Desperado (15 page)

“The bulls that Jorge raises for the bullring,” he pointed out. “He doesn’t raise many these days. I think he’s lost heart. In the old days, when things were different, there was almost a religion built around the art—notice I didn’t say sport—of the
corrida.
My grandfather would stand, they said, in the center of the ring with the fighting cape and wait for the bull. Consider,” he added with bright eyes, “that the bull weighs half a ton and is bred for aggression and stamina. My grandfather would wait for the charge and move not a muscle, not an eyelash, as the animal lowered its horns and came straight for him! Then, with a flick of the cape, he would distract the bull at the last instant and the audience would gasp as the huge animal brushed right against him in its furious charge.” He sighed. “A brave bull would be spared, its life demanded by the spectators. While the losers would be fed to the community.” He glanced down at her with a curious smile. “How would it be for you,” he asked softly, “if you had to watch me dress in the
traje de luces,
the golden ‘suit of lights’ worn by a
matador, and know that I went into the ring with only my cape and my courage to protect me from horns as sharp as spears?”

She drew in a slow breath and shivered in the hot sun.

He caught her gently by her nape and pulled her into his body, held her, comforted her against a phantom thought that he was ashamed for voicing. His hand soothed her neck. “My mother and my grandmother faced that agony most of their married lives. My mother was American. She had a brave heart, much courage, but she went white and threw up every time my father signed a new contract and went the rounds of the
ferias.
” He sighed. “I don’t think I could do that to you,” he said in a soft, absent tone.

She slid her arms around him and pressed tight into his arms with a soft moan. He belonged to her now. She wondered if he even realized it. Her heart almost burst with joy. She put all thoughts of tomorrow out of her mind and felt his arms close with wonder. She drank in the clean smell of his powerful body, the warmth of him so close. She closed her eyes with a smile, listening contentedly to his steady heartbeat under her ear while his deep voice continued about the old days of the bullfight. It was one of those few moments in a lifetime when everything is, for a space of minutes, absolutely ethereal, joy hanging like a drop of rain from a trembling dry leaf, the very hesitation pregnant with anticipation. She knew that she would remember it all her life, no matter what happened.

That afternoon, they were dressed in their various disguises, with the exception of Bojo and Maggie. Cord had acquired
a wig that looked remarkably like Jorge’s wavy white hair, along with one of Jorge’s suits—fortunately they were of a similar height—and his silver-headed wolf’s head cane. He also had a nice stoop that Jorge chided him for, although it was accurate. Jorge had crippling arthritis of the spine.

Rodrigo, the Latin, was wearing the elegant suit of a valet and hovering near Cord. Bojo put on his dark glasses and pulled the hood over his short black hair. Maggie, in a neat white pantsuit with low-heeled shoes, a lacy scarf over her long hair, which was loose down her back, and dark glasses covering her eyes, clung to Cord’s arm. Wearing a dressy hat as Jorge did, with dark glasses over his eyes to help the disguise, Cord stooped and walked along beside Maggie toward the car.

Minutes later, they were down the long paved driveway, through the wrought-iron gate that closed and locked behind them, and on the road to the Costa del Sol and Gibraltar, and the ferry that would take them to Tangier.

After passing through passport control twice—once arriving at Gibraltar and then again for entrance to Morocco—Rodrigo, with Bojo in the front seat beside him, drove them into the city of Tangier. It wasn’t Maggie’s first glimpse of the exotic place, having been there with Gretchen Brannon only weeks before. She’d lost touch with her friend, and she hoped that the job she’d given up in Qawi was working out for Gretchen. Like everyone else, she’d maintained the fiction of Cord’s blindness. If Gretchen knew anything of them, she’d
been told that Cord hadn’t regained his sight. Hopefully Maggie would get to correct that false impression in the months ahead, if everything went well.

She glanced at Cord beside her in the back seat, getting a good idea of how he would look as an old man. She would have given anything to share her life with him, to grow old with him. She loved him more than her life. She always would. But if her sins were disclosed, Cord wouldn’t want her anymore, she was certain of it. She’d best pay attention to what she was learning of firearms and covert ops, so that she could do as she threatened, and beg Lassiter for a job as a private investigator when this was all over. If she could stay in Houston, she added miserably. It might be too painful, if the truth came out. There were other cities, she consoled herself. But none of them would contain Cord.

