“The latter. Your contact will arrange all that. When you arrive in Zurich you’ll check in to the new Zurich Holiday Inn—”
“God, no!” Mack groaned.
“Perfect,” said Maggie.
“The Zurich Holiday Inn,” Hamilton continued with a prissy little glare. “Our man will make contact there.”
“How will we know him?” Mack demanded. “Will he wear a red rose in his lapel?”
Hamilton ignored his sarcasm. “You’ll know him. He’ll bring you any weapons you might need. Any questions you have at that point you can ask him. He’ll be briefed on the entire affair.”
“Let’s hope so,” Maggie said. “No further questions, your honor. Just one small point. We won’t kill him for you. We’ll find out what he wants, find out who he’s working for, and we’ll do our damnedest to hand him over to you. But we’re not going to be your executioners, no matter how much he deserves it.”
Hamilton smiled faintly. “Suit yourself, Miss Bennett. I suspect you won’t have any choice in the matter when it comes right down to it. With Van Zandt it’s going to be a case of kill or be killed. I trust that it will be the former.”
“We’ll see,” Maggie said, hiding the gloomy conviction that he was right.
Mack’s glare took in the three of them. She could see the hesitation still lingering, but then he shrugged, accepting his fate. “I guess it’s our funeral,” he said succinctly. “Let’s go.”
She should be feeling better, Maggie thought, leafing through Vogue in her luxurious first-class seat on the 747 currently soaring over the Atlantic. She was clean, well-dressed, well-fed, even reasonably well-rested. Mack was beside her, immersed in the CIA file on Van Zandt and looking quite glorious in a cream linen Armani suit. Her own St. Laurent jumpsuit was a perfect fit—no mean feat when the wearer came close to six feet tall. They were as far away from Mancini and his men as they could be, and the charges from Texas were being dropped. All they had to worry about was Jeffrey Van Zandt.
That was more than enough to worry about. All her instincts about Jeffrey Van Zandt had proven true, and God only knew what they would face when they reached Zurich. And what he would want from them.
It was three in the morning, Zurich time. Maggie had already adjusted her watch, the scratched and dusty Rolex, her one constant through this entire adventure. The watch, and Mack.
She still couldn’t quite believe what had escaped from her when she’d been babbling in Danish. Once the words were out in the open, she couldn’t call them back.
It was a strange notion, to be in love with Mack. Whenever she thought of love she thought of that twisted fascination she’d had for Randall. Or she thought of some idealized, pleasant cloud of emotion where all was gentleness and smiling peace. With Mack it was neither. It was vast irritation, ridiculous humor, tenderness, warmth, and passion that turned her blood to fire. There was no pleasant cloud of forgetfulness with Mack—it was real and solid and overwhelming. But would it hurt as much as it had with Randall? She had the nasty feeling that if Mack were to betray her as Randall had, she wouldn’t recover. A part of her would wither and die.
Well, she didn’t have any spare parts, she thought briskly. And Mack had offered her nothing, promised nothing. Granted, they couldn’t really talk about the future when they were running for their lives. But the man had been married twice already. Not a good omen.
Who was she kidding? She and Mack had shared a bed and some blissful passion. But when the danger was finally over, when they went back to a semblance of their normal lives, then their relationship would doubtless be over too. It would be better for both of them, better than eventual disillusionment.
But in the meantime she was going to keep him alive. Between the two of them they’d track Van Zandt down and hand him over to the CIA contact in Zurich. And then they could worry about the future.
“What’s that expression mean?” Mack’s rasping voice broke through her abstraction. “You look like you just realized what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”
She turned to look at him. His eyes were still slightly bloodshot, and she could see the traces of the black eye she’d given him centuries ago in the hotel room in Tegucigalpa. “I know what we’ve gotten
ourselves into,” she said quietly. Jeg ilsker dig, a little voice echoed in the back of her brain, and she squashed it down.
“I’m glad you knew what you were doing,” he said wearily. “You want to tell me why?”
“Why?” she echoed.
“Why you wouldn’t let me rot in jail? It wouldn’t have been that long—Jackson could have gotten me out.”
“Maybe. But Mancini would have gotten you. You should know that as well as I do. That’s a major reason you were hiding out in Moab, Mack. And if the mob wants to get you, there’s no real way to stop them.”
“Are our chances any better in Zurich against someone like Van Zandt?”
“I think so. He wants something from us. Mancini only wants us dead,” Maggie said.
“What’s this ‘us’? Mancini wants me.”
Maggie shook her head. “Not anymore, I suspect. He saw the two of us together, he’ll know we’ve been traveling together for the last week. I’m sure he’ll decide to have me taken care of as well as you.”
“No,” he said, and there was anguish in his raw voice.