Black Ice (3 page)

Was it a warning, or a threat, or a little bit of both? And what the hell was going on here? What had Sylvia gotten her into?

Sex and violence, she reminded herself. Just looking at Bastien filled the quota for sex, and violence wasn’t actually her cup of tea. Still, for a weekend it would, at the least, be entertaining, and she would be foolish to think that she was in any kind of danger. This was modern-day France, after all, and she was surrounded by staid, ordinary businesspeople. She’d been reading too many of Sylvia’s translated thrillers.

“I will be very careful not to wander where I don’t belong,” she said.

“Of course you will,” Hakim said in his distant voice. He had a peculiar air to him, slightly sinister, which must have been her tiresome imagination running amok. He was both bullying and faintly subservient, and she couldn’t quite figure his position among the business partners. It was no wonder she thought something strange was going on, what with people mutter
ing cryptic things in languages she wasn’t supposed to understand, but in the end they were nothing more than a group of people locked away without any form of entertainment. “We will see you at seven.”

A staid woman in a starched black uniform had appeared, more of a Mrs. Danvers than a Mary Poppins. “If you will follow me,
mademoiselle,
” she said in French that was clearly a foreign language to her, though Chloe couldn’t begin to guess what her native tongue was.

She knew Bastien was watching her, and it took all her willpower not to glance back at him. She wasn’t supposed to know he was a womanizer, out to bed the first new woman who’d come on the property. Besides, he was married, and that was one standard she shared with her feckless roommate. Sylvia might only sleep with bachelors in her quest for a wealthy husband, but Chloe was looking for something else. What, she wasn’t quite sure. She only knew that Bastien Toussaint wouldn’t provide it.

“At seven,” she agreed, privately wondering what kind of condition they’d be in if they drank for two hours before dinner. But it wasn’t her concern. None of it was, not even Bastien’s halfhearted suggestive comments. He didn’t really want her—she wasn’t his type. He’d have long, leggy models, women with style and a to-hell-with-you attitude. Chloe had been nursing her go-to-hell attitude for years now, and though living in Paris had helped, it was far from a finished product.

She was going to get lost in the damned maze of rooms, she thought, moving through the hall behind Marie’s stiff figure. Her own room was at the far end of one of those hallways, and the moment she stepped inside her misgivings melted. It was a room from a museum—a beautiful green-silk-draped bed, marble floors, a luxurious sofa and the largest bathroom she’d seen since she’d left the U.S. She couldn’t see a television, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but she’d surely be able to find something to read in a place like this. There’d been several well-known, pastel newspapers laid out on the hall table—she could always filch them and work on the crossword puzzles. Crossword puzzles were a well-loved linguistic problem, and a couple of them could probably keep her busy for days. She just had to remember not to pick the Italian or German newspapers.

At that moment she wanted nothing more than to get into something more comfortable and indulge in a nice, long nap. “Where is my suitcase?” she asked.

“It’s been unpacked and sent to the storage area,” Marie said smoothly. “I imagine Monsieur Hakim told you, but they dress for dinner. I think the silver lace would be appropriate.”

If Sylvia had parted with the silver lace then this job must be important indeed to her. She never let that particular dress out of her sight except for emergencies.

It was also just the teensiest bit too snug across her
butt and her breasts, but Chloe wasn’t going to tempt fate by trying to guess what else might be suitable for such an occasion. Marie would know, and if she was kind enough to volunteer the information Chloe would take advantage of it.

“Thank you, Marie.” For a moment she felt a sudden panic, wondering whether she was supposed to tip her. Before she could hesitate Marie was on her way out of the room, clearly not expecting anything from a gauche American. She turned back at the last moment. “When do you want to be called? Five? Five-thirty? You want to allow enough time to get ready.”

Marie must have thought such a task to be arduous indeed. “Six-thirty will give me plenty of time,” she said cheerfully.

