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It had been a strange day. He opened one eye, glancing at the kid. He was sitting cross-legged on the mattress Reno had dragged out for him. The second bedroom was crowded with discarded furniture, but he could at least get out the mattress. Mahmoud would have been happy enough sleeping on the hard floor—clearly he’d slept in far worse places—but Reno had a soft spot for the kid. Besides, he probably wasn’t going to sleep at all— he was going to stay up all night playing video games. It had been love at first sight: one taste of Mortal Kombat and the boy was hooked. Reno had battled him for hours, opponent after opponent. Sometimes he let Mahmoud win, at other times he’d simply slap his character to the ground and rip out his spinal cord. Reno didn’t let himself dwell on the eerie thought that Mahmoud would have lived in a world like that. Well, the ripping out of spinal cords was not usually seen outside of a video game, but the blood had been real for him.
He looked relaxed, happy, with his newly spiked purple hair, rude T-shirt and ripped jeans that had cost more than a child soldier would make in a lifetime. And they’d figured out how to communicate, a crazy mix of French, English. Arabic, Japanese and video game terms. After Iwo hours of silence Mahmoud had started talking. and he hadn’t stopped, as characters battled on the HD television screen and fake blood spattered.
Reno understood only part of it, but it hadn’t mattered. Mahmoud had needed to talk, and he listened. They moved from fight games to first person shooters, and Reno found himself hopelessly outclassed by a kid fifteen years younger than he was, something he wasn’t about to put up with. Older brother kindness could only go so far, and he moved him on to RPGs. fantasy role-playing games where Mahmoud could wander through enchanted forests, kill trolls, turn into a wizard and collect potions. The kid was in heaven, and Reno could retire to his bedroom in peace. They’d already had a solemn exchange of presents. Japanese style. He’d given Mahmoud his most prized possession, his handheld game system that was still in beta mode, unavailable on the open market and so advanced it made PS3 look like an Atari. And Mahmoud had given him a string of beads, cracked, ancient, worthless. The beads had belonged to his foster sister. He’d taken them from her dead body, and had sworn on them to kill the man who’d murdered her.
He’d given them to Reno, along with his blood oath of revenge, finally letting go. And Reno, cold, unsentimental punk that he considered himself to be, had wrapped them around his wrist, knowing he would carry them with him until the day he died.
He could hear nothing from the floor below. He’d never even realized there was a closed-off living space down there—he was just glad Peter Madsen hadn’t decided to put him in it during his training period. England was bad enough; being in a prison wouldn’t help.
Madame Lambert had looked like a different woman than the cold, efficient robot she’d appeared to be the only other time he’d been in England. But then, that had been miles away from the plain, middle-aged cult follower that had been the first disguise he’d seen her in. Maybe the robot was a disguise as well, and the bloody, torn and troubled woman who’d been waiting for them with an unconscious man and a furious Mahmoud was the real Madame Lambert.
Normally Reno wouldn’t care. It was none of his business. But it didn’t look as if he’d be getting back to Tokyo anytime soon, and he held the firm belief that if he was going to do something, even if coerced into it, then he should do it completely. And in order to accomplish that, he needed to understand the people he worked with.
What had she been doing all day with the man she’d drugged? He was more than just a hostile—Reno could figure that out by the expression in her eyes when she’d thought no one was looking. They’d dumped his unconscious body on the small bed in the closed-off apartment, and she’d stood there, looking down at him with an unreadable expression on her face.
Maybe she’d killed him at some point during this long day. But then, he would have been called to help Madsen move the body. The Committee’s operatives had gone undercover, and right now there seemed to be only the three of them.
Reno hoped Taka was looking out for himself, that son of a bitch. He was the one who’d arranged to have him shipped out of the country, and while there was no doubt Reno had made the mistake of losing his temper with some very unforgiving people, it also had something to do with the fact that Taka’s sister-in-law was coming for a visit. He and his wife kept Reno as far away from July Hawthorne as they could, even if it meant exiling him halfway across the world.
