Ice Storm (18 page)

 
“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling helpless for the first time in the last brief, bloody hour.
She kissed him on the mouth, and if her eyes were bright with unshed tears, she ignored them. “I’m not,” she said. “You did what you had to do.”

He held her so tightly that the baby woke up with an annoyed squawk. Resting his forehead against Chloe’s, Bastien let out a long, shuddering breath. And then he pulled away.
“Let’s just go,” he said. “We can buy things on the way to the airport.”

She nodded. And ten minutes later they were speeding down the road, into the darkening night.

14

After two hours of Mahmoud puking, first into the toilet, then dry heaves into a trash bin, a towel and the rapidly emptied fruit bowl in the cabin, Isobel decided she wasn’t going to wait any longer. The storm had picked up, the huge ferry was responding to the waves with enthusiasm, and night had fallen. No sign of Killian—with luck he’d been washed overboard, leaving her stuck with Mahmoud. Even a psychopathic child soldier was preferable to her nemesis, but not one racked with nausea. He was too weak to fight her when she scooped him up. He was nothing more than skin and bones, and she cursed Killian under her breath. If he was going to keep the damn kid with him out of some twisted form of penance, he might at least see he was properly fed.
Mahmoud tried to punch her as she juggled him in her arms. He was probably seventy-five pounds—light for a human being, damned heavy if you weren’t used to it. Isobel pumped iron, practiced yoga and ran. He was still a strain.

The nurse’s office was located on a lower deck, The few people who were out and about weren’t looking particularly happy with the rough seas, but they didn’t pay any attention as Isobel carried her small charge onto the elevator.

When the door slid open Killian was there, and she stepped out, dumping Mahmoud in his arms and stretching her shoulders. “He needs a doctor.”

Killian looked down at the bundle. “I take it he doesn’t like boats?”
“You could say that.” Mahmoud began retching again, dry sounds, and the few people who’d been waiting for the elevator got on quickly, moving out of their way.
The medical office was surprisingly empty, given the decided roll of the vessel. A woman in a white uniform was on duty, sitting behind a desk as Killian shouldered his way in. “Seasickness, I presume,” she said in English, rising.

“He’s been throwing up for the last three hours,” Isobel stated.
“You should have brought him down sooner. He might be dehydrated.” She looked them over. “Is this your son?”

“God, no,” Killian said. With a British accent that made Isobel jerk. “We’re Mary and Jack Curwen, aid workers from
England
, and we’re bringing this poor child to his new family there.”

“Set him down on the table.”

Mahmoud was too sick to protest. He lay on the white-sheeted cot in misery as the woman looked him over. He made a feeble attempt at batting her hand away when she felt his forehead, but a sharp word from Killian in Arabic made him deceptively docile.
“I’ll need to keep him overnight,” she said. “He is dehydrated. He’ll need an IV to replenish his fluids, and careful monitoring. Just fill out the paperwork and you can come get him in the morning.”

Isobel glanced at Killian, expecting a protest on his part, but he didn’t argue. “Fine,” he said. “You’ll call us if there’s any problem?”

“Of course.” The nurse gazed up at them, strong disapproval in her eyes. “You might at least have washed and fed the poor boy before bringing him onto the boat.”
Isobel’s sting of guilt was entirely unexpected. She was glad when Killian replied, sounding calm and reasonable. “We did feed him. Quite a bit, as a matter of fact. Which is why he’s been so ill. As for bathing him, that’s easier said than done. Feel free to attempt it—you might have more luck while he’s feeling so ill. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
Killian went over to the desk, rapidly filling in the forms with lies, then glanced at her. “Would you rather stay with the poor lad, darling?” he inquired.

In fact, she was tempted. She didn’t want to go back to that quiet little room with the double bed, where she’d be alone with him.

 
“Sorry, no visitors. I’ll alert you if I have any problems. We arrive at noon tomorrow—come by around ten and he should be clean and ready to go.”

