Without A Trace

  It was something he had considered already, though he would have preferred making the first move. "Your outlook is intriguing."

  "Only speculation, monsieur, unless you can indeed convince the man to produce for you."

  Kendesa brushed that aside easily. He was a man who was accustomed to cooperation—or submission. "That is only a matter of time. I will speak with the general on this, as well. Perhaps it can be discussed." Kendesa led him to the door. "I would tell you, Monsieur Cabot, that you might be more cautious in choosing your associates."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I speak of the French woman, Desiree. She thought a greater profit could be made through blackmail. She was mistaken."

  Trace merely lifted a brow, but he felt a cold gnawing at his stomach. "She is as greedy as she is beautiful."

  "And now she is dead. Good afternoon, monsieur."

  Trace gave a slight bow. He held on to Cabot until he was back in his room. There he gave way to fury by slamming a fist into the wall.

  "Damn the woman!" Couldn't she have been satisfied with the easy money he'd passed her? She'd killed herself. He could tell himself she'd killed herself, and yet he felt the weight of another life on his hands.

  For a moment he closed his eyes and forced the image of his island into his mind. Soft breezes, warm fruit, warmer women. The minute he had the cash in his hand he was getting out.

  Trace went to the bottle of whiskey on his dresser, poured a double and washed the taste of Kendesa's wine from his mouth. It didn't help. Slamming the glass down again, he went into the next room to tell Gillian they were a step closer.

  She was sitting on the bed, her back very straight, her hands folded in her lap. She didn't glance over as he came in, but continued to stare out the window at a slice of sky.

  "Still sulking?" The whiskey hadn't helped, but maybe dumping a little excess temper on her would. "I don't know which is more tiresome, listening to you bitch or putting up with your moods." Yanking off his tie, he tossed it in the general direction of a chair. "Snap out of it, Doc, unless you don't want to hear what I found out about your brother."

  She looked at him then, but he didn't see recrimination or temper in her eyes. There wasn't the anticipation he'd expected, but grief, raw and dry-eyed. He'd started to peel out of his jacket, and now he drew it off slowly.

  "What is it?"

  "I called my father." Her voice was quiet, hardly more than a whisper, but steady. It was the tone that stopped him from nagging at her for using an unsecured line. "I thought he should know we were close to finding Flynn. I wanted to give him some hope, some comfort. I know he felt helpless having to send me instead of doing it himself." She closed her eyes and waited for her strength to rebuild. "I got his nurse. She's staying at the house, looking after it. He died three days ago." She unlinked her fingers, then curled them together again. "Three days. I didn't know. I wasn't there. They buried him this morning."

  He came to her in silence to sit beside her, to slip an arm around her. She resisted only a moment, then allowed herself to lean against him. The tears didn't come. She wondered why she felt so cold and numb, when hot, raging grief would have been a relief.

  "He was all alone when he died. No one should die alone, Trace."

  "You said he'd been ill."

  "He was dying. He knew it, and he really didn't want to live the way he'd become. Weak and feeble. All his research, all his brilliance, couldn't help him. He only wanted one thing—for me to bring Flynn home before he died. Now it's too late."

  "You're still going to bring Flynn home."

  "He loved Flynn so. I was a disappointment to him, but Flynn was everything he wanted. The worry of the past days only made him worse. I wanted him to die easy, Trace. Even after everything, I wanted him to die easy."

  "You did everything you could. You're doing what he wanted."

  "I never did what he wanted." Her cheeks were hot and wet now, but she didn't notice. "He never forgave me for going to America, for leaving him. He never understood that I needed to breathe, needed to look for my own life. He only understood that I was going away, rejecting him and his plans for me. I loved him." Her voice caught on the first sob. "But I could never explain myself to him. And I never will. Oh, God, I didn't get to say goodbye. Not even that."

  She didn't object when he drew her closer, to rock, to stroke, to soothe. He didn't speak, only held, as the tears came, fast and violent. He understood grief, the fury and the ache of it, and knew it wasn't words that dulled both, it was time. Gathering her close, he lay down with her while she wept out the first pains.

  He understood the guilt. He and Gillian were as different as black and white, but he, too, had had a father who had made plans, who hadn't understood and hadn't forgiven. And he knew that guilt made grief more painful even than love.

