything all right.
Peter waited until Thomason left, then sank back down in his chair again, rubbing his leg absently. Isobel was smarter and cooler than anyone in the business. If Josef Serafin was indeed someone from her past, she would most certainly have known, and she’d have her own good reasons for not telling him. There was no denying the fact that the job was getting to her. It got to everyone sooner or later, and no matter how adept she was at hiding things, he suspected she was paying a very high price for her cool efficiency.

But no, he didn’t need to worry—he had enough on his own plate tonight, far more pleasant tasks. Picking up one of Takashi’s cousins, Hiromasa Shinoda, at Heathrow, a new recruit for the Committee. And making a baby with Genevieve Spenser Madsen.
At least he could be certain of one incontrovertible fact. Isobel would be in control no matter what she faced. She was totally incapable of feeling weakness, or emotion.
She was made of ice, the way they all needed to be. Isobel Lambert wasn’t sure whether she wanted to throw up, burst into tears or laugh. Killian had been the epitome of her romantic dreams, tall and gorgeous. Despite her French husband’s inventive talents, despite the intervening years, she still thought of Killian as the one man who’d ever been able to move her. Now he was simply a paunchy, balding mercenary with bad teeth. And the memory of that night in Marseille, the blood on her soul, had been washed clean.

He was driving through the cold dark night, much too fast for the mountain roads. His mascot was curled up in the rear of the Jeep, sound asleep, still cradling the gun that was almost bigger than he was. She could reach back and get the weapon away from his grubby little hands, but then, she probably could have done that at any point. She just didn’t want to kill him.

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” the man beside her said. She noted again how his accent was different than Killian’s—an amalgam of continents and cultures, since he’d sold his services all over the world, killed in every time zone. It was no wonder there was no tracing his background.

“I think I could manage to disarm a six-year-old with no problem,” she said, turning to look at him. In the darkness the differences weren’t as noticeable—he still had that strong nose, the same wide mouth. His face was rounder, puffier than it had been, but in the dim light it was far too easy to remember another time, another car, another man and woman, both of whom were long gone. Killian and Mary were dead. Only their bloody ghosts remained.

“He’s twelve,” the man said in a flat tone. Roughened with age and probably cigarettes, his voice had the same timbre as Killian’s. She’d be happier when she could see him more clearly, but his state of decay was at least a partial comfort. “And you shouldn’t underestimate the power of a zealot. He has a task to accomplish before he meets Allah, and he’s not going to let anyone or anything get in the way of it.”

“And that task involves keeping you alive?”

“For the time being.”

She was tired. She was usually impervious to such things—she’d learned to ignore the lack of food, sleep and shelter, and it had only been thirty-six hours since she’d slept. The night was cold, and the Jeep was open, providing no protection from the elements or snipers. She needed to be on high alert, and yet she could feel her thoughts drifting.

 
“And what is his divine task?” Isobel mused herself. She really needed to be pumping him for more important information, in case she didn’t manage to get them out in one piece. With at least a partial debriefing the mission wouldn’t be a total failure.
But the immediate safety of the mission was affected by the lethal bundle of rags in the backseat, a wild card she hadn’t anticipated. The man beside her shot her a glance. She could still only think of him as Serafin—it was better that way.

“To kill me.”

The night had grown colder. “All right,” she said. “That can hardly come as a surprise—anyone who’s ever met you, even heard of you, probably wants to kill you. So why doesn’t he? And why are you indulging him? I can’t imagine you’d be squeamish about breaking the neck of a twelve-year-old who’s as small as he is.”

“Maybe I’ve gotten soft in my old age,” he said.

She kept herself from glancing pointedly at the bulk around his middle. “The child wants to kill you and you’re so sentimental you’re going to let him?”

“Hardly. He has very clear plans, which he was kind enough to confide to me. He wants to wait until he’s older, so that he can torture me slowly and I’ll die in exquisite agony.

He’s too small to accomplish that as yet.”

“Again, I understand and fully sympathize with his plans, and I’m sure most of the world would applaud him. The question is, why are you going along with this?”

 
“Otherwise he’ll kill me now, and I prefer to chance waiting a few years.”

“People have been trying to kill you for decades— my own organization tried twice. Even Bastien Toussaint failed, and he never missed. Why don’t you just terminate the child and get it over with?”

