Ice Blue (9 page)
Or maybe both.
Isobel Lambert stubbed out her cigarette, hating the taste in her mouth, the smell on her fingers, hating everything. She needed to go back to the doctor, see if there was something new she could try. She'd already gone through the patch, gum, nasal spray, hypnosis, cognitive therapy, clove cigarettes, and everything else under the sun, but nothing had stuck. She'd manage a day, a week, even three months one time, then something would happen and she'd pick them up again.
Her therapist had a glib explanation: her job. Her life was all about death. The giving of it, the ordering of it. By smoking she could atone by seeking her own death in a slower, more insidious way.
Just so much bullshit, Madame Lambert had told the good doctor. If smoking made it easier to accept the hard choices she had to make, then she'd go up to two or three packs a day. But it didn't. Smoking just kept her hands from shaking.
O'Brien hadn't done his job, and the bodies were piling up. Some civilian had gone over a cliff in the girl's car, and Takashi had had to take out God knows how many of that sicko Shirosama's mindless goons. She'd asked Taka what the fuck he thought he was doing, but he'd been avoiding her messages, and in the end, it was up to him. He had experience and cool determination, and if he was keeping the girl alive there must be a good reason.
Maybe it had been too soon to put him out in the field again, but she hadn't had much choice. O'Brien was tailor-made for the job—he could speak and read Japanese, he had the connections, the culture. No one else even came close. His body had pretty much recovered from some of the most advanced torture the modern world could devise, and his sangfroid had never been an issue. So why didn't he finish the job? He must still think there was a way to salvage the situation, but from half a world away Isobel couldn't see many signs of hope. But strategy, she knew. And the only way to stop a deluded megalomaniac, if you couldn't get close enough to kill him, was to take away his toys.
Summer Hawthorne had no idea that's all she was. A toy, a pawn in the hands of some very dangerous people, and both sides were deadly, experienced and ready to kill her before the other could get their hands on her.
Takashi must be convinced there was something to be gained from keeping her alive, or the situation would be done with and Isobel could finish whatever open pack of cigarettes she was rationing, go back to her elegant apartment and break something.
She'd tried with cheap dishes, department store glasses. Those didn't work. To stop the pain she had to smash something of value, something of beauty, something irreplaceable. Like the human life she'd just ordered terminated.
And then she could calm down, pour herself a glass of wine, and no one would have any idea why there were tears streaming down her face. Because by the next day her perfect, flawless complexion would betray absolutely nothing. Only Peter, who knew her better than anyone else, would guess.
She picked up the mobile phone and pushed the buttons that would send her through a circuitous route to Takashi O'Brien's corresponding device. She didn't expect to reach him, but she had to try. She needed answers, any kind of update. The faint hope that things weren't totally fucked.
She left another message, trying to rid herself of the powerful sense of unease that tightened her shoulders beneath the pale silk of her suit. If an operative didn't check in there was usually a very good reason, and Isobel had learned to live with silence and unanswered questions until the time was right. For all she knew Summer Hawthorne was already gone—Taka could be very gentle and she'd never know it was happening. His ability to kill painlessly, and his experience with southern California, had been two other reasons he was perfect for the job. The fact that the Shirosama and his doomsday cult would hit a little too close to home for him only made the stakes higher.
Too high, maybe. She could have sent someone else, someone without an emotional investment in the Armageddon the apocalyptic cult leader was planning to rain down on Tokyo and every other major city in the world.
But she was a woman who went with her instincts, and there'd never been any doubt. Takashi O'Brien was made for this mission, and the sooner Isobel stopped second-guessing herself the better off she'd be.
Until Taka called in to tell her Summer Hawthorne was dead, she had no choice but to sit in her office and smoke, watching the streets of London in the misty pre-light, and wishing to hell she'd gone into some other line of work. Like being a travel agent or an accountant. Anything that would allow her to sleep at night.
The state-of-the-art phone vibrated in her hand, and she jumped, stubbing out still another cigarette. Someone had left a message—a coded text message—and she knew from the channel used that it could only be Taka. All she had to do was set the device into its cradle to read the news. And then she could move on.
For a long time she didn't budge. She'd never been one to avoid unpleasant truths, and she wasn't about to start, but she needed to take a deep breath before she found out that one more necessary loss had been completed.
But right now she needed one more cigarette. One more cup of coffee. Before another part of her soul was burned away.
H
e had blood on his hands. He had the most exquisitely beautiful wrists, strong but delicate, and she stared at them as he drove through the busy nighttime streets of L.A., her eyes riveted to the drying blood on the back of his hand, on the long fingers holding the steering wheel far too casually, given the speeds they were driving.
Summer wanted to throw up, to scream and hit something. The only thing to hit was him, and that would likely send them crashing into another car. In this tank they'd probably bounce off anything but a Hummer, but she didn't want to risk it. Too many people had died already, including Micah. Sweet, charming Micah, who'd just been complaining about his love life and the price of gas and the weather. Micah, who would never mind any of those things again. All because he'd wanted to help her.
She was cold, her muscles clenched tight so that she wouldn't shake. She didn't want to draw Taka's attention any more than she had to, not when he was already angry with her. She wanted to disappear, to vanish into nothingness, and she let herself play with the fantasy that if she just didn't move, didn't speak, didn't breathe, she'd vaporize, and there'd be no more blood, no more pain, no more—
"Snap out of it!"
She let out her breath in a whoosh, her tense muscles loosening slightly. He had the heat on in the car, flooding it with warmth, and the hot air on her legs stung. She must have splashed some of the boiling water on herself as well as the men chasing her.
