Now You See Him (15 page)

She flicked on the television, discovering it was still set on CNN. She'd been obsessive before she'd left, living and breathing the news. The healthiest thing she could do would be to turn to a game show.

She was reaching for the remote control when her hand stopped. Despite the newscaster's words, it didn't look like Northern Ireland on the television, it looked like Beirut. Bombed-out buildings, smoke rising, sirens wailing. None of the rolling green beauty she'd always associated with Ireland. But then, she used to believe in leprechauns, too.

Daniel hadn't been lying after all, even if he'd been a bit premature. The British secret service had managed to ferret out the headquarters of one of Ireland's most fanatical groups. The Cadre was destroyed, its leaders jailed, with only a few members escaping. The authorities expected to catch up with them in a matter of days.

The picture switched to a sunny, tropical island, and the voice-over continued with a rundown of the recent upsurge of terrorism around the world, including three men found dead on a deserted island near the resort island of St. Anne, and the deaths of a couple on an island off Malta.

Francey didn't move, but her mind switched away from the still-stuffy room and the endless drone of the television as the announcer moved on to gloomy financial news. Three men dead on Baby Jerome. Michael? Cecil?

Or whoever had been trying to kill her?

None of it made sense. No one had told her the truth, not since she'd first been unlucky enough to meet Patrick Dugan and his phony sister Caitlin. They had lied, the government had lied, Daniel had lied. Only Michael had told her the truth. Hadn't he?

She leaned back against the overstuffed sofa and shut her eyes. She could hear the noise from the street, the cars, the people, the endless sounds of the city. So different from the peace and quiet of St. Anne. She wanted to be back there. Away from the noise and bustle of New York, away from the news and the lies. She wanted to lie on the beach and listen to the sound of the surf. She wanted to be able to reach out and touch Michael. She wanted to finish what they'd started by the lagoon on Baby Jerome.

She wanted peace. But even more than that, she wanted Michael.

He slid down on his haunches, his back against the rough surface of the building, and lit a cigarette. He didn't smoke much nowadays—just often enough to remind himself he could control it. The smoke tasted harsh, acrid in his lungs. But it cleared away the stench of burning buildings, burning flesh.

Geoffrey hunkered down beside him, his dark, narrow face streaked with soot. "You okay, Cougar?"

The man who'd been known as Michael Dowd nodded, taking another drag on the cigarette. "Right as rain."

"Cardiff said it was too early for you to be out in the field."

Michael's reply was short and obscene. "You know Ross," he added. "Always playing mother."

"He told me about the men on the island."

"Did he, now? You two must have had quite a little chat. Has he started fancying you?"

Geoffrey grinned, scratching his grimy face. "He's saving himself for you, love."

"Sod off, Geoffrey."

"Did he tell you who you got?" he continued, imperturbable.

"Two middle-level operatives and a boy," Michael said flatly. He'd had dreams about the boy. Nightmares, during his most recent stay in hospital, filled with hopeless what-ifs.

"It was Connor Dugan. Brother to the boy-o you took out at the UN."

Michael was adept at hiding his reactions. This time there was no need; he'd worked with and trusted Geoffrey Parkhurst for more years than he cared to admit. "It wasn't."

"Word of honor. You just happened to take out one of the most vicious little killers this side of Beirut. You remember the bomb he set that killed thirty-seven school kids? And then he put out the statement that they should be happy to die for the cause of a free Ireland?"

"And the massacre at Heathrow last summer," Michael added as he felt a black cloud begin to lift. "He was there, I've seen the video tapes. I just didn't connect him with the boy on the island."

"So you've done the world a favor, pally."

Michael grinned sourly. "So who are you, my guardian angel? Come to cheer me when I'm feeling burned-out?"

"We all get burned-out at some point or another. Sometimes we come back, sometimes we don't. Looks to me like you're back, but I'm not sure if your heart's in it. And if it's not, that can be dangerous to all of us."

Michael reached for another cigarette. He seldom smoked more than two a day, but this had been a hell of a day. "The day you can't count on me, then I'll be gone. I don't do things halfway."

