Ice Storm (31 page)

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Killian. I don’t care what happens to those men—they knew the risks when they entered my employment.”

 
“But you do want Isobel Lambert, don’t you? And all I have to do is walk out of here and warn her.”

“Dear me, now why do I have trouble believing you?” Harry said softly. “You and Isobel were once involved, a long, long time ago. Surely the gentlemanly thing would be to protect her.”

“The bitch tried to kill me. More than once. You’ve got ten minutes, Thomason. And then I’m gone, and Isobel is never letting you get near her again.”

The connection was broken. Harry set the phone down gently on the table. And then he picked it up and smashed it against the stone fireplace.

It took him less than a minute to get the gun. He would have liked to take one of the matched set of dueling pistols, also a present to his father, this time from Lord Mountbatten himself. Pretty things, antique. But he needed something more functional and totally deadly. He was going to put a bullet in that woman’s brain himself, and he wanted to make sure he had plenty of them. By the time he got his hands on her he’d deserve it.

He wasn’t fool enough to think he wasn’t walking into a trap. Somehow Killian must have gotten away from his keepers, but they’d be close behind him. And once Isobel realized they were heading to Wilders, they’d know who was behind everything. Chances were they’d come straight for the house, but he was better off waiting for them in the bunkers. He needed them there because the only way he could wipe them all out was to blow the place.

He regretted having to kill Madsen. Peter could have still been useful, and he was pragmatic. Even if he knew Thomason had been behind the deaths of his compatriots. Madsen would take it in stride. He had no weaknesses, except for that wife of his, and Thomason could get to her easily enough.

He left the house silently, walking across the ice encrusted field in his old pair of Wellingtons, his Barbour coat, his walking stick—the epitome of a landed English gentleman. The kind who didn’t exist anymore. He would outlast them all.
He wouldn’t do that by walking into a trap. or by letting anyone warn Isobel. There were tunnels crisscrossing the lands, including one that ran from the old stables down to the back of the bunker. Last time he’d checked, it hadn’t caved in—he could get there quite easily, with no one suspecting him. They didn’t realize what an old fox they were dealing with. They were fools to think they could best him.
He could see the headlights in the distance, pulling into the long, winding driveway that led up to the main house. It must be Isobel. She wouldn’t stop until she confronted him, wouldn’t stop until she found Killian. She’d walk into the trap her pride had set for her.
He made his way into the stables, down the deserted brick alley to the far stall. To the hidden entrance to the tunnels, where he and his brother had once played pirates. And now he was a real pirate, about to claim his prize.

***

“Killian hasn’t been here,” Bastien said, pausing at the end of the driveway. “There are no tracks in the ice. With this kind of crust there’d be no missing him.”
“Then find him,” Isobel snapped.

He backed into the empty road, the car slipping. “I’ll follow the tracks. He can’t be far—the coordinates were close enough, and this is the only place that makes sense.”
“There’s a lot of land connected with the estate. He could be anywhere.” Peter said. “Maybe he hasn’t gotten this far yet. The roads are hell.”

“He’s here.” Isobel said. “Find him.”

It was taking too long, she thought, leaning back in the seat and deliberately letting the pain from her cuts move through her body. Strengthening her will. They’d taken main highways for as long as they could, but eventually had to travel icy back roads. The sun had risen, and sooner or later the ice would begin to melt, but right now it was a wonderland of crystal death.

An endless ten minutes later, Bastien pulled to a stop. “Found him,” he said in a grim voice.
She could see the abandoned car—and the two bodies lying on the frozen mud, blood pooling and freezing around them. Isobel let out an anguished cry, fumbling with the car door. “No.” she said, scrambling out and almost falling on the ice.
Reno
was already beside her, surprisingly steady as he caught her. “He’s not one of them,” he said.
She pushed her hair away from her face, pulling the mask back on. “Of course he isn’t,” she said. “Though I imagine he’s responsible for them. The head shot is his specialty.”
“Fast and clean,” Bastien said in an approving voice. “Do you think he left anyone alive in there?” He nodded toward the door to what looked like an old storage cellar.
“Not if he could help it,” Isobel said, moving forward. Her leather shoes were crap on the ice, but she didn’t care. Nothing would stop her, not Mother Nature herself. “He’d better hope he’s taken Mahmoud and gotten the hell out of there before I kill him.”
Peter was moving ahead of her,
Reno
behind her, and she was getting the unpleasant feeling they were trying to guard her. “I don’t need protecting,” she said in her iciest tone.
“You’re the target, Isobel,” Peter said. “We’re not being gentlemanly, we’re being practical.
Reno
. I need you to keep out of the way and wait here. Make sure no one follows us in. We’ll send Mahmoud out.”

