A Perilous Eden (3 page)

He looked at her torn bodice and her breasts and her skirt bunched up beneath her hips. “Take that off,” he told her.

“No, Michael. No, I—”

He rose, leaning over her. “Now. You can do it, or I can. If I do it, it's going to be worse.”

“If they don't shoot you, I swear that
I
will!” Amber vowed, desperately fighting against hands that moved with a steely will. The grim line of his mouth tightened, but other than that he gave no indication that he had even heard her.

Then she tried to grab the gun, and he could no longer ignore her. Calmly, forcefully, coldly, with grim determination, he stripped away her clothing.

Any struggle was useless. Her once glorious gown was shredded, and he didn't stop there. Without any finesse he stripped off her stockings and slip, then unsnapped her bra. He leaned closer to her, whispering in her ear. “Damn it, I am not trying to hurt you! But if you keep trying to hurt me, so help me, I'll—”

He stopped speaking abruptly and walked to the door, naked in the darkness. His head was cocked, and he seemed to be listening.

She dissolved into silent tears when he lowered himself to the bed again. When he spoke, his voice was a soft whisper that was curiously tender, almost a caress.

“Get under the blanket and move over. Quickly.”

“No—”

“Before God, Miss Larkspur, do it!”

Miss Larkspur. As if there was still something formal left in their relationship.

He grabbed the blanket, tossing it over her. Then he crawled in beside her, lacing his fingers behind his head and staring up at the ceiling of the small cabin.

Amber didn't dare breathe. He seemed to be listening again. She listened, too. She could hear men talking, occasionally laughing.

Michael turned to her suddenly, fiercely, in the darkness. “One warning, Miss Larkspur, don't play me for a fool. You're supposed to be an intelligent woman. Prove it. Whatever I say, do. Whatever game I play, you play along. Understand?”

Her tears were subsiding, but her breath still came in ragged gasps. She nodded.

He stared into her eyes, compassion touching his, filling them with a curious warmth. “I'm trying to help you. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Amber managed to whisper coolly. Help her. Sure. Strip her, humiliate her.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry you got involved.”

“You're a traitor, you bastard!” she hissed, trembling.

She felt him stiffen; then his hand wound around her wrist, and she nearly winced from the pain. “What I am doesn't matter, Amber. Not if you want to survive this.”

She lay silent, aching. She didn't want him to be a bad guy. She didn't want to believe that he would kill her, that he would kill others. And his touch upon her was too forceful for her to speak against him again. Courage had its limits. He was lying too close to her, his body nearly touching hers. She could feel his warmth, and she was painfully aware of the length of him nearly touching her from head to toe.

“Listen to me, Amber. You must.”

She was silent, staring at him.

“Get some sleep,” he told her, then turned away, offering her his back.

Get some sleep, he had told her. As if she could. A sob escaped her, a sob she quickly swallowed. Then she bit the back of her hand to keep from crying all over again.

From somewhere, from the bureau perhaps, she heard the ticking of a clock. Then he whispered to her again. “It's going to be all right. I promise you, it will be all right.”

He touched her cheek. She shoved his hand away, biting her lower lip for courage. “Fine. So you say. Just—just don't touch me.”

“I'll do my best … Miss Larkspur.”

She felt him watching her, and she thought how absurd the situation was. They were lying naked together, under the same blanket. He had just kidnapped her and a United States senator right off a cruise ship.

He turned his back on her again, but it was a small bunk and when his body brushed hers, she trembled. She couldn't help feeling that it should be all right, that she was secure beside him again, something archaic and pagan, as if he was the mate who could look after her through the darkness of the night.

She heard the clock again, ticking out the night.

Amber felt the man beside her, and she prayed for morning to come.

She hated him, but he had saved her. This man was all that stood between her and the others, she realized.

And then she stopped praying so fervently for morning's light. She hoped that the night would go on forever.

Washington, D.C.

June 16, 8:30 a.m
.

