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“He woke up, tried to stab me, then fell back asleep again.”
“That’s my boy,” he said fondly. “Did you get the knife?”
“Despite all evidence to the contrary I’m not stupid.” she snapped.
“I never thought you were. And the good news is you can ditch the burka. It would cause more attention than your own spectacular self.”
She blinked. She was so used to pulling her protective coloring about her, sinking into the background, that she hadn’t heard a compliment in years. She had spent most of her life doing her best to be unspectacular—an elegant, faceless woman of a certain age. “Hardly spectacular,” she said dryly. “I do my very best to be quite ordinary.”
“Let me give you a hint, Mary Isobel’ he said, leaning toward her. “You’re doing a piss-poor job of it right now.”
He moved past her before she could reply, opening the door to the plane and scooping up Mahmoud’s body effortlessly, expecting her to follow. She almost grabbed the burka just to defy him, but she was beyond such childish reactions. Beyond any emotion at all. wasn’t she?
The sun was rising over the flat, stubbled landscape—they seemed to have escaped one kind of desert for another, but the dawn was still and empty. There were no buildings, no shelter, no vehicles to be stolen anywhere in sight. But Killian was already moving, Mahmoud’s little body clasped in his arms as he strode across the open field, his long legs covering the distance so quickly that Isobel had to run to catch up. He stopped near a copse of trees, laying the child down with surprising care, then turned to look at her.
“Keep an eye on him, dose him if he tries to kill you. I’ll be back shortly. This is farmland—civilization can’t be too far away.”
“You think you’re leaving me here? Think again.”
“I can’t steal a car with you and the kid in low,” he said reasonably.
“What’s to keep you from just taking off and not coming back?”
“The fact that I need your help to get into England and start a new life. Remember, I was the one who contacted you in the first place, and so far you’ve done squat to help me. I’ll give you a chance to earn your keep before long. Until now you’ve been nothing but an added inconvenience.”
“So maybe you think you’ll have an easier time of it without me.”
“Abandon you, princess?” he said lightly. “Never.”
She turned her back on him, heading over to stand by Mahmoud, because if she spoke another word she’d hit him. There was no violence in her system, only reluctant duty. Except when it came to him, and suddenly she was six years old and enraged.
One thing for sure, if he came back with a Citroen she was going to shoot him, point-blank.
She glanced down at the sleeping child. Isobel didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. She didn’t want children, didn’t know what to do with them, and it would have been better all around if Mahmoud had simply been blown to pieces in the explosion. He’d been through too much in his short life to come back from it all and have any chance of normalcy.
She knelt down, brushing the matted hair away from his face, the gesture almost unconscious. He looked so young, so innocent. If she had a heart it would have broken for him, but she’d disposed of it years ago.
She pulled off the jacket she was wearing, bunched it up and put it beneath the child’s head. And then she hunkered down to wait.
It wasn’t a Citroën, it was a significantly ugly Opel, probably made nearby at the Spanish Opel factory, and she wondered if he’d gone out of his way to find something small and hideous. It was a bilious shade of green, two-door and tiny. Being cooped up with someone as tall as Killian was going to bring back all sorts of unpleasant memories. If she let it.
She waited until he’d put Mahmoud on the tiny backseat. He’d picked up her discarded jacket as well, and, after a brief glance at her, tucked it under the boy’s head again. She climbed in, her knees practically up to her chin, and glared at Killian. “Couldn’t you have managed to steal something a little more roomy?”
“The trick to stealing cars, my angel, is that you choose ones nobody’s looking for. Steal a Jaguar and half the country’s after you. Steal a rusted-out economy car and the police have better things to do. Stop complaining. You’ll be back to your Saab soon enough.”
She let the little shiver of ice slide down her back. “I’m no longer surprised by how much you know about me,” she said as he put the tiny car into gear and headed out into the morning light. “But I wonder why you bother to remember such mundane details.”
