All the Queen's Men (19 page)

But it seemed as if his partners had decided to sacrifice large future riches for immediate gain. He sighed. To hell with them. He would collect his percentage and issue a warning to the buyers that the compound wasn't yet reliable. He had to protect his business on that end, since the source had proven so short-sighted.

"When does he want it?" he asked in resignation, rubbing a sudden ache between his eyes.

"He didn't say. He wants to talk to you."

"Did he leave a number?"

"Yes, and he said you could reach him there only for another forty-five minutes."

That was common, at least among the more efficient organizations: They moved frequently and had only short windows of time during which they could be contacted. Such tactics greatly reduced their chances of being located.

Ronsard jotted down the number Cara recited, and as soon as their call was disconnected he began dialing. It was a London number, he saw. The rings
brrrd
in his ear, then stopped as the receiver was lifted. "Bakery." The one word was heavily accented.

Ronsard said only one word, his name. There was thirty seconds of silence, then a different voice said heartily, "You are prompt, my friend." Morrell was a stocky, barrel-chested man, but his voice was incongruously light. He always spoke as if he were throwing the words from his mouth, trying to counteract the lightness of his voice by sheer velocity.

He was not, and never would be, Morrell's friend. "You have an order, I believe."

"I hear such interesting rumors about a new recipe! I have use for one thousand kilograms."

A thousand kilograms! Ronsard's eyebrows arched. That was enough explosive to destroy London, not that Morrell would use it only in one place. No, he would wreak destruction all over the industrialized world, or perhaps sell some of it himself. "Such an amount will be very, very expensive."

"Some things are worth their cost."

"Did the rumors tell you that the recipe has not been perfected?"

"Not perfected, how?"

"The results are unreliable. Unstable."

'Ah." There was silence as Morrell processed this. No sane person wanted to work with an explosive that might go off during transport, but then, Ronsard thought with grim humor, sanity was not required with these people.

"What brings about these unfortunate results?"

"Rough handling. Being dropped, for instance."

Another "Ah." If one used RDX-a on an airplane, then it would have to be in a carry-on bag so one could control the motion-a suicide mission. Or one could always use an unsuspecting courier, as on Delta Flight 183.

"One must accept these risks," Morrell finally said, meaning that he himself would not be handling the explosive.

"There is one other problem."

"So many problems!" Now Morrell sounded petulant, as if a favorite toy had been broken.

"The recipe must be used within a certain amount of time or it will . . . perform unexpectedly. Timing must be precise."

"So I have heard, my friend, so I have heard! It is a most interesting recipe."

"A thousand kilograms is a considerable amount to be handled."

"But an organized person can handle such a task. When will the shipment be ready?"

From that statement, Ronsard deduced Morrell already had his targets selected, and that they would be hit almost simultaneously. He did not, however, have enough people in his organization to do it all himself. Different organizations occasionally cooperated with each other, especially if they had mutual enemies.

To Morrell he said, "I'm not certain. That's such a large amount; the manufacturer perhaps doesn't have that much available." In fact, Ronsard was certain of it.

"It is worth a great deal of money to me to have this recipe within two weeks."

"I'll give the manufacturer your order."

"Good, very good! I will call again tomorrow."

Ronsard hung up. He was extremely irritated; by precipitously putting RDX-a on the market, the manufacturer had increased not just their risk, but his. Such risk would have to be compensated, of course.
Highly
compensated.

Then he had an amusing thought. Production was, he knew, still very limited. An order of a thousand kilograms would be difficult to fill, and he didn't yet know how much of the compound Temple would want. Perhaps he should simply let Temple and Morrell settle between them who got the RDX-a. A showdown, as they said in the Westerns. Yes, that would definitely be amusing.

Chapter Sixteen

I'm having a house party in three days," Ronsard said to Niema several days later as they strolled in a small, quiet park. "At my home in the Rhone-Alpes region, south of Lyon. The countryside is beautiful, and my home is comfortable. I would like very much for you to attend the party."

She was silent, her head dipped as she walked along beside him. The canopy of trees shaded them from the warm summer sun, and birds sang overhead. They were not the only people enjoying the little park. Young mothers and nannies supervised shrieking children of all ages as they dashed about, skipping and jumping, rolling in the grass. Joggers pounded up and down the paths, singly and in pairs. Lovers walked hand in hand, sometimes stopping to kiss. Older people occupied the benches, some of them playing board games, some of them just watching the activity that surrounded them. The sweet perfume of flowers lay on the warm air like the touch of a lover.

"You aren't saying anything," he observed after a moment. "Are you worried about Madame Theriot's disapproval?"

"That, and though you
say
you expect only friendship, somehow I don't think you've given up hope that. . . well, that I'll change my mind."

"Of course I hope," he said matter-of-factly. "I am a man-a Frenchman. I would like very much to sleep with you. But it's also nice just being with you. You don't want favors from me, and you don't want my money. Do you realize how few people like you I have in my life?"

"Your life is what you've made it." She glanced up at him. "I refuse to feel sorry for you."

Smiling, he caught her hand and swung it between them. "There, that is what I mean. You say what you think."

"Not always," Niema said. "I'm too polite for that."

The smile became a chuckle. "Are you insulting me?"

"Of course. You know what I think of your ... profession."

Something closed in his eyes, some expression that was shuttered before she could read it. "We all do what we must."

"Not everyone. Some people do what they can."

"And
there is a difference between 'must' and 'can'?"

"There seems to be. People say they do what they must when what they've done has hurt someone. People who do what they can are usually helping."

"A matter of semantics." He shrugged. "But perhaps you're right. I made a choice, when I was a young man, and now I mustn't whine. Perhaps I had other options, but at the time, at that age, I didn't see them. Given the same circumstances, I would make the same choice again."

