Ice Storm (2 page)

She could always say no. She was the titular head of the Committee—in the end her word was law. Orders were handed down by a shadowy group of old men, the actual “committee,” and her nemesis and former boss, the newly knighted Harry Thomason, had joined their ranks. She’d like to blame this mess on Thomason, but then, his major drawback had been his readiness to eliminate anyone on the slightest pretext, and Josef Serafin should have been dealt with long ago. Thomason himself had ordered hits on Serafin half a dozen times, but no one, not even Bastien or Peter, had ever been able to get close to him. Until now. Mistakes happened—Serafin wouldn’t be seeking asylum if he hadn’t screwed up his deadly orders.

“So what’s the plan?” she said, smoothing her perfect blond hair back from her face. “And don’t tell me you don’t have one—I know you too well. Who are we going to send? We’re shorthanded right now, and Genevieve would cut my throat if I tried to send you.”

He flashed another of those rare, unexpected smiles that still managed to surprise her. “And then she’d cut mine. I thought of Taka, but he’s still cleaning up the cult mess in
Japan
. Besides, we haven’t been given a choice in the matter.” She raised an eyebrow, waiting for it. “They want you to go:’ he said, ‘in fact, it’s a direct order. You’re to get to
Morocco
, make contact with Serafin, extract him and bring him to
London
, where we can debrief him.”

“And then?” Peter shrugged. “He’s got to have millions salted away in some international account. He’s spent the last twenty years or so selling his services to the highest bidder—he’d be well paid for it. Once we get the information from him he'll be able to disappear. With our help.” He didn’t look any happier about it than she felt.
“Maybe he could have a little accident once he’s been debriefed,’ she said. “Accidents do happen, you know.”

“Yes, they do,” Peter said evenly. “I can see to it, if you’d like.”

She didn’t meet his eyes.
Never have someone do what you aren’t
willing
to do yourself
she thought. “Let’s see if we can even bring him out alive. Do we know what the hell he looks like nowadays?”

“We’ve got some grainy surveillance photos from his time in
Bosnia
eight years ago, but they don’t show much. Just a tall man with a beard and sunglasses. We’ve got a couple of recent descriptions from people who escaped ahead of the carnage. I’ll put them together and see what we can come up with.”

“You and your damn computers,” Isobel said. Since Peter had come out of the field, he’d spent his time playing with technology—in all, a less emotionally damaging way to help the cause. Not that she would have thought Peter Madsen had emotions. Until she’d met his wife.

“See what you can come up with,” Isobel said.

“How long have we known each other?”

Peter’s question was unexpected. and Isobel almost dropped her guard. “Close to ten years by now. Why?”

“You look tired.”

“Are you telling me I’m looking my age?” she said, her voice light.
“I don’t know what the hell your age is,” he grumbled. “You could be forty and you could be sixty.”

“Or I could be twenty or eighty,” she said. “I take very good care of myself. And I’ve had the very best of plastic surgeons. Why are you asking?”

“Because sooner or later this gets to be too much.

You and I both know it. And I’d like some warning if you’re going to burn out.”
“You think I’m getting too old for the game? I’ll let you know when I’m contemplating retirement, if you’re that eager for advancement. At this point I have a lot of good years left.”
“Bastien retired in his thirties.”

“SO he did. And I expect if it weren’t for me you’d be gone, as well. You don’t really want my job at all, do you?”

“I’ve seen what it does to people. Turns them into monsters like Thomason, or comes close to breaking them, like...”

“Like me,” she said.

“Like Bastien. Like me. Like you.”

She rose with her usual perfect grace. “Tell you what. Peter,” she said. “Find me a replacement with a conscience. Find yourself one as well. And then I’ll quit.”

“You can’t do this job and have a conscience.”

“II makes it hard,” she said dryly. “But you need it as a fail-safe. Otherwise you become another Thomason, taking out your friends as well as your enemies.” She moved toward her office. “Find me the best Intel you’ve got on Serafin.”

“I’ve already uploaded files to your computer,” he said. He paused. “I could go.”
“No,” she said flatly.

“Taka’s cousin whenever he shows up?”

“Taka would kill us. Getting someone as dangerous as Serafin out of
North Africa
is hardly child’s play. It would be like sending a lamb into a lion’s den. Not that any relative of Taka could be a lamb, if his cousin
Reno
is anything to go by.”

“Bastien...”
“Leave Bastien out of it. You think I can’t handle it?” Her light mockery didn’t bring one of Peter’s infrequent smiles.

“You can handle anything, Isobel. I just don’t know if you want to. You’ve changed.”
She blinked. “I doubt it. I’m the same cold-blooded professional I’ve always been. You’re just seeing things differently since you’ve been seduced by True Love.”
He didn’t bother to respond, just raised an eyebrow, and she wasn’t going to argue. Why waste her breath lying to him, lying to herself? Sometime in the last five years, when she hadn’t been looking, her nerve had begun to shred. Her emotionless practicality had turned into nothing more than an icy veneer, and beneath it ugly, painful emotions were beginning to roil. The Ice Queen was developing cracks in her facade.
And she wasn’t going to argue. She was going to do what needed to be done. “How much time do we have?”

“Not much,” he said. “Too many people want Serafin’s head. The sooner we get him out the better.”

She nodded all business. “I’ll leave tomorrow.” It can wait a few days

“A few days won’t make any difference,” she said. A few years wouldn’t make any difference. She had to keep going. If she stopped too long she’d start to think start to feel, and then she might as well be dead.

“Tomorrow.”
Peter looked at her
for
a long hard moment, then nodded. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
She closed the door to her office, sinking down in the leather chair and closing her eyes. She needed a cigarette more than she needed air to breathe. The thought amused her. She certainly wasn’t giving up cigarettes to prolong her life—she wasn’t in the right profession to worry about longevity.