“Nothing about you is mundane. And I have a photographic memory. Everything is kept somewhere inside my head. Every word, every act, every touch, every taste.”
“Stop it.” Her voice was small and deadly.
“Yes, ma’am.” His was deceptively docile. “We’re heading for Bilbao, right?”
“Yes.”
“And what Lime does our ferry sail?”
She hadn’t told him it was the Bilbao to Portsmouth ferry, but it wasn’t that big a leap on his part, once she’d said they weren’t flying. “Late this afternoon. We have to pick up our paperwork by two.”
“Good. We should make it with time to spare. If you reach on the floor behind you there’s some food and coffee.”
“I don’t trust your coffee.”
“I wasn’t the one who drugged you last time—it was Samuel’s wife, and while I didn’t stop her, I didn’t necessarily order it. If you’d promise to stop nagging me I’d have no reason to drug you.”
She wasn’t going to bring up the other time he’d drugged her, so many years ago. Because she remembered every touch, every taste, as well. She reached in back, finding the paper sack. A thermos of coffee, fresh bread, cheese and olives. No cups—she was going to have to share. Put her mouth where his had been. Maybe she’d prefer to be drugged.
She took a deep slug of the coffee, full of cream and just a touch of sugar, just as she expected. then handed it to him. If he recognized her distaste he said nothing, simply pouring a good half of it down his throat before handing it back to her. With any willpower she’d have put the stopper back in and done without, but right now she needed coffee more than pride, so she drained it, waiting to see if she was about to pass out. Or die. She wouldn’t put poison past him.
She was rewarded with a ferocious growl from her empty stomach. “No drugs,” Killian said, his eyes on the road. “Now eat something and hand me the rest.”
She pulled apart the bread, reluctantly, for she could have devoured it all herself. Keeping a chunk in the bag for Mahmoud when he woke up, she handed the smaller of the two remaining pieces to Killian. The cheese was sharp and tangy, the olives rich, and she ate slowly, staring out at the countryside ignoring the man beside her for as long as he’d let her.
“You have a mole in your office.”
She jerked her head around. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d know if anyone was untrustworthy.”
The pilot was tipped off. Whoever paid Samuel took care of the plane, as well. You led someone to me.”
“They found you on their own. What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”
The pilot was chatty while he thought he had me trapped. Apparently he didn’t read those Uberwarlord rules, where you never brag about your wicked deeds to the hero because he’s likely to escape and make all hell break loose.”
“You’re not the hero.”
“No, I suppose not. Nevertheless, the pilot knew to expect you and me, though they had no idea Mahmoud would be with us. The same source paid off both the pilot and Samuel, and the arrangements were made five days ago. Just after I contacted your office.”
“Coincidence. If you’ll remember I had nothing to do with our going into Algeria. If you’d followed my plans we would have flown out of Mauritania and been back in London by now. Someone must have been watching you.”
“If we followed your plans we probably would have been dead several days
ago. I still have sources, and you’ve got someone in your operation who knows too much.”
“Don’t blame me for your screw up. I trust my associates with my life.”
“Fine.” he said, his tone cool. “But I don’t trust them with mine. Which is why we’re taking the ferry from Sanander, not Bilbao. I’m afraid it takes us into Plymouth, not Portsmouth.”
She froze. “I don’t want to go to Plymouth with you,” she said coolly.
“I know you don’t. Tough.”
“And how do you expect to get the proper papers?”
“Already taken care of, princess. I’m not giving anyone else a chance to take me down until I’m safe and sound in London, where I assume you’ll provide adequate protection. Where are you planning to put me up? I was thinking the Ritz-Canton would be nice.”
“And a little too visible, don’t you think? We have a number of safe houses around the city. as well as out in the countryside. It might not be quite up to your exacting standards, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m hardly a beggar. We’ve got a business arrangement, exchanging information for services rendered. I expected to be handsomely compensated.”