They came into sight of a pretty little villa with a wrought-iron gate reminiscent of the entrance to Jorge’s
finca
in Spain. There were flowers everywhere once they got inside it. The house itself was two stories high, white adobe, with red tiles on its roof. The entrance led down a hallway through a wooden door and opened to inside balconies, dripping flowers, and a courtyard where a fountain pulsed with watery music, in a patio of blue and white ceramic tiles in elegant patterns. The tiles went halfway up the walls, as well. Everywhere in Tangier was the sweet scent of musk.

A tall, elegant young man came out to meet them. “Cousin Jorge!” he said loudly, taking the “old man’s” hand in both of
his. “How wonderful that you could come to visit! And this must be Maggie, of whom you have spoken, who accompanied poor Cord to Spain. Welcome, welcome!”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Cousin Ahmed,” Cord said in a nice approximation of Jorge’s husky deep voice, speaking loudly enough that the servants could hear him without straining. “Cord thought it might be good for Maggie to see something of Tangier, while he rested for a day or so. I think he craved some solitude. His lack of vision troubles him greatly. This is my valet, Rodrigo,” he introduced their companion, who bowed, “and our guide, Bojo.”

“They are both welcome, also. Come, let me show you to your rooms! Carmen! Come and meet our guests,” he called as they entered the open door of the living room, a spacious expanse of polished wood floors and antique furniture with brocade draperies.

A pretty young woman came forward with a baby in her arms. She greeted Maggie effusively, and the men with a somewhat subdued manner.

“Carmen and our son, Mohammed,” Ahmed introduced his family. “She is on her way to her sister’s house for a visit, but she wanted to meet you before she left.”

As they spoke conversationally, it was very obvious to Maggie why the young woman was being moved, with her child, from the premises. It would take her out of the line of fire, if there was trouble.

Carmen was escorted out by her husband to a waiting lim
ousine, put into it, and waved goodbye. The servants, a woman and a man, both small and dark and apparently not Muslim by their apparel, led Maggie to an upstairs bedroom next door to the one that would be occupied by Cord and Rodrigo. Bojo was down the hall. Maggie was rather sad about the arrangements, because she wanted to be in Cord’s arms in the darkness, as she had the night before.

They had a light lunch and went to sit in the enclosed patio and drink hot chocolate and talk. It was a lazy, pleasant afternoon. Soon afterward, Ahmed announced that he would have to make an appearance at his office, where he worked in the import/export business, since he’d taken off half the day to spend with his arriving guests. He left his visitors in the care of the servants, who were obviously not in on the masquerade, so Cord and Maggie had to be very careful not to give the game away.

Later, when Ahmed had returned, supper was served, and it was time to retire, Cord went into Maggie’s bedroom to caution her about talking to the servants.

“We can’t trust anyone,” he said gently. “It has nothing to do with credentials. This city was always known for international intrigue, and it still is. There are conclaves of people from all over Europe here, and some of them are shady characters. We can’t possibly know these people who work for Ahmed. He doesn’t trust them, either, for what it’s worth.”

She traced a pattern on the front of his white shirt. “So we can’t sleep together,” she agreed.

His big hands spanned her waist. “You don’t regret that any more than I do,” he said gently. “I can’t think of anything I want more than you in my arms all night, close and safe.” He bent and kissed her tenderly. “It isn’t just sex, either,” he whispered, “although it’s great between us.”

“I understand,” she said, and she did. There was a need to be with him all the time. It was overpowering, breathtaking. She searched his dark eyes. “I feel odd today,” she said huskily. Her fingers reached up to touch his mouth. “I hate being away from you, at all.”

He bent and brushed his mouth over her eyelids. “It’s very natural when people become lovers,” he told her. “Or even when they don’t. Feelings, emotions, like this become irresistible. I tingle all over every time I look at you. All I want to do right now, in fact, is ease you down on that bed and kiss you until my mouth hurts.” He smiled ruefully.

She pressed close, but not too close, and laid her cheek against his broad chest with a sigh. “I just want to hold you,” she said, her voice choked with emotion she couldn’t contain.

He moaned softly and lifted her close, carrying her to an armchair in the corner. He cuddled her against him and kissed her face with breathless tenderness while he cradled her in the warm darkness.

“We have to stop,” he said after a minute. “God forbid that one of the servants should snoop around here and wonder why you’re kissing a man old enough to be your grandfather.”

She chuckled softly, tracing the white wig on his head. “Why not, when he’s so sexy?”

He kissed her one last time and, regretfully, got to his feet, setting her firmly on hers. “Keep both doors locked, the one onto the balcony as well as the one leading into the hall. Here.” He pressed something small into her hand. “It’s a listening device, disguised as a button. Put it on the bedside table. If anything happens, talk loud.”

“I’m not armed,” she pointed out.

