Smoke and Mirrors (32 page)

She jammed her finger into her mouth and yanked off the ring. The white gold was a tart companion to the salt of her blood. With her opposite hand, she flung on the water and let the blast wash her injury and the remaining bits of sandy residue down the drain.

“Your mummy’s a moron,” she mumbled through the ring’s presence.

He had been nosing her dropped cell, and giving it up for inedible, began a slow study of his right dewclaw.

At least she wouldn’t be the object of a child’s future psychiatric visits. That was something.

Shaking her hand dry, she applied the back of it to a clean tea towel. Then she pulled the ring from her mouth and slid it onto her left hand. Its middle finger was slightly smaller than her right hand’s, so she pushed it onto her index.

Tomorrow. She’d go and have it fixed after her work at Barkley was done. Then she’d call the man who’d installed the kitchen and have him send someone over to fix the stonework. She’d fix it all. Quickly.

Got to get a grip, girl.

She ran water-chilled fingertips over her weary face. A sigh rumbled along the back of her throat. Her stomach echoed the complaint. Hunger and Loneliness. She was sick to death of them.

Maybe I could meet Brad tomorrow. I could say I’m thinking of using him as cover. That I need a classy date if I’m to pull off the London job.

You really believe they’ll think Brad means nothing to you?

She stared at the glistening semi-circle of crimson, loathing the slippery slope that accompanied bargaining with a ghost.

Only this once. I’ll make certain of it. Never again.

She took Marc’s silence for agreement, knowing quite well it wasn’t.

Nigel didn’t rise from his first class seat until the plane had emptied. Then he heaved his willpower nearly as high as his carry-on and met Brad at the baggage carousel.

“Your clubs.” Brad swung the wheeled bag so Forsythe could grab its handle without twisting his torso.

Another pretext. A pair of reuniting University mates back from their golf holiday in the Canary Islands.

Another heap of lies.

“The driver’s outside.” Brad played Moses to a sea of women. “Excuse me, luv.”

Two, striking and available, chatted while eying them. Brad tossed away the comment and a smoldering twitch of a smile that might have been anything from a lure to a
fuck-off
. Nigel merely limped onward into the gray twilight of London in February.

A silver Mercedes waited. The sleek E 63 AMG Saloon slid toward them like an alligator commandeering a river of smog and inferior forms of transportation. In a hushed moment, the driver loaded their bags and the two agents folded themselves away into the vehicle’s blackened interior.

Brad took the front passenger seat, leaving the rear to Nigel. Once inside, Forsythe draped his battered frame over the bench seat and closed his eyes.
Why on earth had he let himself be talked into returning to London?

Dark eyes bored through his weighty eyelids. He opened them rather than ignore the unasked question. “What?”

Thick hair swept back under his sunglasses, Nigel’s brother-in-arms was the picture of health. “You look like shit. Your sister’s not going to be happy.”

Nigel grunted; his broken ribs a grinding discomfort even now, five days later. “Kate’s never happy.” Which was unaccountably true. “And she needn’t know I’m back.”
I’ll be gone before news of my brief stay ever makes its way to Barkley Manor.

Brad studied him over the headrest an instant longer, then turned his attention to the driver. “Take us to Battery Wharf, Battersea, yeah?”

Eyes sealed once more, Nigel drifted away.

In what seemed only minutes, they were unloading the vehicle and crossing through the pier’s barricade of gates. Brad’s barge, if such luxury could live within the dull word, shouldered the glossy dock. They negotiated the ramp and entered his carelessly elegant living quarters after he had disarmed the high-end security system.

A great tomcat crossed the room - malevolence from whisker to tail - ignoring them and being ignored, as was their mutual habit.

“Whisky?” Brad was at the bar, a well-stocked, well-used corner of his floating home.

Nigel shook his head and dropped like a stone to the worn leather club chair. He heard the pop and flare of the propane fireplace coming to life and listened with detachment as his friend penetrated the kitchen, a stiff drink sloshing against the thick crystal tumbler.

Familiar sounds. Only no longer comforting ones.

