Cold as Ice (5 page)

"I could arrange for a launch to take you back to the island. That way you could catch a flight out tomorrow morning and not have to bother with Mr. Van Dorn's pilot."

Her contact lenses had been in for far too long, and she was having trouble focusing. For a moment she was tempted—dry land, no more Harry Van Dorn or business of any sort. But the goddamn papers weren't signed, the reason she was sent here in the first place, and she couldn't afford to offend an important client by disappearing and refusing his hospitality and his private jet. She was on the fast track at Roper, Hyde, Camui and Fredericks, and she wasn't ready to throw that overboard. Literally.

"I'm sure this will be fine. Besides, what sane woman would trade a ride on a private jet for a commercial flight?" she said flippantly.
Me
, she thought,
in a New York minute
.

He said nothing for a moment, and then nodded. "As you wish, Ms. Spenser," he murmured in that bland, empty voice that didn't seem quite real, and continued down the passageway.

He'd tried, Jensen thought. He could go one step further, knock her cold and have one of the men take her back to the island, but that would leave far too many questions, and he couldn't risk it. Collateral damage was a necessary evil, something he'd done his best to avoid most of his career, but if she was going to end up dead then it was due to her own greed. He should make peace with that unpleasant fact and take her back to her room.

He wondered how many of those pills she'd taken. He'd searched her purse, of course, more out of habit than any particular suspicion, only to discover that Ms. Genevieve Spenser had a fondness for tranquilizers. Maybe he could just keep her drugged the entire time, until Harry and the rest of them could disappear. But that would leave her wondering why Harry had chosen to take off to his private island and leave her behind, doped and groggy. She was too smart not to be suspicious. Discretion was as much a part of his assignment as getting it done.

He'd also gone through that slim black briefcase, photographing the details and sending them on to London. One more piece of the puzzle of the Rule of Seven. But what did oil fields in the Mid East have to do with a dam in India? What did it have to do with anything?

Apparently Madame Lambert had decided it wasn't worth waiting to find out. Which was fine with Peter, if this goddamn woman hadn't stumbled into his path.

He was taking her the long way on purpose. She was slightly out of it and hiding it very well indeed, but with his roundabout path she'd never find her way back to Harry Van Dorn, assuming she even wanted to.

The one thing that didn't make sense was her not sleeping with her host. People didn't say no to Harry Van Dorn, and she had to have. She might be a lesbian, but he doubted it, his fine-tuned instincts ruling out the possibility. More likely she was frigid. Or maybe she only liked it when she could be in control, and Harry was a topper if ever there was one.

Peter had asked London for intel on her, but they didn't seem in any particular hurry to get back to him, and he was still working in the dark. It would be easier if he knew a little more about her.

But he didn't need to waste his time thinking about how Genevieve Spenser liked or didn't like sex. He needed to figure out how to get rid of her without sacrificing discretion. Collateral damage, he reminded himself as he turned down one of the narrow service passageways.

"You might want to take off those shoes, Ms. Spenser," he said in his empty voice. "The sea's getting a bit choppy. Do you need something for seasickness?"

"I never get seasick." She stopped anyway, leaning against the side of the passageway to slip off her ridiculously expensive shoes. She was a tall woman, but the heels had added a good three inches, and she now seemed more vulnerable. He didn't like it when they were vulnerable.

"Never?" he echoed. "You strike me as someone who doesn't like boats very much, and I assumed it was a tendency toward seasickness that caused it."

Her eyes jerked up, suddenly sharp, and he could have kicked himself. Jensen might have noticed her dislike of boats, but he would have gone no further than that. He certainly would never have mentioned it.

"I don't like feeling trapped," she said in a tight voice.

"Then you must not like this passageway either," he said, another mistake. It was long and narrow, with the dim lighting Harry considered atmospheric, and if she had a problem with claustrophobia she'd be hyperventilating at any moment.

"I don't. But just because I don't like something doesn't mean I'll run from it."

He wanted to smile. She sounded like a feisty little kid instead of a corporate mannequin. "I can still arrange for that launch."

"Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Jensen?"

