Tell Me No Lies

by Elizabeth Lowell

  If so, Tran would be surprised. Catlin was alone. He stepped out of the enfolding pines and walked quickly to the street. He gave his car a very fast once-over, sensitive fingertips searching for wires that could be connected to bombs that peeled flesh from life with devastating ease. He didn't really expect to find anything this early in the game, especially on a car parked under a street lamp in full view of an FBI escort. On the other hand, he was still alive because he trusted no one to cover his ass for him.

  There were no wires, no scratched paint or other subtle signs of forced entry, nothing but wet metal surfaces where the bay's rich air had condensed like the exhalations of a gigantic, invisible beast. Catlin sensed the interest of the other men on the street as a primal tightening of the skin at the base of his neck. He ignored it. He didn't care if they thought his actions strange.

  There had been at least three men at the gathering tonight who had been expecting to hear a name other than Catlin when he had been introduced. One or all of those men could have slipped away and made a call, summoning other men. Anyone who knew Catlin's past identity as Rousseau would understand immediately why he was running his fingertips over the trunk lid and hood and doors, opening each slowly in turn, a man feeling in the dark for rattlesnakes, holding his breath for fear that he really would find one.

  Nothing had been added to the car but the increasing chill of night.

  With a long breath of relief, Catlin crossed the street and went up the path with swift, soundless strides. He noted the adrenaline riding his veins and smiled crookedly. Once he had felt a fierce elation at the sleeting chemical storm that danger brought to him. Unfortunately, somewhere through the years he had lost his taste for the adrenaline of danger. It had been a hell of a lot more exciting to run his hands over Lindsay than the car, and a damned sight more pleasant.

  "Ready?" asked Catlin, holding out his hand to Lindsay as though it had been her idea rather than his that she wait there.

  "I don't know. Am I?" she asked. She had used the minutes by herself to try to call up some of the calmness that she knew in theory waited deep within her mind. The result, however, was less than satisfactory. She couldn't remember ever feeling this off balance, this besieged.

  "You'll do fine," said Catlin. His smile flashed as he stepped around her so that he could take her right hand.

  Lindsay wanted to ask him what he had been doing while he was gone, but knew that she shouldn't. So she said the first thing that came to her mind, knowing that anything was better than the heavy silence that had nearly suffocated her while she waited to hear sounds of violence that she didn't want to hear.

  "I don't have warts on my left hand," Lindsay said, "and even if I did, it's an old wives' tale that they're contagious. I'd think that a man of your erudition and, er, more practical education would know that."

  Catlin shot her a sideways look. "Is there a question buried somewhere in that outrageous observation?"

  "How did you guess?"

  He laughed and shook his head. "You were born asking questions, honey cat."

  A frisson moved over Lindsay at the provocative endearment. She wondered why he called her honey cat. It was another question she wouldn't ask, shouldn't ask, didn't even want to know because the answer had nothing to do with the undercover act.

  "Why don't you ever hold my left hand?" she asked.

  For a moment Lindsay thought Catlin wasn't going to answer. Then he smiled strangely, bending over her, snuggling ha body close to his as he whispered.

  "Because, little innocent, I'm a much better shot with my right hand than my left." He watched her reaction as the meaning of his words sank in, the widening of her eyes and the slight parting of her lips around a silent exclamation. "Sorry you asked?"

  She nodded, feeling too numb to speak.

  "Don't be," he murmured. "It's a good thing to remember. Stay on my left side. Always. We'll both be safer that way."

  Catlin stepped away from Lindsay, held on to her right hand and resumed walking. She followed him, all thought of conversation abandoned. Numbness settled over her, a distancing of herself from reality that she had never before experienced. It wasn't even relief, because relief was an emotion and she felt nothing at all. As Catlin tucked her into the car she realized that she was exhausted. It was a kind of fatigue that was as new to her, like being suspended within thick, absolutely clear glass. Too much had happened. Too many new emotions. Too many forbidden words, forbidden thoughts.

  Too many lies.

