First, she’d verify with the authorities here on Mont St. Michael that she was the driver of the vehicle that had been swept out to sea. She’d need statements from them and other witnesses as to what happened to the car when she contacted the rental agency. Then she’d call the U.S. embassy and find out how to obtain a temporary passport. After that, she’d get American Express to replace her lost traveler’s checks. She’d also check with them about travel insurance and coverage for her lost suitcase and clothing.
Relieved to have a plan, Mallory turned to the man beside her. “Would you be willing to provide a written statement detailing how I, uh, lost the car?”
“Sure.”
She swept a hand toward the stairs leading down to the village. “I need to let whoever’s in charge around here know that was my vehicle. Then I need to make some calls. You don’t happen to have a cell phone with you, do you?”
Something flickered in his cool gray eyes. Mallory thought it might have been amusement, but it was gone before she could be sure.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Would you mind if I use it?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks. Again,” she added, embarrassed now by the memory of her less-than-cordial response when he’d tossed the tipsy tourist into the horse trough.
If he remembered it, he gave no sign. Matching his stride to hers, he accompanied her to the stairs leading to the exit from the hilltop abbey.
“My name is Cutter Smith, by the way.”
Mallory hesitated. She could hardly refuse to provide her name after all he’d done for her, but anticipation of his reaction when he connected her to the headlines made her cringe inside.
“I’m Mallory Dawes.”
“Nice to meet you, Mallory. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”
His grip on her elbow was warm and sure and strong. His expression didn’t telegraph so much as a flicker of recognition. Relieved, Mallory flashed him a smile.
“You and me both.”
Chapter 4
Cutter had suspected she’d be a looker when she jettisoned her sour expression, but he’d underestimated the result by exponential degrees.
When Mallory Dawes smiled, she was more than mere eye candy. She was all warm, seductive woman. The smile softened her mouth and gave her cinnamon eyes a sparkling glow. It also damned near made Cutter miss his footing on the steep stairs.
Feeling as though he’d taken a hard fist to his chest, he recovered enough to escort her down a million or so zigzagging stairs and through the village to the main entrance. Mallory halted just outside the massive barbican gate, surveying the scene.
“I can’t believe this. It’s so…so surreal.”
Cutter had to agree with her. The tide had swept in with a vengeance. Beyond the gate, the causeway shot straight and narrow across a broad expanse of silver-gray water. Except for that man-made strip of concrete, Mont St. Michel was completely cut off from the rest of France.
A large crowd lined the western edge of the causeway. Most were tourists busy clicking away with their cameras. Others looked like locals. Gesturing extravagantly, they shouted encouragement as a wrecker battled valiantly to keep Tour Bus 57 from being swept out to sea. They’d managed to attach tow chains to the bus and had it strung like a giant whale while it slowly took on water.
As Cutter and Mallory watched, transfixed, the sea reached the level of its windows and poured in through several that had been left open. The bus sank right before their eyes and settled in eight or ten feet of water, with only its top showing.
The tourists continued to shoot photo after photo. A man whose white shirt and nametag suggested he was the tour bus driver paced back and forth. Flinging his hands in the air and gesticulating wildly, he poured out a stream of impassioned French to a uniformed gendarme.
The officer took notes in a black notebook, somehow managing to look sympathetic and supremely bored at the same time. Cutter guessed he probably dealt with drivers of sunk or missing vehicles several times a week and had little sympathy for idiots who ignored warning signs and loudspeaker announcements.
Mallory had obviously formed that same impression. Chewing on her lower lip, she turned to Cutter. “This could get dicey. How’s your French?”
“I can order a beer and ask directions to the bathroom. How’s yours?”
“Two years in college. I can find my way around, but I never learned the proper phrase for ‘My car is now at the bottom of the ocean.’”
“I think he’ll get the drift.”
“Hope so.”
Actually, Cutter could communicate fairly fluently with authorities on several different continents. He’d already decided how to capitalize on this situation, however, and his plan didn’t include making things easy for Ms. Dawes. Accordingly, he stayed in the background when she approached the police officer.
“Excusez-moi.”
“Oui, mademoiselle?”
“Ma voiture, uh, été perdue.”
At his blank look, she fell back on English and the universal language of hand gestures.
“My car. It’s gone. Out there.”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” Heaving a long-suffering sigh, the officer hefted his notebook and pen. “Tell me, please, the license number.”
“I don’t know the license number.”
“The make and year?”
“It was a Peugeot. A little one. Blue.”
The gendarme was too well trained to roll his eyes, but it was obvious to everyone present he wanted to.
“You have rented this car, yes?”
“Yes. From an agency at the Paris airport.”
“We shall call the rental agency and get the information I must have for my report. This way, s’il vous plaît.”
The glance Dawes threw Cutter’s way sent a spear of intense satisfaction through him. He was an ally now. No longer a stranger, not quite a friend, but a familiar face in a sea of trouble. Ms. Dawes didn’t know it, but they were about to get a whole lot better acquainted.
