Page 1 of Til the End of Time

  ‘Til the End of Time

  Iris Johansen

  One "You shouldn't be here," Danilo Jannot said, gaz­ing at Sandor with a disapproving frown. He quickly closed the door and turned the lock. "I could have handled everything here in Belajo. Safe­guarding the Ballard woman isn't worth the risk of your getting captured. If Naldona got his hands on you, we'd be in a helluva mess."

  "Not for long. You know very well he wouldn't be able to resist the pleasure of sticking my distin­guished head on a pike in the town square." Sandor Karpathan's dark blue eyes twinkled. "Then our army would have a martyr, which might be even more beneficial than having a leader."

  "Don't joke. You know what your capture would do to our cause. You're the spearhead of the revo­lution, the savior of Tamrovia, the Tanzar. With­out you, the revolution would vanish like a pricked balloon."

  "Dear Lord, I hope not." Sandor wearily rubbed the back of his neck. "If that's true, a good many men have died for nothing, and I've wasted two years of my life. One man can't embody a success­ful revolution. Why do you think I've trained Jas­per and Conal?"

  Jannot shook his head. "Jasper and Conal are good men, but they aren't the Tanzar." He looked intently at Sandor. "You are tired. Have you eaten?"

  Had he eaten? Sandor couldn't remember. It had been such a long day—but all his days were long now. "I ate this morning," he said at last. "At least I think I did."

  "And it is almost midnight now." Jannot looked at him sighing with affectionate exasperation. "Sit down. I will get you something and we will talk. This foolish business of not taking care of your­self must stop." He turned and bustled toward the door to the kitchen at the rear of the small cafe. "Keep the lights turned out. I'll leave the kitchen door open, and it should give you enough light to eat your meal. The patrol comes by once or twice a night, and we wouldn't want someone to glance in the window and see you sitting here. Naldona has posted pictures of you all over the city. There's no question you would be recognized."

  As Jannot disappeared into the kitchen, Sandor dropped into a chair. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He had no desire to turn on any lights. The dimness was a soothing balm on his taut nerves, and there were few occa­sions when he could wrap himself in silence and solitude these days.

  Tanzar. How the hell had he become a hero? He'd never made any effort to appear anything but what he was—a man who was willing to fight for his beliefs. Now his people were identifying him with the revolution itself and forgetting oth­ers who had been just as responsible as he for bringing their forces to this point of near victory. The thought sent a chill down his back. He wasn't a superman. What if he were killed? They were too close to their goal now to lose everything be­cause one man died.

  Sandor opened his eyes to see Jannot setting a plate and a tankard before him on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

  "It's only a sandwich, but there's some fine smoked ham I managed to hide from Naldona's scavengers when you laid siege to the city. I will be glad to see you put an end to this war. I dislike serving my customers this scanty fare."

  "You make it sound so easy," Sandor said dryly. "As if all I have to do is lift a finger and Naldona's defenses will crumble away. If he manages to get Bruner's help, it could extend the war another six months." He took a bite of his sandwich and found that, in fact, he was very hungry. "And that mustn't happen. I will not have more men die because Naldona won't admit defeat." His tone was one of cold ferocity. "I'll kill him myself before I'll let that happen."

  "Do you think we wouldn't have taken care of it for you if it had been possible?" Jannot sounded faintly reproachful. "His personal security is im­pregnable. Otherwise I would have given my infor­mant in the palace that small duty. He would have been delighted. His cousin was tortured and murdered by Naldona's goon squad. We can't touch Naldona."

  But they would have tried, even though they knew it would be almost certain death, Sandor thought. Jannot and his men of the underground resistance forces here in Belajo had displayed a courage in the past two years that would have earned them a chestful of medals if they'd been in the field. "I know you would," he said gently. He lifted the tankard to his lips. "But it won't be necessary if we can stall Bruner from making a move until Zack Damon gets the munitions to us that we need for the final assault." The beer tasted cold and biting as it slid down his throat. How long had it been since he'd had anything but field rations? "And we will stall him. It's only a ques­tion of how to go about it. Fill me in on the details. Your messenger only gave me the bare bones of the story."

