Black Ice

“Please, Chloe! I beg of you! If I leave them in the lurch I’ll never get another translating job, and I can’t quite count on Henry yet. I need to do these little weekend jobs to supplement my income. You know how badly the Frères pay.”

“About twice as much as they pay me.”

“Then you need the money even more,” Sylvia said, unabashed. “Come on, Chloe, go for it! Be wild and dangerous for a change! A few days spent in the country is just what you need.”

“Wild and dangerous with a bunch of businessmen? Somehow I can’t quite see it happening.”

“Think of the food.”

“Bitch,” Chloe said cheerfully.

“And they probably have an exercise room as well. Most of these big old houses turned conference centers do. You don’t need to worry about your butt.”

“Double bitch,” Chloe said, regretting she’d ever expressed concern over her curves.

“Come on, Chloe,” Sylvia said, wheedling. “You know you want to. You’ll have a marvelous time. It won’t be as boring as you think, and maybe we’ll be able to celebrate my engagement when you get back.”

Chloe doubted it. “When am I supposed to leave?”

Sylvia let out a little crow of triumph. Not that she’d ever seriously expected not to get her way. “That’s the best part. The limo’s probably downstairs by now. You’ll be reporting to Mr. Hakim and he’ll tell you what to do.”

“Hakim? My Arabic is lousy.”

“I told you, it’s all French to English and back. Groups of importers are bound to be multinational, but all of them speak either English or French. Piece of cake, Chloe. In more ways than one.”

“Triple bitch,” Chloe said. “Do I have time…?”

“No. It’s eight-thirty-three and the limo was supposed to arrive at eight-thirty. These people tend to be very precise. Just put on a little makeup and we’ll go down.”

“I’m already wearing makeup.”

Sylvia let out an exasperated sigh. “Not enough. Come with me and I’ll fix you up.” She grabbed her hand and started tugging her toward the bathroom.

“I don’t need fixing up,” Chloe protested, yanking her hand free. “They’re paying seven hundred euros a day, and all you have to do is talk.”

Chloe put her hand back in Sylvia’s. “Fix me up,” she said, resigned, and followed Sylvia into the cramped little bathroom at the far end of the room.

Bastien Toussaint, also known as Sebastian Toussaint, Jean-Marc Marceau, Jeffrey Pillbeam, Carlos Santeria, Vladimir the Butcher, Wilhelm Minor and a good half dozen other names and identities, lit a cigarette, inhaling with mild pleasure. The last three jobs he’d been a nonsmoker, and he’d adapted with his usual cool acceptance. He didn’t tend to let weakness get to him—he was relatively impervious to addictions, pain, torture or tenderness. He could, occasionally, be merciful if the situation called for it. If it didn’t, he dispensed justice without blinking. He did what he had to do.

But whether he needed the cigarette or not, he enjoyed it, just as he’d enjoy the fine wines with dinner and the single malt whiskies that were supposed to lower his guard and make him indiscreet. And he would be, spilling just enough information to satisfy the others and advance his agenda. He could do the same with vodka, but he preferred Scotch, and he’d enjoy it along with the cigarettes and do without when this job was over.

It had lasted longer than most of his assignments. They’d been working on his cover for more than two years, and when he’d stepped into the role eleven months ago he’d been more than ready. He was a patient man, and he knew how long it took for things to be set in motion. But the payoff was close at hand, and that knowledge gave him a cool satisfaction, although he was going to miss Bastien Toussaint. He’d gotten used to him by now—the faint, Gallic charm, the sharpwitted ruthlessness, the eye for women. He’d had more sex as Bastien than he’d had for a while. Sex was another indulgence he could take or leave, another pleasure to be savored if it came his way. He was supposed to have a wife back in Marseilles, but that made little difference. Most of the men he’d be meeting with had wives and children, nice little nuclear families back in the mother country. Children and wives who happily live off the profits of their mutual occupation.

Importing. Importing fruit from the Middle East. Importing beef from Australia. Importing arms to whoever could pay the highest price.

At least it wasn’t drugs this time. He had never been totally comfortable with smuggling heroin. Foolish sentimentality on his part—people chose to use drugs, they didn’t choose to be shot by the guns he trafficked. It must be a throwback to his old life, so long gone that he barely remembered it.

It was a cold, crisp winter day. There was a distant scent of apples on the air, and the calming sound of the garden staff raking leaves in front of the sprawling house. Most of the staff would be carrying guns under their loose clothing. Semiautomatics, maybe Uzis. Possibly ones he’d provided.

It would be damned funny if one of them killed him.

He dropped his cigarette on the ground and ground it out with his foot. Someone would come and remove the butt, someone who would just as calmly remove him if ordered to do so. And the odd thing was, he didn’t really care.

The door opened behind him, and Gilles Hakim stepped out into the sunlight. “Bastien. We’re having coffee in the library. Why don’t you come and join us? Meet the others? We’re just waiting for the translator to show up.”