“God bless you.” Killian murmured, looking saintly. “Come along, my love. Let the nurse take care of this poor boy.”

He whisked Isobel out of the cabin before she could protest, his hand under her arm, strong, almost imprisoning. At least she had several layers of clothing on and didn’t have to feel his skin against hers.

“You want something to eat?” he asked, “At least one of the restaurants is open.”
“Not particularly. Spending three hours with a vomiting child isn’t conducive to building up an appetite.”

“Then just a drink, while we get someone to clean up the room,” he said, steering her into the elevator.

There were a thousand protests she could have come up with. The ferry was far from full; it was off-season, or he wouldn’t have been able to book a room so easily. There’d be empty cabins available, as well as reclining seats for passengers who didn’t want to spend money on a room. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was go back into that tiny cabin with him.

But she couldn’t leave him alone. They were probably perfectly safe on this boat as it plowed across the stormy
Atlantic
, but there had already been too many mistakes. She wasn’t letting him out of her sight until she could hand him over to the Committee for debriefing. It wouldn’t come soon enough, probably by tomorrow night, but in the meantime she was just going to have to put up with him.

“All right,” she said. “One drink.”

Only one of the ferry bars was open, and there were a mere handful of people inside. Smoking.
She took the seat Killian handed her into, and waited until he brought back the drinks.
Seven months was the longest shed ever gone without a cigarette. She’d done it cold turkey this time—no patches or gums or nasal sprays. And she’d never dare try hypnosis—she knew too many secrets that could have leaked out. No, she gritted her teeth, snapped at anyone who came near her and went without cigarettes. She’d only gained five pounds that last time, and she’d done her best to make sure those pounds were solid muscle, turning in her nicotine addiction for an addiction to pumping iron. She thought she’d gotten to the point where she no longer even wanted one.
She’d been wrong, that time as well as now. She could smell the fresh smoke. That was one problem with
Europe
: it was too damn easy to smoke. In
America
they made it so inconvenient it was almost better not to bother. Though of course her rebellious streak always kicked in, making her crave them even more. But this time she’d sworn it was for good, more than half a year ago. They were making life unpleasant. She was free of them. Her breathing had started being affected, the taste lingered in her clothes and hair.

So why was the scent of tobacco dancing over to her like something out of an old cartoon, undulating and beckoning? And why the hell had she stolen the mashed pack of cigarettes from the dead pilot’s pocket?

A moment later Killian was back, carrying two drinks. He put one down in front of her, and she eyed it doubtfully. It was a gin and tonic, with one cube of ice and a slice of lime, not lemon. She’d been drinking them for ten years now—long after their time together. How had he guessed?

His own glass held unwatered whiskey. Scotch, probably. He hadn’t changed in all these years, even if she had.

“They called maid service from the bar. Our room should be ready by the time we finish our drinks.”

Our room.
She didn’t like the sound of that. She picked up her glass, taking a sip. Tanqueray gin, her favorite. Enough was enough.

“How do you know so much about me?”

His smile was lazy. “Tricks of the trade, princess. I’m surprised you aren’t equally well informed. For what it’s worth, I like single malt Scotch at night, dark beer in the afternoon. I don’t like gin, hate vodka and despise martinis. If I drink too much I get short-tempered and lustful. In your honor I’m moderating my alcohol intake.”
“Thank heavens for small favors. You didn’t answer my question.”
“You know perfectly well that you can find out anything you want about someone if you know where to look. My life has depended on being able to access the right information at the right time.”

“And how does knowing what I drink affect your Life?”

“Let’s just say I was curious.”

“When did you find out I was alive? You thought I was dead, didn’t you?”

“When did you find out
1
was alive?” he countered.
“I asked you first.”

“Tough.”
She took another sip of her drink. It was strong, and she hadn’t had much sleep or much to eat. It wouldn’t affect her judgment, but she needed to pay attention. “Five days ago,” she said. “When Peter told me you wanted to be brought in. I went through some Intel and saw a picture of you—of Serafin, actually. But I knew it was you. It must have been quite a shock to see me after all these years.”

