Without a Trace (15 page)

“Don’t go,” she murmured. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’ll close the drapes. Maybe you can sleep.”

“Just stay with me a little while longer.” She brushed a hand over her face to wipe away the tears. Emotional outbursts were something she’d always been prone to, and one more thing her father hadn’t understood. “He was a hard man, my father, especially after my mother died. She knew how to reach him. I’ll always regret that I couldn’t.” Taking a long breath, she shut her eyes again. “Flynn and Caitlin are the only family I have left. I have to find them, Trace. I have to see that they’re safe.”

“I have a pretty good idea where they are.”

She nodded. All her faith, all her hopes, were tied up in him now. “Tell me.”

He gave her a brief sketch of his meeting with Kendesa but stopped short of mentioning Désirée. That was still on his conscience. She listened but didn’t move away. Her head stayed on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. As he spoke, something he’d closed off long before began to crack open. He couldn’t explain why he felt stronger because his arms were around her. He couldn’t explain why, even knowing what had to be done in the next few days, he felt almost at peace lying in the bright room with her hair against his cheek.

“You think Flynn and Caitlin are with this General Husad?”

“I’d give odds on it.”

“And in a week you’ll meet with him.”

“That’s the plan.”

“But he’ll expect you to have some of these guns. What will happen when you don’t?”

“Who says I won’t?”

She did move then, slowly drawing her head back so that she could see his face. His eyes were half-closed, but the grimness around his mouth hadn’t faded. “Trace, I don’t understand. You told them you had a shipment of American arms. You don’t. How can you take them samples of what you don’t have?”

“I have to go shopping for a few M-16s, 40 mm grenade launchers and odds and ends.”

“I don’t think the local department stores carry them.”

“The black market does, and I’ve got connections.” He let the silence hang for a moment. “Gillian, it’s time to let the ISS in on this.”

“Why? Why now?”

“Because I’ve established cover; I’ve made contact. They’ll be annoyed, but they aren’t stupid enough to blow the operation at this stage. If something goes wrong, they’ll need to have the information so they can move on it.”

She was silent for a long time. “You mean if you’re killed.”

“If I’m taken out, a lot of time will be wasted in getting to your brother. With ISS backing from this point, we cover more bases.”

“Why should they hurt you? You’re selling them the guns they want.”

He thought of Désirée. “The guns are one thing, Horizon is another. These people aren’t businessmen, and they don’t have the honor of a Manhattan street gang. If they think I know too much, or might infringe on their territory, eliminating me would be the best way of protecting their interest. It’s a toss of the dice which way they’ll play it. You don’t want to risk your brother’s life on a toss of the dice.”

Nor did she want to risk his. It came to her now as they lay close, without passion, without anger, that she’d become as concerned for him as for her family. He wasn’t simply an instrument to free Flynn and Caitlin with any longer, but he was a man who drew her, infuriated her, aroused her.

She looked down and saw that her hand had curled against his chest. Holding on, she thought, to something that wasn’t hers. “Maybe we should let the ISS take over from here.”

“Let’s not go overboard.”

“No, I mean it.” She shifted away and sat up. She wanted more now. She wanted him to hold her, not in comfort, not in reassurance, but in desire. “The more I think about it, the crazier it seems for you to go in alone. Anything could happen to Flynn and Caitlin … to you.”

“I’ve worked alone and come out in one piece before.”

“And the last time you worked against them you nearly died.”

Because this sudden attack of nerves intrigued him, Trace sat up and took her by the shoulders. “Don’t you believe in destiny, Gillian? We do things to move it along, to protect ourselves from it, but in the end, what’s meant is meant.”

“You were just talking about luck.”

“Yeah, I don’t figure there’s a contradiction there. If my luck’s in, and I’m meant to come out, I will.”

“You’re not a fatalist.”

“Depends on the mood. But I’m always a realist. This job is mine, for a lot of reasons.” And she wasn’t the least of them. “But I’m practical enough to know when it’s time for backup.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you.” She said it quickly, knowing it was as foolish as it was useless.

His look sharpened. Before she could turn away, he cupped her chin in his hand. “Why?”

