Dangerous to Hold (23 page)

“Are…are you all right?”

“I might be,” she said through tight jaws, remembering just in time to clip her words and adopt the slightly nasal tone she'd perfected for this role. “If you'd stop trying to grind my liver into pâté.”

“I'm…I'm sorry.”

“So you've said. Several times. Look, just lift your knee. Carefully!”

Once freed of his weight, Maggie rolled, catlike, to her feet. Taking a couple of quick breaths to test her aching stomach muscles, she decided she'd live. Barely.

Turning so that the spotlight no longer blinded her, she shoved the glasses dangling from one ear back onto her nose. The black spots faded enough for her to see her attacker's features at last.

The man—no, the boy, she corrected, running a quick searching glance over his anxious face and gangly frame—tugged his zippered jacket down from where it had tangled under his armpits.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated miserably. “Your suitcase… I, uh, tripped. I didn't mean to…”

“It's okay,” she managed. “I think my digestive system's intact, and I'm getting close to the end of my childbearing years, anyway.”

Actually, at thirty-two, she still had plans for several children sometime in the future. She'd only meant to lighten the atmosphere a little, but she saw at once her joke had backfired. The boy's face flamed an even brighter shade of red, and he stammered another string of apologies.

“I'm fine,” she interjected, her irritation easing at his obvious mortification. “Really. I was just teasing.”

He stared at her doubtfully. “You were?”

“Couldn't you tell?”

“No. No one ever teases me.”

Maggie didn't see how this clumsy young man could possibly avoid being the butt of all kinds of jokes. He was all legs and arms, a walking, talking safety hazard. Which made her distinctly nervous on this busy flight line.

“Look, are you supposed to be out here? This is a restricted area.”

“I'm…I'm traveling on this plane.” He glanced up at the huge silver C-141, frowning. “At least, I think this is the plane. The sergeant who dropped me off here said it was.”

Maggie's eyes narrowed, causing a painful tug at her temples. She grimaced, vowing silently to get rid of the tight bun at the back of her neck at the first possible moment, while her mind raced through the descriptions of the various team members she'd been given. None of them correlated with this awkward individual. For a heart-stopping moment, she wondered if her mission had been compromised, if an impostor—other than Maggie herself—was trying to infiltrate the team.

Apparently thinking her grimace had been directed at him, he hastened to reassure her. “Yes, I'm sure this is the right plane. I recognize the crates of equipment being loaded.”

“Who
are
you?” she asked, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

“Richard. Richard Worthington.”

With the velocity and force of an Oklahoma twister, Maggie's suspicion spiraled. “Richard Worthington?”

He blinked at the sharp challenge in her voice. “Uh, the Second.”

The tornado slowed its deadly whirl. Drawing in a deep breath, Maggie studied the young man's worried face. Now that she had some clue to his identity, she thought she detected a faint resemblance to the scientist who would head their team. Not that she could have sworn to it. Even the Mole had been able to produce only sketchy background details and a blurred photo of the brilliant, reclusive physicist. Taken about a year ago, the picture showed a hazy profile almost obliterated by a bushy beard.

“I didn't realize Dr. Worthington had a son,” she said slowly. “Or that he was bringing you along on this trip.”

“He's not. Er, I'm not. That is, I'm Dr. Worthington.”

Right, and she was Wernher von Braun!

Maggie wanted to reject his ridiculous claim instantly, but
the keen mind that had helped her work through some rather improbable situations in the past three years suggested it
could
be possible. This earnest, anxious young man
could
be Dr. Worthington. The Mole had indicated that Worthington had gained international renown at an early age. But this early?

“You don't look like the Dr. Richard Worthington I was told to expect,” Maggie challenged, still suspicious.

A bewildered look crossed his face for a moment, then dissolved into a sheepish grin. “Oh, you mean my beard? I just grew it because my mother didn't want—that is, I decided to experiment.” Lifting a hand, he rubbed it across his smooth, square chin. “But the silly thing itched too much. I shaved it off for this trip.”

