Blind Instinct

by Fiona Brand

  Those had since been frozen, the sales history tracked, but at no point had any of the transactions led them to Helene, because she’d been clever enough to keep herself separate from the upper echelon. Two names had consistently surfaced with the multinationals: Seaton and Ritter. Both of those men were now dead, cutting off that avenue of investigation.

  Helene had operated as a separate entity within the cabal, controlling the major assets and the accounts, making it easy to detach herself from it once it had gone belly up. But, as politically savvy as she was, she had made one major mistake. She had thrown in with Nasser, and from the coded threats, he was almost certain Lopez knew about it.

  His cell phone rang as he pulled out into traffic. It was Bridges.

  “Guess what?”

  “Dennison?”

  “Uh-huh. He just got into town.”

  “Keep the tail on him.”

  Dennison had an intimate knowledge of both Lopez and the cabal. When he had exited the country the previous year, after escaping CIA custody, Marc had made the decision not to have him arrested on the basis that Dennison was more use to him freelancing than kept under wraps in a cell.

  So far, he hadn’t pointed the way to any leads they hadn’t already generated for themselves, but the possibility was there. If Lopez and Helene sank from sight, Dennison could conceivably be useful.

  “What about Juan and Benito Chavez?” The two men in the four-wheel drive who had been Lopez’s backup at the Fischer farm.

  “They’re heading for El Paso.”

  “Pull them in before they get to the border.”

  They’d hung off long enough. Benito would never be anything more than muscle, but his older brother, Juan, was Lopez’s right-hand man. He was also smart enough to pick up the pieces of the Chavez cartel and put them back in business once Lopez was out of the equation. It was time to close the net.

  Twenty

  Sara cleaned up in the kitchen, found the laundry, which turned out to be a high-tech cupboard in the kitchen and put on a load of washing. At loose ends, she checked the fridge and the pantry and made a list of groceries they needed. If she wanted to go out, one of the agents Bayard had assigned to protect her, Hudson or Glover, would accompany her. If she needed to drive anywhere, they had a car and could take her. With the day stretching ahead, she had nothing better to do than shop. Besides, apart from grocery shopping, she needed to buy a few personal items.

  She nuked what was left of the coffee, added milk and sugar and leaned against the counter, slowly sipping as she surveyed Bayard’s apartment.

  In Sara’s opinion, the way a person decorated their home revealed a lot about who they were. The Bayard family was well-heeled. A combination of old cotton money and the wealth provided by the law firm Bayard’s great-grandfather had founded in the early 1900s meant Bayard could probably have afforded an inner-city penthouse if he’d wanted it. Instead he had chosen an older-style apartment building with romantic balconies, window boxes planted with geraniums, situated cheek by jowl to a bakery and a small collection of cafés. The view from his windows, aside from the park, was a jumble of narrow streets jammed with redbrick Federation-style houses and Victorian villas swamped by leafy oaks and maples. The atmosphere was intimate, almost neighborly.

  His choice of furniture was also a surprise. She recognized some of the pieces: the matching mahogany bookcases in his sitting room, an armoire that held his stereo and CD collection, the chest of drawers in his bedroom. She had seen those particular pieces of furniture before. They had originally belonged to his grandparents and had once resided in the manager’s cottage on the Bayard estate. The furniture was antique, expensive, but large. Most of the pieces were too big to fit easily into a conventional apartment; they needed a house.

  The LSU photos on the wall, and the football occupying one corner of the bookshelf added to the picture. Bayard had left Shreveport behind, but in the heart of a city populated by politicians and government employees, he had created his own small slice of Louisiana.

  After watching TV then trying, unsuccessfully, to nap, she walked down to the lobby and met the janitor, an older guy called Harry Clare-mont. Harry occupied a small unit on the ground floor and also doubled as the building’s security guard. He showed her into his small office, where Hudson was busy watching security tapes of the last twenty-four hours and taking notes.

  She arranged to go shopping. Hudson, who looked more like an accountant than an agent, drove her to the nearest mall and accompanied her. Glover, who was older and sturdier, with a locked-down manner, stayed behind to keep an eye on the apartment.

