Cold as Ice (23 page)

Thomason would have sent him after her with orders to kill. Isobel Lambert had left it up to him. Everything about this whole affair was uncharacteristic—of him, of the Committee, of the people he worked with. Renaud was one of the last people he thought could be turned—he'd had too healthy a fear of what could happen to him if he tried to sell out to a higher bidder.

Peter reached the bottom step, switching off the small flashlight he'd brought. He leaned back against the cold, damp wall, and waited for the damsel in distress.

What the hell was he doing here? Going against every one of his well-honed instincts for the sake of someone he didn't give a damn about. If he wasn't so pissed off he'd laugh. At himself, at the absurd situation.

As it was, he had no choice but to wait. And fume.

She didn't make the mistake of turning on the lights as darkness closed in around her. She was supposed to be comatose once more, why would she need light?

She couldn't make herself lie in that bed a moment longer, but she kept her ear out for any unexpected sound so she could jump back under the covers without being caught.

Her nerves were screaming with anticipation. If she was getting out it would have to be tonight. Somehow she didn't think it was going to be as easy as being put on a plane for the safety of the U.S. Sooner or later Harry was going to want proof that she was dead. Unless this was all an elaborate, sadistic hoax on the part of O'Brien, and he was simply using the easiest way to get her out of here and into a death trap.

She considered laughing at her own paranoia, except that it wasn't paranoia if people were really out to kill you. But at this point she had no choice—it was Takashi O'Brien or nothing.

She ended up back in bed, lying in total darkness, when the door opened and someone slipped inside. Something soft and silky was dropped on her head as she lay still, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to smother her.

"Put those on." O'Brien's voice was barely a whisper, and she sat up, pulling the dark cloth from her face.

"But what… ?" she began.

"Be quiet!" He barely made a sound, but the point was made. He took a step away from her, and her eyes, already accustomed to the darkness, could see that he'd turned his back. Obviously he meant her to strip down here and now, and just as obviously she wasn't about to object. He had probably seen more of her when she'd been unconscious, and he was clearly uninterested.

The clothes were a pair of black silk pajamas. An odd choice, presumably to give her some camouflage in the darkness, and she pulled off the lacy confection they had dressed her in with relief. She'd never been a glutton for frills and lace; when she was on her own she usually slept in a ratty T-shirt and panties.

The pajamas must belong to Harry—the silk was so fine she could barely feel it against her skin. The sleeves and legs were too long, but at that point there wasn't much she could do about it. She fastened the buttons up to her neck, and he turned, instinctively knowing she was done.

He reminded her of Peter—that preternatural awareness, that calm, waiting watchfulness. Was he a part of Peter's shadow Committee? And if he was, did that make him a good guy or a bad guy?

As far as she knew he'd decided not to kill her, which clearly made him a good guy.

He pushed her down on the bed and proceeded to tie her wrists together, tight enough to hold, just short of pain. She didn't bother to ask why—even in the hushed darkness she could make a reasonably intelligent guess. It was to provide a good cover in case they ran into Anh or any of Harry's other inquisitive servants.

She held still as he braided her long hair into a thick plait, his hands efficient and impersonal. He put some sort of slippers on her feet, then pulled her to a standing position.

He was going to gag her—she could see the cloth in his hand, and she tried to move away, shaking her head vigorously, but it was too late. A moment later she was silenced before she could say a word.

She half expected him to put a leash on her and make her walk like a dog, she thought impatiently, her mind filled with all the insulting things she wanted to say.

And then they were moving, out of the room where she'd been for so long, down a long, narrow corridor. It was almost as dark as her unlit room.

She lost count of the doors, the flights of stairs. If she had to retrace her steps she'd be totally lost. The last door he opened was different, the air beyond was damp and cold, smelling of the sea.

He said nothing, pulling her inside and closing the door behind them, closing them into darkness.