She didn’t like the weakness. Didn’t like the need. She reached forward and punched up the computer screen with the files that Peter had uploaded for her. A grainy photo of Josef Serafin popped up, and she glanced at it. Peter had used his computer tricks to clean it up, sharpen the focus, and suddenly her gaze narrowed. She leaned forward, her heart smashing against her ribs.

“Killian.” she whispered. And the day went black.

2

Then
She’d been a wild child, with a tangled mane of curly red hair, a stubborn streak a mile wide, a passionate heart and an innocent soul. At the age of nineteen she’d shoved her belongings into a backpack, taken the first cheap flight to
England
and prepared to make her way to Paris and the Cordon Bleu at her own leisurely pace. There was no longer anyone back home in
Vermont
to worry about her—her mother had died young and her father had a new family. Mary Isobel Curwen was simply a reminder of another lifetime. She didn’t belong with them. She wasn’t stupidly reckless back then, just clueless. If she hadn’t decided to hike around
England
before school started, if she’d waited to go with her friends, if she’d had enough sense not to go out into the slums of
Plymouth
in the middle of the night... If, if, if. She was older and wiser now, and hindsight was a bitch.

She hadn’t realized someone was following her that night. A group of some ones, silent, predatory, moving through the darkness like a pack of starving wolves. When she finally realized she wasn’t alone it was too late—she’d taken the wrong turn when leaving the pub, and was getting farther and farther away from the youth hostel where she’d left her backpack and sleeping bag.

She heard the scrape of a boot, a whispered laugh, and cold, icy fear had slid through her. She’d reached the end of the street and darted left, planning to disappear into the darkness of the alleyway. Only to find it was a dead end, lit by the fitful August moon.
And then they were there. A handful of them, some younger than she was, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking they were harmless. They were blocking her escape, and she froze, a thousand thoughts running through her mind. If she disappeared, no one would notice, no one would ask. Her father had already forgotten about her, and while her friends back in
Vermont
might worry, it would be too late when they realized something was wrong.

No one was going to save her; no one was going to miss her. She was on her own, and she was either going to die or be hurt very, very badly.

“I don’t have much money,” she said in a deceptively calm voice.

“Not interested in money,” one of them said, as they crowded together, advancing on her. “Who wants first go?”

“Me,” said one of the younger ones, a skinny little rat with bad teeth and a feral look in his eyes. He was already reaching for his belt, and she opened her mouth to scream for help.
They were on her, slamming her onto the littered street, pawing at her, pressing her down, and no matter how she tried to kick or punch, someone always managed to stop her. She felt something sharp against her throat, and the young one grinned down at her. “I don’t mind cutting your throat first. I ain’t picky. I like a good fight, but if you want to lie there and bleed while I do you I’m not arguing.”

“Please,” she whispered, feeling the blade against her skin. She felt hands pulling at her jeans, trying to yank them down, and she kicked out, connecting with something painful, judging by the yelp of agony.

The boy straddling her turned and snarled, like a dog whose meal is threatened, and for a moment the pressure of the knife lessened. She slammed her head against his, feeling the blade knick her skin, knocking him off her and trying to roll away. But there were too many hands, too many bodies, and she knew there was nothing she could do but—
“Move away from her.” The voice was cool, deadly and blessedly American. Enough of a shock to stop the pack of teenagers from ripping at her. The ringleader rolled off her, peering into the night. ‘And who’s going to stop us? There’s one of you and seven of us, and I think you’d be smart to just keep on the way you were going. You can have a taste of what’s left.”

“Move away from her:’ he said again, stepping into the light. “Or I’ll make you.”
“You and what army?”

The scene was crazy, dreamlike. There was a flash of light, and the boy was flung back, away from her, as if by unseen hands. A moment later the sound of a gun cracked the darkness, out of sync. And then they were scrambling away from her, disappearing into the shadows, and a moment later all was silent.

“Are you all right?” The man moved out of the darkness. In the bright moonlight he looked ordinary enough. Tall, in jeans and a T-shirt, maybe five years older than she was. Nothing to scare a gang intent on rape. But he had scared them. He saved her—he was one of the good guys. He reached out a hand to her, and for a moment she wanted to shrink back, away from him. She was being stupid, and she took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet.

“Are you all right?” he asked again.

“Yes,” she said. A lie.

“How did you get them to run?”

He was taller than she was, lean and harmless looking. Not the type to frighten a bunch of creeps bent on rape.

“Car backfired,” he said easily. “They must have thought I had a gun.” He was still holding her hand, and she jerked away, suddenly nervous.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He tilted his head.

 
“If that’s what you prefer. And you can tell me something about yourself, and why you aren’t having hysterics over the fact that you just narrowly missed being raped and murdered.”
“I’m practical, and having hysterics won’t help me. I’ll wait
till I’m alone.”
“There’s not much privacy in a youth hostel.”

She looked up at him. “You’re far too nosy about me and my reactions.”
“Hey, it’s not every day I save a damsel in distress. I have a vested interest.” His voice was light, careless, and the streetlights bounced off the thin glasses as they left the alley.
She shoved her tangle of red hair away from her face. “I’m not a damsel in distress. I’m a student on my way to the Cordon Bleu in
Paris
, and I can take care of myself:’
“So I observed. Classes don’t start for another three weeks. What are you doing wandering around
England
?”

The uneasiness that had almost ebbed away began to trickle back. “How do you know when the Cordon Bleu starts classes?”

“I’ve lived in
France
off and on for a number of years. I’m just about to head back there—I’m taking classes at a small art college in Paris and I planned to hum around the countryside for a bit. What’s your excuse?”