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The Committee had other names. Official ones to cover any slips, names that had nothing to do with their actual work. The powers that be recognized talent when they saw it, and young Peter Madsen had shown more than promise.
He’d been trained, groomed, educated and made over. He was a crack shot, and almost as effective with a dozen other weapons. He could speak five languages fluently, he could be straight, gay, American, Scandinavian, British or German. He could kill without compunction and live under deep cover for years until it was time to strike. They’d chosen wisely when they recognized his budding potential, and he’d served them well in their bloody, supposedly noble cause.
He’d even married, briefly, a futile stab at some kind of normalcy. And because Thomason thought it would make him a better agent if there was something that mattered to him. Thomason hadn’t realized that Peter was already one of the best there was, and that having a wife at home never entered his mind when he was on assignment.
He heard she remarried—a dentist maybe. She’d grown tired of being alone, and he couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t had enough imagination to realize he was anything other than the pharmaceutical representative he claimed to be. And he was certain she was much happier in her neat little house in Dorking. She was probably pregnant by now.
He could tell himself he missed her, but that would be a lie, and he was adept at lying to everyone but himself. He could barely remember her face.
But he missed the thought that someone was waiting for him in that tumbledown cottage in Wiltshire that sat on far too many acres. He never should have bought the place. He’d done it on a whim, because he had too much money and nothing to spend it on, because word had come down that everyone should have the cover of a stable life. He bought the house because it felt peaceful in a life devoid of peace. And he found a wife to put in it as soon as he could. It hadn’t taken much—he knew how to charm women into doing exactly what he wanted with insulting ease.
Except for Genevieve Spenser, who seemed maddeningly impervious.
But the wife had never belonged in Wiltshire. And now she was gone, the house closed up, and Harry Thomason was retired. So were many of his friends— retired or dead. Of the operatives he’d started out with, Peter was the only one remaining.
Maybe he could just disappear into the wilds of America, as his old friend Bastien had. Maybe he could just walk away from it as well.
But not with a job unfinished and a thousand unanswered questions hanging in the balance. Harry’s pretentious Rule of Seven hovered over them all, and what little they’d discovered was terrifying enough. If Harry’s hired thugs had managed to sabotage that dam in India hundreds of thousands of people would have died. And what could possibly be his reason for instituting such carnage?
The assault on the oil fields was equally impractical—he’d chosen some of the richest deposits, ones he himself owned a major part of, though he’d planned to divest himself of his interests before the planned conflagration. Why?
What else did he have planned? And would they be as easy to circumvent once they discovered them?
In fact, each of Harry’s plans was so delicately balanced that it hadn’t taken much to render them harmless. He wanted the control and the thrill even more than he seemed to want a guaranteed outcome. The trick was in discovering them in the first place, and with the Indian dam it had been sheer luck. If the destruction of the oil fields went through, the death toll wouldn’t be as catastrophic, but the ramifications in world financial markets would be global. Maybe that’s what he had in mind. Carefully orchestrated chaos, giving Harry Van Dorn the chance to step in, well armed with information, and make a financial killing.
He already had more money than God, and thorough searches of his financial records hadn’t turned up any recent losses. It hadn’t taken much to find the hidden sweatshops that the humanitarian institutions had no idea existed, much less the child prostitution mills in Southeast Asia. But such things were very lucrative, and Harry didn’t need more money.
But he wanted it. Peter already knew his appetites were perverse and insatiable. He just hadn’t realized it included his appetite for money.
The Committee was taking a gamble, terminating Harry before they knew the full extent of his plan. They were counting on his gigantic ego—he would delegate only the barest minimum, and nothing would go down without his immediate say-so. Or so they hoped.
In the meantime, Harry would die a tragic, accidental death. And any extraneous details would be cleaned up quickly and tidily.
Extraneous details like the woman sitting across from him with calm self-assurance. Maybe she thought he couldn’t go through with it. If so, then she wasn’t as smart as he thought s
he was. He could do just about anything if he had to. Killing Genevieve Spenser was part of a bloody day’s work. No more, no less.
“One would think you didn’t like my cooking,” he said.
“I don’t have much appetite.”
“And you haven’t touched the wine, when we both know how good it is.”
“Neither have you.”
“Do you think it’s drugged? Poisoned? I assure you it’s not. I’m simply not drinking because…”
“Because you’re on a job?” she suggested mockingly. “Far be it from me to distract you from your duty. In fact, poison would probably be a fine idea— I have faith in your promise it won’t hurt. And if you’re simply trying to render me unconscious I don’t mind that either—as you know from my tranquilizers, I have no objection to pharmaceutical aids.”
“Then why aren’t you drinking?”
She met his gaze, her own calm and steady. “Because I don’t want to do anything foolish that would give you the excuse to touch me, thank you very much.”
“You don’t like being touched?”
“Not by you.”
That was a lie. She knew it as well, because she turned her head, staring out into the night garden. But he wouldn’t call her on it—he was neither as smug nor as cruel to push it. In truth, he had little judgment when it came to how irresistible he was. He was always playing a part, whether it was the obsequious servant who either did or did not provide sexual favors or the blandly devoted husband, whose lovemaking was as straightforward and unimaginative as he could manage. He performed just well enough to get his ex-wife to climax, figuring that a boring middle-class drug salesman could do that much, but he wouldn’t let himself go past a simple, physical release. He never did, whether his partner was a shy housewife or a kinky sadist or anywhere in between. Control was everything.
