White Lies (16 page)

           
 
"We've been thrown together because of
the circumstances! We don't know each other under normal conditions. You're not
the same man I married—" how true that was! "—and I'm not the same
woman. We need time! When your memory returns—"

           
 
"That's not guaranteed," he
interrupted, his voice harsh with frustration.

           
 
"What if my memory never returns? What if
there's permanent brain damage?

           
 
Then what? Are you still going to be saying no
this time next year? Five years from now?"

           
 
"I don't think you have brain
damage," she said shakily. "You recovered your speech and motor
functions too easily."

           
 
"That's beside the damned point!" He
was furious. Before she could move, he rolled onto her and pinned her hands to
the bed. He was so close that she could see the yellow flecks in his irises,
his curling black lashes, and a tiny scar in his left eyebrow she hadn't
noticed before. He took a deep breath and slowly relaxed, the anger fading from
him as he moved against the softness of her body, letting her feel his
hardness. "I won't wait forever," he said in soft warning. "I'm
going to have you. If not now, then later."

           
 
Then he rolled off her and was gone, moving
with a peculiar silent grace that had become far more evident since the
bandages had been removed from his eyes. There had been signs of it before,
manifested in the superb control he had over his movements, but now it was
striking. He didn't just move, he flowed, his muscles rippling with liquid
power. Jay lay quietly on the bed, her body burning from frustration and the
lingering sensation of contact with his, her eyes on the door he had closed
behind him.

           
 
Who was he? Terror washed over her again, but
it was terror for him. He was an agent, obviously, but not just any agent. He
had clearly had extensive training; he was valuable enough that the government
was willing to spend a fortune protecting him, as well as setting up this
elaborate charade with her as an unsuspecting partner. If it hadn't been for
his eyes, she might never have suspected a thing. But if he was that valuable
to his own government, then logic told her he was of at least equal value to
his enemies. All things were in proportion; whatever lengths had been taken to
protect him, his enemies would be willing to go to equal lengths to find and
destroy him.

           
 
As each new part of him was revealed, the
stakes seemed to get higher. Now she knew that he was skilled at clandestine
forced entry. She had picked up some of the lingo at
Bethesda
; what had she heard it called?

           
 
Light entry? No, soft entry. They called it a
soft entry. Going in hard was an attack with weapons. Maybe the lock on the
motel door wasn't the sturdiest model available, but she knew that picking it
was beyond the average citizen. A good burglar wouldn't have any trouble with
it, though... or a good agent. And the way he moved. He was as controlled and
graceful as a dancer, but a dancer's moves were poetic, while Steve's were
evocative of silent danger. His mind. No detail escaped him. He was trained to
notice and use everything. Already Frank was deferring to htm, another sign of
his importance. And he was in danger. Perhaps not immediate danger, but she
knew it was there waiting for him.

           
 
The phone rang at two in the morning in
Frank's room, and he muttered a sleepy curse as he fumbled for the receiver. It
was second nature to him not to turn on a light, which could alert any outside
observers that he was awake. Nor did he have to ask who it was, because only
one man knew where they were.

           
 
"Yes," he said, and yawned.

           
 
"Piggot surfaced," the Man said.
"
East Berlin
. We couldn't get to him in time, but we did
find out that he's learned there was a survivor of the explosion and has made
inquiries."

           
 
"Did the cover hold?"

           
 
"If Piggot asked at all, there has to be
some doubt. Make certain your trail is covered. I don't want anyone other than
the two of us to know where they are. How is he doing?"

           
 
"Better than I would have, if this had
been my first day out of the hospital in two months. He's stronger than I
expected. One other thing: I never would have believed it, but I think he's
falling in love with her. It isn't just that he's been dependent on her, I
think he's really serious."

           
 
"Good God," the Man said, startled.
He laughed. "Well, it happens to the best of us. I have the final medical
report on him here. His brain damage, if any, is minimal. He's a walking
miracle, especially the speed of his recovery. He should regain his full memory
but it may take a trigger of some sort to release it. We may have to bring his
family in, or take him home, but not until we find Piggot. Until then, he stays
hidden."

           
 
"The day we get Piggot, we tell him—and
Jay— what's going on?" The Man sighed. He sounded tired. "I hope he's
recovered his memory by then. Damn it, we need to know what happened over
there, and what he found out. But with his memory or without it, he has to stay
there until we get Piggot. He has to be Steve Crossfield."

           
 
Steve woke early and lay in bed, feeling the
fatigue that still weighted his body, as well as the sexual frustration that
had been plaguing him for several weeks. He had tried, but even the rigorous
exercise he'd been taking hadn't rebuilt his strength to the point he would
have liked. Yesterday had exhausted him. He grinned sourly, thinking that it
had probably been a good thing Jay had turned him down, because there was a
good chance he would have collapsed on her in the middle of making love. Damn
it.

