A Perilous Eden (7 page)

He forced a smile into his features. “Sure.”

“You're—over it?”

“Oh, come on, Toni! You know people never really get over things like that. Am I stable and functioning? Yes—can't you tell?”

She laughed and stirred her drink. “Yes, I guess so, Adam. I just wish—well, I wish your mom had never left the States. I wish you'd never gone to Israel. God help me, because I loved Sonia, but I wish that you'd never met her.”

He lowered his lashes, staring at his glass. She was treading on dangerous ground—ground he never entered himself.

“Don't say that, Toni,” he warned.

She might have blushed; he couldn't really tell. “Of course, I'm sorry. You really were such beautiful people, she so dark and lovely, you so gloriously blond and tanned and muscled! But don't you see, Adam? I think that's half your problem. You're trying to replace Sonia—”

“Toni!” he admonished in exasperation, looking at her, and even she quailed a little at his glance.

She tossed back her head and picked up her drink a little belligerently. “Sorry, Adam. What are you going to do—shoot me?”

“Toni—”

“Oh, Adam! I really am horribly sorry!” There was true regret in her tone; Adam edged his teeth together. Maybe the subject could be changed now. “Forgive me?” she said softly.

“Toni, of course—”

“I'm just going to say one more thing, Adam, and then I'll promise to keep my mouth shut. You're looking for a goddamned heroine, and they just don't come in packages, you know!”

“Toni, leave it.” He paused, his mouth tightening, his thoughts suddenly shifting. As Toni spoke, he conjured up another face. A very different face. Sea-green eyes, a wild mass of tawny blond curls.

It was the woman he had seen from the park bench and then again at the memorial, with Ted Larkspur. There had been something about her.… She had met his eyes, for one thing. She hadn't looked away, and she had never denied to herself that she was staring at him. There had been something courageous in that gaze; it had caught his attention when nothing else could.

He remembered how she had been dressed at the memorial. He could remember everything about her, he realized. She had been dressed simply, with an attractive, understated sophistication. The lady came from money. Washington society. She wasn't the type of woman he needed now. Right now it didn't matter who a woman was; it barely mattered what she looked like, as long as she was clean. He had realized that so long as he still breathed, he had basic needs. But he felt like an emotional void; he had nothing to give in return.

Still, she had interested him. He had even acknowledged to himself that he found her to be very beautiful, and perhaps more. There seemed to be so much life and emotion and passion within her eyes.

It was probably a good thing he was leaving the country. She meant something to Larkspur, and he liked Larkspur. He shouldn't associate with anyone close to the man.

“Adam? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes. You said that I needed a heroine. Damn you, Toni—”

Toni held up her hand. “I'm done! I'm done! Why don't you plan to stay a few more days, Adam? I'd love to have a little get-together—”

“I can't stay, Toni. I've already made my travel arrangements.”

“So you change them!”

“I can't,” he said flatly. Then he looked at her. “Hey—if you want, you can come out and spend some time with me in between shows.”

“Uh-uh,” she said emphatically. “I already did the whole Israeli thing, you know. That time I came out before and stayed all those months. First of all my damned luggage was stolen—everything I owned! Then they searched me—and refused to let me get on the plane as they were suspicious—because I'd been there three months and didn't have any luggage! No thanks, Adam. I love you like a brother—or as much as you let anyone love you!—but not again.”

“Hey—we haven't had a hijacking in years,” he reminded her, a little tersely, she thought. “I'd say we have the safest airlines in the world.”

She looked at the table and spoke softly. “I'm an American, Adam. Nothing else. I've no desire to be anything else. I don't want the violence, I don't want the desert, I don't want any of it! Terrorism is taking over, and I want safely out of it, thank you.”

He wasn't going to argue with her—their time together was too brief. He turned the conversation back to her play, and they talked about the world at large.

She hugged him goodbye. “Adam—take care. Let things go lightly for a while, huh?”