She half expected him to argue, but he simply nodded, vanishing into the morning mist, moving as quickly and as silently as the fog itself. She followed behind Bastien and Peter, hating the necessity, as they made their way into a whitewashed tunnel. The murky light of dawn made the only partway into the cavernous mouth, and she could see that a bare light bulb overhead had been smashed. They moved silently, the three of them, passing another body lying in the shadows. None of them Thomason.

 
‘What the hell is this place?” Bastien whispered.

“An old bunker of some sort,’ Peter said. “They used them during World War II as hospitals or covert training areas. Thomason’s old man was a general. Rolling over in his grave, I expect.”

“I expect not.” The voice came from behind them, and Bastien moved swiftly, slipping in front of Isobel.

“Sir Harry.” he said in his deep, cool voice. What a surprise.”
The old man stepped into the light, switching on the torch he was carrying. It illuminated his squat figure, dressed in tweeds and carrying a semiautomatic handgun. “The surprise is all mine, dear boy.” he said. “I thought you left the business.”
“I had, until you sent someone to mess with my family.” he said.

“I am sorry about that. It’s from a lifetime of tying up loose ends. I’m sure you understood the necessity. If one of our enemies found you they could torture you, make you tell them all the things you’ve learned over the years. And even if you could withstand the torture, you wouldn’t if your wife and children were threatened. You were a liability—surely you see that?”

“Surely I see that,” Bastien echoed ironically.

“Why don’t the three of you put down your weapons?” Thomason said in the amiable voice of a kindly uncle offering tea and biscuits. “My people are waiting in the room beyond, along with your recent failed mission, my dear. We should join them.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen Peter move and the blinding beam of torchlight fastened on him. “Another bullet in that leg would be both debilitating and painful, Peter,” Harry said. “I don’t think you want that. Put the gun down.”
Peter set his gun down on the littered stone flooring, and Bastien did the same. Isobel wasn’t ready to panic—she expected they carried other weapons, and both of them were capable of killing with their bare hands. They still stood more than a fighting chance.
“And you, my dear.” he said. “Put it down now, or I’ll put a bullet in your head this very minute.”

She set it down, because she had no choice. “You’re planning on doing it anyway, Harry,” she said. Her voice sounded nothing more than bored. She’d learned her craft well.
“Yes, we both know that, but as long as there’s life, there’s hope, and you’re not going to willingly take a bullet until you have no other choice.”

“You’re very wise,” she said sweetly. She still had her Swiss Army knife, although it wouldn’t do much good against a semiautomatic.

“After you, my friends,” Thomason gestured toward the circle of light farther down the tunnel. “And do be careful. I believe your friend Serafin—or should I call him Killian?—has cut a bloody swath on his way down here. I wouldn’t want you to trip over any more bodies. Hands on your heads, please.”

Isobel’s back screamed as she put her hands on the back of her head. “Why are you doing this, Harry? Have you been behind everything? The car bomb in
Plymouth
. the pilot in
Algeria
, MacGowan’s disappearance?”

“Of course. But don’t expect me to make some long confession full of braggadocio. I do what needs to be done. And what needed to be done was to take you down, Madame Lambert. You’re weak. You put the safety of the world in jeopardy because you won’t do what needs lo be done.”

