A Perilous Eden (5 page)

Curiously, she was seeing a stranger's piercing light eyes. The man on the park bench. The stranger with the rough but appealing face. The man who had frightened her, in a way …

And then compelled her on some different level.

She ate her tortellini. Was it better to imagine a stranger and shiver? Or think about Peter and suffer differently?

Maybe it was better to think about the man she would never see again. She could create all kinds of fantasies about him.

“I think I'll wander through Old Town Alexandria tomorrow,” she told her father. “Want to come?”

He shook his head, feeling a tightening in his throat. “I—I have to go to a memorial service tomorrow.”

“For what?”

“A unit that served in Vietnam.”

“Oh. Forget Alexandria, Dad. I'm coming with you tomorrow.”

A chill seized Ted. “It isn't necessary. It's just a small thing.”

“No. Nothing like that is ever small. I want to come.”

Ted looked at her, then nodded. “Of course. Are you going to stay with me at the town house?”

He kept a small place near the Capitol and had a larger home in Alexandria. Amber started to shake her head. She had wanted to be alone. But she saw the eager expression in his eyes, and she told him, “I left my things in Alexandria. But I'll pick them up and come into the city.”

He smiled, and Amber thought that, if nothing else, she would make him happy. And that was important to her. Very important.

Dinner that night was very much what she had expected. She was seated between an Arabian oil magnate and a French diplomat. Her French was good, but she didn't understand a word of Arabic. It didn't matter; both men spoke English perfectly, and both were charming.

During the meal Amber found herself looking to the head of the table, at the president. He was a wise old man, she thought, a country man come to the city—come to the world. He caught her gaze on him and winked.

Everything except politics was discussed at dinner. She spoke about the theater with the Arab, and new fashion trends with the Frenchman. Her father whispered to her warningly that both men were finding her charming and devastating. He claimed to be afraid that she would have a marriage offer that very night. The Arab gentleman already had two wives, but he was allowed four, so there was plenty of room in the tent for her.

Amber laughed. Later, she danced in the garden. There were a number of her father's old friends there, and some of her own. In the end, the evening was more enjoyable than she'd expected.

“Where is that Texan of yours tonight, Amber?” her friend Myra asked.

“He of the gorgeous biceps,” Josie, another friend, teased.

“We've split up,” Amber said lightly.

“Ah, a woman on her own,” Josie said sagely.

“On her own? Well, then, she just has to come with us!” Myra insisted.

“Come where?” Amber asked.

“On vacation. We've arranged a trip to Florida. Palm Beach. What do you think?”

“You must come!” Josie added.

“I don't know …”

Peter might come for her. Was she really ready to be strong against him?

Florida … Maybe that was just what she needed.

“I'll think about it,” Amber said.

“I'll call you with the details tomorrow,” Josie told her.

“Fine,” Amber said. “I'll look forward to hearing from you.”

The Vietnam Memorial, Washington, D.C.

May 16

It was a beautiful, warm day. The sun shone overhead; the breeze was light.

There was quite a turnout for the ceremony. Sergeant Culpepper spoke eloquently about the men of the division, a Green Beret unit, more than seventy percent of whom had been left behind on foreign soil. There were tears among the friends and relatives who had come to remember. Amber felt the hot pressure of tears sting her eyes as she thought of the men who had fought in what was sometimes a forgotten war—not a war at all, as Sergeant Culpepper so eloquently reminded them, but a police action.

The media were all there, for the president was making an appearance. That meant security, of course. And Amber, being with her father, who was with the president, could scarcely turn around without being swamped by a sea of men in their perpetual blue suits.

The chaplain began the Lord's Prayer.

Amber folded her hands and looked down at the earth, then across the dais to where the chaplain was speaking.

She started violently, almost crying out.

The man from the park bench was there. The man with the curious ice-blue eyes. And he was staring straight at her.

He didn't look away. He continued to watch her, and she couldn't begin to imagine what he was thinking. She felt a shivering begin all along her spine. Who the hell was he?

