Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  Bastien sank back in the chair, taking the mug of coffee Madsen offered him, liberally laced with Scotch. He had no fears the Scotch would slow him down—he was riding on pure adrenaline, as if the last three years of peace had never happened. Old habits died hard, he thought, looking at the high-tech arsenal Peter had laid out on the teak desk.

  “You want to tell me why you never thought it important to share the fact that Josef Serafin was CIA?” Peter said, absently rubbing his bad leg.

  Bastien shrugged. “We had an arrangement. Thomason sent me to Central America to kill both Serafin and his boss, Ideo Llosa, the head of the Red Terror. Once I made Serafin, he agreed to take care of the other half of my mission. It was why he was there in the first place. I left him to it. The question is, why did the CIA want him to make contact with the Committee? Why stay under deep cover?”

  “I can think of one good reason. They’ve never liked the fact that we don’t have the same political agenda they do. Most of the powers-that-be in the American government think they know what’s best for the world, and the Committee doesn’t always agree.”

  “Don’t we feel the same way?” Bastien said. “We don’t willingly share intel with the CIA any more than they share it with us. You’d think we’d learn to work together.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Peter said.

  Bastien took a sip of his coffee. “Probably not. I expect they sent Serafin in to try to take us down.” He didn’t like the way he’d automatically slipped into “us” mode. He was no longer part of the Committee, and never would be again. “His real name is Killian, by the way.”

  “Thomason said he and Isobel had a history.”

  “Is that old fart still around? I thought he was put out to pasture long ago.” Toussaint picked up one of the smaller guns, weighing it in his hand. He was more used to a hammer than a gun nowadays, and he preferred it that way. But someone had come after him, and he had no choice. And he was going to blow the son of a bitch’s head off, when he’d promised Chloe he would never kill again.

  Shit, he’d broken that promise a few days ago when those men had invaded his house and threatened his family. And she hadn’t said a word of reproach. At this point she was probably ready to kill someone herself, but the least he could do was take care of it for her. She didn’t need the darkness on her soul that would never leave his.

  “He’s still around, still a pain in the butt. He said Isobel and Serafin have a past, but he didn’t say anything about Serafin being CIA.”

  Bastien set his coffee down, very slowly. “You know, I wonder why good men and women are being killed, and a piece of shit like Thomason gets to retire and live out his life in peace and luxury. Why don’t they go after the people who deserve to die?”

  “Are you asking me a philosophical question?” Peter drawled. “Because I don’t think fate or God have much to do with it. I don’t believe in fate or God, or anything at all, and neither do you.”

  “You spend a lot of time trying to convince yourself of that?” Bastien asked. “Give it up. We both know otherwise.” Before Peter could protest, he moved on. “And I’m not talking fate. I’m talking practicalities. Thomason’s made a hell of a lot of enemies over the years, including just about everyone who ever worked for him. Operatives are being picked off, one at a time, and no one’s going anywhere near Thomason. Why not?”

  Peter slowly turned his head. “You think Thomason could be behind this? For God’s sake, why?”

  “He’s not the kind of man who’d give up power easily. I was surprised he’d let Isobel take over.”

  “He wasn’t given a choice in the matter.”

  Bastien closed his eyes for a moment. “I think we need to pay Mr. Thomason a visit.”

  “Sir Harry. He’s been knighted for his service to the crown.”

  “Christ,” Bastien muttered. “You’re sure he doesn’t know about the secret room?”

  “Only Isobel and I know about it. And now Reno and you.”

  “And no one’s realized that these offices only fill up half the floor?”

  “Not even Harry.”

  “Then we’re going to need to inform him. And find out exactly what he’s been doing and who he’s been talking to during the last few years.”

  “It’s not Thomason,” Peter said, not sounding convinced. “It can’t be.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, do we need to check on Isobel? Make sure she and Killian haven’t killed each other?”

  “Why would they?”

  “You tell me. I haven’t seen her in three years.”

  Peter grimaced. “I admit she’s been having a hard time recently. You know what this job does to people. I’ve been worried about her.”

  A brief grin flashed across Bastien’s face. “I never thought you’d be worried about anything but your own ass.”

  “And my wife’s ass,” Peter reminded him.

  “And a very nice ass it is.”

  “Watch it,” Peter said.

  “Not as nice as Chloe’s,” Toussaint added. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. We’ll leave Madame Lambert and Killian in the room while we—” He stopped abruptly. “What was that?”

  “That thumping noise? It couldn’t have come from the apartment—things are sealed so tightly you could have a jackhammer going in there and we wouldn’t hear. It can’t be the stairwell, because it’s rigged. It probably came from overhead. Reno’s a noisy little bugger. Maybe he’s teaching Killian’s little buddy some karate moves.”

  Another thump, heavier, and Bastien was out of his chair, Peter right behind him.

  The door to Reno’s flat was open, though the room was lit only by the eerie glow of the wide-screen television. Video game characters were paused, pulsing, waiting for someone to move them, but there was no sign of Mahmoud or Reno.