Maggie might have questioned his ingenious story if not for two startling details. His reference to his mother caught her attention like a waving flag. The intelligence briefing had disclosed that Dr. Worthington's iron-willed mother guarded the genius she'd given birth to with all the determination of a Valkyrie protecting the gates of Valhalla.

With good reason. At the age of six, her famous child prodigy had been kidnapped and held for ransom. His kidnappers had sent his distracted mother the tip of one small finger as proof of their seriousness. The hand this young man now rubbed across his chin showed a pinkie finger missing a good inch of its tip.

Despite the conclusive evidence, Maggie didn't derive a whole lot of satisfaction from ascertaining that the individual facing her was in fact Dr. Richard Worthington. With a sinking feeling, she realized she was about to take off for the backside of beyond, where she'd proceed to climb down into silos filled with temperamental, possibly unstable, nuclear missiles, alongside a clumsy boy…man…

“Just how old are you?” she asked abruptly.

“Twenty-three.”

Twenty-three! Maggie swallowed, hard.

“You're
sure
you're the Dr. Richard Worthington who pos
sesses two doctorates, one in engineering and one in nuclear physics?”

His eyes widened at the hint of desperation in her voice. “Well, actually…”

Wild hope pumped through Maggie's heart.

“Actually, I was just awarded a third. In molecular chemistry. I didn't apply for it,” he added, when she gave a small groan. “MIT presented it after I did some research for them in my lab.”

“Yes, well…” With a mental shrug, Maggie accepted her fate. “Congratulations.”

She'd been in worse situations during her years with OMEGA, she reminded herself. A lot worse. She could handle this one. Pulling her new identity around her like a cloak, she squared her shoulders and held out a hand.

“I'm Megan St. Clare, Dr. Worthington. A last-minute addition to your team.”

Maggie had constructed a name and identity for this mission close enough to her own that she could remember them, even under extreme duress. A minor but important point, she'd discovered early in her OMEGA career.

Worthington's fingers folded around hers. “Could you call me Richard? I'm a bit awkward with titles.”

Was there anything he wasn't awkward with? “Richard. Right. I believe the UN nuclear facilities chairman faxed you my credentials?”

“Well, yes, he did. Although I must say I was surprised he decided to add a geologist to the team at the last moment.”

Maggie could've told him that the chairman had decided—with a little help from the U.S. government—to add a geologist because she'd known she could never pass herself off as an expert on nuclear matters with this group of world-renowned scientists for more than thirty seconds. But she'd absorbed enough knowledge of geological formations from her oil-rigger father to hold her own with anyone who wasn't fully trained in the field.

She started to launch into her carefully rehearsed speech
about the need to assess the soil around the missile site for possible deep-strata permeation of radioactive materials, but Worthington forestalled her with another one of his shy smiles.

“Please don't think I meant to impugn your credentials. This is my first time as part of a UN team…or any other team, for that matter. I'm sure I'll appreciate your input when we arrive on-site.”

Maggie stared at him for a long, silent moment. “Your first time?”

A gleam of amusement replaced the uncertainty in his eyes, making him seem more mature. “There weren't all that many physicists clamoring for the job. I'm looking forward to it.”

At that particular moment, Maggie couldn't say the same. She stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Well, I suppose we should get this…expedition under way.”

She bent to pick up her suitcase, only to knock heads with Worthington as he reached for it at the same moment.

He reached out one hand to steady her and rubbed his forehead with the other. “Oh, no! I'm sorry! Are you hurt, Miss St. Clare? Uh, Dr. St—?”

Maggie snatched her arm out of his grip and blinked away bright-colored stars. “Call … me … Megan … and … bring…the—”

Just in time, she cut off the colorful, earthy adjective she'd picked up from the rowdy oil riggers she'd grown up with.

“Bring the suitcase,” she finished through set jaws.

Stalking to the side hatch, she clambered aboard the cargo plane and forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. Her mission was about to get under way. She couldn't let the fact that she was saddled with a bumbling team leader distract her at this critical point.

She'd just have to turn his inexperience to her own advantage, Maggie decided, buckling herself in beside a gently snoring woman with iron gray hair and a rather startling fuchsia windbreaker folded across her lap. Worthington's clumsiness would center the other team members' attention on him
as much as his reputed brilliance. Which would make it easier for her to search for the decoder and slip away when she needed to contact Cowboy.

