The Black Madonna (12 page)

His entire body clenched up so tight the tears were squeezed from his eyes. He opened his mouth but could not find the air to speak. Instead, the effort only crystallized the earlier sensations. How far he had come, yet how close he was to where he had begun. How trapped, and how liberated. How hopeful, and how very, very afraid. And how he had done nothing to deserve the woman who asked him to leave a message and the time that he called.

He shut the phone and waited for the emotions to ease off. He watched the sunlight and the world beyond the hospital's exit. When he felt he could draw a halfway steady breath, he dialed the number again.

He almost broke down again just saying the words, “Emma, it's me.”

T
HE SUN WAS A RED
globe over the Málaga harbor when the taxi sped Storm and Emma to the airport. Emma kept her gaze on a pair of container vessels and a tanker anchored a mile or so out, waiting for harbor tugs and their turns at berth. With the still air and the afternoon sun, the ships appeared to float in a molten vat. Emma needed Storm's company almost as much as she needed space. They had not spoken since they had left the auction. Even so, she had never felt closer to her friend.

Highway air, laden with diesel fumes and regret, pushed through the taxi's open window. Emma felt buffeted by all the arguments she had used to convince herself that her relationship with Harry had been fine the way it was. Love from six thousand miles away was safe. She could maintain her boundaries, focus on the next step up the Washington ladder. But now that the chance for real love was gone, Emma was flayed by old ghosts. In truth, she had kept Harry at arm's length because she had never come to terms with who she was. And now she probably never would. Sorrow threatened to shred her soul.

The taxi deposited them by the smaller of Málaga's two terminals. The airport seemed asleep. The palms between them and
the silent passenger terminal were motionless. The rank of taxis seemed frozen. A lone single-engine Cessna trundled toward an otherwise empty runway.

The original terminal was now reserved for private planes. The structure was a distinctly Mediterranean mix of Art Deco and municipal concrete. Emma and Storm had the main hall almost to themselves. They walked across the tiled floor to a café. An older woman in diamonds and mauve silk was the café's only other customer. Behind the service counter, a pair of attendants talked in the quiet manner of people who had exhausted every topic of real interest long ago. Emma and Storm chose seats partially isolated by potted plants. Emma pulled out her phone. Storm went to the counter and returned with coffees. She set one down on the table by Emma's purse, then settled into the next chair. “I don't know how you're keeping it together.”

“I'm not.” Emma sipped from the cup, tasted nothing. “I can't stop thinking about that mythical clock. You know what I'd give to have something that reversed time?”

“It's not supposed to turn back the hour. What's done is done.”

“Oh, so you're the expert now?”

Storm drank her coffee and did not respond.

Emma said, “Maybe it does both. They just haven't figured that part out yet.”

Storm gave that a second, then said, “I feel so guilty.”

“Why?”

“The whole way out here, I keep thinking about the sound of Raphael Danton's laugh.”

“I've spent years training in unarmed combat, use of restraints, you name it,” Emma replied. “You need some advice on how to tackle this guy, let me know.”

“Forget it. You haven't met Mr. Attitude.”

“But you made him laugh. Maybe beneath that icy exterior beats a heart of granite.” Emma set down her cup. “I need to check in.”

She keyed for her voice mail, then hesitated. She needed to get this done. But she couldn't move past the fact that there was no one who really mattered at the other end. No man hungering for the sound of her voice. Just the emptiness of never hearing Harry's voice again.

When she reached out, Storm's hand was there waiting for her. The one reassurance that meant anything at all.

Emma dialed the access code.

And her world fell apart.

T
O HIS CREDIT, TIP MACFARLAND
did not interrupt Emma's muddled report via cell phone. He had been Emma's first supervisor after she completed her training. He had stood with her through the worst of the previous year's tempest. He was with her now. “You're certain it was Bennett?”

“I couldn't get this one wrong, Tip.”

“It's a question I have to ask, on account of how this whole thing just keeps building by the minute.”

Emma felt like both laughing and shrieking. Not to mention tucking down one wing and doing a circuit of the Málaga airport. “Tell me.”

“Let me make sure I understand,” Tip continued. “The Israeli ambassador and the Polish priest were both off target. Your treasure guy survived the bomb blast. And now he's being spirited from Hebron by some new friends he made in the hospital. He's headed for Jordan. He doesn't have papers. He's looking for a free pass across the tightest border in the known universe.”

“That pretty much sums up things at my end.”

“I've got to tell you, there are days when I wonder if you're worth the trouble.”

Laughing should not have caused the tears to flow once
more, but it did. “Storm is trying to raise the ambassador to see if he can help.”

“Who is Harry Bennett running from?”

“He didn't say.”

“Okay. Let's set this aside for a second. I was with the director when you checked in. We haven't heard a peep from our buddies at the CIA. My guess is, they still don't have a clue about who Danton is working for.”

