by Paula Graves
"Yes. I tried to sketch what I remembered about him."
"It's a good sketch "He sounded suddenly distant. "Can I borrow this?"
"Sure." She followed him as he strode quickly to the door. "Do you recognize him?"
He turned at the door to look at her. "He looks familiar. I'm going to show it around, see if anyone knows him."
"What about asking about this Hana?"
"I'll do that later." He was already halfway out the door,
"Maddox?"
He turned, his expression impatient,
"Be careful."
His dimples made a brief appearance. "Always am." Then he was gone, jogging down the corridor and turning the corner out of sight.
When an American citizen needed help in a foreign country, he usually went to the U.S, embassy or consulate. Most of the time, a diplomat worked out whatever problem a tourist might encounter, but for Maddox's purposes, a diplomat was useless. He needed a security guy.
In Mariposa, the Regional Security Officer at the U.S. consulate was an agent in his mid thirties named Nicholas Darcy. The son of a former U.S. diplomat to the United Kingdom, he'd spent the first twenty-two years of his life in London, attending Cambridge University and acquiring a British accent that subsequent years in the United States, training and working as a Diplomatic Security Service agent, had failed to eradicate.
Darcy had been a ladder climber at the DSS from the get-go, annoying his fellow agents in the worst way possible-by being better at his job than anyone else. Still, everyone, including Maddox, had to concede Darcy was damn good at what he did.
Unfortunately, that posed a problem for Maddox. What he needed was a guy who could be enticed to spill his guts for the right amount of money. Nick Darcy didn't fit the bill. But he knew the guy who could tell Maddox what he needed to know' about the bearded man in Iris Browning's sketch.
Part of Darcy's job as RSO entailed the care and feeding of local law enforcement, who provided the RSO and his security staff with the necessary auxiliary support to keep the embassy or consulate safe from outside dangers. Maddox was hoping he'd find the RSO doing a little early-morning public relations work in one of the coffee shops frequented by Mariposa's finest.
Maddox was in luck. At the third diner he tried, he found the tall, dark-haired RSO drinking coffee and sharing a plate of beigtiets with a couple of Sebastian cops. Darcy looked up as Maddox approached, his expression shifting from watchfulness to surprise.
"Heller."
Maddox smiled at the agent's look of barely veiled dismay. "Long time, no see, Darcy. Got a minute?"
Darcy's mouth pressed to a thin line of annoyance. In the native island patois, he asked the two local cops to excuse him and motioned for Maddox to join him at the cashier's kiosk. Darcy paid for his breakfast, as well as those of the Sebastian police officers, and led Maddox out into the warm morning air.
"What do you want?" Darcy asked as they walked toward the embassy complex a couple of blocks down the road.
"Information."
Darcy slanted a hard look at him. "I'm not in the information business."
"Of course you are."Maddox reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded sketch Iris had made the evening before. "I need you to answer something, for old times' sake."
Darcy stiffened. "We weren't mates. Maddox, I don't owe you anything for old times' sake."
Maddox tamped down the blackness coiling like a snake in his chest, gritting his teeth until the urge to lash out as Darcy passed.
"Then how about for the sake of an American citizen in need? Or did you forget about your loyalty to your country and your fellow citizens while you were sniffing down the kidney pie in old Blighty all those years?"
Darcy stopped midstep and wheeled to face Maddox.
"You certainly know how to relate to people in positions of influence. Heller. I really have no idea why the Marine Corps thought you might be a liability."
Ignoring the taunt, Maddox thrust the sketch at Darcy. "This man accosted an American citizen yesterday. He spoke with a German or Dutch accent and told her that he could help her find her missing friend. Recognize him yet?"
Darcy looked at the sketch, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He looked up at Maddox. "What do you want?"
Maddox lowered his voice to a lethal half whisper. "What I want to know, American citizen to American citizen, is what the hell the does he wants with Iris Browning"
Iris took a deep breath and dialed the number to St. Ignacio Hospital. If she wanted to find out where Sandrine was, she couldn't afford to ignore any possible leads. And Celia Shore could be a very important one.
