Without A Trace, Page 9

  briefings, and he smiled again. Kendesa was the general's right hand, a man of taste and intelligence who just managed to balance the general's fanaticism.

  "You know who it is?"

  Trace took two shots out of habit. "Yeah." He lowered the camera.

  "What does it mean?"

  "It means they took the bait."

  Gillian moistened her lips and struggled to stay calm. "What do we do now?"

  Trace lit another cigarette. "We wait."

  Al-Aziz's visitor stayed twenty minutes. When he came back out, Trace was up and moving. By the time Kendesa stepped into his car, Trace and Gillian were in a cab. "I want you to stay with that car," he told the driver, pulling out bills. "But keep a nice distance."

  The driver pocketed the money before he started the engine. Gillian groped for Trace's hand and held on.

  "He knows where Flynn is, doesn't he?"

  "He knows."

  She pressed her free hand to her lips as they drove. "What are you going to do?"

  "Nothing."

  "But if he—"

  "Let's just see where he's going." Because her hand was icy, he kept it in his. The black car stopped at one of the more exclusive hotels in the business district. Trace waited until Kendesa was inside. "Stay here."

  "But I want to—"

  "Just stay here," he repeated, and then he was gone. As the minutes passed, fear became annoyance. Gillian slid to the door and had her fingers around the handle when Trace pulled it open.

  "Going somewhere?" He let the door slam behind him. Settling back, he gave the driver the name of their hotel.

  "Well?"

  "He just checked in this morning. He hasn't given them a day of departure. I'd say that means he intends to stay until business is completed."

  "Aren't you going to go in and make him tell you where Flynn is?"

  Trace spared her a look. "Sure, I'll go on up to his room, rough him and his three guards up a bit and drag the truth out of them. Then I'll march up to wherever they're holding your brother and blast him out single-handed."

  "Isn't that what I'm paying you for?"

  "You're paying me to get him out—in one piece." As the cab pulled up at the curb, Trace handed the driver more bills. "Let's play this my way."

  Knowing her temper couldn't be trusted, Gillian remained silent until they were in their rooms. "If you have a plan, I think it's time you filled me in."

  Ignoring her, Trace walked over to the bed and began to fiddle with what Gillian had taken for a compact portable stereo.

  "This is hardly the time to listen to music." When he continued to say nothing, she stormed over to him. "Trace, I want to know what you have in mind. I refuse to be kept in the dark while you sit here and listen to the radio. I want to know—"

  "Shut up, will you?" When he played back the tape, the voices came out barely audible, and speaking Arabic. "Damn." He adjusted the volume and strained.

  "What is that?"

  "Our friends talking, almost out of reach of the bug I planted yesterday."

  "You… I never saw you plant anything."

  "That boosts my confidence." He rewound the tape to the beginning.

  "I can't think of any place you could have hidden it."

  "I left it out in plain view. People find things a lot quicker if you hide them. Didn't you ever read Poe? Now be quiet."

  The voices were barely distinguishable, but he recognized al-Aziz's. He could decipher the formal greetings, but from there on could translate only a few snatches. He heard Cabot's name, and some basic monetary negotiations.

  "What does it say?" Gillian asked when he shut the tape off again."

  "I don't know enough Arabic to make much sense of it."

  "Oh." She tried to block off the disappointment. Running her hands over her face, she sat on the bed beside him. "I guess you'd hoped they speak in French or English."

  "It would have been helpful." Trace removed the tape and slipped it into his pocket. "Now we need an interpreter."

  Her hands dropped in her lap. "You know someone who'll help us?"

  "Almost anyone's willing to help for a price." He checked his watch. "The club ought to be pretty quiet now. I think I'll go to see Desiree."

  "I'm going with you."

  He started to refuse, then thought better of it. "Just as well. I can use you as a cover in case Amir's around. With you hanging all over me, he won't think I'm trying to tickle his wife's fancy. Or anything else."

  "I'm so glad I can be useful."

  They found Desiree in the apartment above the club. Though it was nearly noon, she answered the door heavy-eyed and in a sexily rumpled robe that slipped provocatively off one shoulder. Her eyes brightened considerably at the sight of Trace.

