Ice Storm (Ice 4)

He snorted. “I’m well aware of that. Which is why I’m going to watch my back. You killed me once—I’m guessing you’d be even better at it this time around.”

“Count on it,” she said in a cool, deadly voice.

He smiled at her. “I look forward to you trying,” he said.

Isobel wondered if she could shove him out of the airplane somewhere over the Mediterranean. No, a knife would be best. Hand to hand, with blood. She leaned back in the bouncing car, still clinging tightly. For the first time in her life she was actually going to enjoy it.

10

The last thing Peter Madsen needed was Sir Harry Thomason sitting in his office, smoking a cigar and badgering him. Genevieve would smell the smoke on him and grumble, and he had more important things to concentrate on than keeping Thomason’s nose out of their business. Business like the Japanese punk living upstairs, ostensibly perfecting his English but—from the credit card bills—spending far too much time playing video games, buying hip-hop and nailing every attractive female in the city. Peter once more cursed his old friend Takashi, who’d been remarkably unhelpful when he’d called him.

“We needed him out of the country,” Taka had said in his slow, deep voice. “He got into a little trouble with the daughter of a rival oyabun, his grandfather’s ready to chop off half his fingers, and the Tokyo police are on the lookout for him. To top that off, Summer’s little sister is coming over for a few months, and I don’t want Reno anywhere near her. He’s smart, he’s got skills and he’s not nearly the punk he tries to be. You remember the night on White Crane Mountain—we might not have made it without his help. He’s got potential.”

“Like a slum apartment in Brighton,” Peter said gloomily. “When can I send him home?”

“You can’t. At least not until things quiet down around here and Jilly’s gone back to the States. Besides, you’re shorthanded, I’m tied up over here and Madame Lambert’s on assignment. You need the help.”

Peter had merely grunted. Taka was right—Reno was smart, ruthless, inventive and fresh blood. He could be useful, if Peter could just figure out how.

In the meantime, Sir Harry Thomason was a pimple on his ass when he was already beginning to worry about Isobel. She hadn’t checked in. She hadn’t met her transport in Morocco, she hadn’t called in, and there’d been no word from Serafin. Peter had been monitoring trouble spots, looking for some clue, but the region was so fucked up that there was no way he could tell whether a car bombing or a kidnapping or a house exploding had anything to do with her.

Thomason was the last person with whom he was going to share his concerns. Their old boss had been sitting in Isobel’s office when Peter came in, sitting in her chair as if he belonged there. It was no surprise that he wanted back in—Harry Thomason liked power. The only surprise was to see him being so blatant about it.

“Where is she?” he demanded now. “I gather she’s disappeared off the face of the earth, and you weren’t going to tell me. Do you have even the faintest idea what kind of mess she’s in?”

“Nothing she can’t get out of,” Peter said. Short of physically ejecting Thomason there was no way he could get him out of Isobel’s chair, and, much as he’d love to do it, Thomason still held some power within the Committee.

Sir Harry frowned. “We’re not running a rogue operation here, Madsen. You have to report to somebody.”

“I do. I report to Isobel. If and when I deem it necessary to inform the Committee of any change in those circumstances, then I’ll do so.”

Thomason said nothing, puffing furiously on the cigar. It was an affectation; he wanted to be Winston Churchill and he’d ended up like Stalin. The thought would have amused Peter if he wasn’t uneasy about Isobel.

“What’s going on with the new recruit?” His old boss changed tactics. “How much goddamned money are you giving him?”

“He’s new to the country. We set him up in an apartment, gave him spending money and a debit card. Relocating is expensive.”

Thomason didn’t look mollified. “I suppose he’s going to get a Saville Row wardrobe to try to blend in. I’m not sure we ought to be hiring Taka’s cousin. One Asian comes in handy. Two might stick out, no matter how well they dress.”

Peter’s expression didn’t crack. “I already suggested a new wardrobe, but so far he’s resistant. He’s concentrating on English lessons and getting comfortable in his new environment. I have every expectation that he’ll work out just fine.” Actually, Peter felt nothing but gloom at the thought of the flamboyant Reno let loose on the world, but he wasn’t about to share that information.

“I’m ready to meet him. If he can assimilate as well as the rest of you he might become the new Bastien. Things haven’t been working that well since he left. He shouldn’t have been allowed to retire.”

&nbs

p; “You put out a termination order on him. If that had been fulfilled he wouldn’t have been around, anyway.”

“I was precipitous. Operatives like Bastien Toussaint don’t show up that often.” Thomason glanced down at Peter’s bad leg. “He never made mistakes.”

Peter had wanted to kill Sir Harry for a long time, and the reasons just kept multiplying. But Isobel wouldn’t like him bloodying her office, and he counted it a good test of his sangfroid to see how far Thomason could push him.

Besides, the old man was out of shape, smoked and drank—a walking heart attack. “I’ll get Reno down here,” Peter said in a dulcet tone.

“Reno? I thought he had a Japanese name…which we ought to change. Maybe some plastic surgery to fix his eyes.”

Peter’s mood had lightened considerably. At least this was something he was going to enjoy. He strolled back into his office, picked up the encoded cell phone and punched in a few letters. Reno was slavishly devoted to text messaging, and able to type faster than most court stenographers, even in a foreign language. He’d appear in a moment, and Thomason could enjoy him in all his glory.

In the meantime, Sir Harry could either sit alone in Isobel’s office or come out here to badger him. Either way, Peter would win.