Crossfire (24 page)

“But that man had wanted to cause an accident for Jean-Michel. Stefan had to stop him.”

“It wasn’t necessary to kill him. He wanted to throw down his weapon. But that psychopath wanted to kill him. He enjoyed it. He laughed at the man all the time, mocking him. His eyes had no feeling in them at all. The man’s blood had spilled all over him, but he didn’t seem to mind. I think he got a kick out of it. Marcelle, I was there.”

She heard the horror in her friend’s voice, and knew he wasn’t lying. Although she knew about Stefan’s terrible past, she had never pictured the killings and the blood. Now she had heard an eyewitness account of something the mercenary had done, but she found it hard to connect what Claude said with the man she knew. “Claude, I know him, and he isn’t like that. He’s understanding and charming, and he’s been so good to me these past few weeks.”

“It scared the hell out of me to see you two sitting together like that this morning. You think your honor is safe. Let me tell you, he’ll take it if he wants it.”

Marcelle chilled, remembering how Stefan had pinned her down only two nights ago. She dismissed the thought as it formed. She couldn’t believe that of him.

Claude saw her skeptical expression and continued heatedly, “You don’t seem to understand. On the inside he’s an animal, with no respect for human life.” He could see he wasn’t convincing his friend, and adopted a more conciliatory tone. “Please believe me. Stefan is a rich and powerful man, and he knows how to act sociable and civilized, but it’s only an illusion. Almost every prominent figure in the world is in his debt in some way or another. He moves in high circles, so he has to hide his true nature, but he can flip at a moment’s notice. I’ve seen the transformation with my own eyes. He has all the characteristics of a psychopath. The man has no conscience.”

Marcelle felt conflicted, and she didn’t like it. It was believable that all the traumatic experiences in the mercenary’s past could have led to personality disturbances, but Claude’s belief that he was a psychopath was only his own supposition.

She played her trump card. “So if he is such a terrible person, why did my husband befriend him? Stefan told me Jean-Michel even visited him at his headquarters.”

Claude’s voice took on a hopeless quality. “I tried to warn him. I even told him about the man Stefan killed, but Jean-Michel didn’t care. Stefan fascinated him, in the same way that people are fascinated by dangerous predators. It was as if he was under some kind of spell, and he wouldn’t listen to reason. More than once, I wanted to speak to you about it, but I knew it would destroy my friendship with Jean-Michel if I did.”

She shook her head. “Look Claude, I realize you’re worried about me, just like you were worried about Jean-Michel, but I think you’re going off at a tangent. Stefan has killed many people in the past, and will no doubt kill many more in the future. He’s a soldier, and that’s his job. We can sleep safe at night because of people like him. How can we stand in judgment and call him an animal? How dare we exclude him from society because of his occupation and deny him love and companionship? He wouldn’t kill innocent people, but he’ll hunt down the people who threaten the society in which we live. He can tell the difference, you know,” she pointed out, a challenge in her voice. “I like him, and I feel safe in his presence. I don’t believe for one minute that my life is in danger, or those of my friends. I’m not afraid of Stefan in the slightest.”

“Why not?”

“Because he told me not to be.”

“So you’ve talked about it.” Claude sighed. “Well, for your sake I hope you’re right,” he said as he started the car again.

Marcelle was silent for the rest of the trip, her thoughts far away.

* * * *

Chapter Nineteen

Stefan spent a restless day, his thoughts all too frequently turning to Marcelle behind the wheel of a Formula One car. Though he didn’t doubt her ability to control one of those beasts, accidents happened even to the best of drivers.

He tried to occupy himself by working out in the gym, finding that his past sessions had borne fruit. His body was back to full strength and his arm had recovered completely. He should return to La Montagne, but he didn’t want to go home. How could he leave Marcelle? How would she react to living alone again?

Later he wandered up to the roof to enjoy the sunshine. He relaxed on one of the recliners beside the pool and dropped off to sleep, the shade of the miniature palm trees playing over his naked upper body.

His dreams were confused and troubled. He woke with a start a few hours later, sure that he had heard Marcelle scream. Uneasy, he went downstairs and warmed the lunch she had left him.

After he had eaten, he forced himself to watch a movie to occupy what was left of the afternoon, but he couldn’t concentrate on the plot, finding himself listening for the sound of Claude’s Diablo.

It was nearly five o’clock before he heard the roar of the sports car. He crossed to the window and looked down. Claude jumped out of the car and walked around to open Marcelle’s door. Stefan felt his heart leap when he saw she was safe. The two were in no hurry to enter the apartment, and stood talking for a few minutes while he watched.

Finally, Claude gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and walked back to the driver’s side of the car. She watched him drive off before she turned and entered the apartment through the garage.

He sent the elevator down for her. A minute later, the doors opened, and he had to suppress an impulse to grab her and crush her in his embrace.

She greeted him with a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She seemed unbearably sad, and he could guess its cause. He sensed her need for comfort, and opened his arms in invitation.

As she walked into his embrace, and he held her close, he could smell the syrupy, cloying scent of fuel on her clothes and hair. It reminded him of the time he had spent with Jean-Michel in Italy. He had spent half his time at the track, watching the Formula One cars flash by at incredible speeds. The reek of fuel had always been thick in the air, seeming to blanket everything.

“How did it go?”

She leaned back in his embrace to look up at him. “It was a lot of fun. I think Claude has a good chance to clinch the world champs this year. His driving has matured a lot, and the car is phenomenal. So if he plays his cards right...”

“Anything’s possible,” he murmured.

“I think I had better take a shower, and wash my hair,” she said, stepping away from him. “I smell like an oil refinery.”

“I’ll have some tea ready when you’ve finished,” he offered, and she rewarded him with a smile as she disappeared down the passage.

