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“In trouble,” Peter replied. “More than I’ve ever seen her.”
“Then we’d better see to it. Chloe will keep Genevieve calmed down. I don’t think you have the time to deal with her at the moment. A pregnant woman is a dangerous thing.”
“How did you know she was pregnant? I don’t think she knows herself.”
“It’s obvious to anyone used to the signs. Chloe’s bound to blurt it out sooner rather than later, which means we’d better get this mess taken care of fast or your wife might possibly kill you. What’s Madame Lambert working on that’s got her in trouble?”
“Josef Serafin. He’s trading intel for immunity. Right now he should be filling her in on the inner workings of some of the worst fascist governments of the last twenty years.”
Bastien froze. “Hell and damnation,” he said. “He’s trading nothing but lies.”
“I imagine he’ll try, but Isobel’s too smart to fall for anything like that. Why don’t you think he’ll tell the truth?”
Bastien grimaced. “Because he’s not a professional mercenary, working for the highest bidder. He’s CIA, and always has been.”
Peter’s bad day suddenly got a great deal worse.
19
“You’re lying to me,” Isobel said.
“Now why would I do that? I haven’t anything to gain—I expect the Committee’s generosity is going to be contingent on the quality of intel I bring. I have no reason to hold back.” Killian turned his head to look at her. He was stretched out on the sofa, his long, lean
body taking up the entire space. Not that she would have wanted to sit next to him. She was happy to keep her distance, and the uncomfortable chair was perfectly adequate. She’d fed him, simply because she was famished herself, and in a battle of wills he probably would have won. And she’d spent the last three hours grilling him. And getting nowhere.
He told her absolutely nothing she didn’t already know. It wasn’t common knowledge, but the Committee wasn’t a common organization, and their intel was first-rate. Killian wasn’t bringing anything new to the table.
“What happened in Mauritzia?”
He shrugged, perfectly at ease. “One of my more spectacular fuckups, I have to admit. I was in charge of removing the ethnic population of three small cities to a holding area where they were to be exterminated under my supervision. Which is where I got the charming name Serafin the Butcher. Unfortunately, someone let word slip, and the neighborhoods were emptied before I even got there. Personally, I didn’t see the problem—the local governments wanted these people gone, and they were, having slipped over the border into refugee camps. Unfortunately, Busanovich didn’t see it that way. I got out at the last minute.”
“It didn’t seem to hurt your future employment prospects any,” she said.
His smile was cool and deadly. “There’s always employment for a man with my skills and moral…flexibility. I’d be more than happy to give you names, positions of President Busanovich’s advisors, but like the president himself, they’re all dead, and Mauritzia is discovering the wonders of democracy. I like to think in my own modest way I contributed to that.” His tone was mocking.
“Next you’ll be telling me that you were saving the world with your incompetence.”
He shrugged. “You could look at it that way. I’m afraid Fouad Assawi was a bit more determined than some of my previous employers. Which is why I decided to throw myself on the mercy of the Committee.”
She said nothing, closing the lid to her laptop.
“If you’re done with that do you mind if I check my e-mail?” he said, sitting up. “I was bidding on a couple of things on eBay and I wanted to see if I won—”
“Oh, shut up. You’ve probably never been on eBay.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong. There’s quite an interesting bit of black market trade going on—you just have to know how to find it.”
“And what’s the e-mail for—online dating services?” Her voice was caustic.
“No, princess. I’ve already got you.”
She stood abruptly, needing to get away from him. “As a matter of fact, we don’t have Internet service in here. No cell phone service, either—we’re completely cut off. The walls are lined so that nothing, not even a telecommunications signal, can get in or out.”
“Then how are you going to know what to do with me?” he said lazily.
“The door still works, if you know where to find it and how to open it. If you don’t know the codes you’ll die, but Peter doesn’t make mistakes like that.”
“Which is why he walks with a limp nowadays.” Killian swung his legs over the side of the sofa, stretching, and she moved back, skittish.