Marie had a long nose, and she looked down it with the perfect mixture of disdain and concern. “If you need any help you have only to ask,” she said after a moment. “I’ve had some experience with hair like yours.” She made it sound as if it were manure-encrusted straw.

“Thank you very much, Marie. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Marie merely raised her eyebrows, setting Chloe’s misgivings into full play once more.

S
omeone had made a very grave error in sending that young woman into the lion’s den, Bastien thought. She was far from the accomplished operative needed to work in such an intense situation. He’d known within seconds that she understood every language spoken in the room, and probably more besides, and she hadn’t been that good at hiding it. If it had taken him mere moments, it wouldn’t take some of the others much longer.

The question was, who had sent her, and why? The most dangerous possibility was that she’d come to ferret out his identity. As far as he knew no one suspected him, but one never took anything for granted. The part he was playing was a dedicated womanizer—sending a nubile young female into the mix was the perfect bait, like staking a young deer in the jungle to lure a hungry panther. If he went for her he’d be playing true to form.

She was dangerously inept. That veneer of sophisti
cation was wafer thin—one look in her brown eyes and he’d been able to read everything. Nervousness, shyness even, and an unwanted spark of sexual attraction. She was in way over her head.

Then again, she might be much better than she appeared to be. The hesitant, slightly shy demeanor might be all part of the act, to put him off the scent.

Had she come for him, or someone else? Was the Committee checking up on his performance? It was always possible—he hadn’t bothered to hide the fact that he was weary beyond belief, no longer giving a damn. Life or death seemed minor distinctions to him, but once you went to work for the Committee they never let you go. He’d be killed, and probably sooner rather than later. Mademoiselle Underwood, with her shy eyes and soft mouth, might be just the one to do it.

And there was only one question. Would he let her?

Probably not. He was jaded, burned-out, empty inside, but he wasn’t about to go quietly. Not yet.

On the surface his mission was simple. Auguste Remarque had been blown up by a car bomb last month, the work of the covert, antiterrorist organization known, by a very few, as the Committee. But, in fact, the Committee had had nothing to do with it. Auguste Remarque was a businessman, motivated by nothing more than profit, and the powers that be in the Committee could understand and adjust for that. All they’d had to do was keep an eye on Remarque and the arms
dealers, keep abreast of who was shipping what to where and make their own pragmatic choices as to when to interfere. A shipment of high-powered machine guns to certain underdeveloped countries in Africa might lead to civilian deaths, but the greater good had to be considered, and those poor countries had little of interest to the superpowers. Or so his boss, the venerable Harry Thomason, had told him.

Of course, Bastien knew why. Those countries had no oil, and they were of little importance to the Committee and its powerful, private backers.

It had been Bastien’s job to keep tabs on the arms dealers, posing as one of them. But Remarque’s assassination had changed all that. Hakim, Remarque’s right-hand man, had set up this meeting, and they were looking at redividing the territories and choosing a new head. Not that these were people who played well with others, but the leader of the arms cartel also took care of the tiresome business details, leaving the others to concentrate on the acquisition and shipment of the most dangerous weapons yet devised.

Hakim had been in charge of the petty details, but he’d gotten a little too ambitious. He wanted to take Remarque’s place, including taking his lucrative territories. And there lay the problems. Through decades of dealing, assassination and bribery, the late Auguste Remarque had controlled most weapons shipments for the Middle East, an inexhaustible market.

Areas like Chile, Kosovo, Northern Ireland and the cults of Japan might ebb and flow in their desire for weapons, but the Middle East never got enough. And since America had waded into the fray, time and time again, with bludgeoning attempts at control, things had only gotten worse.

The members of the arms cartel wanted a fair share of those lucrative profits. And Hakim was disposable.

Bastien was in no hurry to see things played out—he could spend a day or two watching and waiting. The members of the cartel had learned, one by one, that Hakim had been responsible for Remarque’s assassination, and it didn’t sit well. Someone would dispose of him in the next few days, and if they failed it would be up to Bastien.

