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Didn’t it have something to do with concentration? Sending your mind through the barrier ahead of your fist, or something like that? But how could she concentrate when her face was throbbing, her fist was likely broken, and the sound of footsteps and voices passing through the corridor outside her prison brought panic closer and closer?
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep, steadying breath. She flexed her aching hand within the dubious protection of the shoe, then sighed, accepting the inevitable. She slipped the shoe back onto her foot, formed a fist, and slammed it against the smoked glass.
It shattered around her hand. Maggie stared at it with amazement that almost overrode the pain in her fist. Slowly, carefully she picked the shards of glass out of the way and undid the lock. There were cuts on her hand, long scratches, but they looked worse than they were. They’d stop bleeding shortly, she knew, and they wouldn’t leave a trail of blood for the secret police to follow. She opened the broken window and stuck her head out.
It was a parking lot, full of dusty black sedans. And in the far corner, there was one blessedly white Fiat with two figures conferring in the front seat.
She was halfway out the window before Randall and Leopold saw her, and her curses at their obtuseness helped her gloss over the pain in her hand. By the time they reached her, her hips had stuck in the narrow opening. The two of them grabbed her arms and hauled her out with more force than care.
She fell against Randall, her face landing against his chest, and she let out a small moan of pain—a moan he didn’t hear beneath the steady curses he was heaping on her head as he half-dragged, half-carried her back to the Fiat.
“You may be a stupid idiot,” he was saying as he bundled her into the backseat, cramming her in with their piled suitcases, “but at least you’re a capable one. God knows how we would have gotten to you in that damned place. You’re just lucky Leopold had someone watching the hotel, or Go
d knows when we would have found you.”
“You didn’t find me,” she snapped, her voice a little hazy with pain. “I got out myself.”
The car was dark in the gathering dusk as Leopold zoomed out of the parking lot and into the Gemansk twilight. It was too dark for Randall to see her battered face, too dark for her to do anything about the cuts on her hand. She leaned back in the corner, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep. Jet lag and stress were taking their toll.
“Yes, you did,” he agreed doubtfully. “Where the hell did you think you were going?”
“To Red Glove Films.”
“Where do you think we were?”
“It would have made life a lot easier if you’d just taken me along,” she said wearily. “No, maybe it wouldn’t. They might have gotten all three of us.”
“You may be gullible enough to have fallen into their trap,” Randall said with just enough smugness to pull her out of her lassitude of pain and exhaustion, “but I’m not likely to make the same mistake.”
“Wanna bet?” Maggie snapped. “Do you know who picked me up? It was Miroslav Wadjowska. The same man you wanted me to sleep with in return for phony passports. And do you know who he works for? And who he worked for six years ago? The secret police, damn you. This whole thing has been a trap.”
“Maggie.” His hands reached out for her, but she slapped them away, wincing at the pain in her fist.
“Get your hands off me. I can take care of myself,” she said. “I have before, and I will again.”
“Shut up.” He pulled her into his arms and held her against his strong body as Leopold navigated the streets of Gemansk with speed and skill. She didn’t even bother to struggle.
“We’ve already picked up our things from the hotel. I’m taking you to Saltash,” Leopold offered over his shoulder, his teeth a gleam in the darkness. “I don’t think Wadjowska knows about it, and if he does, it will still be too hard to find you. You can hide there overnight, and tomorrow I’ll take you over the border.”
“What the hell good will that do?” Maggie fumed. “We haven’t found what we came for.”
“Yes, we have,” Randall said, his voice a deep rumble in the chest beneath her. “The man at Red Glove Films was very cooperative.”
“You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen,” Leopold offered Randall with youthful enthusiasm. “Just the right amount of pain, and he was singing like a bird. You should teach me that little trick with the fingers—”
Maggie shuddered, and Randall snapped something in a foreign language at their driver. He turned to Maggie, and his voice was surprisingly soothing. “We found out who he was dealing with. It wasn’t Francis most of the time. The deliveries were arranged through someone else. A woman.”
“Damn you, Randall, Kate has nothing to do with it,” she said passionately, squashing down the sudden doubt and fear.
“I never said she did.”
“If you don’t mean Kate, who the hell do you mean?”
“Alicia Stoneham.”
Dead silence in the rattling old Fiat. “I don’t believe you,” she said finally. “Why, she’s as American as—as apple pie. She wouldn’t turn traitor.”
“She would to bail out her failing film company. Her husband had built it up from scratch, and she couldn’t bear to see it go down the tubes. So she sold classified information to support it, with Francis’s complicity.”
