Claimed by the Secret Agent. Lyn Stone
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she mumbled, cradling her face in one hand and closing her eyes.
“Fat little kid, huh?” he muttered to himself as he closed the door and went around to the driver’s side and got in. “You sure fixed that problem.”
She was as slender as she could be without looking skinny now, and he suspected the curves she did have were mostly muscle. No doubt she worked out regularly. Excellent shape. His admiration for her kicked up another notch now that he knew she wasn’t just born with lucky genes.
“I was skinny,” he said, his voice hushed in pretend conversation with his sleeping passenger. “Tall and a beanpole. Geeky, to boot. I know what it takes to shape up and how miserable it can be doing it. Good for you, babe.”
He thought he heard a sleepy chuckle from the backseat but decided he must have imagined it. She was dead to the world back there.
Grant smiled to himself, trying to picture Marie as a roly-poly adolescent. All he could see in his mind were those remarkably expressive delft-blue eyes, bright with enthusiasm, intelligence and all-consuming energy.
He hated to disappoint her by sending her home. Maybe Mercier would know what to do with her, because he sure as hell didn’t.
They were already halfway to Holland from Munich, and Frankfurt was out of the way. He’d take her on to Amsterdam and put her on a plane. Then he could get down to business with no distractions.
Marie sensed that in her temporarily vulnerable state she’d given away too much about herself in her effort to befriend Tyndal. He had identified with her childhood problem. She’d figured he would do that. Didn’t all kids have socialization problems of one kind or another? But she had laid it out all wrong, and now he probably saw her as defensive, compensatory and a little out of control. He would dump her if she gave him the chance.
She wasn’t drunk on two beers—not by a long stretch—but the beer had loosened her up while she was winding down from the high of all the excitement and exhaustion.
No use regretting her dietary lapse or trying to get too close to him too soon. She made it a point never to second-guess her decisions or actions. Counterproductive.
Doing something was almost always better than doing nothing at all. Her policy was to go for broke, roll with the consequences, good or bad, and try to make them work for her. Right now she needed sleep, but she couldn’t afford to let this slide.
With that in mind, she sat up and leaned on the back of the front seat. “Why do you think he let me get away? I’d like your take on it.”
“You seriously think he let you?” Tyndal glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“It didn’t occur to me at the time, but in retrospect, it seems he made it pretty easy. He was speaking Dutch and talking pretty loudly. Could be that he was trying to establish that the abductions are not terrorist acts but simple kidnappings. As a witness who got away, I could send the investigation in a different direction. That would explain why he gave me the opportunity to run.”
“Could be. But I think the abductions are terrorist acts. The earmarks are there. American victims from American embassies and consulates, huge ransoms.”
He glanced up at her again, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Think about this: He didn’t know you were a trained agent. And he couldn’t have known how long that drug would affect you or precisely how soon you’d be able to overhear him. How would he know you’d even recognize Dutch when you heard it?”
Marie considered that. “Then why did he make it so easy for me to get away?”
“It would not have been easy for most people. If you were the little clerk he thought you were, you’d probably still be there. Now why don’t you get some rest? You’ve got to be wiped out.”
She sighed. “Okay, but I’m fine, just so you know. You really think he’s gone to Holland?”
“Yes. Amsterdam.”
“Explain. The vibe you picked up from that piece of paper?”
“Something like that. Don’t want to bore you with details you wouldn’t believe anyway.”
He took a deep breath and released it, firming his hands on the steering wheel as he looked in the rearview mirror again. “You need to go home, Marie. It’s the best thing all around, for you and for the investigation.”
“I don’t think you want me to work this by myself.”
“I don’t want you to work this at all. You’d like to kill him, Marie. Don’t deny it.”
Well, he had her there. “Wouldn’t you?” she asked, sincerely curious. “The bastard grabbed me in my own kitchen, drugged me and tied me up like an express package! Of course I’d like to get back at him in the worst way. But I won’t go in like Rambo and kill him and any chance of finding out why he did it or who’s running the show.” She pouted for a second. “Give me a little credit for control.”
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