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 up on 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.”
“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.
But he trusted Taka as much as he trusted anyone, and if Taka thought one of his cousins would make a good recruit, then Peter would give him the benefit of the doubt. At least it wasn’t his maniac punk cousin, Reno.
Genevieve threaded her hand through his as they headed for international arrivals. He could have arranged for a private meeting, but there was no reason to go to so much trouble. There was nothing to point suspicion at young Hiromasa Shinoda, just another studious Japanese salaryman arriving in London for a little international polish. Except that it would be in the world of death and danger, not banking and commerce.
“What are we supposed to do with Taka’s cousin?” Genny said. “We don’t have to bring him home with us, do we?”
“I have an apartment already set up at the office in Kensington. Taka says he’s quite the student—I’ll give him enough research to keep him out of our hair for at least two weeks.”
She reached up and kissed the edge of Peter’s jaw. “That would be very nice. Once I’m…once things are a little more settled, I wouldn’t mind having him come out to stay for a bit. Just not right now.”
“Not right now,” Peter agreed, some of his sunny mood vanishing. By a little more settled she meant once she was pregnant. And while he would kill for her, change the world for her, no matter what he did he couldn’t in fact guarantee she’d get pregnant. Though he certainly was putting a great amount of effort into the task.
The international arrivals lounge was jammed, the flights from the Far East arriving in droves. Hiromasa was apparently tall, like Taka—that was one way to identify him. Taka had said they’d know him when they saw him, but Peter stared at all the various Asian men and drew a total blank.
“What’s he supposed to do, wear a rose in his teeth?” Genevieve whispered to him.
“I think I see him,” Peter replied, zeroing in on a tall, slender man in an immaculate dark suit, looking around as if expecting someone. Isobel would approve; members of the Committee tended to be extremely well dressed. They didn’t usually bother with the rank and file, but were more likely to interact with the movers and shakers of the dark world they lived in. The young man would fit in perfectly.
Peter headed for him, still holding Genny’s hand. “Hiromasa Shinoda?” he said.
The young man blinked. “Sorry, my name is Weng Shui Lau.”
Peter felt Genevieve’s elbow in his ribs. “That’s not him.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said politely, before turning to look at her. “I figured out that much, but why…” His voice trailed off. Someone was standing directly behind Genevieve, taller than her impressive height, and Peter’s good mood vanished entirely.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered.
Hiromasa Shinoda smirked, tossing his long red hair back from his tattooed face. “I’m glad to see you, too.”
“Reno.”
“In the flesh. That man wasn’t even Japanese, he was Chinese. Believe me, we don’t all look alike.”
Peter ignored the jibe. “Taka sent you?”
A faintly disgruntled expression crossed Reno’s face, and he dropped his sunglasses down onto his elegant nose, hiding the brilliant, fake green eyes and tattooed blood drops on his high cheekbones. “I was informed it would be a wise idea for me to leave Japan for a time, and Taka thought I should do some good for a change.” He glanced around him with casual disdain.
“It would be a novelty,” Peter said.
Genevieve smacked him in the arm. “Stop it, Peter. He helped save your life in Japan last yea
r, and you know it. He just likes to pretend he’s scary.”
Reno growled, offended. “I am not interested in your idiot organization or your delusions of sainthood. I promised Taka I would come, and I will stay here and do what you want until it’s safe for me to go home.”
“And how long will that be?”
“It depends on how angry the police are, how unforgiving my grandfather is and how interested Taka is in letting me come home.”
“What terrible thing did you do?” Genny asked, sounding fascinated.
“None of your business.”
“Watch it,” Peter warned him. “You don’t want to mess with Genevieve—she can turn you into hamburger if you annoy her.”
She laughed. “Nobody can keep secrets from me,” she declared, and Peter remembered with depressing speed that his wife had always had a soft spot for Taka’s punk cousin. She’d even tried a little bit of matchmaking between Reno and Taka’s future seventeen-year-old sister-in-law, the Amazonian Jilly Lovitz, until Taka abruptly dragged him back to Japan.
And now he was here again, and likely to stay for a while, and it was up to Peter to ride herd on him. First Thomason, and now Reno. If it weren’t for Genevieve he’d count the day a total disaster.
“You’re coming home with us, aren’t you?” she continued, ignoring Peter’s horrified expression. “You know you’re always welcome, and you can ride into London with Peter each morning. He’s arranged for an apartment in Kensington, but I know you’d rather be with us.”
Reno was looking just as aghast. “I like cities.”
“But you really should—” Genevieve began to protest, until Peter interrupted her.
“You’ll like the apartment. And besides, I don’t think you’d enjoy it out in Wiltshire very much. Genny and I spend all our time in bed.”
His wife kicked him, hard, avoiding his bad leg, and then realization obviously set in. They’d have a hard time making babies with a curious houseguest wander ing around.
Reno lifted his sunglasses and gave Genevieve a cool, assessing look, one that Peter immediately wanted to wipe off his pretty face. “Taka promised me an apartment if I did this. Or do you think you need to babysit me?”
“I didn’t know it was you,” Peter grumbled. “I thought it was some nerd named Hiromasa Shinoda.”
“I am some nerd named Hiromasa Shinoda. I just don’t go by that name,” he said loftily. “Are you going to take me somewhere to eat? I’ve been on a plane for thirteen hours.”
Peter knew his wife very well. She was about to open her mouth to offer him a home-cooked meal, and the sooner he ditched Reno the better.
“We’ll drive into London and take you to your apartment. There are several sushi places nearby.”
“Fuck sushi,” Reno said. “I want fish and chips. And beer.”
