Without a Trace (14 page)

“No need for insults.” Trace picked up a briefcase filled with papers and inventories he’d spent the better part of the night putting together.

“You’re meeting with Kendesa, and I think I should be there.”

“It’s a business meeting—bad business. I take a woman along to a meeting where I’m talking about dealing arms to terrorists, Kendesa’s going to wonder why. He wonders hard enough, and he could check you out. He checks deep enough, he could find out that my woman is the sister of Hammer’s most prized possession.” He stopped long enough to wipe away a smudge on his shoe. “It’s not a good bet.”

It was because it was too logical to argue with that Gillian was angry. “I’m not your woman.”

“They better think you are.”

“I’d rather be buried up to my neck in hot sand.”

He glanced at her. She stood by the window, spitting mad and stunning. “I’ll keep that in mind. Why don’t you spend a couple hours making up a list of alternatives? It might put you in a better mood.”

When he opened the door, she prepared to hurl abuse. “Be careful,” she said instead, hating herself for it.

He paused again. “Concern. I’m touched.”

“It’s nothing personal.” But her palms were sweaty at the idea of him going alone. “If anything happened to you, I’d have to start from scratch.”

With a little laugh, he stepped into the hall. “Stay inside, Doc.”

The moment the door closed at his back, he left Trace O’Hurley behind. He had a certain affection for each of his covers. Without that, it would have been difficult for him to play any of them convincingly for what were often long stretches of time. André Cabot was fussy, and often pompous, but he had excellent taste and extraordinary luck with women. Trace felt that redeemed him.

Still, Cabot’s charm hadn’t made a dent in Gillian’s defenses. So she doesn’t like Frenchmen, Trace decided as he settled into a cab. Apparently she preferred stodgy American scientists like that Arthur Steward she spent so much time with in New York. The man was fifteen years older than she, and more interested in white mice than romance. Trace had told himself it was simply standard procedure to check him out. Nothing personal.

Trace shifted his briefcase and reminded himself that Cabot was concerned only with making a profit. He wouldn’t have given a woman like Gillian a second thought once she was out of sight. The trouble was, Trace O’Hurley was thinking about her entirely too much.

She was still a puzzle to him, and he was used to figuring any angle, any woman. They shared the same set of rooms, yet she gave the arrangement a sense of innocence and propriety. She was vulnerable and passionate, frightened and determined. She was logical, yet enough of a dreamer to feel the power of a Mayan ruin. She spoke easily, even clinically, of his attraction to her. But there had been a fire, hot and vital, when he’d kissed her.

She was right about one thing—he wanted her, and bad. What she didn’t know, what he couldn’t explain even to himself, was that he was terrified of what might happen if he acted on that need.

When the cab drew up to the curb, Trace pulled himself back. He was right about something, too. He was thinking about her too much.

He counted out bills as Cabot would, carefully. With obvious reluctance, he added the minimum tip. After straightening the line of his jacket, he walked into the lobby of Kendesa’s hotel.

He spotted one of the bodyguards but walked to the bank of elevators without pausing. He was on time to the minute. That was another of Cabot’s traits. The elevator took him to the top floor, to the executive suite, often reserved for dignitaries and visiting heads of state.

The door was opened at the first knock by a burly guard who looked uncomfortable in his dark Western suit. “Your weapon,
monsieur
,” he said in stilted French.

Trace reached inside his jacket and removed a .25 automatic. Cabot carried a small pistol rather than chance ruining the line of his jacket.

The guard pocketed it before gesturing him into the parlor of the suite. A bottle of wine was open on the table. Fresh roses stood in a vase beside it. The room was cushioned from the noise and heat of the day. Noting that the terrace doors were not only shut but locked, Trace took his seat. Kendesa didn’t keep him waiting.

He wasn’t an imposing man. Whatever passions stirred him were kept firmly strapped down and controlled. He was small in stature and impeccably and conservatively dressed. Unlike the man he represented, he wore no ostentatious jewelry, no vivid colors. He was dark and blandly handsome, rather like a news anchorman, and moved with the steady grace of a career soldier.