He said nothing, toying with his glass, and her eyes were drawn to his fingers. Long, elegant, clever fingers. Which had touched her. Brought her exquisite pleasure. Killed countless innocent people.

“When did you find out I was alive?” she asked again, annoyed.
His eyes met hers for a long moment. “I always knew.”

She spilled her drink. Clumsiness had never been a particular failing, but his simple words shocked her so much that she jerked, and the glass tipped over, spreading gin and tonic and ice over the white tablecloth. “You’re lying.”

“And it was no shock when you appeared in
Morocco
. I knew there was no one else available but you. Bastien Toussaint’s retired. Peter Madsen’s still recovering from that shoot-out in California Taka O’Brien is tied up in
Japan
, and the other agents are under such deep cover that even I couldn’t find out where they were.”

“Thank God for small favors” she muttered. “I still don’t believe you.”

“James Reddy.”

So much for cool invulnerability. Isobel knew she was turning white, knew the shock was clear on her face, and she didn’t give a flying fuck. How could he know about James? What goddamned right did he have?

She stood up, pushing the table back so hard that his drink would have spilled as well if he hadn’t grabbed it in time. Ignoring the curious looks directed at her, she ran out of the bar and onto the deck, into the furious blast of the rain and whipping wind.
She kept going. The deck was wet beneath her feet, slippery, and the ferry was lurching like a majestic old drunk, but the railings were secure, and if she fell into the goddamned
Atlantic
she wouldn’t care. She was muttering a litany of curses under her breath as she ran, knowing she was weeping as well, knowing that the rain would wash away all trace of her tears and he’d never see them. For a brief moment she could let herself go.

She ducked into an alcove, out of the direct fury of the storm, and reached in her pocket for the cigarettes. Her hands were shaking as she knocked one out, only to find it broken. She pulled another two, also crumpled, and dropped them on the deck, finally finding one in reasonably good shape.

No matches. No lighter, no nothing. She needed that cigarette so badly she’d kill for it, and she was stuck out in the middle of nowhere on this huge ferry with no matches and no one to beg one from.

She sank down on her heels, turning her wet face to the bulwark. Her hair was soaking, her clothes were drenched and it was cold, so cold. She was shivering, and she didn’t care. She just needed a few minutes to pull herself together. Then she’d go back, pick up a pack of matches in the bar and face Killian with her usual cool dignity. She only needed a few minutes.

A second later the minimal light was blocked out, and rough hands were hauling up her. “Come on, princess.” he said in a gruff voice. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
She could push him overboard, using the element of surprise. He stronger than she was, but he wouldn’t be expecting it, and he’d disappear into the icy waters. And right then it was the only thing she could think of that would stop the blaze of pain spearing through her body.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, reading her mind. “If I go over that railing you’re coming with me, and I know you don’t want that. You’re freezing to death already. Come on.”

She wouldn’t move. He’d pulled her upright, but he couldn’t very well drag her the length of the boat, back to their cabin, without someone taking notice. She’d fight him with all the dirty tricks she was so good at and...

He knew all her dirty tricks. He disabled her struggles in a matter of seconds, wrapped his arms tightly around her and marched her down the long stretch of rain-lashed decking. She couldn’t struggle, couldn’t fight back. She could do nothing but move when he moved her, her feet obeying him, not her. She would have screamed at him, but common sense finally hit her. She couldn’t afford to bring any unwanted attention to them. She had to handle him on her own. Even if, for one brief moment, she wasn’t strong enough.

He pushed her into the elevator and the door shut, closing them in, alone together. He released her, and she tried to hit him, but he simply grabbed her wrists in one hand, so tightly that the bones seemed to grind together, and it took all her will not to cry out in pain. The elevator door opened, and he half carried, half dragged her down the deserted hallway to their cabin, unlocking the door and shoving her inside before he followed her into the darkness, slamming the door behind him.