It felt like a grave—cold and damp and black. Genevieve never like confined spaces, but having a panic attack wouldn't help matters, particularly with the gag covering her mouth. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths through her nose as he put her bound hands on his shoulder and started to descend into the earth.

She thought she should count the steps, anything rather than think about the darkness and the night closing in around her.

Two hundred and seventy-three steps carved into the side of the rock. She'd long ago stopped thinking of anything, anything but descending those endless steps to what might be her death after all. She'd lost all sense of time, space and reality in the narrow, twisting stairway—all she could do was follow the man who might be her executioner.

She felt dizzy when they finally reached the bottom, and she swayed for a moment. And then a match flared in the darkness, almost blinding her. She looked straight into the ice-cold eyes of Peter Jensen, and as he moved toward her she saw the knife in his hand.

She was going to die after all, at the hands of the man whose job it had been. He was alive, and he was going to finish what he started.

Her knees gave way, and she slumped onto the hard cold floor, finally giving up.

Harry Van Dorn seldom indulged in temper tantrums, but he was about to indulge in a royal one. He took a deep breath, another sip of his fine old bourbon and told himself he was overreacting. Things weren't falling apart everywhere he turned. It just seemed like that, but if he took a step back and viewed the situation objectively he'd realize these were just minor annoyances. It would take a lot more than a few half-assed commandos to think they could get in his way.

They'd shut down the diamond mines in South Africa and sent the workers on a three-week holiday. The word given out was safety inspections, but he knew for a fact that no one gave a shit about safety in those mines. If workers died, there were always hundreds available to take their place, and every penny—every moment—spent on safety precautions meant less profit. There would be no accidental explosion after all.

Three out of seven down, with so short a time to go. He wasn't a man who adjusted his plans when he hit a snag—he blew through the opposition with bullying force. But he was up against an immutable time frame, which left very little choice.

The Rule of Seven was being threatened, and he couldn't have that. He wasn't going to settle for anything less. Compromise wasn't in his vocabulary, not when money could always buy his own way. Things were not about to change at this late date.

The Rule of Seven had been simple: lethal strain of Avian flu in China, the dam in Mysore, diamond mines in South Africa, oil fields in Saudi Arabia, the Auschwitz shrine in Poland, Houses of Parliament in London and the American terrorist sites.

But there was still hope—he'd lost India, South Africa and Saudi Arabia, but the other four were still undiscovered, and he'd taken steps to ensure that. And, in fact, the American plan was three, not one, which brought him back up to six.

Still, the Rule of Six was not acceptable. He'd have to come up with something, fast, or lose the beautiful elegance of his favorite number. His plans had been simple, exact and unchangeable, and he'd spent a great deal of time setting up a trustworthy network in each of his chosen targets. Making any new moves would entail sloppiness, and he couldn't abide a mess. It was too late to trust anyone new—he'd ensured that in the end he had complete control, and nothing would go down until he gave the order. If those bastards at the Committee had gotten away with destroying his complicated design it would have all been down the toilet, all those careful months of planning.

But fate had been on his side, as it always was, in the form of the late Renaud and the soon-to-be-late Genevieve Spenser. He would have liked to have killed her himself but Jack-shit had a point. He did tend to get aroused when he hurt people, and he wasn't one for self-restraint.

He needed one more glorious event to set the world on its heels and throw the financial community into disarray. He'd chosen the American terrorist sites because of the timing, the anniversary of the previous bloodbaths, and he didn't want to bother with anything connected to 9/11. He couldn't hope to equal the mass destruction wrought by that day, and he certainly didn't want his work to be viewed as an afterthought.

Washington was too well guarded for him to come up with something fast enough. Assassinating the president was a possibility, but not logical. Harry had bought and paid for him, which made access easy but logic fuzzy. His old Texas buddy was more help alive than dead.

He just needed one more inexplicable disaster, accident or terrorist sabotage, something to put the icing on the cake.

A nuclear-power plant in Russia? Latin America had been sadly neglected in his original plans, maybe he should give them a bit of attention.

