Now You See Him(41)

Geoffrey laughed. "You're turning into an old maid, Cougar. I've got enough to worry about, with the Cadre's leader still loose. I can't waste time worrying about my boss's temper."

"Your funeral," Michael said absently. And then his gaze focused, sharpened, on Geoffrey's narrow face. "And it just might be," he added.

"I'm invincible," Geoffrey said. "I've been in the business as long as you have, and I still get a kick out of it. Nothing's ever going to get to me."



"There's a difference between Malta and Gibraltar, you realize," Ross Cardiff said, his face screwed up as if he were tasting something nasty.

That was one of the things Michael disliked most about Ross. His sour expression, his whine, and the fact that he never swore. Anyone else might say there was a hell of a difference between the two islands, but not Ross.

"I'm aware of my geography," Michael said blandly. Ever since Ross Cardiff had been put in charge he'd had little recourse against the man's pettiness. His only act of aggression was to never let Ross know just how much he despised the man. For his pettiness, his narrow-mindedness, his bloody stupidity that had cost people their lives.

"Yes, I forgot," Ross murmured. "You went to Willingborough. They teach young gentlemen such things, don't they?"

Michael allowed himself a small, savage smile. He'd gone to the prestigious school on scholarship, a working-class boy who'd had to use his fists to even survive the first year. But Ross persisted in thinking of him as part of the affluent upper classes, and Michael allowed him to do so. Knowing that it drove Ross crazy was one of the small indulgences he allowed himself.

"They do," he said. "I still think Gibraltar's a blind."

"And you think I'm fool enough to fall for it? It doesn't say much for your confidence in my ability to lead."

Michael wisely said nothing. He'd never known anyone possessing fewer leadership abilities than Ross Cardiff, who'd achieved his current status through brownnosing and the general bloody-mindedness of the bureaucracy, and now he and people like Geoffrey Parkhurst paid the price for it.

Instead he shrugged. It had been six days since he'd left Geoffrey in Northern Ireland, six days in London to consider his current theory. He wasn't about to apprise Ross of the details. He didn't trust the man's discretion any more than he trusted his intelligence. "It's just a hunch, Ross," he said, trying to sound ameliorating. "You don't need me in Gib, and you know it. You've got enough people there already, people who know the layout, know the drill. Let me see what I can come up with in Malta."

"And if I refuse?"

Michael kept a rein on his temper. "What possible reason would you have for refusing? I'm at loose ends right now. I wasn't due back for another month. Let me have that time to see what I can stir up. Or tell me why not."

Ross's small-featured face was a picture of frustration, and Michael wondered for a moment if the man was hiding something. He'd never been good at keeping things secret, a serious drawback in intelligence work. Michael never trusted anyone or anything completely, even his own instincts, but for the moment he put his doubts on hold. He had no reason to doubt Ross, it was just that something didn't quite fit together, and that was probably attributable to his general incompetency.

"Go, then," Ross said, literally throwing up his small, well-manicured hands. "You're right—we don't need you. You're not indispensable, you know, Mr. James Bond-complex. You're an agent, no better, no more important, than a raft of other agents. It would do you well to remember that."

"I'll remember," he said, his voice expressionless, and he had the pleasure of seeing Ross clench his small white teeth.

"Be in touch," he snapped, his voice his characteristic whine. "When you come up empty, you can take your next assignment."

His interview was over. Michael got to his feet, careful not to appear too fit. In fact, he was almost back to full strength; the last bout of surgery had been just a minor inconvenience. But he wasn't ready for Ross to know that. "I'll do that," he said. "Everything all right with the Neeley woman?" He kept his voice diffident. He didn't particularly expect to fool Ross; what the man lacked in political savvy he more than made up for in acuity when it came to people's real interests, real needs.

"Just fine." Ross, too, could be bland. "When will you be taking off?"

"I've got tickets for today."

"And what if I'd said no?"

Michael only smiled.

"Too bad, though," Ross murmured as Michael limped to the door. "You'll miss the funeral."

Michael glanced back at him, his hand on the polished brass doorknob. "Anyone I know?"