Without a Trace (23 page)

“To profit, then,” Trace said as he lifted his glass. “Because money gives the most comfort.”

“I find you an interesting man, Cabot.” Kendesa sipped his wine. Over the past few days he had employed the best equipment at his disposal in his search through Cabot’s background. What he had found had pleased him a great deal. Such a man, and his connections, would be very useful during a period of transition.

“You’ve reached a level of power and wealth most men only wish for, yet you crave still more.”

“I shall have still more,” Trace countered.

“I believe so. You will understand that before doing business I used my resources to look into your current situation, as well as your background.”

Trace merely sipped again. “Standard procedure.”

“Indeed. What fascinates me, Cabot, is that you’ve reached this level of power while remaining almost unknown.”

“I prefer subtlety to celebrity.”

“Wise. There are some, even in our own organization, who criticize the general for maintaining such a high profile. Power amassed quietly is something more useful.”

“The general is political. I am not.” Trace continued to drink, wondering what Kendesa was fishing for.

“All of us are political, even if the politics is money. You expressed interest in Horizon.”

“I did. And do.”

“I have considered discussing this further with you. You are interested in the profit from Horizon. I am interested in the power.”

“And the general?”

Kendesa lifted his glass again. He was nearly ready to play his cards. “Is interested in the revolution.”

Unless Kendesa was playing a part, Trace sensed a slight disenchantment, and more than a little ambition. “Perhaps, with a kind of partnership, we could gain all three.”

Kendesa studied Trace for a long, silent moment. “Perhaps.”

The knock on the door echoed dully. “Come.”

“The general is ready.”

With a nod, Kendesa set down his glass. “I will take you to him myself. The general speaks no French, I’m afraid, but is quite proud of his adeptness with English. You will oblige him?”

“Certainly.” Trace set his glass beside Kendesa’s and prepared for the next step.

*   *   *

Gillian felt she’d waited for days, though it was only a matter of hours. She tried, unsuccessfully, to pass the time with Trace’s books. Every time she started to read, she thought of him and worried.

So she paced. And when she tired of that, she sat and reminded herself of her conversation with Maddy. She would take Trace back to the States. In doing so, she would be able to give him what he’d promised her only a short time ago—a family.

For as long as she was able to hold off worry, Gillian concentrated on that. In a few days, a week at most, both she and Trace would have their families back.

And where would they go from there?

The Canary Islands? she thought, and nearly laughed out loud. She wondered what Trace would say when she told him that if he insisted on hiding from the world for the next fifty years or so she would be hiding right alongside him.

She wasn’t going to lose him now, not to Husad, not to the ISS or his own stubbornness. If he wanted life in a hammock, it would be a hammock for two.

Gillian had learned a lot about herself in the past few weeks. She could do what needed to be done. She could face what needed to be faced. More, she could change what needed to be changed to find the happiness that had always remained just out of her reach.

When the fear began to edge back, she wondered what she would do if Trace didn’t walk through the door
again. Her life wouldn’t be over. She knew you could lose what you loved and go on, but you could never go on in quite the same way. She knew there was no way to prepare herself for losing Trace. He’d opened doors in her, he’d caused the blossoming of love in her that had pushed her to open doors in him. She wouldn’t lose him. Gillian promised herself that.

And went back to watching the clock.

She ordered room service only because she wanted something to do. Then she asked herself how in the world she could eat anything. She’d nearly decided to cancel the order when the knock came.

Experience had taught her caution. Even knowing she was guarded, Gillian checked the peephole for the uniformed waiter. Satisfied, she opened the door and looked disinterestedly at the tray.

“Just set it over there,” she told him, gesturing because she wasn’t certain he spoke English. Still, a check was a check in any language. Gillian leaned over to sign it.

She felt the prick in her arm and jerked back. The drug worked quickly, and she was staggering even as she grabbed for the table knife. The world went gray and dissolved to black before she could even think Trace’s name.

General Husad liked beautiful things, too. He liked to look at them, touch them, wear them. Still, the austerity of his headquarters pleased him. A military establishment required a certain ambience. A soldier’s life could never be a soft one, or discipline was lost. He believed that, even when he dressed in silks and admired his wife’s emeralds.

