All the Queen's Men Read online

  “No. I won’t do it.”

  “Once we’re in, I’ll have Ronsard introduce us. I’ll pretend to be smitten. That’ll give us an excuse to be together.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going to do it.”

  “You have to. I’ve already told you too much.”

  “And now you have to kill me, right?”

  He put his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes alive with amusement. “I wasn’t thinking of anything quite that James Bondish.”

  “That’s what this whole thing sounds like, something out of a James Bond movie. You need someone trained in cloak-and-dagger stuff, not me.”

  “You’ll have time to brush up on basic handgun skills. That’s all you’d need, though if everything goes right, you won’t even need that. We get in, you place the bug, I get into his files and copy them, and we get out. That’s it.”

  “You make it sound as easy as brushing your teeth. If it were that easy, you would already have done it. He—what was his name? Ronsard?—Ronsard must have a pretty good security system.”

  “Plus a private army guarding the place,” John admitted.

  “So the job would be a lot trickier than you’re trying to make it sound.”

  “Not if it goes right.”

  “And if it goes wrong?”

  He shrugged, smiling. “Fireworks.”

  She wavered. He saw it, saw the temptation in her eyes. Then she shook her head. “Get someone else.”

  “There is no one else with quite your qualifications. The fact that you haven’t been active in five years is a plus, because no one is likely to know you. The intelligence community is a fairly small one. I can build you an identity that will stand up under any investigation Ronsard does.”

  “What about you? You haven’t exactly been inactive.”

  “No, but I go to a lot of trouble to make sure no one knows what I look like, or who I am. Trust me. My cover is so deep sometimes I don’t know who I am myself.”

  She gave a little laugh, shaking her head, and John knew he had her.

  “Okay,” she said. “I know I’m going to regret it, but . . . okay.”

  “John,” Frank Vinay said carefully, “do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Probably not. But I’m doing it anyway.”

  “Ronsard isn’t anyone’s fool.”

  John was relaxed in one of the big leather chairs in Frank’s library. He steepled his fingers under his chin while he studied the chessboard. They had resumed the game that had been interrupted two days before, when an agent brought over the preliminary report on the crash of Flight 183. “You’re the one who brought her into it,” he pointed out.

  Frank flushed. “I was being an interfering fool,” he grumbled.

  “And a sneaky one, or are you going to tell me you didn’t have it in mind that I’d be a lot more willing to step into your shoes if I had an incentive to retire from field ops?” He moved a knight. “Check.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Frank glared at the board for a minute, then looked up at John. “You have to retire some time, and I can’t think of a better place for you to use your expertise than in my office.”

  “’Some time’ isn’t now. Until I’m compromised, I can do more good in the field.”

  “Taking Niema Burdock into the field might make that sooner rather than later. For one thing, she knows who you are. For another”—Frank gave him a shrewd look—“could you leave her behind if necessary?”

  John’s eyes went flat and cold. “I can do whatever I have to do.” How could Frank ask him that, after Venetia? “And Niema is probably the best choice I have available. I wouldn’t use her if she wasn’t. I need someone else in there with me, and she’s the one most likely to get an invitation from Ronsard.”

  “What if he doesn’t fall for it? What if he doesn’t invite her?”

  “Then I’ll have to do what I can, but the risks go up. With her, I have a good chance of getting in and out without being detected.”

  “All right. I’ll arrange for her to have an unspecified leave.” Frank nudged a bishop into place.

  “That’s what I thought you’d do,” John said, and moved a pawn. “Check and mate.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Frank muttered.

  * * *

  “I’m crazy,” Niema muttered to herself as she rolled out of bed before dawn. Yawning, she dressed: sweat pants and a T-shirt, then socks and athletic shoes. “Certified loony.”

  How had she let herself be convinced to help Medina on this job, when she had sworn she’d never let herself be sucked back into that life? Hadn’t losing Dallas taught her anything?

  But Medina was right about terrorism, right about the applications of such an explosive, right about the innocent people who would die. He was right, damn it. So, if she could help, then she had to do it.

  She went into the bathroom and washed her face, then brushed her teeth and hair. The face that looked back at her from the mirror was still puffy from sleep, but there was color in her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes that made her hate herself. She was looking forward to this, for God’s sake. Dallas had died, and she still hadn’t learned anything.

  “Niema! Get a move on.”

  She went rigid. Not quite believing what she’d heard, she opened the bathroom door and looked out into her bedroom. No one was there. She crossed over to the hall door and opened it. Light, along with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, spilled down the hall, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  “What in the hell are you doing in my house?” she snarled, stomping toward the kitchen. “And how did you get in?”

  Medina sat at the island, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked as if it were nine A.M. instead of four-thirty, his eyes alert, his lean body relaxed in black sweat pants and black T-shirt. “I told you that you needed a new lock on the back door.”

  “What about the alarm? I know I set the alarm.”

  “And I bypassed it. With a pocketknife and six inches of wire. Have some coffee.”

  “No thanks.” Furious, she contemplated dumping the coffee on him. She had always felt safe in her house, and now, thanks to him, she didn’t. “Do you know how much I paid for that alarm system?”

  “Too much. Get a dog instead.” He stood up from the stool. “If you aren’t going to have coffee, let’s take a little run.”

  Thirty minutes later, she was still matching him stride for stride. Talking while jogging wasn’t easy, but they hadn’t even tried. They had run down the street to the park half a mile from her house, then along the silent path lit only by the occasional street light. The mood she was in, she almost hoped someone tried to mug them, not that muggings were a common occurrence in this neighborhood.

  Gravel and dirt crunched under their pounding feet. The early morning air was cool and fragrant. She was still breathing easily and there was still plenty of spring in her legs. She loved the feel of her muscles bunching and relaxing, and gradually she began to cool down and concentrate on nothing but the running.

  Beside her, he ran as if they had just started. His stride was effortless, his breathing slow and even. Dallas had run that way, she remembered, as if he could go on at this pace for hours.

  “You run like a SEAL,” she said, irritated that she was panting a little.

  “I should,” he said easily. “If I don’t, then I wasted the toughest six months of my life.”

  She was so surprised she almost stopped. “You went through BUD/S?”

  “I lived through BUD/S,” he corrected.

  “Is that where you met Dallas?”

  “No, I was a few classes ahead of him. But he ... ah, recognized some of the stuff I did the first time we worked together.”

  “Did you use your real name during training?”

  “No. The Navy didn’t do me any favors, either. They agreed to let me take the training only if I made the physical conditioning cut, and then I was in only as long as I could make the grade.”

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