The Crusader ("The Crusader" Prequel to "Kingdom Come") (40 page)

...
proper way?

"Lib,"
he said softly, a plot of his own taking hold. "I will agree to this
scheme under one condition; that you allow me to steal the pass-a-port. Buy him
all of the liquor he can drink and when he moves to relieve himself, I shall
take care of him."

Rory
looked thoughtfully at the counter, noting that the lavatories were across the
wide hall directly in her line of sight. Since she wasn't a particularly
accomplished pick-pocket, the thought of Kieran manhandling the victim was
somewhat appealing. At least Kieran would have a better chance.

"All
right," she agreed. "I'll get him drunk and you can take the passport
when he goes to the bathroom. They're over there, across the hall. See the
sign?"

"I
do."

"And
don't kill him. We just need his passport, not his blood."

He
nodded faintly, feeling more in control of the situation now that he was a
viable player. Kissing Rory on the forehead, he moved past her and slipped by
the counter without being noticed. Rory watched as he moved across the hall,
pausing to linger by the large lavatory sign. With a deep breath for courage,
she moved to the bar and took a seat next to her unsuspecting victim.

He was
Swedish. Iarn, a name she could scarcely pronounce, was leaving England after a
brief holiday with his brother's family. When his two friends saw that their
companion had found more attractive company, they said their fare-wells and
quit the bar. Trapped in the intense gaze of the large Swede, Rory struggled to
maintain her poise while dodging his amorous hands.

She was
glad that Kieran couldn't see what was happening, for he would have recanted
his pledge not to kill the man. Iarn's hands were on Rory's knees, moving up
her thighs, when suddenly they'd be on her shoulder and into her hair. She
bought him several drinks under the weak pretense of celebrating the end of
their respective holidays and he drank heartily of the dark,
high-alcohol-content ale.

Ale that
was making him quite drunk. He was actually a nice man, a bit too aggressive,
and Rory was caught off guard when he suddenly grabbed her and planted a big,
wet kiss right on her lips. Over Iarn's shoulder, she caught Kieran's
expression and suddenly he was moving across the wide corridor toward them. In
a panic, she told Iarn she had to use the Ladies' Room and seductively asked
that he wait for her. She hoped it would be enough of an incentive to make him
stay.

But her
bigger concern at the moment was heading off Kieran's offensive. No sooner did
she leave the bar than she ran head-long into him, throwing her arms around him
to halt his advance. Her frantic pleas somehow broke through his haze of fury
and she managed to turn him around before Iarn caught sight of them both. Dragging
him behind a bank of telephones, she pulled him into a small alcove partially
hidden from the rest of the terminal.

"Calm
down," she murmured, her lips against his cheek. "He's just drunk.
You really can't blame him."

Kieran
crushed her in his massive embrace, smelling her perfume and feeling her
delicious warmth against him. "Bastard," he muttered, still not
entirely composed. "To steal a kiss is surely…."

She
kissed him once, twice, smiling gently when he responded. "There,"
she whispered, kissing him again. "You've erased him. Now, will you please
go back to your post? I think he's about to break."

"Not
before I break him first," Kieran growled, giving in to her kisses and
plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. Rory gasped softly, feeling his
rock-hard arousal against her thigh already.

"Kieran,
please," she tried to avoid his seeking mouth, putting her hand over his
lips. "Not now. There's no time. We've got to get Iarn's passport."

"I
would rather have you," he muttered against her open palm.

She
grinned. "Be a good boy and get the passport. There will be time for you
and I later."

He
sighed, displeased and eager to be done with it all. "Very well," he
lowered her to the ground. "But this had better be finished soon. The more
I watch him touch you, the more I want to snap his neck."

She
raised an eyebrow. "You promised you wouldn't kill him and I'll hold you
to it. Killing a man is much more serious these days than it was in your time.
If you think I'm in trouble for breaking into a morgue and stealing a body,
that's nothing compared to murder."

He
matched her raised eyebrow. "Then you had better hurry with your plot to
separate the man from his pass-a-port. I cannot guarantee my control much
longer."

"You
have to," she whispered, touching his cheek seriously. "No matter
what he does, you have to stay calm. If we're going to get back to Nahariya,
this is the only way."

He
didn't look happy. Rory pecked him on the cheek before peering around the
corner of the small alcove, making sure the coast was clear. Noting all was
calm, she emerged from the alcove and returned to the bar as Kieran resumed his
position near the lavatories.

Iarn was
extremely pleased to see her again. Rory spent the remainder of her money on
more beer, struggling to keep his happy hands from groping her. Intermittently,
she would glance at Kieran only to note he seemed to be more displeased by the
minute. When someone put a quarter in the jukebox and a romantic melody began
to play, Iarn decided he wanted to dance and pulled Rory off her bar stool.

She had
been positive Kieran would come storming into the bar only to remove Iarn's
head from his shoulders and was surprised when no violence was forthcoming.
When Iarn's dancing feet moved aside to allow her a clear view of Kieran still
by the lavatories, she could see plainly that the knight's face was red. She'd
never seen him red before.

The
color of his cheeks was an indication of his level of emotion and Rory was
proud that he had held his anger in check so well. When the music stopped and
Iarn released her, Rory quickly decided to cut her charade short for if only
for Kieran's sake.

Since
the inebriated Swede could hold a gallon of liquor before relieving his
bladder, she was forced consider an alternative plan. Thinking quickly, she
collected her half-empty drink and 'accidentally' sloshed it all over the front
of his expensive shirt.

"Oh!"
she gasped with mock surprise. "I'm so sorry, Iarn. If you go and rinse
the stains with water immediately, they should wash out."