Too sharp, despite the wine and the tranquilizers. She had a soft mouth, rich brown eyes, and for a moment he wanted to be someone, anyone but who he was. He was going to make a mistake, and he was going to pay for it, but at that moment he didn't give a shit.

He didn't bother telling her he was trying to save her life. He slid his hand up her neck, and while she flinched at the first touch she gentled quickly, as his long fingers cupped her face. "I have a romantic streak," he said with a faint smile, and leaned down to kiss her.

Such a mouth. He wanted to drown in it. She was too startled and maybe just a bit too drunk to do more than lean back against the wall and let him, and he took full advantage of it, kissing her with a leisurely thoroughness that he hadn't let himself enjoy for a long time. And at the last minute he increased the pressure just below her ear, and she slumped into his arms, unconscious.

It was five in the morning, London time, and Isobel Lambert was still awake. In fact, she slept very little, a gift of both genetics and training. Things were just about to go down in the Caribbean, and while the operation was now out of her hands, she needed to be awake and alert, there in spirit if not in fact.

She never asked anyone to do anything she wouldn't do herself. And Peter Jensen was the best there was. She didn't tend to second-guess herself, and her gut-felt decision, to terminate Harry Van Dorn before he could implement some of the near-global damage he was planning, was the right one.

But there was the girl who'd gotten in the way, and Jensen, usually cold as ice about such things, was dragging his heels. She could communicate directly with Renaud, have him take care of her, but she wasn't ready to do that. Renaud was a nasty piece of work, and she only liked to use him sparingly, with calmer heads like Jensen overseeing him. If there was any way to save the girl, Jensen would see to it without compromising the mission.

In the meantime, they had one more vital piece of Harry's plan. Oil fields in Saudi Arabia, a dam in Mysore, India. What else did he have in mind? And for God's sake, why?

Peter Jensen looked at the unconscious woman in his arms. It was a good trick, one he'd used a number of times, mostly to save lives. If he had to kill someone there was usually no reason for finesse. But if Genevieve Spenser wasn't going to show enough sense to take his advice and get her butt off the boat then he was going to see to it, and pick up the pieces later. Madame Lambert probably wouldn't be happy; she trusted him to know enough to veer from a plan when he had to, but she wouldn't like it. He might get his wrist slapped, but as long as no one would ever be able to trace anything back to him or the Committee they'd be fine.

Ms. Spenser was heavier than he'd thought, but he was strong enough, and he dumped her over his shoulder, leaving her shoes behind as he headed down toward the launch.

"What's that you've got there, Petey lad?" Renaud was leaning against a row of packing cases, a cigarette in his mouth, sharpening his knife. "Present for me?"

"Not quite. I want her off the boat before we get rid of Van Dorn. You need to take her back to the island and dump her somewhere."

Renaud put the knife away, rising. "She dead? Or do you want me to finish her off?"

"She's fine and I want her to stay that way. Just dump her somewhere that'll require a couple of days to find her and get back here. We're running late."

"Wouldn't be running late if I didn't have to take an extra ride in this choppy water," Renaud pointed out. "If you don't want her I'll have her. She's pretty enough."

"She's trouble."

"Then let me take care of her. Much neater all around."

Peter was getting tired of arguing. "I'll take her myself," he said.

"I don't think Hans would like it."

"And what does Hans have to say to anything? This is my operation."

"So it is. But we've all got orders to keep an eye on each other. What with the shake-up and all, the Committee isn't as trusting as it used to be."

Jensen wanted to laugh at the very idea of trust and the Committee in the same sentence, but he was too edgy and she was too damn heavy slung over his shoulder. "Fine," he said. "You take her to the island and I'll deal with Hans."

"Not a good idea, Petey," Renaud drawled. He'd always hated being called Petey, something Renaud already knew. "It's the witching hour. No time left for heroic gestures."

He was right. They'd planned the takeover for midnight, and it was too damn close to risk everything for the sake of a spoiled young lawyer.

He gave up fighting. "You're right," he said. "So much for being a gentleman. I'll dump her back in her room. Maybe we'll get done with Harry before she even wakes up."