He grinned engagingly, or what would have been engagingly, if only the warmth had touched his eyes. They seemed to glitter in the muted hallway light. “Sure. Hey, I'm on vacation, aren't I?”

He tweaked her chin as he had often done when they were kids; he the older cousin, she the adoring little girl in tow.

Adam walked away, giving her a last cheery wave. An arresting man in a smart leather jacket and jeans, blond hair catching the soft light.

Except that it was an illusion. There was nothing soft about him.

Cannes

May 22

It hadn't been difficult to arrange Michael Adams's meeting with the leader of Cell Six of the Death Squad—or Freedom International, as the group chose to identify itself when members happened to meet with the press. They were to have lunch at the Café Antoine near the beach, a rather stereotypical French sidewalk café with red and white striped sun umbrellas set atop the tables. Men and women sipped their coffees or espressos or mineral waters and dined on cheese, watching the passersby or looking at the beach, where the beautiful and the not-so-beautiful stretched their naked and near-naked bodies beneath the sun.

Adam saw Ali Abdul as soon as he entered the café. There were other Arabs at some of the tables, but there was something striking about the man Adam had come to see. He was in his sixties, wearing a burnoose, and he barely moved as his sunken eyes surveyed the street before him. He was not alone. He was with a younger man in a business suit, a dark, intense man of about forty.

That was Khazar Abdul, Adam knew, Ali's son, and next in line for cell leadership. Whereas Ali was rumored to be cool, collected and rational at all times, Khazar was known to be a hothead. Ali murdered for a reason—Khazar lived with a hatred that made him volatile, at best.

Adam paused briefly, his eyes scanning the rest of the patrons. He was certain the Abduls were far from alone. The café was filled with tourists of many nationalities: French, Italian, Arab, Spanish, German, Swiss, English and American. But they weren't all tourists. Abdul would not risk the chance of assassination.

Adam moved forward, heading for Ali's table. A man stood and brushed against him. He felt the gun in Adam's jacket pocket and reached deftly beneath the material for it. In accented French he apologized for his clumsiness. Adam lifted his hands and assured him, “
De rien
. It's nothing.” They weren't going to let him get close to Ali with a weapon.

He went over to the table, feeling tension constrict his throat. These men had been responsible for the death of his wife and child. His muscles were tightening. He had to relax. He had to forget. For now.

Ali Abdul was on his feet, greeting Adam like an old friend, giving him a kiss on each cheek. Khazar rose more stiffly than his father, but he, too, went through the motions of a friendly greeting, his dark eyes studying Adam intently.

He doesn't trust me, Adam thought. But then, he was certain that Khazar didn't trust anyone.

“So you are Michael Adams,” Ali said quietly when they were all seated. The old man's eyes were sunken. His health could not be good.

“Yes, I am Michael Adams.”

“And you are anxious to join our little group in our endeavors.”

“I am.”

“Why?” Khazar asked.

His father cast him a warning glare. To Adam, Ali offered a rueful grin. “Yes, we are curious as to why. Many of our number fight for religion—”

“And many do not,” Adam said.

“And many fight for our support in their struggles against the oppressors in their homelands.”

Half the revolutionaries in South America wanted an in, Adam knew.

He leaned back in his chair, summoned the waiter and asked for an espresso. He waited until the demitasse was set down and the waiter was gone before he answered. “The money, gentlemen. I'm sure that my reputation preceded me, just as I came to you because of all I had heard. I may bear a few grudges against a certain superpower, but my concern isn't religion or freedom. In fact, it isn't really anything at all except that I want the money, and …” He paused, leaning forward. “I like the action.”

He had Khazar now. The man knew what it was like to savor power. Khazar liked to kill, too, Adam thought.

For Ali, perhaps this was a holy war. But not for his son.

A chill snaked along Adam's spine. He didn't like Khazar. The man was someone to watch, to avoid. If Ali should happen to die in the midst of this, then God help them all.

“What do you have to offer?” Ali asked.

Adam smiled, folding his hands in his lap. “Contacts, gentlemen. The U.S. government doesn't know what to think of me. They want me on their side. They're ready to woo me. I can go places the very best of you can't reach.”

