by Lynn Mason
“Are you sure Mrs. MacDougall and Malcolm will be all right?” she asked as they scrambled over an outcropping of rock.
“Yes,” he said with a slight chuckle. “No one will suspect an old woman and boy babbling on about ghosts. Besides, it will be clear that someone locked them in the cellar.”
“I don't know. I still feel bad,” she said. “I just wish I could have been nicer to them.” She wondered what they would think when “Adriana's” watch, a shoe, and her blouse tinted with von Muller's blood were found on shore. Would they think she had drowned? Or would they think she had met an untimely end at the hands of “a ghostie”? She'd never know.
Frederique pushed himself upright and held a hand out toward her. “You make a good spy, Sydney,” he said, pulling her onto the wide, flat stone. “You played your part very well.”
“So did you,” she added. “You really had me fooled. What a shock. If I'd known you were the prince . . .” She paused, shaking her head.
He nodded. “I know, I can't believe I had a friend here after all. I felt so alone in my purpose.”
Sydney felt a twisting in her gut. “But I didn't come here to kill anyone,” she said defensively. “I only came to listen and watch. To find out what they were planning.”
“Oh? You never kill while on an assignment?”
She thought of her first mission. “Not if I can help it,” she said.
They continued marching downhill, picking their way among the treacherous gaps and loose piles of stones that fringed the edges of the island. As they plodded along, the question that had been needling her ever since he had introduced himself spilled out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“How do you do it?” she asked, struggling to see his face in the darkness. “How can you kill so easily?”
There was a long pause. “It's not easy,” the prince replied finally. “But treachery is all these people know. Sometimes killing is your only option. At least von Muller and Carmina spared me some of my work.” He sighed heavily, and Sydney thought she could detect a note of sadness in his voice.
“But . . . you're married. Right?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, sounding confused. She realized how impudent she was being, but she couldn't help herself. She had to know.
“Does your wife know you're here, doing this?”
“No. She thinks I'm in the palace, planning with my advisors.”
“But how can you do this to her?” Sydney went on, too wound up to stop. “How can you risk your life and keep these terrible secret things from her if you love her?”
“It is because I love my wife and country that I'm doing this,” he replied. “If you don't have love in your life, these things mean nothing.”
Sydney walked quietly for a moment, thinking this over.
“I'm not a vicious murderer. I don't kill innocent people,” he went on. “I would have never harmed Mrs. MacDougall or Malcolm. Their hands aren't stained like the others'. Malcolm surprised me in the cellar while he was on some sort of ghost hunt, so I had to tie him up. Otherwise, I never would have laid a hand on him. And I didn't want to hurt you before discovering your true identity.”
After he disarmed her in the library, he could have easily killed her with the poker instead of pinning her against the table. He did seem to have a code of ethics.
By now they had made their way to the rim of the island. A few feet away, at the base of a steep five-foot drop, the surf crashed noisily against the shore. The prince sat, threw his legs over the side, and dropped onto the scrubby beach below. Sydney followed, and he helped to steady her as she landed.
“Good,” the prince said, pointing a few yards up the shore. “We're almost there.”
“Um, hey.” Sydney grabbed his outstretched arm. “I'm sorry about asking you all those things. It was rude of me.”
“It's all right,” he said. He reached out and grasped the tops of her shoulders. “I am not ashamed of my secret life. It feels good to protect my people. Nor am I ashamed of my role as a husband. After all, if all you have is duty, you are not really alive.”
A cold, tingling sensation swept over her, as if she'd suddenly been showered with seawater. She studied the prince's handsome profile in the dim light. His wife and his people must be very lucky to have him.
“Come on,” he said as he turned and picked his way the over moss-covered gravel. “We should hurry. It's going to be dawn soon.”
They walked along the beach, keeping their backs to the cliffside. Soon they came upon a dense patch of brambles and seaweed.
“It should be somewhere around here,” the prince muttered. “Aha!” He reached down and dug through the debris until he'd uncovered a large, dark-colored Jet Ski. “I'm sorry I can't give you a lift, but as you can see”—he patted the back of the craft, where a storage compartment and extra-large engine had been retrofitted behind the small seat—“there is no room.”
“How did you get it here?” Sydney asked, helping him pull it out of the mess.
“For the right amount of money, the old fishing captain was happy to hide it here when he circled the island, checking his traps,” he explained, yanking long threads of seaweed out of the machine's crevices. “And I told him there'd be an extra fifty quid in it if he kept his mouth shut,” he added in Hubbard's Cockney accent.