He nodded encouragement as she accompanied the gendarme to the police van parked at midpoint on the causeway. While the officer got on his radio and requested a connection to an operator at the Paris airport, Cutter eased out of sight at the rear of the van and made a call of his own.
Mike Callahan took his succinct report of the sinking of the Peugeot along with the request he draw on Lightning’s particular expertise.
On the other side of the Atlantic, Mike whipped around to check the electronic status board on the wall behind him. The blue light beside the director’s name indicated Nick was alone and at his desk downstairs.
“Lightning’s on scene,” Mike advised Cutter. “I’ll get back to you in ten.”
“Roger that.”
Shoving back from the console containing an array of screens and phones that would have made his counterparts in the CIA and FBI turn green with envy, Mike strode toward the elevator. The titanium-shielded bullet zoomed him down three stories with stomach-bouncing efficiency.
Grimacing at his reflection in the highly reflective door, Mike scrubbed a hand over his cheeks and chin. He’d been at the control desk without break since the op had kicked off. No big deal compared to some of the stretches he’d pulled. Still, he could have scraped off his whiskers during the down hours between contacts with Slash. There was a reason OMEGA maintained sleeping quarters, shower facilities and a fully-equipped gym for controllers and their backups.
Mike’s mouth twisted. Hell! Who was he kidding? He’d never given a thought to his whiskers before. Nor had any other male operative, until a certain blue-eyed babe with a killer smile and a body to match had volunteered to fill in for the recuperating Elizabeth Wells.
He could see Gillian now, courtesy of the hidden cameras that made regular sweeps of the elegant first-floor offices. Although they appeared empty of visitors, Mike pressed a button to signal he wanted entry and waited for Lightning’s tempora
ry assistant to give him access.
Okay, he lectured himself sternly as the elevator door whooshed open. All right. No need to get his shorts in a bunch. He was thirty-five years old, for God’s sake. He’d spent the past seven years as an OMEGA operative. When not dodging bullets, he trained sharpshooters for a list of agencies that read like a governmental alphabet soup.
No damned reason his insides should turn to mush because Adam Ridgeway’s daughter swiveled around in her chair to greet him.
“Hi, Mike.”
“Hi, Gillian-with-a-J.”
It was a stupid joke, one he’d pretty well worn out in the years since Adam had brought his coltish teenaged daughter to the shooting range and she’d solemnly introduced herself as Gillian, spelled-with-a-G-but-pronounced-with-a-J.
The teenager had gone on to graduate magna cum laude from Georgetown, had landed a job at the State Department and snared a plum first assignment at the American Embassy in Beijing. Daddy’s connections had no doubt had something to do with that. Mike suspected her Uncle Nick had probably weighed in, as well. Now Gillian was home between assignments, filling in for Elizabeth Wells for a few months and making Mike’s life a living hell.
He was too old for her, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. Too damned rough around the edges. She’d grown up in the country-club set. He preferred not to think about the cesspool he’d sprung from. Rumor had it that she was getting snuggly with some buttoned-down Ivy League type, and that he was the reason she’d decided to take this hiatus before accepting another overseas assignment. That alone should have prevented Mike from going hard and tight when Gillian asked what she could do for him.
Should have, but didn’t.
Ruthlessly suppressing several inappropriate thoughts of what he’d like her to do for him, he growled out a terse reply.
“I need to see Nick.”
“Sure.” Crossing one knee over the other, she reached for the intercom. “Hang on a sec.”
Sweat popped out on Mike’s palms. The girl—woman!—was all leg. Damned if she wasn’t well aware of it, too.
Jilly hid a smile as she buzzed her godfather and honorary uncle. She knew she shouldn’t tease Mike. Her father, mother and godfather would all lace into her if they had any idea she’d deliberately let her skirt slide up. Or that she was taunting an operative with Mike Callahan’s reputation.
Problem was, she’d nursed a world-class crush on Callahan since he’d positioned her in front of him, wrapped his arms around her, and helped her line up a paper target in the sights of a Walther PPK. She just might have to take a refresher course, Jilly mused as Nick picked up.
“Hawkeye needs to see you,” she advised.
“Send him in.”
Exercising severe mental discipline, Mike put the long-legged temptress out of his head and gave his boss a quick update. Lightning’s reaction was one of amusement.
“The car sank?”
“Like a rock. Slash says he saw it go under, taking Dawes’s suitcase, passport and traveler’s checks with it.”
“I’ve been to Mont St. Michel a good number of times. Amazing what tourists leave in their cars while they trudge up to the abbey.”
Every OMEGA agent knew the story. Nick Jensen, born Henri Nicolas Everaud, had once run numbers and picked pockets in his native France. He’d also offered to pimp for Maggie Sinclair, Gillian’s mother, during a long-ago op. Judging by the small smile that flitted across his face, he still had a hankering for the good ol’ days.
“What about the disk?”
“It’s still in the vehicle,” Mike advised, “and sending signals.”
“Does Slash think this business with the car was intentional? That the Russian will attempt an underwater retrieval?”
“If that’s the plan, Slash doesn’t believe Dawes was in on it. He says she’s genuinely upset. Apparently,” Mike added with a grin, “she’s turned to him for help.”