It was morning before the news reached the White House. And it was Ben Hurley who first received word, rather than Ted Larkspur. It was about to hit the media, so Ben hurriedly went to the president, who summoned Ted.

“It went off as expected. They got Ian. Adams was there, and he disappeared, too.”

Ted swallowed and nodded. Now they had to wait.

Ben cleared his throat. “Uh, Ted …”

Surprised, Ted Larkspur looked at Hurley, who cleared his throat again.

“Amber has disappeared, too.”

Ted Larkspur blanched. “What? What do you mean, disappeared? She's in Palm Beach with friends—”

Ben shook his head unhappily. “We just heard it from the ship's captain. Amber was aboard the
Alexandria
. She boarded the ship in Miami.”

“Knowing Amber,” the president said softly, “she probably wrote to tell you—”

Ted groaned. He hadn't been home. She'd tried to call him at work. He'd meant to get back to her. He'd been so busy and so worried and now …

Now, because of his involvement, Amber was involved, too. The
Alexandria
! He could have warned her. He could have told her not to go. He could have done something, even if he had lied and said that he was ill, and that she had to come right home.…

He gripped the desk and he tried to stand, but he started to fall anyway.

The president leaped to his feet. Together, he and Hurley got Ted into the presidential chair.

“Oh, my God!” Ted breathed. He was going to start crying. He was an old army man, and he was going to start crying.

Ben Hurley cleared his throat yet again. The president began to talk. He was a good soother; he'd had practice.

“It's bad, Ted. Yes, it's bad. But Tchartoff is there. Tchartoff isn't the type to let anything happen to her.”

“What can he do?” Ted asked dully. His only child. His beautiful daughter, his little girl, had been taken.

“He'll do something. I know it. Tchartoff will do something.”

Ted didn't want to hear the name.

This was his own fault. It was all his own fault. He should have buried the dossier.

He leaned back in the chair. Was it only a month ago that he had first brought Adam Tchartoff—alias Michael Adams—to Washington? One short month ago.…

1

Washington, D.C.

May 15

“S
ir?”

Ted Larkspur stood just inside the French doors, the dossier he carried held behind his back, his legs spread at ease. He was quite comfortable with the position; he was a retired military man who'd somehow found himself working on Capitol Hill. He was still a young man—at least, far younger than the chief executive.

The president was down on the floor, giving his attention to a jigsaw puzzle. From what Ted could make out, the picture was a Western scene.

The president looked up with a slightly absent smile, greeted Ted cordially, then looked at the puzzle again. Ted wasn't deceived; he knew he had the man's attention.

“You've got something for me?”

“Yes, sir. I think I've got exactly what you want.”

The president reached out, and Ted stepped forward to hand him the folder, taking care not to tramp on the puzzle.

Still on the floor, the president opened the file. Dark eyes surrounded by the creases of many decades quickly scanned the report. He stared for a long time at the eight-by-ten glossy of a man he found in the file.

The face was an interesting one. Full of contradictions. Close-cropped light hair, light eyes—the color was impossible to tell from the black-and-white photo. Broad cheekbones, yet the face was still somehow slim. The nose had been broken somewhere along the line. The mouth was full, but held tightly. The standard glossy caught something of the man behind the face. Something of a sharp stare. Something keen, alert. Wary. Not so much as if he was always watching, but as if he was always … prepared.

“Fascinating,” the president said.

He set the dossier by his feet and picked up a piece of the puzzle.

Ted Larkspur cleared his throat. “I believe, sir, the piece you're holding goes up higher. It's not grass—it's sky, where the sun's rays start.”

“I believe you're right, Larkspur.”

He sighed with satisfaction as the piece fell into position. Then his gaze met Larkspur's again, and Ted shivered a little; there hadn't been a second during the interchange when the president had really forgotten his purpose.

“We have to do something, Ted.”

Ted didn't reply. The president didn't really want an answer.

Once again the president gave his attention to the puzzle. “This man—this Adam Tchartoff—his citizenship is Israeli now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But he was an American?”