Sydney laughed.
A minute later, the Jet Ski had been completely cleaned off. The prince stood up and began digging through the storage compartment.
“Here,” he said, tossing her a black wet suit. “You'll need this more than I will.”
“But—” she began to protest.
“Put in on! Don't argue,” he ordered. “Time is short.”
Sydney stepped back into the shadows and quickly donned the wet suit. Over it she placed Graham's special harness, with the extra rigging she'd attached to the back. Checking to make sure nothing was loose or twisted, she returned to the spot behind the Jet Ski. The prince then handed her a couple of sturdy, crookedly fashioned hooks that she clipped to the front of her harness.
“Are you ready?” the prince asked, grasping the Jet Ski's handlebars.
She double-checked her clasps and nodded. “I'm ready,” she said. “Oh, and . . . thanks. For all your help.”
“Don't mention it,” he replied. “As they say in Adriana's country, Nu este bine sã fie omul singur.”
Sydney grinned. It is not good that the man should be alone, she translated. “Quite right, Your Highness,” she said. “Nimic alt mai bun pe lume decât un prieten bun.” No physician like a true friend. “Good luck to you.”
“And to you.”
He pushed the Jet Ski out into the water and straddled it while Sydney stood at the edge of the waves. The engine purred to life, and he slowly accelerated out to sea.
Sydney took a deep breath and waited. The tow line they'd fashioned from wiring leading to the servants' call box uncoiled, gradually at first, then faster as the Jet Ski increased speed. A few seconds later, the line went taut. There came a violent jolt and Sydney flew forward, her feet skimming the waves.
“Come on, come on,” she urged.
Then suddenly, the sail she'd made out of one of the window awnings opened wide in the wind current and lifted her into the air. Her feet left the water and the ocean floor dropped away in a dizzy rush.
Sydney sucked in a deep, rain-soaked breath. It's working! she thought excitedly. The straps are holding!
Cold wind rushed over her body, pulling back her hair and causing thin tears to seep from the corners of her eyes. She looked down at the herky-jerky world far below. In the velvety predawn light, she could just make out the prince's hunched form and the V-shaped wake of the Jet Ski slicing through the sea. Looking up, she saw breaks in the storm clouds, like the frayed edges of a gray wool blanket. A few tiny stars were peeking through, bouncing their light off the waves.
A faint lavender gleam appeared above the horizon, and Sydney glimpsed the curve
d line of the coast up ahead. It was almost time.
She could barely hear the prince's whistled signal. She looked down and saw him reach back and sever the tow line with Carmina's pin.
As the line loosened its pull on her body, her makeshift parasail righted itself vertically, pulling her a few feet higher. Sydney had never felt such peace. She raised her arms out to the sides and glided effortlessly in the wind, enjoying the freedom of near weightlessness, high speed, and infinite space.
Look, Daddy, she thought, closing her eyes. I made a good plane. . . .
Sydney heard yet another whistle far below her. She looked down and saw the prince waving his arm in a final goodbye. Then he turned his Jet Ski, steering it toward his meeting point farther up the beach. She waved back at him and watched as he faded into the distance.
The coast was closer now. As the night gradually retreated, she could make out the shapes of hills and the narrow stripe of a road. Her momentum had slowed considerably, and she began to sink slowly toward the ocean. She tightened her grasp on her harness straps and prepared herself for entry.
Her drop accelerated quickly. She took a deep breath just as her feet hit the water. A split second later, she was submerged in a cold, wet darkness. Sydney kicked up with all her might, fighting inertia. As soon as she resurfaced, she unbuckled and shed her harness. She swam laterally for several yards until she felt sure she was out of danger of becoming tangled in the lines. Then she pointed herself toward the shore.
For what seemed like an eternity she swam in the icy, gritty water. The whole time, she refused to look toward land, afraid of panicking at the distance. Finally, just as she'd begun to wonder how long her body could withstand the ocean's numbing cold, Sydney's hand brushed against the silty bottom. She felt a rush of excitement. She continued for a few more strokes and then glanced up. Several feet ahead, foamy waves lapped beckoningly against a rocky stretch of beach. She waded to shore and collapsed, her mind almost detachedly noting the first light of morning.
* * *
A hot-fudge sundae? With extra whipped cream?
Pizza with all the toppings, and a side of ranch dressing for the crusts?
