Then the world came abruptly to a halt. They found themselves staring wide-eyed at a field of astonished cows. Sarah’s heart began to beat again. Only then did she remember to take another breath. In that same instant, Nick hit the gas pedal and turned the M.G. back onto the highway.
“That’ll slow ’em down,” he said. His understatement struck her as somehow hilarious.
She looked back. The Peugeot was lying on its side in the field. Standing in the mud beside it was the blond driver, the man with the death’s-head grin. Even from that distance, she could see the fury in his face. Then he and the Peugeot shrank into the distance and vanished.
“You okay?” asked Nick.
“Yes. Yes…” She tried to swallow but her mouth felt drier than sand.
Nick grunted. “One thing’s obvious. You sure as hell can’t go off alone.”
Alone? The very thought terrified her. No, she didn’t want to be alone. Never again! But how much could she count on Nick? He was no soldier; he was a diplomat, a man behind a desk. Right now he was operating on pure instinct, not training. Yet he was all that stood between her and a killer.
The road forked again. Canterbury and London lay to the west. Nick turned east, onto the road marked Dover.
“What are you doing?” asked Sarah, turning in dismay as they bypassed the London exit.
“We’re not going to London,” he said.
“But we need help—”
“We had help. Didn’t do us a lot of good, did it? So much for protective surveillance.”
“London will be safer!”
He shook his head. “No, it won’t. They’ll be waiting for us there. This whole fiasco proves we can’t count on our own people. Maybe they’re just incompetent. Maybe it’s something worse….”
Something worse? Did he mean betrayal? She thought the nightmare was over, that they’d simply knock on the embassy door in London and be swept into the protective arms of the CIA. She’d never considered the possibility that the very people she trusted would want her dead. It didn’t make sense!
“The CIA wouldn’t kill its own man!” she pointed out. “Maybe not the Company itself. But someone inside. Someone with other connections.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“Dammit, think about it! The agent didn’t just sit back while someone cut his throat! He was taken by surprise. By someone he knew, someone he trusted. There’s got to be an insider involved. Someone who wants us out of the way.”
“But I don’t know anything!”
“Maybe you do. Maybe you just don’t realize it.”
She shook her head frantically. “No, this is crazy. It’s crazy! Nick, I’m just an average woman. I go to work, I go shopping, I cook dinner—I’m not a spy! I’m not like— like Eve….”
“Then it’s time we started thinking like her. Both of us. I’m new to this game, too. And it looks like I’m in just as deep.”
“We could fly home—to Washington—”
“You really think it’s safer there?”
No, she thought with mounting despair. He was right. Home would be no safer. They had nowhere to run.
“Then where do we go?” she asked desperately.
He glanced at his watch. “It’s twelve o’clock,” he said. “We’ll ditch the car and get the Hovercraft in Dover. It’ll be a quick ride to Calais. We’ll take the train to Brussels. And then you and I are going to vanish. For a while, at least.”
She stared numbly at the road. A while? she wondered. How long is a while? Forever? Will I be like Eve, always running, always looking over my shoulder?
Just an hour ago, on the cliffs of Margate, it had been so clear what she needed to do—she had to find Geoffrey and get to the truth of her marriage. Now it was down to something more elemental, a goal so stark that nothing else mattered.
She had to stay alive.
She’d think about Geoffrey later. She’d take the time to wonder where he was and how she’d find him. She had to find him; he was the only one who had the answers. But now she couldn’t look that far ahead.
She saw how tightly Nick gripped the steering wheel. He was afraid, too. That was what terrified her most—the fact that even Nick O’Hara was afraid.
“I guess I have to trust you,” she said.
“It looks that way.”
“Who else can we trust, Nick?”
He looked at her. The answer he gave had an awful ring of finality. “No one.”
* * *
ROY POTTER GRABBED the receiver on the first ring. What he heard next made him hit the recording button. Through the crackle of a trans-Channel connection came the voice of Nick O’Hara. “I’ve got one thing to say.”