He pushed himself up off the floor, considering his annoyance with his entire family, women, the Committee. England and life in general. “I’m going to bed,” he told Mahmoud.
The boy simply nodded, staring fixedly as his video game character rode a dragon through a flame-colored sky.
“Don’t stay up all night,” Reno said, and then could have kicked himself. He’d turned into an old man. The kid could stay up for days if he wanted to, playing games, and be none the worse for it. Reno had done it often enough.
Empty Red Bull cans were piled high in the trash bin; boxes of cereal, Chinese take-out containers, bags of chips were littered all over the place. The boy hadn’t stopped eating. Reno had taught him how to use chopsticks rather than his hands, but it had been harder convincing him not to leave them stuck in the rice. Mahmoud had argued with perfect logic that it should only be bad luck to leave them stuck in Japanese rice, not Chinese. But then he’d carefully removed them.
No, the kid was okay. Tomorrow, maybe he’d take him to a video game arcade and let him try Guitar Hero and DDR. Or steal a fast car and drive out into the countryside, and maybe they could find a castle or two.
At least Reno was no longer so damn bored.
Mahmoud made no sound when they came for him. The struggle was silent, muffled, and Reno wouldn’t have woken up if they hadn’t knocked over the bin of soda cans. He came flying through the darkness toward the shadowed men, and he took out two of them with the sheer element of surprise. But then he heard the crack of his arm breaking, as if from a distance, and felt a flash of blinding pain. Then nothing at all.
Bastien Toussaint glanced around the pristine offices of Spence-Pierce, wondering what the hell was happening behind the double-thick walls. It was three in the morning, and he wasn’t any more eager to face Chloe than Madsen was to deal with his very annoyed amazon wife. They weren’t much further than they’d been when they’d started out that morning, and there was no way either of them was going to stop until they figured out what the hell was going on. So far they’d come up with bugger all.
Bastien sank back in the chair, taking the mug of coffee Madsen offered him, liberally laced with Scotch. He had no fears the Scotch would slow him down—he was riding on pure adrenaline, as if the last three years of peace had never happened. Old habits died hard, he thought, looking at the high-tech arsenal Peter had laid out on the teak desk.
“You want to tell me why you never thought it important to share the fact that Josef Serafin was CIA” Peter said, absently rubbing his bad leg.
Bastien shrugged. “We had an arrangement. Thomason sent me to Central America to kill both Serafin and his boss. Ideo Llosa, the head of the Red Terror. Once I made Serafin, he agreed to take care of the other half of my mission. It was why he was there in the first place. I left him to it. The question is, why did the CIA want him to make contact with the Committee? Why stay under deep cover?”
“I can think of one good reason. They’ve never liked the fact that we don’t have the same political agenda they do. Most of the powers-that-be in the American government think they know what’s best for the world, and the Committee doesn’t always agree.”
“Don’t we feel the same way?” Bastien said. “We don’t willingly share Intel with the CIA any more than they share it with us. You’d think we’d learn to work together.”
“Not in this lifetime,” Peter said.
Bastien took a sip of his coffee. “Probably not. I expect they sent Serafin in to try to take us d
own.” He didn’t like the way he’d automatically slipped into “us” mode. He was no longer part of the Committee, and never would be again. “His real name is Killian, by the way.”
“Thomason said he and Isobel had a history.”
“Is that old fart still around? I thought he was put out to pasture long ago.” Toussaint picked up one of the smaller guns, weighing it in his hand. He was more used to a hammer than a gun nowadays, and he preferred it that way. But someone had come after him, and he had no choice. And he was going to blow the son of a bitch’s head off, when he’d promised Chloe he would never kill again.
Shit, he’d broken that promise a few days ago when those men had invaded his house and threatened his family. And she hadn’t said a word of reproach. At this point she was probably ready to kill someone herself, but the least he could do was take care of it for her. She didn’t need the darkness on her soul that would never leave his.