Ever since he’d shot Irina, since the moment he’d pulled that trigger, his life had ricocheted away from him. Never one to indulge in material things, he had at least found pleasure in their rare comings and goings.
Now?
Now he could barely stomach the idea of numbing his pain. He had no right to pleasure. But he did have a plan. Finish the job he’d started in Moscow and avenge Irina. He’d find Jaak and Ivan and carve their hearts out. Then he’d hunt down the man who’d hired them and make him wish he’d never drawn breath.

An inquisitive nose made contact with his hand; he leant two fingers to the cat’s cause.

There was a murmur of messages being played, and afterward, the sporadic spurt of a shower.

He waited for the inevitable return of Brad’s bared feet against the wooden floor.

“Care if I play?”

Nigel shrugged. “If it stops you fussing over me.”

“Fuck you, Forsythe. I never asked C for a transfer to the babysitting department.” Truer falsehoods were never spoken. The Head of SIS’s elite clandestine division had little use for agents who’d gone soft.

A drift of air from the Steinway being opened stirred the hairs on Nigel’s wrists. Under the mahogany sail’s lift, the sound swept upward and the adagio pushed its way under his melancholy skin.

It was his late mother’s favorite piece. And Brad had played it at Daniella’s funeral – a request from an absent son. Another choking burst of self-loathing descended upon Nigel. However altruistic his original motivations may have been, the effects of his career in SIS were appalling if one considered the women in his life.

At once, the room felt far too small.

He needed out – fast.

“Not until after dinner tomorrow night,” Brad growled through a half-swallow of 25 year-old Macallan. “L’Osteria. You owe me.”

Nigel snorted, regretting it immediately, and took Brad up on the double-whisky he’d left on the table beside the club chair.

Forsythe hadn’t taken more than a handful of painkillers since the hospital dispatched him, loathing the feeling of detachment and lack of control that came with them. But it was high time to dose himself another way. In an hour, he’d be out cold, and perhaps, if he were lucky, the blonde would pay his imagination a visit.

Because he couldn’t take the foul splash of Russian murder a moment more.

O
h shit, it’s the 12
th
.

Samantha came to a dead stop at the corner of Lupus and Claverton streets, her heart plunging deeper than a coalmine. There was no way she could go home. Not if it meant greeting another fucking bouquet with a forced smile of appreciation.

If only Brad had meant tonight. Then, at least, she’d be able to ignore the ghastly arrangement of floral pity, and better still, miss its provider. She simply hadn’t the strength to see Mr. Turner tonight.

Maybe I could.

You can’t just drop in on Brad. What if he’s got someone with him?

For once, just shut the hell up.

She snapped her fingers to let Tamar know they were heading for the Thames instead. Along the way, between a seedy pub and a newsagents, there was a first class grocer with its own butcher. She’d stop there first. Because Brad loved meat. Anytime. Any type. If a member of the ovine or bovine species passed him, she had no doubt he saw it the way a butcher did. Neatly lined with labeled pieces. Food was the way to forgiveness in this case.

Some minutes later, she yanked the door and passed into the warmth of the shop.

Tam surfed her wake, sauntering over to snuffle an interesting corner, while she flashed a half-smile at the owner’s son, Tony. Father to the chubby, black-eyed twins on proud display behind him.

“You’re in late today.” He rummaged beneath the counter. “Dad’s been saving some bones for your boy there.”

“I think Tam’s going to leave me for him one of these days.” She took the wrapped package from him and tucked it away where Tam couldn’t get it. “Work ran long.”

“Retail jail’s a right bastard, isn’t it?”

She laughed in agreement. “Doesn’t your father give you time off for good behavior?”

“According to him, I ain’t been good since the day my mom delivered me.”

“Not even to see them.” She tipped her head toward the photo. “He never stops going on about those two.”

Tony rubbed greasy hands across the front of his striped butcher’s apron. “Goin’ to be one in May.” He handed her the photo.

“Already?” Sam tipped it to stop the light’s refraction. “What are you feeding them? They look about four.” She passed it back.

Tony chuckled, placing the frame along the pristine counter. “Meat. Something you should be eating.”

Sam shook with squeamish revulsion. “Not me, thank you. But, I am cooking for someone who doesn’t mind chomping through tendons and veins.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I don’t serve people cuts with them things in ’em.”

