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“And a very nice ass it is.”
“Watch it,” Peter said.
“Not as nice as Chloe’s,” Toussaint added. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. We’ll leave Madame Lambert and Killian in the room while we—” He stopped abruptly. “What was that?”
“That thumping noise? It couldn’t have come from the apartment—things are sealed so tightly you could have a jackhammer going in there and we wouldn’t hear. It can’t be the stairwell, because it’s rigged. It probably came from overhead. Reno’s a noisy little bugger. Maybe he’s teaching Killian’s little buddy some karate moves.”
Another thump, heavier, and Bastien was out of his chair, Peter right behind him.
The door to Reno’s flat was open, though the room was lit only by the eerie glow of the wide-screen television. Video game characters were paused, pulsing, waiting for someone to move them, but there was no sign of Mahmoud or Reno.
Bastien switched on the light and swore. There was blood, too much blood, and Reno’s body was sprawled out on the carpet, his arm at an odd angle, his head in an ever-spreading pool of blood.
And Mahmoud was gone.
Sir Harry Thomason lit his cigar, puffing slowly, majestically. He’d taken his grandfather’s gold pocket watch from the family safe, the one given to him by Winston Churchill himself. Harry was wearing it in his waistcoat pocket, and it felt good, snug against his belly. It was four o’clock in the morning, an ungodly time to be awake, but things were coming to a head, and he was too excited to sleep. Vindication was thick in the air, along with the sleet and rain.
Stolya and his men were back already, the child with them. One of them was dead—they’d dumped his body in a ditch on their way back—and another was unconscious and unlikely to revive. That Jap punk must have put up more of a fight than they’d expected. But Stolya said he was dead as well, so there’d be no more complications.
The boy was locked in one of the bunker rooms, still clinging to his stupid video game. Stolya had wanted to take it from him, but Thomason told him to leave him alone. It would keep the brat occupied, less of a nuisance. If Stolya wanted it he could wait until he killed the boy. That would be happening before long, as soon as they got their quarry in place.
Once Serafin knew the child had been taken he’d come after him, though Thomason was damned if he knew why. Someone like Josef Serafin shouldn’t care about one less child. But he’d kept the kid with him like an albatross around his neck, and Thomason was banking on him following.
And Isobel would come after Serafin. She was a perfectionist, never left a job unfinished. Her job had been to bring Serafin in, debrief him, and nothing but death would stop her.
Astonishing that she’d managed to avoid it so many times in the last few days. His traps had been well set, and Stolya was one of the best, from a long line of Russian military who made an automaton like Isobel Lambert seem made of sentimental mush.
There’d be no more mistakes. Madsen was a thorough man, and once he found the child had been taken and his new recruit murdered, he’d go stra
ight to his boss. Thomason didn’t need Peter to lead them to Serafin and Isobel—his enemies would come to him. Making the thing so much neater.
He looked out the leaded-glass windows in the library of his country house. It had been in his family for generations, and though he’d had to sell off some of the farms, he still maintained a goodly portion of land. Including the network of tunnels that had served as bunkers during World War II, when his father had been one of Churchill’s staunchest supporters. They’d run all sorts of covert operations from the tightly sealed rooms, and unlike the empty halls in the bunkers at Dover Castle, these were still secret. Stolya and his men had been living there for the past three months, planning, training. The brat was locked in one of the whitewashed cement rooms.
That was where Isobel and Serafin would die, as well. Harry hoped Stolya would make it hurt like hell, but in the end, he really didn’t care. The Russian was smart and experienced, but he had no idea that those tunnels and bunkers had been booby-trapped. The police would think the explosion was a gas leak in an abandoned section of Sir Harry’s estate, and no one would have any reason to comb the rubble for bodies.
No, it was all coming to fruition. He would have liked to be in at the kill, but he’d waited a long, long time for this kind of satisfaction. It would be worthless if his presence did something to endanger its success.
Tomorrow afternoon there’d be a huge, collapsed section of earth in the west field. Both Isobel and Serafin would have disappeared, leaving Madsen behind to help clean up the mess. Harry was rethinking his decision to get rid of Madsen—he could find work for a man like him. Peter was an unsentimental individual, cold as ice, and he could be relied upon to do what needed to be done, with no squeamishness.
It was a shame Bastien Toussaint had disappeared, but he was a bit of unfinished business that could always be dealt with later.
For the time being, the Committee was almost back in hand. And some night, very soon, Harry would take his King Charles spaniels and stroll out to the sunken field and spit.
He was too old and dignified to dance on their grave. But he could count on the dogs to do their business, and that would have to suffice.
He’d step in and save the Committee. And with any luck, in a few years the Queen’s Honours List would include his life peerage. “Lord Harry” was so much nicer than a paltry “Sir Harry.”
In the meantime, he needed to exercise all the patience he had at his command. The trap was baited and set.
He just had to wait.
21
The bed was very small. Killian was very large. Long legs and arms wrapped around her as he slept, and she should feel suffocated, trapped.
She didn’t.
Her body hurt. He hadn’t meant to hurt her—in fact, she was probably to blame for it. She’d pushed him. He’d pushed her. They’d done everything she could think of and then things she’d never imagined, as the long, endless hours stretched into the night and beyond, and she’d taken him every way she could.
