At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

“That’s my affair,” Andrews said with a touch of grimness. “But I could pick him out in a crowd anywhere.”

“Then we’re already a step ahead of everyone else,” Randall said smoothly. “And I happen to know where he might be likely to spend time when he’s in London. A certain exclusive gambling club enjoys his patronage, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he shows up there this evening. It’s certainly worth looking into.” He took a leisurely drink. “What do you have to offer to this consortium of knowledge, Maggie?”

The look of acute dislike she cast him was better than the panicked hatred that had swept over her face earlier. “Oh, I have all sorts of talents, Randall. I can be the brains of the organization.”

He snorted gently in disbelief. “So. Any more objections?”

“He’s right, Maggie,” Holly volunteered. “We’ll just keep bumping into each other if we refuse to work together. God knows it won’t be much fun with a charmer like your friend Andrews, but I can put up with him if you can put up with Randall.”

“The feeling’s mutual, lady,” Andrews snapped. “We don’t need an overdressed mannikin getting in our way.”

“That’s exactly what we do need,” Randall interrupted. “Champignons has a strict dress code. I somehow doubt that Maggie thought to pack evening clothes.”

“You’re right,” she said, still withdrawn.

“And Andrews, you wouldn’t have a tuxedo stashed about you? I thought not. So it will be up to Holly and me to find out whether Tim Flynn has been gambling recently,” he said smoothly. “I suggest we leave about nine.” He allowed himself a furtive glance in Maggie’s direction, hoping vainly that she might exhibit a tiny bit of jealousy. Her pale face was stonily unmoved.

Holly nodded, and excitement lit her aquamarine eyes. They were the same color and shape as Maggie’s, yet oddly different. They were more open, trusting, without the dangerous depths of Maggie’s haunted eyes.

“Is everyone agreed?” Randall let his glance drift over the three occupants of the room. “Are we going to work together?”

“As Holly says, we don’t really have a choice,” Maggie said gracelessly, putting her empty glass down and turning away. “Andrews and I will be waiting for you when you get back. You aren’t going to tackle him without me there, Randall,” she warned as an afterthought.

“I wouldn’t think of it, dear heart,” he said gently. “Holly and I will have a full report for the two of you. But don’t expect us before midnight.”

Maggie opened her mouth to snarl something at him, then shut it again, turning away from him. “Whatever you say,” she replied woodenly, and her shoulders looked suddenly narrow and defenseless.

“I’m not sure I agree,” Andrews said, glaring at the smug Holly. “She won’t be much help if you get into trouble.”

“I have no intention of getting in trouble,” Randall said smoothly, reluctantly putting his concern for Maggie in the back of his mind. “And if I did, I’m more than capable of extricating both of us.”

“All right,” Andrews grumbled. “I don’t like it, mind. But all right. We’ll be waiting for you at midnight.”

Timothy Seamus Flynn admired his handiwork with a silent whistle of pride. Explosives had never been his particular forte, but he’d been trained like everyone else, and that training had come in handy. This charmingly compact piece of equipment would blow the elegant confines of Champignons to hell and back again, and take most of the block with it. And there would be that many less British stuffed shirts to feed off the Irish.

The club hadn’t realized with whom they were dealing, he thought, closing the leather attaché case. Whom they accused of cheating, whom they politely requested leave their hallowed premises when he’d made a graphic suggestion or two to some lord’s daughter. He’d gone quietly enough, earlier this evening after his initial rage. Because he knew he’d have the last word.

He rose. Eleven o’clock would be perfect. The club would be packed, and the only drawback was that they’d never know what hit them. He preferred his victims—no, his enemies—to know their crimes and their fates. He liked to see the fear in their eyes, he liked to hear them beg. He’d miss that this time, but you couldn’t have everything.

All he had to do was drop the bomb in the alleyway behind Champignons’ stuffy facade and head on to the airport. He could hear all the delicious details when he arrived in Ireland later that night. He started down the sidewalk, an elegant sight, the briefcase a fitting accessory to his well-tailored figure. And a stuffy, well-dressed matron met his smiling face with a start of surprise and an instinctive, answering smile.

“Lovely evening,” she murmured politely, inclining her head regally.

Flynn imagined that head atop a pike. “Lovely,” he agreed, and walked on down the road.

four

Holly allowed herself a furtive glance at the tall man beside her in the rented Bentley. She’d met Randall Carter once before, years ago when Maggie was in the midst of her abortive career at the CIA. She hadn’t liked him then, and she didn’t really like him now. He was too cold, too remote, with that faintly supercilious smile and those blue-gray eyes that showed emotion only when they rested on Maggie. No, she didn’t like him, but anyone was better than that pigheaded, rude, overbearing son of a bitch, Ian Andrews …

“Something wrong?” His voice wasn’t solicitous, it was coldly curious.

She forced her clenched fists to relax and flashed Randall a weary smile. “Just thinking about Andrews. I don’t see what help he’s going to be.”

“It never hurts to have British Intelligence on your side,” he replied. “And if we don’t work together we’re going to be undercutting each other. Flynn’s a formidable enough adversary—we’re going to need every advantage we can get.”

“One man against the four of us and practically every law enforcement agency in the western world?” she scoffed, smoothing the fuchsia silk harem pants over her long legs. “I think we’re overestimating his danger.”

“Do you really?”