All the Queen's Men

  “And here I thought having lunch with him would be more discreet than dinner.”

  “Not at Café Marry. Why are you trying to be discreet?”

  “If I’m this fine upstanding citizen and an old family friend of the ambassador’s wife, it would seem more reasonable to at least worry about seeing an arms dealer.”

  “Ronsard is seen by every influential person in Paris,” John said dryly.

  “Yes, but I’m different.” She said that with an airiness that had him chuckling.

  “When will you give in and have dinner with him? With enough time, I can arrange to have some of our people placed around you, the table wired, things like that.”

  “I don’t think I will. I’ll have lunch with him, but other than that I don’t want to encourage him too much.”

  “Just make certain you encourage him enough to be invited to his estate.”

  “I’ll be friends with him, but that’s all.”

  A pause stretched over the line. “If you’re trying to tell me you won’t sleep with him, I never intended for you to,” he finally said, his tone flattening out.

  “That’s good to hear, because sex was never an option. Even though I did go on those damn birth control pills the way you ordered.”

  Silence again. “The pills weren’t in case you wanted to have an affair; they’re in case something goes wrong.”

  She understood, then. If anything went awry and she was captured, she could be raped. “Got it,” she said softly. The issue of birth control pills hadn’t arisen on the job in Iran, because she had been taking the pills anyway. She and Dallas had wanted to wait a year or so, maybe longer, before starting a family.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and hung up.

  Slowly she replaced the receiver and snuggled back in bed, but any chance of sleep was gone. Her brain felt alert, racing along the way it always did when she talked with John. What she needed was a good, long run. The more she thought about it, the better the plan sounded. She would ask Eleanor where the best place to jog was. She hopped out of bed and began digging out her sweats, which she had packed for a just-in-case occasion.

  Not only did Eleanor know, she arranged for one of the off-duty Marines who was a dedicated jogger to run with her. Niema and the serious young man with the sidewall haircut raced side by side until they were both dripping with sweat. By the time they returned to the embassy, she had teased him out of his stiffness and he had spilled out his life story to her, as well as the details of his wedding, which would take place during his next long leave.

  Feeling both energized and relaxed by the run, she showered and ate a light breakfast, then decided to get in a bit of shopping before meeting Ronsard for lunch. Eleanor gave her a list of interesting shops, and Niema ventured out into the French capital.

  When the taxi let her out at Café Marly’s terrace on Cour Napoleon at two minutes ’til one, she was carrying a large shopping bag. She looked at the café and for a moment a strong yearning swept over her. She would like to be meeting John for lunch in a place like this—No, she told herself sternly, cutting off the thought. She couldn’t let herself lose focus on the job. She had to concentrate, not think about what John was or wasn’t doing, and what it would be like to have lunch dates with him, and dinner dates—“I’m doing it again,” she muttered.

  Pushing all thoughts of him out of her mind, she entered the café and was immediately greeted. All she had to say was “Monsieur Ronsard” and she was whisked away to a table.

  Ronsard was already there, smiling as he rose to his feet. He took her hand and briefly kissed it, then seated her in the chair beside him, rather than in the one across the table. “You’re even lovelier today than you were last night.”

  “Thank you.” She was wearing a classic red sheath with a single-strand pearl necklace. If he had a discerning eye, and he seemed to, he would recognize the style and quality of Chanel. She looked around, intrigued by the café. Glass walls were all that separated the café from the stunning works of art in the Louvre.

  “You’re glowing. Boosting a nation’s economy must agree with you.” He nodded meaningfully at the shopping bag.

  “A woman can never have too many pairs of shoes.”

  “Really? How many do you have?”

  “Not enough,” she said firmly, and he laughed.

  Today his hair was gathered at the back of his neck with a simple, round gold clasp. But even though he was dressed in trousers and a linen jacket instead of a tuxedo, and his hair was confined, every woman in the café seemed to be staring at him just as they had at the ball last night. He had a natural, exotic flamboyance that drew the eye.

  Evil should show on the face, she thought. It should twist and mar the features, give some indication of its presence within a person. But if Ronsard was evil, she hadn’t seen any sign of it yet. So far he had been unfailingly polite and charming, with a tenderness to his manner that didn’t seem at all feigned.

  “So,” he said, leaning back, perfectly at ease. “Tell me: Did Madame Theriot warn you about me again?”

  “Of course. Eleanor cares about me.”

  “She thinks I’m a danger to you?”

  “She thinks you’re an unsavory character.”

  Taken by surprise by her candor, he blinked, then laughed aloud. “Then why are you here? Do you have a yearning for danger, or do you think you can rescue me from my wicked ways?”

  “Neither.” She regarded him with somber, dark eyes. “I think you may be a very nice man, but I can’t rescue you from anything. And you’re no danger to me at all.”

  “I think I’m insulted,” he murmured. “I would like to be a danger to you, in one particular way. You must have loved him very, very much.”

  “More than I can say.”

  “What was he like?”

