Cold as Ice (21 page)

But she'd kept her distance, and he'd been alone when they came to get him. If she'd been there they might have thought twice. Or he could have used her as a shield, slowing them long enough so they couldn't knock him out.

She was as much to blame as Peter Jensen and his crackpot do-gooder Committee. And he was going to have to do something about it.

As soon as he tried to repair the damage that had been done. Destroying the dam in Mysore was out of the question now—the security had been beefed up, the insurgents he'd put on retainer had disappeared. The sabotage of the oil fields was also questionable—the paperwork had disappeared along with his gorgeous boat, and the wells were still in his name. It might give him an even stronger appearance of innocence if something were to happen to them while he still owned them, but he couldn't quite bring himself to make that sacrifice. He'd drop that one as well, for now.

Harry kicked the walnut desk, angry and frustrated. They were getting in the way of his careful plans, and it was more than annoying. He required a certain symmetry, and the Rule of Seven was inviolate. They'd smashed that, and there was no proper ring to the Rule of Five.

And it was only four days till April nineteenth, the beginning of the end. Four days to come up with two equally effective circumstances to throw the financial world into chaos. At least his enemies were way behind the eight ball. They might have found out two of his targets, but they had no idea about the deadly strain of avian flu that was about to hit mainland China, or the diamond mines in South Africa, or the memorial shrine at Auschwitz being blown to pieces when the visitors' center was full.

Maybe he was being too hard on himself. The Rule of Seven had been simple, working east to west. It would start with the massive outbreak of avian flu, the dam in Mysore, the diamond mine in South Africa, the oil fields in Saudi Arabia. Then came the extermination camp in Poland, the Houses of Parliament in London, ending with a three-pronged assault in America, with hits on Waco, Texas, Oklahoma City and Littleton, Colorado, home of Columbine High School. On the most auspicious days of all, April nineteenth to the twentieth, days made for disruption and terror and reaping what you sow.

Peter Jensen had seemed the perfect assistant, given the birthday he shared with Adolf Hitler. It had seemed a sign, that he would be there, keeping things running smoothly as Harry put the final acts into motion.

They'd played him for a fool, and he really didn't like being played for a fool.

That lying scum-sucker was dead, out of his reach, and Harry's frustration level was making him shake. He'd have to make do with Genevieve Spenser. He'd take out his rage on her, and then Jack-shit could clean up the mess with his customary efficiency.

But somehow the notion was only slightly soothing. He poured himself a glass of bourbon, noticing his shaking hand. And then he slammed the glass against the dark oak paneling, as the rage took control of him once more.

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P
eter Madsen pulled into the weed-choked driveway, automatically checking for signs of intruders as he parked in the cul-de-sac to the right of the old house. This was the only part of the landscaping that was supposed to be untended and overgrown, to provide him just a bit more camouflage when he came home.

Not that he could call it, or anyplace, home. It was mid-April and by now the gardens should have started blooming. Instead, they were desolate—a fitting reflection of its owner, he thought grimly.

He switched off the elaborate, undetectable security system and stepped inside. Not that there was anything in the sparsely furnished house of particular value. He had little attachment to things, and apart from his grandfathers huge desk he had little of any intrinsic worth.

He never could figure out why he'd bought his grandfather's desk in the first place. He'd just happened to catch sight of the public auction of Dr. Wilton Wimberley's possessions, and he'd gone on an unlikely impulse, when he was never, ever impulsive.

There would be no stray member of the family around to possibly identify him. His parents were long dead, and his mother had been an only child. The proceeds of the estate were going to endow a chair in his grandfather's name at Oxford. One way to secure his legacy, since his offspring had failed him.

He'd be just as happy if someone broke in and carried the damn thing off, though it weighed a bloody ton. He didn't have the kind of job that required a desk, and he was very careful never to leave a paper trail.

No, he hadn't installed the security to protect the house. He simply wanted to ensure there were no unpleasant surprises waiting for him on the rare occasions he got down to Wiltshire. A really good operative could figure out how to bypass the system, but it would be impossible not to leave very visible proof someone had tampered with the place.