"That you don't, mate." Geoffrey looked over his shoulder at the burned out shell of the building. "You really think we got them all?"

"No."

Geoffrey swore. "Why not?"

"You've seen them. Which one do you think was giving the orders?"

"You've got a point. A bunch of dedicated fanatics, but none of them has the vision that some of their recent antics have required. And the ones we've got won't talk, that's for sure. So what's next?"

Michael leaned his head against the building and shut his eyes. He hated the smells, the noise, the stench of death and despair. And yet he'd stepped back into it so easily, breathing in that stench, moving with lethal accuracy. That should have told him, better than anything, that he couldn't turn his back on his way of life. Only death would free him. There was no room for a woman like Francey Neeley in his life. No room at all.

"What's next?" he echoed, staring at his smoke out of half-closed eyes. "Malta?"

"Malta?" Geoffrey said. "I thought they were traced to Gibraltar."

"That's what Ross tells me, but I was never known for being gullible. According to Ross, his operatives have told him the Cadre's planning something in the area of Gibraltar. But I've picked up a hint or two from my own sources, and my money's on Malta."

Geoffrey nodded. "Will he let you go?"

Michael grinned savagely. "Can he stop me?"

His old friend nodded. "I'd like to see his reaction when he finds out you've gone."

"No, you wouldn't. He can be quite nasty when he's in the mood. Watch yourself around him. Get yourself transferred as fast as you can."

Geoffrey laughed. "You're turning into an old maid, Cougar. I've got enough to worry about, with the Cadre's leader still loose. I can't waste time worrying about my boss's temper."

"Your funeral," Michael said absently. And then his gaze focused, sharpened, on Geoffrey's narrow face. "And it just might be," he added.

"I'm invincible," Geoffrey said. "I've been in the business as long as you have, and I still get a kick out of it. Nothing's ever going to get to me."

"There's a difference between Malta and Gibraltar, you realize," Ross Cardiff said, his face screwed up as if he were tasting something nasty.

That was one of the things Michael disliked most about Ross. His sour expression, his whine, and the fact that he never swore. Anyone else might say there was a hell of a difference between the two islands, but not Ross.

"I'm aware of my geography," Michael said blandly. Ever since Ross Cardiff had been put in charge he'd had little recourse against the man's pettiness. His only act of aggression was to never let Ross know just how much he despised the man. For his pettiness, his narrow-mindedness, his bloody stupidity that had cost people their lives.

"Yes, I forgot," Ross murmured. "You went to Willingborough. They teach young gentlemen such things, don't they?"

Michael allowed himself a small, savage smile. He'd gone to the prestigious school on scholarship, a working-class boy who'd had to use his fists to even survive the first year. But Ross persisted in thinking of him as part of the affluent upper classes, and Michael allowed him to do so. Knowing that it drove Ross crazy was one of the small indulgences he allowed himself.

"They do," he said. "I still think Gibraltar's a blind."

"And you think I'm fool enough to fall for it? It doesn't say much for your confidence in my ability to lead."

Michael wisely said nothing. He'd never known anyone possessing fewer leadership abilities than Ross Cardiff, who'd achieved his current status through brownnosing and the general bloody-mindedness of the bureaucracy, and now he and people like Geoffrey Parkhurst paid the price for it.

Instead he shrugged. It had been six days since he'd left Geoffrey in Northern Ireland, six days in London to consider his current theory. He wasn't about to apprise Ross of the details. He didn't trust the man's discretion any more than he trusted his intelligence. "It's just a hunch, Ross," he said, trying to sound ameliorating. "You don't need me in Gib, and you know it. You've got enough people there already, people who know the layout, know the drill. Let me see what I can come up with in Malta."

"And if I refuse?"

Michael kept a rein on his temper. "What possible reason would you have for refusing? I'm at loose ends right now. I wasn't due back for another month. Let me have that time to see what I can stir up. Or tell me why not."

Ross's small-featured face was a picture of frustration, and Michael wondered for a moment if the man was hiding something. He'd never been good at keeping things secret, a serious drawback in intelligence work. Michael never trusted anyone or anything completely, even his own instincts, but for the moment he put his doubts on hold. He had no reason to doubt Ross, it was just that something didn't quite fit together, and that was probably attributable to his general incompetency.