  Jannot shrugged. "The bare bones is all we have. James Bruner, the American munitions manu­facturer, is here at the palace with his mistress, Alessandra Ballard. Naldona is wining and dining Bruner to try to persuade him to ship the weap­ons he needs without cash up front. Obviously, Bruner has been stalling since the leak to the Human Rights Commission regarding Naldona's treatment of prisoners."

  Zack and Kira Damon had spent weeks before the Commission displaying the evidence Sandor had managed to smuggle out of Tamrovia. He would have to remember to send a message to let them know their efforts had not been in vain. Kira needed that knowledge. Sandor knew how painful it had been for her to stand on the side­lines these past years instead of entering directly into the fray. "And the Ballard woman has enough influence to sway Bruner?"

  Jannot nodded. "So Fontaine says. They're not demonstrative in public, but do appear to be very close. He calls her his private secretary, but there's little doubt she's his mistress. They occupy the same suite at the palace and she travels with him constantly."

  "It's possible a secretary would do that." Sandor smiled. "Sometimes things aren't always what they seem. What makes Fontaine so sure?"

  "The woman herself."

  Sandor lifted a brow. "Sexy?"

  "According to Fontaine, the lady has a body built for one delightful purpose. Bruner would have to be a fool to occupy a suite with her and fail to take advantage of that purpose. And Bruner is no fool. She's been with him a long time, which would serve to strengthen the bond. Yes, Naldona has a weapon he can use."

  "And intends to use." Sandor finished the sand­wich and leaned back in his chair. "When?"

  "Tomorrow night. We're not sure how, or what the exact circumstances are, but Fontaine says the woman will definitely be murdered and the crime laid at your door."

  "Which would infuriate Bruner and motivate him to step over into Naldona's camp to get re­venge." He gave a low whistle. "A plan worthy of a Borgia. He might have been able to pull it off if Fontaine hadn't tumbled to the plot."

  "Go back to your base," Jannot said. "Let us handle this. Your place is with your men."

  "My place is where I want to be." There was the sudden sharpness of steel in Sandor's voice. "And I want to be here, Jannot."

  Jannot's eyes widened. It had been a long time since Sandor had spoken to him in such a fash­ion. He had been allowed to forget who Sandor Karpathan was, but now he had been abruptly reminded. Sandor might be younger than Jannot's own grandson, but he was man enough to have become a legend to his army and the people of Tamrovia. "What do you wish me to do? You know I meant no disrespect . . . sir."

  Sandor muttered a curse beneath his breath. "Damn, I'm sorry, Danilo. I'm a little on edge." His hand tightened on the handle of the tankard. "I thought all we had to do was wait. We're so close." He drew a deep breath. "It will work out. I'll make it work. All we have to do is stop Naldona from harming the woman and keep her safe until our own arms shipment arrives."

  "Not an easy task. There are all sorts of ways he can get to her at the palace. Poison, knives, bullets."

  "Then, we'll have to get her out of the palaoe. That's why I'm here
. None of your men knows the palace as well as I do. I spent over a year there before King Stefan was deposed, and I became familiar with every nook and cranny of the place." His lips tightened grimly. "I made it my business to be sure I did, after I began to suspect Naldona wasn't the republican I originally thought he was."

  Jannot had forgotten Sandor had been personal adviser to King Stefan during the tension-fraught period preceding the revolution. It was difficult to connect Sandor Karpathan, the Duke of Limtana, with Sandor Karpathan, the Tanzar. Yet perhaps the latter couldn't have existed without the for­mer. Sandor's inborn arrogance, his charisma, had made him a remarkable leader. He was a brilliant man, who handled those from all walks of life with finesse. "He fooled all of us. Don't blame yourself."

  "Whom else should I blame? I helped Naldona overthrow the monarchy," Sandor said wearily. "I didn't realize he was a Marxist, until it was too late. Men have died because I made that mistake." He finished the beer in two swallows and set the tankard down on the table. "The deaths have to stop. Naldona isn't going to get his hands on Bruner's weapons."

  "You'll need our help to get you into the palace."

  "Perhaps not. Who is occupying Princess Kira's former suite?"

