SHELBY AND LARK picked up the plates and food containers and went into the kitchen to wash up. Trevor waited until he heard the sink running, then switched on the telly to mask his conversation. He fished the burner phone out of his pocket and dialed.
His contact answered on the second ring. “Danby.”
“It’s Carswell.”
“ ’Bout damned time you checked it. Have you seen the news?”
“I have. There’s been a wrinkle.”
Danby laughed. “I’ve gathered that, my good man. Where are you?”
“Someplace safe.” He didn’t want anyone knowing about Lark. “With a friend.”
“So what do you intend to do next, old boy? The mission’s gone to bust.”
Trevor grimaced. “I had to separate from the Bedlamites. It was unavoidable.”
“Take me through it. What happened?”
In his overriding need to keep Shelby safe, he’d blown the mission. That would go over like a lead balloon. “Scotland Yard jumped the pull. I had no choice but to allow Eric Koller to barricade us inside. Fourteen patrons inside became hostages.”
“And?”
“I didn’t feel they were in imminent danger. Eric Koller, the cell leader, is highly idealistic and will fight in a war, declared or undeclared. But he’s never participated in executions, to my knowledge. As time passed and tensions heightened, he started losing control over two cell members. Fay Star—what she calls herself, anyway—blames the establishment for every wrong she’s ever suffered, and has the ability to kill in cold blood, but I stand by my assessment that she wouldn’t pull the trigger without Eric’s okay. The other, Calvin Crawley, is simply a psychopath. He stabbed one of the hostages for no reason whatever.”
“Mr. Panderson. So you erred in your judgment.”
Trevor pressed his lips together. “Yes.”
“Why did you separate from the cell?”
“I believed that when Eric found a way out of the museum, he would leave the baggage—the hostages—behind.” Trevor hesitated. “One hostage was in imminent danger, though. I felt I had no choice but to remove the threat to her.”
“A woman, eh?” Danby sounded less than pleased. “I hope she’s worth it. We’ve lost our chance at them.”
“Not entirely. When I first went undercover, I met the man directing the Bedlamites from the shadows. The puppeteer. He calls himself Mr. Smith. My objective now is to find out who this man is. The Bedlamites aren’t just trying to cause havoc. They seem to be searching for something. Once I discover what it is, we can take them all in one fell swoop.”
Danby was quiet.
“It would help if I wasn’t being hunted.”
Danby laughed. “My good man, you’re too hot to touch right now. I can’t get you off the hook with Scotland Yard. I can’t even take the heat off you with the Metropolitan Police. The most I can do is quash any rumors about SAS involvement.”
“And intercept the warrant to track Shelby Gibson’s mobile, I assume?”
“Quite. Although, if Ms. Gibson is not a Bedlamite, she should turn herself in to clear her name.”
He tightened his fist around the phone. “Not until I’m sure Mr. Smith wouldn’t be able to get to her.”
“Here are the options as I see them,” Danby said. “You hunt down the Bedlamites and we eliminate that threat. You continue to search for Mr. Smith. Or, you come in from the cold and we declare this mission a bust.”
“It would help if I had MI-5’s resources.”
“I’ll relay any information you need.”
The slight emphasis on information told Trevor he could expect no ground support or equipment. He closed his eyes, keeping his breathing deep and steady. “You’re hanging me out to dry, my good man.” He didn’t try to disguise his sarcasm.
“Aren’t you SAS boys masters of pulling results out of your arseholes? This should be right up your alley.”
Trevor indulged himself for several moments, imagining slamming his fist into Danby’s smug MI-5 face. More than once.
“Right, then. How do you want to proceed?”
“I’ll get back to you, Danby.” Trevor jabbed the button to end the call with more force than necessary. He felt more than heard a movement behind him, and turned to see Shelby and Lark in the doorway, obviously eavesdropping. He gripped the phone hard before pocketing it. “It looks like I’m on my own.”
He turned away from the hurt in Shelby’s eyes.
“What about us?” she asked.
“As long as Lark’s willing, I think you should stay here where it’s safe. If Lark digs up anything, I’ll use it or bring it to my contact. Otherwise, I’m going after them myself.”
“Yourself.”
“Yes.”
Shelby seemed to shrink in on herself. “Yeah, I guess we’re just liabilities.”
“That’s not what I meant. But I’m trained. You’re not.”