  Bastien switched on the light and swore. There was blood, too much blood, and Reno’s body was sprawled out on the carpet, his arm at an odd angle, his head in an ever-spreading pool of blood.

  And Mahmoud was gone.

  Sir Harry Thomason lit his cigar, puffing slowly, majestically. He’d taken his grandfather’s gold pocket watch from the family safe, the one given to him by Winston Churchill himself. Harry was wearing it in his waistcoat pocket, and it felt good, snug against his belly. It was four o’clock in the morning, an ungodly time to be awake, but things were coming to a head, and he was too excited to sleep. Vindication was thick in the air, along with the sleet and rain.

  Stolya and his men were back already, the child with them. One of them was dead—they’d dumped his body in a ditch on their way back—and another was unconscious and unlikely to revive. That Jap punk must have put up more of a fight than they’d expected. But Stolya said he was dead as well, so there’d be no more complications.

  The boy was locked in one of the bunker rooms, still clinging to his stupid video game. Stolya had wanted to take it from him, but Thomason told him to leave him alone. It would keep the brat occupied, less of a nuisance. If Stolya wanted it he could wait until he killed the boy. That would be happening before long, as soon as they got their quarry in place.

  Once Serafin knew the child had been taken he’d come after him, though Thomason was damned if he knew why. Someone like Josef Serafin shouldn’t care about one less child. But he’d kept the kid with him like an albatross around his neck, and Thomason was banking on him following.

  And Isobel would come after Serafin. She was a perfectionist, never left a job unfinished. Her job had been to bring Serafin in, debrief him, and nothing but death would stop her.

  Astonishing that she’d managed to avoid it so many times in the last few days. His traps had been well set, and Stolya was one of the best, from a long line of Russian military who made an automaton like Isobel Lambert seem made of sentimental mush.

  There’d be no more mistakes. Madsen was a thorough man, and once he found the child had been taken and his new recruit murdered, he’d go stra
ight to his boss. Thomason didn’t need Peter to lead them to Serafin and Isobel—his enemies would come to him. Making the thing so much neater.

  He looked out the leaded-glass windows in the library of his country house. It had been in his family for generations, and though he’d had to sell off some of the farms, he still maintained a goodly portion of land. Including the network of tunnels that had served as bunkers during World War II, when his father had been one of Churchill’s staunchest supporters. They’d run all sorts of covert operations from the tightly sealed rooms, and unlike the empty halls in the bunkers at Dover Castle, these were still secret. Stolya and his men had been living there for the past three months, planning, training. The brat was locked in one of the whitewashed cement rooms.

  That was where Isobel and Serafin would die, as well. Harry hoped Stolya would make it hurt like hell, but in the end, he really didn’t care. The Russian was smart and experienced, but he had no idea that those tunnels and bunkers had been booby-trapped. The police would think the explosion was a gas leak in an abandoned section of Sir Harry’s estate, and no one would have any reason to comb the rubble for bodies.

  No, it was all coming to fruition. He would have liked to be in at the kill, but he’d waited a long, long time for this kind of satisfaction. It would be worthless if his presence did something to endanger its success.

  Tomorrow afternoon there’d be a huge, collapsed section of earth in the west field. Both Isobel and Serafin would have disappeared, leaving Madsen behind to help clean up the mess. Harry was rethinking his decision to get rid of Madsen—he could find work for a man like him. Peter was an unsentimental individual, cold as ice, and he could be relied upon to do what needed to be done, with no squeamishness.

  It was a shame Bastien Toussaint had disappeared, but he was a bit of unfinished business that could always be dealt with later.

  For the time being, the Committee was almost back in hand. And some night, very soon, Harry would take his King Charles spaniels and stroll out to the sunken field and spit.

  He was too old and dignified to dance on their grave. But he could count on the dogs to do their business, and that would have to suffice.

  He’d step in and save the Committee. And with any luck, in a few years the Queen’s Honours List would include his life peerage. “Lord Harry” was so much nicer than a paltry “Sir Harry.”

  In the meantime, he needed to exercise all the patience he had at his command. The trap was baited and set.

  He just had to wait.

  21

  The bed was very small. Killian was very large. Long legs and arms wrapped around her as he slept, and she should feel suffocated, trapped.

  She didn’t.

  Her body hurt. He hadn’t meant to hurt her—in fact, she was probably to blame for it. She’d pushed him. He’d pushed her. They’d done everything she could think of and then things she’d never imagined, as the long, endless hours stretched into the night and beyond, and she’d taken him every way she could.

  And now she was lying in his arms, entwined with him, her body aching, her soul hurting, her heart ready to explode. They’d had rough sex, kinky sex, silly sex, deliciously nasty sex. And then, God help her, they’d made love.

  He’d moved deep inside her body, his eyes looking into hers, his hands cradling her face with devastating gentleness, and he’d been motionless as he came inside her. And then he’d said, “I love you.”

  The monster, the butcher, the man who’d put a bullet in the head of a pregnant fifteen-year-old, who worked for terrorists and sadists and genocidal maniacs, had told her he loved her.

  And even more horrifying was the undeniable fact that she loved him, and always had. Even when she’d thought she’d killed him. Even if she had to kill him again, she loved him.