He was a man who exuded trust and moderation, and in the past eighteen months he had been responsible for the execution of three political hostages. He was holding the wildly fanatical Hammer together by the skin of his teeth.

“Monsieur Cabot.” Kendesa offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“
Monsieur
. Business is always my pleasure.”

With a politely interested smile, Kendesa took his seat. “Our mutual friend indicated you have some supplies that may be of interest to me. Some wine? I think you’ll find it agreeable.” Kendesa poured two glasses. Trace let him drink first.

“I’ve recently acquired certain military supplies that I believe your organization would find useful.” Trace sipped and found the wine dry and light. Cabot’s preference. He smiled. Kendesa had done his homework.

“My sources tell me that these supplies were intended for the Zionists.”

Trace lifted a shoulder, pleased that the money he’d spent in the bidonville had been invested wisely. “I’m a businessman,
monsieur
. I have no politics, only a profit margin. The supplies could still be shipped where the Americans originally intended, if the price was right.”

“You’re frank.” Kendesa tapped a finger on the side of his glass. “The United States had not admitted openly that these supplies were … confiscated. In fact, it’s difficult to prove that they ever existed.”

“Such things are embarrassing. For myself, I prefer that the entire business be kept quiet until the final transactions are complete.” Setting his wine aside, Trace lifted his suitcase. “This is a list of the arms my associates are holding. I can assure you they are top quality. I’ve checked samples myself.”

Kendesa took the papers but continued to watch Trace. “Your reputation in such matters is unimpeachable.”

“Merci.”

Kendesa’s brows lifted slightly as he scanned the list. Trace had made it irresistible. “This particular weapon, the TS-35. My sources tell me it was not to be completed for several months.”

“It was completed and tested five weeks ago,” Trace told him, knowing the news would be out in a matter of weeks in any case. “It is a beautiful piece of work. Very lightweight and compact. The Americans are very clever in some areas.” He drew out another sheet of paper. “My associates and I have settled on a price. Shipping can, of course, be arranged.”

“The total seems high.”

“Overhead. Inflation.” He spread his hands in a purely Gallic gesture. “You understand.”

“And I am a cautious man, you understand. Before negotiations can be initiated, it would be necessary to
inspect a portion of your product.”

“Naturally, I can deal with that myself, if you like.” He moved his fingertip over his jawline consideringly. “It will take me a few days to make the arrangements. I prefer to do so in a place you have secured. In today’s atmosphere, transactions of this nature have become only more delicate.”

“The general is residing in the east. Such a transaction cannot be completed without his approval.”

“Understood. Though I’m aware much of the buying and selling are your province, I would prefer discussing the matter with the general.”

“You will bring your samples to us, in one week.” In a week he would have a complete report on Cabot and the enterprise. “The general has established his headquarters in an area east of Sefrou that he has christened el Hasad. It will be arranged for you to be met in Sefrou. From there, your transportation will be seen to.”

“I will contact my associates, but I see no problem with those arrangements. One week, then.” Trace rose.

Kendesa rose, as well. “A question on another matter,
monsieur
. You inquired about a scientist who has recently joined our organization. I would ask what your interest is.”

“Profit. There are several parties interested in Dr. Fitzpatrick and his particular skills. The Horizon project, once completed, could generate an incredible amount of income.”

“We are not only interested in money.”

“I am,” Trace said with a cool smile. “You might think of what the scientist is worth, if you can persuade him to complete the project. The arms we are currently negotiating over would be little more than toys.” He folded his hands, and the gold at his wrists winked dully. “If your organization finds the proper partner, you could not only be rich, but as powerful politically as any developed country.”

It was something Kendesa had considered already, though he would have preferred making the first move. “Your outlook is intriguing.”

“Only speculation,
monsieur
, unless you can indeed convince the man to produce for you.”

Kendesa brushed that aside easily. He was a man who was accustomed to cooperation—or submission. “That is only a matter of time. I will speak with the general on this as well. Perhaps it can be discussed.”
Kendesa led Trace to the door. “I would tell you, Monsieur Cabot, that you might be more cautious in choosing your associates.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I speak of the French woman, Désirée. She thought a greater profit could be made through blackmail. She was mistaken.”