Maggie glanced down at her digital watch. Calculating the time difference, she estimated that Nate should be arriving at the Karistani camp about now.

Sternly she repressed a fervent wish that she could exchange places with him right now.

A
s Nate rode beside Alexandra into the sprawling city of black goathair tents that constituted Karistan's movable capital, he decided that the average age of the male half of the population must hover around sixty. Or higher.

Eyes narrowed, he skimmed the crowd gathering in the camp to greet their leader. It seemed to consist mostly of bent, scarred veterans even more ancient than Dimitri. Only after they'd drawn nearer did Nate see a scattering of children and women among the men.

Most of the women wore ankle-length black robes and dark shawls draped over their heads. A few were in the embroidered blouses and bright, colorful skirts Nate associated with the traditional dress in this part of the world. Whatever their age or dress, however, the women all seemed to greet his arrival with startled surprise and a flurry of whispered comments behind raised hands.

As the riders approached, one of the women stepped out of the crowd and sauntered forward. Although shorter and far more generously endowed than Alexandra, the girl had a dra
matic widow's peak and confident air that told Nate the two women had to be related.

Alexandra drew to a halt a few yards from the younger woman and swung out of the saddle. Nate followed suit, hiding his quick stab of amusement as the girl looked him over from head to toe with the thoroughness of a bull rider checking out his draw before he climbed into the chute.

She asked a question that made Alexandra's lips tighten. Flashing the girl a warning look, the older woman indicated Nate with a little nod.

“Out of courtesy to our guest, you must use the English you learned during your year at the university, Katerina. This is Mr. Sloan…”

“Nate,” he reminded her lazily.

Alexandra wasn't too pleased with the idea of his getting on a first-name basis with Katerina, if her quick frown was any indication, but she didn't make an issue of it.

“He brings the horse we were told of,” she continued, “the one from the president of the United States. He only visits with us for a
short
time.”

The well-rounded beauty's brows rose at the unmistakable emphasis. “Do we… Do we…”

She paused, searching what Nate guessed was a limited and long-unused English vocabulary. Triumph sparkled in her dark eyes when she found the words she sought.

“Do we…give him much comfort, my cousin, per-perhaps he will visit longer.”

Comfort
sounded more like
koom-foot,
and Nate had to struggle a bit with
wheez-it,
but he caught her drift. Seeing as how she tossed in a curving, seductive smile for good measure, he could hardly miss it. His answering grin made Alexandra's sable brows snap into a straight line.

Katerina sashayed forward, ignoring her cousin's frown. “Come,
Amerikanski,
I will—how you say?—take you the camp.”

Nate was tempted. Lord, he was tempted. The little baggage had the most inviting eyes and beguiling lips he'd stumbled
across in many a day. As accommodating as she appeared to be, he figured it would take him about three minutes, max, to extract whatever she knew of the decoder. Among other things.

Too bad he hadn't yet reached the point of seducing young women to accomplish his mission, he thought with a flicker of regret. Still, he wasn't about to let a potential source like Katerina slip through his fingers entirely.

“That's real friendly of you, miss,” he replied, smiling down at her. “Maybe you can, ah, take me the camp later. Right now, I'd better see that Three Bars Red here gets tended to.”

Her full lips pursed in a pretty fair imitation of a pout. “The men, they can do this.”

“I'm sure they can,” Nate replied easily, “but I don't plan to let them. I'm responsible for this animal…until your
ataman
decides if she's going to accept him.”

Alexandra's eyes narrowed at his use of her title, but she said nothing. Katerina, on the other hand, didn't bother to hide her displeasure at coming in second to a horse.

“So! Perhaps do I take you the camp later. Perhaps do I not.” Tossing her head, she walked off.

Yep, the two women were definitely related, Nate decided.

At her cousin's abrupt departure, Alexandra gestured one of the watching men forward.

“This is Petr Borodín.”

The way she pronounced the name,
Pey-tar Bor-o-deen,
with a little drumroll at the end, sounded to Nate like a sort of musical poetry.