Emma could almost see the pieces of the puzzle swirl in front of her face, begging to be sorted into a coherent picture. But right now all she could think of was Harry's message. The silence, the breathing, the sound of what she thought was probably a sob. Followed by his second message. The hoarse voice, the tumbling broken words she had needed to listen to six times, then give the phone to Storm just to have another person confirm what Emma really had heard.

Emma realized Tip was still speaking and could only say, “Sorry, I'm not tracking.”

“Think about it. Unless the CIA's sniffer dogs are asleep, which I doubt, by now they know your whereabouts. So why aren't we receiving incoming fire about your traveling against orders?”

“They meant for me to rush over and be with her. That was their plan all along.” Emma glanced over to where Storm paced and argued into the phone. “They set us up.”

“Looks that way to me.”

“Why didn't they just request our help?”

“I just asked the director the very same thing. His response was, ‘Those guys at Langley define twisted.' Needless to say, our director's opinion doesn't need to go any further.”

“I don't see it. They went to all this trouble for a reason.”

“I agree. Your job is to find out why. MacFarland out.”

WHEN EMMA SHUT HER PHONE
, Storm related her conversation with the Israeli diplomat. The former ambassador had heard
her out and promised to get back to her as swiftly as possible. Storm's voice sounded as tight as Emma's gut. There was nothing they could do until either the ambassador or Harry called back. When Emma finished relating her conversation with Tip, Storm said, “So, the CIA is on our tail. I haven't seen anybody watching us.”

“You won't.”

“Have you?”

“I don't need to.”

“Are you sure they're there?”

“They'll have the local intel on alert, probably staffers on the consular payroll. They piggybacked onto your cell phone's transmission when we first talked about this trip and inserted software that bugs your phone and pinpoints your location.” When Storm started to pull the battery from her phone, Emma said, “It's too late for that. Most likely by now they've also wired you. They could have slipped into the hotel and tagged your clothes, shoes, belt, handbag, cases, the works. Then again, maybe they figure having me this close serves just as well.”

“They're using us.”

“That's my guess. Tip agrees.”

“I feel dirty.”

“It's what they do.” She pointed out the window. “Heads up. This could be your man.”

A silver teardrop fell from the sky. The jet landed so swiftly the eye kept moving forward and had to backtrack. Storm said, “What is
that
?”

“Very light jet, or VLJ. Looks to me like an Eclipse. Carbon fiber body. Williams engines. Fastest of its kind. The Ferrari of the skies.” Emma noticed the way Storm was watching her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“I'm a girl who likes her toys. So shoot me.” She watched the jet whine its way toward them. The door opened and the stairs slipped down. When the man appeared, all Emma could say was, “Whoa.”

Storm crossed her arms.

“This guy is rich? And single?”

Storm tightened her grip on her purse as Raphael Danton crossed the tarmac, climbed the stairs, and entered the terminal. Even the two ladies behind the counter stopped their conversation.

He wore a suede jacket the color of sand that probably cost more than Emma's entire wardrobe. A gold watch blinked on his tanned wrist. His eyes were more copper than brown. His jaw was straight from a movie by Cecil B. DeMille. Wavy hair to match his eyes. Long and strong body. Gorgeous tan.

Emma flushed. Ten seconds earlier she had been frantic with worry over Harry. Now she was a teenager wanting to put this guy's poster on her wall.

Storm's voice was flat as pounded tin. “This is Emma Webb.”

The man's eyes were not cold so much as disinterested. “She is your lover?”

Emma had to grin. She would not have believed it was possible to have somebody clear her head that fast. “I'm Storm's friend. Let me know if you need help defining that word.”

“How utterly delightful,” Danton replied. “Two bad attitudes for the price of one.”

Emma found herself taking the same grip on her purse as Storm. “You're talking to
me
about
attitude
?”

Storm, however, was obviously used to the guy's charm. “Emma needs to travel with us.”

“That is not happening.”

Storm moved so fast she actually backed the guy up a step. “Did you hear me ask a question? No, you did not.”

“Perhaps I should remind you that I am the employer and you are the employee. I can fire you—”

“Emma Webb is with Homeland Security. We need you to fly us to Israel.”

“Jordan,” Emma corrected.

Storm waved that aside as unimportant. “We need to leave now.”

Raphael Danton's laugh rang like a gunshot through the empty terminal. Storm was right. Even his laugh was good-looking.

“You are truly an astonishment,” he said.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“You tell me your friend is with Homeland. But this is Spain, and your friend's jurisdiction ended four thousand miles ago.” Danton slipped the Vuitton case from his shoulder and set it on the floor by his feet. “But please, do explain to me why I should not dismiss you.”

“There isn't time, Raphael. The former Israeli ambassador to the United States is trying to help us save a friend's life. I don't know what you're not telling us, and right now I don't care.” Storm picked up his valise and rammed it back into his arms. “My other best friend was blown up four days ago in Hebron. The CIA claims you and whoever you represent and the guy we're bidding against are the reasons. Now, either you go fire up that jet or I borrow Emma's gun and shoot you myself.”