She looked down at her blotchy hands, then turned to look at her savior. "What do you mean?"
"Take deep, calm breaths and think about the ocean. I can't have you freaking out on me right now."
"I wasn't freaking out," she said in a flat voice. "I was just trying to decide what to do next."
"And what did you come up with?"
"Nothing."
He nodded, watching the rain-drenched street as he drove. "Since you weren't going to have any say in the matter, it's just as well."
"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?"
"Maybe. I need to figure that out myself first."
"Great," she said bleakly. "My knight in shining armor doesn't even know where we're going."
"Not exactly."
"You know where we're going?"
"I'm not your knight in shining armor," he said in his deep, unemotional voice. "It would be a mistake for you to think so."
The rain was letting up, slowing to a drizzle, and the traffic was beginning to thin. With the total illogicality of nature, her stomach had stopped its nauseous roll and now she was hungry again. Starving. They were speeding by fast-food places, and Summer, who'd been flirting with whole grains and vegetarianism, started craving an In-N-Out Burger with a fiery passion. She said nothing, until he turned right, and then she forgot all about food.
As he turned the corner again she knew far too well his eventual destination.
"It's a waste of time taking me to my mother's house," she said. "The bowl isn't there."
"Where is it?"
Why the hell had she told him the one in the museum was a fake? If she hadn't volunteered that information he probably would have left her alone. Then again, he wouldn't have come after her when she was trapped in that alleyway, and God knows where she'd be right now. At the bottom of a cliff with poor Micah?
She couldn't think about that—it was too painful. "What's the big deal about the bowl? Granted, it's beautiful, and very old, but it's not worth killing for."
"That's a matter of opinion. Clearly a number of people disagree with you."
"Then maybe I should just hand it over to them and end this nightmare."
There was absolutely no change in his expression. "I can't let you do that."
"Why not? It's mine—my old nanny left it to me…
"I believe Hana Hayashi left it in your care, not as a gift. It belongs to Japan, not some California gaijin who doesn't realize its value."
"You're obviously half-gaijin yourself, so there's no need to be snotty," she said. "And the urn is seventeenth century Edo period, probably made between 1620 and 1660. It should be worth anywhere between one hundred and fifty thousand to three hundred thousand on the open market—probably closer to three hundred thousand dollars because of the distinctive ice blue glaze. People don't murder for less than half a million dollars."
"How naive are you? In some parts of the world people will commit murder for a handful of coins. Just because you've lived a safe, insular life doesn't mean the rest of the world is so well protected." There was no emotion, not even condemnation in his cool, deep voice. Just a statement of fact.
Summer' shivered. She couldn't help it—she'd done everything she could to put her life before Hana out of her mind, but every now and then it resurfaced, as it did now, in the words of an arrogant, disturbingly beautiful man.
"Not as safe and well protected as you might think," she said finally, staring out at the rain as it ran down the smoked windows of the car. They were still heading toward her mother's house, and she didn't know how to stop him. Only that she had to.
"Apparently not," he said after a moment, The man was too damn observant. "Otherwise you'd be a basket case. I haven't see you cry—not over your friend, not out of fear. Very impressive."
His words were like a punch to the stomach. "I don't cry. No matter how bad things are, I never cry. It's a waste of time. Crying won't bring Micah back, crying won't change anything. Would you prefer I was sitting here blubbering?"
"Yes."
She stared at his elegant profile in the darkened interior of the car. "Why?"
"Because it's an anomaly, and I don't like anomalies."
"Tough shit."
She had to imagine the faint movement of his mouth, what in another man might have almost been the beginnings of a smile. And then the thought vanished as he turned down the broad street that led to her stepfather's gated mansion.
"No!" she said, her voice rising in panic. "It's not here."
"Then where is it?"
He pulled up to the security gate and put the car in Park, punching in a security code that he shouldn't have had before turning to look at her.
The gate began to slide open, and Summer's panic began to spike. "Listen, I told you, it's not here," she said for the thousandth time. "There's no reason for us to go up there. We don't need to involve my family in this mess—put them in danger."
"It was your mother who put you in danger in the first place, and they're already involved. Your idiot mother is one of the Shirosama's most devoted followers. If the Shirosama's men haven't already been here then they'll come soon."
"No!" Summer said in horror. "We can't…I'll give them the bowl…"
"What are you so afraid of? Don't tell me you're trying to protect your mother. She already fed you to the wolves, and I imagine she'd do so again."
Summer didn't bother denying it. "Then why give her the chance? Let's just get out of here."
"She's not here."
"She isn't?" Summer said warily.
"Your stepfather took her to Hawaii this morning to try to get her away from the Shirosama. Apparently he balked at spending fifty thousand dollars for her guru's bathwater."
"What?" Summer cried, horrified. "Why would she want his bathwater?"
"To drink it. It's part of the True Realization Fellowship's initiation. You drink the Shirosama's bathwater to absorb his consciousness. They sell his blood as well, but that's a bit pricier."
"I don't believe you," she said flatly, horrified.
"Don't you?" Taka leaned back, his hands loose on the steering wheel, and in the dim light he looked elegant and deadly. "The True Realization Fellowship has over a billion dollars in assets, and that amount is climbing daily. Selling the blood and the bathwater and the tapes and the literature is just a lucrative sideline—and they make most of their money through the donations of their renunciants. And they do their best to attract the wealthiest of the disaffected. They need the poor students for their scientific expertise and the grunt work, and they need the rich ones to turn over their wealth. It's been very effective so far—the True Realization Fellowship has grown from a handful of followers ten years ago into one of the most powerful of the new religions, as they like to call themselves."