“He is a mighty warrior of the steppes who served in two wars,” she added.

Nate didn't doubt it for an instant. This bald scarecrow of a man with baggy pouches under his eyes and an empty, pinned-up left sleeve sported three rows of tarnished medals on his thin chest. Among them were the French Croix de Guerre and the World War II medal the U.S. had struck to honor an elite multinational corps of saboteurs. These fearless
sappers had destroyed vital enemy supply depots and, incidentally, guided over a hundred downed U.S. airmen to safety.

“Petr will show you where you will stay,” Alexandra continued, in the rolling, formal phrases that intrigued Nate so. “And where you may take the horse.”

He thought he saw a shadow of a smile in the glance she gave Ole Red, who was watching the proceedings with sleepy-eyed interest. A sudden, inexplicable desire to keep that smile on her face for longer than a tenth of a second curled through Nate.

Surprised by the sensation, he tucked it away for further examination and stood quietly while Alexandra issued quick instructions to this Petr fellow. When she finished, he gave her a nod and gathered Red's reins.

“I've never been in these parts before,” he offered as he fell in beside his new guide, testing the man's English and value as a possible information source. “What say we take a ride after I drop off my gear, and you show me the lay of the land?”

“No!”

Alexandra's sharp exclamation halted both men in their tracks. She stepped forward as they swung around, and shot a quick order to the Karistani before facing Nate.

“The steppes can be treacherous, if you don't know them. You mustn't leave this camp, except as I direct.”

Nate let his gaze drift over her face. “Guess we'd better talk about that a bit. Much as I wouldn't mind lazing around for a few days, Ole Red here will need exercise.”

“You'll stay in camp unless I say otherwise,” she snapped. “And even in camp, you will stay with your escort. Our ways are different. You may give offense without knowing it, or…” She circled a hand in the air. “Or go where you're not permitted.”

Nate didn't so much as blink, but the pulse in the side of his neck began a slow tattoo. “So you're saying certain parts of the camp are off-limits? You want to be more specific? Just so I don't give offense, you understand.”

Her chin lifted at his sarcasm. “To be specific, I suggest you stay away from the women's quarters, and from Katerina.”

Now that was hitting just a little below the belt. Nate hadn't exactly invited the girl to swish her skirts at him the way she had. What was more, he fully intended to enter the women's quarters at the first opportunity. At the moment, though, the thought of searching Alexandra's belongings didn't hold nearly as much appeal as the thought of searching Alexandra herself. The unfriendlier the woman got, the more Nate found himself wanting to pierce her hard shell.

“Do you hold all men in such low regard?” he drawled. “Or maybe just me in particular?”

She sent him an icy stare. “That, Mr. Sloan, is none…”

“Nate.”

“…of your business. All you need to know is that I'm responsible for what happens in this camp. Everything that happens. For your own safety, I won't have you wandering around unescorted. As long as you're here, you'll respect my wishes in this and in all other matters.”

Not quite all, Nate amended silently as she spun on one heel. He had a few wishes of his own to consider. One had to do with a certain decoder. Another, he decided, watching her trim bottom as she walked away, just might have to do with discovering Alexandra Jordan's answer to the second part of his question.

 

Petr Borodín took his chief's orders to heart and stuck to Nate like cockleburs to a saddle blanket for the rest of the afternoon. After showing the
Amerikanski
to a tent where he could dump his gear, the aged warrior helped unsaddle and curry Red with a skill that belied his lack of one arm. That done, he led the way to the pasturage.

A dozen or so geldings and a shaggy roan that Nate guessed was the band's alpha mare were hobbled in a stretch of prairie at the rear of the camp. Another dozen mares, and several yearlings, grazed around them. Evidently none of the females
were in season, since neither Red nor the feisty little stallion tethered some distance away showed much interest in them. They did, however, take immediate exception to each other. For all his gregarious nature and easy disposition, Red recognized the competition when he saw it.

After a prolonged display of flat ears, snaked necks and pawed ground, Nate decided to keep the quarter horse away from the band until Alexandra made up her mind about him. No use letting Red chase off the smaller stallion if he wasn't going to be allowed to claim the mares.

