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She didn’t care. If it was a fantasy then she was happy enough to live in it. After all, she was never going to see the man again, either way.
She’d just be happier believing he was alive. Still on this earth, tormenting some other poor woman who happened to get in his way.
No more tears. She needed to look forward, to get out of this mink-lined prison and back to America. Right now, all she had to worry about was herself. And that was going to keep her busy enough.
Harry’s affable smile vanished the moment Jackshit left him alone in his study. Even for someone as necessary as his Jap assistant there were certain precautions, certain formalities. He’d given Jack the order to kill in the past, and Jack had followed through with his customary silent efficiency, but still Harry had never let his charming smile fade.
It was gone now, and he prowled the study like an angry jungle cat. He liked the image—he could picture himself as a sleek, oversize panther, a danger to all who knew him. And he was. He was just smart enough to fool them.
She’d fucked him. The little bitch lawyer had fucked Jensen—he could see it on her, smell it on her. She’d kept her distance from him that first night on the boat and then spread her legs for that lying bastard, and for that she was going to have to pay.
Things would have been so different if she’d just done her duty and slept with him that first night. He’d come to expect it from the women his lawyers sent down to him, and Genevieve Spenser should have been no different.
But she’d kept her distance, and he’d been alone when they came to get him. If she’d been there they might have thought twice. Or he could have used her as a shield, slowing them long enough so they couldn’t knock him out.
She was as much to blame as Peter Jensen and his crackpot do-gooder Committee. And he was going to have to do something about it.
As soon as he tried to repair the damage that had been done. Destroying the dam in Mysore was out of the question now—the security had been beefed up, the insurgents he’d put on retainer had disappeared. The sabotage of the oil fields was also questionable—the paperwork had disappeared along with his gorgeous boat, and the wells were still in his name. It might give him an even stronger appearance of innocence if something were to happen to them while he still owned them, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to make that sacrifice. He’d drop that one as well, for now.
Harry kicked the walnut desk, angry and frustrated. They were getting in the way of his careful plans, and it was more than annoying. He required a certain symmetry, and the Rule of Seven was inviolate. They’d smashed that, and there was no proper ring to the Rule of Five.
And it was only four days till April nineteenth, the beginning of the end. Four days to come up with two equally effective circumstances to throw the financial world into chaos. At least his enemies were way behind the eight ball. They might have found out two of his targets, but they had no idea about the deadly strain of avian flu that was about to hit mainland China, or the diamond mines in South Africa, or the memorial shrine at Auschwitz being blown to pieces when the visitors’ center was full.
Maybe he was being too hard on himself. The Rule of Seven had been simple, working east to west. It would start with the massive outbreak of avian flu, the dam in Mysore, the diamond mine in South Africa, the oil fields in Saudi Arabia. Then came the extermination camp in Poland, the Houses of Parliament in London, ending with a three-pronged assault in America, with hits on Waco, Texas, Oklahoma City and Littleton, Colorado, home of Columbine High School. On the most auspicious days of all, April nineteenth to the twentieth, days made for disruption and terror and reaping what you sow.
Peter Jensen had seemed the perfect assistant, given the birthday he shared with Adolf Hitler. It had seemed a sign, that he would be there, keeping things running smoothly as Harry put the final acts into motion.
They’d played him for a fool, and he really didn’t like being played for a fool.
That lying scum-sucker was dead, out of
his reach, and Harry’s frustration level was making him shake. He’d have to make do with Genevieve Spenser. He’d take out his rage on her, and then Jack-shit could clean up the mess with his customary efficiency.
But somehow the notion was only slightly soothing. He poured himself a glass of bourbon, noticing his shaking hand. And then he slammed the glass against the dark oak paneling, as the rage took control of him once more.
14
Peter Madsen pulled into the weed-choked driveway, automatically checking for signs of intruders as he parked in the cul-de-sac to the right of the old house. This was the only part of the landscaping that was supposed to be untended and overgrown, to provide him just a bit more camouflage when he came home.
Not that he could call it, or anyplace, home. It was mid-April and by now the gardens should have started blooming. Instead, they were desolate—a fitting reflection of its owner, he thought grimly.
He switched off the elaborate, undetectable security system and stepped inside. Not that there was anything in the sparsely furnished house of particular value. He had little attachment to things, and apart from his grandfather’s huge desk he had little of any intrinsic worth.
He never could figure out why he’d bought his grandfather’s desk in the first place. He’d just happened to catch sight of the public auction of Dr. Wilton Wimberley’s possessions, and he’d gone on an unlikely impulse, when he was never, ever impulsive.
There would be no stray member of the family around to possibly identify him. His parents were long dead, and his mother had been an only child. The proceeds of the estate were going to endow a chair in his grandfather’s name at Oxford. One way to secure his legacy, since his offspring had failed him.
He’d be just as happy if someone broke in and carried the damn thing off, though it weighed a bloody ton. He didn’t have the kind of job that required a desk, and he was very careful never to leave a paper trail.
No, he hadn’t installed the security to protect the house. He simply wanted to ensure there were no unpleasant surprises waiting for him on the rare occasions he got down to Wiltshire. A really good operative could figure out how to bypass the system, but it would be impossible not to leave very visible proof someone had tampered with the place.
He was almost sorry they hadn’t. Avoiding a lethal trap would be a welcome distraction, and if, after all these years, his luck failed him, then so be it.
In fact, things were definitely taking a turn for the worse. Harry Van Dorn was the first mission he’d ever failed to complete, and it was little wonder he was feeling like shit. His professional pride was wounded, nothing more. The wrong person had died.
He’d done his best for her, given her tools and a map and as strong a hint as he dared. If she hadn’t gotten away it wasn’t his fault, just part of the grand cock-up that the Van Dorn assignment had become.
The house smelled stale and empty and faintly of mice. If he was going to sell the place he’d have to get a massive cleaning crew in to rid it of its neglected air.
