he hoped so. Van Dorn was a control freak—if anyone was negotiating with terrorists he'd be the man, and he'd be the one holding the purse strings. Maybe the men he'd chosen for the job of destroying the oil fields were ready to die for the glory of Allah. Van Dorn knew how to exploit weakness or fanaticism. They could still need money to cover expenses and they'd want their wives and families taken care of. Without Harry's financial security there was a good chance the attack would be aborted.
But that wasn't the only thing Harry had planned. They knew that there were seven targets. They'd only identified two. They were taking it on faith that disposing of Harry would stop the other five attempts before they could come to fruition.
It all depended on how carefully Harry planned and whether he was willing to delegate, and since he and others had been in Harry's employ, watching him, there'd been little chance for him to use anyone else to implement his Rule of Seven. They'd already agreed it was useless trying to get information out of him—Harry liked pain too much to respond to torture and he kept clear of technology. No cell phone, PDA, or computer to hack into—he kept his own secrets.
Ms. Genevieve Spenser was a different matter. If she knew anything at all she'd break quite easily, and if he were thinking with his usual icy detachment he wouldn't hesitate.
But he wasn't going to touch her. He'd kill her if he had to, but he hadn't given up hoping he'd find a way out, despite the recent orders that had been handed down by Madame Lambert. Easy enough for her to decide, when she wasn't on the scene, he thought.
His priorities may have gotten a little skewed, but his instincts were still solid, and he knew Genevieve had been nothing more than an innocent courier, someone who happened to get in the way of something a lot bigger and badder than she could even begin to realize.
She was still looking at him hopefully. He considered lying to her, telling her he'd get her out safely. He'd never disobeyed a direct order in all the time he'd been with the Committee, and he wasn't about to start, but she didn't need to spend the last two days of her life being terrified.
But he didn't want to lie to her. "I can't help you," he said. "Don't waste your time on me—it won't get you anywhere. I've been playing this game a lot longer than you have, and I've seen every angle. It's going to be up to you. Just don't make stupid mistakes."
If it were up to her she'd die. There was only so much he could teach her, tell her, to give her a fighting chance. In the end it wouldn't be enough, and he knew it. But he didn't have to like it.
He would have preferred it if she'd gone looking for another priceless vase to throw. Instead, she stood very still, looking at him out of her warm brown eyes. She could probably see him clearly enough—he'd checked her glasses before he'd tossed them, and her prescription wasn't that strong. She could see him well enough to know what a worthless piece of shit he actually was, and for the first time he could see defeat in the narrow shoulders beneath his white T-shirt.
But only for a moment. She shrugged, clearly dismissing him. "Where did you say the kitchen was?" she asked in a calm voice.
He wondered whether she was going to try to take some of the kitchen knives. It wouldn't do her any more good than that tiny pocketknife—she was up against professionals. "Down the hallway to the left." He had enough sense not to renew his request for lunch. It had been mainly to goad her, keep her off balance. He was hungry; once Harry was subdued Hans hadn't felt obliged to exercise his culinary talents, and Peter hadn't eaten much at all. He tended to prefer it that way before a job—it kept him sharp. But it was going to be two more days until the job was finished, and he could hardly fast until then.
Genevieve had disappeared without a word, and he leaned back and closed his eyes. He wondered whether
But that wasn't the only thing Harry had planned. They knew that there were seven targets. They'd only identified two. They were taking it on faith that disposing of Harry would stop the other five attempts before they could come to fruition.
It all depended on how carefully Harry planned and whether he was willing to delegate, and since he and others had been in Harry's employ, watching him, there'd been little chance for him to use anyone else to implement his Rule of Seven. They'd already agreed it was useless trying to get information out of him—Harry liked pain too much to respond to torture and he kept clear of technology. No cell phone, PDA, or computer to hack into—he kept his own secrets.
Ms. Genevieve Spenser was a different matter. If she knew anything at all she'd break quite easily, and if he were thinking with his usual icy detachment he wouldn't hesitate.
But he wasn't going to touch her. He'd kill her if he had to, but he hadn't given up hoping he'd find a way out, despite the recent orders that had been handed down by Madame Lambert. Easy enough for her to decide, when she wasn't on the scene, he thought.
His priorities may have gotten a little skewed, but his instincts were still solid, and he knew Genevieve had been nothing more than an innocent courier, someone who happened to get in the way of something a lot bigger and badder than she could even begin to realize.
She was still looking at him hopefully. He considered lying to her, telling her he'd get her out safely. He'd never disobeyed a direct order in all the time he'd been with the Committee, and he wasn't about to start, but she didn't need to spend the last two days of her life being terrified.
But he didn't want to lie to her. "I can't help you," he said. "Don't waste your time on me—it won't get you anywhere. I've been playing this game a lot longer than you have, and I've seen every angle. It's going to be up to you. Just don't make stupid mistakes."
If it were up to her she'd die. There was only so much he could teach her, tell her, to give her a fighting chance. In the end it wouldn't be enough, and he knew it. But he didn't have to like it.
He would have preferred it if she'd gone looking for another priceless vase to throw. Instead, she stood very still, looking at him out of her warm brown eyes. She could probably see him clearly enough—he'd checked her glasses before he'd tossed them, and her prescription wasn't that strong. She could see him well enough to know what a worthless piece of shit he actually was, and for the first time he could see defeat in the narrow shoulders beneath his white T-shirt.
But only for a moment. She shrugged, clearly dismissing him. "Where did you say the kitchen was?" she asked in a calm voice.
He wondered whether she was going to try to take some of the kitchen knives. It wouldn't do her any more good than that tiny pocketknife—she was up against professionals. "Down the hallway to the left." He had enough sense not to renew his request for lunch. It had been mainly to goad her, keep her off balance. He was hungry; once Harry was subdued Hans hadn't felt obliged to exercise his culinary talents, and Peter hadn't eaten much at all. He tended to prefer it that way before a job—it kept him sharp. But it was going to be two more days until the job was finished, and he could hardly fast until then.
Genevieve had disappeared without a word, and he leaned back and closed his eyes. He wondered whether
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