  "Andre. What a nice surprise." She spotted Gillian, pouted a moment, then stepped back to let them in. "You used to come visiting alone," she said in French.

  "You used to be single." Trace glanced around the wide, dim room, with its fussy pillows and its china knicknacks. The room was crammed with furniture, and the furniture covered with things. Possessions had always been important to Desiree. Apparently she'd finally acquired them. "You've come up in the world, cherie."

  "We make our own way in life." She walked to a table and chose a cigarette from a glass holder. "If you've come for your information, you haven't given me much time." She held the cigarette, waiting until Trace crossed the room to light it.

  "Actually, I've come on other business." She smelled of perfume that clung from the night before, no longer strong, but still overpowering. "Is your husband in?"

  Her brow lifted as she glanced in Gillian's direction. "You were never one for group games."

  "No games at all." He took the cigarette from her and drew on it himself. "Amir. Is he here?"

  "He had business. He's a busy man."

  "Your Arabic was always excellent, Desiree." Trace drew the tape from his pocket. "Two thousand francs for a translation of this tape, and a memory lapse immediately afterward."

  Desiree took the tape and turned it over in her palm. "Two thousand for the translation, and three more for the loss of memory." She smiled at him. "A woman must make a living where she can."

  There had been a time when he would have enjoyed negotiating with her. He wondered why that time seemed to have passed. "Done."

  "Cash, darling." She held out an empty hand. "Now."

  When Trace handed her the money, she went over to a stereo. "Amir enjoys his toys," she said as she slipped the tape into the player. After switching it on, she adjusted the volume. Almost at once, her expression changed. With the touch of a finger, the player fell silent again. "Kendesa. You said nothing of Kendesa."

  "You didn't ask." Trace sat and gestured for Gillian to join him. "The deal's struck, Desiree. Play it my way and your name will never be mentioned."

  "You mix in very bad company, Andre. Very bad." But the money was still in her hand. After a moment's consideration, she slipped it into her pocket, then switched the machine back on. "Kendesa greets the swine al-Aziz. He asks if business is good." She listened for another moment, then turned the machine off again. "They speak of you, the Frenchman Cabot, who has an interesting business proposition for Kendesa's organization. Al-Aziz has humbly agreed to act as liaison."

  She turned the machine on again, then repeated the process of listening before turning it off to translate. "Kendesa is very interested in your product. His sources have confirmed that you are in possession of a shipment of American arms intended for their Middle Eastern allies. A shipment of this size and—" she groped for the word a moment "—quality is of interest to Kendesa's superior. And so are you."

  She switched the tape on again and lit a cigarette as the two voices murmured through the speakers. "Your reputation is satisfactory, but Kendesa is cautious. His organization is most concerned with another project at this time, and yet your product is tempting. Kendesa has agreed to have al-Aziz arrange a meeting. They disc
uss commission. Then it becomes interesting. Al-Aziz asks of this Fitzpatrick. He tells Kendesa he has heard rumors. Kendesa tells him to mind his shop and his tongue."

  Desiree turned the tape off. It ejected smoothly. "Tell me, Andre, are you interested in guns or in this Irishman?"

  "I'm interested in the largest profit." He rose to take the tape from her. "And your memory, Desiree?"

  She fondled the bills in her pocket. "Quite blank." She smiled, then ran a hand up his chest. "Come back for a drink tonight. Alone."

  Trace cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. "Amir is a large, jealous man who has a talent with knives. Let's just treasure the past."

  "It was an interesting one." She sighed and watched him walk to the door. "Andre, the Irishman was in Casablanca."

  He stopped, clamping his hand around Gillian's arm before she could speak. "And now?"

  "He was taken east, into the mountains. That's all I know."

  "There was a child."

  "A girl. She's with him. It would have to be a great deal more profitable to ask questions now that I know who is involved."

  "You've asked enough." He drew out bills and set them on the table by the door. "Forget this, too, Desiree, and enjoy your large husband."

  When he closed the door, Desiree considered for a long moment, then walked to the phone.

  "He was here," Gillian said, torn between relief and fresh terror. "They were both here. There has to be a way of finding out where they were taken. Oh, God, they were so close."

  "Don't get ahead of yourself. The mountains to the east isn't a street address."

  "But it's another step. What do we do now?"

