Masquerade (58 page)

“Right. In your wildest.” Kirk was a psych professor, too, specializing in personality disorders. He was so easygoing that his scholarship was on the light side, but he was friendly and fun, and she had grown to depend on his companionship.

“No, really, Kirk,” she told him. “This is a great class. They're interested in the subject. I'm glad I stayed for them. Paris can wait until tomorrow.”

He picked up
TV Guide
again and waved it at her. “Nice article in here about you and the new season.”

She took it from him, pleased. The first four shows for this new series were in the can, the next three were being filmed, and she was researching future ones. Her gaze ran down the story:

Sansborough's Cold War Series Is Back!

One word—and a simple image—said it all. Last month, posters that read “July 29” in scarlet red, with “Top Secret” stamped across in black, plastered New York City's bus shelters. No photos. No title.

But to afficionados, it was a code that sent shudders of delight that the wait for Dr. Liz Sansborough's sleeper hit,
Secrets of the Cold War
, to return was almost over.

A Compass network executive revealed that among the chilling Cold War situations to be aired was that of a leading CIA official's illegal tampering with presidential politics. Also on tap is a hushed-up FBI scandal that includes a KGB defector who was a master of disguise.

In just three years, Dr. Sansborough's series has grown from a local cable show into an underground sensation.

As for next season, the psychology professor tantalized us with the prospect of juicy details about some of the Cold War's most elusive and deadly players—global assassins such as the renowned Abu Nidal and lesser-known, but many say mythical, figures like the Carnivore and the Abbot. . . .

“Good coverage,” she agreed and tossed it back at him.

“It's more than that. Someday your face is going to be as famous as Julia Roberts's. You're already a hell of a lot prettier.”

“And you're full of blue sky.” But she grinned, grateful, because he had been a reluctant supporter of the series.

The window in her office looked back over the campus, north toward the sawtooth peaks of the Santa Ynez Mountains. She was high enough up that no one else could see her. She peeled her sweater over her head and stepped out of her trousers.

“Nice jogging bra,” Kirk said. “Nice thong bikini.”

She ignored that and stepped into her running shorts. “Aren't you getting bored? You drop by to see me do this three or four times a week, you and your lame excuses. You've got too much time on your hands, Kirk. Hey, you didn't even bother with an excuse this time.” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and slipped a band around it.

“Definitely not bored. And I have a very good excuse.” He lowered his feet to the floor and advanced on her. He was a square man, early forties, nice big shoulders, going a little soft in the middle, which she found endearing.

“Go away.” She shook her head, amused, and knelt to tie the laces of her shoes. “This is my jogging time.”

“So I noticed. You look much more appetizing in shorts than in that prison jumpsuit you wear for karate.”

With his cheerful face, freckles, and red hair, Kirk was easy on the eyes. They had arrived at UCSB in 1998, the recipients of two brand-new chairs funded by the prestigious Aylesworth Foundation. In the same department, and single, they had gravitated toward each other and become friends. The rest had developed slowly.

“So tell me what your excuse is.” She jumped up and lifted her knees, loosening her muscles.

“The dean's summer bash. This afternoon, remember? It begins at three o'clock. Want to meet there, or are you going to let me pick you up?”

“Let's meet.” She patted his shirt and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

He grabbed for her, and she dodged.

“You're going to get all sweaty,” he warned, eyes twinkling.

“Looking forward to it, too.” She found her sunglasses and visor.

As she locked her door and zipped her keys into her fanny pack, he ambled to his office. Eagerly she ran down the stairs and out into the hazy California sunshine.

Paris, France

When it was ten o'clock in the morning in California, it was seven o'clock in the evening in France. As Liz Sansborough left for her run in Santa Barbara, some seven thousand miles away Sarah Walker and Asher Flores strolled across the lobby of their Latin Quarter hotel, holding hands.

They were a handsome couple, somewhere between the ages of thirty-five and forty. He had black, curly hair and a strong face with the kind of sharp gaze that was never fully at rest. She was tall and lanky, with short auburn hair. A dark mole just above the right corner of her smiling mouth gave her a dramatic air, and the small finger on her left hand was crooked, hinting at some past athletic endeavor gone amiss.