“Because … I’d feel responsible.”

It wasn’t wise to push, but he wasn’t always wise. “Why else?”

“Because I’d be alone, and I’ve nearly gotten used to you, and …” Her voice trailed off as she lifted a hand to his cheek. “And there’s this,” she murmured, bringing her lips to his.

The light was still bright, but it seemed to her that the room went dim, the colors softened and the world tipped out of focus. The emotional roller coaster she’d already experienced went speeding around an unexpected curve, leaving her giddy and exhilarated. She pressed against him, already anticipating the next plunge.

She was as warm and sweet as any fantasy. She was real and vital. More than he’d ever wanted freedom or wealth or peace of mind, he wanted her. He felt reason slipping against the pull of need, and he held himself back. To need anything too much was to risk losing.

But her hands were so soft, so soothing. His own were in her hair, dragging her closer, even as he told himself it was wrong for both of them. Her scent was like a quiet promise, lulling him into believing he could have and keep. He ached from needing to touch her, to feel how her body might move against his hands.

He had to remind himself that there was no promise, neither from her nor to her. There couldn’t be.

When he drew her away, she reached out again. Trace tightened his grip and held her back. “You listen to me. This is all wrong. You know it and I know it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

She knew how to handle rejection. She braced herself for it. “You don’t want me?”

He swore, once, then twice. “Of course I want you. Why shouldn’t I? You’re beautiful. You’ve got brains and guts. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Then why—?”

He dragged her out of the bed. Before she could draw in the breath to protest, he was holding her in front of the mirror. “Look at yourself, you’re a nice, well-bred woman. A physicist, for God’s sake. You came from a nice upper-class family, went to good schools and did what you were told.” When temper had her pulling away, he yanked her back again. “Look at me, Gillian.” He gave her one hard shake until her head snapped up and her eyes met his in the mirror. “I spent most of my life dancing from second-rate club to second-rate club. I never spent more than a handful of days a year in a real school. I never learned to play by the rules. I’ve never owned a car or a piece of property, and I’ve never stayed with a woman for long. Do you want to know how many people I’ve killed in twelve years? Do you want to know how many ways there are to do it?”

“Stop it.” She pulled away from him, only to whirl back. “You’re trying to scare me, and it won’t work.”

“Then you
are
an idiot.”

“Maybe I am, but at least I’m an honest one. Why don’t you just admit that you don’t want to be involved? You don’t want to feel anything for me.”

He drew out a cigarette. “That’s right.”

“But you do.” She tossed her head back, daring him to deny it. “You do feel, and you’re the one who’s scared.”

Her point, he thought as he blew out smoke. But he’d be damned if he’d let her know it. “Let’s get something straight, sweetheart. I don’t have time to give you the hearts and flowers you’d like. We’ve got a priority, and it’s in the mountains east of here. Let’s concentrate on that.”

“You can’t run forever.”

“When I stop, you’ll wish to God I’d kept going. I’ve got some things to do.” He walked out.

Gillian did something she hadn’t done in years. She picked up the nearest breakable and heaved it at the door.

“After the number of years you’ve had in service, Agent O’Hurley, I’m sure you’re aware that there’s such a thing as procedure.”

Captain Addison—British, balding and straight-line ISS—sat in Trace’s room, drinking coffee and looking annoyed. It was his job to oversee and coordinate operations in this part of the world. After nearly fifteen years of field duty, he was quite content to do so from behind a desk. Under these particular circumstances, he’d been ordered to handle the business face-to-face. The break in routine did nothing to please him.

He’d been set to go back to London on holiday when the call had reached him at his Madrid base. Now he was in godforsaken Morocco, in the middle of an incident that would very likely keep him from his steak-and-kidney pie for some time to come.

“You have, I presume, some sort of valid explanation?”

“I was on vacation, Captain.” Trace drew easily on his cigarette. Types like Addison amused him more than they annoyed him. It was the possibility that he could become similarly straitlaced that had kept him away from desks and paperwork. “My own time. I thought the ISS might be interested in what I stumbled into.”