“He’s still around, still a pain in the butt. He said Isobel and Serafin have a past, but he didn’t say anything about Serafin being CIA.”
Bastien set his coffee down, very slowly. “You know, I wonder why good men and women are being killed, and a piece of shit like Thomason gets to retire and live out his life in peace and luxury. Why don’t they go after the people who deserve to die?”
“Are you asking me a philosophical question?” Peter drawled. “Because I don’t think fate or God have much to do with it. I don’t believe in fate or God, or anything at all, and neither do you.”
“You spend a lot of time trying to convince yourself of that?” Bastien asked. “Give it up. We both know otherwise.” Before Peter could protest, he moved on. “And I’m not talking fate. I’m talking practicalities. Thomason’s made a hell of a lot of enemies over the years, including just about everyone who ever worked for him. Operatives are being picked off, one at a time, and no one’s going anywhere near Thomason. Why not?”
Peter slowly turned his head. “You think Thomason could be behind this? For God’s sake, why?”
“He’s not the kind of man who’d give up power easily. I was surprised he’d let Isobel take over.”
“He wasn’t given a choice in the matter.”
Bastien closed his eyes for a moment. “I think we need to pay Mr. Thomason a visit.”
“Sir Harry. He’s been knighted for his service to the crown.”
“Christ,” Bastien muttered. “You’re sure he doesn’t know about the secret room?”
Only Isobel and I know about it. And now Reno and you.”
“And no one’s realized that these offices only fill up half the floor?”
“Not even Harry.”
“Then we’re going to need to inform him. And find out exactly what he’s been doing and who he’s been talking to during the last few years.”
“It’s not Thomason,” Peter said, not sounding convinced. “It can’t be.”
“We’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, do we need to check on Isobel? Make sure she and Killian haven’t killed each other?”
“Why would they?”
“You tell me. I haven’t seen her in three years.”
Peter grimaced. “I admit she’s been having a hard time recently. You know what this job does to people. I’ve been worried about her.”
A brief grin flashed across Bastien’s face. “I never thought you’d be worried about anything but your own ass.“
“And my wife’s ass,” Peter reminded him.
“And a very nice ass it is.”
“Watch it,” Peter said.
“Not as nice as Chloe’s,” Toussaint added. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. We’ll leave Madame Lambert and Killian in the room while we—” He stopped abruptly. “What was that?”
“That thumping noise? It couldn’t have come from the apartment—things are sealed so tightly you could have a jackhammer going in there and we wouldn’t hear. It can’t be the stairwell, because it’s rigged. It probably came from overhead. Reno’s a noisy little bugger. Maybe he’s teaching Killian’s little buddy some karate moves.”
Another thump, heavier, and Bastien was out of his chair, Peter right behind him.
The door to Reno’s flat was open, though the room was lit only by the eerie glow of the wide-screen television. Video game characters were paused, pulsing, waiting for someone to move them, but there was no sign of Mahmoud or Reno.
Bastien switched on the light and swore. There was blood, too much blood, and Reno’s body was sprawled out on the carpet, his arm at an odd angle, his head in an ever-spreading pool of blood.
And Mahmoud was gone.
Sir Harry Thomason lit his cigar, puffing slowly, majestically. He’d taken his grandfather’s gold pocket watch from the family safe, the one given to him by Winston Churchill himself. Harry was wearing it in his waistcoat pocket, and it felt good, snug against his belly. It was four o’clock in the morning, an ungodly time to be awake, but things were coming to a head, and he was too excited to sleep. Vindication was thick in the air, along with the sleet and rain.
Stolya and his men were back already, the child with them. One of them was dead—they’d dumped his body in a ditch on their way back—and another was unconscious and unlikely to revive. That Jap punk must have put up more of a fight than they’d expected. But Stolya said he was dead as well, so there’d be no more complications.