They had arrived in Paris the night before and checked into her cousin's favorite hotel. Her cousin, who was joining them for just three days, had postponed her arrival until tomorrow. Neither Sarah nor Asher was the type to wait around. They had gone sight-seeing, visiting the Louvre and other traditional tourist places for which they had never had time, and returned to change for dinner.

The night
portier
caught sight of them through the glass
lobby door. He pulled it open and bowed. “Mademoiselle Sansborough,” he greeted her. “A pleasant surprise. I did not realize you were staying with us again.”

Sarah shot him a smile as she headed out under the awning. “Sorry, but I'm not Liz Sansborough. She was delayed.”

Astonished, the doorman hesitated as if expecting the woman to laugh at her own joke. He quickly touched the brim of his cap. “Apologies,
madame
. Please forgive.” He noted the gold wedding band on her ring finger.

“Don't worry about it,” Asher Flores said genially as he followed. “They're cousins, and they look so much alike everybody gets them confused.”

Sarah suddenly shook her head. “Oh, damn. I left my purse in the room. Do you have your credit cards, Asher?”

“A passel of 'em,” Asher assured her. Then to the doorman: “Think it's going to rain? It's been threatening all afternoon.” He stepped out from beneath the awning to check the sky. Layers of cumulonimbus clouds were roiling black and brown. Raindrops splattered down, and the metallic scent of ozone filled the air. “Well, that answers that.” He jumped back under the awning's shelter.

“Allow me, sir.” The doorman reached behind the door and produced a large umbrella. He popped it open and presented it to Asher.

Under its shelter, Sarah put her arm through Asher's, and they walked off jauntily just as the heavens opened and sheets of chilly rain pounded down. Drivers turned on their windshield wipers and headlights while pedestrians ducked under awnings.

Sarah laughed. “So much for an easy, relaxing time in the Gallic sun.”

“Do you think this is punishment because we haven't been back here together before this?”

“You wish. We're not that important to the gods.”

“We are to me.” As traffic rushed past, and the rain made a noisy tattoo on the umbrella, he impulsively pulled her close and kissed her.

Laughing, she threw her arms around his neck. Parisian horns saluted loudly.

Sarah had been reluctant to return to this city where so many ugly things had happened to them, but Langley had finally guaranteed Asher a month of uninterrupted vacation, and it was time to exorcize her demons. They needed to go away together, to renew themselves in one another, and what better place for romance than the two-thousand-year-old City of Light and Love?

She kissed him back eagerly, sinking into him, feeling warm and happy and carefree as they lingered in their private cocoon beneath the umbrella.

When he released her finally, she smiled into his eyes and said, “Let's find that bistro and have some dinner. I'm hungry.”

Other pedestrians had disappeared into shops and stores, escaping the rising storm, and Sarah and Asher were alone on the sidewalk as they hurried onward. Thunder boomed, shaking the earth. Drivers continued at an insane speed, tires spouting dirty waves onto the sidewalk.

“Only one more block,” Asher announced as they crossed a street. Their clothes were soaked.

“We can make it. I'm not totally miserable yet.”

They jumped over a fast-moving stream, landed on the deserted sidewalk again, and increased their pace. The sky turned black. The cold rain pelted so fiercely that it slammed back up from the pavement. They dodged and rushed, growing chilled and stiff. At last Asher spotted the bistro's sign: Rouget de Lisle. It was at the end of the block. He was gesturing at it, about to tell Sarah, when a black van suddenly screeched to a halt beside them, hiding them from traffic.

Before its wheels stopped, Asher's internal alarm sounded. His alert gaze slashed from the van across the empty sidewalk to the dark alley on their other side. Two men wearing ski masks and armed with handguns jumped out from where they had been pressed against the wall, hiding. Asher hurled the open umbrella at them.

They ducked, and he gave Sarah a violent shove to get her safely past. He whipped out the small pistol strapped to his ankle just as the van's door slammed open.