           
 
He didn't intend to let her refusal stand in
his way, but his lack of strength was something else. He had to get back in
shape. It wasn't just that he was dissatisfied with his lack of strength and
his physical limitations; he had a nagging feeling that he needed to be in top
shape just in case...
what
? He didn't
know what he expected to happen, but he had an uneasy feeling. If anything came
up, he had to be in shape to protect Jay and handle the situation. After
getting out of bed, he first took the pistol that had been on the bedside table
and placed it on the floor, within easy reach. Then he dropped down and began
doing push-ups, counting silently. Thirty was his limit. Already panting, he
rolled over and hooked his feet under the bed, his hands behind his head, and
did sit-ups. The new scars on his abdomen throbbed at the strain he was putting
on them, and sweat broke out on his brow. He had to stop at seventeen. Swearing
in disgust, he looked down at his body. He was in pitiful shape. Before, he'd
been able to do a hundred push-ups and sit-ups without even breathing hard— He
went still, waiting for the half memory to become full-blown, waiting for the
mental door to open, but nothing happened. Just for a second he'd had a glimpse
of what his life had been before; then the door had closed again. The doctor
had told him not to try to force it, but that blank door taunted him. There was
something he needed to know, and rage built inside him because he couldn't
force his way past the block.

           
 
Suddenly he heard footsteps outside the room,
and he rolled, grabbing the pistol as he did so. Stretched out prone on the
carpet, he aimed the pistol at the door and waited. The footsteps halted and a
grumpy voice said, "June, come
on
.
We need to get an early start and you've wasted enough time."

           
 
"Will the town be gone if we get there at
four instead of three?" an equally grumpy female voice returned.

           
 
Steve let out his breath and climbed to his
feet, staring at the pistol in his hand. It fit his palm as if he'd been born
holding it. It was a Browning automatic, high caliber, and loaded with
hollow-tip bullets that would make a hell of a hole going in and an even bigger
one coming out. Frank had given it to him at the hospital while they were
waiting for Jay to return and had told him to keep it on him, just as a
precaution. When Steve had reached to take it, it was as if part of him had
slipped back into focus. He hadn't realized how unusual it had been not to be
armed, until the pistol was in his hand.

           
 
His reactions just now said a lot about the
type of life he'd been living; it had been second nature for him to place the
pistol within reach even while exercising, and second nature to regard those
approaching footsteps as a possible danger. Maybe Jay had been smart to divorce
him the first time. Maybe he wasn't doing her a favor by forcing his way back into
her life, considering the dangers of
his
.

           
 
The pistol in his hand was a fine piece of
hardware, but it couldn't compare to the feel of Jay's body. If he had to
choose between Jay and his work, the job had just lost. He'd been a damned fool
the first time, but he wasn't going to foul up this second chance. Whoever he
worked for would just have to reassign him, bring him in, or he'd get out
completely. No more clandestine meetings, no more assassins after him. Hell, it
was time he settled down and let the Young Turks have their chance. He was
thirty-seven, long past the age when most other men had wives and families.

           
 
But he wouldn't tell him until his memory
returned, he thought cynically as he showered. Until then, he couldn't afford
to totally trust anyone, except Jay.

           
 
* * *

           
 
They bought boots, socks and insulated
underwear in
Colorado Springs
, jeans and flannel shirts in another town, hats and shearling coats in
another. Jay also bought a thick down jacket with a hood, and a supply of long
flannel gowns. The two vehicles Frank had obtained were four-wheel-drive Jeeps
with snow tires, so they made good time, even though the snow became deeper the
farther west they went.

           
 
Frank drove the lead Jeep, with Steve and Jay
in the one behind. Jay had never driven a stick shift before, so the driving
was left up to Steve. At first Jay worried about his legs, but he didn't seem
to have any difficulty with the clutching and braking, so after a time she
stopped worrying and began paying attention to the magnificent scenery as they
drove west on U.S. 24. The sky, which had been clear, gradually became leaden
with clouds, and occasional snowflakes began to drift down. The weather didn't
worsen beyond that, and they continued to make good time even after they turned
off onto a state highway. Then they left the state highway for a secondary road
with much less traffic and a lot more snow, necessitating a slower speed. After
that Frank took a dirt road that wound through the mountains for what seemed
like hours, and finally he made another turnoff. Jay could see no discernible
road or even a trail; they were simply driving up a mountain by the route of
least resistance.

           
 
"I wonder if he knows where he's
going," she muttered, clinging to the seat as the Jeep jolted to one side.

           
 
"He knows. Frank's a good agent,"
Steve returned absently, downshifting to climb a particularly steep rise. Once
they reached the top, they seemed to be in a high, wide meadow that stretched
and dipped for miles in front of them. They drove along the edge of the tree
line until the meadow abruptly ended, and then they descended sharply down the
side of the mountain. Next they climbed up another mountain, where there was a
stretch of track barely wide enough to accommodate the Jeeps. On one side was
the rock face, and on the other, nothing but an increasing distance to the
bottom. Then they crested that mountain, too, and reached another rolling
meadow. As the sun dipped behind the western peaks, Steve squinted his eyes at
the tree line to their left. "That must be the cabin."

           
 
"Where?" Jay asked, sitting up
eagerly. Just the thought of being able to get out of the Jeep and stretch her
legs was pure heaven,

           
 
"In that stand of pines, just to the
left."

           
 
Then she saw it and sighed in relief. It was
just an ordinary cabin, but it was as welcome as a luxury hotel. It was tucked
just under the trees, visible only from the front. Because it was built on a
slope, the front was higher than the back; there were six wooden steps leading
up to a porch that ran all the way across. Built onto the cabin at the back was
a lean-to for the Jeeps, and thirty yards to the rear was a shed.