“Stumbled into,” Addison repeated. He pushed his rimless glasses up on his nose and gave Trace a very cool and very clear stare. “We both know you didn’t stumble into anything, Agent O’Hurley. You acted on your own, without ISS sanction.”

“The woman came to me.” Trace didn’t bother to put any emphasis into the explanation. He knew very well that men of Addison’s type preferred agents to sweat. “I followed up an interesting story and came by some even more interesting information. If you don’t want what I’ve got, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve still got a week before I punch in.”

“The correct procedure would have been to inform the ISS the moment Dr. Fitzpatrick contacted you.”

“I consider that a judgment call, Captain. My judgment.”

Addison folded his hands. Though he’d been divorced for five years, he still wore a gold wedding band. He’d gotten used to the weight on his finger. “Your record shows a high percentage of infractions.”

“Am I fired?”

A creature of habit and order, Addison bristled at Trace’s careless arrogance. But he, too, had his orders. “Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one’s viewpoint—your record also shows a high percentage of successful assignments. To be frank, O’Hurley, I don’t care for showboating of this kind, but the Horizon project and Dr. Fitzpatrick and his daughter take precedence over personal feelings.”

Trace hadn’t missed the order of importance. Nor had he expected anything else. “Then I take it I’m not fired.”

“You will maintain your cover as André Cabot, but from this point on we go by the book. You will keep in constant contact with the ISS base in Madrid on your progress. You will report directly to me.” This, too, gave him no pleasure. One didn’t easily keep a rogue agent under one’s thumb. “We have arranged for one crate of American-made weapons to be delivered to you in Sefrou in four days. Your contact there will be Agent Breintz. Once you have confirmed Dr. Fitzpatrick’s location and assessed the situation, you’ll be given further orders. Headquarters feels you should keep the arms negotiations straightforward. If you do find yourself in Husad’s lair, it’s code blue.”

Again, it was nothing Trace hadn’t expected. Code blue meant simply that if his cover didn’t hold, the ISS would destroy his files, his identity. It would be as if Trace O’Hurley had never existed.

“I need a TS-35 in the crate.”

“A—” Addison laid his hands carefully on the arms of his chair. “You told them about the TS-35?”

“The Soviets will know about it in a week—if they don’t already. Everyone else will know before the month is out. If I dangle one in front of their noses, Husad might decide I’m a useful ally. He might loosen up enough about Fitzpatrick to let me have a tour, especially if I tell him that my associates are willing to help
finance Horizon.”

“They may be maniacs, but they’re not fools. If they had a prototype, it wouldn’t take them long to duplicate the weapon.”

“If we don’t get Fitzpatrick out and secure the Horizon project, the TS-35 isn’t much more than a peashooter.”

Addison rose and paced to the window. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like O’Hurley. He didn’t like having his plans interfered with. But he hadn’t reached his position by not knowing when and how to play his cards. “I’ll arrange it. But the weapon is to be brought back out or destroyed.”

“Understood.”

With a nod, Addison turned back. “Now, about the woman.” He glanced toward the door that led to Gillian’s room. “Since Agent Forrester saw fit to tell her about you and she’s now aware of the operation, she’ll have to be debriefed.”

Trace lifted the pot of coffee and poured himself a cup. “Good luck.”

“Your humor eludes me, O’Hurley. I’d like to speak with her now.”

With a shrug, Trace rose to walk to the door. He pushed it open and stuck his head inside. Gillian stopped pacing and looked at him. “Your turn.”

Gillian swallowed, wiped her hands on her slacks, then walked through the doorway.

“Dr. Fitzpatrick.” With the first congenial smile Trace had ever seen on his face, Addison crossed to offer her his hand. “I’m Captain Addison.”

“How do you do?”

“Please, sit down. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.” Gillian sat, back straight, chin up, while Trace lounged in the chair beside her.

“Cream, Doctor?”

“No, black, please.”

Addison handed her a cup, then sat down cozily with his own. Gillian was almost afraid he was going to
talk about the weather. “Dr. Fitzpatrick, I must tell you how concerned the ISS is about your family’s welfare. Our organization is dedicated to ensuring the freedom and basic human rights of people everywhere. A man like your brother is of great importance to us.”