Page 6 of Steinbeck
A barrel rolled across the pier, a sailor chasing after it—dark hair, skinny.
Not gunshots—just her head, her heart, hoping.
A Ford Kuga sat at the end of the pier, motor running, and instead of throwing her in the back, Boris opened up the rear passenger seat.“Get in.”
No handcuffs?This she could work with.
She slid in.
Stilled.
A man sat in the opposite seat.Lean, not overbearing, he looked at her with green eyes that seemed more amused than lethal.Sharp Slavic nose, trimmed brown hair, he wore a pair of khakis and a short-sleeved seersucker shirt, a pair of white boat shoes.
Hardly the mafioso she’d expected of the man named Tomas, head of the Petrov Bratva, at least here in Europe.
“You know me,” he said quietly, and smiled.
“Of course.”Pictures, surveillance, and a file sent from Mystique, her boss at the start of her op nearly a year ago.Up close, he smelled of aftershave, as if this were a date.
“I suppose you would.”He drew in a breath.“Where is it?”
She shrugged.“I left it on Declan’s ship.”Surely he knew what ship she meant.
“Too bad said ship blew up.”
She stilled.What?
Oh—she hadn’t considered...
What if Steinbeck never got the message because he’d—and her chest squeezed—been lost at sea?
“But we’re not stupid.We know you made a copy, parked it somewhere for safety.”
Yeah, that would have been smart but, “When would I have done that?I was trapped on an island without Internet, and then on a boat that was boarded by pirates.I barely escaped.So?”She held up her hands.
He stared at her so hard she put her hands down and braced herself.
He didn’t need to know that she’d worn the drive strapped to her body in a waterproof case for most of her crazy trip.
Until she’d taken a header off a Cuban fishing boat.
Right now, the world’s most dangerous hard drive lay in the silt of the Havana harbor.So, that was nice.
“We’ll see,” he said then and motioned to the driver.
We’ll seewhat?But Tomas got out and Boris slid in next to her, Igor in the front, and the locks clicked.
And still, Steinbeck didn’t show up.
They drove through the city, up the Avenida da Liberdade, past cafés and shops, through the dappled sunlight as it cast through the tall Canary Island date palms and fan palms, waiting for streetcars, and maybe she didn’t care about the gun anymore.
She tried the handle.Child locks.“Where are we going?”
Silence from her captors.
They left the city, passed small villages and patches of forest, heading toward...
Sintra.The palace city of Portugal, perched on a mountain, shot round with twisty roads and lush pine and cork oak trees.A mist hung below the protruding towers of the tallest castle, almost a mystical protection for the kings who once resided there, like in an old-time fairy tale.The old town nestled into the side of the mountain, locals who hawked porcelain tile, lace, and pottery and baked the delicious pastel de nata.
