that again?"
"I said Chantel, femme fatale, star of stage and screen, has met her match. She's getting married in just a couple weeks. We wanted to let you know, but we didn't know how to get in touch."
"Yeah. I've been—" he glanced over to where Gillian lay quiet in the bed "—tied up."
"In any case, she's really taking the plunge. It should be the glitziest wedding this side of the Windsors."
"So Chantel's getting married. I'd like to meet the guy," he said, half under his breath.
"He's perfect for her. Rough and tough and just cynical enough to keep Chantel on her toes. Trace, she's absolutely crazy about him. Seems there was a writer who'd developed an obsession about her, a dangerous one. Anyway, to keep the story short, she'd hired Quinn as a sort of bodyguard, and when the air cleared, she was making wedding plans."
"Is she all right?"
"She's fine, better than fine."
He wanted to dig deeper. He could use his contacts and sources to learn the details Maddy was leaving out. It would have to wait until he came out of the mountains—if he came out of the mountains.
"Trace, you know how much it would mean if you could come back for the wedding. It's been a long time."
"I know. You know I'd like to see you again, kid, all of you, but I'm just not suited to playing prodigal son."
"It doesn't have to be like that." She knew better than to press, but something told her she might not get another chance. "Things have changed. We've all changed. Mom misses you. She still has that little music box you sent her from Austria, and Pop…" Here she hesitated, because the ground was shakier. "Pop would give anything to see you again. He won't admit it—you know he can't—but I can see it every time your name's mentioned. Trace, every time we manage to get together, there's this hole. You could fill it."
"Mom and Pop still touring?" He asked, already knowing the answer, only to redirect the conversation.
"Yes." Maddy bit off a sigh. The son was as stubborn as the father. "They've got a gig coming up on public television. Folk dancing, traditional music. Pop's in heaven."
"I bet. Is he… is he okay?"
"I swear, he gets younger every year. If I had to make a bet I'd say music is the fountain of youth. He can still dance a teenager into the ground. Come see for yourself."
"We'll see how things go. Listen, tell Chantel and Abby I called. And Mom."
"I will." Maddy tightened her grip on the phone, knowing she was losing him. "Can you tell me where you'll be?"
"I'll let you know."
"Trace, I love you. We all love you."
"I know." He wanted to say more, but he knew there was nothing left. "Maddy?"
"Yes?"
"Break a leg."
He hung up the phone but didn't go back to bed for a very long time.
In the morning, Gillian watched Trace dress in Cabot's conservative European suit. She waited, nerves stretching, in silence while he deliberated over the proper tie.
What difference does it make? She wanted to shout it at him, rage it at him, while she tossed the hated, well-laundered clothes around the room. She watched him slip Cabot's little derringer into his pocket. It wouldn't do any good, she thought. He took it only because Cabot would take it. The pistol might as well have been filled with water for all the protection it would afford him.
He turned, and the man who had loved her so fiercely the night before had become Andre Cabot. He was sleek, well groomed and cold-eyed. She'd wanted to put off this moment, to push it back until it couldn't be pushed any longer. Now it was here, and she had to face it.
"If there is another way…" she began.
"There isn't." He answered with the same finality she'd heard when he'd spoken to his sister the night before. But then Gillian had been sure she'd heard a trace of regret. Perhaps he'd been too tired to stamp it out. But this morning he was in complete control.
"I have to ask. Is there some way you can take me with you?"
"You know there isn't."
She pressed her lips together, hating being helpless on the ground while everyone she loved walked a tightrope. "Is there some way I can contact this other agent, if things… if there's anything he should know?"
"You won't have to contact him."
She'd known that, too, and that she was dragging something out that should be done quickly. "So all I can do is wait."
"That's right." He hesitated a moment. "Gillian, I know that waiting is the hardest part."
"At least I'm allowed to pray, as well."
"It wouldn't hurt." He wished he didn't need to, but he reached out to take both of her hands. Things had changed, he realized, too much and too fast. For the first time in a dozen years, leaving was painful. "I'm going to get them out."
"And yourself." Her fingers tightened on his. "Will you promise me that, too?"
"Sure." He knew that often lies were needed. "Tell you what, once this is over, we'll take a little vacation. A couple weeks, a month, pick the spot."
"Anywhere?"
