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“I’m fine,” Genevieve said in a tight voice.
“What about medication? Peter said you were fond of tranquilizers.”
“Fuck Peter,” she snapped. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t thought of her blessed little yellow pills in a long time. I guess when things get really bad I don’t need them, she thought. They’re just for minor annoyances, not life and death.
“I believe you already did,” Madame Lambert murmured. “I can get you whatever you need. It will just take a phone call and it’ll be waiting for us.”
She almost asked for Tab. She’d been careful with her last meal—her experience at Carl’s Junior had taught her not to shove food into her face—but she’d had to make do with Diet Coke. Surely she deserved a can of Tab before walking into the valley of death.
“I’m fine,” she said. They were climbing higher and higher into the mountains, and a light fog was rolling in. There must have been some kind of massive forest fire in the last few years. Twisted black stalks of dead trees covered the hillsides, making it look like a strange sort of cemetery. She kept her eyes away from the road; the driver was going way too fast for the conditions, and she was nervous enough. Was she ready to die on this strange, barren hillside? Was she going to have any choice?
The fog was getting thicker the higher they climbed. Madame Lambert was busy with her Black- Berry-like device—a duplicate of the one Peter had used. Modern technology and the spy world, Genevieve thought. Except they weren’t spies, were they? She didn’t know what the hell they were, and she didn’t care.
“Supposing you manage to kill Harry?” she said. “What then?”
“Then it all gets covered up very neatly. We have the full cooperation of certain branches of the U.S. government, and no one will ever know he didn’t die in an unfortunate car wreck on one of these twisty roads. They have rock slides all the time—sometimes boulders the size of a Volkswagen bug come down on the road. One could squash Harry, and even his good friend the president will have no idea what really happened.”
“Squash a bug with a bug. Sounds fitting,” she said. “And what about me with all my unfortunate knowledge? Aren’t you going to have to squash me, too?”
“You read too many thrillers, Genevieve,” Madame Lambert said. “You aren’t going to say a word to anyone. For one thing, no one would believe you. For another, you’ll want to forget these past few weeks, put them completely behind you. And there’s one more thing.”
“And that is?”
“You won’t want to endanger Peter. You wouldn’t blow his cover, no matter how wounded you are.”
“Are you talking potential physical wounds? Because I promise you I have no emotional scars at all.”
“Of course you don’t,” Madame Lambert agreed in her cool voice. “And there’ll be no physical wounds. You’re well protected.”
There wasn’t enough Kevlar in the world to protect her from the damage Peter Madsen had already done to her. “Bring it on,” she said wearily. “I’m ready.”
“That’s good,” her companion said. “Because we’re here.”
Peter was cursing the fog with steady, pungent curses. He’d staked out a small spot overlooking the wide circular driveway by Harry’s lavish mansion, and Mannion, who’d been part of the original team to take Harry hostage, was with him, squinting at the text message while Peter tried to see through the gathering fog.
“You suppose Van Dorn can even control the weather?” Mannion said after a moment. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“He’s got enough money,” Peter said grimly. The billowing fog moved and writhed like a living thing, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of his target and then covering it again. He set the rifle down and leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes for a moment.
“There’s no movement down there,” Mannion said. “Aren’t they supposed to be here by now? Maybe they’re hoping the fog will clear.”
“It could just as likely get worse, and Madame Lambert knows it,” Peter said. “They’ll be here soon.”
Mannion punched a series of buttons, then smiled. Smiles sat strangely on Mannion’s rough, battered face, but they were never without good cause.
“What’s up?”
“They found Takashi. In one piece. He’s pretty messed up, and they’re not sure he’ll make it, but you know our boy. No pantywaist billionaire is any match for a born-and-bred Yakuza.”
“That’s something,” Peter said, returning to his post. The dark black sedan was sitting there, and he was pretty sure the engine was running. Sound carried strangely in the fog, but every now and then he heard the rumble of an engine. Did Harry have the children in the car? Or had he betrayed them and already killed them?
They’d gone into this knowing there was a good possibility that Harry would renege on his end of the bargain. A thwarted billionaire was a dangerous thing, particularly one of Harry’s twisted temperament, and he’d like nothing better than to fuck them over. He thought he was inviolate—he could get away with anything, no matter how heinous. His grip on reality was slipping, which made him even more dangerous.
The fog shifted, and he could get a clear view of the car. No sign of any children, no sign of anything. And then he heard another car approach, and he didn’t need Mannion to inform him that Genny had arrived.
He didn’t want her to do this. He should have told her that, but something had stopped him, and now she might die because he’d been too fatheaded to say anything. The car pulled up to the heavy iron gate and waited. Waited. Peter’s mouth was dry.
Mannion had enough sense to keep quiet. He kept his attention riveted on the scene below, not glancing at the machine in his hand.