The hospital receptionist patched her through to Celia Shore's room number. A male voice answered. "Yes?"
Iris cleared her throat. "I'd like to speak to Celia Shore. My name is Iris Browning. She asked to speak to me."
The pause on the other end of the line was so long that Iris thought she'd been disconnected. As she was about to hang up and redial, the man cleared his throat. "Who told you Miss Shore wants to speak to you?"
"His name is Maddox. I don't know his last name."
"It's Heller." the man said. "Maddox Heller."
Iris could tell the man didn't think much of Maddox. She stifled a smile. "Does Miss Shore want to talk to me?"
"I think she wanted to see you in person."
"I have a seminar this morning" Iris said, more quickly than she'd intended.
"You're attending the Cassandra Society conference?"
"Yes." she replied. "I understand Miss Shore was registered with the conference, as well."
"You should know that. She spoke the first afternoon." The man's voice deepened with suspicion.
"I didn't arrive until late the day before yesterday."
Good grief. Iris thought. Celia Shore was just a celebrity psychic, not the president. The man's defensiveness seemed a little overdone. Then again, the woman had nearly been killed yesterday. A little wariness was understandable.
"Miss Shore will be released from the hospital today. She plans to rest today and then attend the rest of the conference beginning tomorrow. Are you staying at the St. George?"
"Yes."
"Miss Shore will be in touch " A soft click ended the conversation.
Iris hung up the phone with a sigh.
Maddox had to hand it to Nicholas Darcy. The RSO had a world-class poker face. "I have no knowledge of anyone from the CIA working here in Mariposa. Even if I did, I couldn't discuss it with a civilian."
Darcy hit the final word a little hard, it was the only part of his pat answer that didn't sound as if it came straight from the diplomat's handbook.
"I don't exactly qualify as a civilian."
"Yes, you do." Darcy turned dismissively and started walking toward the consulate complex two blocks up the street.
Maddox caught up. "At least tell me if you've had any complaints about the Hotel St.George or an organization called the Cassandra Society."
Darcy turned his head at that, a frown creasing his brow. He started to speak but the trill of a cell phone interrupted. Darcy pulled out his phone. "Darcy." He listened for a moment. "Okay. I'll be there in five." He hung up. "I have to go."
"We're not finished here."
Darcy's cool gaze leveled with Maddox's, "Yes, we are."
Grimacing with frustration, Maddox folded the sketch Iris had made and stuck it in the pocket of his trousers. He pulled out his cell phone and tried Iris's room. No answer.
He hung up and straddled the Harley, taking a quick look at his watch. Almost nine. Maybe she'd decided to go to the conference after all.
THE opening session for the third day of the conference started at 9 a.m. Iris was waiting when the doors opened. She took a deep breath and entered the room.
Sharon Phelps and an associate sat at a small reception table at the front of the meeting hall. Sharon erected her with a smile and handed her a name tag. "Hi again, Iris! I'm so glad you decided to join
us for the sessions!"
"Thanks. Listen-did you get a chance to ask anyone about the focus group my friend is part of?"
"I'm pretty sure she and the others are probably at the Telarana facility. It's Dr.Grinkov's research laboratory here on Mariposa. I've never been there, but I think it's somewhere on the eastern side of the island."
Sharon lowered her voice. "I came across a list of the people who were invited to join the focus group" She pulled a sheet of paper from the notebook in front of her. "Don't tell anyone where you got this, okay?"
"I won't. Thanks." Taking the sheet of paper. Iris left the registration table. She glanced quickly at the list. There were eight names on the sheet.
Sandrine's was there. So was Celia Shore's. But there was no one on the list named Hana. She folded the paper quickly, tucked it into her purse and looked for a seat.
The conference room was set up with several tables lined up in rows. The handful of conference goers who'd arrived early had scattered about the room in groups of two and three. Iris pinned on her name tag and took a seat by herself near the back. She opened the notebook she'd bought the night before in the hotel gift shop.