Trace merely lifted a brow, but he felt a cold gnawing at his stomach. “She is as greedy as she is beautiful.”

“And now she is dead. Good afternoon,
monsieur
.”

Trace gave a slight bow. He held on to Cabot until he was back in his room. There he gave way to fury by slamming a fist into the wall.

“Damn the woman!” Couldn’t she have been satisfied with the easy money he’d passed her? She’d killed herself. He could tell himself she’d killed herself, and yet he felt the weight of another life on his hands.

For a moment he closed his eyes and forced the image of his island into his mind. Soft breezes, warm fruit, warmer women. The minute he had the cash in his hand he was getting out.

Trace went to the bottle of whiskey on his dresser, poured a double and washed the taste of Kendesa’s wine from his mouth. It didn’t help. Slamming the glass down again, he went into the next room to tell Gillian they were a step closer.

She was sitting on the bed, her back very straight, her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t glance over as he came in, but continued to stare out the window at a slice of sky.

“Still sulking?” The whiskey hadn’t helped, but maybe dumping a little excess temper on her would. “I don’t know which is more tiresome, listening to you bitch or putting up with your moods.” Yanking off his tie, he tossed it in the general direction of a chair. “Snap out of it, Doc, unless you don’t want to hear what I found out about your brother.”

She looked at him then, but he didn’t see recrimination or temper in her eyes. There wasn’t the anticipation he’d expected, but grief, raw and dry-eyed. He’d started to peel out of his jacket, and now he drew it off slowly.

“What is it?”

“I called my father.” Her voice was quiet, hardly more than a whisper, but steady. It was the tone that stopped him from nagging at her for using an unsecured line. “I thought he should know we were close to finding Flynn. I wanted to give him some hope, some comfort. I know he felt helpless having to send me instead of doing it himself.” She closed her eyes and waited for her strength to rebuild. “I got his nurse. She’s staying at the house, looking after it. He died three days ago.” She unlinked her fingers, then curled them together again. “Three days. I didn’t know. I wasn’t there. They buried him this morning.”

He came to her in silence to sit beside her, to slip an arm around her. She resisted only a moment, then allowed herself to lean against him. The tears didn’t come. She wondered why she felt so cold and numb, when hot, raging grief would have been a relief.

“He was all alone when he died. No one should die alone, Trace.”

“You said he’d been ill.”

“He was dying. He knew it, and he really didn’t want to live the way he’d become. Weak and feeble. All his research, all his brilliance, couldn’t help him. He only wanted one thing—for me to bring Flynn home before he died. Now it’s too late.”

“You’re still going to bring Flynn home.”

“He loved Flynn so. I was a disappointment to him, but Flynn was everything he wanted. The worry of the past days only made him worse. I wanted him to die easy, Trace. Even after everything, I wanted him to die easy.”

“You did everything you could. You’re doing what he wanted.”

“I never did what he wanted.” Her cheeks were hot and wet now, but she didn’t notice. “He never forgave me for going to America, for leaving him. He never understood that I needed to breathe, needed to look for my own life. He only understood that I was going away, rejecting him and his plans for me. I loved him.” Her voice caught on the first sob. “But I could never explain myself to him. And I never will. Oh, God, I didn’t get to say goodbye. Not even that.”

She didn’t object when he drew her closer, to rock, to stroke, to soothe. He didn’t speak, only held, as the
tears came, fast and violent. He understood grief, the fury and the ache of it, and knew it wasn’t words that dulled both, it was time. Gathering her close, he lay down with her while she wept out the first pains.

He understood the guilt. He and Gillian were as different as black and white, but he, too, had had a father who had made plans, who hadn’t understood and hadn’t forgiven. And he knew that guilt made grief more painful even than love.

He brushed his lips across her temple and held on.

When she was quiet, he continued to stroke her hair. The light was still strong through the windows. Wanting to draw the curtains closed, he started to rise. Gillian tightened her hold.