  She leaned her head against the upholstery and closed her eyes, wondering how people survived a life undercover. She wasn't meant to live like this, exposed, every word monitored, every thought skating over a thin ice of unreality. Yet there was no alternative. Not any more. She had made her choices in Washington, D.C. Now all that remained was to live with them any way she could.

  Catlin looked at Lindsay's pale, still profile and swore silently. He remembered how it felt to come down off an adrenaline jag, to feel energy bleeding out of you like air out of a flawed balloon until nothing was left but a deflation that was as close to narcosis as he ever wanted to come. Eventually that stage passed, as did the extreme high of adrenaline. Until then, it was life on a chemical roller coaster.

  It wasn't a life Catlin wanted anymore. It was a life he had worked hard to leave behind. He had learned that violence was a reflex, not an emotion. He had learned that too much violence first numbed and then destroyed whatever it was in man that separated him from sharks in a feeding frenzy. He had learned, he had left, and now he was back in it, the violence and the adrenaline and the slow stripping away of humanity. Even worse, so was Lindsay. He could see the layers peeling down, more and more, faster and faster until she was spinning helplessly. He could see it.

  But he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.

  Chapter 14

  Catlin stood by the bathroom door, looking at the object that he had taken from beneath the toilet tank. After a few moments he flipped the tiny transmitter like a coin, caught it and flushed it down the toilet. He sensed the question on Lindsay's lips and shook his head. She nodded and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, outwardly indifferent while he finished his circuit of the hotel suite. He found two more bugs, one in the mouthpiece of the phone and one in a phony wall socket. He flushed those bugs, as well, and turned back to Lindsay.

  "Let's get that nightcap downstairs."

  She didn't object. She was too tired, and the knowledge that someone had been bugging their hotel room in their absence made the idea of staying there unnerving.

  The piano bar was noisy enough to ensure that they weren't likely to be overheard. The cocktail waitress took their order, returned with two glasses of cognac and left again. Catlin waited until the waitress was well beyond hearing range before he put his arm around Lindsay and pulled her close to him. The padded booth surrounding them gave a sense of privacy that he knew could be deceptive.

  Lindsay accepted the embrace without objection. She leaned against Catlin, inhaling deeply. The clean, subtly masculine smell of him was reassuring, as was the soft texture of his lightweight French wool sport coat. Her breath came out in a ragged sigh as she felt his warmth seep into her.

  "Sorry," he breathed against her ear, "but I can't guarantee I found all the bugs. Until I say otherwise, we'll have to assume we're always on stage.''

  She nodded, not even caring. With a vast sense of weariness she realized that she was on stage all the time lately, one way or another. Touch Catlin in public. Don't touch him in private. Believe what he said in private. Don't believe him in public. The dualism was too much to juggle along with all the rest of the demands and lies tearing at her emotions. It would be easier to have just one part to play, just one series of words to monitor, just one category of thoughts to suppress. From now on she would know that she could touch Catlin all the time – and believe him none of the time.

  Except for moments like this, when he s
poke too softly for anyone else to hear. And even then, could she be sure? Was he simply saying what had to be said and doing what had to be done in order to keep her intact long enough to go back on stage again?

  Does it matter? Lindsay asked herself. It shouldn't. Remember that. Take what you need and don't ask why he gives it to you.

  "No questions?" Catlin asked softly.

  Lindsay shrugged because she hadn't the energy to speak. It didn't matter. None of it mattered except getting the job done, finishing it, going back to a world where every thought, every touch, every glance wasn't a lie.

  Unease moved over Catlin as he looked at Lindsay's pale, drawn face. Her passivity was unexpected, unprecedented. She should be demanding to know who had placed the bugs and why. She should be furious at the new intrusion into her privacy. As he watched, her eyes closed, revealing lavender-blue shadows that owed nothing to makeup and everything to emotional exhaustion. Thick, honey-colored eyelashes quivered against her cheeks, casting long shadows in the bar's side light. She looked fragile, bruised, spent, and she was resting against him as though her own body could no longer support her.