"Yeah, you can believe that," Renaud said, dropping his cigarette on the teakwood deck and stubbing it out. "But we both know what's going to happen in the end. You're going to have to kill her."

He didn't bother to argue. Renaud was only stating the unpalatable truth. Genevieve Spenser was in the wrong place at the wrong time and she hadn't left when she could. She was going to have to live with the consequences.

And die by them.

It was a pleasant enough dream. She was being rocked, peacefully, like a babe in her mother's arms, except that her mother had never been much for rocking. She was surrounded by comfort, and yet she felt oddly free, peaceful, pampered.

Something was making a low, rumbling vibration, adding to her delicious sense of comfort. She wasn't about to wake up—it was too lovely lying there enjoying the physical sensations. There was a faint, nagging worry at the very back of her mind, but she decided to ignore it, sinking deeper into a blissful sleep.

She should have known it was coming. It always happened when she least expected it, and it took over before she could stop it. It was three years ago and she was back in that dingy little cubicle at Legal Aid in the tiny town of Auburn, New York, with her cluttered desk filled with too many hopeless cases, the industrial green on the walls stained with damp, the cold, rancid coffee and the telephone that rang and rang and then stopped like a death knell.

She should have known not to work late, alone, in that building. Too many very bad people knew where it was, and she'd made a lot of enemies in her short life. She was Joan of Arc, a heroine riding to the rescue of battered women, putting their abusive, murderous husbands in jail, helping to give the women a new chance at a decent life. She'd done such a good job of it that she was being handed all the cases involving domestic abuse, and in a poor area like Clinton County, New York, the workload was overwhelming.

But she kept at it, overworked, underpaid, foolishly thinking she was making a difference, and she never heard the footsteps down the deserted hallway. Never knew what was happening until she looked up and saw Marge Whitman's husband looming in the doorway.

He was an ugly man with an ugly temper, and a day after he got out of jail for breaking his wife's arm, cheekbone and shoulder, he'd been served with a restraining order. And he wasn't happy about it.

Genevieve had a button beneath her desk to call for help if she needed it. She pressed it with her knee as she reached for the phone.

"You don't have an appointment, Mr. Whitman, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said. She was calm, always certain she could fix anything. "If you want to come in tomorrow and discuss your case—"

"The telephone don't work," he said, lumbering closer. He was a huge man, burly and heavily muscled, and he smelled like beer and sweat. And rage. "And I ain't got a case. You've been interfering between me and mine, and it's time somebody taught you a lesson."

He was right, the telephone was dead. That was when she felt her first inkling of fear, but there was still the button beneath her desk. She held it, thinking fast.

"We can talk about it during office hours, Mr. Whitman," she said, not a trace of nervousness showing through her calm demeanor. "In the meantime I'll have to ask you to leave."

He laughed. He didn't bother to close the glass door of the cubicle behind him—he knew there was no one there to help. "I think we'll talk about it right now. And I don't think talking is gonna cut it."

She tried to run, but he slammed her against the cubicle, and the heavy glass shattered beneath her body. There were times when she could almost forget it, and times when it came thundering back. The feel of his fists against her face, her body, so that when she fell she landed on the broken glass, as he kicked her, over and over again, and the broken shards dug into her skin. It seemed to go on forever; just when she thought he'd finished and was leaving her, another blow came, another kick, and she moaned, her mouth full of blood.

He leaned over her, yanking her up so that her face was just inches from his. "Hell," he said, "you ain't even worth killing." And he dropped her back on the floor.

She must have lost consciousness. When she woke up she was alone in the pitch-black building, lying in a pool of blood.

She'd had to crawl over the glass. She'd made it as far as the stairs and then collapsed, lying in a broken heap, unable to move, unable to speak. She could only cry.

She'd spent a week in the hospital. By the time she could talk, Whitman had disappeared, along with his wife and two children. People said Marge had gone willingly, and Genevieve had believed them. After all, hadn't she received a bouquet of flowers with an almost illegible, unsigned note? "I'm so sorry." It could hardly have come from Whitman.