It had been easy enough to subtly spread the word about Hakim’s treachery. The various reactions of the main players had been interesting indeed because, in fact, Hakim hadn’t been behind Remarque’s death, even though he was entirely willing to benefit from it.

One of the other members of the clandestine arms cartel had been behind the hit. Someone who was here now, or had yet to arrive. That person was probably delighted that someone else had been fingered, but so far the Committee had been unable to discern who had actually done it. Conventional wisdom suggested Baron von Rutter. Beneath his jovial exterior he was a brusque, impatient man and he’d made his way more
by bullying tactics than finesse. Not to mention his equal partner, his young wife Monique.

One of Bastien’s fellow operatives had put her money on Mr. Otomi, the reserved, elderly Yakuza boss, and Ricetti was a good possibility as well with his Mafia connections. And one could never discount Madame Lambert.

Any of them were capable and willing, and if any of them had ordered the hit then the Committee would not be alarmed.

But Bastien was banking on the last of their little group to arrive. Christos Christopolous was, on the surface, merely a minor player. The Greek connection had always been low-key, but Bastien was paid to be untrusting. And in the eleven months he’d lived as Bastien Toussaint he’d learned that Christos was the most dangerous of them all. He was the one who was most likely to have arranged for Remarque to be killed by the car bomb, along with his wife, daughter and three young grandchildren.

Thomason had taken his word and set the assignment. Hakim was to die—no matter who was responsible, the hit on Remarque couldn’t have been accomplished without his assistance.

And if Christos was chosen to lead the cartel, he, too, must die. The others were manageable—the Greek wasn’t.

Maybe Christos wouldn’t get chosen, and Bastien
could once more vanish into the obscurity of another name, another nationality, another mission on some other continent. Not that it mattered—they all seemed to be the same, the good guys and the bad guys interchangeable.

One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to be able to do a damned thing if the innocent little newcomer stuck a knife between his ribs.

He had no illusions that he was on his own here. Signor Ricetti’s young male lover was Jensen, a young British operative who’d told his wife he traveled a lot as a pharmaceutical sales representative.

Bastien had learned not to trust anyone, including his co-workers. It was always possible that Thomason had decided that Bastien himself was disposable. Jensen could take him out if that was what he was ordered to do, but he’d have a better chance of success than the girl. Anyone would. If they really wanted to get rid of him they needed someone a little more knowledgeable to do it.

Someone a little more adept than sweet Mademoiselle Underwood.

She was either there for him or for one of the others. Maybe just to gather information, maybe to dispose of an unwanted player. He had only to say something to Hakim and she would be the one they disposed of. Even if Hakim himself had hired her, she would be wiped out neatly and efficiently.

He wasn’t quite ready to do that, even if it was the safest route. He hadn’t been drawn into this business by the lure of safety, and Mademoiselle Underwood might offer more value alive than dead. He would find out who sent her and why, and the sooner he found out the better. Careful planning was important, but hesitation was disastrous. He would find out what he needed to find out, then drop a word in Hakim’s ear. It would be a shame to have such a promising young life snuffed out, but she would have known the dangers when she signed up for this job. And he’d lost any trace of sentimentality long ago.

He just wished to Christ that he knew why she was there.

Chloe was feeling slightly giddy. She slept deeply for a couple hours, curled up under a thin silk coverlet; she’d bathed in a deep warm bath perfumed with Chanel; she’d dressed in Sylvia’s clothes and put Sylvia’s makeup on her face. It was a few minutes before seven, and she’d have to slip her feet into the ridiculously high heels and glide downstairs like the soigné creature she was pretending to be.

The undergarments had begun the sensory overload. Chloe wore plain white cotton. Her taste ran to lace and satin and deep, bold colors, but her pocketbook did not, and she’d spent her clothing euros on things that would be seen.