“And you won’t be, at night,” he replied. “I almost shot Bojo one dark night when he came in unexpectedly, and I’ve been handling a gun most of my adult life.”

She grimaced. “I get the point.”

He tilted her chin up and studied her flushed face with appreciation. “You look loved.”

“So do you,” she chided softly.

He chuckled. “I’m going to bed with Rodrigo.”

“My God!”

He glared at her. “Not like that!”

She sighed. “Thank goodness.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t even joke about it,” she said. She stared up at him solemnly, as she had when she was ten and he was eighteen, and he was in trouble. “You have to be careful. I wouldn’t want to live, if anything happened to you,” she added with a simplicity that was profound in its lack of emphasis.

His face tautened as he looked at her. He felt again, that unwelcome sense of aching fear that he could lose her, the knowledge that this woman was all he had in the world. His fingers brushed her cheek lightly and he fought for self-control.

“I’m not reckless,” he said softly. “And even when I take chances, they’re weighed and calculated. You’re my loose cannon. You have to do exactly what I tell you, no hesitation.”

She smiled. “Haven’t I always?” she teased.

He drew his fingers back. “That’s a can of worms I’m not opening tonight,” he teased. “Sleep well. Lock everything.”

“You bet, boss!” she said brightly.

“Oh, doesn’t that sound sweet and submissive?” he drawled. “If I didn’t know you better, I might even believe it.”

She curtsied.

He made a face and left, closing the door firmly behind him.

T
he next day, Cord and Maggie lounged around the villa, with Cord still in his disguise. Meanwhile Bojo went into the city with Cousin Ahmed for a tour of the city—but actually to do some undercover work for the mission. Both men were gone until very late.

When Bojo returned, he went immediately into “Jorge’s” room, where Cord was lying down, Rodrigo was moving clothes from a closet to a chair and Ahmed’s determined little male servant hovered with no apparent excuse.

“Ahmed asked me to send you to him,” Bojo told the small man, with a smile. “We are going out for the evening, and he wishes you to help him select his clothing.”

“Sí, señor,”
the little man replied, but he cast a suspicious glance at the newcomer before he closed the door.

Immediately when he left, Cord sat up in bed and snapped a
nod at Bojo, who pulled a small electronic device from his pocket in the slit at the hip of the djellaba, and began sweeping the room.

Their worst suspicions were confirmed when the detector found two bugs, one in a table drawer beside the bed, the other in the bathroom. Both were left in place, so as not to alert the person who had placed them.

Cord grimaced, furious. Bojo shrugged, curious as to how to proceed with a third unknown person “in” the room with them.

Rodrigo put down the jacket he was holding and began making hand gestures. Cord’s eyes brightened. He grinned. He nodded, and replied to the gestures. Bojo was puzzled. Later, Cord would explain that Rodrigo was adept at Plains Indian sign talk, and had taught Cord once on a surveillance mission. They liked to use it to confound other mercs in their group. But now, it became a very handy tool.

With it, Cord told Rodrigo in simple terms that he and Maggie were going to break into the offices of Global Enterprises that night while, apparently, in a fancy restaurant with Ahmed. Rodrigo and Bojo would cover for them. Rodrigo was to get out his night gear, in a hidden compartment of his suitcase, and a matching one he’d brought for Maggie. He was to get Maggie in here on some pretext so that she could don it. He was also to sweep Maggie’s rooms for bugs, not missing the one he’d told her to place beside her bed disguised as a button.

That done, Rodrigo began speaking in lazy Spanish about the coming evening affair and what would “Jorge” like to wear. Bojo just shook his head.

Maggie was surprised when Rodrigo requested her presence in “Cousin Jorge’s” room, but she went without asking any questions. Once the door was closed behind them, she found Cord in a skin-close black outfit of pants and long-sleeved turtleneck silk shirt, with a shoulder-holster containing the same .45 caliber automatic weapon he’d been teaching her to shoot.

He wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t look loverlike. He was taciturn and formidable-looking. Maggie got a glimpse of the man he must be when he was on a mission, and it chilled her almost as much as the sight of the gun. He wasn’t an obviously muscular man, but in those garments, every powerful inch of him was lovingly outlined. She caught her breath at the expanse of muscle and the sheer animal magnetism that he radiated. She knew the warm strength of him intimately, knew the inexhaustible endurance of that body, and had to fight blushes as she stared at him.

He moved forward with quick, economical steps and drew her out of view of the window to a walk-in closet. He handed her an outfit that matched his and nodded, pushing her into the closet and closing the door behind her.