“O’Hara?” shouted Potter. “Where the hell—”
“We’re dropping out, Potter. Stay off our tails.”
“You can’t go off in the cold! O’Hara, listen! You need us!”
“Like hell.”
“You think you’re gonna stay alive out there without our help?”
“Yeah. I do. And you listen good, Potter. Take a close hard look at your people. Because something’s rotten in the State of Denmark. And if I find out you’re responsible, I’m going to see they nail your ass to the wall.”
“Wait, O’Hara—”
The line went dead. Muttering a curse, Potter hung up. Then he looked reluctantly across the desk at Jonathan Van Dam. “They’re alive,” he said.
“Where are they?”
“He wouldn’t say. We’re tracing the call right now.”
“Are they coming in?”
“No. They’re going under.”
Van Dam leaned across the desk. “I want them, Mr. Potter. I want them soon. Before someone else gets to them.”
“Sir, he’s afraid. He doesn’t trust us—”
“I’m not surprised, considering this latest foul-up. Find them!”
Potter grabbed the phone, silently hurling every oath he knew at Nick O’Hara. This was all his fault. “Tarasoff?” he barked. “Did you get that number?… What the hell does that mean, somewhere in Brussels? I already know he’s in Brussels! I want the damned address!” He slammed the receiver down.
“Simple surveillance,” said Van Dam. “That was your plan, wasn’t it? So what happened?”
“I had two good agents on the Fontaine woman. I don’t know what went wrong. One of my men’s still missing, and the other’s in the morgue—”
“I can’t be bothered with dead agents. I want Sarah Fontaine. What about those train stations and airports?”
“The Brussels office is already on it. I’m flying out tonight. There’s been activity in their bank accounts—big withdrawals. Looks as if they plan to stay under a long time.”
“Watch those accounts. Circulate their photographs. To local police, Interpol, everyone who’ll cooperate. Don’t arrest her, just locate her. And we need a psychological profile on O’Hara. I want to know that man’s motives.”
“O’Hara?” Potter snorted. “I can tell you all you need to know.”
“What do you think the man’ll do next?”
“He’s new to the game. Wouldn’t know the ropes of picking up a new identity. But he speaks fluent French. He could move around Belgium without raising an eyebrow. And he’s smart. We might have trouble.”
“What about the woman? Could she blend in as well?”
“Doesn’t know any foreign languages, to my knowledge. Totally inexperienced. She’d be helpless on her own.”
Tarasoff entered the office. “Got the address. It’s a pay phone, center of town. No chance of tracking him down now.”
“Who does O’Hara know in Belgium?” asked Van Dam. “Any friends he’d trust?”
Potter frowned. “I’d have to check his file….”
“What about Mr. Lieberman in the consular division?” suggested Tarasoff. “He’d know about O’Hara’s friends.”
Van Dam gave Tarasoff a look of appraisal. “Good start. I’m glad som
eone’s thinking. What else?”
“Well, sir, I wonder if we should look at other angles, other themes running this man’s life….” Tarasoff suddenly noticed the dark look Potter was flashing at him. He added quickly, “But of course, Mr. Potter knows O’Hara inside and out.”
“What themes are you referring to, Mr. Tarasoff?” prodded Van Dam.
“I keep wondering if he’s—well, working for someone.”
“No way,” said Potter. “O’Hara’s an independent.”
“But your man makes a good point,” said Van Dam. “Did we miss something when we vetted O’Hara?”
“He spent four years in London,” said Tarasoff. “He could have made numerous contacts.”
“Look, I know the guy,” insisted Potter. “He’s his own man.” Van Dam didn’t seem to hear him. Potter felt as if he was shouting from the wrong side of a soundproof window. Why did he always feel like the outsider, the slob with mustard on his ten-year-old suit? He’d worked like hell to be a good agent, but it wasn’t enough, not in the eyes of men like Van Dam. What Potter lacked was style.
Tarasoff had it. And Van Dam—why, his suit was definitely Savile Row, his watch a Rolex. He’d been smart to marry money. That, of course, was what Potter should have done. He should have married rich women. Then they’d be paying him alimony.