  He brushed his lips across her temple and held on. When she was quiet, he continued to stroke her hair. The light was still strong through the windows. Wanting to draw the curtains closed, he started to rise. Gillian tightened her hold.

  "Don't go," she murmured. "I don't want to be alone."

  "I'll close the drapes. Maybe you can sleep."

  "Just stay with me a little while longer." She brushed a hand over her face to wipe away the tears. Emotional outbursts were something she'd always been prone to, and one more thing her father hadn't understood. "He was a hard man, my father, especially after my mother died. She knew how to reach him. I'll always regret that I couldn't." Taking a long breath, she shut her eyes again. "Flynn and Caitlin are the only family I have left. I have to find them, Trace. I have to see that they're safe."

  "I have a pretty good idea where they are." She nodded. All her faith, all her hopes, were tied up in him now. "Tell me."

  He gave her a brief sketch of his meeting with Kendesa, but stopped short of mentioning Desiree. That was still on his conscience. She listened but didn't move away. Her head stayed on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. As he spoke, something he'd closed off long before began to crack open. He couldn't explain why he felt stronger because his arms were around her. He couldn't explain why, even knowing what had to be done in the next few days, he felt almost at peace lying in the bright room with her hair against his cheek.

  "You think Flynn and Caitlin are with this General Husad?"

  "I'd give odds on it."

  "And in a week you'll meet with him."

  "That's the plan."

  "But he'll expect you to have some of these guns. What will happen when you don't?"

  "Who says I won't?"

  She did move then, slowly drawing her head back so that she could see his face. His eyes were half closed, but the grimness around his mouth hadn't faded. "Trace, I don't understand. You told them you had a shipment of American arms. You don't. How can you take them samples of what you don't have?"

  "I have to go shopping for a few M-16s, 40-millimeter grenade launchers and odds and ends."

  "I don't think the local department stores carry them."

  "The black market does, and I've got connections." He let the silence hang for a moment. "Gillian, it's time to let the ISS in on this."

  "Why? Why now?"

  "Because I've established cover, I've made contact. They'll be annoyed, but they aren't stupid enough to blow the operation at this stage. If something goes wrong, they'll need to have the information so they can move on it."

  She was silent for a long time. "You mean if you're killed."

  "If I'm taken out, a lot of time will be wasted in getting to your brother. With ISS backing from this point, we cover more bases."

  "Why should they hurt you? You're selling them the guns they want."

  He thought of Desiree. "The guns are one thing, Horizon is another. These people aren't businessmen, and they don't have the honor of a Manhattan street gang. If they think I know too much, or might infringe on their territory, eliminating me would be the best way of protecting their interest. It's a toss of the dic
e which way they'll play it. You don't want to risk your brother's life on a toss of the dice."

  Nor did she want to risk his. It came to her now as they lay close, without passion, without anger, that she'd become as concerned for him as for her family. He wasn't simply an instrument to free Flynn and Caitlin with any longer, but he was a man who drew her, infuriated her, aroused her.

  She looked down and saw that her hand had curled against his chest. Holding on, she thought, to something that wasn't hers. "Maybe we should let the ISS take over from here."

  "Let's not go overboard."

  "No, I mean it." She shifted away and sat up. She wanted more now. She wanted him to hold her, not in comfort, not in reassurance, but in desire. "The more I think about it, the crazier it seems for you to go in alone. Anything could happen to Flynn and Caitlin… to you."

  "I've worked alone and come out in one piece before."

  "And the last time you worked against them you nearly died."

  Because this sudden attack of nerves intrigued him, Trace sat up and took her by the shoulders. "Don't you believe in destiny, Gillian? We do things to move it along, to protect ourselves from it, but in the end, what's meant is meant."

  "You were just talking about luck."

  "Yeah, I don't figure there's a contradiction there. If my luck's in, and I'm meant to come out, I will."

  "You're not a fatalist."

  "Depends on the mood. But I'm always a realist. This job is mine, for a lot of reasons." And she wasn't the least of them. "But I'm practical enough to know when it's time for backup."

  "I don't want anything to happen to you." She said it quickly, knowing it was as foolish as it was useless.

  His look sharpened. Before she could rum away, he cupped her chin in his hand. "Why?"

  "Because… I'd feel responsible."

  It wasn't wise to push, but he wasn't always wise. "Why else?"

  "Because I'd be alone, and I've nearly gotten used to you, and…" Her voice trailed off as she lifted a hand to his cheek. "And there's this," she murmured, bringing her lips to his.

