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11
Isobel fastened the seat belt around the voluminous cloth of her burka as Killian tucked Mahmoud’s unconscious body into the leather seat opposite her. The boy was so small he could almost curl up in it, and she watched as Killian adjusted the seat belt, then covered him with a blanket. Her nemesis knew she was studying him through the screened eyepiece of the blue garment, but he ignored her.
There had been two men waiting for them, strangers. One the pilot, one the money man. She’d caught enough of Killian’s Arabic to figure out they were asking about his companions. Apparently they’d expected him to come alone, not with an Arab wife and child.
The very thought had been nauseating on many levels. That she was in any way connected to this man, even in disguise, was hateful. She was no man’s wife. Her relationship with Stephan had been cool and efficient, and while pleasing her had been a matter of male pride to him, there’d been no emotion involved. He was thirty years older than she was, and when he’d died from cancer six years after they married, she’d felt a disconnected sort of relief. The Committee was her family. Her job was the only husband she needed.
“Stay put,” Killian said. “I’m riding in the cockpit. I’m not sure I trust our pilot. If Mahmoud wakes up and starts causing trouble, just hit him with another shot of this.” He tossed a syringe into her lap. “That should keep him out of commission long enough. We’re landing in Spain—after that it’s up to you to get us to London.”
“I already had plans to get us out of Morocco. Why the hell did you drag us over an illegal border and into this mess?”
“Did I ever give you the impression that I wanted to confide in you, princess? We’re doing this my way, and I don’t have to give you reasons. I had an errand in Algeria. While you were sleeping I checked in with former employers of mine, one of the few who don’t want me dead. I’ve taken care of it, we’re on our way out, and now you can take over once more, as you’ve been itching to do. But Mahmoud comes with us, drugged or not.”
She resisted the impulse to sweep the syringe off her lap. “How do you know this is e
ven the right dosage? For that matter, why is he still asleep and I’m awake?”
“You were given enough that you should have been out for hours yet. Let’s just say you’re an exceptional woman.”
“And if I were still unconscious? Would you have left me behind in the house?” She didn’t know why she was asking. At least her voice sounded no more than casually curious, and he couldn’t see the expression on her face.
“I’d already set the charges, and I only had time to bring one of you out. You or Mahmoud. What do you think?”
She tore the headpiece off, wanting to look at him without the screening between them. “I think you’re a man who’d choose someone who wants to kill you over someone who wants to save you.”
“You’ve learned a lot over the years, princess. Perhaps not as much as you think, but you’re still quite observant. However, you’re forgetting the fact that you want me dead with just as much passion as Mahmoud does. You’re just not going to act on it.”
She didn’t bother denying that. “Not now.”
“No, not now,” he said thoughtfully. “Call me if you need anything.” And a moment later he was gone, behind the door that separated the cockpit from the tiny, luxurious interior of the plane.
The takeoff into the desert night was smooth and effortless; at least the pilot knew what he was doing. Once they were at a decent altitude she unfastened her seat belt and pulled the burka over her head, shoving it under the seat. She would have preferred to throw it out the window, set it on fire, anything to get rid of it, but she wasn’t that stupid. Spain had a large Muslim population, and a woman observing purdah would hardly be remarkable. It would require life-or-death circumstances to make her put that thing on again, but unfortunately, such circumstances were the norm right now.
She looked over at the sleeping Mahmoud. She’d seen child soldiers before, of course. Seen them kill, seen them die, and Mahmoud was just one of a long line of faceless bodies. She didn’t believe in the power of redemption, or second chances—she’d been in the business too long. But she also knew that anything was possible. If Killian were dead, Mahmoud would have nothing driving him. Maybe then he might have a future.
She leaned back, looking out into the dark night, then reached inside her bra for the small device that contained her world. It was a cross between a Blackberry, a PDA and a cell phone, so advanced no one could hack into it, at least not as of the day she’d left England. Fortunately, no one had touched her, searched her. She opened the keyboard and began to text, hoping to God Peter was on call.
But of course he was. The only thing that could distract him was Genevieve, and at this hour she was probably lying in bed next to him, sound asleep.
A few minutes later Isobel snapped the phone shut, tucking it back inside her bra. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were bringing their adopted child back to the U.K. via the Bilbao to Portsmouth ferry, a nice, leisurely ride where no one would think of looking for them. Someone would meet them at the ferry terminal with the proper IDs.
How Peter would get an updated photo of Killian was beyond Isobel’s comprehension, but she didn’t doubt he could do it. He could do anything. In the meantime, she needed to get them to the northern port from wherever they were going to land. She pushed herself out of the chair and headed for the cockpit door.
It was locked. “Bastard,” she muttered under her breath, rattling the latch. “Open the goddamn door,” she snapped.
There was a low murmur of Arabic, and then Killian’s voice, clear and cool. “What do you want?”
“I want you to open the door.”
“Don’t be tiresome.” Did his tone sound odd? She couldn’t be certain. “Go and sit down. We should be landing before long.”
“Landing where? I need to make arrangements.” She rattled the door again.
“We can make arrangements when we land, Sarah. In the meantime take care of little Benjamin.”
She froze. As a code it was far from sophisticated, but the message was clear. Something was wrong, and it didn’t sound as if Killian was going to be able to fix it.
Which left things up to her. She still had the Swiss Army knife, and the engine noise was loud enough to cover her work. In less than a minute the lock clicked open, and she pulled the gun from her waist and pushed at the door.