Dressing in the confines, while the men spoke of commonplace things outside the closet, was amusing and she had to try
not to laugh. When she was enclosed in black silk, she opened the door and walked into the room, pulling her hair out of the neck of the shirt absently. The silence got her attention. She looked up to find three pairs of exceptionally masculine eyes helplessly drawn to her figure. Cord was almost vibrating with the exquisite desire she kindled in him. Bojo and Rodrigo were just as entranced and staring like fiends.

Cord swatted the other two men with the tie he was just putting into place over the vested black suit he’d donned. They grinned sheepishly and made excuses about dressing, so they could leave.

Maggie grinned at Cord. He didn’t grin back. His gaze was somber. He was wearing the white wig.

“Por favor, niña,”
he said in an imitation of Jorge’s deep voice, for the benefit of the eavesdroppers. “Could you help me with my tie? Do excuse me, but I must listen to the news. An old man’s whim!” he added amusedly, and turned up the radio.

“Of course, Cousin Jorge,” she said, and drew close as the radio boomed in Spanish.

“I’ll do this,” Cord said into her ear. “You’ll need to put your dress over that. Good thing you like long sleeves and skirts.”

“Isn’t it, though?” she teased as she went back to the closet and dug out the dress she’d worn into the room. She pulled it over her head and fastened it, careful to tuck away any revealing traces of the suit under it. She glanced at Cord, whose tie was now immaculately done up, and he surveyed her narrowly and nodded.

“We must not stay out too long,” he continued in his disguise. “I grow fatigued easily. And I fear that in a day or so, we must go home. Cord will be missing us. I do not like leaving him alone in his condition.”

“It amazes me that he didn’t mind being left while we came here,” she added, in her role.

“He knew, as I did, that you would love a glimpse of the real Tangier, the one the tourists never see,” he replied with a soft chuckle.

“I am enjoying it,” she agreed with a pursing of her lips.

He cocked an eyebrow. “As am I,” he said softly.

The knock on the door made them start. Cord called for the person outside to come in, and the little servant entered, his black eyes everywhere as he carried a black mantilla to Maggie and placed it in her hands.

“Señor Ahmed thought you might need this, against the chill of evening,” he told her. “Can I be of service,
señor?
” he added to “Jorge.”

“No, my son,” Cord replied with a polite smile. “As you see, my young friend has sorted out the tie!”

“Sí,”
the little man replied. “You go to a late supper, yes?”

Cord yawned. “Not so late,” he replied with a chuckle.

“Of course!
Que tienen un buen noche,
” the servant added, with a bow, and left them.

Cord drew Maggie close to whisper in her ear, “He’s thrilled. He wants time to go through our luggage!”

“More luck to him, if he can find anything!” She giggled.

He tweaked her hair. “Go comb your curly locks and come down to the living room.”

“On my way,” she agreed.

The brief ride in the car gave them no time to talk, because the driver listened carefully, though not blatantly, to every word they spoke.

But once inside the restaurant, in the foyer where Bojo quickly and unobtrusively checked for bugs and found none, they could speak freely.

“Just after we order,” Cord told Ahmed and Bojo, “Maggie will ask me to escort her into the garden to see the flowers and the fountain, which are famous, while we wait for the food to be prepared. We will order a special dish of mutton which takes at least forty-five minutes to prepare. That gives us a window to get to Global Enterprises, only a block away, and use Bojo’s information to get in.”

“What about the safe?” Bojo asked.

Cord only grinned. “If I can’t open a safe, I’m in the wrong business.”

“Sorry,” Bojo murmured.

“There will be security guards,” Cord added. “But one of them was replaced this morning because the regular man had colic.” He contrived to look innocent of helping the man acquire it. “He’s on our payroll and will divert the other guards.” He glanced down at Maggie. “I wanted you along because you’re slender enough to fit inside an air-conditioning duct that leads down into the office. We can’t walk through
the front door. And there are steel doors front and back, bolted, not electronically locked, that separate the front hall and the kitchen from the rest of the house.”

Now she understood her role, and she grinned. “Bojo’s thin, too,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but his presence would be missed. Yours won’t. Who would suspect you of being a secret agent?” he teased gently.

Her eyes sparkled. “Good point.”

“Check your watches.” He gave the minutes, the seconds, and then the signal to synchronize them.

By that time, the waiter was ready to seat them. They followed him to a table near the double doors that led into the garden, and Maggie saw a colorful bill of large-denomination Moroccan paper money slipped from Bojo’s hand into the waiter’s. It was a very convenient location.

They talked conversationally of Morocco and its dispute with Spain over illegal Moroccan immigrants trickling across the Straits of Gibraltar onto the Iberian Peninsula.

