Ice Storm (12 page)

“Just drugged to keep them out of trouble. I realized if Samuel was going to sell me out, then he probably wasn’t going to leave any traces. Too bad, too. The Christian school would have done wonders.” Killian started the car, and at that very moment the sky erupted in noise and smoke and flames. Samuel’s expensive house, gone in a moment, the flames shooting to the sky. “Did you do that?” she asked. “Of course.”
“Let’s hope your trusted friend was
really
well paid for selling you out.”
Killian headed into the night, driving fast, not even looking at her. “Let’s hope my trusted friend was still inside and went up with the Serbs.”

“Is that what they were? I didn’t recognize the language they were speaking.”

“Serbs, I made a few enemies there.”

She remembered the failed execution of thousands of ethnic Bosnians. The notorious Serafin had been responsible for the screw up and the prisoners’ subsequent escape. Yes, he’d undoubtedly made enemies. The Jeep went over a bump, and Mahmoud’s unconscious form slid to the floor. “Don’t worry about him,” Killian said. “He’s safer down there, anyway.” They were driving very fast over the rough terrain, and all Isobel could do was hold on.

“So you knew it was Mahmoud when you stayed behind? Why?” The night was mercifully dark, the headlights spearing straight out into the desert, so she couldn’t see him clearly. Sooner or later the moon would come out and she’d have no choice but to look at him, search his face for the ghost of the man she’d loved. But for now things were thankfully anonymous. He didn’t answer, and Isobel’s senses went into high alert. “I thought you said he wasn’t your sex slave.”

“He’s too young for me,” Killian said, unruffled. “And stop being so obsessed about my sex life. I’m keeping Mahmoud alive because—” He stopped.

“Because?”
“I killed his sister,” he said finally, his voice casual, belying his uncharacteristic hesitation.
“You probably killed a lot of people’s sisters in your time. What makes this boy special?”
He didn’t deny it. How could he, when she knew the facts? “Mahmoud was a street kid, recruited as a child soldier. He’s probably killed more people than you have, princess. I’m guessing his mother’s Arab, but no one knows for sure. The father’s something else. Mahmoud’s a mongrel, with no side to take him in.”

“Except the people who put a gun in his hand. If he had no parents, how did he have a sister?”
“She wasn’t really his sister. But she looked after him, and was the closest thing to family he had.”

“How old was she?”

“Fifteen.”

Isobel felt the cold settle in the pit of her stomach. “And you killed her?”
“Shot her in the head, point-blank.” Killian said, with calm detachment. “She was seven months pregnant.” There was no sound in the car, just the noise of the engine and the wind rushing past them. “So you see, he has a pretty good reason for wanting to torture me to death.”

For a moment Isobel was speechless. “You could tell him you’re sorry. Not that that would help much.”

She could feel Killian’s eyes on her as they sped through the night, but she wouldn’t turn to face him. “I’m not sorry I killed her,” he said. “And Mahmoud knows that. So in his mind I must pay, slowly and painfully.”

“And you’re encouraging him?”

“Let’s just say I’m willing to accept him as the instrument of divine retribution if that’s what’s going to get me. He has as good a reason as anyone.”

She glanced back at the small figure lying on the floor of the Jeep. He wasn’t the first casualty of a crazy, violent world, and he wouldn’t be the last. She’d learned long ago that she couldn’t save anyone’s soul, and she’d given up trying.

“Where are we heading?”

“Samuel said he’d arranged a plane over by the western cliffs. I figure he’d hedge his bets, have the plane there anyway and play innocent when he hears about the Serbs.”
“Don’t you think the plane could be a trap?”

“Anything’s possible. But Samuel has no particular reason to want me dead, apart from material gain, and he’ll have already been well paid. He wouldn’t sell me out for less than twice what his house is worth, so he should be feeling benevolent. He gets the money, a new house and a good friend survives.”

 
“You don’t mind that he betrayed you?”