“Great,” Peter said. “At least you’ll be a cheap date.”
“Don’t count on it,” Reno said.
And Peter wondered how long it would take him to kill his old friend Taka. And how much he could make it hurt.
5
It seemed as if she’d been riding in a car with Killian for most of her life. After she’d shot him he’d haunted her dreams, and now, suddenly, she was back with him, almost twenty years later. The same, and yet everything was different. He didn’t know who she was. And for the first time she knew exactly who and what he was.
They were climbing higher into the mountains; the air was thin and cold, and she hadn’t brought warm clothing. She’d dealt with cold before. She didn’t shiver—it would alert him, a sign of weakness. She simply concentrated, letting the cold sink into her bones and radiate outward. It would take longer to warm up, supposing she eventually got the chance, but it kept weakness at bay.
The sleeping child was impervious. The man beside her was wearing a heavy jacket, his concentration focused as he navigated the narrow, rutted roads. She glanced over at him, at the steering wheel, and for a brief moment wished she hadn’t.
His hands were still the same. He’d always had the most beautiful hands—long-fingered, graceful. When she’d been young and stupid she’d thought he had the hands of an artist, a lover. They were the hands of a killer, stained with invisible blood.
She glanced down at her own hands, lying in her lap, then looked away.
“Do you have any particular reason for taking us across a closed border when I already made plans for our pickup in Mauritania?” she asked in an idle tone.
“I have my reasons.”
“Then why did you bother insisting someone come and rescue you? It seems as if you’re more than capable of getting yourself where you want to be.”
“I don’t need help getting out of here. I need help entering England, getting properly settled. My money’s out of reach, and half the world wants me dead. You and your organization are going to see that I live a long, comfortable life somewhere far away from the people who want to kill me.”
“I doubt that’s possible,” she muttered.
His mouth quirked in a smile. In the darkness it was the same mouth. She looked away. “You think people will always want to kill me?”
“I think it’s likely. Even if your new cover is impenetrable, and you’re some retired businessman in the Netherlands, you’ll still manage to piss people off.”
“Yes, but retired businessmen in the Netherlands don’t get murdered because they’re annoying. And I have no intention of living in the Netherlands. I thought England.”
“Why not home to America?”
She could feel his eyes on her. “What makes you think I come from the United States?”
“Your past is very hard to pin down, but as far as we can tell you were born somewhere in the U.S. in the late sixties. Which makes you approaching middle-aged, ready for an early retirement. The perfect businessman.”
“Perhaps. But we’re not in the Netherlands. What about Ireland?”
“It’s bloody enough.”
“So which side of The Troubles are you on? Must be the English side, with that impeccable British accent of yours.”
There was nothing beneath his noncommittal tone—no suggestion that the British accent wasn’t quite real.
“Neither side. I don’t like war.”
“Then you picked the wrong line of work, Madame Lambert. Or is this just where your talents lie?”
It was meant to sting, but she’d made peace with all that a lifetime ago. “I’m very good at what I do, Mr. Serafin. It wouldn’t be smart to underestimate me.”
“Oh, I never would. I’m quite in awe of you, as a matter of fact. Not many women could immerse themselves so totally in their role. And even a conservative guess at your number of terminations is quite impressive.”
“You’re responsible for the deaths of thousands, probably tens of thousands. It will take me a long time to reach your level.”
“If I were you I wouldn’t even try. After all, there can only be one Butcher.”
“True enough. I have no interest in being the most dangerous woman alive.”
“My dear Isobel,” he said in that voice she could almost remember, “you already are.”
There was nothing she could say in response. She only hoped he was right. “I suggest you give me some warning when we’re about to cross the border. I like to be prepared.”
“It’s actually a lot easier than you’re expecting. Cigarette smugglers and poor families do it all the time. You just have to know the right route.”
“And you do?”
“We crossed into Algeria over an hour ago, dear Isobel. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Don’t tempt fate. There’s always something to worry about.”
“Then that’s the difference between you and me. Worry’s a waste of time. You take what comes as it gets here.”
“And how are we going to explain our entrance into Algeria? I have passports for the two of us, but not for Jack the Ripper, Junior in the backseat. And they show us
entering Morocco, not Algeria.”
“My contact has taken care of the necessary paperwork. I can get us out of the country. I presume you can get us into England, or I never would have contacted your people.”
“I can. But you’re taking a lot for granted. What if I came to kill you, not to rescue you?”
“Then one of us would already be dead,” he replied. “I’m a valuable commodity and, despite your personal distaste, you’re going to have to follow orders. I’m going to get away with murder and be handsomely rewarded for it.”
He was wrong about one thing. Following orders had never been a high priority with her, and she was now in the unfortunate position of having to issue her own orders. To decide between life and death. The Committee might want this man alive, and there was no denying the wealth of information he could bring them.
But she had killed him once. She wouldn’t hesitate to kill him again.
The sky was beginning to lighten, an eerily beautiful shade of blue across the mountainous landscape. They’d been descending for the last hour, and in the gathering dawn she could see signs of life in the distance. A small town, not much larger than the ruins of Nazir.
He didn’t wait for her question. “We’re meeting my contact outside the village. He’s got the paperwork and a place to change clothes before we meet up with our flight.”
“First of all, I don’t have any clean clothes. This will just have to do. And—”
“Sorry, princess,” he said, and her stomach automatically clenched. “You’re wearing a burka. Best possible cover. Good thing you’re not one of those lanky American women—you’d have a harder time passing. All you have to do is keep your eyes lowered and your mouth shut and follow my lead.”