Two hundred and seventy-three steps carved into the side of the rock. She’d long ago stopped thinking of anything, anything but descending those endless steps to what might be her death after all. She’d lost all sense of time, space and reality in the narrow, twisting stairway—all she could do was follow the man who might be her executioner.
She felt dizzy when they finally reached the bottom, and she swayed for a moment. And then a match flared in the darkness, almost blinding her. She looked straight into the ice-cold eyes of Peter Jensen, and as he moved toward her she saw the knife in his hand.
She was going to die after all, at the hands of the man whose job it had been. He was alive, and he was going to finish what he started.
Her knees gave way, and she slumped onto the hard cold floor, finally giving up.
Harry Van Dorn seldom indulged in temper tantrums, but he was about to indulge in a royal one. He took a deep breath, another sip of his fine old bourbon and told himself he was overreacting. Things weren’t falling apart everywhere he turned. It just seemed like that, but if he took a step back and viewed the situation objectively he’d realize these were just minor annoyances. It would take a lot more than a few half-assed commandos to think they could get in his way.
They’d shut down the diamond mines in South Africa and sent the workers on a three-week holiday. The word given out was safety inspections, but he knew for a fact that no one gave a shit about safety in those mines. If workers died, there were always hundreds available to take their place, and every penny— every moment—spent on safety precautions meant less profit. There would be no accidental explosion after all.
Three out of seven down, with so short a time to go. He wasn’t a man who adjusted his plans when he hit a snag—he blew through the opposition with bullying force. But he was up against an immutable time frame, which left very little choice.
The Rule of Seven was being threatened, and he couldn’t have that. He wasn’t going to settle for anything less. Compromise wasn’t in his vocabulary, not when money could always buy his own way. Things were not about to change at this late date.
The Rule of Seven had been simple: lethal strain of Avian flu in China, the dam in Mysore, diamond mines in South Africa, oil fields in Saudi Arabia, the Auschwitz shrine in Poland, Houses of Parliament in London and the American terrorist sites.
But there was still hope—he’d lost India, South Africa and Saudi Arabia, but the other four were still undiscovered, and he’d taken steps to ensure that. And, in fact, the American plan was three, not one, which brought him back up to six.
Still, the Rule of Six was not acceptable. He’d have to come up with something, fast, or lose the beautiful elegance of his favorite number. His plans had been simple, exact and unchangeable, and he’d spent a great deal of time setting up a trustworthy network in each of his chosen targets. Making any new moves would entail sloppiness, and he couldn’t abide a mess. It was too late to trust anyone new—he’d ensured that in the end he had complete control, and nothing would go down until he gave the order. If those bastards at the Committee had gotten away with destroying his complicated design it would have all been down the toilet, all those careful months of planning.
But fate had been on his side, as it always was, in the form of the late Renaud and the soon-to-be-late Genevieve Spenser. He would have liked to have killed her himself but Jack-shit had a point. He did tend to get aroused when he hurt people, and he wasn’t one for self-restraint.
He needed one more glorious event to set the world on its heels and throw the financial community into disarray. He’d chosen the American terrorist sites because of the timing, the anniversary of the previous bloodbaths, and he didn’t want to bother with anything connected to 9/11. He couldn’t hope to equal the mass destruction wrought by that day, and he certainly didn’t want his work to be viewed as an afterthought.
Washington was too well guarded for him to come up with something fast enough. Assassinating the president was a possibility, but not logical. Harry had bought and paid for him, which made access easy but logic fuzzy. His old Texas buddy was more help alive than dead.
He just needed one more inexplicable disaster, accident or terrorist sabotage, something to put the icing on the cake.
A nuclear-power plant in Russia? Latin America had been sadly neglected in his original plans, maybe he should give them a bit of attention.
Or maybe something small and personal and very nasty. The American public was always horrified when something happened to children. Sick children. He could think of a number of disarming possibilities.
And he poured himself another glass of bourbon, giving himself an imaginary toast.
16
Peter Jensen’s hands were rough and impatient as he hauled Genevieve upright. She looked awful—shadowed eyes, pale skin, and she’d lost weight.
“She looks like shit,” he said, slicing through the bonds on her wrists. “What the hell did you do to her? I thought you were keeping Van Dorn off her?”
“Harry didn’t touch her. In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s a stubborn woman. She’s not very good at taking hints.”
“That she isn’t,” he agreed, looking down at her. “Why the gag?” He reached for it, about to cut it free, when Takashi’s words stopped him.
“You warned me she was mouthy. I figured it would make life easier if I didn’
t have to listen to her complaints.”
Peter hesitated. She was glaring at him over the encompassing gag, and he tried to ignore his feeling of relief at her first sign of life. “Good point. Maybe I’ll leave it on.”
She shoved herself away and began clawing at the gag herself. The woebegone waif was already fighting back.
Takashi’s knots weren’t likely to be undone by a simple New York lawyer. “Put your hands down or I might cut off a finger,” he said, slicing through the silken bonds. He cast a knowing glance at Takashi— the restraints must have come from Harry’s well- known supply. Silk was soft and sleek but very strong, and there was no escaping a silk binding no matter how much the victim struggled. Blood, sweat and tears only made it stronger.
The gag fell to the floor and Genevieve Spenser’s mouth started working. “You son of a bitch!” she began.
“Yeah, I’m glad you’re alive, too,” he snapped. “Now shut up and let me get us the hell out of here.”