Black Ice (Ice 1)

“A car’s on its way to pick you up. Actually, they think they’ll be picking me up, but I’ve called and explained the situation and said you’d be taking my place. All they need is French to English and back again, which is a piece of cake for you.”

“But, Sylvia—”

“Please, Chloe! I beg of you! If I leave them in the lurch I’ll never get another translating job, and I can’t quite count on Henry yet. I need to do these little weekend jobs to supplement my income. You know how badly the Frères pay.”

“About twice as much as they pay me.”

“Then you need the money even more,” Sylvia said, unabashed. “Come on, Chloe, go for it! Be wild and dangerous for a change! A few days spent in the country is just what you need.”

“Wild and dangerous with a bunch of businessmen? Somehow I can’t quite see it happening.”

“Think of the food.”

“Bitch,” Chloe said cheerfully.

“And they probably have an exercise room as well. Most of these big old houses turned conference centers do. You don’t need to worry about your butt.”

“Double bitch,” Chloe said, regretting she’d ever expressed concern over her curves.

“Come on, Chloe,” Sylvia said, wheedling. “You know you want to. You’ll have a marvelous time. It won’t be as boring as you think, and maybe we’ll be able to celebrate my engagement when you get back.”

Chloe doubted it. “When am I supposed to leave?”

Sylvia let out a little crow of triumph. Not that she’d ever seriously expected not to get her way. “That’s the best part. The limo’s probably downstairs by now. You’ll be reporting to Mr. Hakim and he’ll tell you what to do.”

“Hakim? My Arabic is lousy.”

“I told you, it’s all French to English and back. Groups of importers are bound to be multinational, but all of them speak either English or French. Piece of cake, Chloe. In more ways than one.”

“Triple bitch,” Chloe said. “Do I have time…?”

“No. It’s eight-thirty-three and the limo was supposed to arrive at eight-thirty. These people tend to be very precise. Just put on a little makeup and we’ll go down.”

“I’m already wearing makeup.”

Sylvia let out an exasperated sigh. “Not enough. Come with me and I’ll fix you up.” She grabbed her hand and started tugging her toward the bathroom.

“I don’t need fixing up,” Chloe protested, yanking her hand free.

“They’re paying seven hundred euros a day, and all you have to do is talk.”

Chloe put her hand back in Sylvia’s. “Fix me up,” she said, resigned, and followed Sylvia into the cramped little bathroom at the far end of the room.

Bastien Toussaint, also known

as Sebastian Toussaint, Jean-Marc Marceau, Jeffrey Pillbeam, Carlos Santeria, Vladimir the Butcher, Wilhelm Minor and a good half dozen other names and identities, lit a cigarette, inhaling with mild pleasure. The last three jobs he’d been a nonsmoker, and he’d adapted with his usual cool acceptance. He didn’t tend to let weakness get to him—he was relatively impervious to addictions, pain, torture or tenderness. He could, occasionally, be merciful if the situation called for it. If it didn’t, he dispensed justice without blinking. He did what he had to do.

But whether he needed the cigarette or not, he enjoyed it, just as he’d enjoy the fine wines with dinner and the single malt whiskies that were supposed to lower his guard and make him indiscreet. And he would be, spilling just enough information to satisfy the others and advance his agenda. He could do the same with vodka, but he preferred Scotch, and he’d enjoy it along with the cigarettes and do without when this job was over.

It had lasted longer than most of his assignments. They’d been working on his cover for more than two years, and when he’d stepped into the role eleven months ago he’d been more than ready. He was a patient man, and he knew how long it took for things to be set in motion. But the payoff was close at hand, and that knowledge gave him a cool satisfaction, although he was going to miss Bastien Toussaint. He’d gotten used to him by now—the faint, Gallic charm, the sharpwitted ruthlessness, the eye for women. He’d had more sex as Bastien than he’d had for a while. Sex was another indulgence he could take or leave, another pleasure to be savored if it came his way. He was supposed to have a wife back in Marseilles, but that made little difference. Most of the men he’d be meeting with had wives and children, nice little nuclear families back in the mother country. Children and wives who happily live off the profits of their mutual occupation.

Importing. Importing fruit from the Middle East. Importing beef from Australia. Importing arms to whoever could pay the highest price.

At least it wasn’t drugs this time. He had never been totally comfortable with smuggling heroin. Foolish sentimentality on his part—people chose to use drugs, they didn’t choose to be shot by the guns he trafficked. It must be a throwback to his old life, so long gone that he barely remembered it.

It was a cold, crisp winter day. There was a distant scent of apples on the air, and the calming sound of the garden staff raking leaves in front of the sprawling house. Most of the staff would be carrying guns under their loose clothing. Semiautomatics, maybe Uzis. Possibly ones he’d provided.

It would be damned funny if one of them killed him.