  And there was no way she could live with that sick, awful knowledge.

  She could run. She, who never ran, never faltered, never shirked her duty. She could slip out of his sleeping arms, pull on her clothes and leave this place. Just vanish, into the night air.

  She could do it—she had the skills. Peter wouldn’t find her. He’d certainly be able to, but he wouldn’t do so. He’d let her go, because he’d know that she wouldn’t run unless she absolutely had to.

  And he could take over the Committee in her place. He was better at keeping Harry Thomason’s delusions at bay, and he knew everything she knew. She still had to fight her emotions, the feelings breaking through her icy calm. Peter had made peace with that long ago. He had no emotions, except when it came to Genevieve. He could take care of business with icy composure, find out who and what was behind this latest string of disasters, and make sure whoever they were were stopped. He could see that Killian was set up in the style he was demanding. And meanwhile Isobel would be gone. Where no one, not even Killian, could find her.

  It was almost as if he were hearing her thoughts in his deep, exhausted sleep, because he stirred, his grip tightening, and muttered a soft grunt of protest under his breath. As if he knew she was going to run.

  He’d try to stop her, of course. He was good enough to get away with it. Almost.

  But in the end he’d let her go. Because he didn’t want to love her any more than she wanted him to.

  Their lives were ones to be lived alone. Solitary, empty. No room for other people.

  The room smelled of sex, creating a thick, drugging atmosphere, and her body hurt. She slid out of his arms, carefully enough that he didn’t waken, and made her way to the small, rusty shower, closing the door and turning on the water full blast. They hadn’t been able to upgrade the plumbing, not without involving outsiders, and as she’d told Peter with macabre humor, they’d then have to kill them. But the water was hot and plentiful, and she let it stream down over her as she cried.

  And then Killian was there with her, crammed into the metal cubicle, holding her, pressing her head against his shoulder as she wept, her face against the place where she’d shot him.

  She thought they’d have sex again, and she wouldn’t have argued, though her legs were so weak she could barely stand. But he only held her, taking the cloth and washing her body with a slow, exquisite tenderness that had nothing to do with sex.

  He kissed her gently, brushing the water and tears from her face. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered, meaningless words of comfort.

  She didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. Taking comfort from him was even worse than loving him, and after a moment she made herself push away from him, step out of the shower and grab a towel.

  She expected him to follow. She expected him to take her back to that bed, and she would have gone.

  But he didn’t. He stayed in the shower, and through the glass door she could see him leaning against the wall, the water beating down on him, his eyes closed. He looked…defeated. Just as she felt.

  There was fresh underwear in the closet. Her clothes were still on the living room floor, and she didn’t want to put them on. Not the tailored trousers, not the cashmere sweater, not the leather heels. She didn’t have any choice. She dressed quickly, twisting her wet hair up into a tight bun at the back of her head. There was a mirror, and she didn’t want to look. But pride made her.

  No one would think she was ageless. She looked exactly like what she was: young and stupid again. In love with a monster.

  She heard the signal from the hidden doorway, and she snapped to attention, pulling the mask of Isobel Lambert back over Mary Curwen’s lost face.

  By the time Peter made it into the room, there was no sign that poor girl had ever existed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Were you awake?”

  He had blood on his clothing. “What happened?”

  “They took Mahmoud.”

  “Who did?” Her last moment of weakness vanished, replaced by an icy rage. “Did they kill him? Whose blood is that on your clothes?”

  “As far as I know, Mahmoud’s still in one piece. They’re holding him for ransom. In excha
nge for Serafin, in fact. And it’s Reno’s blood.”

  She could feel the ice spreading through her veins, stinging, numbing. “Did they kill him?”

  “No. He’s got a gash on his forehead and a broken arm. Maybe a concussion, but there was no way we could keep him in hospital. We figured it would be easier to keep an eye on him if we had him with us—otherwise he could be nothing but trouble.”

  “‘We?’”

  “Bastien’s here. He brought Chloe and the children—they’re staying in the Golders Green safe house with Genevieve. Someone tried to take them out, back in the States.”

  “No one could get through the kind of security he had set up there,” she said, her voice flat. “No one even knew where he was, outside the Committee.”

  “Exactly.” Peter pulled a small piece of equipment out of his pocket and set it on the table. “The kidnappers left a GPS with instructions. Killian’s supposed to follow it, alone, and they’ll let Mahmoud go.”

  “Why would they think he’d do that?”

  “Why would he insist on bringing the kid halfway across the world with him? It doesn’t matter why, only that he hasn’t let go of him and isn’t about to.”

  “Were you able to download the information from the GPS?”

  “Not yet. But Bastien figured out the coordinates. It’s someplace in Wilders.”

  “Shit,” Isobel said, as things fell together in her mind. “Have we been complete idiots all this time? That’s where Harry Thomason’s country house is. But why? He’d kill all these people because of his hurt pride?”

  “Oh, it’s more than that,” Peter said. “I expect he wants to take over the Committee again, and the best way to do that is to prove how incompetent you are. Operatives dying under your watch is a perfect example.”