  The light was still bright, but it seemed to her that the room went dim, the colors softened and the world tipped out of focus. The emotional roller coaster she'd already experienced went speeding around an unexpected curve, leaving her giddy and exhilarated. She pressed against him, already anticipating the next plunge.

  She was as warm and sweet as any fantasy. She was real and vital. More than he'd ever wanted freedom or wealth or peace of mind, he wanted her. He felt reason slipping against the pull of need, and he held himself back. To need anything too much was to risk losing.

  But her hands were so soft, so soothing. His own were in her hair, dragging her closer, even as he told himself it was wrong for both of them. Her scent was like a quiet promise, lulling him into believing he could have and keep

  He ached from needing to touch her, to feel how her body might move against his hands.

  He had to remind himself that there was no promise, neither from her nor to her. There couldn't be.

  When he drew her away, she reached out again. Trace tightened his grip and held her back. "You listen to me. This is all wrong. You know it and I know it."

  "No, I don't."

  "Theo you're an idiot."

  She knew how to handle rejection. She braced herself for it. "You don't want me?"

  He swore, once, then twice. "Of course I want you. Why shouldn't I? You're beautiful. You've got brains and guts. You're everything I've ever wanted."

  "Then why-?"

  He dragged her out of the bed. Before she could draw in the breath to protest, he was holding her in front of the mirror. "Look at yourself, you're a nice, well-bred woman. A physicist, for God's sake. You came from a nice upper-class family, went to good schools and did what you were told." When temper had her pulling away, he yanked her back again. "Look at me, Gillian." He gave her one hard shake until her head snapped up and her eyes met his in the mirror. "I spent most of my life dancing from second-rate club to second-rate club. I never spent more than a handful of days a year in a real school. I never learned to play by the rules. I've never owned a car or a piece of property, and I've never stayed with a woman for long. Do you want to know how many people I've killed in twelve years? Do you want to know how many ways there are to do it?"

  "Stop it." She pulled away from him, only to whirl back. "You're trying to scare me, and it won't work."

  "Then you are an idiot."

  "Maybe I am, but at least I'm an honest one. Why don't you just admit that you don't want to be involved? You don't want to feel anything for me."

  He drew out a cigarette. "That's right."

  "But you do." She tossed her head back, daring him to deny it. "You do feel, and you're the one who's scared."

  Her point, he thought as he blew out smoke. But he'd be damned if he'd let her know it. "Let's get something straight, sweetheart. I don't have time to give you the hearts and flowers you'd like. We've got a priority, and it's in the mountains east of here. Let's concentrate on that."

  "You can't run forever."

  "When I stop, you'll wish to God I'd kept going. I've got some things to do." He walked out.

  Gillian did something she hadn't done in years. She picked up the nearest breakable and heaved it at the door.

  Chapter Seven

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  After the number of years you've had in service, Agent O'Hurley, I'm sure you're aware that there's such a thing as procedure."

  Captain Addison—British, balding and straight-line ISS—sat in Trace's room, drinking coffee and looking annoyed. It was his job to oversee and coordinate operations in this part of the world. After nearly fifteen years of field duty, he was quite content to do so from behind a desk. Under these particular circumstances, he'd been ordered to handle the business face-to-face. The break in routine did nothing to please him.

  He'd been set to go back to London on holiday when the call had reached him at his Madrid base. Now he was in godforsaken Morocco, in the middle of an incident that would very likely keep him from his steak-and-kidney pie for some time to come.

  "You have, I presume, some sort of valid explanation?"

  "I was on vacation, Captain." Trace drew easily on his cigarette. Types like Addison amused him more than they annoyed him. It was the possibility that he could become similarly straitlaced that had kept him away from desks and paperwork. "My own time. I thought the ISS might be interested in what I stumbled into."

  "Stumbled into," Addison repeated. He pushed his rimless glasses up on his nose and gave Trace a very cool and very clear stare. "We both know you didn't stumble into anything, Agent O'Hurley. You acted on your own, without ISS sanction."

  "The woman came to me." Trace didn't bother to put any emphasis into the explanation. He knew very well that men of Addison's type preferred agents to sweat. "I followed up an interesting story and came by some even more interesting information. If you don't want what I've got, it doesn't matter to me. I've still got a week before I punch in."