  She stocked up on underwear and bought a light sweater, another pair of sweatpants and a pair of jeans, because the D.C. weather, while not cold, was several degrees cooler than Shreveport. After buying a few groceries, Glover delivered her back to the apartment.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon doing odd chores around the apartment and cooking a pot roast, mostly to fill in time until Bayard got home. After the intense emotion of the last few hours, and the complete U-turn her life had taken, performing the simple, everyday tasks was a relief. She needed time to adjust.

  As it turned out, the pot roast—an all-in-one meal which could stay in the pot for hours without spoiling—was a brilliant idea. Bayard got home before five, but they didn’t get around to eating until after eight.

  Bayard offered to wash up while she took a bath. When she got out of the bath, Bayard was already in bed and asleep, so she simply switched off the lights and climbed in with him.

  The derelict farmhouse, situated on the edge of the dark forest that curved around Vassigny, was icy cold and gutted of anything that could provide comfort except for the wooden chair Sara was tied to.

  Stein looked eerily perfect in his uniform. After the scuffle in the forest, he had actually taken the time to change his jacket and wipe the mud from his boots.

  Stein consulted his watch. “How long have you known Reichmann?”

  She repeated the answer she had already given him several times. “I met him when I applied for the job in Vassigny.”

  “But that’s not the case with Gerhardt.”

  She frowned, feeling punchy. Stein had cut her in a dozen different places. None of the cuts were deep enough to be life threatening, but they stung, and the smell of fresh and dried blood was making her nauseous. “I met Gerhardt for the first time today.”

  “What do you know about Reichmann’s activities?”

  Her jaw tightened. Stein had been trying to catch her out and make her admit she was involved with Reichmann, that she was his accomplice. She had refused to give him an opening. Whether she provided him with information or not, she was dead.

  Closing her eyes, she thought about her parents. They had endured; she would, also. If she had to die, so be it. She wouldn’t give away one piece of information that would hurt either the Maquis or the Allies. “I did the job I was paid to do, nothing else.”

  He gripped her hair and jerked her head back, the sudden movement shocking. “Most women would be screaming by now. Not such a mouse, after all.”

  She sucked in air and stared through him.

  Sharp pain on the third finger of her left hand wrenched a cry from her throat.

  He had ripped the diamond ring off, almost dislocating her finger in the process. She had forgotten the ring was there.

  He held the ring in front of her face. Cold moonlight slanted through a window, making the diamond look like a chip of ice. Outside, a shadow moved; one of Stein’s men, patrolling the overgrown fields that surrounded the house.

  “Do you like diamonds, Madame de Thierry?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The sting of the knife made her gasp.

  “What about Cavanaugh?”

  Her gaze flickered, she couldn’t help it.

  A cold smile curved his mouth. “The British aren’t the only ones who have spies. I know he’s here, th
at he’s working with de Vallois. Six months ago Cavanaugh was in Lyon. Before that, Toulouse. I missed him in Toulouse, but I destroyed the cell he was working with. This time I will kill him.”

  Another shadow moved past the window. Cold light glinted off the barrel of a gun. For a fraction of a second her gaze locked with Cavanaugh’s.

  A sharp detonation made her whole body jerk. At first she thought that she had been shot, that Cavanaugh had done what she had asked, then Stein’s grip slackened and she realized that Cavanaugh had shot him instead.

  A barrage of gunfire filled the night. Outside, Stein’s men dropped. A window shattered. Simultaneously, the door slammed against the wall. Stein, who had staggerd against a wall, clutching his side, produced a Luger. A corner of the door exploded. Cavanaugh was already moving. A second shot showered stone chips and dust. With a guttural roar, Stein charged and both men engaged. Stein’s Luger skittered across the floor. Cavanaugh had already discarded the Sten. Both men went down, rolling in the dust and dirt and the blood that was pouring from Stein’s side. Cavanaugh was taller and easily stronger, but Stein had a lean, feral build and she saw with a leap of fear that sometime during the struggle he had recovered the knife, which he had dropped when he was shot.