“I’ll expect results soon, Mr. Potter,” Van Dam said as he pulled on his overcoat. “Let me know the minute something turns up. How you handle O’Hara after that point is your affair.”
Potter frowned. “Uh—what does that mean?”
“I’ll leave it up to you. Just make it discreet.” Van Dam left the room.
Potter stared in puzzlement at the closed door. What exactly had he meant by “I’ll leave it up to you?” Oh, he knew what he’d like to do to Nick O’Hara. O’Hara was just another high-minded career diplomat. Potter knew the breed all too well. They looked down their noses at spooks. None of them appreciated the dirty work Potter had to do. Hell, someone had to do it! When things went well, he got no credit. But when things went wrong, guess who got the blame?
Those invectives he and O’Hara had hurled at each other a year ago still rankled. Mainly because he knew, deep down, that O’Hara had been right. Sokolov’s death had been his fault.
This time he couldn’t afford any mistakes. He’d already lost two agents. Even worse, he’d lost track of the Fontaine woman. By God, there’d be no more screwups. Even if he had to search every hotel in Brussels, he’d find them.
* * *
FOR REASONS OF his own, Jonathan Van Dam was just as determined to find them. Somehow O’Hara had managed to foul up what should have been a simple operation. He was the unexpected factor, the one little detail that no one had predicted, just the sort of thing that gives an operative nightmares. What really troubled Van Dam was something Tarasoff had suggested, that O’Hara could be more than just a man in love. Was he working for someone else?
Van Dam stared down at his plate of mixed grill and considered this last disturbing possibility. He was sitting alone in his favorite London restaurant. The food wasn’t bad here. The lamb chops were tender and pink, the sausages homemade. The chips were dry, true, but he never ate them anyway. He liked the candlelight and the soft hum of conversation. He liked seeing other people around him, if only anonymously. It helped him focus on the problem at hand.
He finished his chop and, sitting back, slowly sipped a glass of fine port. Yes, that young Tarasoff had brought up a good point. It was dangerous to assume anything was as it seemed. Van Dam, better than most people, knew that. For two years he’d endured what outsiders had called a happy marriage. For two years he’d shared a bed with a woman he could barely stand to touch. He had dutifully nursed her out of her gin binges, put up with her rages and, afterward, her remorse. Through it all he’d laughed in silence at the inane comments her friends had made. “You know, Jonathan, you’ve made Claudia so happy!” or “You’re so good for her!” or “You’re both so lucky!” Claudia’s death had stunned everyone—most of all, perhaps, Claudia herself. The bitch had thought she’d live forever.
Yes, the port was excellent. He ordered another. A woman two tables away was staring at him but he ignored her, knowing, by some strange and certain instinct, that she had a fondness for spirits. Like Claudia.
The matter of Sarah Fontaine and Nick O’Hara returned to mind. He knew that finding a man like O’Hara, a man who spoke fluent French, would be impossible in a city as big as Brussels. Sarah Fontaine was a different matter. All she had to do was open her mouth at the wrong time, and the game would be up. Yes, better to concentrate on finding her, not O’Hara. She was the easier quarry. And after all, she was the one they really wanted.
* * *
HUGGING HER LEGS to her chest, Sarah sat on the hard mattress and checked her watch again. Nick had been gone two hours, and all that time she’d been sitting like a zombie, listening for his footsteps. And thinking. Thinking about fear, wondering if she’d ever feel safe again.
On the train from Calais, she had struggled against panic, against the premonition that something terrible was about to happen. All of her senses had become acutely raw. She’d registered every sound, every sight, right down to the loose threads on the ticket taker’s jacket. Details took on new importance. Their lives might hang on something as trivial as the look in a stranger’s eye.
The trip had gone smoothly—they’d made it to Brussels without a hitch. Hours had passed, dulling the sharp edges of fear until terror gave way to mere gnawing anxiety. For the moment she was safe.
