object fall into a stranger’s hands . . . into his hands . . .
Which is why he was not going to touch it. The damn thing would be booby-trapped six ways from the Sabbath, whichever Sabbath the impudent devil observed. To even lift its lid was asking for trouble. Any number of things could happen, all of them bad. It could explode. It could melt down, taking his hands with it. It could . . . well, it could do whatever the bastard’s mind could conceive of.
For surely he would not have let it be captured so easily. No man, not even one besotted with a woman as lovely as Maryam, would be so blithe. There must be a catch to it—yes, that was it. The devil had wanted it to fall into his hands, had offered Maryam to him, had intended for her to become his prisoner.
Skorzeny took a deep breath.
It was a play worthy of himself. The perfect poisoned pawn. And he had almost fallen for it!
He glanced up at Miss Harrington. Time really was a harsh mistress. The luscious young thing stripping off to her knickers soon enough stood revealed as a withered hag, smothering you in her foul embrace. What if she were to betray him again? He was implicitly sure of his power over her—she was nothing without him—but, still . . . Out of some misguided feminine revenge, although for what he could not think. What if she were to somehow free the woman, double-cross him, sell him out?
Why then, much as it would pain him to do so, especially after all they’d been through, he would have to kill her.
But he didn’t want to kill her. He had tried that, almost, once before, and look what had happened. The whelp had followed the trail right to his lair, and nearly killed him as he’d slithered down his escape hatch. Truly, a viper unto his breast.
Which begged the question: To open or not to open? Treasures untold within, but corrupted. Gratification, followed by death. A window into the soul of the enemy—whose bile would spatter you and take you down the road to perdition.
His hands hovered over the laptop. Damn the woman for closing it as they’d entered the room. Damn her to the hell she was even now experiencing in her place of confinement.
Or was she?
Could he trust Miss Harrington?
The laptop. The woman. The women.
Him .
He looked around the room, at Miss Harrington and Mlle. Derrida. “Now,” he said, “about Apollo 11 . . .”
C HAPTER E LEVEN
New York City
The news was breaking as Jake Sinclair entered the offices on Sixth Avenue. Normally he didn’t come to New York much, certainly not since they’d moved the corporate base of operations to Los Angeles in some choice Century City property he just happened to own.
He’d flown in on his private jet, and if there was one rule he had on his private jet it was that he was not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever, short of Selenites landing at Bowling Green or, worse, Carbon Beach. Or Elvis, reappearing in Branson on a comeback tour.
“What is it, Benny?” he said to Ben Bernstein as he entered the editor in chief’s office. Once the job had been called executive editor, and to be the executive editor of the New York Times had been the pinnacle of American journalism. So of course that had to go— he , Jake Sinclair, was the pinnacle of American journalism, and there would never be another one of him. Editor in chief was as far as he would go with people whose salaries he paid.
“Cows, Mr. Sinclair,” came the reply. “Lots and lots of cows.”
“So what? We got cows right here in New York state, somewhere. Cows all over the Midwest. Cows in India, sacred cows I think they call them. What’s so special about these cows?”
Bernstein kept a poker face. He had no opinion about his new boss and he did his damnedest to make sure his expression reflected that scrupulous neutrality. “These cows are all dead,” he said.
“Where?”
“On a big cattle ranch up near Coalinga.”
Sinclair’s visage expressed his distaste for Twenty Questions.
Which is why he was not going to touch it. The damn thing would be booby-trapped six ways from the Sabbath, whichever Sabbath the impudent devil observed. To even lift its lid was asking for trouble. Any number of things could happen, all of them bad. It could explode. It could melt down, taking his hands with it. It could . . . well, it could do whatever the bastard’s mind could conceive of.
For surely he would not have let it be captured so easily. No man, not even one besotted with a woman as lovely as Maryam, would be so blithe. There must be a catch to it—yes, that was it. The devil had wanted it to fall into his hands, had offered Maryam to him, had intended for her to become his prisoner.
Skorzeny took a deep breath.
It was a play worthy of himself. The perfect poisoned pawn. And he had almost fallen for it!
He glanced up at Miss Harrington. Time really was a harsh mistress. The luscious young thing stripping off to her knickers soon enough stood revealed as a withered hag, smothering you in her foul embrace. What if she were to betray him again? He was implicitly sure of his power over her—she was nothing without him—but, still . . . Out of some misguided feminine revenge, although for what he could not think. What if she were to somehow free the woman, double-cross him, sell him out?
Why then, much as it would pain him to do so, especially after all they’d been through, he would have to kill her.
But he didn’t want to kill her. He had tried that, almost, once before, and look what had happened. The whelp had followed the trail right to his lair, and nearly killed him as he’d slithered down his escape hatch. Truly, a viper unto his breast.
Which begged the question: To open or not to open? Treasures untold within, but corrupted. Gratification, followed by death. A window into the soul of the enemy—whose bile would spatter you and take you down the road to perdition.
His hands hovered over the laptop. Damn the woman for closing it as they’d entered the room. Damn her to the hell she was even now experiencing in her place of confinement.
Or was she?
Could he trust Miss Harrington?
The laptop. The woman. The women.
Him .
He looked around the room, at Miss Harrington and Mlle. Derrida. “Now,” he said, “about Apollo 11 . . .”
C HAPTER E LEVEN
New York City
The news was breaking as Jake Sinclair entered the offices on Sixth Avenue. Normally he didn’t come to New York much, certainly not since they’d moved the corporate base of operations to Los Angeles in some choice Century City property he just happened to own.
He’d flown in on his private jet, and if there was one rule he had on his private jet it was that he was not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever, short of Selenites landing at Bowling Green or, worse, Carbon Beach. Or Elvis, reappearing in Branson on a comeback tour.
“What is it, Benny?” he said to Ben Bernstein as he entered the editor in chief’s office. Once the job had been called executive editor, and to be the executive editor of the New York Times had been the pinnacle of American journalism. So of course that had to go— he , Jake Sinclair, was the pinnacle of American journalism, and there would never be another one of him. Editor in chief was as far as he would go with people whose salaries he paid.
“Cows, Mr. Sinclair,” came the reply. “Lots and lots of cows.”
“So what? We got cows right here in New York state, somewhere. Cows all over the Midwest. Cows in India, sacred cows I think they call them. What’s so special about these cows?”
Bernstein kept a poker face. He had no opinion about his new boss and he did his damnedest to make sure his expression reflected that scrupulous neutrality. “These cows are all dead,” he said.
“Where?”
“On a big cattle ranch up near Coalinga.”
Sinclair’s visage expressed his distaste for Twenty Questions.
Similar Books