Sylvia spent a great deal of time in her underwear, seldom alone, and her wardrobe of corselets, panties, demi-bras and garter belts came in a rainbow of colors, all made to be enjoyed by both the wearer and her audience. Chloe wasn’t currently planning on an audience, not here, not now. Bastien Toussaint might be distracting, but Chloe had no interest in married men, womanizers, or really anyone at all until she got back to Paris. This job was supposed to be a piece of cake, a leisurely few days in the country translating boring business details.

So why was she so damned edgy?

Probably just M. Toussaint, with his bedroom eyes and his slow, sexy voice. Or maybe it was the combined suspicion of the guests—they must be dealing with something very powerful to be so paranoid. Though in Chloe’s experience most people thought their concerns to be life-altering proportions. Perhaps they held the formula for a new type of fabric. The shoe designs for next season. The recipe for calorie-free butter.

It didn’t matter. She would remain in some unobtrusive corner, translating when called upon to do so, hoping no one else was going to say anything embarrassing in a language she wasn’t supposed to understand. Though it would help matters if she had her own wardrobe—Sylvia’s clothes were not made to be unobtrusive.

Maybe she could just plead a headache, crawl back
into bed and deal with things tomorrow. As far as she knew she wasn’t on call twenty-four/seven, and tonight was supposed to be more of a social occasion. They wouldn’t need her, and she didn’t need to be around people who were drinking enough to be even more indiscreet than they had this afternoon.

Then again, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to find out why they were so paranoid. If she didn’t like the answer she could simply announce that she had to return home. Monsieur Hakim had insisted that she wasn’t really needed, and she expected they would muddle through even without a common language. In the end, her peace of mind was more important than the generous daily stipend.

But seven hundred euros could ease a little mental discomfort, and she was seldom a coward. She would go downstairs, smile charmingly, drink just a little wine—not enough to make her indiscreet—and keep her distance from Bastien Toussaint. He unnerved her, both with his dark, unreadable eyes and his supposed interest in her. For some reason she didn’t quite believe it. She was not an unattractive woman, but she was scarcely in his league—he was the type for supermodels and millionaires’ daughters.

It didn’t help that when she opened the door he was waiting for her.

He glanced at his thin watch. “A beautiful woman
who shows up on time,” he said in French. “How delightful.”

She hesitated, uncertain what to say. On the one hand, the faint trace of irony in his voice was unmistakable, and Chloe knew that while she was attractive enough, beautiful was a bit too generous, even with the benefit of Sylvia’s wardrobe. But arguing with him would seem coy, and besides, she didn’t want to spend any unnecessary time in the cavernous, shadowy hall with him.

He was leaning against the window opposite her doorway, and the formal gardens stretched out beyond, surprisingly well lit for that hour of the night. He’d been smoking a cigarette, waiting for her, but he pushed away from the window and came toward her.

She thought she’d gotten used to how graceful some French men could be. For a moment she was distracted by his body, then mentally slapped herself. “Were you waiting for me?” she said brightly, closing the door behind her when she actually wanted nothing more than to dive back into her room and lock it.

“Of course. I’m just down the hall from you, on the left. We’re the only ones in this wing of the house, and I know how turned around one can get. I wanted to make sure you didn’t stumble into any place you shouldn’t be.”

Again, that faint hint of something wrong. Maybe she was the one who was paranoid, not Hakim’s guests.
“I have a fairly good sense of direction.” A flat-out lie—even with a detailed map she inevitably took wrong turns, but he wouldn’t know that.

“You’ve lived in France long enough to know that French men like to think of themselves as charming and gallant. It’s hardwired into me—you’ll find me shadowing you when you least expect it, offering to bring you coffee or a cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke.” The conversation was making her more and more uneasy. Complicated by the fact that looking at him, the dark, opaque eyes, the lean, graceful body, was leaving her far from unmoved. Why did she have to be attracted to someone so…wrong? “And how do you know I’ve lived in France a long time?”

“Your accent. No one speaks that well if they haven’t lived here for at least a year.”