  Jannot blinked in surprise. "I believe that's where they've put Bruner and his mistress. It was the only suite with two bedrooms, and Naldona thought Bruner would prefer to maintain the private-secretary fiction,"

  "Well, that's a stroke of luck, anyway." Sandor rose to his feet and stretched lazily. "But since you don't know when the murder of the woman is to take place, I'll have to do a little investigating before I can devise a plan. What happens tomor­row evening?"

  "A large cocktail party at seven, followed by a small dinner party. It will be attended by all Naldona's loyal sycophants." He frowned. "You're not planning on going to . . .Sandor, it would be suicide!"

  Sandor shook his head. "I'm afraid you're right. I may have to use Fontaine. I'll decide after I've taken the Ballard woman's measure." He clapped his hand on Jannot's shoulder. "But that's to­morrow. Tonight, old friend, I'd give my soul for a bath and a clean, soft bed. I can't remember when I last had either."

  "Use the bathroom in my quarters. They're in the rear of the cafe, the first door on the left after you enter the kitchen. I think I can find clean clothes in your size. I try to keep a large stock on hand." His lips tightened bitterly. "When we're occasionally able to liberate prisoners from Naldona's cells, their clothing is almost as torn as their bodies."

  "But thanks to you and your men, we've been able to mend quite a few of those bodies," Sandor said gently. "Remember that, Jannot." His smile suddenly lit his face with warmth.

  It was the first time tonight Jannot had been exposed to the charm that was an integral ele­ment of Karpathan's character. The strength of the man's personal magnetism always came as a shock to Jannot, even after all the years he had known him. No wonder he held sway over Tamrovia with no visible effort on his part. The diplomat and nobleman had evolved into the Tanzar. And the Tanzar must be protected at all costs. "I would offer my bed as well, but it's not safe for you. I have a bed in the cellar where you can sleep. There's a trapdoor down there leading to a fruit cellar with a concealed exit to the shop next door. I'll feel better if you sleep there."

  "Whatever you say." Sandor stood up, stretched again, and walked toward the kitchen, stopping just outside the pool of light that shone through the doorway. "Get in touch with Fontaine and tell him I want him here tomorrow morning. I have a few questions to ask him." He paused in the door­way, his long, lean body framed in silhouette against the light issuing from the kitchen. "Once I get the woman out of the palace, she won't be able to remain in Belajo."

  "I'm already working on a way of smuggling her out of the city." Jannot shook his head. "But I'll have to double the precautions if you're going to be with her. You'd be a much bigger fish than Alessandra Ballard for the patrols to net."

  "I made it through the barricade tonight in the usual way."

  "We won't chance it. Leave the matter to me." Jannot picked up the plate and tankard from the table. "You tend to your business and I'll tend to mine. That's how we've managed to get this far. Go to bed, Sandor." He glanced back over his shoulder with a slightly sardonic smile. "With all due respect, Your Grace."

  Sandor made a sound that was half snort and half growl. "You give me about as much respect as that thorn in my side, Paulo Debuk."

  "How is Paulo?"

  "Paulo never changes. We all have to make ad­justments to accommodate him."

  "I'm surprised he let you come to Belajo without him."

  "He's on reconnaissance in the hills." Sandor lifted his hand. "Good night, Danilo. And thank you."

  "You can thank me by being careful tomorrow night." Jannot growled. "We can't lose you now, Sandor."

  "You won't lose me. I enjoy living too much to risk opting out of the human race." He shook his head wearily. "Or I will when this damned war is over. I'll see you in the morning, Danilo."

  The tall, graceful silhouette of the man van­ished from the doorway.

  Alessandra Ballard leaned forward toward the mirror to brush a dusting of powder over her nose. She didn't know why she bothered. It would be shiny again in a few minutes. Her skin always glowed with the depressingly bucolic ripeness of a peach. "I'll be ready in a moment," she said over her shoulder to the tuxedo-clad man standing in the doorway of her bedroom. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I was late getting back to the palace."

  "Did you have a successful afternoon?" James Bruner strolled into the room and dropped onto the Queen Anne chair. "Lord, I hope so." He leaned his neatly barbered gray head against the high-cushioned back of the chair and regarded her with mock reproach. "This is the third day in a row you've left me to fight off Naldona's persua­sions by myself. I'm too old to enjoy this mara­thon of verbal fencing."