She decided that she would be direct about the situation. When the ceremony was over, she would ask him. He must be a vet—a member of this unit, she imagined. He wasn't in uniform, though. He was wearing tan cotton slacks and a white tailored shirt, open at the collar. He was very bronze, like a man who spent a lot of time in the sun. His face was rugged because it was weathered, and intriguing because it spoke of character. He was handsome, but more because of his magnetism than his physical features. He seemed charged with a certain energy, with a sexuality that was dangerous and exciting and as tempting to a woman's curiosity as a flame was to a moth. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

The service was over. A cool breeze touched her face and lifted her hair. It was over, and she hadn't even realized that it had ended. She had been staring at the stranger from the park.

She meant to walk over to him. To introduce herself. It seemed like the most logical—and courteous—thing to do.

She started to walk toward him, but her father stopped her, catching her elbow, and began to speak to her.

By the time Amber turned around, the stranger was gone.

The crowd had begun to thin out with the president gone; dozens of the people present must have been from the Secret Service. Amber looked around for her father. He hadn't left with the president, she was certain. He wouldn't have left without saying goodbye.

She looked around. He was talking to someone; his graying head was bent over. Then he turned, walking away, his features caught in grim lines.

He had been talking with the man with the blue-ice eyes.

When he saw her, Ted Larkspur's face changed entirely. He smiled, but it was a false smile, as if he had donned a mask.

“Dad!”

“Sweetheart. Want another lunch with the old man? I have about two hours before duty calls again.”

“Sure. I'd love lunch. Who was that?”

“Who was who?” he asked. She could tell he was being evasive.

“The man you were talking to. The one with the intriguing face and the blue eyes.”

Ted waved a hand in the air. “I don't know. I spoke with a lot of people.”

Amber thought it was curious that anyone could forget the stranger, but her father seemed worn and very tired. “Let's go to the town house. I'll make lunch.”

“No, I'll buy you lunch.”

“I'll make it,” Amber insisted. She took his hand, and they walked to the curb. Today there would be no cabs. A government car was waiting.

Amber made omelets. Ted praised the food effusively, but he ate very little, then stood and kissed her. “I've got to go.” He hesitated. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” She smiled, then searched his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

He kissed her again, then he was gone.

Amber didn't want to sit around alone. She decided to take a nap, since she hadn't been sleeping well. But she only dozed, dreaming about the good times, about Peter coming in with a special bottle of wine, about the way they had learned to cook lamb together.

Curiously, the stranger's face kept intruding on her memories. He would appear at the most inappropriate times, like when she dreamed of walking out of a shower soaking wet and crawling into bed. Suddenly she would see his face and remember the way his bronzed flesh had looked against the casual white cotton of his shirt.

She got up and called Josie's number, determined that it would be a very good idea to spend a little time on the Florida sand.

2

The President's Estate

Northern Virginia

May 16

A
t 6:30 that evening, a helicopter set down on the green expanse of lawn at a large country estate in northern Virginia.

The president was standing as Adam Tchartoff alighted from the chopper. Ted Larkspur watched the president and smiled pleasantly at his own secret thoughts as he watched the man duck slightly against the whirling wind caused by the blades.

The president assessed the man. He wasn't tall for a hero. No more than an even six feet. But he was quick, assured.

Faces, the president reminded himself. Words were nothing but ink on paper. A face was the true measure of a man.

And he liked this man's face. It was intelligent. Hardened by life. It had a nice rugged appearance to it. Tchartoff wasn't going to win any beauty contests. His eyes were blue. Crystal blue, and as smooth and cutting and cold as ice. Yes, definitely an interesting, arresting face. A mouth that might have been sensitive at one time, but was a little grim now. He was tanned, not so much like a man who enjoyed sports but like a man who had lived constantly in the sun.