Or maybe something small and personal and very nasty. The American public was always horrified when something happened to children. Sick children. He could think of a number of disarming possibilities.

And he poured himself another glass of bourbon, giving himself an imaginary toast.

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P
eter Jensen's hands were rough and impatient as he hauled Genevieve upright. She looked awful—shadowed eyes, pale skin, and she'd lost weight.

"She looks like shit," he said, slicing through the bonds on her wrists. "What the hell did you do to her? I thought you were keeping Van Dorn off her?"

"Harry didn't touch her. In case you hadn't noticed, she's a stubborn woman. She's not very good at taking hints."

"That she isn't," he agreed, looking down at her. "Why the gag?" He reached for it, about to cut it free, when Takashi's words stopped him.

"You warned me she was mouthy. I figured it would make life easier if I didn't have to listen to her complaints."

Peter hesitated. She was glaring at him over the encompassing gag, and he tried to ignore his feeling of relief at her first sign of life. "Good point. Maybe I'll leave it on."

She shoved herself away and began clawing at the gag herself. The woebegone waif was already fighting back.

Takashi's knots weren't likely to be undone by a simple New York lawyer. "Put your hands down or I might cut off a finger," he said, slicing through the silken bonds. He cast a knowing glance at Takashi—the restraints must have come from Harry's well-known supply. Silk was soft and sleek but very strong, and there was no escaping a silk binding no matter how much the victim struggled. Blood, sweat and tears only made it stronger.

The gag fell to the floor and Genevieve Spenser's mouth started working. "You son of a bitch! " she began.

"Yeah, I'm glad you're alive, too," he snapped. "Now shut up and let me get us the hell out of here."

"I leave her in your capable hands," Takashi O'Brien murmured.

"You've got things covered? Dumb-ass question, of course you do. Thanks for this."

"If by
this
you mean me—" Genevieve said.

"Shut up," Peter said. "If you want to get out of this alive without screwing me or Takashi over you'll keep your mouth shut."

"Your well-being has never been my particular concern," she said haughtily as she stood at the bottom of a cave dressed in black silk pajamas that were too big for her. "Mr. O'Brien, on the other hand, deserves my complete gratitude."

"God, no!" Takashi O'Brien's expression was pure horror. "Just a favor for a friend."

"We're both going to get our asses handed to us," Peter said, "so if you could just shut up and follow orders we may have a snowball's chance in hell of surviving."

Any trained operative was adept at concealing his expression, and Takashi O'Brien was one of the best, but even Peter couldn't miss the light of amusement in his dark eyes. "Who would have thought it?" he murmured half to himself.

"Who would have thought what?" Peter demanded, incensed.

But Takashi had already vanished the way he'd come, leaving him alone with the extremely angry Ms. Genevieve Spenser.

He wasn't feeling any too happy about the situation either. "Are you going to shut up and come with me, or am I going to have to leave you down here for Harry's goons to find you?"

"I'm not sure who I'd prefer."

"Lady, if you haven't figured that out by now then you aren't even as marginally intelligent as I thought you were," he said. "I'm leaving. Follow me or not."

She did, of course. He'd never doubted it for one moment, but her damn pride insisted that she put up at least a token resistance. The descent down the rock-carved stairs had been bad enough for him—after days of forced inactivity she'd be having a miserable time getting her body to climb back up. But he couldn't afford to adjust his pace. The only way he was going to get her out of there alive was to move fast, and for some idiotic reason he'd decided to rescue her. He must be out of his mind.

At least it was all she could do to keep up—she had no energy left to harangue him. She hadn't lost her fighting spirit, even if exhaustion was silencing it. He'd found her anger, her refusal to be cowed, one of the most appealing things about her.

Scratch that. One of the least annoying things about her. If she'd been a docile dishrag he probably would have left her to her own devices. After all, she'd gotten herself into this mess by ignoring the escape plan he'd practically delivered to her on a silver platter.