"Sure." He bent to kiss her but only brushed his lips over her forehead. He was afraid that if he held her, if he really kissed her, he wouldn't be able to turn away. But he did give himself a moment, one long moment, to memorize her face—the milky skin dashed with freckles, the dark green eyes, the mouth that could be so sweet, so passionate. "Give it some thought while I'm gone." He let her go then and picked up his briefcase. "You've got two ISS guards, Doc, but don't do any sightseeing. I shouldn't be gone more than a day or two."
"I'll be waiting."
As he walked toward the door, she struggled to keep a promise to herself. She'd sworn she wouldn't say it. But he was leaving. In a moment he'd be gone and—"Trace."
He stopped, impatience just beginning to show as he turned.
"I love you."
She saw his expression change, his eyes darken, deepen. It seemed, for a heartbeat it seemed, that he would come to her. Then his face went carefully blank. He opened the door, and left without another word.
She could have thrown herself on the bed and wept. She could have thrown all the breakables in the room and raged. It was a huge temptation to do both. Instead, Gillian stood where she was and waited for calm.
The fact that he hadn't answered her was no more than she had expected. But he was gone now, and the wheels that had been put into motion couldn't be stopped. She could pray, and would, but for now there was something else she could do. Whenever it seemed there would be no tomorrow, it was best to make plans for the next day.
She went to the phone and asked for the number Trace had called the night before. Gillian dialed it and, calling on her photographic memory, gave the person who answered the same sequence Trace had recited. Her heart beating a bit unsteadily, she waited for someone to pick up. She winced when a sleepy and irritated masculine voice did.
"Hello, I'd like to speak with Madeline O'Hurley."
There was an oath, and a feminine murmur in the distance. "Do you know what time it is?"
"No." Gillian rolled her eyes and nearly laughed. Trace was on his way to Husad, and she didn't have the least idea what time it was in New York. "I'm sorry, I'm out of the country."
"It's 4:15 a.m.," Reed said helpfully. "And my wife is trying to sleep. So am I."
"I'm really terribly sorry. I'm a friend of her brother's. I don't know if I can make the call again." And Trace would surely murder her if he found out she'd made it at all. "If I could just speak with her for a moment."
There was static, and more muttering. Then the connection became so clear that Gillian could hear the bed-springs squeak. "Hello? Is Trace ail right? Has something happened?"
"No." Gillian cursed herself for not waiting. "No, Trace is fine." She hoped. "I'm Gillian Fitzpatrick. A friend."
"Is Trace in Ireland?"
"No." She nearly smiled. "Ms. O'Hurley, well, I suppose it's best to be frank. I'm in love with your brother, and I think it would do him a lot of good to come
home. I thought you might help me arrange it."
Maddy gave a shout of laughter, threw one arm around her very cranky husband and decided Gillian Fitzpatrick had been sent from heaven. "Tell me what I can do."
Trace sat silently in the car as it traveled east. He had directed the driver to the warehouse where Breintz had arranged for the ISS weapons to be stored. Retrieving them had been as simple as signing a form and passing a few bills. Now they were deep in the mountains. The ride was far from smooth. In the way that Cabot had, he muttered a few complaints but exchanged no conversation. There were no questions asked, no answers given. Trace sat back and, behind tinted glasses, marked the route as carefully as if he'd drawn a map.
He'd be back.
He knew the villagers in the scattered settlements they passed would keep to themselves. They had their own way of life, and their own way of dealing with what came. A man like him, passing through their land, was only so much wind. To be noticed, tolerated, then forgotten.
Trace glanced at his watch with a slight sniff of impatience. The homing device inside it would be transmitting his location to Breintz. If his luck—and ISS technology-held, Husad's security wouldn't detect it. If they did…he'd take that as it came.
There were times when it didn't pay to think too far ahead. It clouded the present, and it was always the instant that had to be coped with. That was why he tried not to think of Gillian, how she'd looked, what she'd said. If she meant it.
She loved him. Trace felt the emotion move through him, warm and strong and not a little frightening. She'd meant it. He'd seen it in her eyes then, and before, though he'd tried to tell himself that it was the intensity of the moment that had made her feel it, had made him want it.