He
stared at his shirt, unconcerned. "No matter. I am only going home
soon."

She
wouldn't let him reclaim his seat, pushing the uncooperative victim in the
direction of the restrooms. "But this ale stains terribly. And it stinks.
You don't want to go around smelling like a brewery, do you?"

He
shrugged, completely sotted. "I do already."

"But
this makes it worse," pushing this guy was like trying to move a wall. In
fact, it was very much like trying to move Kieran. "Please go and rinse
out the stains. I'll wait for you."

He let
her shove him out into the terminal hall, waving at her when she smiled
sweetly. Staggering, sweating and all, he wobbled his way across the corridor
and nearly bumped into Kieran as the man stood beside the lavatory door. Rory
watched, heart in her throat, as Kieran ducked into the lavatory behind him.

Immediately,
her smile faded and she hurried to collect her purse and Kieran's duffle bag.
Her chest was twisting with nerves as she left the bar, eyes glued to the door
of the lavatory as she leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the
corridor.

 Rory
lost track of time waiting for Kieran to appear. It seemed to take forever
when, in fact, it had only been a matter of minutes. A few men went into the
lavatory, all of them re-emerging a respectable amount of time later, but still
no Kieran. Rory paced, chewed her nails, and wondered if she shouldn't go in.
Just as she was feeling particularly panicky, Kieran suddenly exited the blue
lavatory door and headed directly for her.

Rory
could barely contain her anxiety. "Well?" she hissed. "What
happened?"

From the
pocket of his new flannel shirt purchased at Fortnum and Mason, he pulled out a
small black billfold. Rory almost collapsed; snatching it from his awkward hands,
she studied the contents.

"Thank
God," she murmured. "His name is Iarn Solv Britson. Twenty-nine years
old, six feet four inches and two hundred and twenty pounds. Brown hair, hazel
eyes... Good Lord, Kieran, this is perfect!"

He
smiled, looking down at the strange plastic card. "Indeed," he
replied, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. "A pleasant enough man,
actually. I rather enjoyed speaking with him."

She
looked at him, an eyebrow cocked. "You spoke with him? About what?"

He
grinned. "You, of course. He was quite smitten with you and I told him he
was wasting his time. We conversed as I was helping him clean his shirt. "

"You
helped him clean his shirt?"

"I
had to do something while the privy was occupied by a collection of potential
witnesses."

"And
after they left?"

He put
his arm around her shoulders, pulling her away from the wall and heading back
toward the ticket counters. "I subdued him, of course," he reached
into his pocket again. "And took this as well."

Rory
looked at the brown leather wallet. Casting a long glance at Kieran, she opened
the billfold and counted the money inside. "It's not enough," she
said softly. "I know you were only trying to help by stealing his wallet,
but I really wouldn't feel right taking it."

He
raised an eyebrow. "Why not? You felt right enough stealing his
pass-a-port."

"That's
different," she looked away, staring at the two wallets in her hand and
wondering if she was really destined for a life of crime. "We needed his
passport because there wasn't any alternative. But his money... I have other
ways of getting it, and not illegal ones. Good Lord, I'm starting to feel like
Bonnie and Clyde."

His brow
furrowed as they began to pass through the crowd of people waiting in line for
the ticket counter. "Who are Bonnie and Clyde?"

She
shook her head; making sure no one was watching, she casually moved to the
nearest trash can and dumped Iarn's wallet into the mess below. Clutching his
passport with photo I.D. and Stockholm driver's license, she put it in her
purse.

"They
were a famous pair of criminals," she muttered, her gaze searching for a
phone. "Which is exactly what we're turning into. By the way; what did you
do with Iarn?"

Kieran
looked down at her, his manner cool and confident. "Knocked him in the
jaw, pulled his breeches down around his ankles and set him on the porcelain
bowl," he said smoothly. "Locking the door from the inside, I left
him in the stall. It will appear to anyone looking at his feet that he is
simply relieving himself."

She had
to smile. "You even think like a criminal, you naughty boy."

He put
both arms around her affectionately as Rory spied a bank of phones. "Ah,
lady, you've yet to see just how naughty I am."

She
giggled as he nipped at her ear, her lightening mood indicative of the fact that
her plan seemed to be working thusfar. Comfortable that no one would discover
poor Iarn until the man awoke from unconsciousness, by which time she and
Kieran would hopefully be on a plane to Tel Aviv, she was able to shake some of
the doom and gloom of their predicament. Just one final step in her master
scheme was all that need be accomplished. But it was a final step that she was
dreading more than any other.

The
phones were somewhat private as Kieran took the small stool and settled her on
his lap. Rory dug about in her wallet for her calling card as he watched.

"What
are you going to do now?"

She
picked up the receiver. "Get money for our tickets."

He
watched her punch in the code. "How?"

Finished
dialing, she turned to look at him, the warmth of her expression fading.
"By begging."

***

Dr.
Sylvia Osgrove picked up the brass and porcelain phone in her small office.
"Hello?"

"Hi,
mother. It's me."

Sylvia
didn't say anything for a moment, stunned. "Rory?" she finally
gasped. "For Heaven's Sake... Rory, where are you? What's going on?"

On
Kieran's lap, Rory felt like she was five years old again - neglected, ashamed,
prepared for the verbal lashing that was sure to come. Her mother always had
that effect on her.

"In
London,” she said. “I need your help."

Ever-present
liquor on her desk, Sylvia poured from a Tupperware bottle and into a dainty
tea cup. "Uncle Uriah's on his way, Rory. I can't help you. Maybe he
can."

"No,
mother, not like that," Rory was struggling with her courage. "I need
you to send me some money."

"Money?"

"About
three thousand dollars."