Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [102]
The day staff would be coming in soon. He had a housekeeper and an executive assistant, but both of them knew to keep their distance unless their presence was specifically requested.
There was just so long a man could sit and stare at the frozen landscape. He was truly going to enjoy setting that charge once Stolya called him. If there was one thing Harry couldn’t abide, it was incompetence in underlings.
The mobile phone made a quiet little chirping sound. He hated the things, but it was the only way to ensure absolute privacy, and he punched the button, growling into the receiver.
“There’s been a hitch.” Stolya’s thickly accented voice came over the line. “Your presence is requested.”
“Out of the question. You know your job. Do it!”
“Not possible. Not this moment. Your presence—” The voice ended abruptly, and a new one came on the line. An American voice, drawling, annoying.
“This is Killian, Sir Harry. If you want any chance to get to Isobel Lambert, then I suggest you come down here. Immediately, or I’ll kill the three men who are still alive, take Mahmoud and leave you holding the bag.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Killian. I don’t care what happens to those men—they knew the risks when they entered my employment.”
“But you do want Isobel Lambert, don’t you? And all I have to do is walk out of here and warn her.”
“Dear me, now why do I have trouble believing you?” Harry said softly. “You and Isobel were once involved, a long, long time ago. Surely the gentlemanly thing would be to protect her.”
“The bitch tried to kill me. More than once. You’ve got ten minutes, Thomason. And then I’m gone, and Isobel is never letting you get near her again.”
The connection was broken. Harry set the phone down gently on the table. And then he picked it up and smashed it against the stone fireplace.
It took him less than a minute to get the gun. He would have liked to take one of the matched set of dueling pistols, also a present to his father, this time from Lord Mountbatten himself. Pretty things, antique. But he needed something more functional and totally deadly. He was going to put a bullet in that woman’s brain himself, and he wanted to make sure he had plenty of them. By the time he got his hands on her he’d deserve it.
He wasn’t fool enough to think he wasn’t walking into a trap. Somehow Killian must have gotten away from his keepers, but they’d be close behind him. And once Isobel realized they were heading to Wilders, they’d know who was behind everything. Chances were they’d come straight for the house, but he was better off waiting for them in the bunkers. He needed them there because the only way he could wipe them all out was to blow the place.
He regretted having to kill Madsen. Peter could have still been useful, and he was pragmatic. Even if he knew Thomason had been behind the deaths of his compatriots, Madsen would take it in stride. He had no weaknesses, except for that wife of his, and Thomason could get to her easily enough.
He left the house silently, walking across the ice encrusted field in his old pair of Wellingtons, his Barbour coat, his walking stick—the epitome of a landed English gentleman. The kind who didn’t exist anymore. He would outlast them all.
He wouldn’t do that by walking into a trap, or by letting anyone warn Isobel. There were tunnels crisscrossing the lands, including one that ran from the old stables down to the back of the bunker. Last time he’d checked, it hadn’t caved in—he could get there quite easily, with no one suspecting him. They didn’t realize what an old fox they were dealing with. They were fools to think they could best him.
He could see the headlights in the distance, pulling into the long, winding driveway that led up to the main house. It must be Isobel. She wouldn’t stop until she confronted him, wouldn’t stop until she found Killian. She’d walk into the trap her