  Swearing silently, Catlin drew Lindsay closer, wishing he could give her some of his own strength to throw off the aftereffects of an adrenaline jag. With repeated experiences she would learn to moderate her reaction, both on the upswing and the down. Until then, it was adrenaline and depression in exhausting sequence.

  It wasn't a life he wanted anymore. It was a life he had worked hard to leave behind. But at least he had the experience to cope when he was thrown unexpectedly back into the world of pure lies and dangerous truths. Lindsay had neither the temperament nor the experience to help her handle the unique mental and physical demands of this life, most especially the reality of an isolation that went all the way to the soul, first chilling and then freezing the ability to feel.

  At least that was how it had finally become with him. He had discovered that living undercover was a game for young players. Only the young had the kind of reflexive faith in themselves and in life that permitted them to survive in a world where true emotion was the only tabu. Catlin was no longer young. Not like that. He had gotten out of the game, taking nothing of the past with him but too many memories, too much understanding of the man-shark continuum, and one half of an old coin.

  Lindsay stirred, but only to relax more fully against Catlin. His hand smoothed over her arm, feeling the chill on her skin.

  "Cold?" he asked.

  There was no answer.

  Catlin took off his jacket, wrapped it around Lindsay and pulled her back against his chest.

  "Here," he said, tipping the brandy snifter against her pale mouth. "Sip."

  Obediently her lips parted. He watched the amber liquid move slowly toward her mouth, saw the pinkness of her tongue as it touched the potent drink, felt her small shiver as cognac slid down her throat.

  "Better?" he asked.

  Lindsay nodded and burrowed even closer to his abundant warmth.

  Catlin smoothed back the shining hair that had drifted forward over Lindsay's cheek. Without realizing it he rocked her slowly while he spoke, trying to comfort her with his body, for he knew there would be no comfort in his words.

  "I know you don't want to talk about it, but this is probably our safest time," he whispered against her hair. The scent of her perfume drifted up, as subtle as the rocking motions he was using to reassure her. He inhaled slowly, wondering what scent she was wearing. "The bugs were probably FBI, a hurry-up job just to let me know they care. They'll get serious about it real soon. That's why we can't assume that the room is safe anymore."

  Lindsay's lashes opened, revealing the indigo depths of her eyes. She said nothing, simply accepted what Catlin had said. He had the feeling that if he had told her that little green men from another galaxy had bugged the suite he would have gotten the same response.

  "The FBI don't trust me," he continued. "They don't really trust anyone who isn't FBI. That includes you, although I'm sure Stone would be the first to say that the bugs are a way of protecting you. He may even believe it."

  Lindsay said nothing, did nothing.

  "Are you listening?" Catlin whispered, his breath stirring her hair.

  "Yes."

  It was as much a tired sigh as a word. Catlin didn't object or insist on a greater show of attention. He simply kept talking, telling Lindsay things she didn't want to hear.

  "I could have kept the bugs in place, ignored them, but they were planted in such obvious ways that it would have been like ignoring turds in buttermilk. No point in it."

  He didn't add that one of the bugs had been in the wall socket right beside the bed. That had been the one that had decided him. Lindsay had sacrificed a lot already for the U.S. government and her own ideas of what was right; she should be able to turn over in her sleep without triggering an eavesdropper's gamey speculations as to what each shift of weight and rustle of sheets might mean.

  "As we get closer to the bronzes, there might be more bugs – FBI, PRC or what are termed 'other interested parties.' "

  That penetrated Lindsay's indifference. The thought of more factors to juggle was appalling.

  "Why?" she asked tiredly.

  Catlin's arm tightened around her. His mouth turned down in wry acknowledgment of the fact that he would have preferred her passive, unquestioning state to last just a few minutes longer. He wondered how much more she could take tonight before she fractured more deeply than eight hours of sleep could heal.

  Across the room the piano bar singer returned from her break. The woman had hair that fell like dark water down to the small of her back. She moved well, a woman on display, soaking up each particle of the audience reaction. Her costume was a sleek cascade of hot pink. In her feline self-assurance, she reminded Catlin of another woman long ago.