  A smile broke across her face. “He was . . . oh, in some ways he was extraordinary, and in others he was like most men. He made faces when he shaved; he left his clothes on the floor when he took them off. He sailed, he flew his own plane, he took CPR courses and regularly donated blood, he voted in every election. We laughed and argued and made plans, like most couples.”

  “He was a lucky man, to be loved so completely.”

  “I was the lucky one. And you? Have you been married?”

  “No, I haven’t been so fortunate.” He shrugged. “Perhaps one day.” But it was obvious from his tone he thought marrying was as likely as the sun rising in the west.

  “I don’t think your wicked reputation scares off many women,” she teased. “Every female in here has been staring at you.”

  He didn’t even glance around, as most men would have done, to see if that were true. “If I’m alone, it’s because I choose to be. I was thinking last night that I’d never felt anything like what you obviously felt—still feel—for your husband. Part of me thinks it would be pleasant to love someone that much, but a part of me is very grateful that I don’t. But why am I saying this?” he asked ruefully. “Telling you I don’t think I’ll ever love you is not a good way to convince you to have an affair with me.”

  Niema laughed. “Relax,” she advised, patting him on the hand. “An affair wasn’t on the books anyway.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “But I would very much like for it to be.”

  She shook her head, amusement still on her face. “It can’t be. All I can offer is friendship.”

  “In that case, I would be honored to be your friend. And I’ll keep hoping,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

  Later that afternoon, Ronsard picked up the sheaf of papers Cara had faxed to him. He had quickly read through them when they arrived, but now he studied them more closely. There was nothing suspicious about Niema Jamieson. She was from New Hampshire, had attended an exclusive women’s college, married at the age of twenty-four, and was widowed at twenty-eight. Her husband had been killed in a yachting accident. They had been mentioned a few times in society columns, usually with a descrip
tive tag such as “devoted couple.” She was exactly what she seemed to be, a rarity in his world.

  He liked her. She could be surprisingly blunt, but without malice. In a way, he even liked that she wasn’t romantically interested in him. He still wanted to take her to bed, but there was no pressure from her, no expectations to be met. She had simply had lunch with him, and that was that. Afterward she had taken a taxi back to the embassy, without hinting for another invitation—which, of course, made him even more determined to see her again. He had asked her out to dinner again, only to be gently refused. He persisted until she at least agreed to another lunch.

  The telephone rang, his private line, and he absently answered it. “Ronsard.”

  It was Cara. “Ernst Morrell has been in contact.”

  Ronsard’s lips thinned. He neither liked nor trusted Morrell. Though by the nature of his business he dealt on a daily basis with fanatics, madmen, or plain murderers, Morrell was probably the most vicious. He was the head of a small but particularly virulent terrorist organization and had a particular fondness for bombs. He had set explosives in a hospital in Germany, killing six patients in retaliation for Germany’s cooperation with the United States on a military action against Iraq.

  “What does he want?”

  “He’s heard about RDX-a. He wants it.”

  Ronsard swore a lurid phrase. First Temple, and now Morrell. But Temple was one thing, and Morrell something else entirely; though he had expected information about RDX-a to leak, he hadn’t expected it to happen quite so fast. He and the manufacturer had an agreement; he would be the lone conduit of the compound. Such exclusivity would be enormously profitable to both of them, at least until someone else was able to duplicate the compound. He had not told anyone, because the explosive still wasn’t perfected; it would be much more in demand if it were reliable, rather than having an unfortunate reputation for early detonation. That meant the manufacturer was logically responsible for, as the Americans would say, everyone and his brother knowing about RDX-a.

  But it seemed as if his partners had decided to sacrifice large future riches for immediate gain. He sighed. To hell with them. He would collect his percentage and issue a warning to the buyers that the compound wasn’t yet reliable. He had to protect his business on that end, since the source had proven so short-sighted.

  “When does he want it?” he asked in resignation, rubbing a sudden ache between his eyes.

  “He didn’t say. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Did he leave a number?”

  “Yes, and he said you could reach him there only for another forty-five minutes.”

  That was common, at least among the more efficient organizations: They moved frequently and had only short windows of time during which they could be contacted. Such tactics greatly reduced their chances of being located.

  Ronsard jotted down the number Cara recited, and as soon as their call was disconnected he began dialing. It was a London number, he saw. The rings brrrd in his ear, then stopped as the receiver was lifted. “Bakery.” The one word was heavily accented.

  Ronsard said only one word, his name. There was thirty seconds of silence, then a different voice said heartily, “You are prompt, my friend.” Morrell was a stocky, barrel-chested man, but his voice was incongruously light. He always spoke as if he were throwing the words from his mouth, trying to counteract the lightness of his voice by sheer velocity.

  He was not, and never would be, Morrell’s friend. “You have an order, I believe.”

  “I hear such interesting rumors about a new recipe! I have use for one thousand kilograms.”

  A thousand kilograms! Ronsard’s eyebrows arched. That was enough explosive to destroy London, not that Morrell would use it only in one place. No, he would wreak destruction all over the industrialized world, or perhaps sell some of it himself. “Such an amount will be very, very expensive.”

  “Some things are worth their cost.”

  “Did the rumors tell you that the recipe has not been perfected?”