“You’ll be well compensated,” she said. Even though the words stuck in her throat, Harry Thomason would see that Serafin was well rewarded for his life of blood and death. At least her old boss wouldn’t have any moral qualms about arranging for the notorious operative’s future, he would see it as Killian did: a business arrangement, and all the blood spilled meant nothing. “Assuming the Intel you provide is useful. Well know if you’re lying, and we won’t be happy about it.”
“And of course I want to make you happy,” he said, his voice a low purr. Familiar. Unfamiliar. He’d talked to her in that low voice when they were in bed together, when she’d been drifting in and out of a daze that was half due to drugs, half to lust. She forced herself to look at him, to remind herself that he was a different person.
But in the morning light he looked far too much like the man she’d fallen in love with. His hair was darker, a little shorter, and there were lines bracketing his mouth and fanning out from his eyes. Somehow she thought they weren’t laugh lines. His skin was burnished dark from time spent in a hundred deserts, and the stubble of his beard had gray mixed in. but all in all he looked the same. Dark, mesmerizing eyes. Sensuous mouth, full of lies. And elegant, deadly hands. She looked away again, closing her eyes. He was Serafin the Butcher, she reminded herself. He was Killian, the assassin who’d lied to her, betrayed her and tried to kill her. He was the only man she’d ever believed she was in love with. He was her worst nightmare, her first kill, her nemesis from beyond the grave. She only hoped he was right, and that there was a mole in the Committee. Because then Killian would be dead, truly dead this time, and all she’d have to worry about was the security of her organization. A minor detail, compared to the bleeding wound that was Killian’s presence in her life. Bastien had been sent to kill him five years ago, and it had been one of his few failures. They’d tracked Serafin down to a small country in South America, wealthy from drug trafficking and oil deposits. The prevailing government had been controlled by a dictator named Ideo Llosa, and Serafin, soldier for hire, had been his second in command and enforcer. Bastien’s cover had been excellent—he posed as a dealer in specialized weapons, and Llosa had a problem with insurgents, rebels, and anyone who disagreed with him. Bastien was supposed to come in, make the deal for biological weapons, dispose of Serafin and Llosa and then disappear.
But instead he’d come back, admitting failure for what might have been the only time in his career, and Serafin had moved on, to continue his bloody deeds. Liosa had died anyway, brought down by an unknown assassin. Looking back, Isobel had wondered whether that was Bastien’s first sign of burnout. The first hint that he couldn’t keep on in his machinelike capacity. It had been a growing problem. In the past, operatives were killed in the line of duty or disposed of by Thomason’s brutal orders. No one was good enough to survive the amount of time it took to get burned out.
First Bastien, then Peter. Taka was getting close—it was only a matter of time before he wanted out of active work. At least he’d sent one of his tamer cousins to train.
As for Isobel herself, she’d been on the edge of disaster for longer than she could remember, and yet she still kept on. As she intended to do, until something stopped her.
But why had Bastien failed, that one time? He’d been tight-lipped, never giving a reason. but Isobel knew him too well to accept that the task had been too difficult. Bastien had been made for impossible missions.
No, there was something more to the story, something to do with the ruthless, lying, amoral monster who drove through the Spanish countryside. If she didn’t find out soon, it might be the death of her. And she wasn’t quite ready to die.
13
Mahmoud woke up about an hour into their drive, and Isobel was half tempted to jab him with Killian’s syringe. The boy pulled himself into a sitting position, arguing loud and long in incomprehensible Arabic, devouring every piece of food that was left in the car, including the Diet Coke that had somehow been among the provisions. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought Mahmoud was simply a variant of a cranky child, stuck in the back of a small car, demanding to know how much longer before they got to their destination.
But Mahmoud was as far removed from a whining child as a rattlesnake was, and Isobel kept her eyes forward as Killian talked to him. Didn’t he know it was better not to engage with someone who was bad- tempered and irrational? But then, child-rearing would have been missing in his life, as it had been in hers. Or had it been for him?
Mahmoud had lapsed into a blessed, sulky silence. “Did you ever marry?” she asked Killian.