  He watched and listened with a fraction of his attention as she began to sing. Her voice was clear, high, supple. It, too, reminded him of Mei, and Mei reminded him of too many ways to die and none to live.

  "There are people out of my past," Catlin said finally, turning his full attention to Lindsay, bending over until he could speak against her ear. "People who may or may not be involved in the missing bronzes. People who get very nervous around me."

  "The man at the auction," said Lindsay, stirring against Catlin's chest.

  "He's one of them. There are others."

  "Why?"

  When Catlin didn't answer, Lindsay tilted her head back until she could see his eyes. She wished she hadn't moved. Nothing she saw there comforted her. Yet even as that thought came she realized that it had to be worse for him. She was only visiting in hell. He lived there.

  "I'm sorry," she said, touching his black eyebrows with her fingertips, trying to smooth away the harsh lines. "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

  He gathered her fingertips and brushed his lips across them. "I'm afraid it is, now. I tried to warn Yi about this possibility, but – " Catlin shrugged and didn't finish the sentence. The facts spoke for themselves. He and his past were now endangering Lindsay, as well as the success of Yi's plan, whatever that plan might ultimately be.

  The warmth of Catlin's breath caressed Lindsay's fingertips, making her realize how cold she was, a chili that went all the way to her soul. She wanted to draw him closer to her, to absorb his heat as though he were a fire burning against a winter night. She realized at that instant that Catlin had been right. In the midst of all the lies and half-truths, plots and counterplots, she needed someone she could trust. She needed that the way she needed oxygen, for without it she would suffocate beneath the torrent of deceptions. That was why she didn't want to ask the next question. She needed him.

  And that was why she must ask.

  "Why don't you trust the FBI? Is it because you're Yi's man – a Chinese agent?"

  There was no answer except for a subtle tightening of Catlin's body. His hands dosed
over Lindsay's upper arms. With a swiftness and ease she found shocking, he lifted and turned her in the booth until she was lying half across his lap, facing him. In the muted light his eyes were tarnished gold, impenetrable. He looked at her for a long, long time while the sounds of the piano bar singer swirled around them, crying for an unfaithful love.

  "Is that what you believe?" Catlin asked finally, softly.

  Lindsay touched his mouth with a fingertip that trembled. "Is that your answer?" she whispered.

  Catlin's eyes closed. He hadn't wanted to add anything more to Lindsay's problems for the night, but she was leaving him no choice. If he refused to answer, she wouldn't trust him. And if he did answer, she would have one more thing to worry about. Either way it would be hard on her.

  "Yi doesn't trust his comrades," said Catlin. "He hasn't told them about you, and he asked that Stone not mention you either. If Stone decides to exceed his direct orders and play divide and conquer with the Chinese, then he'll grab a translator and start telling the good comrades that you're working for the FBI. If they're just what they seem to be – dutiful bureaucrats – that won't matter.

  "But," added Catlin, "if the comrades are also the crooks, Stone could put you right on the firing line. So as a precaution, I'm trying to make sure that there's no communication between the FBI and Yi's comrades. That's why I flushed the bugs. It's the old need-to-know game. Right now the FBI doesn't need to know a goddamn thing that Yi doesn't tell them up front. When and if that changes, I'll be the first to get on the phone and start spilling state secrets."

  "Oh, God," sighed Lindsay. Her forehead tilted down until it rested heavily on Catlin's shoulder, silently telling him that she was too tired to even hold up her own head anymore. "Do you trust Yi?"

  "On a scale of one to ten?"

  Lindsay shuddered. "Catlin," she said raggedly, "trust doesn't come that way!"

  "The hell it doesn't. I don't trust anyone worth a ten. Or even a nine." But as he said it, he realized that it wasn't true. He laughed softly, ruefully, shaking his head. "Except you, Lindsay. Sweet innocence. You don't lie very well. It's such hard work for you that your body language gives you away every time."