“What do you think our chances are?” she said softly, pitching her voice low so the others couldn’t hear her.
Randall shrugged. He was wearing a crushed linen suit, looking as elegant as always, and his long, thin fingers were tapping the armrest. “Nine out of ten.”
“That good?”
“That bad. Nine out of ten we don’t make it,” he said.
“Then why are we doing it? Sybil’s going to be fine, she doesn’t really need her jewels. Besides, he’s probably had them all cut and sold by now.”
“Perhaps,” Randall said.
“I don’t want to die, Randall. I want to go back to New York and live happily ever after. With you.”
He looked down at her, his eyes dark and despairing. “There is no happily ever after for us, Maggie.”
She held herself very still. “Why not?”
“There are too many people between us. Pulaski, for one. Bud Willis, for another.”
“I don’t believe what Bud Willis told me,” she said fiercely.
“Don’t you?” He leaned back in the seat, and his eyes were bleak and distant. “Maybe you should.”
Maggie shuddered. “What are you telling me?”
“Not a goddamned thing. I’m just saying you shouldn’t be so trusting. Don’t believe what people tell you. Don’t believe what Bud Willis tells you, don’t believe what I tell you,” he said, and his voice sounded infinitely weary. “The world is full of con artists and liars, and you’ve known more than your share.”
“Including you?”
“Including me.”
It was nerves, she told herself. It was getting psyched up for the coming confrontation, it was edginess. But damn it, she felt the walls building between them again, and she couldn’t see any way to tear them down.
“Why don’t we turn around and fly back?”
“Because,” he said. “Because of the women that weren’t as fortunate as your mother. Because of the twenty-five people who died in Champignons, the seventeen in Northern Ireland, the five in Lebanon. Because he enjoys it, and he’ll do it again. And the first people he’ll be after are you, your sister, and your mother. You can all identify him, and Tim Flynn doesn’t leave witnesses.”
She sat in a despairing silence for a long moment. “All right,” she said. “You’re right, we have no choice. But at least we’ve got a plan.”
“Even better than you think. Dr. Milhouse was coming over for a rush job, for an especially important client. I’m guessing that patient is Tim Flynn. Too many people can recognize him now—it’s time to alter that handsome Irish face of his.”
“But then he won’t—”
“Yes, he will. Safe or not, he doesn’t leave witnesses.” The last three words were a soft, deadly hiss as he turned to stare back out the window.
Maggie knelt there, saying nothing. She had to clench her hands to keep from reaching out to him, but she was afraid she’d be rebuffed. At that moment she didn’t think she could take his rejection. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” she said finally.
He nodded without looking. “Something’s not right, hasn’t been right all along. And I’m afraid I know what it is.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No. I could be wrong. And if I’m right we’ll find out soon enough, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Is it something to do with Flynn?”
“Only marginally.” He turned and looked down at her. “I think I know the double agent who runs the place.”
“Someone you’ve worked with in the past? Is he someone I might have met? Was he around when I worked for the Company?”