Touch of Magic (31 page)

The nails were stylishly manicured. Her skin was
soft with lotion, and a crash course of attention.
Beneath the surface smoothness, though, on her
palms and fingers, he could see calluses. She hadn't
gotten them from ironing or doing charcoal
sketches, either. They were in the exact location,
the exact spots where they'd develop from rigorous
training with an assault rifle.

Twenty-two

The child ran into him, her flying arms tangling around his leg.

"Oops. Careful, little one,"
Ballieu
laughed, rest
ing a hand on her head. It was damp, the curls still soft with a baby's silkiness. He liked the feel.

The little girl looked up at him with great dark eyes. She came just above his knee.

"I'm going to see my grandpa next week," she
piped, tugging at the top strip of her two-piece bathing suit. "He lives in Rome."

Ballieu
smiled. She was an engaging little girl, the
sort who would be a delight to hold on your knee
and entertain with stories. He hoped she wouldn't
be blown up by one of the bombs
Khadija's
group
planned to install in international airports using
their forged passports -- but children had to die like
everyone else.

"I'll bet your grandpa takes you to the park, eh?
And buys you candies?" Reaching into his pocket,
Ballieu
handed her a peppermint. "Have this one
today."

He watched her take off running again, then
turned his attention back to the occupants of the pool and terrace. He was hunting for Mildred
Far
row.
Eight
hours remained until he began to move. He
wanted to make sure everything was ready. He found the woman he was looking for, plump and
pampered, in one of the lodge boutiques. She was chatting vacantly with a salesclerk and fingering a
long dress that was all tiers of white muslin trimmed
in lace. With motionless eyes
Ballieu
watched her next try on a thin neck chain holding a nugget of gold. He studied her throat. Strangling her would mean fingers sinking, almost drowning, in per
fumed flesh. A blow from the edge of the hand would dispatch her more tidily.

He moved forward. She pivoted on tiny, white-heeled sandals, flushing with delight as she caught sight of him.

"Oh, Harry! The flowers were lovely. You
shouldn't have."

"But we won our bridge game yesterday," he said with the hint of a bow. "We deserved to celebrate."

He had ordered an arrangement sent up from the lobby florist. It had paved his way very well. Mil
dred Farrow, looking both flustered and pleased,
unclasped the chain from around her neck.

"I was just being tempted by this. What do you think?"

"It becomes you," said
Ballieu
.

It was all the urging she needed. He waited while
she paid.

"I've had an idea," he said as they strolled into the
hall together. "Let's have dinner tonight. In my
room. It would be so nice to get away from all these
people for a while, don't you think? And their service is very good."

"Well, I -- I don't know -- "

He hadn't expected her to hesitate. He managed
a smile.

"What kind of dinner would you prefer? French?
We could still be downstairs in time for the dancing."

There. He had given her opportunity to believe the invitation was wicked or innocent, whichever
she preferred. Or to pretend it was one while she
hoped it would be the other.

"It would be nice to have a meal that was a little quieter," she said.

Ballieu
had taken her hand very lightly. She
didn't object. Now, very circumspectly, he gave her
open palm the lightest brush with his lips.

*
  
*
  
*

"This is Oliver Lemming. I'm having my outfit transmit a photograph to you people. We need to
know if the lady in it matches anyone in your files --
 
in the next couple hours if you can swing it. We're in
a tight spot."

Ellery kept his eyes closed as he spoke into the
telephone. Like a damned kid, he thought. As
though, if he kept them shut tightly enough, this
wouldn't be happening.

The magnitude of his actions was so great, it was
starting to lose all reality. Five minutes ago he'd been on a line to State, pretending to be Oliver.
Now, forearm thrown against the wall, head bent, he was doing the act all over again. With Interpol,
for
chrissake
!

There was more than giving a name, and he'd
known what to say -- known Oliver's identification.
On the other end of the line he heard affirmation.

"If you find anything, I want you to contact Bill
Ellery at the Palacio Sol resort." He gave the num
ber. Where the side of his hand pressed into the
wall, he could feel the rough, scratchy texture of
wallpaper.

If he was wrong about what was pushing him to
this impersonation, he'd lose his job. If he was right,
he still might lose it. He was violating the chain of
command. He was lying -- claiming access to author
ity he didn't have. It was the only hope he saw for an
edge in the situation he and Channing were facing.
It was the only way he saw to circumvent and nail a
possible traitor.

The worst that could happen was that he'd be out
of a job, he thought grimly. He wouldn't let the
possibility shove to the front of his mind where it
wanted to be. He wouldn't let himself think about
what he'd do with the rest of his life if he got tossed
out by State. As he shoved away from the wall he
also shoved away old doubts from the past.