He remained at the window, remembering Jean-Michel. The smell of Marcelle’s hair had brought back memories he had kept buried until now. The Frenchman had spoken often about his young wife, and the future they planned together. Though he had been far too cynical to buy into Jean-Michel’s dreams, it hadn’t affected the instant liking he had taken to the man.

In the month they had spent in each other’s company, Jean-Michel had received many offers from adoring female fans. Apparently oblivious to the charms of the attractive young women, the racing driver had remained faithful to his wife, and his fidelity had impressed Stefan.

Now Jean-Michel was dead, his dreams dying with him. He wondered if he could ever ease the guilt he felt at the life stolen from his friend.

~ . ~

When Marcelle returned, she seemed happier, and told him all about the day’s activities. She asked him what he had done to amuse himself all day. He told her about working out in the gym, falling asleep in the sun, and watching the movie.

“You’re recovering your strength fast,” she commented, “and your color is much better. It must be all those hours in the sun.”

He smiled. “I’m going to be good as new in no time at all, thanks to you.”

He saw a shadow cross her face as he said this. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” It was clear that she didn’t want to share her thoughts.

He wondered if she feared him leaving, but didn’t venture to ask her.

Marcelle cast her eyes down so that Stefan couldn’t see her thoughts. At his last words, Claude’s words had echoed through her mind, “He’s an animal, with no respect for human life.” She felt torn in two, divided between believing Claude and trusting her own judgment. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the doubts.

“You look as if you’ve just taken on the world’s troubles.”

She forced a smile as she improvised, “Just thinking about tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to the meeting out at Pierre-Henri’s place. A representative of the French Professional Cycling Federation will be there, to let me know if I have to appear in front of a disciplinary committee.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t happen,” he tried to reassure her.

She smiled sadly. “I wish I could share your confidence.”

He wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but remained silent. He wasn’t the kind of man who went around singing his own praises. If the young widow never knew the part he had played in helping her, it was all the same to him.

~ . ~

That night in bed, he could feel the tension in her slim frame. He switched on the bedside lamp, and raised himself on one elbow to look down at her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, blinking in the brightness.

“That’s what I want to know. You’ve been moping all evening, and I don’t believe you’re just worried about the meeting. You were fine, before you left...” He drew a sharp breath. “Of course, that’s it! What’s Claude been telling you about me?”

She remained silent, gazing up at him with wide gray eyes.

“I can’t defend myself if you won’t tell me what he told you.”

She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest as she drew a deep breath. “Claude told me about the man you killed in Italy. That man who tried to sabotage Jean-Michel’s car.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Claude said you didn’t have to kill the man. The man wanted to surrender, but you wouldn’t let him, and told him he was dead either way. Claude claims you’re a psychopath, and that you suffer from a split personality. He thinks you enjoyed killing the man. Claude says you wanted to kill the man...” her voice trailed off as she hugged her knees tighter.

Stefan sighed. “Marcelle, if I had let that man live, in a few weeks, or a few months his friends would have tried to free him. And how would they have done it? They would have taken hostages, preferably women and children, and demanded the release of their comrade. They would kill innocent people to prove they are serious. Faced with a choice like that, wouldn’t you have killed him too? He knew the score if my men or I found him. We don’t take prisoners. Does that answer your question?”

She stirred uncomfortably. “Now that you put it that way, I understand your reasoning, but did you have to do it like that? Taunting him and cutting his throat? Claude said you had a gun, but preferred not to use it.”

“It was a fair fight. He had a knife, and I had my bare hands. As for my taunting him, I’ve seen you do the same to your competitors, and Richard. You taunt them to upset their composure, to get them angry, so that they lose their judgment. I do it for the same reason. My game is as competitive as yours, except in my case the loser doesn’t go home again.”

A shudder passed through her frame. “You’ve just said it. It’s a game to you. I race because I enjoy it, so do you fight and kill because you enjoy it?”

“How can you say that?” Stefan asked, cut to the bone. “Haven’t you come to know me at all since we’ve been together? I’ve told you everything about myself, with no excuses. We’ve already covered this territory. I’ve told you I have loyalties, and that I have a conscience. I don’t kill at random. I have a purpose in life, a job to do. My organization has done more to rid the world of terrorism than all the governments put together. We’ve had success because we solve the problem, even if it gets messy. I enjoy fighting,” he conceded, “pitting my strength against that of my opponent, but if I don’t kill him, he’s going to kill me. That’s the name of the game. What do you want from me?” Marcelle’s apparent rejection had stung more than he cared to admit. When she didn’t answer him, he continued, “Claude and I used to get on well until that incident. He has regarded me as little more than a monster since then. I told you that the day he arrived. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I’m a psychopath or a schizophrenic, out of my mind most of the time, living for the moment when I can kill again? I don’t care what people like Claude think about me, but I couldn’t stand it if you agreed with him.”

She reversed her protective posture, sitting cross-legged, her elbows resting on her knees. “No, Stefan, I could never believe that of you. I just got confused, listening to Claude. I know he believes it’s the truth, but his is a simplistic view. Your explanation is logical. That man meant to kill Jean-Michel, and he died instead. That’s justice. And...” she paused uncomfortably, fidgeting with her fingers.

“What is it?”

“Well, you’ve become a good friend to me since you’ve been here. I’m not going to repay your friendship with distrust. I don’t want this to come between us.”

He stared at her for a long moment, feeling he had made a breakthrough. “I couldn’t stand it either. I’ve grown to care for you deeply. I...” He couldn’t say it, feeling that the time wasn’t right. Instead, he reached a hand towards her and continued, “Let’s pretend it’s just the two of us here tonight. No bad memories, no pasts, no judgments. What do you say?”