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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 salary man 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 Lan.”
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 year, 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 be 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 wandering 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, hut 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. 1 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 nuns 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.”
“And are you wearing a burka as well?” she inquired sweetly.
“I’ll be a retired British Army officer and you’re my Algerian wife. Not the best possible scenario—most cultures don’t like ii when you take their women.”
“Something I expect you’re more than familiar with,” she muttered. “I’m a man of strong appetites,” he said lightly. “Anyway, Colonel Blimp and his wife won’t attract that much attention in this little village—they’re used to strangers. It’s a center of the smuggling trade.”
“And what are we supposed to be smuggling?”
“Mahmoud. The child sex trade is a very lucrative one, and beneath all that dirt he’s quite pretty. We could get at least one hundred pounds for him.”
She wasn’t going to show how sick she was. “Only one hundred?” she said. “Hardly worth the effort. Though it is a good way to dispose of him.”
“Don’t bother. You aren’t going to let me sell him, and I have no intention of unleashing him on an unsuspecting pedophile. Mahmoud would carve him into ribbons.”
“You almost convince me. But no, I hope your contact has a plan for his safe disposal, because he’s not coming to England.”
“Samuel will do his best. I think he’s got some Christian school lined up. But trust me, sooner or later Mahmoud will get his scrawny butt to England and to my door, no matter how well you hide me. One should never underestimate a zealot.”
“And what happens then?”
“Then I’ll kill him.” His voice was light, sure.
It didn’t make sense. He’d yet to give her a straight answer. A man like Serafin—like Killian—could kill a small boy quite easily, no matter how fanatical and well armed. Why didn’t he put an end to this particular threat? Someone couldn’t live the life Serafin had lived and have any qualms about killing a child.
It probably didn’t matter. She wouldn’t let him do it, but it was an anomaly. And anomalies made her nervous.
“When and where do we catch our plane?”
“You’re not arguing?”
“About what? Killing Mahmoud or the burka?”
“Killing Mahmoud isn’t on the table. I’m talking about the latter:’
“Burkas are excellent for concealing weapons. I don’t have any problem with it.”
“A reasonable woman,” he murmured in mock awe. “Mahmoud.” His response was instant. The child was awake, and clearly had been for quite a while.
Serafin’s orders were brief and to the point, and Isobel once more cursed the fact that she couldn’t understand more than a word or two of what he was saying. Not that further studies would have helped; it wasn’t standard Arabic, but some sort of obscure dialect.
“Does he understand any English?” The ground had leveled out, and they were drawing closer to the edge of town. As the sun slowly rose the chill began to seep out of he
r bones. A stray shiver danced across her skin and then was gone.
“No. He has no idea that in twelve hours he’ll be disarmed, scrubbed clean and praying to Jesus.”
“If he didn’t want to kill you already, then that would do it.”
“I wouldn’t blame him,” Serafin said.
Mahmoud muttered something in a sharp voice, and he replied, then turned to her. “Actually, I lied. There is one word he understands—kill. He wants to know if he should kill you or if I should.” She glanced back at the empty eyes and blank face of the lost child. “And what did you tell him?” “That you’re my business. If you needed killing I’ll see to it, but right now, you’re more valuable alive.”
“I’m thrilled to hear that.”
“I’m sure you are.” They’d reached an abandoned storage building, and he pulled the Jeep behind it, turning off the engine. “Darling, we’re home.”
Her body was cramped and stiff from the long ride, but she made no attempt to climb down. “And when is our plane?”
“Tonight, if we’re lucky. Otherwise, tomorrow night at the latest. Trust me. I’m ready to get back to the world of hot running water and single malt whiskey.”
“And where will we be until then?” The light of day was strong and clear, bringing blessed respite from the elusive cover of night. She could see him clearly—the puffy face, the balding head, the blackened teeth and middle-aged paunch.
“Samuel’s house is quite well-equipped for this part of the world, and he has reasonable guest quarters. We’ll be able to freshen up there, and if it becomes too dangerous we can always find a hotel and spend the night.”
She bit back the impulse to say “lovely.” She shouldn’t care enough to be hostile. She’d made her reputation as the Ice Queen, a cool, emotionless creature that nothing touched. Every time she reacted to him she was betraying all her hard work.
Besides, it didn’t matter. So she’d known him a lifetime ago. He’d been a bastard back then and was a triple bastard now. All that mattered was getting the job done, seeing it through to the end. And she had every intention of doing so.