“Another example of slave traffickers at work,” Ahmed said quietly. “They agree, for a price, to smuggle illegal immigrants over the Straits, and not just to relocate. Many of them are young women, children, used in prostitution. There is also a link to Amsterdam, to the district where more trafficking goes on. Our government, in conjunction with the other countries, has tried to stop it, but we have been unsuccessful.”

“Money and power make formidable adversaries,” Cord replied. “I’ve seen it in plenty of other places, especially in Africa.”

“Where some friends of ours were involved with Gruber, to their cost,” Bojo added darkly. “Colleagues died in a fire-fight when Gruber sold them out to the government forces.”

“He’ll pay for it,” Cord promised darkly. “And for his other sins. He isn’t walking away again.”

“D’accord,”
Bojo agreed curtly in French.

The waiter came and they ordered the exquisite mutton dish, exclaiming to Maggie its perfection. When the waiter left, “Jorge” offered Maggie a walk in the gardens, at the same time apologizing for his advanced age making him a barely acceptable escort for such a lovely young woman.

She laughed and took his arm, and they strolled out through the French doors into the garden.

Cord drew her along to the thick growth of olive trees and suddenly whisked her through a wrought-iron gate and into a hidden alcove. He ripped off his tie in the dim light from the restaurant.

“We’ll leave our evening clothes here. Can you run in those shoes?” he added, nodding toward her feet.

“They’re almost flat heels, and rubber-soled,” she assured him. “I can keep up.”

“Good girl. Ready?” He pulled the .45 from his holster, checked it, cocked it, put on the safety, and replaced it. That was when she noticed the thin leather sheath under his other arm on a holster. It contained a knife.

She didn’t dare react to these tools of the trade, but she hoped against hope that she wasn’t going to be in the middle of a firefight. She hoped she had enough courage not to let Cord down. She didn’t know for sure. Nobody did, until they were in the situation.

He darted down a side street with Maggie right behind him, keeping to the shadows. The offices of Global Enterprises were only a quick walk from the restaurant, a two-story adobe building that wasn’t modern or pretentious. It was rather like some of the shops in the
grand socco,
the bazaar, that Maggie had seen when she went on the walking city tour with Gretchen.

“It doesn’t look imposing,” Maggie whispered at Cord’s back.

“Neither does a black widow spider, at first glance,” he replied. “Careful now. No talking.”

“Okay.”

He led the way, stealthily, to the back of the building. There was a surprising array of electronics at the door, which he bypassed with a small device. But beyond that door was a steel door, with more locks. Cord led her around it and into a small kitchen, deserted now.

He got a chair and unfastened a grated duct, obviously a modern air-conditioning conduit. He put it down carefully, stopping to listen.

He pulled Maggie to him. “You go that way, to the next grating,” he told her, pulling out a hastily drawn diagram and
showing it to her. “You have to be careful not to make noise. You saw me take this grate off. It’s just a matter of pushing, it’s not secured with screws. But don’t let it drop! Then you’re going to have to hold on to the ceiling and let yourself down, so that you can come to this door—” he indicated the closed and locked door at the end of the kitchen “—and unbolt it for me. Think you can do it?”

“I can do it,” she assured him. “I haven’t spent all those years working out for nothing.” Her heart was racing. She looked up at him. “There are men with guns somewhere in here, aren’t there, Cord?” she asked huskily.

His face was hard. “Yes,” he said. “If you don’t want the risk…”

She put her fingers over his hard mouth. “I’m only afraid for you, not for myself. I’ve done martial arts, and not too long ago. I can climb, and I can jump. I know how to do this.”

“I know that,” he said tautly. “But somehow it was easier when I was just planning it.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down. Here goes.”

She stood in the chair, caught the upper edges of the duct, and pulled herself up with painstaking effort. She was months away from her training, but she was strong and athletic. As an afterthought, she took off her shoes, and dropped them carefully down to Cord. She gave him a thumbs-up, got her bearings, and began to crawl stealthily, aware that time was limited and they might not have enough.

It was dark and cold in the duct. She hoped that the guards
wouldn’t notice the change in pitch of the air stream with her body inhibiting it. She moved quickly in the direction on the map, pausing to look for the grates.

Her heart stopped when she found not one, but two of them, each in a different direction. Now what?

Cord, waiting in the kitchen with his .45 automatic now in his hand, was listening for movement anywhere around him. There was a flash of light through the window and he ducked down, moving the chair aside, so that no evidence of tampering was visible. It was one of the outside guards, and not the small one he’d hired to replace the regular guard. The man outside wasn’t on his payroll.