As one, the voices responded. “Yes.”
“Good. I will correct the mistake you have made. Do not put me in this position again. I am getting far to old to clean up after you.”
O’Connell stepped from the driver’s seat, the wagon a far cry from what Sarah expected. Clearly past its prime, the car sported a strip of wood paneling, an odd touch given its dark green color. At the back, the window was a wild menagerie of college and high school stickers, the bumper a collection of strange warnings and even stranger messages, sometimes the two commingling in a single effort: WATCH OUT FOR THE LORD—HE DON’T NEED NO FLASHING LIGHTS. Alison stood rapt, reading each one with a certain deference, as if she had gleaned a more subtle meaning beneath the clutter. O’Connell tossed the keys to Xander and moved toward her.
“The bike’s about a fifteen-minute drive from here,” he said. “I’ll need a lift.” He drew up next to Alison and joined in the perusal. “It’s an odd mix, that’s for certain.” She continued to stare. “All this and that, and not much to tie it together. Still, it makes for a nice bit of reading.”
She turned to him, a smile creasing her lips. He started to move toward the open door, she quick to grab his arm, the smile no less genuine, the eyes no less gentle. For a moment, O’Connell stared at her, uncertain as to how he should react. Then, very slowly, he placed his hand on hers and said, “Why don’t you come sit with me. We’ll ride together. How about that?”
The smile grew on her lips, the eyes brighter still.
“Good.” He winked and brought her to the door.
Twelve minutes later, Xander began to slow along an isolated strip of road leading toward the town of Bryan, O’Connell giving instructions from the backseat. The bike was off in the woods; he would manage it himself.
“Use the number I’ve given you as a contact point,” he added. “I can probably have the men together in eighteen hours. It’s open country, so find a place within about seventy-five miles of the—”
“I know the drill,” said Sarah. “We’ll be lucky if we get there by tomorrow morning. We’ll have to watch ourselves, especially with Alison—”
“I’d like to go with him,” said the girl, her voice quiet but clear. All three turned at once, Sarah the first to respond.
“That might be a little difficult, Alison.” She tried her best to reassure. “Gael only has a motorcycle—”
“I know.” The voice was no less direct. “I would like to go with him.”
Sarah looked at her onetime associate. The expression on his face was anything but what she expected. He was grinning.
“Might not be such a bad idea,” said the Irishman. “Me taking her.” The idea seemed to gain momentum, the smile growing. “In fact, it might be the best thing to split them up, just in case. …” He looked at Sarah. “You’ve got your charge—no offense, Professor—”
“None taken,” answered Xander.
“And I’ve got mine. All the easier to keep them both out of harm’s way.”
Sarah was not convinced. “It’s nearly fifteen hundred miles to the compound, Gael. Plus, you’ll be—”
“Might be a bit blowy,” he said, turning back to Alison and ignoring Sarah. “And there won’t be much time for sleep.” Alison continued to stare at him. “Well”—he nodded to himself—“I suppose that’s that, then.” He opened the door and stepped outside, reaching his hand back to help Alison from the car. A few seconds later, he ducked his head in, grabbed her heavy coat, and said, “We’ll see the two of you outside of Wolf Point. Safe journey.” And with that, he slammed the door and headed for the woods.
Sarah turned to Xander, astonishment etched across her face. He was smiling. “What?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“What?”
“She’ll be fine,” he answered. “Probably do her some good.”
“It’s not her I’m worried about.”
The twin-engined Packer dipped comfortably over the secluded airfield, its landing lights flashing along the ground in bloodred intervals. A few patches of snow remained, but none to blemish the stark black line that cut through the expanse, a strip of tar amid a pale sea of rock and earth. Seated beside the pilot in the cockpit, the old man clutched at his armrest, the plane already in middescent. As the ground approached, his thoughts drifted.
There had been nothing from Stein—now sleeping comfortably in the back of the plane—nothing that might indicate that the intelligence officer had come to the right decision, a fact that troubled the old man only in that he now realized how useful his “guest” could be, given the situation with Jaspers. A few words to the appropriate people and the entire mess in Europe would be forgotten. Likewise, the connection to Schenten. Unfortunately, the young man was proving far less amenable to the project than had his predecessor. His predecessor, he thought. Pritchard. How eager he had been to join Eisenreich. How certain, how committed. Stein, however, was showing no such enthusiasm. Chains evidently lacked the necessary allure. But he was a smart boy. He would recognize the inevitability of it all. And he had shown a surprising concern for the young professor while under the narcotic. That, at least, was encouraging.
Within twenty minutes, they had reached the turnoff for the compound, a half mile of chewed gravel that lent the place a rustic quality, perhaps even a hint of dilapidation should anyone venture beyond the NO TRESPASSING signs plastered along the trees on either side. A seemingly cosmetic wooden gate stood at the end of the winding road, a quaint reminder that the cluster of cabins beyond were private property. Schenten’s onetime sanctuary. How much had changed, he thought, in only a few short years.