The phone began to ring before he'd gone three
steps. He snatched it up.

"You been on the phone?" asked Oliver, an edge on his voice.

Ellery braced. Oliver was on to him. Maybe
Interpol
had checked.

"Yeah, to room service," he shot back. He'd make
Oliver confront him with it. If Oliver blew up,
maybe there'd be something in it to dispel his
doubts.

"Anything happening?" asked the man who had
hired and trained him.

Ellery
  
felt
 
his
  
nerve
  
endings
  
straining
  
and
stretching, trying to catch any signal that he should
trust Oliver or not trust Oliver. He wondered,
briefly and heavily, if each of them was screening
the other's voice for a clue or a tip-off.

"Nothing happening and no contact," Ellery lied.

*
  
*
  
*

"Channing!"

Max waved with a wry, self-mocking hopefulness
as he came toward her. He'd realized she didn't like
him.

"It's okay," he said, lowering his voice as they met
along one side of the vast pool and patio area. "Our
man's in his room, and Walker will beep me if he
moves." He touched his pocket. "I was going to
have a limeade for the old digestion. Want to join
me? Looks like we're in the homestretch."

They were standing in front of a long, brick
planter. Channing debated. If Max was in league with
Ballieu
, should she start to play coy, under
score the impression she really had worked for
Yussuf
, in case he was analyzing? She wasn't quite sure.
It was late afternoon. Her hair, piled under a sun
hat, felt hot and heavy. She could feel small rivulets
of perspiration at her temples.

"Thanks, anyway, but I've got to shower and set
up for tonight," she said.

It was too risky trying to second- and third-guess
people. She'd better act as she'd always acted with
him.

Max hoisted himself up onto the planter. It gave a
wonderful view of the pool.

"I don't like the feel of this setup. It's too quiet."

He lifted his face to the sun and pushed at his
collar.

His words sounded heavy -- as Ellery's had at
times. There was a weariness about his movements.
It kept Channing from walking on as she might
have. Max was easier to take without his ego in full
flower.

"I don't see Ellery," he said.

"Neither do I. I guess he's decided I'm a big
enough girl to be on my own."

Max gave a single sound of tense amusement.
Channing took a step backward, leaning against the
planter. She knew Ellery was keeping an eye on her
from somewhere -- would be till she went inside. One of her fingers traced the bricks behind her. A
line of mortar was cracked.

"Things have got to break tonight," Max said, still
keeping his voice down. "My guess is they're going
to break like hell. Goddamn, but I hate waiting!
What's wrong with your hand?"

"Just a little stiffness. The tape's a precaution -- to
make sure it's in shape for the show." She lifted her
arm in a half arc.

The air between them fell silent, an empty gully
around which shouts and laughter from the pool
washed.

"Channing..."

Max sounded strangely hesitant, a quality she
hadn't realized he possessed. His eyes, as she looked
up, were exposed, stripped of their lazy charm and
superficiality. He glanced quickly away. For the first
time since she'd known him he seemed natural --
likable -- and a little bit frightened, as she was her
self, and trying to hide it.

He shifted. The crack in the planter widened a
fraction.

"Look, I didn't get off to a very good start when I met you," he said, the words strained. "Would you
promise me one thing?"

"What's that?"

His smile seemed a little crooked. Something in it
touched her.

"If we both get through tonight in one piece, will
you at least have a drink with me?"

*
  
*
  
*

"Will I be more useful in the wings or the audience, madam?"
Rundell
leaned forward, shielding his next words from
Serafin's
ears. "I brought my
Mace."

Channing wasn't sure if he meant an aerosol can or a medieval club.

"For God's sake, leave it in here. Do you want to
get us all arrested?"

They were in her dressing room. She flexed her
hand, just released from the tape, and swabbed with
alcohol to remove any traces of adhesive. It felt stiff.

"Just sit in the audience,
Rundell
. Enjoy your
self." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "
Serafin
and I have to get backstage."

Serafin
seemed to feel her tension. He didn't
chatter as usual as they walked down the hall to
gether. She tested her hand again, then tried the
film switch.

When they reached the wings,
Serafin
marched
importantly and earnestly over to check the props
on the side table she'd put in his care. If only they were granted the time together, he'd make a magi
cian, she thought with a lump in her throat.
Through a crack in the curtains she checked the
house.
Ballieu
wasn't in the audience. Neither was
the girl with long black hair who Ellery said looked
to be
Ballieu's
helper.

It had been early afternoon when Ellery told her that, and they hadn't spoken since. She wondered
how long it would take her after this show to get to Ellery's bungalow and be rigged with the wire. She
went through her act automatically. Her mouth felt
dry. What if
Ballieu
had made his move already?
What if his promise to meet her had been a ruse?