At that moment the moon came out over the desert landscape, and Killian looked as he had eighteen years before. Young and beautiful and honorable.

“I’d have done the same thing, and he knows it. I’m not holding a grudge.”

She stared at him. “I would.”

He snorted. “I’m well aware of that. Which is why I’m going to watch my back. You killed me once—I’m guessing you’d be even better at it this time around.”

“Count on it,” she said in a cool, deadly voice.

He smiled at her. “I look forward to you trying,” he said.

Isobel wondered if she could shove him out of the airplane somewhere over the
Mediterranean
. No, a knife would be best. Hand to hand, with blood. She leaned back in the bouncing car, still clinging tightly. For the first time in her life she was actually going to enjoy it.

10

The last thing Peter Madsen needed was Sir Harry Thomason sitting in his office, smoking a cigar and badgering him. Genevieve would smell the smoke on him and grumble, and he had more important things to concentrate on than keeping Thomason’s nose out of their business. Business like the Japanese punk living upstairs, ostensibly perfecting his English but—from the credit card bills—spending far too much time playing video games. buying hip-hop and nailing every attractive female in the city. Peter once more cursed his old friend Takashi, who’d been remarkably unhelpful when he’d called him.

“We needed him out of the country.” Taka had said in his slow, deep voice. “He got into a little trouble with the daughter of a rival
oyabun,
his grandfather’s ready to chop off half his fingers, and the
Tokyo
police are on the lookout for him. To top that off, Summer’s little sister is coming over for a few months, and I don’t want
Reno
anywhere near her. He’s smart, he’s got skills and he’s not nearly the punk he tries to be. You remember the night on
White
Crane
Mountain
—we might not have made it without his help. He’s got potential.”

“Like a slum apartment in
Brighton
,” Peter said gloomily. “When can I send him home?”
“You can’t. At least not until things quiet down around here and July’s gone back to the States. Besides, you’re shorthanded, I’m tied up over here and Madame Lambert’s on assignment. You need the help.”

Peter had merely grunted. Taka was right—
Reno
was smart, ruthless, inventive and fresh blood. He could be useful, if Peter could just figure out how.
In the meantime, Sir Harry Thomason was a pimple on his ass when he was already beginning to worry about Isobel. She hadn’t checked in. She hadn’t met her transport in
Morocco
, she hadn’t called in, and there’d been no word from Serafin. Peter had been monitoring trouble spots, looking for some clue, but the region was so flicked up that there was no way he could tell whether a car bombing or a kidnapping or a house exploding had anything to do with her. Thomason was the last person with whom he was going to share his concerns. Their old boss had been sitting in Isobel’s office when Peter came in, sating in her chair as if he belonged there. It was no surprise that he wanted back in—Harry Thomason liked power. The only surprise was to see him being so blatant about it.

“Where is she?” he demanded now. “I gather she’s disappeared off the face of the earth, and you weren’t going to tell me. Do you have even the faintest idea what kind of mess she’s in?”

“Nothing she can’t get out of:’ Peter said. Short of physically ejecting Thomason there was no way he could get him out of Isobel’s chair, and. much as he’d love to do it, Thomason still held some power within the Committee.

Sir Harry frowned. “We’re not running a rogue operation here, Madsen. You have to report to somebody.”

“I do. I report to Isobel. If and when I deem it necessary to inform the Committee of any change in those circumstances, then I’ll do so”

Thomason said nothing, puffing furiously on the cigar. It was an affectation; he wanted to be Winston Churchill and he’d ended up like Stalin. The thought would have amused Peter if he wasn’t uneasy about Isobel.

“What’s going on with the new recruit?” His old boss changed tactics. “How much goddamned money are you giving him?”

“He’s new to the country. We set him up in an apartment, gave him spending money and a debit card. Relocating is expensive.”

