Tell Me No Lies (34 page)

That was when Catlin knew he would get a good look at the Chinese shadow, when the man stood impaled between the dual illumination of store and streetlight.

Almost absently Catlin caressed the fragrant softness of Lindsay's throat, delicately savoring the too-rapid beat of her pulse. At the edge of his vision he could see the shadow of her eyelashes trembling across her cheek.

"Can you see the street?" breathed Catlin, his voice a bare thread of sound.

"Y-yes."

The catch in Lindsay's husky voice sent a hot burst of desire through Catlin. It shocked him even as he ignored it, concentrating only on the street, ruthlessly dividing his mind from his emotions in the way that he had learned to do long ago.

He had also learned that such a division would ultimately destroy him. But that didn't matter, either. Not now. Now the world and everything in it was focused on one narrow slice of darkness from which the nameless Chinese would soon emerge.

18

"Our Chinese shadow will be along any second," breathed Catlin, nuzzling Lindsay's neck. "Remember. You're supposed to be a woman so hot for her man that she doesn't know the difference between an alley and the honeymoon suite at the Rite."

Lindsay made an odd sound that could have been laughter. Her head tilted back as her hand reached up and behind her, curling around the back of Catlin's head, bringing him even closer to her. Slender fingers kneaded through his hair, and her free hand found his wrist beneath the concealing cape. She guided his palm down her torso while she moved against him like a cat, caressing him with her whole body. She had the satisfaction of hearing his breath hiss in and feeling his fingers flex against her taut stomach in a reflex that was as primitive and revealing as the sudden hardening of his body against her hip.

"Sweet God, woman," Catlin whispered hoarsely, biting the nape of Lindsay's neck. "Have a little mercy."

"Do you?"

His hand slid up to her mouth, covering it. "Okay, I asked for it," he said softly. "I keep forgetting what you're like when all the prim and proper is peeled away. My fault, not yours. Next time I'll--"

The words stopped abruptly as Catlin spotted a shadow figure gliding silently into view from the right. He could tell from the sudden tension in Lindsay that she could see the man, too. Discreetly Catlin moved his right hand closer to the gun in the small of his back, knowing that the Chinese shadow wouldn't be able to see the small motion.

Catlin waited for a moment, timed the man's footsteps, and then gave a soft, husky groan, like a lover caught within a hot vise of unsatisfied need. Startled, the Chinese stopped for an instant, illuminated from two sides as he peered into the black shadows of the recessed door.

Lindsay stiffened. Her breath came in with an audible hiss. It could have been passion, but it was not. She suddenly felt as though she had been hurled down a long, spinning tunnel, sucked back through time to a moment when as a child she had stood frozen beneath wind-whipped trees. She had sensed someone following her and had turned suddenly. For a moment she had seen her black-clad pursuer, his face divided between light pouring from a window and the endless darkness of night.

It was the same man who watched her now.

Even as the thought came, the rational part of Lindsay's mind rejected it. This wasn't her nightmare come to life. The man who was even now gliding beyond range of the streetlight was in his twenties. It was impossible that he had been the one to follow her nearly a quarter century ago in China. She had just been caught by the similarity of their predatory expressions.

Even so, Lindsay knew that she would never forget the face of the man she had just seen. It was engraved on her memory as surely as the nightmare was, another link binding the darkness of the past to the uncertain light of the present.

"Not yet," breathed Catlin, tightening his hold on Lindsay when she would have moved. "He may go by again on the opposite side of the street. See? There he goes, heading for the far corner of the block."

Lindsay sagged against Catlin, feeling chills move over her. She realized suddenly how deeply she hated to be followed, to be spied upon, to be used. The vehemence of the emotion shocked her, for she sensed that it came from more than the tension of the present. She sensed long roots of fear stretching down into the past, a dark plant unfurling, growing through the years, blooming blackly in the nightmares of the present.

"I'll be damned," Catlin growled in a voice that barely reached Lindsay's ears. "That's O'Donnel following our Chinese. I didn't know the FBI allowed their agents to own running shoes, much less to wear them on the job. Bet he's got at least five more men working with him."

Lindsay laughed weakly, a sound that carried no farther than Catlin's bent head. "Must be getting crowded out there," she whispered.

"Yeah." His hand slid out of her cape. "We'd better break the logjam before O'Donnel gets burned."

