by Nora Roberts
"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 he glanced toward Kendesa. For approval? he 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 his 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 incentive, 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, obstensibly interested in the lab, while he searched for another exit.
"Fascinating. My organization feels the profit from your serum will be enormous."
"Your money will do you little good once a madman has destroyed the world."
Trace smiled. So he understood. He kept his voice mild. "Your serum will ensure power and profit for those clever enough to earn it. There is progress?" he asked Kendesa.
"It is slow." This time Kendesa smiled and watched Trace carefully. "T
he missing link is Fitzpatrick's sister. She has in her possession certain notes, certain knowledge that will expedite the completion of this work. She'll be joining you, Doctor."
Trace felt the air stop pumping into his lungs. Before he could speak, Flynn was rushing forward.
"Gillian? What have you done with her?"
Kendesa had his gun out quickly. "Calm yourself, Doctor. She is unharmed." He turned a curious smile on Trace. "Were you aware, monsieur, that you traveled with the good doctor's sister?"
"I?" He could play it two ways. But if he went with instinct and attacked, Flynn Fitzpatrick would be dead. "I'm afraid you're mistaken."
"The woman you brought to Casablanca was Dr. Gillian Fitzpatrick."
"The woman I brought to Casablanca was a little American tart I picked up in Paris. Attractive, amusing and dull-witted."
"More sharp-witted than you know, monsieur. You have been used."
So that was it. For once Trace blessed the ISS for the strength and depth of his cover. "You're mistaken." There was a low edge of fury to his voice.
"No, I regret it is you who are mistaken. The woman purposely sought you out, hoping you would bring her closer to us and her brother. I assume she played her part well."
"Very well. If you're correct."
"Quite correct. A short time ago she was in Mexico, where she sought out and enlisted the help of a certain ISS agent. We can assume it was he who instructed her on what course to take. Do you know the name II Gatto, Cabot?"
Trace drew out a cigarette, making sure his hand didn't appear quite steady. "I know it."
"He seeks revenge on the general, and uses you and the woman to gain it."
"Who is he?"
"I regret I do not yet have that information." Anger broke through the sophisticated calm briefly. "The general was unfortunately hasty in executing three men who might have been able to identify him. But the woman knows, and will tell us. In time."
"Where is she?" Trace blew out a stream of smoke. "I do not tolerate being a woman's pawn."
"On her way here, if not here already. You are welcome to speak with her when you return. Once we have her notes, and she has identified II Gatto, I may consider it a gesture of goodwill to give her to you."
"Bastard." Flynn raised his fist and would have struck if Trace hadn't moved more quickly. Grabbing Flynn's arm, he twisted it up behind his back and held him close, their faces an inch apart.
"Your whore of a sister owes me." Flynn bared his teeth but was helpless to strike back. "I'll take my payment from her, and from you, Doctor." He shoved him aside. "I've seen enough," Trace said curtly, and strode toward the door.
"Let me see Caitlin. Let me see my daughter, you son of a bitch," Flynn cried.
"Perhaps tomorrow, Doctor," Kendesa said calmly. "Perhaps then I shall reunite your family." In the same unhurried manner, he opened the door and locked it behind him. It gave him some pleasure to see the smooth, sleek Andre Cabot with his feathers ruffled.
"There is no need for embarrassment, my friend. The woman, under the guidance of II Gatto, was a formidable enemy."
Trace turned on him. In an instant he had Kendesa against the wall. Even as the guards' guns clicked into place he had the key from Kendesa's pocket palmed in his hand. "I will not be made a fool. The woman is unharmed?"
Kendesa waved the guards aside as Trace's grip relaxed. "We did not want her damaged."
"Good." A muscle twitched in his cheek. "Very good. When I return in three days, I want her. Get the information you need, Kendesa. Get the information and then turn the woman over to me. The price of the shipment can be reduced another quarter of a million francs, between us."
Kendesa lifted a brow. "The price of your pride is high."
"Before I am through, she will wish, with a full heart, that you had killed her." Trace straightened his jacket and seemed to bring himself under control. "I assume the child is still alive."
"She is kept on the second level. Mild tranquilizers keep her quiet. They are full of passion, these Irish."
"Indeed." Trace saw the car and driver waiting where he'd left them. "I will report to my associates. If the papers are in order, we will finish our current business."
"Cabot." Kendesa rested a hand on the door of the car. "Does II Gatto disturb you?"
Trace looked directly into Kendesa's eyes. "I feel he would have little interest in me, and a great deal more in you. I should watch my back, mon ami. Cats strike quickly."
Trace settled in the back seat and for the first time in years began to pray.
He would waste precious time traveling back to Sefrou, contacting Breintz and gathering the weapons. As the driver started down the mountain, Trace considered putting him out of commission and going back. But how far would he get alone, with a miserable peashooter of a .45?
Straining against his own impotence, he looked at his watch. Automatically he reactivated the homing device, but he was more interested in the time. He could be back, fully armed, by dark.
She'd be all right. She was strong. She was braver than she should be. He would come back for her and get her out, no matter what had to be done, no matter what had to be sacrificed.
But the cold sweat he was in reminded him what it was to fear for more than your own life.
When the tire blew out, he was thrown against the side of the car. Swearing, he straightened. Instinct had him reaching in his pocket as he stepped from the car. The driver got out, turned toward the damaged wheel, then dropped like a stone.