He was a small, spare man in his prime, with a mesmerizing voice and a glint in his eyes some took for genius and others took for madness. The title of general was self-bestowed, and though he had indeed fought in wars, most of the medals he had pinned on his chest were self-awarded. By turns he treated his men like an indulgent father and a heartless dictator. They didn’t love him, but they feared him enough to follow his orders without question.

He was dressed in a gold cloak for his meeting with Cabot. It was tied at the neck to reveal the medal-bedecked uniform beneath and the twin handguns at his hips. He had a striking face, hawkish, with silvered hair combed straight back. He photographed very well and spoke like an evangelist. His mind was slipping into a dark, violent area that even his medication no longer controlled completely.

His office wasn’t sparsely furnished, as Kendesa’s had been. The desk was huge, of polished oak and dominated the room from its center. Sofas and chairs plump with pillows formed a circle around it. There were bookshelves and display cabinets. Trace studied them with what appeared to be a detached interest.

No windows, he thought, and only one door. Not likely.

There were a pair of épées crossed on the wall over an enormous aquarium in which colorful tropical fish glided in clear blue water.

“Monsieur Cabot.” Husad held out a hand with the warmth and sincerity of a car salesman one sale away
from his monthly quota. “Welcome.”

“General.” Trace accepted the hand and looked into the face of the man he’d sworn to kill. The eyes were black and full of odd lights. Madness. Could anyone stand this close to it and not smell it?

“I hope you didn’t find the journey too inconvenient.”

“Not at all.”

“If you would be pleased to sit.”

Trace took a chair and waited while the general stood with his hands folded behind his back. Kendesa stood silently at the door. For some moments, Husad paced, the sound of his highly polished boots absorbed by the carpet.

“The revolution needs both allies and arms,” he began. “We wage a holy battle for the people, a battle that requires us to destroy the unworthy and the unbeliever. In Europe and the Middle East we have often been successful in bringing destruction to those who oppose us.” He turned to Trace, head high, eyes blazing. “It is not enough. We have our duty, a sacred duty, to overthrow the oppressive governments of the world. Many will die in righteousness and sacrifice before we succeed. And we will succeed.”

Trace sat calmly, noting that, as reported, Husad had a stirring voice, a strong presence. But even though he went on in the same vein for ten minutes, he basically said nothing. Trace noted, as well, that once the speech was over Husad glanced toward Kendesa. For approval? Trace wondered. For guidance?

“Your mission, General, if you will pardon me, interests me only as it concerns my associates and myself. I am not a patriot or a soldier, but a man of business.” Trace folded his hands and continued. “You require arms, and I can supply them, for a price.”

“Your price is high,” the general said as he walked to his desk.

“My price includes the risk factor for securing, storing and delivering the merchandise. This same price can be quoted to others.”

Husad reached down and came up with the TS-35. Even as Trace tensed, he heard Kendesa make a quick, surprised movement behind him.

“I find this weapon of particular interest.”

The TS-35 was slim and amazingly lightweight. Even on a forced march, a soldier could carry it as easily as his food rations. The clips were slimmer than the average pack of cigarettes. Husad balanced its spearlike shape in his hands, then brought it up to sight it. In the middle of Trace’s forehead.

If it was loaded, and Trace was certain that it was, the projectile would obliterate him where he sat, then go on to kill Kendesa and anyone unlucky enough to be standing in its path for the next fifty yards.

“The Americans talk and talk of peace while they make such brilliant weapons.” Husad was speaking almost dreamily now. “We are considered madmen because we talk of war. Such a weapon was made for a man of war. And the war is holy; the war is righteous; the war is food and drink.”

Trace felt the sweat roll cold down his back. To die here, now, would be foolish, pitiful. “With all respect, General Husad, the weapon isn’t yours until it’s paid for.”

The finger hovered on the trigger a moment, flexed, then retreated. With a charming smile, Husad lowered the gun. “Of course. We are warriors, but we are honest. We will take your shipment, Monsieur Cabot, and we ask, in the name of friendship, that you lower your price by half a million francs.”

