Black Ice. Anne Stuart

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Remarque had been blown up by a car bomb last month, the work of the covert, antiterrorist organization known, by a very few, as the Committee. But, in fact, the Committee had had nothing to do with it. Auguste Remarque was a businessman, motivated by nothing more than profit, and the powers that be in the Committee could understand and adjust for that. All they’d had to do was keep an eye on Remarque and the arms dealers, keep abreast of who was shipping what to where and make their own pragmatic choices as to when to interfere. A shipment of high-powered machine guns to certain underdeveloped countries in Africa might lead to civilian deaths, but the greater good had to be considered, and those poor countries had little of interest to the superpowers. Or so his boss, the venerable Harry Thomason, had told him.

      Of course, Bastien knew why. Those countries had no oil, and they were of little importance to the Committee and its powerful, private backers.

      It had been Bastien’s job to keep tabs on the arms dealers, posing as one of them. But Remarque’s assassination had changed all that. Hakim, Remarque’s right-hand man, had set up this meeting, and they were looking at redividing the territories and choosing a new head. Not that these were people who played well with others, but the leader of the arms cartel also took care of the tiresome business details, leaving the others to concentrate on the acquisition and shipment of the most dangerous weapons yet devised.

      Hakim had been in charge of the petty details, but he’d gotten a little too ambitious. He wanted to take Re-marque’s place, including taking his lucrative territories. And there lay the problems. Through decades of dealing, assassination and bribery, the late Auguste Re-marque had controlled most weapons shipments for the Middle East, an inexhaustible market.

      Areas like Chile, Kosovo, Northern Ireland and the cults of Japan might ebb and flow in their desire for weapons, but the Middle East never got enough. And since America had waded into the fray, time and time again, with bludgeoning attempts at control, things had only gotten worse.

      The members of the arms cartel wanted a fair share of those lucrative profits. And Hakim was disposable.

      Bastien was in no hurry to see things played out—he could spend a day or two watching and waiting. The members of the cartel had learned, one by one, that Hakim had been responsible for Remarque’s assassination, and it didn’t sit well. Someone would dispose of him in the next few days, and if they failed it would be up to Bastien.

      It had been easy enough to subtly spread the word about Hakim’s treachery. The various reactions of the main players had been interesting indeed because, in fact, Hakim hadn’t been behind Remarque’s death, even though he was entirely willing to benefit from it.

      One of the other members of the clandestine arms cartel had been behind the hit. Someone who was here now, or had yet to arrive. That person was probably delighted that someone else had been fingered, but so far the Committee had been unable to discern who had actually done it. Conventional wisdom suggested Baron von Rutter. Beneath his jovial exterior he was a brusque, impatient man and he’d made his way more by bullying tactics than finesse. Not to mention his equal partner, his young wife Monique.

      One of Bastien’s fellow operatives had put her money on Mr. Otomi, the reserved, elderly Yakuza boss, and Ricetti was a good possibility as well with his Mafia connections. And one could never discount Madame Lambert.

      Any of them were capable and willing, and if any of them had ordered the hit then the Committee would not be alarmed.

      But Bastien was banking on the last of their little group to arrive. Christos Christopolous was, on the surface, merely a minor player. The Greek connection had always been low-key, but Bastien was paid to be untrusting. And in the eleven months he’d lived as Bastien Toussaint he’d learned that Christos was the most dangerous of them all. He was the one who was most likely to have arranged for Remarque to be killed by the car bomb, along with his wife, daughter and three young grandchildren.

      Thomason had taken his word and set the assignment. Hakim was to die—no matter who was responsible, the hit on Remarque couldn’t have been accomplished without his assistance.

      And if Christos was chosen to lead the cartel, he, too, must die. The others were manageable—the Greek wasn’t.

      Maybe Christos wouldn’t get chosen, and Bastien could once more vanish into the obscurity of another name, another nationality, another mission on some other continent. Not that it mattered—they all seemed to be the same, the good guys and the bad guys interchangeable.

      One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to be able to do a damned thing if the innocent little newcomer stuck a knife between his ribs.

      He had no illusions that he was on his own here. Signor Ricetti’s young male lover was Jensen, a young British operative who’d told his wife he traveled a lot as a pharmaceutical sales representative.

      Bastien had learned not to trust anyone, including his co-workers. It was always possible that Thomason had decided that Bastien himself was disposable. Jensen could take him out if that was what he was ordered to do, but he’d have a better chance of success than the girl. Anyone would. If they really wanted to get rid of him they needed someone a little more knowledgeable to do it.

      Someone a little more adept than sweet Mademoiselle Underwood.

      She was either there for him or for one of the others. Maybe just to gather information, maybe to dispose of an unwanted player. He had only to say something to Hakim and she would be the one they disposed of. Even if Hakim himself had hired her, she would be wiped out neatly and efficiently.

      He wasn’t quite ready to do that, even if it was the safest route. He hadn’t been drawn into this business by the lure of safety, and Mademoiselle Underwood might offer more value alive than dead. He would find out who sent her and why, and the sooner he found out the better. Careful planning was important, but hesitation was disastrous. He would find out what he needed to find out, then drop a word in Hakim’s ear. It would be a shame to have such a promising young life snuffed out, but she would have known the dangers when she signed up for this job. And he’d lost any trace of sentimentality long ago.

      He just wished to Christ that he knew why she was there.

      Chloe was feeling slightly giddy. She slept deeply for a couple hours, curled up under a thin silk coverlet; she’d bathed in a deep warm bath perfumed with Chanel; she’d dressed in Sylvia’s clothes and put Sylvia’s makeup on her face. It was a few minutes before seven, and she’d have to slip her feet into the ridiculously high heels and glide downstairs like the soigné creature she was pretending to be.

      The undergarments had begun the sensory overload. Chloe wore plain white cotton. Her taste ran to lace and satin and deep, bold colors, but her pocketbook did not, and she’d spent her clothing euros on things that would be seen.

      Sylvia spent a great deal of time in her underwear, seldom alone, and her wardrobe of corselets, panties, demi-bras and garter belts came in a rainbow of colors, all made to be enjoyed by both the wearer and her audience. Chloe wasn’t currently planning on an audience, not here, not now. Bastien Toussaint might be distracting, but Chloe had no interest in married men, womanizers, or really anyone at all until she got back to Paris. This job was supposed to be a piece of cake, a leisurely few days in the country translating boring business details.

      So why was she so damned edgy?

      Probably just M. Toussaint, with his bedroom eyes and his slow, sexy voice. Or maybe it was the combined suspicion of the guests—they must be dealing with something very powerful to be so paranoid. Though in Chloe’s experience most people thought their concerns to be life-altering proportions. СКАЧАТЬ