“I’m fine, thank you,” Killian said mockingly. He had a cut over one eye, oozing blood, but apart from that he seemed to be in one piece. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the police show up.”
“Morrison…” She tried to look past him, but Killian blocked her.
“You don’t need to look,” he said.
“Oh, bite me,” she snapped. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.” She pushed him out of the way, then paused.
It wasn’t pretty. The Bentley had exploded, sending shrapnel spraying through the crowd. There were at least seven people down, and she could thank heaven it was the off-season, or the body count would be far worse.
She recognized what was left of Morrison by the uniform. He’d been a good man, loyal and brave. He would have hated to die dressed like a chauffeur, she thought, dazed.
Killian had an iron grip on her arm, and the pain pulled her back into reality. In turn, she grabbed Mahmoud’s hand, hauling him after her. The place was in chaos, but ambulances and police were already on their way, and the sooner they got out of there the better.
They ran. Into the heart of the city, past people rushing in the opposite direction. “Hold on a minute,” Killian muttered, pulling them toward a tea shop. He yanked off his jean jacket. “Put this on.”
She wasn’t wearing anything of his, particularly something still holding his body heat. “Forget it.”
“Put it on,” he said. “Or people will see the blood on your back.”
She didn’t question it, didn’t think about it. There wasn’t time. She took the jacket from him and pulled it on. She didn’t wince at the pain in her back, simply pulled the damn thing close, ignoring the crazy fact that it felt as if he was putting his arms around her.
Mahmoud said something, and she glanced down at him.
“Mahmoud says you’re a warrior woman,” Killian translated. “Worthy of being a suicide bomber.”
“Charming,” Isobel responded, chilled. “Tell him I’m flattered.”
“Later,” Killian said. “Keep your head down.”
She stopped thinking at that point. The sunny day had vanished, and a cold rain began to fall. All she could do was follow him, the child trotting beside her, and hope Killian wasn’t leading her into a trap.
16
Harry Thomason lit a cigar, leaned back in the leather chair that had cradled the backsides of generations of English civil servants, and contemplated the goodness of life. The glass of whiskey in front of him was just the right blend—no single malts for him, thank you very much. He was a traditionalist, and he liked his whiskey blended, his cigars Cuban and his power absolute.
A street rat like Peter Madsen didn’t belong in a gentleman’s club like this, he thought. In these sorry times Peter could probably get membership, but at least they drew the line at a bitch like Isobel Lambert. Sooner or later some idiot in the government would try to change that, as well. But by then Sir Harry would have regained enough power to see that sort of bullshit never happened.
The first thing he was going to do was get rid of that Oriental freak Madsen had brought in. Were they out of their minds? Takashi O’Brien had been bad enough—there was no room for third world operatives in their line of work. He’d proved useful, there was no denying it, but it would have been just as well if Van Dorn had finished him, and he could have been replaced by any one of the shadow agents Thomason was still running.
He should probably dispense with Madsen, as well. The fellow knew too much. Harry had picked him up in the first place, trying to murder an MP’s son, no less. A bloody, violent little brat who’d cleaned up well enough, he’d now outlived his usefulness. Besides, he was unfit for duty, a cripple, and only a sentimental fool like Isobel Lambert would keep him on. Maybe he could just be retired out to that place in Wiltshire with his obnoxious American wife. Then again, Peter never did listen to warnings.
At least Bastien Toussaint and his family would be gone. He’d always been a thorn in Harry’s side; had it not been for Toussaint he never would have been replaced. The knowledge that he had, at last, made it right, was sweet indeed. Sending three of Stolya’s men was probably overdoing it, but he didn’t like to take chances. Word hadn’t filtered over to this side of the Atlantic, but it would soon. It was something he was looking forward to.
He took a sip of the whiskey, letting it roll around on his tongue, blend with the taste of the cigar. It had been a frustrating few days, but he’d learned to be patient. Good things seldom c
ame without drawbacks. The Serbs had screwed up the information he’d carefully leaked, and Serafin and the bitch had gotten away. The pilot had screwed up, as well—they’d found the plane and the body on an airfield just outside of Zaragoza, with no sign of his passengers.
But by now it should be finished. The incendiary device on the Bentley had been precisely timed, set to blow the moment the ignition was turned a second time. Just when Serafin and Isobel and the child they were dragging along with them got in the car.
Let it never be said that Harry wasn’t a practical man. He had no idea what had happened in Isobel’s past, how she had come to know a man like Serafin. And now he never would, because they would all be gone in a cloud of smoke and shrapnel and blood. He could live with that. The Committee had lost too many good operatives, and Stolya would see that Madsen would provide no difficulties. A tragedy involving Peter and his new wife could go either way—a sad accident or a preemptive strike from an unknown enemy. In either case, they would have to turn to him, with Isobel dead in a car bomb blast.
Things were far too lax. In Harry’s day, someone like Hiromasa whatever his bloody name was wouldn’t have gotten as far as London. In his day, a woman would never be put in charge of a job only a cool, practical man could accomplish.
And Thomason had every intention of getting back there, where he belonged. Back to the good old days, where enemies were straightforward, where you trusted no one, and any inconveniences and anomalies were wiped out. The ends justified the means.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was going to be a busy man the next couple of days, once the word about the car bomb came through. His cigar had gone out, and he relit it, drawing in a deep, mellow stream of smoke. He’d be ready.
It felt like they walked for miles through the busy streets of Plymouth. The smell of the car bomb lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of diesel fuel and the distant tang of the ocean. A cold, light rain was falling, and Isobel kept her head down, huddled in Killian’s jacket.