As he swung his gun to aim, Sarah spun back to look for
him. Her water-streaked face froze in horror as she took in the well-coordinated attack.

As he opened his mouth to bellow at Sarah to run, there was the muffled
pop-pop
of silenced gunfire. A bullet crashed into Asher's chest. Out of nowhere, a giant seemed to grab him roughly and hurl him backwards. He landed hard. His arms and legs sprawled. His head hit the sidewalk. His gun flew from his hand. His eyes closed.

Sarah screamed. “Get away from me!”

Her voice barely penetrated his pain-filled mind.

“Asher!” she called frantically. “Are you all right? Asher! Let me go to him!”

There were the scuffling sounds of struggle.

“Merde!”
one of the men swore.

“She's a tiger,” another agreed in French.

Asher tried to open his eyes, to roll over, to get to his feet. Fight.
Save Sarah
. A massive cauldron burned in his chest. He raged helplessly, inwardly.

“Get Walker into the van!” one of the men shouted. “Hurry!”

“Asher!” Her longing cry stabbed his heart.

In a frenzy, Asher struggled harder. Felt himself move. His palms dug into the wet pavement.

Before he could push himself up, powerful hands smashed his shoulders back down. Someone cried out in pain. Him?

A voice spoke harshly into his ear: “If you want to see your wife alive again, Flores, get us the Carnivore's files. You and Langley have four days. No more.
The Carnivore's files
. Say it.” This man's words were English; the accent American.

Asher tried to move his lips. He pushed out air. “Carnivore,” he managed. “Four days.” The Carnivore's files?
What
files!?
“Impossible!”

But the hands were gone. Car doors banged shut, and wheels shrieked.

Wild with fear, he roared, “Sarah!”

There was no answer. The rain was unrelenting, pummeling his face, filling his ears as he struggled to get up. Falling back, he choked and coughed and grew icy cold. He pictured Sarah
in his mind, went over each detail of her face, heard her melodic voice, felt her lips brush his cheek. Aching for her, terrified about what they would do to her, weakness swept over him, then darkness.

Chapter 2

Santa Barbara, California

Liz stopped on the lawn outside the psychology building to stretch. As she pulled one ankle and then the other behind and balanced freestanding, she admired the July sky and savored the soft ocean air against her skin. The temperature had been hovering in the low seventies, perfect, while the weather channel reported an oxygen-sucking heat wave blanketing New York and Washington. Moving to the West Coast had been one of her smarter decisions.

Her life was far different from those dark times when she discovered her parents were assassins. She figured she was as happy now as she would ever be, and she had Grey Mellen-camp to thank, because he had been right all those years ago. It was a pity he had died so soon after delivering his fatherly advice. She would have liked to tell him how much he had helped her.

As soon as she ended her stretches, she speed-walked toward the university's Marine Sciences Institute, feeling light and powerful, as if she were about to begin a match. Her other sport was
karate-d
, one of the few leftovers from her previous life in intelligence. She gazed around, passing the usual sports cars with their tops down, the trash cans topped off with Styrofoam cups from the Mesa Coffee Company, and the students in their eyepatch-sized swimsuits, sitting out on dormitory patios,
enthusiastically risking melanoma. Few palm trees decorated the campus. Instead, sycamores, magnolias, and exotic eucalypti stood here and there, country-club elegant.

When she spotted the squat marine lab building, she broke into a trot, running downhill past it onto a spit of sand that edged the university's big lagoon. She saw no one on the rocky cliff that towered ahead, which was just the way she liked it. Beginning to sweat, she loped up a sandy ridge to the dirt path that cut along the cliff's narrow top. The breeze whispered through her hair. Her quad muscles rippled.

Savoring the clean, salty air, she looked right, where wild grasses and scrub trees and bushes welded the soil to the rolling slope that spread down to the blue lagoon so protected from the elements that hardly a ripple showed. On the far side lay the campus, where a few students were visible. They disappeared into buildings, late for classes. Abruptly, the university was deserted—a perfect still-life of simple, modern buildings and manicured trees from some architectural photographer's prized album.