"Go, then," Ross said, literally throwing up his small, well-manicured hands. "You're right—we don't need you. You're not indispensable, you know, Mr. James Bond-complex. You're an agent, no better, no more important, than a raft of other agents. It would do you well to remember that."

"I'll remember," he said, his voice expressionless, and he had the pleasure of seeing Ross clench his small white teeth.

"Be in touch," he snapped, his voice his characteristic whine. "When you come up empty, you can take your next assignment."

His interview was over. Michael got to his feet, careful not to appear too fit. In fact, he was almost back to full strength; the last bout of surgery had been just a minor inconvenience. But he wasn't ready for Ross to know that.
"I'll do that," he said. "Everything all right with the Neeley woman?" He kept his voice diffident. He didn't particularly expect to fool Ross; what the man lacked in political savvy he more than made up for in acuity when it came to people's real interests, real needs.

"Just fine." Ross, too, could be bland. "When will you be taking off?"

"I've got tickets for today."

"And what if I'd said no?"

Michael only smiled.

"Too bad, though," Ross murmured as Michael limped to the door. "You'll miss the funeral."

Michael glanced back at him, his hand on the polished brass doorknob. "Anyone I know?"

Ross smiled, a small, smug little grin, tinged with the appropriate regret. "Didn't I mention it? I believe you knew him as Geoffrey Parkhurst. Not his real name, of course. He ran afoul of one of the Cadre's mines. A shame."

"Yes," said Michael dully, wishing he could smash Ross's tiny teeth down his throat. "A real shame."

It was astonishing to Francey how little had changed during the time she was gone. Within a day her apartment, including her poor neglected refrigerator, was back to normal. The cockroaches and silverfish stopped their midnight scuttling as the battle waned back into the occasional skirmish; the neighborhood, always oblivious to her presence, was equally oblivious to her absence and return.

Even work hadn't changed. She'd considered calling in, saying she was never coming back. After all, that was where Patrick and Caitlin Dugan had come into her life.

Robin Hood Associates had been created by Francey and several of her friends from Sarah Lawrence to take from the rich and give to the poor, the needy, the deserving. Francey had the undeniable ability to cajole large amounts of money out of very wealthy corporations and individuals for the benefit of worthy causes, and she'd put that skill to good use for people who deserved it. And then for the Cadre. She had nothing else to keep her busy, and a penance to pay. Money diverted into Patrick Dugan's bloody coffers could have gone somewhere else, and she'd been part and parcel of that highly successful fund-raising. She needed to atone.

She'd thought A Peace of Green had sounded like such a noble organization, dedicated to bringing sanity and calm back to the strife-torn world of Northern Ireland. It hadn't been her job to check the bona fides. The very expensive investigative firm Robin Hood Associates hired was supposed to do that, and A Peace of Green had passed with flying colors. Patrick and Caitlin had covered their tracks well.

That was one more thing that had galled her while she lay in the sun on St. Anne. The fact that she'd raised all that money for a sham organization, money that had gone for guns and terrorism instead of peace initiatives. She knew perfectly well that she'd been suspected of collaborating with the Cadre. After all, she was very good at her job, and the money she'd raised had been considerable. She was also half-Irish herself, even though she didn't even remember the Byronic poet her mother had quickly married and just as quickly divorced. He'd drowned when she was three years old, and she'd never even seen a photograph of him. She'd tried to explain that to the investigators, but it had taken her cousin Daniel to convince them. At least, she'd hoped he had.

But there were still organizations in need, people who didn't know how to coax grants and donations from the various fat cats. And at least it was something she could do, something that kept her mind off herself. And her apartment had never felt so empty.

The tempo of the city began to take its toll» She threw herself into fund-raising—an auction for the AIDS Connection, a costume ball for the homeless. She hadn't been too thrilled with that particular idea. The thought of overdressed socialites swilling champagne to benefit the brutally poor bordered on the hypocritical, but she was overruled.