“Maybe not,” Maggie said. “For what it’s worth, my instincts tell me he isn’t. But you can’t rely on instincts when lives are at stake.”
“No, you can’t,” she said dully.
Maggie stared at her, torn in
a thousand directions. She wanted to put her arms around her stricken sister and comfort her; she wanted to race over to Sybil’s hotel and see if she could find out anything there; she wanted to go out and confront Alicia Stoneham; she wanted to scour the city until she found Chrissie. And a small, weak part of her wanted to run crying to Randall.
The only logical thing to do was to wait. “Coffee,” she said. “I’ll make the coffee—you sit down and tell me what you found out in Wisconsin.”
“Stop trying to make me sit down,” Kate said in a dead voice. “We didn’t find out a damned thing. It was a wild-goose chase, and don’t tell me that’s more proof that Caleb is involved. He was just as taken in as I was.” She shivered, turning her despairing brown eyes toward the window. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Not at this point. I’ll call Randall and tell him. I’m sure he’ll tell us to sit still and wait.”
Kate shut her eyes, nodding. “I’m going to lie down.”
“Do you want any coffee?”
“Not now. All I want to do is hide for a few moments. …” She let it trail, and Maggie watched her out of aching eyes, watched as she stumbled wearily toward her bedroom. The door closed silently behind her, and Maggie let out her painfully pent-up breath.
In the kitchen, there was coffee and a phone to call Randall. She stood watching the coffee perk as she listened to Randall’s phone ring and ring and ring.
He wasn’t there. At eight thirty in the morning, when she most needed him, he wasn’t there. And she wondered suddenly if she’d been the world’s biggest fool ever to trust him.
Randall was capable of anything. She’d always known that, and the unexpected violence that had surrounded him in Gemansk shouldn’t have surprised her. He would use anything and anybody to get what he wanted. She’d always assumed that they wanted the same things, but now she began to wonder if she’d been much too gullible.
He’d been in town when Francis had been murdered, been at Francis’s apartment—the scene of the murder—without anyone knowing, when she’d brought the body back. Someone had let the secret police know they were coming; someone had been one step behind them, closing in on them, breathing down their necks. Someone had been involved in this, and she found it hard to believe that Caleb McAllister had such far-reaching power. Randall was the obvious second choice.
He wouldn’t be doing it for the money; Randall didn’t need money. He spent what he had on possessions, rare and precious works of art that could be very expensive indeed. But he had no weaknesses, no obsessions, no drug or alcohol addictions; he wasn’t a gambler or a spendthrift. If he had turned traitor, if he was in this whole mess up to his armpits, then he was doing it for the same reason he started helping out the CIA: For the thrill. To alleviate the boredom that had stalked him most of his adult life, the boredom that didn’t suffer fools lightly.
It was a terrifying thought, and Maggie could understand how Kate would panic at the suggestion of Caleb’s involvement. It felt as if the very ground were sinking away beneath her.
Two cups of coffee helped. Sitting by the kitchen window and looking over the city as it came to life helped. Telling herself that even if Randall was a traitor, it wasn’t the end of the world, as long as Chrissie was all right, helped.
It wasn’t as if Randall meant anything to her, after all. She was immune to him; he had no power over her, no effect on her whatsoever. Sex was merely a biological function that reared its ugly head during moments of stress. She wasn’t going to bed with Randall again, ever. She didn’t like him or trust him, so it didn’t really matter if he was a traitor. Did it?
“You don’t answer doors anymore?” His warm, rich voice broke through her abstraction, and she turned from the city landscape to look at him. He’d changed into an artfully rumpled beige linen suit. The welt across his forehead had paled with the passing of hours, and his eyes as they looked into hers were oddly warm and concerned.
“I didn’t hear you ring,” she said, moving slowly away from the window, watching him out of curious eyes. Could he have betrayed her once again? Not just her, but his entire country? Not just his country, but humanity, by stealing a helpless infant? Was he as monstrous as she sometimes wondered?
“What’s wrong, Maggie?” His voice was uncharacteristically gentle.
“Didn’t Kate tell you?”
“Is Kate back?” he said, momentarily diverted. “I didn’t see her.”
“Then who let you in?”
“I’ve already told you that locked doors don’t keep me out. I passed the CIA’s course on B and E with flying colors, unlike you. You still haven’t told me what’s wrong.”
“You don’t know?”
He frowned, becoming impatient. “I’m not interested in playing twenty questions, Maggie. Why are you looking at me as if I’m Frankenstein’s monster?”
“Have you been leading me on?”
His reply was an unexpected burst of laughter. “What the hell are you asking me, Maggie? If my intentions are honorable? If I’m going to make an honest woman of you?”
“I’m not talking about sex, Randall. I’m talking about treason. I’m talking about military secrets and Red Glove Films and Alicia Stoneham.”