“But how do we know you're really on our side, then?” Khazar asked sharply.

“You'll have to test me, won't you?” Adam asked.

“Yes,” Ali murmured, watching him carefully. “We shall have to test you. And I have the perfect situation in mind.” He rested his arms on the table and leaned close to Adam. He began to speak slowly, describing what he wanted, watching Adam all the while. His eyes were old, but very sharp. As Adam listened, he felt tension coiling in his stomach again. The rumors had been right. And now he knew where the next action was going to take place, and who was going to be their next target.

“You will make sure the senator is where he is supposed to be,” Ali told him.

“And then …” Khazar said, his eyes dark, intense, deadly. “Then you will come to the compound. When the mission is complete, we will know that you are one of us. And if you are not …” He paused for effect, Adam knew. His cup was in his hand, thick pottery.

The cup cracked and broke. Khazar smiled.

“If not, I will see to your death myself. And you may trust in the fact that I am a master, an artist, at death.”

Adam smiled. He felt very cold. Khazar could not know that he was a master at death himself. This was between them, he thought. He knew, sitting there, meeting the two men, that Khazar had caused the death of his family. To Ali, those murders would have been pointless. To Khazar, they would have been pleasure.

Adam sipped his espresso, then lifted his cup to Khazar. “I will prove myself to you, Monsieur Abdul.” He looked at Ali. “When shall I leave?”

“Tonight. You must go home tonight. I want to have the senator in my hands with the others by the first of July. On the fourth I will have my men returned to me, or I will kill an American for the celebration of his independence.”

4

Washington, D.C.

May 28

T
he Templeton house was ablaze with lights. Chinese lanterns were strewn all around the gardens and the lawns. The pool reflected the colored shades with a mesmerizing beauty. The people in attendance were decked out in splendor, too, the men in tuxedos, the women in silks and satins and velvets, some demure, some startling, all created by the most famous designers. It was a Washington society party, and society was there in force. The president wasn't in attendance, so the place wasn't crawling with security, but there were a number of congressmen present, so Amber knew that some of the men moving around the room were probably security.

She hadn't really wanted to come to this party, but her father had asked her, and despite her wealth and popularity and importance, Helen Templeton was one of the nicest women Amber had ever met. It was just that she was anxious to leave—she and Josie and Myra were due to start their vacation late the next day, and she still hadn't packed.

The waiting hadn't been half as hard as she had expected. She had even been somewhat disturbed at herself, because she wasn't as miserable as she had expected to be. She had spent time with her father. She had gone to lunch with friends. And she hadn't really thought about Peter, not at all. In fact, when she
had
dreamed, she had been haunted by the man with the ice-blue eyes, the man who had disappeared after the memorial service. She would most probably never see him again, she thought. And yet he walked through her dreams. He strode through them, and though they didn't speak or touch, his eyes were on her, and she could not look away from them. One morning she realized that she had awakened to wonder what it would be like to go to bed with such a man, and then she really
was
disturbed. Her life, as she had lived it for so long, had fallen apart—and she wasn't mourning a deep, long-term relationship, she was wondering about a stranger who had walked away into the sunset of life. And even as she danced on the terrace with her father, watching the play of the lights over the water, she was thinking of that man.

“There's Senator Daldrin,” her father muttered suddenly. “I need to speak with him. Do you mind?”

Amber pulled away from him. “Of course not, Dad. You know that I'm a big girl. I'll be all right on my own.”

He smiled and excused himself. Amber wandered over to the buffet table and reached for a glass, planning to pour herself some punch.

A hand closed over the glass, a masculine hand, long bronze fingers brushing over hers and bringing an instant flood of sensation washing through her. She looked up quickly.

It was him. The man from the memorial service. The man from the park. The man with the striking light-blue eyes and rugged features. He hadn't disappeared into the sunset. He was standing behind Helen Templeton's buffet table, and he was going to pour her a glass of punch.