Lark threw up her hands, causing her multiple bracelets to jangle. “Then I’d better get started, before you start a one-man war.”
“Were you able to find out anything about the Bedlamites this afternoon?” Shelby asked.
“Fluff and stuff. It’s going to take some time to get to the real meat. The open source stuff says the Philosophy of Bedlam are zealots. I can’t tell from their website if they want an unrecognized government or no government. Hey, did you know that Bedlam was the name of a hospital for the insane in the mid-thirteenth century? It didn’t help people. It was just a place to shove the nut-jobs so they were out of the public eye. Either way, these crazies seem to feel that the absolute freedom of the individual can only come about through lawlessness. Stupid fucks.”
While Lark tapped away on her keyboard, Trevor and Shelby sat side by side on the couch, not speaking as they waited for an update on the Bedlamites. He felt her frustration and disappointment. But he knew these men. They were dangerous, and he wanted her safe.
When the news segment finally came on, he was disappointed to find nothing new. Eric and the others had made good their escape.
Shelby picked up the remote to turn the television off as the news shifted to a segment on American presidential candidates. Just as she went to press the button, Trevor leapt to his feet.
“Holy hell!”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Shelby looked around, eyes wide.
“That’s him!” Trevor practically roared. “The puppeteer. Mr. Smith.” He pointed toward the screen. “We need to find out who that man is ASAP.”
Shelby dropped the remote. “I know exactly who he is, and why he’s on the news.”
“Spill it,” he ordered.
“His name is Max Whitcomb. He’s the CEO of Ward Defense International. He’s in the news because there are rumors that his company is in financial trouble. And I can tell you, based on what’s come across my desk, the rumors are true. He’s opened the company to hostile takeover from an American defense contractor. The ripples are spreading through Her Majesty’s Treasury and beyond.”
Lark’s jaw dropped. “That’s Mystery Man? Holy crap holy crap! Max is a philanthropist. A bleeding heart do-gooder. He donates to dozens of charities, he supports orphanages and battered women’s shelters. He’s a freaking god among men.”
Shelby felt a grin tugging at her mouth. “But . . . ?”
Lark made a rude sound. “No one’s that clean. I’ll find it. You can take that to the bank.”
“Start with his childhood. Where he grew up, broken home, whatever. Then I need known associates. Personal and professional affiliations,” Trevor said. “Financial status. Art, money, whatever you can dig up. Most importantly, we need to prove a connection to the Philosophy of Bedlam.”
“Ha! Teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”
Trevor’s brow knit. “I beg your pardon?”
Shelby smothered a laugh. “She means she knows how to dig up dirt.”
“Ah.”
“I can do my own digging, too,” she said after a moment. “I have access to databases and official records.”
“Unless you can log in to those databases anonymously, we’d best not take the chance.”
“Okay.” Shelby’s voice was small.
“However, there’s plenty of open source material available. Put those analyst instincts to work. See where it takes you. Everyone thinks about problems differently. You’ll no doubt go in an entirely different direction than egg-sucking Lark.”
Shelby giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth to stop the sound. He allowed himself a smile.
Still, waiting helplessly did not sit well with him. He got up and began to pace.
“You’ll just have to be patient,” Shelby said. “Take up knitting or something.”
He gave her an incredulous stare. “Knit-ting?” he said, drawing it out into two words.
“What, there’s nothing in your commando training that prepares you for knitting?”
“Hell, no. I could make a bomb out of what’s in Lark’s kitchen, though.”
“Fuckin’ awesome! That might even be better than harboring two fugitives.” She let her gaze run over Trevor. “About the hottest fugitive I’ve ever seen.” She quirked a brow at him, eyes dancing. “You can take me hostage any day.”
AN HOUR LATER, Lark looked up from her screen. “All right. I’ve got the basics.”
“Shoot,” Trevor said.
She brought up an image. “Here’s his photo. Slim, graying hair. Good-looking, in a Tony Blair sort of way. He’s fifty-three, but he looks older to me. Max is old money, dating back to the Great Depression. Or the Great Slump, as you call it here.”
She clicked over to another page. “His paternal great-grandfather was in auto manufacturing and real estate, which didn’t experience the same slump as, say, mining or steel. In fact, he made quite a bit of money.”
She was looking at him as though she expected him to comment. When he didn’t, Shelby said, “So what happened then?”