When she'd said it he'd wanted to go to her, to hold her hard and tight and endlessly. He'd wanted to make promises he couldn't be sure he could keep. And, though he wasn't sure she would understand, it was because he loved her that he hadn't.
He'd never loved a woman before, so he hadn't known what a tug-of-war it could be between the selfish and the unselfish. Part of him wanted to take what she so recklessly offered. Another part of him felt it would be wrong, even sinful, for a man like him to take such pure emotion from her when he'd long since forgotten how to give it back.
Because he knew no other way at the moment, Trace decided to treat it as an assignment. He would give her what she had come to him for. Once she had her family back, he would… he would play it as it came.
Trace got his first sight of Husad's headquarters as the car drove over a rise. It was large, even larger than he'd expected, and built into the side of a cliff with rock carved from the mountains. Another ten miles in any direction and it would have been easily detected by air or land surveillance. But here it was isolated, almost merging into the wild desolation of the countryside. There was no land fit to farm here, no river to settle beside, no town to spread out from.
This was country for outlaws and renegades—and the hopeless.
Security seemed light, but Trace's eyes were sharp enough to spot the armed men stationed on the ridges. It was windowless and unfenced. Wise, because the reflection of glass or high-voltage wire could have been spotted from miles away. The driver signaled by punching out a code on a small box fixed to the dash. After a few seconds' delay, a wide door opened into the rock. The car drove into the mountain.
He was inside. Trace adjusted his cuff. His finger slid over and pressed on the stem of his watch to turn off the homing device. Either Bieintz had his location now or he was on his own.
As he stepped out of the car, Trace took a long look around. The floor and the walls were rock. The tunnel seemed to go on endlessly and was dimly lit and cool. The door behind them had already closed, shutting out the sun and the heat. From somewhere came a low mechanical whine, telling him the air was circulated and processed. He heard, too, the sound of a door and footsteps. It was Kendesa who came to greet him.
"Again you are prompt. I trust your journey was not too unpleasant."
Trace inclined his head. "Business often causes some physical discomfort. The roads in your country are not yet as civilized as those in Europe."
"My pardon. Perhaps you would join me for a drink. I have an excellent chardonnay that should ease the memory of the journey."
"My samples?"
"Of course." Kendesa signaled. Two men seemed to come straight out of the rock wall. "They will be taken directly to the general, if you have no objection." His brow lifted at Trace's hesitation. "Surely you would not demand a receipt. We have no need to steal trifles from guests."
They both knew that the "trifles" included a TS-35. Still, his orders were to proceed with straightforward negotiations. "I would enjoy the chardonnay before meeting with the general."
"Excellent." Kendesa gave another signal, and the crate in the car's trunk was off-loaded. He gestured Trace forward. "I'm afraid a man of your taste will find our establishment crude. You will understand, of course, that we are a military operation and look not for comfort but revolution."
"I understand, though for myself I prefer comfort."
He led Trace into a small room whose walls had been paneled in light wood. The floor was carpeted, and, although the furniture was sparse, what was there was tasteful.
"We entertain rarely." Kendesa smiled as he drew the cork from the bottle. "When the general becomes more widely accepted, this will change." He poured wine into two Waterford glasses. "I confess that I have an affection for beautiful things, and the comfort and pleasure they bring."
"To profit, then," Trace said as he lifted his glass. "Because money gives the most comfort."
"I find you an interesting man, Cabot." Kendesa sipped his wine. Over the past few days he had employed the best equipment at his disposal in his search through Cabot's background. What he had found had pleased him a great deal. Such a man, and his connections, would be very useful during a period of transition.
"You've reached a level in power and wealth most men only wish for, yet you crave still more."
"I shall have still more," Trace countered.
"I believe so. You will understand that before doing business I used my resources to look into your current situation, as well as your background."
Trace merely sipped again. "Standard procedure."
"Indeed. What fascinates me, Cabot, is that you've reached this level of power while remaining almost UD known."
"I prefer subtlety to celebrity."
"Wise. There are some, even in our own organization, who criticize the general for maintaining such a high profile. Power amassed quietly is something more useful."
"The general is political. I am not." Trace continued to drink, wondering what Kendesa was fishing for.
"All of us are political, even if the politics is money. You expressed interest in Horizon."
"I did. And do."
"I have considered discussing this further with you. You are interested in the profit from Horizon. I am interested in the power."