  "We get some lunch. And we wait for Kendesa to move."

  Chapter Six

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  “I want to go with you."

  Trace straightened the knot of the hated tie. "It's out of the question."

  "You haven't given me a reason." Gillian stood planted behind him, scowling at his reflection. He looked so smooth, she thought, a world away from the man she'd found in the cantina. She wondered what dramatic turn her life had taken to make her prefer the rough, unshaven and slightly dirty man she'd first met to the urbane and cologned one who stood in front of her.

  "I don't have to give you reasons, just results."

  At least that much hadn't changed, she thought wryly, standing her ground. "I explained to you right from the beginning that I'd be going through this step-by-step with you."

  "You're going to miss this step, sweetheart." Trace checked the plain brushed-gold links at his cuffs. "You just stay here and keep a light burning in the window." Turning, he gave her a friendly pat on the cheek.

  "You look like a stockbroker," she muttered.

  "No need for insults." Trace picked up a briefcase filled with papers and inventories he'd spent the better part of the night putting together.

  "You're meeting with Kendesa, and I think I should be there."

  "It's a business meeting—bad business. I take a woman along to a meeting where I'm talking about dealing arms to terrorists, Kendesa's going to wonder why. He wonders hard enough and he could check you out. He checks deep enough, he could find out that my woman is the sister of Hammer's most prized possession." He stopped long enough to wipe away a smudge on his shoe. "It's not a good bet."

  It was because it was too logical to argue with that Gillian was angry. "I'm not your woman."

  "They better think you are."

  "I'd rather be buried up to my neck in hot sand."

  He glanced at her. She stood by the window, spitting mad and stunning. "I'll keep that in mind. Why don't you spend a couple hours making up a list of alternatives? It might put you in a better mood."

  When he opened the door, she prepared to hurl abuse. "Be careful," she said instead, hating herself for it.

  He paused again. "Concern. I'm touched."

  "It's nothing personal." But her palms were sweaty at the idea of him going alone. "If anything happened to you I'd have to start from scratch."

  With a little laugh, he stepped into the hall. "Stay inside, Doc."

  The moment the door closed at his back, he left Trace O'Hurley behind. He had a certain affection for each of his covers. Without that, it would have been difficult for him to play any of them convincingly for what were often long stretches of time. Andre Cabot was fussy, and often pompous, but he had excellent taste and extraordinary luck with women. Trace felt that redeemed him.

  Still, Cabot's charm hadn't made a dent in Gillian's defenses. So she doesn't like Frenchmen, Trace decided as he settled into a cab. Apparently she preferred stodgy American scientists like that Arthur Steward she spent so much time with in New York. The man was fifteen years older than she, and more interested in white mice than romance. Trace had told himself it was simply standard procedure to check him out. Nothing personal.

  Trace shifted his briefcase and reminded himself that Cabot was concerned only with making a profit. He wouldn't have given a woman like Gillian a second thought once she was out of sight. The trouble was, Trace O'Hurley was thinking about her entirely too much.

  She was still a puzzle to him, and he was used to figuring any angle, any woman. They shared the same set of rooms, yet she gave the arrangement a sense of innocence and propriety. She was vulnerable and passionate, frightened and determined. She was logical, yet enough of a dreamer to feel the power of a Mayan ruin. She spoke easily, even clinically, of his attraction to her. But there had been a fire, hot and vital, when he'd kissed her.

  She was right about one thing—he wanted her, and bad. What she didn't know, what he couldn't explain even to himself, was that he was terrified of what might happen if he acted on that need.

  When the cab drew up to the curb, Trace pulled himself back. He was right about something, too. He was thinking about her too much.

  He counted out bills as Cabot would, carefully. With obvious reluctance, he added the minimum tip. After straightening the line of his jacket, he walked into the lobby of Kendesa's hotel.

  He spotted one of the bodyguards but walked to the bank of elevators without pausing. He was on time to the minute. That was another of Cabot's traits. The elevator took him to the top floor, to the executive suite, often reserved for dignitaries and visiting heads of state.

  The door was opened at the first knock by a burly guard who looked uncomfortable in his dark Western suit. "Your weapon, monsieur," he said in stilted French.

  Trace reached inside his jacket and removed a .25 automatic. Cabot carried a small pistol rather than chance ruining the line of his jacket.