Silently Catlin wished that he were alone. He hated having to trust someone else's abilities. But he had no choice. He had to stay with Lindsay rather than take off on his own, shake the Chinese shadow, and then turn the tables and follow the shadow back to his owner.

"Let's go," whispered Catlin.

Arm in arm, he and Lindsay strolled back to the hotel, talking in clear voices, making a show of their desire for a private night alone. The Chinese shadow fell back as they approached the steep climb to the hotel. O'Donnel was nowhere to be seen, nor were the agents who were backing him up. At least Catlin hoped there were more agents. It took more than one man to safely follow another one through city streets at night.

Lindsay walked tiredly through the lobby of the hotel and into the elevator, letting Catlin support her with his arm. He keyed into the upper bank of buttons and punched the twelfth floor.

"Why do you do that?" Lindsay asked as the doors closed. She had wanted to ask each time it happened, but had always held her tongue. Tonight she was too tired to watch every word, every impulse, every question.

"Do what?"

"Pick a different floor to get off at each time," explained Lindsay.

"Makes it much harder for a man with a gun to know where to wait for me."

It took a moment for Lindsay to absorb the implications of Catlin's matter-of-fact statement. "Tom Lee?" she asked, her voice thin. "Is he still after you?"

"Stone must have been real chatty the last time you talked," Catlin said curtly. He hadn't wanted Lindsay to worry about Lee Tran, alias Tom Lee.

"At least now I know why we're taking taxis," she said.

"And knowing doesn't make you feel a damn bit better, does it?"

"What did you do to Tom Lee?"

"It's more like what Lee Tran tried to do to Rousseau," retorted Catlin. "Hold still."

Instantly Lindsay froze, not knowing what would happen next and wondering what had gone wrong. When Catlin knelt and removed her high heels she let out her breath in a long sigh. The contradictions in him kept her off balance and intensely aware of him. In one breath he was talking about someone who had planted a bomb in his car. In the next he was removing her shoes as though he knew how much her feet ached – and he cared.

Was caring part of the act, too?

But that was the one question Lindsay knew she would not ask, because the answer should not matter. It must not. She couldn't live any longer balanced on the crumbling edge of her ability to pretend and to recognize pretense in others. She had been reduced to emotion, reflex and an exhaustion that was numbing, layer after layer of reality peeling away from her until she didn't know what was act and what was not.

Nor did she care. She felt as though she were empty all the way to her core.

"Lindsay?"

Without answering, she began climbing the stairs.

Silently Catlin followed. A quick inspection revealed that the door had not been opened in their absence. When they were inside he shot the bolt and went to the phone, dialing quickly.

"Stone?" asked Catlin. "Then get him. It's Catlin."

Lindsay went into the bedroom and took off her clothes. Though it was rather early to go to bed, she pulled her nightgown from the closet. The soft, sheer folds of cotton settled around her body in a rosy cloud. She didn't notice. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and not wake up until the act was over and forgotten, but she knew she would dream long before that and, in dreaming, awaken choked by fear and grief.

With a long sigh she pulled the covers up to her chin and lay motionlessly, watching Catlin through the open door, putting off the moment when she would fall asleep and, in sleeping, dream.

"Stone?"

"What is it, Catlin?" demanded Stone. "Is something wrong with Lindsay?"

"No, she's fine. Just tired. This game is hell on honest people."

"That shouldn't bother you."

"Or you," Catlin said curtly. "We both got a look at a Chinese man who was following us. Last I saw, O'Donnel was following him."

"Good. When Terry checks in we'll know who's interested in you."

"Maybe. Tailing someone on foot at night is damn tricky. Luck counts as much as skill."

"Terry knows what he's doing, and he has a squad with him."

"Our Chinese shadow was no slouch, either," Catlin said dryly. "But that's not what I called about. Lindsay and I need some mug books from your local bureau's files. If our tail was Tom Lee's man, chances are you've got pictures somewhere. But don't limit the mug shots to known or suspected organized crime figures. Bring in all the stuff you have on the various Chinese benevolent societies."

"What stuff?" Stone asked blandly.

"Tell it to the newspapers," snarled Catlin, suddenly impatient with all the lies. "I know damn good and well which branch of the FBI you work for, Stone. Counterintelligence. Among other jobs, your boys keep tabs on every ethnic group that might serve as a cover for introducing foreign agents into the U.S. The national and international Chinese benevolent societies make one hell of a spy pipeline, and we both know it. So cut the crap and get the mug shots to us."