He was almost sorry they hadn't. Avoiding a lethal trap would be a welcome distraction, and if, after all these years, his luck failed him, then so be it.

In fact, things were definitely taking a turn for the worse. Harry Van Dorn was the first mission he'd ever failed to complete, and it was little wonder he was feeling like shit. His professional pride was wounded, nothing more. The wrong person had died.

He'd done his best for her, given her tools and a map and as strong a hint as he dared. If she hadn't gotten away it wasn't his fault, just part of the grand cock-up that the Van Dorn assignment had become.

The house smelled stale and empty and faintly of mice. If he was going to sell the place he'd have to get a massive cleaning crew in to rid it of its neglected air.

Putting it on the market was the smart thing to do. For some sentimental fool it would seem the perfect house—slate roof, diamond-pane windows and the kind of winding floor plan that attested to almost three hundred years of additions and improvements. His wife had always complained that it was too old-fashioned, and she hated to garden. He'd never taken her to the stripped-down, ultramodern flat in London where he spent most of his time. It would have suited her perfectly and she'd never even known it existed.

Funny, he never thought of his ex-wife by her name, only by her relationship to him. That was part of the problem. He'd chosen the perfect trophy wife and he'd never given a rat's ass about her.

Annabelle. Annabelle Lawson—how could he have forgotten? But then, why should he remember? Women came and went through his shadowy life, some lived, some died. But in the end he forgot them, and he wasn't going to let that change.

He better turn up the heat while he was here—it might improve the damp chill. He took the two steps down into the old kitchen. The Aga sat in solitary splendor at one end, and the stone hearth had been swept clean of ashes. He sat at the scarred old oak table, the one his wife had tried to replace with some upscale form of plastic, and stared out into the gathering darkness.

He heard her coming, of course, but she knew he would. Madame Isobel Lambert, his superior and current head of the Committee, seemed to know just about everything, including the fact that he'd recognize her from a distance and not kill her before he identified her.

"Moping, Peter?" she asked, pausing in the kitchen doorway. If it was anyone but Madame Lambert he would've said she did it for dramatic effect, but that was very small currency in Madame's arsenal.

He leaned back in the wooden chair. "Have you ever known me to mope?" he asked in a steady voice.

"No. But then, I've never known you to fail in a mission before."

"Is that what this is about? I thought I made a complete report while I was in London. I wouldn't have left if I knew you still had questions."

"Your report was crystal clear in every detail, as it always is," Madame Lambert said, stepping down into the kitchen. She was a remarkable woman. She could have been anywhere between thirty-five and sixty, and the perfection of her well-tended appearance was like an impenetrable suit of armor. No one and nothing scared Peter Madsen, but Isobel Lambert came close.

"Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to make certain you were all right. It's the first mission you've ever failed to complete, and I was a bit…concerned."

"You think I'm going to blow my brains out because I failed to do the same to Harry Van Dorn? Not likely."

"I was more concerned you might decide to resign."

"I'm touched," he drawled.

"Surely you don't expect my concern to be personal, do you? We've both been in this business a long time, and we know the mortality rate. My job is to make certain the Committee is well staffed, and since Bastien left you're the best we have."

He raised an eyebrow and she laughed her light, silvery laugh. "I'm sorry," she amended. "Since Bastien left you're the only good operative we have left."

"I'm not resigning," he said after a moment. "I'm not really equipped to do anything else, am I? I can kill. I'm certain there will always be a job opening at the Committee for that."

"Everyone has a failed mission now and then, Peter. You'll be a better operative now, knowing you can fail."

"You make it sound like I lost my erection. 'Don't worry, dear, it happens to everyone,' " he said, mockery hiding his anger.

"Well, metaphorically, isn't that exactly what happened?"

