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So, they must know about the microfilm. Jane punched in her credit card number. She’d be glad to get the whole thing over with, and at least Grant was going to be with her one more day. Just one more day! It was a reprieve, but she didn’t know if she’d have the strength for another good-bye.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE VIRGINIA COUNTRYSIDE around the place was quiet and serene, the trees green, the flowering shrubs well-tended. It looked rather like her father’s Connecticut estate. Everyone was polite, and several people greeted Grant, but Jane noticed that even the ones who spoke to him did so hesitantly, as if they were a little wary of him.
Kell’s office was right where it had always been, and the door still had no name on it. The agent who had escorted them knocked quietly. “Sullivan is here, sir.”
“Send them in.”
The first thing Jane noticed was the old-fashioned charm of the room. The ceilings were high; the mantel was surely the original one that had been built with the house over a hundred years before. Tall glass doors behind the big desk let in the late afternoon sun. They also placed the man behind the desk in silhouette, while anyone who came in the door was spotlighted by the blazing sun, something George had told her about. He rose to his feet as they entered, a tall man, maybe not quite as tall as Grant, but lean and hard with a whipcord toughness that wasn’t maintained by sitting behind a desk.
He stepped forward to greet them. “You look like hell, Sullivan,” he said, and the two men shook hands; then he turned his eyes on her, and for the first time Jane felt his power. His eyes were so black that there was no light in them at all; they absorbed light, drawing it into the depths of the irises. His hair was thick and black, his complexion dark, and there was an intense energy about him that seared her.
“Ms. Greer,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Mr. Sabin,” she returned, calmly shaking his hand.
“I have a very embarrassed agent in Dallas.”
“He shouldn’t be,” Grant drawled behind her. “She let him off easy.”
“Grant’s boots were in the pack,” Jane explained. “That’s what stunned him so badly when I hit him in the head.”
There was the first hint in Sabin’s eyes that Jane wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Grant stood behind her, his arms calmly folded, and waited.
Sabin examined her open expression, the catlike slant of her dark eyes, the light dusting of freckles across her cheekbones. Then he quickly glanced at Grant, who was planted like the Rock of Gibraltar behind her. He could question her, but he had the feeling that Grant wouldn’t let her be harrassed in any way. It wasn’t like Sullivan to get involved, but he was out of the business now, so the old rules didn’t apply. She wasn’t a great beauty, but there was a lively charm about her that almost made Sabin want to smile. Maybe she’d gotten close to Sullivan. Sabin didn’t trust that openness, however, because he knew more about her now than he had in the beginning.
“Ms. Greer,” he began slowly, “did you know that George Persall was—”
“Yes, I did,” Jane interrupted cheerfully. “I helped him sometimes, but not often, because he liked to use different methods every time. I believe this is what you want.” She opened the backpack and began digging in it. “I know it’s in here. There!” She produced the small roll of film, placing it on his desk.
Both men looked thunderstruck. “You’ve just been carrying it around?” Sabin asked in disbelief.
“Well, I didn’t have a chance to hide it. Sometimes I put it in my pocket. That way Turego could search my room all he wanted and he’d never find anything. All of you spy types try to make everything too complicated. George always told me to keep it simple.”
Grant began to chuckle. He couldn’t help it; it was funny. “Jane, why didn’t you tell me you had the microfilm?”
“I thought it would be safer for you if you didn’t know about it.”
Again Sabin looked thunderstruck, as if he couldn’t believe anyone would actually feel the need to protect Grant Sullivan. As Kell was normally the most impassive of men, Grant knew that Jane had tilted him off balance, just as she did everyone she met. Sabin coughed to cover his reaction.
“Ms. Greer,” he asked cautiously, “do you know what’s on the film?”
“No. Neither did George.”
Grant was laughing again. “Go ahead,” he told Sabin. “Tell her about the film. Or, better yet, show her. She’ll enjoy it.”
Sabin shook his head, then picked up the film and pulled it out, unwinding it. Grant produced his cigarette lighter, leaned forward, and set the end of the film on fire. The three watched as the flames slowly ate up the length of celluloid until it burned close to Sabin’s fingers and he dropped it into a large ashtray. “The film,” Sabin explained, “was a copy of something we don’t want anyone else to know. All we wanted was for it to be destroyed before anyone saw it.”
With the stench of burning plastic in her nostrils, Jane silently watched the last of the film curl and crumble. All they’d wa
nted was for it to be destroyed, and she’d hauled it through a jungle and across half a continent—just to hand it over and watch it burn. Her lips twitched; she was afraid of making a scene, so she tried to control the urge. But it was irresistible; it rolled upward, and a giggle escaped. She turned, looking at Grant, and between them flashed the memory of everything they’d been through. She giggled again, then they were both laughing, Jane hanging on to his shirt because she was laughing so hard her knees had gone limp.
“I fell down a cliff,” she gasped. “We stole a truck…shot another truck…I broke Turego’s nose…all to watch it burn!”
Grant went into another spasm of laughter, holding his sore ribs and bending double. Sabin watched them clinging to each other and laughing uproariously. Curiosity seized him. “Why did you shoot a truck?” he asked; then suddenly he was laughing, too.
An agent paused outside the door, his head tilted, listening. No, it was impossible. Sabin never laughed.