  Cavanaugh clamped his wrist, stopping the blade short of his throat. Veins bulged in Stein’s face. Cavanaugh pressed harder. There was a brittle snapping sound as the bone broke and Stein snarled as the knife clattered to the floor. Cavanaugh released him and rolled in one smooth, flowing motion, retrieved the Sten, shoved it against Stein’s chest and pulled the trigger.

  After the roar of detonation there was a moment of eerie silence as Stein’s face finally went slack.

  Cavanaugh sliced the cords that bound her and ripped off the gag. Face grim, he carried Sara into the cover of the trees, set her on her feet, and when he was certain she could stand, made her drink brandy. The liquor burned Sara’s throat, making her gasp. He handed her a flask of water. She gulped it down, her thirst ferocious.

  De Vallois’s men encircled them. Some loped, catlike, after the soldiers who had escaped into the forest. They wouldn’t get far; they were in the Maquis’s territory now.

  The potent liquor made her head spin, distracting her as Cavanaugh wiped off the cuts and bound up the worst of them with strips of cloth. His shirt, she realized.

  His gaze locked with hers. “Peut-tu marcher?”

  His voice was soft, the question serious. Can you walk?

  “Bien sûr.”

  Of course.

  He smiled, the first time she had ever glimpsed that phenomenon and her heart swelled with the sweetness of the moment.

  She walked a few paces to demonstrate. The cuts were on her arms and her torso, not her legs. “Get me out of these trees and I’ll fly.”

  Vallois’s men closed in around them and they were moving through the forest.

  Just seconds ago she had felt weak and drained but now adrenaline flowed and for the minutes, hours, that they walked, despite the sting of the cuts, she felt invincible.

  They stopped and rested. Someone passed around chunks of hard cheese and dried figs. The food tasted like ambrosia. Cavanaugh bandaged the deepest cuts more securely, then they were moving again, flitting like ghosts through the trees, skirting tracts of open land that glowed, stark and bare beneath the moon.

  Exhaustion dragged at her. Cavanaugh babied her along, his arm around her waist, taking her weight. The sky turned gray and a thin drizzle set in as they walked into a hay barn. One of de Vallois’s men lifted a hatch, indicating that they descend into the cellar below.

  Jacques lit a lantern, illuminating the rough walls. “The border is two miles away. We need to wait until dark to cross. Rest, mes amies. There’s nothing more we can do until tonight.”

  Sara sat with her back against a wall and didn’t protest when Cavanaugh sat beside her, slipped an arm around her and pulled her head down on his shoulder. She adjusted her position against bone and hard muscle, finding the most comfortable resting place for her head.

  They were safe.

  She hardly dared believe it.

  The moon shone through the trees, dappling the ground as Sara walked through the silent forest. The air was thin and dry, burning her chest, slicing at exposed skin. Her cuts throbbed. Blood seeped, turning the wool that clung to her skin sodden, but despite the physical discomfort, her whole being was centered on moving forward. Escape.

  The few feet in front of her—the compass of Cavanaugh’s broad back—drew her on as they wove in single file behind de Vallois.

  Cavanaugh turned. His gaze locked on hers. Emotion pierced her, followed by a powerful moment of connection.

  Impossible. She had no room in her mind or her heart for any other drive but survival.

  Up ahead, de Vallois had stopped.

  Cavanaugh steadied her. “He’s checking on the transport.”

  They were supposed to meet a truck, filled with Armand’s cheeses and destined for an outpost situated in a tiny hillside village that straddled the border. The truck had a false bottom built into it. The space was narrow and claustrophobic. They would be black-and-blue by the time they arrived at the border, and choked by diesel fumes, but they would be in Switzerland.

  Now that they weren’t moving, the cold seemed to intensify. Steam drifted off Cavanaugh’s shoulders, vapor billowed from their mouths.

  His arms wrapped around her. She winced.

  He touched a damp spot in her coat. “Damn, that’s seeping again. You need stitching.”

  “It’s all right.” Once they were across the border she could get medical attention. Just a few more minutes, an hour at the most.