But where was Nick? Surely he would come back for her? She didn’t want to think of the other possibilities. That he’d been caught. Or that he’d come to his senses and bailed out of a hopeless situation. She wouldn’t blame him if he had bailed out. What man in his right mind would stick around waiting for death?
She rose and went to the window. Dusk was blotting out the city. Through a gray drizzle, the rooftops of Brussels hovered unanchored, like ghosts.
She flicked on the one bare lightbulb. The room was small and shabby, a mere box on the second floor of a rundown hotel. Everything smelled of dust and mildew. The double mattress was lumpy. The wood floor was covered only by a single small throw rug, which was worn and stained. A few hours ago, she hadn’t cared what the room looked like. Now the four walls were driving her mad. She felt trapped. She craved fresh air, and even more than that, food. Their last meal had been breakfast, and her body was screaming to eat. But she had to wait until Nick returned.
If he returned.
Downstairs a door slammed. She spun around and listened as footsteps thumped up the stairs, then creaked heavily along the hall. A key jiggled in the lock. The knob turned. Slowly the door squealed open. She froze. A stranger loomed on the threshold.
Nothing about him seemed familiar. He wore a black fisherman’s cap, pulled low over his eyes. A cigarette butt, trailing smoke, dangled carelessly from his mouth. He brought with him the reek of fish and wine, a smell he wore as distinctly as the tattered jacket on his shoulders. But when he looked up, Sarah suddenly found herself laughing with relief. “Nick! It’s you!”
He frowned. “Who else would it be?”
“It’s your clothes—”
He regarded his jacket with distaste. “Isn’t this gross? Smells like the original owner died in it.” He stubbed out the cigarette and tossed her a brown-paper package.
“Your new identity, madame. I guarantee no one’ll recognize you.”
“Oh, brother. I’m afraid to look.” She opened the package and removed a short black wig, a packet of hairpins and a singularly hideous wool dress. “I think it looked better on the sheep,” she sighed.
“Look, no fair grousing about the dress. Just be glad I didn’t put you in a miniskirt with fishnet stockings. Believe me, I thought about it.”
She looked dubiously at the wig. “Black?”
“It was on sale.”
�
��I’ve never worn one of these before. Which way does it go? Like this?”
His hoot of laughter made her flush. “No, you’ve got it backward. Here, let me do it.”
She wrenched it off her head. “This isn’t going to work.”
“Sure it’ll work. Hey, I’m sorry I laughed. You just have to get the thing on right.” He grabbed the pins from the bed. “Come on, turn around. Let’s get your hair out of the way first.”
Obediently she turned and let him pin up her hair. He was terribly awkward; she could have done the task more efficiently by herself. But at the first touch of his hands, a warmth, a contentment, seemed to melt through her body; she never wanted the feeling to end. It was so soothing, so incredibly sensuous, having a man stroke her hair, especially a man with hands as warm and gentle as Nick’s.
As the tension eased from Sarah’s shoulders, Nick felt the tension in his own body mounting to unbearable heights. Even while he struggled with the hairpins, he found himself staring at the smooth skin on the back of her neck. His gaze slipped down, tracing the delicate bones of her spine to the collar of her blouse. The strand of hair felt like liquid fire in his hand. The heat surged like a current up his fingers, straight to his gut. The old fantasy rose to mind: Sarah standing before him in his bedroom, her breasts bared, her hair loose about her shoulders.
He forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing. What was he doing? Oh yes. The wig. With clumsy fingers he began slipping in hairpins.
“I never knew you smoked,” she murmured drowsily.
“I don’t anymore. Gave it up years ago. Tonight’s just for show.”
“Geoffrey used to smoke. I couldn’t get him to quit. That’s the only thing we ever fought about.”
He swallowed thickly as a strand tumbled loose and fell softly on his arm.
“Ouch. That pin hurts, Nick.”
“Sorry.” He placed the wig on her head and turned her toward him. The expression on her face—a mingling of doubt and resignation—made him smile.
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