“Yes, sir. It's all in the dossier there—”

“I got what I wanted from the dossier. The rest I want from you. You've seen him.”

“Briefly. We weren't introduced.”

“But you've seen him, Ted.” The president tapped the dossier at his feet with a puzzle piece. “Don't ever let anyone fool you, Ted. This paper—pulp—with some neat facts and figures in ink. You never know a man until you've seen him.”

“Yes, sir,” Ted agreed.

“So.” The president started to rise. Ted moved forward to help him, but the older man waved him away. “I can still rise on my own power, boy.” He walked behind his desk and sat, folding his hands prayer fashion and leaning his head against the back of the chair as he stared at the ceiling.

“Why do you suppose he gave up his U.S. citizenship, Ted?”

“I, uh, don't really know, sir,” Ted offered.

The president shifted and tapped a pencil on his desk. “Born in Linz, Austria, in 1950 of a White Russian refugee and a Polish Jewess. But the Austrians weren't giving refugee infants citizenship in those days.”

Ted was surprised that the man had read so much in the few seconds his eyes had flicked over the file.

“That's right, sir. His parents moved to the United States in 1954—he acquired his citizenship a few years later. His father died in 1967—that's when he moved to Israel with his mother.”

“But he didn't change his citizenship right away,” the president mused. He lifted a brow. “He let us draft him into the U.S. Army first.”

Ted shrugged.

The president continued. “He served out his time in 'Nam, then he became an Israeli. What do you think of that?”

“Well, begging your pardon, sir, there's really not much for a man to do once he comes home, after he's been in the Special Services. I mean, you spend weeks, months, years, learning to be a savage—” Ted broke off.

The president laughed dryly. “Yes, I see your point. It's hard to come home to a suit and tie and Wall Street.” His fingers drummed against the desk. “But he wasn't a violent man. He was an accountant.”

“For several years, sir. He was asked by his government to work in a … new capacity about five years ago. They needed his expertise for a rather tricky situation.”

The president looked at Ted sharply. “That's when his alias was created?”

“Yes.”

“When were his wife and child killed?”

“Two years ago. A car bomb went off when they were at the seashore on vacation. His name had become known. His wife and child were inside—he had gotten out to buy a pack of cigarettes.”

“It's a shame. A real shame.”

“Yes, it is.”

The president exhaled, staring at his puzzle. “But now, for our purposes … you're sure he can't be recognized?”

“He's always worked undercover. No one would recognize him since the car bombing. To the world at large he's a completely harmless bureaucrat. On the other hand, in certain circles, the alias, Michael Adams, is legendary. His reputation under that name allowed him to infiltrate the Death Squad without any difficulty. The Israeli connection is completely unknown.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“The persona was created slowly and carefully. Events, assassinations were all laid at his feet. The Death Squad is quite a conglomeration, you know. Dissatisfied Central and South Americans, and then a hard-core group from a number of the Arabic countries. They train in North Africa—we know that. Codes are usually in Spanish—but sometimes in Arabic. Once Adam tried to infiltrate as Michael Adams, the group pounced right on him.”

“Tell me more about Tchartoff.”

“He first went to Israel to see his mother, then he stayed for his wife.” Ted hesitated, then added softly, “Then, I think, he stayed for revenge.”

The president gazed at his desk, his fingers drumming on it “So he's still angry …”

“Bitterly angry. That kind of loss is a pain that doesn't go away.”

The drumming ceased as the older man stared at Ted abruptly. “I think he's perfect. Can you arrange a meeting? Not in Washington, of course. The United States government is going to have nothing to do with this, you understand.”

“I understand your position perfectly, sir. No information of any kind will be on file. No one will know anything about it, except those directly involved, and they'll know only what they're told.”

“I want our men back. I want that ring of cutthroats busted sky-high. I do not want a pack of mercenary terrorists calling the shots in this country, and I don't want them getting off in any foreign court.”