The few Internet references she'd found about the Cassandra Society had raised a lot more questions than they'd answered. She got that it was a group devoted to paranormal research, with a focus on science. But what were the seminars all about? Was it all lecture oriented, or were the attendees supposed to interact or participate in experiments?
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Iris looked up at the sound of a man's voice and found herself looking into the dark, mysterious eyes of Tahir Mahmoud.
"No, it's not taken." she said.
He sat beside her. "Iris, isn't it?"
She managed a smile. "Nice to see you again, Tahir."
A sudden wave of hostility filled her chest, as heavy as dread. The soft scrape of chair legs on the floor drew her attention to her right, where Maddox Heller settled into the chair next to her. He gave her a polite smile, a warning in his eyes. She looked back to the front, trying not to show her surprise.
"Did you find your friend?" Tahir asked. "The one who was missing?"
She glanced at him. If Tahir was aware of the tension that Maddox's arrival had created in her, he didn't give any indication. "Not yet."
Tahir started rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. "I asked about the focus group Ms. Barksdale mentioned last night. Apparently Dr.Grinkov invited a small number of the conference attendees to form a special focus group off campus." He shrugged. "Perhaps your friend is there."
A sudden flood of blackness swamped her, so intense that she almost fell out of her seat. She clutched for Maddox's leg digging her fingers in. Dark emotion coursed through her. It was coming from Maddox.
She let go of his leg, turning her head slowly to look at him. He was staring at Tahir Mahmoud. She followed his gaze and saw a burn scar on the inside of Tahir"s left wrist. She looked back at Maddox, but he was staring forward, his jaw set.
The bitter taste of fear lingered on her tongue, but the darkness inside her eased, as if gathered up and buried away. She noticed a table along the side of the room where there were bottles of water lined up in a row.
She touched Tahir"s arm. "I'm suddenly feeling a little faint. I got too much sun yesterday, I think I'm still feeling the effects. Could I bother you to get me a bottle of water?"
"No bother at all." he assured her as he rose. He headed across the room to the refreshment table.
Iris turned to Maddox. "What are you doing here?"
"Crashed the party."
"Yes. I see that. What if you get caught?"
"I know the bouncer." He nodded toward the entrance, where a burly man with dreadlocks manned the door in a black suit.
"Reginald Samuels, head of hotel security. Hell of a shindig to warrant guard duty by the head honcho."
"You know everybody." She glanced toward the refreshment table, where Tahir was selecting a couple of water bottles. "Why don't you tell me what you know about Tahir Mahmoud?"
"I told you, I don't know anything about him." Maddox's tone was casual, but some of the anger she'd felt from him earlier seeped into his soul from wherever he'd hidden it.
"No, you know him." she said softly, watching as Tahir turned from the table and headed back toward her.
"Silly. Can't talk now, sugar Just pretend I'm not here."
Impossible, she thought, even if she weren't feeling everything black, he was thinking about Tahir Mahmoud. Maddox knew Tahir. Hostility oozed from his pores. Who was he? Why was Maddox denying knowledge of him?
Tahir reached her side and handed her a bottle of water. "Are you unwell? I could try to find a doctor-"
"No, I'm fine. Just thirsty, thank you."
Tahir sat beside her, his expression full of concern. But she didn't get concern from him. He wasn't a blank to her, exactly. She felt something coming from inside him. But it was sly and elusive. Impossible to pin down.
The seminar began a moment later, with a frizzy-haired woman dressed in a flowing black dress introducing her topic, the juxtaposition of science and historical myths such as vampirism, lycanthropy and angelic visitations.
Iris might have found the lecture mildly interesting, especially the section on herbology and its place in both science and myth, but she found herself too distracted by the tangle of sensations coming from Maddox to pay full attention.