“That’s why you’re doing this. Harry? To save the world?” Peter murmured.
“Sir Harry, my boy,” he snapped. “Remember, I was your mentor.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”

“This place is wired, isn’t it?” Bastien spoke suddenly. “You’re going to blow it.”
“You always were quick, Toussaint. Practically psychic, except that I know you’ve been around explosives long enough that you can probably smell them. That’s exactly what I plan to do. But I’m not leaving a thing to chance—you’ll all be dead before I hit the switch. I’m a thorough man.”

“So you’ve said.” Isobel kept walking. She could feel his eyes, his gun, trained on the middle of her back, and suddenly the tiny cuts from the glass seemed like the least of her worries. “Then I presume Killian’s already dead?”

Harry sighed. “I fear my employees have not been as efficient as I might have liked. But you’ll find out soon enough. There’ll be time for a touching lovers’ farewell, and maybe I’ll even let you die in each other’s arms.”

“Don’t make me ill, Sir Harry,” she said coldly. “Have you ever known me to be sentimental?”
“Not particularly. But you have a weak spot as far as this man is concerned, I know that much. Who would have thought the head of the Committee would be fucking a
terrorist?”
The word sounded strange in his elegant voice, clearly an obscenity.
“But he’s not a terrorist, Harry,” Peter said. “You missed that one completely. He’s CIA.”
“Preposterous!” the old man exclaimed.

“And are you sure we’re all present and accounted for?” Bastien asked slyly.
As a judgment call it was questionable. Harry didn’t need to know
Reno
was skulking around, but then, anything that dented Thomason’s self-assurance was an asset. “There’s no one else,” he said.

“What about our new recruit?” Isobel murmured.

The old man laughed. “He’s dead. My men saw to it. The nasty little punk killed one of them, and another one’s not going to make it, but
he‘s
dead.”
“If you say so,” she said. The light was getting brighter, but there was no noise coming from the open doors ahead. Were Killian and Mahmoud already dead? Harry wouldn’t be nearly so sure of himself if he didn’t have the upper hand.
Peter was holding back, and she knew he was going to try to get between her and Harry. To take a bullet for her, if he had to, and that was one thing she couldn’t let happen. Not and live with herself.

She halted, turning to look at Sir Harry. He had always seemed a somewhat comical little man, until you gazed into his pale, blank eyes. She’d been a fool to underestimate him. A man who’d ordered as many deaths as he had over the years wouldn’t take to being marginalized with any grace.

“Keep moving, Madame Lambert,” he said, waving the gun toward her. “And tell your friends to keep their distance. I see Peter looking for his chance, and I have time to blow his head off and still kill you.”

“But that would leave me,” Bastien said in a silky tone.

“I’m not alone down here. Move ahead.”

She followed them through the doorway, into a large room. There were two low-wattage light bulbs overhead, and standing in the middle was Killian, wrapped in someone else’s coat. Slightly pale, but alive.

He had no gun, and yet he seemed to be in charge. There were two more bodies on the ground, and three armed men watching him warily, like tourists watch a polar bear in a zoo devouring its meal. There was no sign of Mahmoud.

Killian didn’t look at her when they stopped, focusing instead on Thomason.
“What’s all this about?” Harry demanded, sounding querulous. He turned to one of his men. “Why are you just standing there? He’s not armed. Shoot him!”

 
“Not exactly true, Fm afraid.” Killian said in his laziest drawl. She looked at his hands, and saw the blood running down his left hand, dripping onto the ground. He opened the coat, gingerly, and she could see the belt he was wearing. Packed with the latest fashion in lightweight explosives.

“How did you get that?” The words came out before she realized she’d spoken.
“Shut up!” Thomason snapped, his temper fraying. “Or I’ll shut you up!”

“I don’t think you’d like the consequences,” Killian said. “You touch her, and we’re all going up.”

“I think you’d best believe him,” one man said in a heavy Russian accent. “He’d do it.”
Thomason fired, and the man collapsed on the ground, half his skull missing. “Does anyone else have something to say?” he inquired in a dulcet tone.
“Your aim has gotten better, Harry.” Isobel said, her voice cold. “You didn’t used to be able to hit the broad side of a barn.”