  “Not perfected, how?”

  “The results are unreliable. Unstable.”

  “Ah.” There was silence as Morrell processed this. No sane person wanted to work with an explosive that might go off during transport, but then, Ronsard thought with grim humor, sanity was not required with these people.

  “What brings about these unfortunate results?”

  “Rough handling. Being dropped, for instance.”

  Another “Ah.” If one used RDX-a on an airplane, then it would have to be in a carry-on bag so one could control the motion—a suicide mission. Or one could always use an unsuspecting courier, as on Delta Flight 183.

  “One must accept these risks,” Morrell finally said, meaning that he himself would not be handling the explosive.

  “There is one other problem.”

  “So many problems!” Now Morrell sounded petulant, as if a favorite toy had been broken.

  “The recipe must be used within a certain amount of time or it will . . . perform unexpectedly. Timing must be precise.”

  “So I have heard, my friend, so I have heard! It is a most interesting recipe.”

  “A thousand kilograms is a considerable amount to be handled.”

  “But an organized person can handle such a task. When will the shipment be ready?”

  From that statement, Ronsard deduced Morrell already had his targets selected, and that they would be hit almost simultaneously. He did not, however, have enough people in his organization to do it all himself. Different organizations occasionally cooperated with each other, especially if they had mutual enemies.

  To Morrell he said, “I’m not certain. That’s such a large amount; the manufacturer perhaps doesn’t have that much available.” In fact, Ronsard was certain of it.

  “It is worth a great deal of money to me to have this recipe within two weeks.”

  “I’ll give the manufacturer your order.”

  “Good, very good! I will call again tomorrow.”

  Ronsard hung up. He was extremely irritated; by precipitously putting RDX-a on the market, the manufacturer had increased not just their risk, but his. Such risk would have to be compensated, of course. Highly compensated.

  Then he had an amusing thought. Production was, he knew, still very limited. An order of a thousand kilograms would be difficult to fill, and he didn’t yet know how much of the compound Temple would want. Perhaps he should simply let Temple and Morrell settle between them who got the RDX-a. A showdown, as they said in the Westerns. Yes, that would definitely be amusing.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  I’m having a house party in three days,” Ronsard said to Niema several days later as they strolled in a small, quiet park. “At my home in the Rhône-Alpes region, south of Lyon. The countryside is beautiful, and my home is comfortable. I would like very much for you to attend the party.”

  She was silent, her head dipped as she walked along beside him. The canopy of trees shaded them from the warm summer sun, and birds sang overhead. They were not the only people enjoying the little park. Young mothers and nannies supervised shrieking children of all ages as they dashed about, skipping and jumping, rolling in the grass. Joggers pounded up and down the paths, singly and in pairs. Lovers walked hand in hand, sometimes stopping to kiss. Older people occupied the benches, some of them playing board games, some of them just watching the activity that surrounded them. The sweet perfume of flowers lay on the warm air like the touch of a lover.

  “You aren’t saying anything,” he observed after a moment. “Are you worried about Madame Theriot’s disapproval?”

  “That, and though you say you expect only friendship, somehow I don’t think you’ve given up hope that . . . well, that I’ll change my mind.”

  “Of course I hope,” he said matter-of-factly. “I am a man—a Frenchman. I would like very much to sleep with you. But it’s also nice just being with you. You don’t want favors from me, and you don?
??t want my money. Do you realize how few people like you I have in my life?”

  “Your life is what you’ve made it.” She glanced up at him. “I refuse to feel sorry for you.”

  Smiling, he caught her hand and swung it between them. “There, that is what I mean. You say what you think.”

  “Not always,” Niema said. “I’m too polite for that.”

  The smile became a chuckle. “Are you insulting me?”

  “Of course. You know what I think of your . . . profession.”

  Something closed in his eyes, some expression that was shuttered before she could read it. “We all do what we must.”

  “Not everyone. Some people do what they can.”

  “And there is a difference between ’must’ and ’can’?”

  “There seems to be. People say they do what they must when what they’ve done has hurt someone. People who do what they can are usually helping.”

  “A matter of semantics.” He shrugged. “But perhaps you’re right. I made a choice, when I was a young man, and now I mustn’t whine. Perhaps I had other options, but at the time, at that age, I didn’t see them. Given the same circumstances, I would make the same choice again.”

  There was no regret in his voice, only a pragmatic acceptance of who and what he was. He didn’t despair over the mistakes he had made; there was no angst, no wrestling with his conscience. He had set his feet on a certain path and never looked back.

  She wanted to ask him why he had made the choice he had, but the answer seemed fairly obvious: money. He had needed money, and that was the means he had chosen to get it. The “why” didn’t matter; by his own free will, he had put himself across the line that divided legal from illegal. She couldn’t help liking him, but at the same time she had no qualms about presenting herself to him under false pretenses. Ronsard was an adversary, however friendly and charming he might be.

  “My profession aside, I still want an answer to my invitation.”

  “A house party.” That was exactly the function to which John had wanted her to get invited, but there was no enthusiasm in her voice. “How large a party?”