She stole a glance at him and found him still staring at the scar on Tahir's wrist, his brow creased and his body tense. What did the scar mean to him? It enraged him on some level-that much was clear-but it scared him, too. To her relief, the lecture ended within an hour and the conference director gave them a thirty-minute break before the next session.
Tahir turned to her. "It has been a pleasure seeing you again. Iris. I hope we will see each other later." He gave a slight, formal bow and headed toward the exit.
As Iris started in the same direction, Maddox caught her by the wrist. "You're not following him."
She looked up at him. "What?"
"Tahir Mahmoud." Maddox said. "You're going to stay the hell away from him."
Chapter Seven
Iris pulled her arm away from Maddox's grasp. "I wasn't following him. But if I wanted to, I wouldn't let you stop me." She started walking toward the restrooms again.
Maddox caught up with her. "I don't trust him."
"Yeah, get that." she said, not slowing down. "But I don't usually let other people tell me who I can be around."
He closed his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her to face him. "I know you don't really know me. I know I don't look like someone you'd want advice from. But I know trouble, and that dude's trouble. Stay the hell away from him."
"Funny. Someone told me the same thing about you."
She felt an old, dark pain pouring into her. Maddox dropped his hand from her neck, and the pain began to fade.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Also good advice." He abruptly stalled toward the exit.
She let him go, despite a strange, pulling sensation in the center of her heart telling her to go after him and apologize. She'd hurt him with her careless words, hurt him in a way she hadn't been aware was possible.
Still, she shouldn't leave the seminar, should she? She had too many questions about Sandrine's disappearance, and the people in this room might be able to answer the. She started at Maddox's retreating back, unsure what to do.
So much for playing knight in shining armor, Maddox thought blackly, striding through the hotel lobby toward the exit. He'd gone above and beyond for Iris Browning. Fat lot of good it had done him.
And now, thanks to the scar on Tahir Mahmoud's wrist, he couldn't walk away from Iris Browning, no matter how much she might want him to.
Three years and a whole lot of nasty water under a rickety bridge had passed since that August day when Kaziristani rebels with a group called al-Adarhad laid siege to the American
embassy in Tablis. Maddox had been off duty at the time, sleeping off a night shift guarding the embassy gate. It had gone down so fast, nobody had been prepared.
The aftermath had changed his life forever. A lot of his memories of the day were painted in water-color hues, blurred by time and adrenaline and fear. But the one thing he remembered with crystalline clarity was watching an al-Adar terrorist with a black kaffiyeh wrapped around his face slit the throat of translator Teresa Miles.
He dreamed about that moment almost every' night. The sounds, the smells, the colors and the sensations were as vivid now as they had been three years ago. The quicksilver glint of the knife. The crimson thread bisecting Teresa's long, slender neck. The iron smell of her blood as it flowed from the wound. The pale half-dollar-sized patch of scarred flesh on the wrist of her assassin.
Part of him wanted to believe it was coincidence, that the man who'd killed Teresa hadn't been sitting mere feet away from him today, alive and well and living free. Another part of him hoped Tahir Malirnoud really was the al-Adar assassin who'd killed Teresa Miles. Because Maddox wanted nothing more in this life than to mete out justice to the bastard his own way.
"Mr. Heller."
Maddox gave a start, sucked out of his black thoughts by the sound of his name. He turned to find Charles Kipler near the front desk, looking uncomfortable in an Italian silk suit the color of a stormy sky.
Maddox took a deep breath, shaking off the ghosts of the past, and pasted on a smile as he crossed to the front desk. "Chuck! Did you know it's ninety degrees outside?" He flicked Kipler's lapel. "You're in the middle of paradise, man, but you look like you're going to a funeral. Lighten up."
"Thank you for the sartorial commentary."
Maddox laughed. "Sartorial commentary? I like that. You're a funny guy. Chuck. Here's a little tip-there's a gift shop just down the hall. I bet they've got a nice "Mariposa is for Suck-Ups" T-shirt in your size-"
"Actually I'm here to see Iris Browning." Kipler cut him off. "She's not answering her room phone. Have you seen her?"