  "The correct procedure would have been to inform the ISS the moment Dr. Fitzpatrick contacted you."

  "I consider that a judgment call, Captain. My judgment."

  Addison folded his hands. Though he'd been divorced for five years, he still wore a gold wedding band. He'd gotten used to the weight on his finger. "Your record shows a high percentage of infractions."

  "Am I fired?"

  A creature of habit and order, Addison bristled at Trace's careless arrogance. But he, too, had his orders. "Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one's viewpoint—your record also show a high percentage of successful assignments. To be frank, O'Hurley, I don't care for showboating of this kind, but the Horizon project and Dr. Fitzpatrick and his daughter take precedence over personal feelings."

  Trace hadn't missed the order of importance. Nor had he expected anything else. "Then I take it I'm not fired."

  "You will mai
ntain your cover as Andre Cabot, but from this point on we go by the book. You will keep in constant contact with the ISS base in Madrid on your progress. You will report directly to me." This, too, gave him no pleasure. One didn't easily keep a rogue agent under one's thumb. "We have arranged for one crate of American-made weapons to be delivered to you in Sefrou in four days. Your contact there will be Agent Breintz. Once you have confirmed Dr. Fitzpatrick's location and assessed the situation, you'll be given further orders. Headquarters feels you should keep the arms negotiations straightforward. If you do find yourself in Husad's lair, it's code blue."

  Again, it was nothing he hadn't expected. Code blue meant simply that if his cover didn't hold the ISS would destroy his files, his identity. It would be as if Trace O'Hurley had never existed.

  "I need a TS- the crate."

  "A—" Addison laid his hands carefully on the arms of his chair. "You told them about the TS-35?"

  "The Soviets will know about it in a week—if they don't already. Everyone else will know before the month is out. If I dangle one in front of their noses, Husad might decide I'm a useful ally. He might loosen up enough about Fitzpatrick to let me have a tour, especially if I tell him that my associates are willing to help finance Horizon."

  "They may be maniacs, but they're not fools. If they had a prototype, it wouldn't take them long to duplicate the weapon."

  "If we don't get Fitzpatrick out and secure the Horizon project, the TS-35 isn't much more than a peashooter."

  Addison rose and paced to the window. He didn't like it. He didn't like O'Hurley. He didn't like having his plans interfered with. But he hadn't reached his position by not knowing when and how to play his cards. "I'll arrange it. But the weapon is to be brought back out or destroyed."

  "Understood."

  With a nod, Addison turned back. "Now, about the woman." He glanced toward the door that led to Gillian's room. "Since Agent Forrester saw fit to tell her about you and she's now aware of the operation, she'll have to be debriefed."

  Trace lifted the pot of coffee and poured himself a cup. "Good luck."

  "Your humor eludes me, O'Hurley. I'd like to speak with her now."

  With a shrug, Trace rose to walk to the door. He pushed it open and stuck his head inside. Gillian stopped pacing and looked at him. "Your turn."

  Gillian swallowed, wiped her hands on her slacks, then walked through the doorway.

  "Dr. Fitzpatrick." With the first congenial smile Trace had ever seen on his face, Addison crossed to offer her his hand. "I'm Captain Addison."

  "How do you do?"

  "Please, sit down. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?"

  "Yes, thank you." Gillian sat, back straight, chin up, while Trace lounged in the chair beside her.

  "Cream, Doctor?"

  "No, black, please."

  Addison handed her a cup, then sat down cozily with his own. Gillian was almost afraid he was going to talk about the weather. "Dr. Fitzpatrick, I must tell you how concerned the ISS is about your family's welfare. Our organization is dedicated to ensuring the freedom and basic human rights of people everywhere. A man like your brother is of great importance to us."

  "My brother is of even greater importance to me."

  "To be sure." He smiled again, almost avuncularly. "Though we believe you and Agent O'Hurley acted impulsively, we think we can turn these impulses to our advantage."

  Gillian looked at Trace, saw by the lazy way he moved his shoulders that he would be no help and looked back at Addison. "I acted in what I believed, and still believe, is my brother's best interests, Captain. He and Caitlin are my only concern."

  "Of course, of course. I can assure you that even now the ISS is putting all its skill and experience into freeing your brother. We hope that will be accomplished quickly. In the meantime, I'd like you to come back to Madrid with me and remain under ISS protection."