  The sound of an engine cut the air. Headlights scythed through the trees. They crouched low.

  De Vallois motioned them forward. As they stepped out onto the road, the driver of the truck pitched forward, a gaping hole in his forehead. Soldiers poured from the back of the truck. De Vallois was cut down in the first hail of bullets.

  Reichmann.

  Stein had said there was a spy. Someone had betrayed the escape route.

  Cavanaugh dragged her through the trees. Her chest burned, her legs felt like lead. Her boot caught on a root and the ground came up to meet her with sickening force.

  Warmth spread down her side. She was bleeding again. Her head spun as she pushed to her feet. The blood loss was catching up with her. She couldn’t continue and she wouldn’t allow Cavanaugh to carry her. Reichmann’s soldiers were fresh. If Cavanaugh tried to carry her, they would both be caught.

  Footsteps. Crashing through the forest.

  Cavanaugh’s arm around her waist, the pressure warm; his voice urgent.

  A gunshot. Cavanaugh faltered. Fear rocketed through her; he was wounded. Shots sliced past her, shredding leaves. The forest was filled with the thud of boots.

  With icy resolve, she turned away from Cavanaugh and lunged toward the soldiers, calling out in German. A soldier in a greatcoat loomed out of the shadows and she fell, suddenly terrified.

  She couldn’t see Cavanaugh. Rough hands jerked her to her feet. Pain from the wound in her side sliced through her. Abruptly the dim green of the forest spun into blackness.

  When she came to, she was surrounded by German uniforms. From the orders being snapped out, Cavanaugh and most of the Maquis had escaped.

  Reichmann stepped forward and gestured with his gun. Two of his men hauled her between them, her feet trailing on the rough ground.

  When they reached the road, Reichmann stripped the small pack off her back and extracted his ledger, his gaze cold. He reached for his pistol, a Mauser. For a second Sara’s mind went utterly blank, then comprehension dawned. There would be no time, no second chances. No rescue.

  Cavanaugh didn’t know what she’d had in the pack. She deliberately hadn’t told him; the risk was hers. Reichmann had no interest in interrogating her. He wanted her dead and all knowledge of his crimes wiped out.

&nbs
p; Something flashed in the trees. A message in Morse.

  Courage.

  Cavanaugh. Still here, and impossibly close.

  The dreadful sense of isolation eased. The moment of connection she had experienced in the forest grew stronger, swelling her heart, followed by sheer unadulterated panic.

  Reichmann’s men had seen him. They were already running, shouting orders.

  Cavanaugh. You shouldn’t have stayed.

  She stared at Reichmann, and the solution to preserving Cavanaugh’s life. She knew Cavanaugh; he wouldn’t leave until she was gone. “Traitor,” she said succinctly.

  Reichmann levelled the Mauser at her chest.

  “Thief.”

  Twenty-One

  Bright light catapulted Sara out of the dream.

  Bayard was looming over her, pushing on her chest. The room swam, her vision dimmed.

  “Dammit,” he roared. “Breathe.”

  His head dipped, his mouth pressed on hers, the pressure urgent. Air forced past the tight rigor knotting her chest.

  She gasped; oxygen flooded her lungs.

  He continued to breathe with her, as if he couldn’t fully believe that she could do it on her own.

  Her fingers threaded in his hair, framed his face. She stared into his fierce, dark gaze. Emotion welled, sharp, urgent, and for a brief second time dissolved. Her hands tightened around his neck, pulled his mouth to hers. The first kiss was deep, the second wrenching.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  She was literally shaking with cold. Heat blazed from him, burning her chilled skin. She slipped her fingers down across his taut abdomen and found his erection.

  “Now?”

  Her mind was still reeling, her body icy. The recall had been too stark, too perfect. She needed warmth, life.

  Positioning him between her legs, she pushed down, shoving herself onto him. He began to move, his mouth on hers, his body tight against her, as if he couldn’t bear the separation. Her fingers bit into his hips. Heat and a piercing pleasure rolled through her, so intense that for an endless moment she thought she might faint.