"And the general?"
Kendesa lifted his glass again. He was nearly ready to play his cards. "Is interested in the revolution."
Unless Kendesa was playing a part, Trace sensed a slight disenchantment, and more than a little ambition. "Perhaps, with a kind of partnership, we could gain all three."
Kendesa studied Trace for a long, silent moment. "Perhaps."
The knock on the door echoed dully. "Come."
"The general is ready."
With a nod, Kendesa set down his glass. "I will take you to him myself. The general speaks no French, I'm afraid, but is quite proud of his adeptness with English. You will oblige him?"
"Certainly." Trace set his glass beside Kendesa's and prepared for the next step.
Gillian felt she'd waited for days, though it was only a matter of hours. She tried, unsuccessfully, to pass the time with Trace's books. Every time she started to read, she thought of him, and worried.
So she paced.
And when she tired of that she sat and reminded herself of her conversation with Maddy. She would take Trace back to the States. In doing so, she would be able to give him what he'd promised her only a short time ago—a family.
For as long as she was able to hold off worry, Gillian concentrated on that. In a few days, a week at most, both she and Trace would have their families back.
And where would they go from there?
The Canary Islands? she thought, and nearly laughed out loud. She wondered what Trace would say when she told him that if he insisted on hiding from the world for the next fifty years or so she would be hiding right alongside him.
She wasn't going to lose him now, not to Husad, not to the ISS or his own stubbornness. If he wanted life in a hammock, it would be a hammock for two.
Gillian had learned a lot about herself in the past few weeks. She could do what needed to be done. She could face what needed to be faced. More, she could change what needed to be changed to find the happiness that had always remained just out of her reach.
When the fear began to edge back, she wondered what she would do if Trace didn't walk through the door again. Her life wouldn't be over. She knew you could lose what you loved and go on, but you could never go on in quite the same way. She knew there was no way to prepare herself for losing Trace. He'd opened doors in her, he'd caused the blossoming of love in her that had pushed her to open doors in him. She wouldn't lose him. Gillian promised herself that.
And went back to watching the clock.
She ordered room service only because she wanted something to do. Then she asked herself how in the world she could eat anything. She'd nearly decided to cancel the order when the knock came.
Experience had taught her caution. Even knowing she was guarded, Gillian checked the peephole for the uniformed waiter. Satisfied, she opened the door and looked disinterestedly at the tray.
"Just set it over there," she told him, gesturing because she wasn't certain he spoke English. Still, a check was a check in any language. Gillian leaned over to sign it.
She felt the prick in her arm and jerked back. The drug worked quickly, and she was staggering even as she grabbed for the table knife. The world went gray and dissolved to black before she could even think Trace's name.
Chapter Eleven
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General Husad liked beautiful things, too. He liked to look at them, touch them, wear them. Still, the austerity of his headquarters pleased him. A military establishment required a certain ambience. A soldier's life could never be a soft one, or discipline was lost. He believed that, even when he dressed in silks and admired his wife's emeralds.
He was a small, spare man in his prime, with a mesmerizing voice and a glint in his eyes some took for genius and others took for madness. The title of general was self-bestowed, and, though he had indeed fought in wars, most of the medals he had pinned on his chest were self-awarded. By turns he treated his men like an indulgent father and a heartless dictator. They didn't love him, but they feared him enough to follow his orders without question.
He was dressed in a gold cloak for his meeting with Cabot. It was tied at the neck to reveal the medal-bedecked uniform beneath and the twin handguns at his hips. He had a striking face, hawkish, with silvered hair combed straight back. He photographed very well and spoke like an evangelist. His mind was slipping into a dark, violent area that even his medication no longer controlled completely.
His office wasn't sparsely furnished, as Kendesa's had been. The desk was huge, of polished oak, and dominated the room from its center. Sofas and chairs plump with pillows formed a circle around it. There were bookshelves and display cabinets. Trace studied them with what appeared to be a detached interest.
No windows, he thought, and only one door. Not likely.
There were a pair of gupees crossed on the wall over an enormous aquarium in which colorful tropical fish glided in clear blue water.
"Monsieur Cabot." Husad held out a hand with the warmth and sincerity of a car salesman one step away from his monthly quota. "Welcome."