"Metaphorically, I fucked up. I didn't pick up on the fact that Renaud had turned, and I waited too long to go back and make certain Van Dorn was dead." He knew why he had hesitated. He didn't want to run into Genevieve Spenser. He didn't want to find her dead, he didn't want to find her alive and have to decide what to do about it. He left her fate in her own hands, and he hadn't wanted to have to take it back.

Madame Lambert simply shrugged. "Everyone screws up occasionally—I trust you more as a fallible human being than an efficient robot."

"Then I did it all for you," he said lightly.

"Besides, you don't need to worry. Harry Van Dorn is well in hand. This operation has always been too big to have it rest with one plan. We already have someone in situ, and when the time is right, Van Dorn will be taken care of. Chalk it up to a learning experience."

Peter resisted the impulse to snort. One didn't snort at Madame Lambert. "You set my mind at ease. So why don't you tell me why you're really here."

Isobel Lambert smiled her perfect, ageless smile. There wasn't a line, a wrinkle, a mark of character on her exquisite, porcelain face, and he wondered how many face-lifts she'd had to keep her skin like that. Just another tool of the trade. "To tell you to take a couple of months off. You've been working nonstop since the fall of 2001, and you need a break."

"Not particularly."

"Your wife left you."

"I know that. It was more than two years ago, and we were never well suited. She's already remarried."

"And she never had the faintest idea what you really do for a living?"

She might have suspected, but he wasn't about to tell Madame Lambert that. Annabelle had been a fairly unimaginative creature, but she wasn't stupid. She probably got out before she learned what she didn't want to know.

"Not a clue," he said.

"I wasn't going to have her killed, Peter," she said mildly. "I'm not Harry Thomason, you know."

He hadn't been about to take that chance. Thomason had been a ruthless old buzzard, and yet he'd retired with honor after overseeing countless needless deaths. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. He wasn't about to take a chance on it for Annabelle's sake.

"The poor girl," Madame Lambert said. "It would take a hell of a woman to stand up to you."

Involuntarily his mind went back to Genevieve glaring at him, arguing with him, baiting him even though she knew she was doomed.

And what good did it do her in the end? At least it would have given her some fitting sense of revenge to know he couldn't wipe her out of his mind. But she wasn't going to be feeling any triumph, was she?

"She's still alive."

He jerked his head up, to meet Madame Lambert's calm gaze. "Of course she is," he said. "She's married to a dentist in Dorking."

"I'm talking about Genevieve Spenser. She joined forces with Renaud to get Harry Van Dorn off the island and he took her with him. Renaud wasn't so lucky."

"Van Dorn has her?" He didn't bother pretending not to care. "She might be better off dead."

"Perhaps. But there's nothing you can do about it. This is no longer your mission—even I have people to answer to, and personal involvement is the first step toward disaster. You are to keep out of the situation. Which is why I'm putting you on two months' leave, with pay, of course."

"Fuck the money," he said, furious. "Where is she?"

"Are you planning to ride to the rescue like some white knight? That can't be the Peter Madsen I've known for so many years. You don't care about anyone or anything. The Iceman cometh and all that."

It was a needed reminder. "You think that I suddenly developed a heart, Isobel? Not likely. It's a matter of professional pride and personal responsibility. If she had to die, I should have seen to it, quickly and painlessly."

"Ah, but would you have?"

He ignored the taunt. "You know what kind of man Harry Van Dorn is. We have no right to leave anyone to his tender mercies."

"We have no responsibility either. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know that as well as I do."

"So you're leaving her where she is?"

"We can't afford to compromise the mission by trying to get her out. Our man has too much on his plate already. So I want you to put it out of your mind and spend the next couple of months relaxing. Fix this place up a bit—it looks terrible. It needs a woman's touch."

He'd never been particularly slow to understand even the subtlest of hints, but Isobel Lambert was one of the best. She looked at him out of those calm, expressionless eyes. She'd told him for a reason.

"I keep forgetting you're not Thomason," he said after a moment.

"I try. Enjoy your vacation. You do realize that while you're on leave there's nothing the Committee can do for you? You're entirely on your own."