  The guard pocketed it before gesturing him into the parlor of the suite. A bottle of wine was open on the table. Fresh roses stood in a vase beside it. The room was cushioned from the noise and heat of the day. Noting that the terrace doors were not only shut but locked, Trace took his seat. Kendesa didn't keep him waiting.

  He wasn't an imposing man. Whatever passions stirred him were kept firmly strapped down and controlled. He was small in stature and impeccably and conservatively dressed. Unlike the man he represented, he wore no ostentatious jewelry, no vivid colors. He was dark and blandly handsome, rather like a news anchorman, and moved with the steady grace of a career soldier.

  He was a man who exuded trust and moderation, and in the past eighteen months he had been responsible for the execution of three political hostages. He was holding the wildly fanatical Hammer together by the skin of his teeth.

  "Monsieur Cabot." Kendesa offered his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Monsieur. Business is always my pleasure."

  With a politely interested smile, Kendesa took his seat. "Our mutual friend indicated you have some supplies that may be of interest to me. Some wine? I think you'll find it agreeable." Kendesa poured two glasses. Trace let him drink first.

  "I've recently acquired certain military supplies that I believe your organization would find useful." Trace sipped and found the win
e dry and light. Cabot's preference. He smiled. Kendesa had done his homework.

  "My sources tell me that these supplies were intended for the Zionists."

  Trace lifted a shoulder, pleased that the money he'd spent in the bidonville had been invested wisely. "I'm a businessman, monsieur. I have no politics, only a profit margin. The supplies could still be shipped where the Americans originally intended, if the price was right."

  "You're frank." Kendesa tapped a finger on the side of his glass. "The United States had not admitted openly that these supplies were… confiscated. In fact, it's difficult to prove that they ever existed."

  "Such things are embarrassing. For myself, I prefer that the entire business be kept quiet until the final transactions are complete." Setting his wine aside, Trace lifted his suitcase. "This is a list of the arms my associates are holding. I can assure you they are top-quality. I've checked samples myself."

  Kendesa took the papers but continued to watch Trace. "Your reputation in such matters is unimpeachable."

  "Merd."

  Kendesa's brows lifted slightly as he scanned the list. Trace had made it irresistible. "This particular weapon, the TS-35. My sources tell me it was not to be completed for several months."

  "It was completed and tested five weeks ago," Trace told him, knowing the news would be out in a matter of weeks in any case. "It is a beautiful piece of work. Very lightweight, and compact. The Americans are very clever in some areas." He drew out another sheet of paper. "My associates and I have settled on a price. Skipping can, of course, be arranged."

  "The total seems high."

  "Overhead. Inflation." He spread his hands in a purely Gallic gesture. "You understand."

  "And I am a cautious man, you understand. Before negotiations can be initiated, it would be necessary to inspect a portion of your product."

  "Naturally, I can deal with that myself, if you like." He moved his fingertip over his jawline consideringly. "It will take me a few days to make the arrangements. I prefer to do so in a place you have secured. In today's atmosphere, transactions of this nature have become only more delicate."

  "The general is residing in the east. Such a transaction cannot be completed without his approval."

  "Understood. Though I'm aware much of the buying and selling are your province, I would prefer discussing the matter with the general."

  "You will bring your samples to us, in one week." In a week he would have a complete report on Cabot and the enterprise. "The general has established his headquarters in an area east of Sefrou that he has christened el Hasad. It will be arranged for you to be met in Sefrou. From there, your transportation will be seen to."

  "I will contact my associates, but I see no problem with those arrangements. One week, then." Trace rose.

  Kendesa rose, as well. "A question on another matter, monsieur. You inquired about a scientist who has recently joined our organization. I would ask what your interest is."

  "Profit. There are several parties interested in Dr. Fitzpatrick and his particular skills. The Horizon project, once completed, could generate an incredible amount of income."

  "We are not only interested in money."

  "I am," Trace said with a cool smile. "You might think of what the scientist is worth, if you can persuade him to complete the project. The arms we are currently negotiating over would be little more than toys." He folded his hands, and the gold at his wrists winked dully. "If your organization finds the proper partner, you could not only be rich, but as powerful politically as any developed country."