Thomason didn’t look mollified. “I suppose he’s going to get a Saville Row wardrobe to try to blend in. I’m not sure we ought to be hiring Taka’s cousin. One Asian comes in handy. Two might stick out, no matter how well they dress.”

Peter’s expression didn’t crack. “I already suggested a new wardrobe, but so far he’s resistant. He’s concentrating on English lessons and getting comfortable in his new environment. I have every expectation that he’ll work out just fine.” Actually, Peter felt nothing but gloom at the thought of the flamboyant
Reno
let loose on the world, but he wasn’t about to share that information.

“I’m ready to meet him. If he can assimilate as well as the rest of you he might become the new Bastien. Things haven’t been working that well since he left. He shouldn’t have been allowed to retire.”

“You put out a termination order on him. If that had been fulfilled he wouldn’t have been around, anyway.”

“I was precipitous. Operatives like Bastien Toussaint don’t show up that often.” Thomason glanced down at Peter’s bad leg. “He never made mistakes.”
Peter had wanted to kill Sir Harry for a long Lime, and the reasons just kept multiplying. But Isobel wouldn’t like him bloodying her office, and he counted it a good test of his sangfroid to see how far Thomason could push him.
Besides, the old man was out of shape, smoked and drank—a walking heart attack. “I’ll get
Reno
down here,” Peter said in a dulcet tone.

“
Reno
? I thought he had a Japanese name, which we ought to change. Maybe some plastic surgery to fix his eyes.”

Peter’s mood had lightened considerably. At least this was something he was going to enjoy. He strolled back into his office, picked tip the encoded cell phone
and
punched in a few letters.
Reno
was slavishly devoted to text messaging, and able to type faster than most court stenographers, even in a foreign language. He’d appear in a moment, and Thomason could enjoy him in all his glory. In the meantime, Sir Harry could either sit alone in Isobel’s office or come out here to badger him. Either way, Peter would win.
Thomason emerged just as Peter heard the clatter of
Reno
’s high-heeled, pointy-toed boots on the staircase outside. His old boss looked distressed.
“Is that our new operative? Because he needs to learn to be a little quieter. You can’t just announce your presence—you need to blend in, become a ghost, as you did, Peter.”
“Not everyone needs to work that way. Bastien was never invisible.”
“No, but he knew how to immerse himself in his character. Damned pretty boy should have been an actor,” Harry grumbled. “He didn’t have the stones for the job.”
Peter just looked at Thomason. They both knew perfectly well just how efficiently cold-blooded Bastien Toussaint could be when called upon.
Reno
punched in the security number in the keypad outside, pushing open the door without hesitating, and Peter leaned back in his chair, prepared to enjoy himself. For once in his life Harry Thomason was struck dumb, and if for nothing else. Peter felt suddenly in charity with his new recruit
Reno
was dressed in black leather, a lime-green T-shirt the only color besides his flame-red hair. He was wearing his omnipresent sunglasses, but when he saw Thomason he pushed them up, exposing his aquamarine-tinted eyes and the tattooed drops of blood on his high cheekbones.

“Who’s the old dude?” he asked in a bored tone.

There was a reason Thomason had never been an operative. He had a singular inability to hide his reactions, and the sight of
Reno
was almost enough to send him into shock. As it was, he simply sank into a chair, staring at him in horror.
“Harry Thomason, this is our new recruit, known to all and sundry as
Reno
. And this is a member of the overseer board of the Committee, the man who used to be in charge of all this.”

Reno
looked him up and down with withering contempt. “I know who he is. Taka told me.” He dismissed him, turning back to Peter. “What do you want?”

“How’s the English coming? Better, I see.”

“Fuck that,”
Reno
said. “Where’s Isobel?”

“Madame Lambert,” Peter corrected.

“Fuck that,”
Reno
said again. “This old fart know where she is?”

Thomason was looking apoplectic. “I haven’t the faintest idea where she is, young man, and I’ll have you know—”