“All right,” Serafin said, putting his foot on the brake. “It shouldn’t slow us down too much.”
Isobel didn’t play poker; real life was too full of bluffing, lies and high stakes. She silently drew a breath as he pulled over to the side of the deserted road, leaving the engine running. “This won’t take long.” He pulled out a knife from inside his shirt.
The moonlight glittered off the steel blade. German steel, the best in the world, and for a moment memories sliced into her brain, just as a knife like that one had slashed into her face and body. The face she’d once had.

“I don’t think we have time for this,” she said in a perfectly steady voice. “The sooner we’re out of
Morocco
, the safer we’ll be.”

In the moonlight she could barely see his shadowed face, the ghost of his old smile. “Good point. We’re meeting my contact at an appointed time, and it wouldn’t serve to be late. Mahmoud can wait.” The sleeping child stirred at the sound of his name, or maybe he hadn’t been sleeping at all. It didn’t matter. Serafin pulled back onto the narrow mountain road, and Isobel closed her eyes for a brief moment. It was going to be a long night. And there was no way she could keep from doing what she most wanted to avoid. Remembering.

Then
It had been almost a week before Mary Isobel Curwen fell in love with a man who called himself Killian. She’d fought it, of course. After all, the man had a girlfriend, a French fashion model, no less, and even if Mary Isabel were the type to poach other women’s boyfriends, she was hardly going to prove any competition. For one thing, she had a crazy mane of curly red hair, the bane of her existence. Plus she was curved rather than wraith- thin. Her last boyfriend had told her she looked better naked than with clothes on, but that was the kind of thing a single-minded boyfriend would say.
A French fashionist would have nothing but contempt for an American free spirit in gypsy layers. And one thing Mary had known for certain: Killian was one of the good guys. He wouldn’t simply take what was available. He wouldn’t betray his girlfriend. He would provide the casual friendship and ride that he offered, and nothing more.
It wasn’t his fault she’d fallen in love with him somewhere between
Brittany
and the
Loire
. Maybe it was because he’d been so easy to talk to, his slow, deep voice sliding into her bones like liquid silk. Maybe it was because he was abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. She wasn’t used to beautiful men, and she hadn’t realized until seeing him in the bright light of day, halfway across the water on their way to France, just how good- looking he was. Gorgeous men made her nervous, but somehow Killian managed to dispel that. Despite his green eyes and his beautiful mouth, despite his tall, rangy body that moved with an unconscious grace, he still seemed easier to be around than ordinary men, and she did her best not to stare at him when he wasn’t looking. Why wouldn’t a French fashion model have an equally gorgeous lover? He treated Mary like a kid sister, and it made her feel safe, comfortable and deeply miserable. The one saving grace was that he had absolutely no idea how she felt. He was a good man, and he would never suspect that she was suffering the most ridiculously adolescent pangs of unrequited love she’d felt in her entire life. At least her dignity was safe. He figured he’d fuck her when they got to Marseille. She was more than ready—he’d played her like the expert he was, and by the time he got her on her back she’d be begging, miserably guilty and totally vulnerable. The way he needed her to be, if she was going to provide the cover he required.
She was almost too easy. He’d only stepped into that alleyway in
Plymouth
on a whim—in general he didn’t interfere with the local wildlife and their idea of sport, and whoever they’d set upon deserved what they got for being so fucking stupid.
It was a shame. If he’d been a different man, in a different world, he might have liked her. She was funny and smart, and had the most amazing freckles across her cheekbones and dusted above the rise of her very nice breasts. He was going to enjoy finding all the other places those freckles lurked when he got her on her back. Never let it be said he couldn’t appreciate the more pleasant aspects of his line of work.
She was totally besotted already. He knew that beneath her colorful layers and free spirit she was imagining a safe little life with babies and a man who came home every night. A man who looked like him. She had no idea what she was dealing with.
In the end, he was probably doing her a favor. A bit of a walk on the wild side, though if he carried it off perfectly she’d have no idea she was only a few steps removed from a world of death and violence, danger most normal people couldn’t even imagine. If he played his cards right she’d have a passionate fling with a man who would then, with a great show of reluctance, leave her to go back to his fictional French mistress. She’d go on to the Cordon Bleu in Paris, never realizing the assassination of General Matanga, head of the Coalition Armies trying to liberate a small country in West Africa, had been carried on right under her nose. And that Killian had washed his hands clean of the blood and then put them on her.