Ice Storm (Ice 4)

“Yes, ma’am.” His was deceptively docile. “We’re heading for Bilbao, right?”

“Yes.”

“And what time does our ferry sail?”

She hadn’t told him it was the Bilbao to Portsmouth ferry, but it wasn’t that big a leap on his part, once she’d said they weren’t flying. “Late this afternoon. We have to pick up our paperwork by two.”

“Good. We should make it with time to spare. If you reach on the floor behind you there’s some food and coffee.”

“I don’t trust your coffee.”

“I wasn’t the one who drugged you last time—it was Samuel’s wife, and while I didn’t stop her, I didn’t necessarily order it. If you’d promise to stop nagging me I’d have no reason to drug you.”

She wasn’t going to bring up the other time he’d drugged her, so many years ago. Because she remembered every touch, every taste, as well. She reached in back, finding the paper sack. A thermos of coffee, fresh bread, cheese and olives. No cups—she was going to have to share. Put her mouth where his had been. Maybe she’d prefer to be drugged.

She took a deep slug of the coffee, full of cream and just a touch of sugar, just as she expected, then handed it to him. If he recognized her distaste he said nothing, simply pouring a good half of it down his throat before handing it back to her. With any willpower she’d have put the stopper back in and done without, but right now she needed coffee more than pride, so she drained it, waiting to see if she was about to pass out. Or die. She wouldn’t put poison past him.

She was rewarded with a ferocious growl from her empty stomach. “No drugs,” Killian said, his eyes on the road. “Now eat something and hand me the rest.”

She pulled apart the bread, reluctantly, for she could have devoured it all herself. Keeping a chunk in the bag for Mahmoud when he woke up, she handed the smaller of the two remaining pieces to Killian. The cheese was sharp and tangy, the olives rich, and she ate slowly, staring out at the countryside, ignoring the man beside her for as long as he’d let her.

“You have a mole in your office.”

She jerked her head around. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d know if anyone was untrustworthy.”

“The pilot was tipped off. Whoever paid Samuel took care of the plane, as well. You led someone to me.”

“They found you on their own. What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

“The pilot was chatty while he thought he had me trapped. Apparently he didn’t read those überwarlord rules, where you never brag about your wicked deeds to the hero because he’s likely to escape and make all hell break loose.”

“You’re not the hero.”

“No, I suppose not. Nevertheless, the pilot knew to expect you and me, though they had no idea Mahmoud would be with us. The same source paid off both the pilot and Samuel, and the arrangements were made five days ago. Just after I contacted your office.”

“Coincidence. If you’ll remember I had nothing to do with our going into Algeria. If you’d followed my plans we would have flown out of Mauritania and been back in London by now. Someone must have been watching you.”

“If we followed your plans we probably would have been dead several days ago. I still have sources, and you’ve

got someone in your operation who knows too much.”

“Don’t blame me for your screwup. I trust my associates with my life.”

“Fine,” he said, his tone cool. “But I don’t trust them with mine. Which is why we’re taking the ferry from Santander, not Bilbao. I’m afraid it takes us into Plymouth, not Portsmouth.”

She froze. “I don’t want to go to Plymouth with you,” she said coolly.

“I know you don’t. Tough.”

“And how do you expect to get the proper papers?”

“Already taken care of, princess. I’m not giving anyone else a chance to take me down until I’m safe and sound in London, where I assume you’ll provide adequate protection. Where are you planning to put me up? I was thinking the Ritz-Carlton would be nice.”

“And a little too visible, don’t you think? We have a number of safe houses around the city, as well as out in the countryside. It might not be quite up to your exacting standards, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I’m hardly a beggar. We’ve got a business arrangement, exchanging information for services rendered. I expected to be handsomely compensated.”

“You’ll be well compensated,” she said. Even though the words stuck in her throat. Harry Thomason would see that Serafin was well rewarded for his life of blood and death. At least her old boss wouldn’t have any moral qualms about arranging for the notorious operative’s future. He would see it as Killian did: a business arrangement, and all the blood spilled meant nothing. “Assuming the intel you provide is useful. We’ll know if you’re lying, and we won’t be happy about it.”