Ice Storm (Ice 4)
“Yes, but retired businessmen in the Netherlands don’t get murdered because they’re annoying. And I have no intention of living in the Netherlands. I thought England.”
“Why not home to America?”
She could feel his eyes on her. “What makes you think I come from the United States?”
“Your past is very hard to pin down, but as far as we can tell you were born somewhere in the U.S. in the late sixties. Which makes you approaching middle-aged, ready for an early retirement. The perfect businessman.”
“Perhaps. But we’re not in the Netherlands. What about Ireland?”
“It’s bloody enough.”
“So which side of The Troubles are you on? Must be the English side, with that impeccable British accent of yours.”
There was nothing beneath his noncommittal tone—no suggestion that the British accent wasn’t quite real.
“Neither side. I don’t like war.”
“Then you picked the wrong line of work, Madame Lambert. Or is this just where your talents lie?”
It was meant to sting, but she’d made peace with all that a lifetime ago. “I’m very good at what I do, Mr. Serafin. It wouldn’t be smart to underestimate me.”
“Oh, I never would. I’m quite in awe of you, as a matter of fact. Not many women could immerse themselves so totally in their role. And even a conservative guess at your number of terminations is quite impressive.”
“You’re responsible for the deaths of thousands, probably tens of thousands. It will take me a long time to reach your level.”
“If I were you I wouldn’t even try. After all, there can only be one Butcher.”
“True enough. I have no interest in being the most dangerous woman alive.”
“My dear Isobel,” he said in that voice she could almost remember, “you already are.”
There was nothing she could say in response. She only hoped he was right. “I suggest you give me some warning when we’re about to cross the border. I like to be prepared.”
“It’s actually a lot easier than you’re expecting. Cigarette smugglers and poor families do it all the time. You just have to know the right route.”
“And you do?”
“We crossed into Algeria over an hour ago, dear Isobel. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Don’t tempt fate. There’s always something to worry about.”
“Then that’s the difference between you and me. Worry’s a waste of time. You take what comes as it gets here.”
“And how are we going to explain our entrance into Algeria? I have passports for the two of us, but not for Jack the Ripper, Junior in the backseat. And they show us
entering Morocco, not Algeria.”
“My contact has taken care of the necessary paperwork. I can get us out of the country. I presume you can get us into England, or I never would have contacted your people.”
“I can. But you’re taking a lot for granted. What if I came to kill you, not to rescue you?”
“Then one of us would already be dead,” he replied. “I’m a valuable commodity and, despite your personal distaste, you’re going to have to follow orders. I’m going to get away with murder and be handsomely rewarded for it.”
He was wrong about one thing. Following orders had never been a high priority with her, and she was now in the unfortunate position of having to issue her own orders. To decide between life and death. The Committee might want this man alive, and there was no denying the wealth of information he could bring them.
But she had killed him once. She wouldn’t hesitate to kill him again.
The sky was beginning to lighten, an eerily beautiful shade of blue across the mountainous landscape. They’d been descending for the last hour, and in the gathering dawn she could see signs of life in the distance. A small town, not much larger than the ruins of Nazir.