Ice Storm (Ice 4)

She stripped off her clothes and stood under the shower, letting the hot water beat down over her weary, dusty body. She’d barely slept, and while she could manage for days without doing so, a few hours of rest would do wonders. Right now she didn’t have to stop and make sense of the situation she found herself in; her actions would be the same no matter what. Her mission was to get Serafin into England without one of his legion of enemies putting a bullet in his head, and she had no intention of failing. One foot in front of the other. He had just as much of an interest in getting out of this country in one piece as she had, and she could presumably trust any escape route he’d come up with.

Sometimes the smartest thing was to let go and let someone else control the situation. It was the hardest lesson she’d ever had to learn, but she’d learned it well. Though she didn’t have to like it.

There were clean underwear, jeans and a T-shirt to wear under the burka. Isobel had contact lenses to make her eyes a muddy hazel, but even so the color might trigger some kind of warning, and she yanked her silvery-blond hair into a tight ponytail. She was better off under the enveloping robe—no one looked twice at Arab women in purdah, and with luck she’d never have to use the considerable firepower tucked in her waistband. She’d just follow Serafin at a discreet distance, like a good Muslim wife.

She didn’t want to leave the bathroom, face him again. She recognized the emotion, accepted it and pushed open the door to the bedroom. Serafin was sitting in a darkened corner, and there was coffee on the table.

“Bathroom’s free,” she said, trying not to stare at the coffee. She made it a practice never to take food or drink from an unknown source when she was on a mission, and she had absolutely no reason to trust Serafin’s friends. Samuel’s wife was far too familiar with knockout drugs, as Mahmoud’s unconscious body could attest, and Isobel had no intention of taking chances.

They had no reason to want to drug her. There was no reason to lure an agent of the Committee here just to incapacitate him or her, and they hadn’t even been expecting her. Serafin had been expecting Bastien; her arrival had been a surprise.

And sweet Jesus, the coffee smelled divine. It was almost worth courting death and disaster for one small sip. Almost.

“Shiraz brought us coffee,” Serafin said.

“No, thank you.” There was another chair at the table. She could sit there, close to him and the smell of coffee, or she could sit on the bed. She chose to stand.

“It’s not drugged or poisoned. I need you alert if we’re going to get out of here in one piece.” He took a sip of his own coffee, and Isobel wanted to weep.

“No, thank you,” she said again, her voice perfectly expressionless.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll take a drink of yours as well. If it’s drugged then I’ll be the one to show symptoms first. Samuel has no reason to drug either of us. He’s here to help.”

“But what about you? Maybe you think you’re better off without me, that you can handle this on your own and that I’m just in the way. It’s certainly how you’re operating. I seem to be along for the ride.”

“What can I say? I’m a man who likes to be in control of a situation. As soon as we leave Algerian airspace I’m putty in your hands. In the meantime these are my contacts, my people. You’d be wise to trust me.”

How many people had trusted the man calling himself Serafin, and survived? If she thought about that she’d be sorely tempted to put a bullet in his brain right now. She wouldn’t trust him, any more than she

’d trust Killian. But then, she trusted very few people in this life, and wasn’t about to start widening that exclusive circle now.

He reached for the second cup of coffee, took a deep swallow and set it back down as he rose. The passing years had changed almost everything but his height, and she took a step back, because she didn’t like it. Didn’t like the feeling of him looming over her. It reminded her of when she had liked it.

“Do I make you nervous, Madame Lambert?”

“No. I just prefer to keep my distance.”

“Evil isn’t contagious.”

“I thought you said you weren’t the most evil man in the world?”

“I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I’m a good man.”

“I don’t think anyone would argue with that.”

“Not even my mother,” he said wryly. “It’s a sad thing, don’t you think?”

“That your mother didn’t love you? Not particularly. Go take your shower.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with mock humility. “The pastries are good, too. Shiraz is an amazing cook.”

Isobel hadn’t even seen the honey-soaked pastries behind the coffee cups. “I’ll pass.”

She waited until he’d closed the bathroom door behind him, waited for the sound of the shower. There was always the chance that the coffee was drugged or poisoned and that he’d already taken an antidote, but right now her need for coffee was stronger than her reasonable paranoia. She reached for the second cup and sniffed it, then took a sip.

It was rich, strong and creamy. Just the way she’d always liked it. In the last few years she’d tried to wean herself to black coffee, but this was an unexpected treat. Double cream, with just a dash of sugar. It had been years since she’d had it that way, years since…

She wanted to throw up. She set the half-empty cup back down on the table. It was nothing but a coincidence. Coffee was very strong in the Arab world. There was nothing unlikely about the way this was served. And yet she still felt sick.