  She grinned at his reflection in the mirror. "The hell you are. You know you take great delight in stringing our pompous dictator along. Besides, I certainly couldn't have helped you with him. He slots all women in the same category as his teen­age mistress." She made a face. "And Lord knows she's no mental giant."

  He shrugged. "Perhaps. However, Naldona is get­ting a bit desperate. I have an idea Karpathan is pushing him to the edge. I think it's time we left Tamrovia."

  She nodded as she scooted the stool away from the vanity table, then rose. "I'll need one more day. I've contacted a priest who will act as admin­istrator, but I still have to discuss the details of the distribution network and bypass procedure."

  He smiled as he stood. "You always make your projects sound like a very complicated heart operation."

  "They are complicated." She crossed the room and linked her arm with his. "And a heart opera­tion isn't a bad simile, either, is it, James?"

  "No." He patted her hand. "Whatever you do always has plenty of heart, Alessandra." His gray eyes softened in affection. "I guess I can stall Naldona for one more day. But no longer."

  "No longer," she agreed. She wrinkled her nose. "Now I guess we'd better put in an appearance at that blasted cocktail party. Am I presentable?"

  He frowned. "Barely. The gown you're wearing must be five years old. We'll have to stop in Paris on our way home and do some shopping."

  "If we have time," she said with a grin. "I don't know why you insist on trying to make me into a lady of fashion, James. I'd think by now you'd real­ize what a rough diamond you've acquired."

  "Just hardheaded, I guess."

  "You'll have to accept the fact you've polished this particular diamond to its highest luster and leave it at that." Her smile softened to gentleness. 'You have to remember what raw material you were given to work with."

  His expression of mocking amusement faded to be replaced by pain. "I do remember. I'll always remember, Alessandra."

  She felt a swift surge of remorse. Dammit, she should have chosen her words more carefully. She knew the burden of guilt James carrie
d every day of his life. She quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. "Perhaps I will let you buy me a new # gown. I wouldn't want you to be ashamed of me in Mariba."

  "Mariba?" Surprise replaced the pain in James's face. "Where the hell is Mariba?"

  "It's the capital of an island in the Caribbean called Castellano. I've done some research, and I think that most likely it will be our next stop. The government there is on a par with Naldona's re­gime as far as oppression is concerned."

  He chuckled and slowly shook his head. "You're always one step ahead of me. Do you suppose we could go home for a few days first, so I can see if I still have a factory?"

  The shadow was gone from his face, thank heav­ens. "I don't see why not. I believe I can fit it into our schedule." Her long lashes lifted to reveal dark eyes dancing with mischief. "Provided we skip our visit to Dior and St. Laurent."

  James chuckled, and he suddenly looked a good decade younger than his sixty-seven years. "We'll discuss it."

  "Of course we will. Haven't I always been a rea­sonable woman?"

  "When your determination doesn't get in the way," James said dryly. "Then reason doesn't stand a chance." He glanced at his wristwatch. "You're right, we'd better get going. It's almost seven-thirty, and we wouldn't want to make Naldona impatient. He's going to be difficult enough to handle without a fit of temper to contend with."

  She fell into step with him as they left the bed­room and crossed the sitting room toward the door leading to the hall. "Those fanatical eyes of Naldona's remind me of that picture of Lenin on display all over the Kremlin."

  "His eyes aren't the only thing about him remi­niscent of Lenin. His politics fit quite nicely into a Bolshevik niche." James frowned. "I'll be glad as hell to get away from here. Tamrovia may have a certain Balkan charm, but when it gets down to basics, civil war is a dirty business whether it's in Tamrovia or Guatemala." He stopped, his expres­sion clouding again. He added in a tone just above a whisper, "Or Said Ababa."

  Her hand tightened on his arm. "But we're not in Said Ababa now. That's finished. In the past." Her gaze held his with compulsive force. "And what happened there is finished too. There are only places like Tamrovia and Mariba and what we can do here and now." She drew a deep breath and deliberately loosened her tense grip on his sleeve. "And what we can do at the moment is smile and be perfectly charming to Marc Naldona." She suited action to her words and fixed a bril­liant smile on her lips. "Shall we do that, James?"