Trace’s hands were damp as he reached for a cigarette. For survival’s sake he wanted to agree and be done with it and get on with what he had come to do. But the man Cabot would never have agreed so easily. Nor would Husad, or Kendesa, expect it.

“In the name of expediency, General, we will lower the price by a quarter of a million, payment on delivery.”

The weapon lay on Husad’s desk now, and he stroked it as he might have a small child, or a pet. Again Trace saw Husad’s gaze shift briefly to Kendesa, “The papers will be drawn up. You will be driven back to Sefrou. In three days you will make the delivery, personally.”

“It will be my pleasure.” Trace rose.

“I am told you have an interest in our guest.” Husad smiled. His teeth shone, and his eyes. “Personal interest?”

“Business is always personal to me, General.”

“Perhaps you would be interested in observing the doctor. Kendesa will arrange it.”

“Of course, General.” Kendesa opened the door. Trace saw him give both Husad and the weapon an uneasy look before they walked back into the corridor.

“The general amuses himself in odd ways,” Trace commented as they walked.

“Were you afraid, Monsieur Cabot?”

“I have, as you have not, observed the power of that weapon. You may choose to die for your cause, Kendesa. I do not. My associates might find it unpalatable to continue to do business with one so unstable.”

“The general is under some stress.”

Trace crushed out his cigarette on the stone floor and decided to take the risk. “I am said to be observant. Who is it that wields the hammer, Kendesa? Who is it that I am actually doing business with?”

Kendesa paused. As was his habit, he wore a Western suit, without frills or jewelry. The decision came easily, because he had considered it for some time. If Cabot didn’t continue to satisfy him, it would be a simple matter to arrange his disposal. “As is often the case, the one with the title is but a figurehead. The general’s mental condition has become frail over the past year. It has become my duty to assume more responsibility.” He waited to be certain Trace understood. “Does this change your position?”

Not the general, Trace thought, but Kendesa. Kendesa had ordered Charlie’s death, Fitzpatrick’s kidnapping. So he would deal with Kendesa rather than a half-mad puppet. “It satisfies me,” Trace replied.

“Excellent.” For the general’s usefulness was almost at an end. Once Fitzpatrick had completed his task, Kendesa would take full power. And how much sweeter it would be with the backing of Cabot’s organization, and the wealth that went with it.

Kendesa waved aside two armed guards. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a door.

No research-and-development lab could have been better equipped. The lighting was brilliant, every surface was spotless. Trace spotted two surveillance cameras before he turned his attention to Gillian’s brother.

It was the man from the snapshot, but he’d grown thinner, older. Strain had dug lines in his face and bruised
the skin around his eyes. He was clean-shaven, but his hair, darker and deeper than Gillian’s, was unkempt. His white lab coat hung loosely over jeans and a plain blue shirt.

Flynn pushed away from the microscope and stood. The hatred in his eyes brought Trace a wave of relief. He hadn’t given up or given in. He was hanging on, and not by a thread, but by his teeth. If the man had enough strength to hate, he had enough strength to escape.

“Dr. Fitzpatrick, your work goes well today?”

“I haven’t seen my daughter in two days.”

“We discussed incentives, Doctor.”

Flynn’s hand closed into a fist. He had withstood their torture. He was all but certain Kendesa had known he would withstand it. It was only the threat that they would take his Caitlin into that dark little room that kept him in the lab.

“I’m here.” His Irish brogue had barbs in it. “I’m working. I was promised that she wouldn’t be harmed and that I would see her daily if I cooperated.”

“I’m afraid the general feels you work too slowly. When there is progress, we will bring your daughter to you. In the meantime, I will introduce you to Monsieur Cabot. He is interested in your work.”

Flynn turned dark, hate-filled eyes on Trace. “Go to hell.”

Trace wanted to congratulate him, but he only nodded stiffly. “Your work here will put your name in the history books, Dr. Fitzpatrick.” Trace looked around, ostensibly interested in the lab, while he searched for another exit. “Fascinating. My organization feels the profit from your serum will be enormous.”