There was no regret in his voice, only a pragmatic acceptance of who and what he was. He didn't despair over the mistakes he had made; there was no angst, no wrestling with his conscience. He had set his feet on a certain path and never looked back.

She wanted to ask him why he had made the choice he had, but the answer seemed fairly obvious: money. He had needed money, and that was the means he had chosen to get it. The "why" didn't matter; by his own free will, he had put himself across the line that divided legal from illegal. She couldn't help liking him, but at the same time she had no qualms about presenting herself to him under false pretenses. Ronsard was an adversary, however friendly and charming he might be.

"My profession aside, I still want an answer to my invitation."

"A house party." That was exactly the function to which John had wanted her to get invited, but there was no enthusiasm in her voice. "How large a party?"

That question had him smiling again. "Are you wondering if it would be a party of two, which I would much prefer? I believe there are about a hundred people invited."

"Then your house must be more than just 'comfortable,' " she said dryly.

"Perhaps that was an understatement. But there are separate guest quarters that house half that number, so not everyone is staying under the same roof."

"That is still a large roof."

"Yes, it is. Don't hold my roof against me, please."

She laughed. "I'm sure it's a very nice roof. Would you mind if I ask who the other guests are?"

His eyes gleamed. "You wouldn't ask unless you were considering accepting," he said with satisfaction. "You met many of the same guests at the prime minister's ball that you'll meet at my home."

Many, but not all. Undoubtedly some of his guests were the sort who wouldn't be invited to government functions. It was a cynical world, when the lawmakers and the lawbreakers mingled together behind the scenes. John would be there, as one of the latter group. She wondered if he would be surprised at any of the other guests, then dismissed the idea. No, he wouldn't be surprised. He probably knew of them all.

"Please say yes," he cajoled. "I won't be in Paris much longer, and your visit may end before I return."

"Yes," she said, and sighed. "I'll probably go home afterward. It would be awkward for me to visit you, then come back to the embassy. I don't want to do anything that would damage Albert's career."

He was silent as they walked along. Perhaps he didn't like being told associating with him had repercussions for others, but she wasn't going to sugarcoat anything for him. She had a job to do, and so far her instincts had been on target; so many people sucked up to him, and he was pursued by so many women that the very fact she didn't made her memorable to him.

"So I won't see you again after you leave the house party," he finally said. He gave her a wry smile. "I don't think we normally travel in the same circles."

"No," she said. "We don't."

"Then it's all the more important for you to come. There's someone I'd like for you to meet."

"I got the invitation," she told John the next morning when he called.

"Good. When are you going?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"I won't be there until the next day. There's a fancy-dress party that night, and I'll probably schedule my arrival during the party."

"How do you know the schedule? And why in the middle of the party?"

"Everyone's attention will be splintered, including Ronsard's. It's just a small advantage for me, but every detail matters. We don't know his security arrangements, the floor plan, or his schedule, so we'll have to play that part by ear. Don't forget, I'll be smitten by you the first time I see you, so we'll have an excuse to be together."

"I'm turning into a love goddess," she muttered. "Men are being smitten left and right."

He laughed quietly. "Maybe you've found your niche in life."

"Smiting men?"

"I think you could get to like it."

"That depends on what I'm smiting them with."

"See you in three days, Mata."

Ronsard left that day for his villa, so she didn't have lunch with him for the first time since they had met. Glad of the downtime, she spent a good portion of the day assembling the things she would need once she got to Ronsard's house. The CIA station chief in the embassy was of great help in procuring the tiny transmitters, batteries, and wiring she needed. If he asked any questions, he didn't ask them of her. She knew he had to have cleared everything with Langley for him to be as cooperative as he was.

The station chief didn't know anything about the job she was doing, just that he was to get whatever she needed; the Paris-based CIA contingent didn't even know she had been meeting Ronsard, unless one of the case officers had taken it on himself to follow her one day, but she couldn't think why they would. So far as any of them had known until now, she had simply been a friend, visiting the ambassador and his wife.

Lyon was about three hundred kilometers from Paris, farther than she wanted to drive, so she booked a flight and called the number Ronsard had given her to arrange to be picked up at the airport.

She was eager to arrive, to look around and see what she had to deal with, so she could make concrete plans and decisions. Being a socialite, even a subdued one, wasn't her cup of tea. She wanted to do something besides shop and have lunch and attend parties.

The weather was beautiful the day she flew down to Lyon, the flight smooth. She was met at the airport by a man in a stylish gray suit, his blond hair cut military short and his eyes hidden by sunglasses. He didn't speak other than when it was necessary, but he was efficient. He collected her luggage and handed her into a silver Jaguar, and she settled back to enjoy the drive.

They went south on the expressway, then turned east, toward Grenoble. The region was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful in France, with the French Alps rising in the east. The weather was warmer than it had been in Paris, the heat radiating through the expensive tinted glass of the Jaguar's windows.

Her first view of Ronsard's villa made her blink in astonishment, and she was glad she was wearing sunglasses to hide her expression. After all, she was supposed to be used to wealth and luxury. John should have warned her, she thought absently.

A sleekly paved drive, bordered with multi-colored flowers, led up to massive gates set in a twelve-foot-high gray stone wall that completely encircled the estate. The stone in the wall alone had to have been an enormous expense. The gates slid smoothly open as the car approached; when they drove through, the gates started closing again almost immediately.

The estate itself was massive; she estimated at least forty acres had been enclosed, though the grounds had been so artfully landscaped there were sections where she couldn't see the wall at all. The house itself-though she doubted a structure that huge could be called a mere house-was four stories high, with wings stretching out on each side. It had been built with huge slabs of pale, luminous gray marble, with faint streaks of pink and gold running through the stone. The effect was stunning.