“Well, his paternal grandfather was a barrister. Again, very prominent, very successful. That’s the good news. The bad news is that after World War Two ended, England was flooded with refugees. He helped the effort to settle them, many into the homes his father built. And before you think he was some kind of philanthropist, those homes went to those who could pay for them. A year later, he moved to South Africa.”
“That’s an awfully long way to go,” Trevor said. “Do you know why?”
“Hmm. Did I forget to mention he sent his wife and son to Cape Town during World War Two?”
“Yes, you did,” Shelby said. “As I recall, several million people were evacuated because of German bombings. I thought they were sent to other parts of Great Britain, though.”
“Yeah, but also to other places. Australia, New Zealand. Seems the grandfather saw the writing on the wall and jumped early. Got his family to safety. Then, after the war, he joined them.
“Now here’s the worse news. Two years after he moved to Cape Town, apartheid started. And guess whose lily-white butt helped draft some of the anti-black legislation?”
Shelby couldn’t help a shudder of revulsion. “Seriously?”
“As a heart attack. Really gross.”
“As awful as that history is, I’m more interested in Max. Do people call him that?” asked Trevor.
“Mostly they call him sir,” Lark said. “Fine, then. But you’re missing some interesting stuff. So, fast forward to Max the Paragon.”
Shelby looked through the data she’d compiled. “Max was born in Cape Town and grew up during apartheid. His parents were killed during some sort of uprising when he was fifteen, so he came back to England to live with his father’s brother. He currently lives in Havering, which is an affluent community in East London.”
“Married and divorced twice,” Lark added. “His current wife is thirty years younger than he is, the dog.”
Trevor leaned his head against the back of the sofa, hands laced behind his head. “Is his uncle alive?”
“No. His uncle died in 1985.”
“What about children? Relatives might provide leverage.”
Shelby checked again. “One daughter from his first marriage, two children from his second. Whoops! Looks like wife number two got pregnant before he divorced number one. The trophy wife hasn’t given him any children.”
“He’s probably already cheating on the trophy wife.” Lark jotted herself a note. “I’ll follow up with that. Might be some dirt there we can exploit.”
She swiped her touchpad, moving to a new screen. “CEO of Ward Defense International, a defense contractor that supplies the Royal Marines with something called an Advanced Illuminated Antitank Weapon. Also a mind-boggling array of different kinds of munitions. And some other stuff.”
“The AdIAW’s a night barrage system. It’s used across all Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Nothing else stood out to you?” Trevor sounded disappointed.
He’d pronounced the weapon addy-aww. Shelby had never heard of it, but Trevor sounded quite familiar with it.
“Hey, I know zip-all about the military. Can you see me in a uniform? All like ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’?”
The notion was so absurd that Shelby laughed.
“Some of the crazy fringe groups have theories, like always. You know how some missiles can curve and follow a target till it blows it up? One of the crazies thinks Ward Defense International is developing ammunition that can do that. Like bullets that curve. Did you see that movie with Angelina Jolie where they curved bullets? Bullets don’t curve. They go straight.”
Trevor stirred. “So why fund a group of anarchists?”
“That’s the question of the hour. One I will discover, but not right now. I’ve been staring at computer screens all day and I’m tired.”
Trevor looked at her, concern and apology in his eyes. “We can easily go to a hotel, if we’re imposing.”
“Don’t you dare. This is the most fun I’ve had all semester. Listen,” she said. “I only have the one bedroom, and no guest room. I have blankets and pillows, though. One of you can take the sofa, but the floor’s the only other option.”
Trevor stood. “I’ll take the floor.”
Lark left the room and came back with arms piled high with linens. “Okay. Here ya go. I can tell you’re about done in, Shel.”
Trevor gave her a sharp look, as though he expected her to drop unconscious any minute. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s fine.” Fatigue clouded her mind.
“You’ve been in a stressful place for the past few days.”
She yawned. “I guess. Lark, thanks for everything.” She gave the other woman a hug, which she returned with enthusiasm.
The news channel was still on in the background as Lark left the room. The hostage standoff had dropped from lead story to an after-mention.
“How quickly they move on to other prey,” Trevor murmured.
“It’s only because they escaped. Now it’s just a manhunt, instead of a standoff between police and people who bomb buildings.” She left the room without another word and went into the bathroom. Doing what she could to brush her teeth, she used her finger and Lark’s toothpaste. When she was as ready as she was going to be, she exited the bathroom and ran straight into Lark.