Peter the Great, as Nate christened the veteran—much to his delight when he understood the reference—tethered Red to the side of their tent. Once fed a mixture of prairie grass and the oats Nate had brought along to help him adjust to the change in his diet, the stallion was once again his usual placid self.

Placid, at least, until he got a whiff of the candy bar Nate stuck in his shirt pocket before he scooped a bucket of water from the sluggish stream behind the camp. By the time Red had satisfied his sweet tooth, both man and horse were soaked.

Ducking under the tent flap to change his shirt, Nate surveyed the dim interior. Dust pushed under the sides by the wind drifted on air scented by old boots, musty furs, and a faint, lingering hint of incense. The tent's interior was larger than some of the crew quarters Nate had occupied in the air force, and a good deal cleaner than some of the dives he'd shared while riding the rodeo circuit.

While Nate sat on a low, ingeniously constructed folding cot piled high with rough blankets and a thick, shaggy wolf pelt to strip off his shirt, Peter the Great rummaged through a low chest.

“Wodka!”
he announced, holding up a bottle half filled with cloudy liquid.

Nate answered the man's gap-toothed grin with one of his own. “Well, now, I don't mind if I do.”

A stiff drink would be more than welcome after the chill of his unexpected bath. And, he reasoned, it just might loosen
up his appointed guardian enough to allow some serious intelligence-gathering.

 

Several hours later, Nate leaned back against a high, sheepskin-covered saddle. Smoke from a half-dozen campfires curled into the star-studded sky and competed with the lingering aroma of the beef slathered in garlic that had constituted the main course at the evening meal. In the background, the small portable gas generators that provided the camp with electricity hummed. It was a foreign sound in a night that belonged to flickering fires and a star-filled sky.

Low murmurs and laughter from the men beside Nate told him they were engaged in the age-old pastime of cowboys around the world—sharing exaggerated tales of their prowess in the saddle. Or out of it. He smiled as one mustachioed individual in a yellowed sheepskin hat broke into a deep, raucous belly laugh. Pushing his impatience to the back of his mind, Nate took a cautious sip of vodka.

So he hadn't been able to shake Peter the Great this afternoon, not even for a trip to the communal latrine that served the camp. So Dimitri, when he took over guard duty from his cohort, had shrugged off all but the most casual questions. The afternoon still hadn't been a total loss. In the preceding hours, Nate had memorized the layout of the camp, cataloged in exact detail the Karistani's eclectic collection of weapons, and done an exterior surveillance of the tent Alexandra and the other unattached women slept in.

Nate was turning over in his mind several possible scenarios for gaining access to that tent, some of which involved Alex's cooperation, some of which didn't, when the rustle of heavy skirts stirred the air behind him.

Katerina plopped down beside him, a hand-thrown pottery jug in hand. Nate could tell by the sultry smile on her full lips that she'd decided to forgive him for declining her invitation this afternoon.

“You wish…more
wodka?
”

He glanced down at the tin cup in his hand. It was still full
of the throat-searing liquid, which the little minx could see as plain as tar paper. His lips curved as he tipped some of the potent mixture into the dirt and held up his cup.

“Sure.”

With a look of pure mischief on her face, Katerina leaned forward to refill his cup. The cloaklike red wrap she'd donned against the night air gaped open, revealing full breasts that spilled just about clear out of her low-necked blouse.

Nate imagined Alex's reaction if she knew her cousin was pressing those generous breasts against his arm right now. He considered the implications of said reaction to his mission. He even reminded himself that Katerina looked to become something of a problem if he didn't rein her in soon. All the while, of course, he enjoyed the view.

Not that he could've avoided it, even if he'd wanted to. Katerina made sure of that. She dipped even lower to set the jug on the ground beside him, and Nate's brow skittered upward.

“Are you…cowboy?” Katerina asked softly.

The hairs on the back of Nate's neck rose. Years of intense survival training and his own iron control kept his muscles from coiling as she leaned even closer.

“Cowboy, like in films I see at university?” she cooed. “Like the men of the steppes?”