“Well, muscle then. Or whatever.” She peered into the case. “What
is
in a good cut?”

“Meat.”

You should have seen that one coming.
“Okay. That aside, what can I serve with shrimp scampi?”

“So you eat shrimp? Them little buggers got no veins and tendons?”

“They’re lower on the scale.”

“Insects are lower still.”

“But not as tasty.”

Tony grimaced. “I ate a worm once.”

“On purpose?”

“In a tequila.” He gestured with widespread arms to the glass case before him. “You’ll notice I don’t serve ’em.”

“Not worth it?”

He shook his head emphatically.

“So I won’t be adding worms.”

“Veal?”

She stared him down.

“Right, no baby animals.” He scratched his chin with one knuckle. “What about prosciutto?”

“Which is?”

“Dry-cured ham.” He leaned in. “Not a baby pig.”

“A really grown-up one who’s had a long life on a beautiful farm and was going to die of old age any day now.”

He didn’t bother rejoining, just pulled an expertly wrapped, pinkish-white, football-shaped thing from the case. “How many?”

“Four. Well just one, but he might as well be four.”

“That’d be Mr. Milton.”

“Did I bring him here?”
Shit.
She hadn’t thought they’d been seen in public more than once or twice. Maybe her idea wasn’t as well considered as she believed. Maybe AG wouldn’t give a fuck about her plans and they’d kill Brad anyway.

The thought made her sick.

Tony sliced away, unaware of her growing panic. “No. Saw you with him at my uncle’s place.”

“L’Osteria?” she managed, one hand on the glass case for support.

He nodded. “I was waiting tables one night and you were just leaving.”

She let air glide deep into her lungs and forced herself to concentrate exclusively on Tony’s words. “That must have been six months ago. How did you remember?”

“You’re both customers of mine. Don’t do well to forget a customer.”

“Brad shops here?” Jesus, if Tony picked up on her former relationship with Brad, was there a snowball’s chance in hell AG hadn’t?

Tony tossed the heap onto a scale. “And buys four times what a normal person should.” He slid the meat into a white paper wrapper. “Anything else?”

“Some parmesan.” She forced her cement-like feet across the floor and took some basil and tomatoes. “Oh, and whatever amount of your mother’s pasta would do your meat service.”

“Don’t let my wife hear you saying that. Bothers her enough you comin’ in and chattin’ me up.”

She froze, stunned by the thought. “Chatting you up? I come here, what, once a month? I ask you about your kids, your dad. How could that possibly upset her?”

“She knows you were a model. Remembers seeing your adverts.” He shook his head sadly. “Makes her think you’re up to something talking to a nobody like me.” His eyebrow lifted.

Sam liked Tony. Liked that he was a good, solid family man. Her stomach twisted. Fuck. It didn’t pay to try friendship with a man. Not even when it was the bright shiny moment in a very lonely existence. A spark of fury dissolved some of her fear. Ten goddamn years later. A decade of being the good little girl and she was no closer to being free.

Misreading her discomfort, Tony said, “I’m just teasing you. Here.” He slid her cheese across the counter. “Is that enough?”

She smiled, but knew the joy didn’t reach her eyes. “Plenty. How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-two even.” He took her money. “Grazie. By the way, be careful when you leave. Been some tossers hangin’ out next door. Won’t let my mum or Tilly come by after it gets dark.”

“Have you called the police?” she murmured.

He shook his head. “No point. Just be careful. I’d knock ’em around myself, but Dad’d have me head.”

“Well, best be off.” She clicked her tongue at Tam.

“Right. Let me know how he likes it.”

“Will do.”

It was cold outside and smelled far less pleasant, but Sam was glad to leave. Didn’t know if she would ever return. Pausing midway down the sidewalk, she adjusted her hood. “This way, Tam,” she cajoled.
Let’s just go home.

But her thoughts were sent into flight when a figure loomed up from the pub’s entrance.
Should have gone the other way, Sam. Didn’t pay attention, did you?

There were three of them. Freakin’ wonderful. Not staggering drunk, but upright enough to be stubborn about their interests. Her anger, still close, hissed and bubbled.