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He gave her a crooked smile. “But I would very much like for it to be.”
She shook her head, amusement still on her face. “It can’t be. All I can offer is friendship.”
“In that case, I would be honored to be your friend. And I’ll keep hoping,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
Later that afternoon, Ronsard picked up the sheaf of papers Cara had faxed to him. He had quickly read through them when they arrived, but now he studied them more closely. There was nothing suspicious about Niema Jamieson. She was from New Hampshire, had attended an exclusive women’s college, married at the age of twenty-four, and was widowed at twenty-eight. Her husband had been killed in a yachting accident. They had been mentioned a few times in society columns, usually with a descrip
tive tag such as “devoted couple.” She was exactly what she seemed to be, a rarity in his world.
He liked her. She could be surprisingly blunt, but without malice. In a way, he even liked that she wasn’t romantically interested in him. He still wanted to take her to bed, but there was no pressure from her, no expectations to be met. She had simply had lunch with him, and that was that. Afterward she had taken a taxi back to the embassy, without hinting for another invitation—which, of course, made him even more determined to see her again. He had asked her out to dinner again, only to be gently refused. He persisted until she at least agreed to another lunch.
The telephone rang, his private line, and he absently answered it. “Ronsard.”
It was Cara. “Ernst Morrell has been in contact.”
Ronsard’s lips thinned. He neither liked nor trusted Morrell. Though by the nature of his business he dealt on a daily basis with fanatics, madmen, or plain murderers, Morrell was probably the most vicious. He was the head of a small but particularly virulent terrorist organization and had a particular fondness for bombs. He had set explosives in a hospital in Germany, killing six patients in retaliation for Germany’s cooperation with the United States on a military action against Iraq.
“What does he want?”
“He’s heard about RDX-a. He wants it.”
Ronsard swore a lurid phrase. First Temple, and now Morrell. But Temple was one thing, and Morrell something else entirely; though he had expected information about RDX-a to leak, he hadn’t expected it to happen quite so fast. He and the manufacturer had an agreement; he would be the lone conduit of the compound. Such exclusivity would be enormously profitable to both of them, at least until someone else was able to duplicate the compound. He had not told anyone, because the explosive still wasn’t perfected; it would be much more in demand if it were reliable, rather than having an unfortunate reputation for early detonation. That meant the manufacturer was logically responsible for, as the Americans would say, everyone and his brother knowing about RDX-a.
But it seemed as if his partners had decided to sacrifice large future riches for immediate gain. He sighed. To hell with them. He would collect his percentage and issue a warning to the buyers that the compound wasn’t yet reliable. He had to protect his business on that end, since the source had proven so short-sighted.
“When does he want it?” he asked in resignation, rubbing a sudden ache between his eyes.
“He didn’t say. He wants to talk to you.”
“Did he leave a number?”
“Yes, and he said you could reach him there only for another forty-five minutes.”
That was common, at least among the more efficient organizations: They moved frequently and had only short windows of time during which they could be contacted. Such tactics greatly reduced their chances of being located.
Ronsard jotted down the number Cara recited, and as soon as their call was disconnected he began dialing. It was a London number, he saw. The rings brrrd in his ear, then stopped as the receiver was lifted. “Bakery.” The one word was heavily accented.
Ronsard said only one word, his name. There was thirty seconds of silence, then a different voice said heartily, “You are prompt, my friend.” Morrell was a stocky, barrel-chested man, but his voice was incongruously light. He always spoke as if he were throwing the words from his mouth, trying to counteract the lightness of his voice by sheer velocity.
He was not, and never would be, Morrell’s friend. “You have an order, I believe.”
“I hear such interesting rumors about a new recipe! I have use for one thousand kilograms.”
A thousand kilograms! Ronsard’s eyebrows arched. That was enough explosive to destroy London, not that Morrell would use it only in one place. No, he would wreak destruction all over the industrialized world, or perhaps sell some of it himself. “Such an amount will be very, very expensive.”
“Some things are worth their cost.”
“Did the rumors tell you that the recipe has not been perfected?”
“Not perfected, how?”
“The results are unreliable. Unstable.”
“Ah.” There was silence as Morrell processed this. No sane person wanted to work with an explosive that might go off during transport, but then, Ronsard thought with grim humor, sanity was not required with these people.
“What brings about these unfortunate results?”
“Rough handling. Being dropped, for instance.”