Tchartoff was dressed in a blue denim shirt and slightly worn jeans; true, he hadn't known where he was going or who he would be meeting, but the president had the feeling that his mode of dress would have been no different even if he had known. He seemed to be a man of little pretense.

“Adam.” Ted Larkspur stepped forward to perform the necessary introductions.

“Ted.” Adam Tchartoff acknowledged Larkspur with a nod, his eyes questioningly on the man behind him.

“Mr. President, Mr. Tchartoff. He understands that our meeting is completely secret”

“Mr. Tchartoff,” the president said.

Adam Tchartoff accepted the president's outstretched hand. He was cordial, but he displayed no emotion beyond a polite interest. Nor did he visibly respond when the single Secret Serviceman was dismissed with a wave of the hand after drinks had been served, and he and Ted and the president had been left alone at a white wrought-iron table that overlooked the pleasant expanse of lawn.

“I have a proposition for you,” the president said.

“So I'd assumed,” Adam Tchartoff replied. “I was asked by your own government to travel as Michael Adams. That makes your need of me rather obvious, doesn't it?” His gaze hadn't wavered from the president's once, and he sat very still, his hands resting on the chair arms, his legs casually crossed. He grinned, and the severity of his features was somewhat lessened.

By God, he's really quite young, the president thought. He was, in fact, at an age when laughter should have come easily.

“Yes, obvious. How's your Scotch?” the president asked.

“Fine, thanks.” He shrugged, then lit a cigarette from a pack in his pocket. “I don't mean to be presumptuous, sir, but you did go through a lot of trouble and expense to bring me here. I think we should get down to business. Why?”

The president looked to Ted, who remained silent. He found himself growing restive beneath Tchartoff's unwavering gaze. He stood, moving the ice around in his glass.

“Smoking is bad for your health,” he commented.

“So are grenades.” Tchartoff laughed. He lifted his glass and shrugged pleasantly again. “I live with the one, might as well live with the other, too.”

“You've heard about the recent kidnappings of certain American military men, diplomats, even businessmen, I presume?” the president asked.

Tchartoff's eyes narrowed slightly. “The most recent wave of terrorism against the United States? Everyone has heard—the media definitely give these guys all the exposure they could want. Hijackings, explosions, kidnappings. Bombing raids. Yes, I know what's going on. And we both know my current partners are behind it, don't we?” He drew on his cigarette, his eyes never leaving the president's.

“They're holding some very important men,” Ted Larkspur said quietly.

Adam Tchartoff shrugged. “I understand that a secret source revealed that the kidnappers would attempt to negotiate soon. I happen to know that they're not quite ready. That they plan to strike again.”

“Yes, that's what we'd heard,” the president said.

Tchartoff lifted one brow.

“I want to fight back,” the president said.

Adam Tchartoff smiled slowly, leaning back slightly and exhaling smoke. His eyes flickered to the lawn, then back to the president. “That's where I come in, I take it? You don't want to indulge in any bombing, and total warfare is, of course, out. But you'll have to do something, won't you? You can't let your hostages be sacrificed, but then again, you don't really want to be caught negotiating, either, do you? It's a dilemma.”

The president wasn't sure whether he was being mocked or not. “I'm sorry for you, Tchartoff,” he said at last, “if you've forgotten that every life is sacred.”

The blue gaze didn't waver. “I haven't forgotten, sir. Now, why am I here?”

“Eight men are being held. Bright, able men. Four military advisers, two diplomats and two bankers. What the hell anyone would want with a banker …” He shook his head. “Every one of those men has a family. Tearful wives, kids, parents, sisters and brothers—calling. We promise them that we're doing everything we can.” He grinned dryly, but no humor touched his aging eyes. “People are calling the radio stations and saying that the United States ought to step in and bomb the entire Mideast—clean out the cesspool! Then again, we're being inundated with calls from people who think I'm a warmonger and should be shot. I don't want a war. I don't want children killed. I don't want a bunch of innocent bystanders killed. I want to infiltrate the group that's responsible, and I want every last one of their hides.”