There was a long silence followed by "I'll see what I can do."

"You do that, Stone. And you do it goddamn quick, because Lindsay won't last much longer in this business. Maggots just aren't her style."

Catlin dumped the receiver back into its cradle and swore silently, savagely. He knew that he shouldn't have lost his temper with Stone. On the other hand, that was better than giving in to the idea that had been tantalizing Catlin since dinner – taking Mitch Malloy, holding him over a wine bucket and slitting his throat.

For a long time Catlin stood motionlessly by the phone, flexing his hands, staring at them, thinking, remembering. He had been drawn into covert operations by a combination of idealism and the thrill that came from adrenaline coursing through his blood. Adrenaline had lost its allure. He had thought that idealism had, too. It hadn't. It had simply lain dormant beneath layers of cynicism and survival reflexes. At his core he still wanted to protect the weaker from the stronger, the hopeful innocents from the unmoral power brokers, and the would-be good from the accomplished bad.

So what am I doing now? Throwing a lamb to the wolves, that's what. Nice going, Catlin. Hell of a way to live up to your buried ideals.

Abruptly his hands became fists. Watching Lindsay's demoralization had been the most difficult thing he had ever done in his hard, unsheltered life. He knew that she teetered on the edge of self-discovery now, and that whatever her discovery ultimately was, it would never be as comforting as her innocence had been.

There was no help for it, though. There never was. That was how you knew you had finally arrived in hell. Only the best intentions led there.

Noiselessly Catlin walked across the room and stood in the bedroom doorway. Lindsay was asleep or hiding by pretending to sleep. Either way, he wouldn't disturb what peace she could find. There was little enough comfort in the hell he had led her down into, and less peace.

Catlin undressed, positioned his gun on the night table and crawled into bed next to Lindsay. She didn't move. He reached to turn out the bedside lamp, then decided against it, knowing that sooner or later she would wake up disoriented and afraid. The light would help her in the first terrifying instants when she was still gripped by nightmare. Light would also help her when she walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower full force so that the hidden bug couldn't pick up the sound of her crying. Then, eventually, the light would help her when she dragged herself back to bed and lay awake until dawn.

He would be awake, too, telling himself all the reasons why the development of normal relations between two countries was worth dragging a good woman down into hell. He would also be telling himself all the reasons why he shouldn't stretch his arm across the space separating Lindsay from himself, why he should not pull her against his naked body and give her a few moments of warmth to balance against the demands of a. game she hadn't the coldness to play without destroying herself.

Catlin was still awake listing reasons when Lindsay began to move restlessly. Her motions were tiny, abrupt – unmistakable echoes of the nightmare that she had refused to talk about with him, the nightmare that no amount of showering and tears had been able to exorcise. Muffled whimpers came from her lips, tearing at him in ways that he could neither name nor understand.

As he had all the other nights, Catlin stroked Lindsay's hair very gently, trying to calm her without waking her. After a few moments she turned toward him as though she sensed at some unconscious level that he was safety in the midst of her terrifying dream. Even as he told himself not to be a fool, that he was too vulnerable tonight to trust his own control, he eased her lightly into his arms, hoping that she would be reassured and sleep more deeply. He told himself that he had to do it, that she was on the ragged edge of breaking and that she had to have sleep; for without it, she wouldn't last longer than a few more days.

And it was true. It was also true that Lindsay's breath was a rhythmic warmth bathing Catlin's skin, and the weight of her breasts sent the sweet heaviness of desire surging through him. He concentrated on breathing evenly, deeply, soundlessly, focusing his mind on anything but the unleashed hunger pulsing through his body.

As before, Lindsay calmed for a time in Catlin's arms; but then the dream returned redoubled, and she fled through a terrible black landscape, pursued by horrors that she either could not or would not speak aloud. When she began to move abruptly, uttering shattered, incoherent words, he knew that she would be waking soon. Then she would ease herself from his arms while he pretended to sleep. She would walk to the bathroom, her steps clumsy with the remnants of fear, and she would stand beneath pouring water until her skin was all but raw.

And he would lie in bed, feeling rage eat into his soul because he was the one guiding her deeper and deeper into hell.