Ice Storm Page 4

  “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 ha
d 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.

  In a way it was a shame. Matanga was a decent enough man, the Coalition Armies were filled with citizens, not mercenaries, and ethnic cleansing was frowned upon. But Killian’s employers had other plans for that war-torn area of Africa, and Matanga was counter to it, so he had to die. And it was Killian’s job to do it. Plus tie it to a group of heroin smugglers in Marseille, destroying Matanga’s reputation as well as his life.

  Killian had everything planned, with a reasonable margin for error, because he was a man ready for the unexpected. Mary Isobel Curwen was unexpected, something he was using to excellent advantage. Word had gone out that he was coming into France, though no one knew what he looked like, what name he went by or what his current mission was. He was in so deep that he’d be hard to make, but with a hapless young woman beside him it would be almost impossible. They would have expected him to come from the south, but instead he’d crossed the Channel on a ferry, then driven his battered Citroen with the engine of a race car down the Loire Valley, the girl by his side, when everyone knew Killian only worked alone. They’d make Marseille in a few days, their last stop before heading north to Paris. Maybe he wouldn’t wait that long. He’d slept with his arms around her one night on the beach: the youth hostels with their cloistered dormitories, the ones that had provided such excellent cover, had been full so they’d camped. He’d been the perfect gentleman, the brotherly type, offering her warmth and a shoulder to rest on. And while he’d kept the greater part of his brain busy going over the details of his upcoming job, he’d allowed one small part to savor the smell of her skin at the nape of her neck. She used rose-scented soap, something delicate and sweetly, wildly erotic. No, maybe he shouldn’t wait for Marseille. The sooner he nailed her, the blinder she’d be, and she’d never notice when he disappeared into the night. She’d believe his easy answers. All he had to do was make her come, and she wouldn’t think at all. He was good at that. He glanced over at her. They’d left the outskirts of Montpellier several hours ago, and they were heading for the Camargue, the ridiculously Texas-like section of France, full of horses and cowboys and dry landscape. There was a youth hostel in the tiny town Les Armes, and they could spend another cloistered night. Or he could make his move now, and they could end up at some cozy little inn, in a cozy little bed, with him inside her. She was curled up in the seat beside him, her head against the window, staring out at the passing landscape. In fact, she’d been a good traveling companion. She had an open mind, a willingness to try anything, a sensual delight in the wonders of France. If she brought all that to bed with her it might be better if he left her alone. It could prove a distraction. No, that was bullshit. Nothing distracted him when he was on a job, not even the sweetest piece of tail in the world. And she wouldn’t be that good—her sexual experience was limited. They’d talked a lot, about anything and everything, and right now he knew almost as much about Mary Isobel Curwen as she did herself. Out of place in her father’s new family, at loose ends, she’d come to Europe to discover the world and discover herself, and during the two weeks they’d been together she hadn’t called or written anyone. His kind of woman—isolated, vulnerable. And she knew all about Killian, the graduate student from Indiana, with three sisters, a widowed mother, a small-town doctor for a father, a French girlfriend and a lifelong interest in botany. She knew nothing at all about the Killian who’d grown upon the streets of L.A., with a junkie for a mother and no father at all. No, sweet, innocent Mary Isobel wouldn’t know what a monster she was taking into her bed. With luck she’d never find out. They’d reached a village about twenty miles inland, and he pulled over next to a pay phone. “Shit,” he said.

  She turned to look at him with those blue eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “I forgot to call Marie-Claire.” It had been a twist of black humor on his part; his contact was a mercenary with the unlikely name of Clarence. “She sounded strange last time I talked with her.”

  “Strange?”

  He managed the perfect hint of a sigh. Too much would be out of character. “I think she might have found someone else.” he said glumly. “She spent the last three weeks on a photo shoot in Germany, and she was going to meet up with me in Marseille. But when I talked to her last night she said she couldn’t make it, and I got pissed off and hung up on her, which is not a smart thing to do with a Frenchwoman. They’re far better at being pissed off than I am.”<
br />
  “I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Mary Isobel anxious, bless her heart, worried about him, when the removal of the fictional Marie-Claire would clear the way for her.

  “Maybe,” he said, sliding out of the car and heading for the pay phone. Tonight. Two days before his rendezvous in Marseille. Two days to enjoy her and cement his cover. Before he turned her world upside down.

  Now

  Peter pulled the Saab into the underground parking garage at Heathrow, sliding it into the narrow space reserved for Spence-Pierce Financial Consultants, Ltd. He glanced over at his wife. Genevieve who looked flushed, slightly rumpled and very happy. She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back, against his will. It was good to see her happy again, at least for the time being. Maybe if he could keep her in bed twenty- four/seven she wouldn’t cry. Maybe if he could keep her in bed twenty-four/seven they’d be able to make a baby, and she wouldn’t greet each new month with silent tears. Trust him to fall in love with a woman with a wicked biological clock.

  At least for now she was in a good mood, and he, simple creature that he was, was so well fucked that nothing could depress him. Not even the thought of training one of Takashi O’Brien’s nerdy cousins. Peter wouldn’t have thought Taka could be related to nerds, given his Yakuza background and his admittedly dramatic presence. But Peter had read the dossier on Hiromasa Shinoda until his eyes began to glaze over. First in his class at Kansei University, experienced in software design and engineering, someone whose record was completely spotless. It didn’t augur well for the life of a Committee operative.