Now You See Him(67)

Niall Regan knew that. He knew he'd chosen a stern taskmaster, and he'd always told himself the cause was worth it. Now he wasn't so certain. There had been too many deaths, too much bloody carnage simply for the sake of bloody carnage. He was used to working with fanatics, wild-eyed visionaries without the common sense to see them safely into the toilet. But the leader of the Cadre went beyond that, into the realm of certifiable insanity. And he wondered whether he could be on that plane tomorrow, in Frances Neeley's place.

"Sorry I let you down," he said meekly. "It won't happen again."

"You can be sure of that, boy-o," said Caitlin Dugan, raising the gun he didn't know she had and pointing it to his forehead. And then there was nothing but a blinding white light. Nothing at all.



There was a different concierge on duty when she walked into the dark, hushed lobby. She carried her new sandals in her hand, walking barefoot on the beautiful oriental runner, and her long gauze skirt swirled around her legs. She'd lost all sense of time, letting darkness fall around her, and it was only because she'd somehow ended up back at the hotel that she'd decided to go inside.

She walked past Daniel's door on the third floor without giving him more than a cursory thought. Either Dr. Brady had managed to stabilize him, correct his medication and bring him back to his old self, or he hadn't. If he hadn't, the alternatives were equally obvious. The hospital or death. Whatever the answer, there wasn't anything she could, or would, do about it. She didn't even know whether Daniel had lied to her or not. He might have been fed the same convoluted stories—no, that wasn't true. He told her he'd seen the Arab who'd brought her out of prison. An ugly customer, he'd called him.

One more person she couldn't trust. She closed her door behind her, very softly, and reached for the light switch.

"Don't turn it on." Michael's voice came from out of the darkness, and she froze.

She had a great many alternatives. She could scream bloody murder; she could fling herself at him in a rage; she could fall at his feet. She wanted to do all those things—and she wanted to do none of those things. So she did nothing for a moment, just took a deep, steadying breath.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked finally, her voice thin and calm in the inky darkness. "Come to apologize? So sorry, Francey dear, but I've lied to you, your cousin's lied to you, but it was all for the good of society…"

"Be quiet, Francey."

"I think I've been quiet long enough."

"The hell you have. What do you think landed you in that Spanish prison?" His voice was weary. He was sitting on the sofa by the French doors—she could see his silhouette. See the faint glow of the cigarette she hadn't known he smoked. "I told you to forget about me. Why the hell didn't you listen?"

"I'm listening now." She walked into the room, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. "I'm going back to New York with Daniel…" Sudden misgivings assailed her. "Is that why you're here? Is Daniel dead?"

"He's fine. Elmore switched his medication, and he's all set to accompany you tomorrow. Assuming you're planning to go quietly."

"And if I'm not? Will someone drug me again, maybe find a Maltese prison to throw me into?"

"Don't be hysterical."

"I don't consider it hysterical of me. After all, I have been drugged, I have been imprisoned. Why not try again? I imagine this time you won't be around to rescue me. I don't quite understand why you did, Michael. Why didn't you just leave me there to rot?"

"The moment I found out where you were, I came after you."

"Why? Didn't it interfere with whatever spy game you're playing? That's what you are, isn't it? Some damned James Bond, living out Cold War fantasies?"

"Francey…"

"Why are you here, Michael? What is it you want from me?"

"I wanted to apologize."

She took a deep, furious breath. "You wanted to apologize?" she echoed in a blast of rage. "Not good enough, Michael, not by a long shot. You didn't just happen to choose St. Anne to recuperate from your so-called auto accident. You came after me. To pick my brain, to see what I knew about the Cadre. Didn't you?"

"Yes."

"It didn't matter that I'd told everybody everything a million times. It didn't matter that Patrick was dead. It didn't matter—" She stopped suddenly, as another sick realization hit her. "You killed him, didn't you?"

He didn't even pretend to misunderstand her. "Yes."

"Of course you weren't in a car accident. You were recovering from bullet wounds. He shot you before you killed him. I watched." Her voice broke slightly in the shadowy darkness.