All The Queen's Men cs-2 Read online

  A DO not disturb sign at least gives the impression someone was in the room. He had also dialed a certain untraceable number and left the phone off the hook, so if anyone called, he-or she; thieves were not gender specific-would get a busy signal.

  Hanging on the inside door handle was a small battery-operated alarm. If anyone ignored the sign and opened the door anyway, an ear-piercing siren sounded, which was certain to attract attention. John turned off the alarm by pressing a button on the small remote he carried in his pocket. The alarm was just a gadget, but it amused him and would startle the hell out of anyone trying to get in. He wouldn't have bothered with it if he hadn't left his computer in the room.

  The room was as he had left it. He scanned for bugs anyway, as a matter of routine, and thought of Niema's undetectable device. Technology was a leapfrog affair; something new was developed and for a while that side-whatever side it was-had the advantage. Then a countermeasure was developed and the other side had the advantage. Niema's bug would give them the advantage now, but technology couldn't be kept secret forever and eventually the bad guys-the terrorists and spies and hostile governments-would have the bug, too. It could be used against him, used to capture or kill him. Niema would probably be pleased if she knew her invention had led to his death. She wouldn't know, however; very few people would. He had no family, no network of friends or coworkers. Those people who worked with him didn't know who he was.

  He didn't have to hide his identity with Frank Vinay, of course, or with Jess McPherson, an old friend of his father's. It was a relief to be able to drop his guard, those rare times when he was with one of them, and just be himself.

  Sitting at the desk, he disconnected the call, then booted up the laptop and hooked it to the phone line. A few typed commands had him inside one of the CIA's data banks. He was one of the few people left in the world who still used the MS-DOS operating system, but when he was working he vastly preferred it over any system that required a mouse. A mouse was great for Net surfing or playing games, but he'd found that, when he was working, a mouse slowed him down. He could type in the DOS commands much faster than he could take his hand off the keyboard, guide the mouse, click, and go back to the keyboard. In his world, seconds shaved off operating time could mean the difference between whether he got the information he needed and got out safely, or if he was caught.

  There was a wealth of personal information on Louis Ronsard-his parents, where he lived growing up, his school records, his friends, his extracurricular activities. Louis hadn't been a deprived child; his father had been a wealthy industrialist, his mother a well-born beauty who had doted on her children- Louis, the oldest, and Mariette, three years younger.

  Louis was attending the Sorbonne when his mother died of ovarian cancer. His father was killed five years later in an accident on the Autobahn while on a business trip to Germany. Louis had taken over the reins of the family business, and, for reasons unknown, gone renegade. From that time to the present there was precious little personal information to be had about him, though he was far from a recluse.

  Ronsard owned a heavily guarded estate in the south of France. He employed a small private army to ensure his security; to be hired, one had to meet stringent standards. The Company had planted one of their own, to no avail; the agent hadn't been able to discover anything useful, because his own activities were so regulated. He was still in place, though; John made a note of the agent's name and cover.

  There was a recent photo; Ronsard was a striking man, with slightly exotic features and olive skin. He wore his dark hair long, usually secured at the nape, but for social occasions he left it loose. In this photograph he was emerging from some banquet, clad in a tuxedo, with a glowing blonde on his arm. She was smiling up at him with adoration in her eyes. She was Sophie Gerrard, briefly Ronsard's lover, but no longer in contact with him.

  There was a long list of Ronsard's lovers. Women found him very attractive. His liaisons never lasted long, but he was evidently considerate and affectionate before his roving eye landed on some other lady.

  There was a diagram of the mansions' grounds, but nothing of the house itself. Ronsard entertained occasionally, but the affairs were very exclusive, and the CIA hadn't yet been able to get anyone inside as either a guest or domestic help. True, Ronsard hadn't been at the top of their to-do list, so little effort had been expended on doing so.

  That was going to change, however. Ronsard had just moved to the top of the list.

  John maneuvered his way through a few more files, checking on Ronsard's known finances, who had designed and installed the mansion's security system, if there were any existing wiring plans. He found little information; Ronsard had either wiped his records, or they had never existed in the first place.

  When he finished, it was two a.m. He stretched, suddenly aware of the kinks in his shoulders. He had another meeting with Frank the coming night, and maybe they would have more information on the crash. Until then, he could relax.

  He showered and fell into bed. He had the warrior's knack of quickly and easily falling asleep, but tonight he found himself staring at the ceiling where the tiny red light on the smoke alarm blinked on and off. He didn't have to wonder about his sleeplessness; he knew the reason.

  Niema.

  Dallas had been dead five years. Why hadn't she remarried, or at least dated someone steadily? She was young-only twenty-five when Dallas died-and pretty. He hadn't let himself ask, these past five years, hadn't let himself personally check on her, but this time he had figured enough time had passed and it was safe to ask, to find out she had a hubby and a kid or two, and had gone on with her life.

  She hadn't. She was still alone.

  Had she changed? Put on weight, maybe gotten a few strands of gray in her hair? A lot of people began to go gray in their twenties. Did her big dark eyes still look so deep a man could drown in them, and not care?

  He could see her. She would never know. He could satisfy his curiosity, smile a little at the physical pleasure seeing her gave him, and walk away. But he knew he wouldn't see her; some breaks were better made cleanly. He was still who he was and did what he did, so there was no point in daydreams, no matter how pleasurable.

  Knowing that was one thing; turning off those desires was another. He would do what he had to do, but what he wanted to do was hold her, just once, and let her know it was him she was kissing, him making love to her. Just once he wanted to strip her naked and have her, and once would have to be enough because he couldn't dare risk more.

  But he had a snowball's chance in hell of having that "once," so finally he turned off the daydream, rolled over, and went to sleep.

  John arrived at Frank's house as he had the night before, in a car with blacked-out windows. He backed into the attached garage, the doors of which slid up as he approached and down as soon as his car was inside. He had spent the day digging out more details about Ronsard, trying to plot a course on getting inside Ronsard's mansion and getting the information he needed; nothing had immediately presented itself, but eventually it would.

  Frank opened the door, an abstract expression on his face that was evidently due to the sheaf of papers he still clutched in one hand. Frank never quit working, it seemed, not even at home; he simply changed locations. While Dodie was alive he had made a real effort to put his job aside and just be with her, but more often than not he had become lost in his thoughts and she would laughingly shoo him into his office. Now, with Dodie gone, Frank often worked sixteen hours a day.

  "I was just getting coffee," he said to John. "Go on into the library and I'll bring it in there."

  John stopped in his tracks and quizzically regarded his old friend. Frank wasn't a domestic person; he tried, but he didn't have a coffee-making gene in his body. John had quickly learned, after Dodie's death, that if he wanted coffee in Frank's house he'd better make it himself if he wanted it to be drinkable.

  Seeing the look, Frank said irritably, "I didn't make it, Bridget di