Bastien turned his back on the beautiful December day and followed Hakim into the house.

Chapter 2

Chloe had far too much time to consider how rash she’d been. The uniformed chauffeur kept the glass screen up between them, it was too early for a drink to calm her nerves and Sylvia had been in such a hurry to get her going that she’d forgotten to bring a book with her. All she had were her thoughts to keep her company for this seemingly endless ride.

She automatically reached up to shove her long brown hair behind her ear when she remembered the miracle Sylvia had wrought in three minutes with nothing more than a handful of makeup and a brush. She might not have a book but she had Sylvia’s compact in Sylvia’s Hermès handbag, and she wanted one more surreptitious look. To see the stranger looking back at her out of the same calm brown eyes she’d always had, though now they were lined and smudged and gorgeous in her pale face. The long, straight brown hair no longer hung down around her face—Sylvia had moussed and teased and fiddled with it so that in less than a minute it turned from a lank veil to a tousled mane. Her pale mouth was now plump and red and shiny, and the borrowed scarf adorning her shoulder was draped just so.

The question was, how long would she be able to carry on with the illusion? Sylvia could look like this in three minutes—it had taken her less than five to transform Chloe from a plain brown wren into a peacock. Chloe had tried to achieve the same results on numerous occasions and had always fallen short. “Less is more,” Sylvia had lectured her, but more was never enough.

And she was fussing for nothing. They wanted an interpreter, not a fashion model, and if Chloe knew one thing, it was languages. She could do her job and spend the rest of the time pretending she belonged in a château instead of her tiny apartment that always smelled of cabbage. And she would eat anything she wanted.

Three or four nights in a château and then she’d be back, and Sylvia would owe her big time. And it might not be the sex and violence she was playfully longing for, but at least it would be a change. And who knows, maybe one of the boring businessmen would have a handsome young assistant with an interest in American girls. Anything was possible.

Château Mirabel had more security than Fort Knox, she thought a half hour later, as they began their journey through a series of gates, checkpoints, armed guards and leashed dogs. The deeper inside the grounds they went, the more uneasy Chloe became. Getting inside was hard enough. Getting out looked to be just about impossible, unless they were willing to let her go.

And why wouldn’t they? She was being ridiculous, and when the limousine finally pulled up outside the wide front steps she’d managed to control both her curiosity and her imagination and climb out of the back of the car with a fair approximation of Sylvia’s languid grace.

The man waiting for her was tall, older and dressed better than the average Frenchman, which meant he was well-dressed indeed. He was clearly of Middle Eastern origin, and Chloe gave him her most dazzling smile. “Monsieur Hakim?”

He nodded, shaking her hand. “And you are Miss Underwood, Miss Whickham’s replacement. I only just found out you were coming. If I’d known, I could have saved you a trip.”

“Saved me a trip? You don’t need me?” Two or more hours back to the city was not at the top of her list of things she most wanted to do, and she was even more loath to part with the promise of the money Sylvia had mentioned.

“We are a smaller group than expected, and I think we could manage to understand each other without outside help,” he said in gentle, well-modulated tones. They were speaking English, and Chloe promptly switched over to French.

“If you wish, monsieur, but I’m sure I could be quite useful. I have nothing else planned for the next few days, and I would be more than happy to stay.”

“If you have nothing planned then you will be able to go back to Paris and enjoy a nice vacation,” he suggested in the same language.

“I’m afraid my apartment is not the best place for a vacation, Monsieur Hakim.” She wasn’t sure why she was trying to talk him into letting her stay. She hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place—it was only Sylvia’s wheedling that had talked her into it. That and the thought of the seven hundred euros a day.

But now that she was here she didn’t want to go back. Even if it was the smarter thing to do.

Mr. Hakim hesitated, seemingly unused to argumentative women. And then he nodded. “I suppose you could be of value to us,” he said. “It would be a shame for you to make such a long trip for nothing.”

“It was a long trip,” Chloe said. “I think the driver might have gotten lost—we passed several places more than once. Next time he should have a map.”

Hakim’s smile was slight. “I will see to it, Mademoiselle Underwood. In the meantime, we’ll have the servants take care of your bag while you come meet the guests you’ll be translating for. It shouldn’t be too onerous a task, and when we’re not meeting you’ll have a beautiful setting in which to enjoy yourself. And, of course, the presence of such a lovely young woman can only make our work go more smoothly.”

For some reason the usual French good manners sat slightly askew on Hakim, and she found herself wanting to go wash her hands. She gave him the maternal smile she reserved for the most lecherous of the Laurent brothers and murmured, “You’re too kind” as she followed him up the marble steps.

A great many of the old châteaus had been turned into luxury hotels and conference centers, with the shabbier ones becoming bed-and-breakfasts. This was more elegant than any she had seen or even heard of, and by the time Hakim ushered her into a large room she was finding herself more and more uneasy.