Trace drew out his pistol. Smelling ambush. Even as he whirled, Breintz rose from a rock. "Your mind's elsewhere, old friend. If I'd wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
Trace pocketed the pistol. "They've got Gillian."
"I know. One of her guards lived long enough to contact me." Breintz dropped agilely from the rock. "My orders are to give you twelve hours to get the Fitzpatricks out. If you're unsuccessful, Hammer's headquarters is to be destroyed."
"Give me your weapon."
"One rifle?" Breintz lifted a brow. "Such conceit."
"Twelve hours doesn't give me a hell of a lot of time. Give me the rifle."
"For once II Gatto is not using his head." Breintz bent down to examine the driver's clothes. "Could it be the woman is more than an assignment?" Breintz drew off the driver's braided headdress and settled it over his hair. "An adequate fit."
Trace schooled his breathing until his head cleared. "You drive. We can take out the guards at the gate and use their weapons. The layout's simple enough. We get Fitzpatrick, I find Gillian and the kid."
"Agreed." Breintz gestured for him to follow. With the ease of a goat, he climbed over the rocks. Trace saw the case he'd purchased from Bakir. Breintz only smiled. "I have worked with you before." Breintz handed Trace a grenade launcher. "And this is my country. I say modestly that my contacts here are excellent."
Trace yanked off Cabot's raw-silk jacket and threw it in the dirt. He slipped the strap of the weapon over his shoulder and reached for another. "I'd forgotten how good you were."
"Old friend—" Breintz was quietly taping clips together "—I am even better now."
Trace strapped on an ammo belt. "We have to wait until dark."
Breintz sat cross-legged. "It will come soon enough."
"You don't have orders to go in with me."
"No." Breintz closed his eyes and began to drift into meditation. "Charles Forrester was a good man."
"Thanks."
Wishing he could find the same kind of serenity, Trace sat beside him. And waited for sundown.
Gillian awoke slowly, with her head throbbing and her mind fuzzy. Once or twice she nearly found consciousness, only to go into the grayness again. She heard weeping, quiet and heartfelt, and wondered if it was her.
She felt warmth against her side, then again warmth stroking along her arm. Instinctively she reached out for it.
"Aunt Gillian, please wake up. Please, Aunt Gillian, I'm so scared."
It was like the nightmare. Gillian felt her skin go clammy and fought it off. Just a dream, she told herself, but Caitlin's pleas were coming clearer and clearer. Opening her eyes, she saw her.
"I thought you were dead." Caitlin, eyes puffy and red, buried her face in Gillian's hair. "They dropped you on the bed and you lay so still I thought you were dead."
"Baby." She pushed herself up and nearly passed out again. The drug had been strong and had left her with a raging headache and traces of nausea. Unsure what was real, she reached out and touched Caitlin's face. "Oh, baby. It's you. It's really you." Gathering the child close, she rocked her. "Oh, Caitlin, little darling, go ahead and cry. Poor little lamb, how frightened you must have been, all alone like this. I'm here now."
"Are you going to take us home?"
Where was home? And where were they? As she looked around the dim room, Gillian remembered the waiter, the prick of the hypodermic. Closing her eyes, she cursed herself for her stupidity. Did they have Trace, too? Oh, God, did they have him, too?
"Can we go home now? Please, I want to go home."
"Soon," Gillian murmured. "As soon as I can. Caitlin, can you dry your eyes and talk to me?"
With sniffles and nods, Caitlin burrowed closer. "You won't go away?"
"No. No, I won't leave you." They'd have to kill her first, she promised herself as she kept Caitlin close. "Where's your da?"
"They keep him downstairs, in a laboratory."
"Is he all right? Be brave now, darling. Is your da all right?"
"He looks kind of sick. I can't remember when they let me see him last." She swiped her hand over her wet cheeks. "He cried once."
"It's all right. It's going to be all right. There's a—" She cut herself off as she remembered how carefully Trace had searched their hotel rooms for microphones. Someone could be listening to them even now. She couldn't mention his name or give her niece the comfort of knowing they had help. "There's sure to be a way out," she said instead. "We just have to be patient. We're together now." Then she lifted a finger to her lips, signaling to the child to be silent. As quietly as she could, she searched the room.
She knew it was more luck than skill that led her to it. When she found the mike, her first instinct was to smash it. Even that small sign of defiance would have been satisfying. But she made herself think coolly. Leaving the mike in place, she climbed back onto the narrow bed.
"I met a man in Mexico," she began, knowing whoever was listening would already be aware of that. "He said he'd help. He has a funny name, Caitlin. II Gatto. It means 'cat'."
"Does he look like a cat?"
"No." Gillian smiled to herself. "But he thinks like one. When I don't contact him tomorrow," she said, "he'll come after us."
"And take us home?"
"Yes, darling. Do you know where we are?"
"It's like a big cave with lots of tunnels."
"I see." Gillian lifted Caitlin's eyelids and examined her pupils. Drugs. The fury rose and nearly overpowered her. "Do you ever go outside?"
"No. There aren't any windows."
Caitlin cringed as the door opened and a man with a rifle over his shoulder carried in a tray. He set it on the edge of the bed, gestured to it, then walked out again.
"I bit him once," Caitlin said, with some of her old spirit.
"Good for you."
"He smacked me."
"He won't smack you again." Gillian looked at the tray. There was rice and some cubed meat with two glasses of milk. She sniffed at it. "Have you been eating well?"
"The food doesn't taste good, but I get hungry. Whenever I eat, I get sleepy."