The boy was locked in one of the bunker rooms, still clinging to his stupid video game. Stolya had wanted to take it from him, but Thomason told him to leave him alone. It would keep the brat occupied, less of a nuisance. If Stolya wanted it he could wait until he killed the boy. That would be happening before long, as soon as they got their quarry in place.
Once Serafin knew the child had been taken he’d come after him, though Thomason was damned if he knew why. Someone Like Josef Serafin shouldn’t care about one less child. But he’d kept the kid with him like an albatross around his neck, and Thomason was banking on him following.
And Isobel would come after Serafin. She was a perfectionist, never left a job unfinished. Her job had been to bring Serafin in, debrief him, and nothing but death would stop her.
Astonishing that she’d managed to avoid it so many times in the last few days. His traps had been well set, and Stolya was one of the best, from a long line of Russian military who made an automaton like Isobel Lambert seem made of sentimental mush.
There’d be no more mistakes. Madsen was a thorough man, and once he found the child had been taken and his new recruit murdered, he’d go straight to his boss. Thomason didn’t need Peter to lead them to Serafin and Isobel—his enemies would come to him. Making the thing so much neater.
He looked out the leaded-glass windows in the library of his country house. It had been in his family for generations, and though he’d had to sell off some of the farms, he still maintained a goodly portion of land. Including the network of tunnels that had served as bunkers during World War II, when his father had been one of Churchill’s staunchest supporters. They’d run all sorts of covert operations from the tightly sealed rooms, and unlike the empty halls in the bunkers at Dover Castle, these were still secret. Stolya and his men had been living there for the past three months, planning, training. The brat was locked in one of the whitewashed cement rooms.
That was where Isobel and Serafin would die, as well. Harry hoped Stolya would make it hurt like hell, but in the end, he really didn’t care. The Russian was smart and experienced, but he had no idea that those tunnels and bunkers had been booby-trapped. The police would think the explosion was a gas leak in an abandoned section of Sir Harry’s estate, and no one would have any reason to comb the rubble for bodies.
No, it was all coming to fruition. He would have liked to be in at the kill, but he’d waited a long, long time for this kind of satisfaction. It would be worthless if his presence did something to endanger its success.
Tomorrow afternoon there’d be a huge, collapsed section of earth in the west field.
Both Isobel and Serafin would have disappeared, leaving Madsen behind to help clean up the mess. Harry was rethinking his decision to get rid of Madsen—he could find work for a man like him. Peter was an unsentimental individual, cold as ice, and he could be relied upon to do what needed to be done, with no squeamishness.
It was a shame Bastien Toussaint had disappeared, but he was a bit of unfinished business that could always be dealt with later.
For the time being, the Committee was almost back in hand. And some night, very soon, Harry would take his King Charles spaniels and stroll out to the sunken field and spit.
He was too old and dignified to dance on their grave. But he could count on the dogs to do their business, and that would have to suffice.
He’d step in and save the Committee. And with any luck, in a few years the Queen’s Honours List would include his life peerage. “Lord Harry” was so much nicer than a paltry “Sir Harry.”
In the meantime, he needed to exercise all the patience he had at his command. The trap was baited and set.
He just had to wait.
21
The bed was very small. Killian was very large. Long legs and arms wrapped around her as he slept, and she should feel suffocated, trapped. She didn’t.
Her body hurt. He hadn’t meant to hurt her—in fact, she was probably to blame for it. She’d pushed him. He’d pushed her. They’d done everything she could think of and then things she’d never imagined, as the long, endless hours stretched into the night and beyond, and she’d taken him every way she could. And now she was lying in his arms, entwined with him, her body aching, her soul hurting, her heart ready to explode. They’d had rough sex, kinky sex, silly sex, deliciously nasty sex. And then, God help her, they’d made love. He’d moved deep inside her body, his eyes looking into hers, his hands cradling her face with devastating gentleness, and he’d been motionless as he came inside her. And then he’d said, “I love you.”