He slanted a glance at her. Why do you want to know? Were you hoping I’d carry a torch for you during all these years?”
“Hardly. If you thought of me at all you probably wanted me dead. I’m just curious. Not much is known about the illustrious Serafin. Consider it part of your debriefing.”
“Three times.”
She refused to react. “Interesting,” she said. “At the same time, or were they serial wives? What happened to them—did you get tired of them and have them killed?”
“I try not to kill the women I have sex with. I learned long ago that it tended to leave a disturbing after effect. Fortunately, you weren’t so squeamish.”
“So what happened to them?”
“Maria Number One was killed by a car bomb in Sarajevo. Maria Number Two decided she’d do better with the man I was working for. Maria Number Three was murdered. Not by me.”
“They were all named Maria? Couldn’t you have been more selective?”
“Maria is a very common name in third world countries. I think Maria Number Two is still around somewhere in South America, but since I was still married to Maria Number One at the time, that marriage wasn’t legal. So in case you’re wondering, I think I’m available.”
She’d asked for it by bringing up such a stupid subject. Then again, the Committee needed to know everything they could about Killian-Serafin. If he had any ties, any connections.
“No thanks,” she said, rolling down the window to let some cool air into the car. It was a damp, chilly winter day, but the tiny car was suffocating. “It sounds as if being married to you was relatively unhealthy. At least you didn’t bring any children into the world.”
“Why do you assume that?”
She wasn’t expecting it. She’d managed an effortless calm through most of the time she’d been trapped with him, showing nothing but mild curiosity and annoyance. Her defenses, her weapons were powerful, and she’d learned the hard way not to let anything get to her. Vulnerability was a luxury she couldn’t afford. And she could only hope he didn’t hear her sharp, painful intake of breath. “Where are they?”
“Not they,” he said, his voice devoid of feeling. “Just one, Maria Number Three was
five months pregnant when she was killed. Someone trying to get to me, of course, but she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Isobel had to look at him, to see whether he was really as unfeeling as he seemed to be. His face gave away nothing. “Fin—”
“If you say you’re sorry for my loss I might hit you,” he said in an even voice. “It was long ago, and it’s of no importance. I was annoyed for a week or so, but then I moved on.”
“Annoyed?” She could almost believe him. The legendary Serafin would be annoyed. But this wasn’t the notorious monster sitting beside her. It was Killian. He’d overplayed his hand, trying to convince her just how ruthless he was.
“That may have been your first mistake,” she said finally.
If he was worried he didn’t show it. “I don’t make mistakes.”
“Are you serious? You’ve barely gotten out of your various career moves in one piece. If it hadn’t been for you, three hundred ethnic Albanians would have been butchered. If you hadn’t screwed up, Ideo Llosa would have wiped out entire cities. Your mistakes ruined the plans of some of the most vicious dictators of the last twenty-five years. And no one, not even Hitler himself, would consider the death of his child an annoyance. If nothing else, there’s the factor of pride.”
“Oh, I’m singularly devoid of pride. It gets in the way of doing business. And you can romanticize me all you want, princess. You can tell yourself I’m a cock-up who’s mourning his lost love and their unborn child, if that’s what makes you happy. Though I’d think you’d prefer me to be totally devoid of feeling.”
“I’d prefer honesty.”
He turned to look at her, and his smile was dazzling. “You may as well ask for the moon.”
They arrived at the resort city of Santander sometime in the afternoon, dumping the car in a busy alleyway and taking off on foot. Mahmoud could walk, and he seemed singularly unhappy to be deprived of any sort of weapon, but he kept up with them, silent, glowering. Isobel kept silent as well—she’d already ducked into a public loo to text Peter with their new arrival plans, but she didn’t dare wait long enough to receive a reply. She’d just have to hope things were still working efficiently at the London office. Thomason had been doing his best to interfere, but he was an ineffectual nuisance. He wouldn’t be able to distract Peter from getting done what needed to be done.