“Here. It’s just a sleep shirt, but it beats sleeping in your clothes.”
Shelby took the pink shirt with an adorably scowling Tweety Bird on the front with the words Don’t talk to me printed on the bottom.
“Thanks.” She took it into the bathroom and changed quickly.
Trevor looked up as she came back into the living room, then did a double take. The shirt hit her halfway down her thighs, but she might as well have been naked the way he was looking at her. He cleared his throat and looked away. So he wasn’t ready to forgive her. She couldn’t really blame him.
She made up the sofa with sheet, blanket, and pillow. He did the same, bedding down nearby, between herself and the front door.
“Are you expecting trouble?”
“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Why take any chances?”
She lay down on her makeshift bed. “Well . . . good night.”
“Night.”
Even after she closed her eyes, sleep refused to come. Her entire life had been turned upside down today. How should she feel? What reaction would be considered normal under these circumstances? Trevor had been right when he noted she’d been more annoyed than scared in the museum. Why? The answer came easily. She didn’t want to die, but nor did she particularly have anything to live for.
“You can’t sleep either, huh?”
She rolled over so she could see him. Instead of lying down, he sat propped against the end of the sofa.
“No. I’m trying to process everything, I guess.”
Even in the dimness, she could see his faint nod. “Is there anyone you want to call? Family? Friends?”
“I could, but what would I tell them?” She sat up, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. “Oh, by the way, I was taken hostage the other day by a bunch of maniacs who bomb buildings and stab people in the stomach for no reason, but I knew one of the terrorists and he helped me out and I’m now on the run with him? Besides, I can’t let on who you really are.”
“No,” he agreed. “Thank you for understanding that.”
“Do you think she’ll find anything?”
He shrugged. “Depends on how good her resources are, and how well Whitcomb covered his trail. We’ll have to wait and see.” He sounded disgruntled.
“We can still take up knitting.”
He exhaled a soft, unamused laugh. “I hate sitting around feeling useless.”
“I know. Is this your first mission since Azakistan?”
“No.”
“And you can’t tell me anything about where you’ve been or what’s you’ve done?”
“That’s right. I can’t even share much with my wife, if I ever marry.”
The thought of him married to someone else made her chest tighten. Did she care about Trevor? Yes. He was an honest, honorable man. The thing with Christina had been a misunderstanding. Did she dare open her heart to the possibility of a relationship, knowing her heart might be pulverized?
No.
Maybe.
She saw her life stretching out before her. She loved her work. But work wouldn’t keep her warm on a cold night. Trevor could.
Would Trevor want to change her, as Bruce had? He seemed to like her well enough as she was, but they all started out like that. Bruce had been neither honest nor honorable, though it had taken her a long time to realize it. If she took a chance with Trevor, would he try to take her independence? No way she would let him, of course. She’d grown far beyond that.
It was all moot, though. Trevor no longer cared for her.
“I think I’ll try to sleep again.” This time when she closed her eyes, her thoughts drifted to the woman down the hall. Whatever else happened, they needed to protect Lark. What would Shelby have done if Lark had a live-in boyfriend? Husband? Child? She envisioned Lark, with a baby girl in her arms, sporting hot pink hair. It made her laugh.
“Share the joke.”
“I was just thinking, that if Lark ever settled down, how many tattoos and piercings her children would have.”
He chuckled. “She is quite the character, isn’t she?
“She’s a nice person.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive. Is she properly a rave girl?”
“From the stories she tells, she really is a wild child.”
“I’d hazard a guess she gave her parents a right bit of trouble. At least on this side of the pond, upper-crust families dress the same, sound the same, pursue the same white-collar careers.”
Shelby propped her head on her hand. “She’s authentically herself. She doesn’t kowtow to anyone.”
Trevor chuckled. “Nor do you.”
“Thank you. It’s been a fight at times. Small-town kids in the South have the same problems as your aristocrats do here. Anyone who doesn’t like tractor pulls and moonshine is a misfit.”
Trevor rolled his head toward her. “You had a difficult childhood?”
“In some ways.” She didn’t want to talk about her childhood right now. “But it’s late and I’m tired.”
“Good night, then.” Did he sound disappointed?
This time when she closed her eyes, sleep came.