Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [69]
“Hummph.”
And to Isobel’s shock, Mahmoud grinned—a normal, naughty-little-boy grin. He caught her expression of surprise, and it vanished immediately, turning him back into the sullen little creature she was used to. But at least he was clean.
Killian was right—Mahmoud ate enough for the three of them, finishing the practically untouched food on her own plate, scarfing down Killian’s last piece of toast. Isobel could only hope he wouldn’t get carsick once they landed in Plymouth. It was a long drive to London, and she didn’t fancy being trapped with a puking child. Whoever came for them would probably bring the Bentley—elegant and stately and armor-plated. Just in case. If Mahmoud started heaving again she’d put him in the front seat with Peter. She’d suffered enough on this particular mission.
At least it was almost over. Last night hadn’t happened; it was locked in a little box and thrown overboard into the icy blue-green Atlantic Ocean. She’d pass Killian on to Peter, go home and break something.
They ate in silence, Killian perfectly at ease, leaning back in his chair drinking coffee, and watching as they pulled into Plymouth harbor. “We’ll be one of the first off the ferry,” he said. “We need to get through customs and be on our way. I’ve got a couple of ideas for transport to London, but I need to check out the lay of the land.”
She really didn’t want to speak to him. But she was being silly—anything that had happened was immaterial, imaginary. “I’ve already arranged for someone to pick us up.”
“What?” She hadn’t seen that cold anger before. He usually covered everything with an easy charm that made her crazy. “You couldn’t have. I took your PDA.”
“I called before you groped me in the cafeteria,” she said, ignoring the fact that she was bringing up a subject that could lead to dangerous places.
He swore, in half a dozen languages. “You’ve been in the business long enough not to have made such a stupid mistake. Unless you’re trying to get me killed. In which case you could have tried it long distance.”
“Maybe I want to be in at the kill,” she said in a silky voice. “Don’t be paranoid.”
“Paranoia keeps me alive. I thought you were smarter than that.”
She was impervious to his anger or his insults. “I took you seriously. Peter Madsen is the only one who knows we’re coming in, and whether you realize it or not, there are some people in this life that you can trust absolutely. The Committee has survived numerous attempts at infiltration—we’re invulnerable. And even if someone managed to get in, Peter would know.”
“Whether you realize it or not, there’s no one in this life like that,” he shot back. He pushed away from the table, and Mahmoud uttered a protest. Killian’s response was short and sharp, and Isobel decided not to argue.
“Why don’t you give me back my PDA and I’ll find out what arrangements have been made?”
He shoved his hand in his pocket and handed the tiny thing to her. “We’re screwed, anyway. We might as well find out what we’re up against.”
She started to move away from the table, but he stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’ll get a better signal from outside—”
“You’ll call him while I can listen. No texting.”
She sat back down again, pushing buttons on the compact machine. Peter answered immediately.
“We’re coming into Plymouth,” she said. “My friend thinks we’ve got a problem in the office.”
“Unlikely.” Peter’s voice on the other end was cool and detached. “In any case, I sent Morrison to fetch you in the Bentley. I need to stay here. You should be safe enough.”
“What’s Morrison doing home from Germany?”
“There are problems. We’ll talk when you get our friend back here.”
“What kind of problems?”
“I’ll be waiting for you.” He broke the connection, and Isobel looked up at Killian.
“You may be right,” she allowed. “Something’s going on, and Peter wouldn’t be more specific. However, Charlie Morrison is just about as good as it gets, and he’s the one coming for us. The Bentley is armored—if someone