Or maybe . . . nachos with spicy chili on top?
Sydney trudged through the misty moorland looking for signs of civilization, fantasizing about what she'd eat when she arrived back home.
She'd been following the beachside road for a while now, but keeping a safe distance in case any enemy agents had tracked her. An early-morning fog helped to shroud her from view. The curls of vapor rising from the ground surrounded her completely, but they also restricted her sight.
She yawned loudly and glanced about, trying to get her bearings. She was just coming around a small heather-clad hillside where the road took a sharp bend and disappeared. As she plodded forward, following the curve, a small, square building suddenly appeared on the other side of the road. In the distance lay a cluster of houses and shops.
Finally! Sydney ran to the nearby structure. She peered through the shuttered windows, but no lights were on inside. The front door was locked too. A carved wooden sign hanging over it read THE GOOSE & FIRKIN in black and gold letters.
It's probably the village pub, she decided, closed for the morning hangover hours.
Oh, well. They probably didn't count on any half-drowned American spies stopping by.
As she headed back toward the road, she saw a tall glass phone booth standing at the edge of the pub's parking lot.
Sydney sighed in relief and practically skipped up to the cubicle. It wouldn't be long now. All she had to do was contact SD-6.
She lifted the receiver and punched in her special calling-card code, then entered the number of Pinelli's cell phone.
He answered on the first ring. “Pinelli,” he said abruptly. She couldn't believe how close he sounded.
“Hi . . . ,” she began, suddenly feeling awkward. “It's me. Sydney.”
“Bristow?” His thunderous reply rattled the black plastic receiver. “How . . . ? Where are you?”
“It's a long story. But I'm okay. I'm back on the mainland somewhere and I need a ride.”
“Hang on!” he said frantically. “I'll have Donaldson trace the call.”
Sydney waited patiently, listening to a series of faint clicks and buzzes.
“Still there?” Pinelli came back on line.
“Yep.”
“Good. We got the coordinates.” A muffled mumbling came over the line. “Just a second. Donaldson wants to say something.”
Oh joy, she thought.
“Bristow?” Donaldson's gruff tones sounded in her ear.
“Yes?”
“How did it go?”
“Everything's fine. Except that I'm freezing.”
“Okay, listen. We've tracked your position. It's going to take us about thirty minutes to reach you. So stay put, but stay low. Will that be a problem?”
“No.”
“Good. We're on our way.”
“All right. Bye.” Sydney turned the receiver toward its base.
“Wait!” Donaldson yelled.
She paused and lifted it to her ear again. “Yeah?”
“I just wanted to say . . . good job.”
Sydney's eyes widened. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks a lot.”
She hung up the phone and drummed her nails against the glass side of the booth, smiling to herself.
For some reason, she had an overwhelming urge to call her father. She wanted so badly to hear a familiar voice from back home. More than that, she wanted to tell him all about the mission and share her success with him, just to hear his reaction. Would he listen to her? Would he be proud of her? Would he realize all that he was missing out on be staying so distant?
Sydney sighed and leaned against the booth. Of course, she knew she couldn't really call her father. But it would be nice to talk to someone. . . .
She whirled around, redialed her code, and punched in a new set of numbers.
“This is Wilson. Please leave a message after the beep.”
Sydney felt a stab of disappointment. “Hi. It's Sydney. I just wanted to . . . let you know I'm okay. I'll be back soon.” She replaced the receiver and shook her head. She really hoped she didn't sound as geeky as she thought she did.
She stepped out into the breeze and looked around. The mist was dissipating, and the full spectrum of colors was seeping into the surrounding landscape.
Her thoughts turned to Prince Frederique. She wondered if he had made it safely to his meeting point. Somehow, she was sure he had. He was probably busy dialing up all his friends and family and his devoted wife, getting comfort from their familiar voices.
She felt the familiar pangs of loneliness. What was it he had said? If someone's life is all about duty, then they aren't really alive?
In a flash she was back in the booth, punching out yet another memorized string of digits.
“Hello?” came a sleepy reply.
Sydney winced. Time difference. Right. She really had to get that down one of these days.
“Hey, Burke. It's Sydney. Sorry to call so late.”
“That's okay.” His voice became louder, more energetic. “What's up?”
“I was thinking . . . ,” she began, absently plucking the telephone cord. “I'll probably be needing some ice cream really soon. Think you could help?”
Alias: Disappeared
A Bantam Book / March 2003
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