“I’m not going to ask how he managed that!”
“He wants to play the Good Samaritan and keep her on a string as long as possible. I’ve already made a call to State. Dawes won’t get a replacement passport any time soon. I’ll work American Express when I get back upstairs. What I need from you is a recommendation for a good spot for Slash to go to roost in the area.”
“I know just the place.”
His enigmatic smile returning, Nick lifted the phone.
“Jilly, please get me Madame Yvette d’Marchand.”
“The shoe designer?”
“That’s her.” He checked his watch. “She’s probably at her Paris office, on the Boulevard St. Germain. If not, her secretary will know where she can be reached.”
Mike walked out of Nick’s office a few minutes later with directions to a seaside villa and assurances that its staff would be primed and ready to receive Monsieur Cutter Smith and companion.
Gillian-with-a-J gave him a wave and another glimpse of those mile-long legs. Mike’s jaw had locked by the time the elevator door swished shut.
“A villa?”
Cutter threw a quick glance at the police van to make sure Mallory was still engaged with the gendarme.
“I was thinking more in terms of a hotel room where I could maintain close surveillance.”
“So was I,” Hawkeye relayed, “but Lightning says this place is airtight. The owner ran a string of high-class call girls until she married one of her clients and he set her up in another line of business. She’s since made millions as a fashion designer. Lightning says she’s an avid art collector, and has all of her homes equipped with start-of-the-art surveillance. You won’t have to worry about security.”
“What’s my cover?”
“You’re a wine broker, in France for the fall tastings and lot auctions. A friend of a friend knows the villa’s owner. She offered to let you use it as a base while you search out select vintages in the Calvados and Loire regions for your extremely discriminating clients.”
“Hell, I don’t know Calvados from Calvin Klein. You’d better zap me a short course in French wineries.”
“It’ll be waiting for you at the villa.”
“Roger that. Gotta go. The target just parted company with our local gendarme and looks ready to bite nails.”
Not just bite them, Cutter decided as he slipped the phone into his pocket. Chew them into little pieces.
“Problem?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” she ground out. “The rental agency says they have to check with their insurance company before they can authorize another vehicle. They’ve also put a hold on my credit card until full damages and liability are assessed.”
She raked back her hair, threading the silky strands through her fingers.
“Looks like I’m stuck here until American Express comes through. May I use your phone?”
Hawkeye had promised to take care of American Express; Cutter needed to give him time to work it.
“Sure, but you’ll need something to write with once you get hold of the information. I’ve got a pen in my car. It’s right over there.”
He lowered the windows to let the sea breeze in while she struggled with the information operator. She couldn’t know every word was being recorded, or that Cutter derived a sardonic enjoyment from her mounting frustration.
“I know I should have made a record of the check numbers,” she said after a short exchange with whomever she’d reached, “but I didn’t. Can’t you look me up in the computer?”
She waited, tapping her borrowed pen against the notepad Cutter had thoughtfully provided.
“You did! Thank God!”
The happy grin she zinged Cutter’s way lit up her face. Seconds later, the grin collapsed.
“No, I can’t come to the Paris office to present my passport as identification. I’m currently without cash and any means of transportation. I’m also without passport.”
Another lengthy pause.
“Excuse me, but we’re not communicating here. It does
n’t matter where the closest American Express office is. I don’t have the money to get to Paris or Nantes or Marseilles and I’ve lost my passport along with my traveler’s checks.”
Her expression grew more thunderous by the second.
“Yes, I understand you’re not authorized to fork over the funds without proper identification. Can’t I go to a bank or post office? Or a notary. You have notaries in France, don’t you? He or she could verify my ID from my driver’s license and fax you the verification. No. No, I don’t. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Hold on.”
Her eyes stormy, she appealed to Cutter.
“He has to get authorization from his superiors to accept a notarized signature. It may take a little time. He needs a number where he can contact me.”
“Give him mine.”
Magnanimously, Cutter jotted it down for her. She relayed it to the clerk and snapped the cell phone shut. Her glance strayed to the island looming just yards away.
“Lord, I hope there’s a notary somewhere on that pile of rock.”
He let her down gently. “You might have to look farther afield. I read somewhere that Mont St. Michel has only about fifty or so permanent residents.”
He made that up to twist the screws a little tighter. It worked. Dawes’s muttered expletive would have done any of the OMEGA operatives proud. Glancing sideways, she caught Cutter’s grin and colored.
“Sorry. I’m, uh, a little rattled by all this.”
“Not to worry,” he chuckled. “I’ve heard worse.”
Mallory would bet he had. His expertly tailored sports coat and Italian loafers shouted money, but she’d seen the man in action. He’d handled the beefy tourist who’d accosted her with unruffled ease. She suspected he hadn’t come by those powerful shoulders working out in a gym. Then there were those awful scars….
Wondering how he’d acquired them, she flipped up his cell phone again. The sun was a red ball slipping toward the sea. She’d better finish her calls and find some place to stay the night.
Stranded with a Spy Page 4