As the car pulled to a stop at the gate, a squirrel ventured across its path, the animal stopping to sniff at the post. It was a mistake the little creature would not soon forget. Its tiny body lurched into spasms, the shock lasting only seconds, but enough to indicate that all was not as it seemed. The men in the car watched as the squirrel fell to its side, its twitching less and less animated, until, finding its feet again, it slowly limped into the woods. The system had been designed so that the larger the animal, the greater the shock. A moment later, the gate opened, and the large Mercedes continued through, lumbering past a set of cabins and up toward a ranch-style building set off from the rest. A tall, bald man stood waiting at the door.
“How many are we, Paolo?” The old man shifted his weight forward and stepped from the car without so much as a nod of thanks for the extended hand.
“Twelve. Not including those assigned to the house and the lab.”
“Excellent. I will take a nap, some lunch, after which time I would like to see how everything is proceeding. You will then join me.” The man nodded. “I trust we have put Wolfenbüttel behind us.” He did not wait for an answer.
At the top of the steps, an attractive woman in a calf-length skirt and white blouse extended her arm. The old man refused it and moved past her into the house. “It’s good to have you back, sir.”
“You will come with me to my room, Ms. Palmerston.”
He was halfway down the hall before she turned to follow.
By 4:30, he was ready to assess the linkups with the satellites. Two of the tracking specialists had put in an appearance at lunch, each to assure him that everything was in order—codes, transmission sequencing—anything that required an expertise in software. They had returned to the lab while he had phoned his three prefects with last-minute instructions, after which time he had retreated to the bedroom for another visit with Ms. Palmerston. He had always required a certain attention at times of greatest intellectual excitement. For a man his age, he possessed a remarkable eagerness; happily for both, he managed to sustain it with an equally vibrant stamina.
She was asleep as he left the room, her legs draped lazily across the bed, the single white sheet brushing coyly over her perfectly rounded rump. He lingered at the door for a moment and then shut it, moving down the corridor toward the waiting elevator.
&nbs
p; The ride to the subterranean lab took nearly four minutes, a slow descent to a depth of almost a hundred feet. Monitored at all times by heat-sensitive cameras, the elevator was fitted with an automatic disabling device should the temperature rise above a certain level without prior authorization. The snail-like pace was simply an added precaution to give those below time to prepare should anyone manage to circumvent the system. The doors opened and he stepped out to the bright lights of a corridor, newly carpeted since his last visit. Paolo stood directly across from him, a glass of water in one hand, several pills in the other. The old man smiled and shook his head.
“You are determined to keep me healthy,” he said, taking the pills, then tossing the water back with an exaggerated snap of his head. He returned the glass and started down the hall, the temperature dropping several degrees as he neared a steel archway, its metallic sheen jarring against the pristine white of the surrounding walls. Beyond it, the corridor became a balcony some fifteen feet long, a ledge that extended over a large open area, the space below filled with computer equipment. Nothing overly elaborate—keyboards, terminals, one ceiling-high screen covering the far wall—all relatively quiet save for the purring of various plastic boxes, all of which he admired from a distance. Such things were beyond him, a choice he had made long ago. Others understood them and that was enough. He took his time with the steps before reaching the lower level, whereupon Paolo began the introductions.
“This is Angela Duciens,” he said. “She is—”
“A marvelous field hocky player,” the old man cut in. “Yes of course. At the school in California. I seem to recall a match in which you scored—what was it, six, seven goals? Wonderful play.”
The young woman flushed. “It was eight, actually.”
“Of course.” He smiled, his hands raised in the air in absolute delight. “Eight. How could I have forgotten? Eight indeed. And against a rather formidable defense, if memory serves.” The woman nodded modestly. “Still, I should have remembered. You will forgive an old man.”
So went all the introductions, eased by the notes Paolo had prepared for him less than an hour ago; still, the tactic was having the desired effect. It was also allowing him to scan the large screen on the far wall, a map of the United States, peppered with small blue dots. The final stage.
Chaos was at hand.
She was reluctant at first. Stopping would be dangerous. The quicker to Montana, the better. Then again, they had made remarkable time, twelve hours of uninterrupted speed, a slight delay around Chicago for the late-morning rush hour, and then open road for nearly nine hundred miles. Even then, it had been a temporary diversion. Perhaps Xander was right. Perhaps they could afford to stop. Sleep—the vital weapon. Just beyond the last tourist signs for Bald Hill Dam, she took them off Route 94. Xander said the fates were being kind. Sarah knew better.
Six miles from the highway, however, his mood changed dramatically, the relative calm of the drive all but forgotten once they stepped inside the room. It was a near carbon copy of the Tempsten accommodations—small sofa and a bed, a lamp whose shade had seen better days. Sarah had little trouble identifying the source of his awkwardness.
“No, no, no,” he said quickly, “you use the bathroom first. You’ve been driving. It’s only fair.”
She peered over at him. “Fine,” she answered, a smile in her eyes, “if it’s only fair.” She slipped past him and moved to the bathroom. Half a minute later, she reemerged, to find him bedded down on the sofa, a pillow missing from under the bedspread. His back was to her.
