Black Ice (Ice 1)

Bastien was no longer amused. Everyone at the table knew he’d been fucking her, including her voyeuristic husband. Including innocent Miss Chloe. They were all scheduled to leave in less than forty-eight hours, and as far as he could tell very little had been accomplished. They had gotten no closer to choosing a new leader, and Christos had yet to arrive. But then, he had probably sent Chloe on ahead to do the groundwork. The rest of them were fools not to realize how tenuous the situation was. And how unlikely their substitute translator was.

The cartel, whose success depended on strict secrecy, had the dangerous presence of an unknown in their midst, and Monique’s jealous little games weren’t helping matters. She needed someone else to focus on, to leave him and Chloe alone, but there was no one else available. Hakim preferred young boys, Madame Lambert was fastidious, Ricetti gay and Otomi a devoted family man. Which only left her husband, and Monique had grown tired of him long ago.

“We should work tonight,” Hakim broke in, and it was clear he was equally annoyed with Monique’s behavior. “We’re behind schedule and we can’t afford to wait for Mr. Christopolous any longer. We have too many things to decide in too short a time—the redivision of territories, our new leader and what kind of response we should make to Remarque’s assassination. These are things of monumental importance, and we can’t waste any more time.”

Ah, Chloe, Bastien thought. She’d turned to look at Hakim in surprise, and he could read what was going on in her mind. Why should the importation of grocery products and livestock be of monumental importance? Why was their leader assassinated? She was either impossibly gauche or incredibly clever.

“So we’ll work,” the baron said.

“Those of us who need to. Miss Underwood, your services will be dispensed with tonight. We can manage without you.”

Chloe took that as the dismissal it was, and she rose. “I’m sorry I forgot the books,” she said.

“What books?”

“The ones you sent me to buy.”

Hakim waved a dismissive hand. “Unimportant. We’ll be working in the conference room—I’m sure you’ll be most comfortable in your own rooms.”

It was as clear a directive as possible, a warning, but Chloe was still performing her artless act. “I wondered if there’s a computer around I might use? I wanted to check my e-mail.”

Dead silence, and Bastien leaned back, wondering how Hakim planned to deal with it. To his surprise Hakim nodded. “In the library just off the stairs on the first floor. Feel free to browse all you want.”

“Just my e-mail,” she said, rising from the table. The rest stayed put—no courtesies for the hired help, Bastien thought, resisting his own urge to rise. And if she only wanted to check e-mail then he was the prima ballerina with the Ballet Russe. But would she be smart enough to cover her tracks?

The door closed behind her, and conversation broke out immediately. “I don’t think having the woman here was a very good idea,” von Rutter said in German. “We could have muddled along well enough without a translator. Why bring a stranger into the place?”

“The woman I originally hired was an airheaded blonde with just the marginal skills to make things easier and the self-absorption not to notice anything unusual,” Hakim replied in the same language. “I’m not so sure of this one.”

“Not sure?” Monique said sharply. “I never thought you were the kind of man who left things to chance, Gilles. You should get rid of her, immediately.”

“If necessary,” Hakim said. He wouldn’t like being told what to do—he thought his time had come and he was ready to sit at the power table. “You know I have no qualms about doing what needs to be done. But I never act rashly. If an American disappears without a trace there might be too many questions. I need to be convinced that either no one would miss her, or that her presence was too incriminating. I’m not sure of either. As soon as I am, Miss Underwood will cease to be an issue.”

“English or French, please, if you can’t speak Italian,” Ricetti grumbled. “What are we talking about?”

Monique turned and smiled sweetly. “We’re discussing whether Miss Underwood is a danger, and if so, how we can neatly dispose of her?” She spoke in her flawless Italian.

“Kill her and set up a fake auto accident,” Ricetti said.

“Perhaps,” Hakim responded. “But she’s traveling with my chauffeur, and I’m not sure I want to give up my Daimler just to cover an execution. I would have a hard time replacing my driver as well.”

“Just kill her and stop fussing about it,” Mr. Otomi said. “If you are too squeamish I can have my assistant take care of it. We are wasting our time arguing when we have more important things to do. I want to know how we are going to transport the four dozen Legolas weapons into Turkey without anyone noticing.”

“That’s your problem, Otomi-san,” Bastien said smoothly. “I want to know where the money’s coming from before I put my goods on the table. And trust me, they’re very impressive. The finest that American military research can come up with.”

“No one trusts you, Bastien,” Madame Lambert said. “None of us trusts each other. That’s why we work so well together. Between us, we control the selling and buying of illegal weapons throughout most of the world. Trust would simply interfere with things.”

“Most of the world,” Bastien echoed. “But not all of it. Where the hell is Christos? I don’t like this delay—it makes me edgy. Shouldn’t we be worrying about him, not a hapless young woman with the guile of a rabbit?”

Monique laughed. “She is a bit of a bunny, isn’t she? All big eyes and twitching little nose. We just don’t know if that’s an act or not. And I, for one, don’t propose we endanger our enterprise by waiting around to find out. If Christos were here he’d say the same thing.”

“Christos isn’t here, and we’re wasting too much time on the girl,” Hakim said, clearly displeased. “Bastien, go after her, see what you can find out. I don’t want to attract any official attention, but neither do I want to waste our time squabbling about her. We’ll start with Ricetti’s proposal for redividing our Middle East customers—that should give you enough time to make a determination. If she’s a danger, kill her. If not, come back to the table and we’ll get some work done.”

Bastien raised an eyebrow. “And why do I get charged with this little assignment?” he demanded. “I already spent the whole damned day with her and didn’t find out anything.”

“You didn’t push hard enough. You’re the one who’s spent the most time with her—you’ll have the best chance of finding out what’s going on.”

“Besides,” Monique purred, “she has a crush on you. Any fool can see that.”