Staring across at his long body under the blanket, she couldn’t help but smile. Quietly, she let her jeans slip to the floor, her T-shirt loose at her thighs. She then flicked off the light and walked over to the sofa. Without a word, she slowly slid in beside him.
He nearly jumped, pressing his back against the back of the sofa and taking the covers with him. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a little cozy, but—”
“No, I mean what are you doing?” He tried not to stare at her legs. “I … I left you the bed.” He tossed the blanket on top of her. “I thought … I thought you’d want the bed.”
“I suppose it would be a little more comfortable, yes.” Their faces were less than six inches from each other. “But you wanted to be here,” she said playfully, “so this is where we’ll sleep.”
He tried to get up but realized it would mean having to slide over her. “This … this isn’t going to work.”
“It was your choice.”
“No. You don’t …” His awkwardness was turning to genuine anxiety. “Look, I don’t think this is—”
“Is what?” For the first time, Sarah felt uncomfortable.
“Is … what we should be doing.”
She stared at him for a moment. “I see.” She slowly sat up, her back to him. “What exactly is it that we shouldn’t be doing?” She waited. “I’m not asking you to sleep with me, Xander, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No,” he said defensively. “That’s not what I thought. It’s just that I … I don’t know. …”
“You don’t know what?”
It took him a moment to answer. “I don’t know … if I can do this.”
She looked at him. “Do what?” Again, she turned away. “I thought we could be with each other. Hold each other for a while. That’s all.” There was a caring in her voice. “I meant what I said yesterday.”
“So did I.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
For a few moments, neither said a word, his cheek somehow closer to her neck, his chest all too conscious of the touch of her back. “It’s been …” He struggled to find the words. “I lost my wife a few years ago. She was … she made everything right. And then she was gone.” Tears began to fill his throat. “And then yesterday, I held you.” She could feel his breath on her neck, “which was … remarkable.”
“For me, too,” she whispered.
Again silence. “Sarah … it’s been a long time since I let myself—” He stopped.
She remained still. “I understand. I do.” She started to get up.
“No,” he said, taking her arm and keeping her on the sofa. “I don’t want you to have to understand. Holding you was … I never thought I’d be able even to do that again. Maybe it’s because of what’s been going on. … I just haven’t felt like that.”
She could sense his lips near her neck, her body suddenly frail, small. She felt his arm slowly begin to trace around her waist, pulling her closer, pressing her to him. “Like what?” she whispered.
His arm began to tremble; his lips brushed across her neck, the very touch enough to shorten her breath, her lungs tighten with air. “To be held.” She turned to him, everything suddenly numb, eyes lost to one another. And he lifted her up, his hands cradling her in their grasp, the bed, her head on the pillow, his breath colliding with hers, the sweet taste of lilac on his tongue. They kissed, tenderly at first, each a quiet exploration, innocent desire mingling with the anguish of first touch. Soon, the heat of her body seemed to envelop him, his hands drawn to the flesh of her back, his mouth swallowing the nape of her neck, down to her breasts, the eager curve of her thigh, all semblance of covering thrown from the bed. She, too, fell into him, driving her fingers through his hair, forcing him onto his back and riding up on top of him, her tongue gliding through the ridge of his chest, her lips bathing him in an unleashed longing.
She pulled him inside of her, thighs clenched around his waist, driving upward with each thrust. He grabbed at her back, brought his chest to hers, pressing her breasts against him as they continued to surge into one another. No sound save for the gasping for air. Suddenly, she was on her back, his arms engulfing her, his desire rising, her fingers tearing into him—back, thighs—pulling him in deeper, deeper, until in an anguished release, they climaxed, arms clenched so tightly around each other, they could hardly breathe.
Unable to let go, they fell
asleep, naked in each other’s arms.
The first explosion bolted them upright; the second forced her to the edge of the bed, flames from outside rising and falling in reflection through the paper-thin blinds. She looked back at him but could find no words. He, too, was silent. Their reprieve was over. The world outside had returned.
She stood and grabbed for her clothes, he frozen, his back rigid against the wall. Pulling her jeans to her waist, she moved to the window and peeled back a corner of the blind. Outside, rain pelted at the glass, hardly enough, though, to blur the source of the explosion. There, in the most distant part of the parking lot, she saw the engine of a small truck in flames, its meaning clear. An invitation. An invitation to her. Sarah pulled on her shirt and peered out again, the handle of her gun wedged tightly in her fingers. She looked back at Xander; he had not taken his eyes from her. She slowly opened the door and stepped out into the downpour.
The rain was cold, at first jarring, then a relief, shocking her senses into wakefulness. A number of the motel’s guests had also ventured out, the owner of the truck all too obvious among them, a man lost in utter disbelief, pacing a few yards from the fire. Several others worked extinguishers in an attempt to tame the worst of the blaze, but they were only a diversion, a means, she realized, to get her out of the room. What other reason could there be? Somewhere among the faces, she knew a pair of eyes was watching, waiting for her to emerge. She could sense them, feel them on her.
This time, the men of Eisenreich had been clever. This time, they had forced her hand. Searching the rooms would have left too much to chance. Too many options. A wrong choice and they would have left themselves open. Better to draw her out.
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