identification. If so, she would quickly be traced back to the hotel on the rue de Madrid. Once the police learned that Raseen had not checked in alone, they would seek out her traveling companion for questioning. Once the companion failed to materialize, he would become the prime suspect. To complicate matters, the woman at the desk still had his passport, which he’d been asked to leave when they checked in. The passport contained a false name, and his appearance was subtly altered in the photograph, but it was still evidence. He had no desire to leave it behind.
Turning his attention back to the struggle, he focused on the man astride the smaller figure. Having made his decision, he moved forward and snaked his right arm around the thick neck in front of him, then pulled back sharply, placing his left hand on the side of the head for leverage. Hands instantly sprung up to wrap round his arms, trying to loosen the grip. The man was strong; for a moment, Vanderveen’s right arm began to give way, and then he felt something hot and wet spraying against the thin fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. The man seemed to jerk spasmodically, then fell forward, crashing onto the smaller figure. Surprised, Vanderveen stepped back. Raseen’s assailant began to choke as she pushed him off with a huge effort. She rolled away and tried to sit up, gasping for breath. Beneath her open coat, her blouse was visibly torn in several places. There were leaves in her hair and a wet streak over her left eye — blood, Vanderveen realized — but there was nothing in her expression to indicate fear, panic, or even relief that he had come to her aid.
The larger man was bleeding out; that much was obvious. She must have nicked the artery before he arrived in the clearing. Ignoring the dying man, Vanderveen went to the other body and checked for a pulse. Not finding one, he looked at the face. It was obscenely white in the dark, eyes wide in surprise. The throat was intact, but there was a dark spot on the shirt, indicating a puncture wound placed neatly between the fourth and fifth ribs.
He turned back to Raseen, who was still breathing heavily. Her eyes flicked down to the bodies, and something changed in her face; she seemed not pleased, but oddly satisfied with what she had done, as though she had confirmed some long-held belief in her own capabilities. He wondered if she had ever killed before, despite what he’d been told in Tartus. The knife was still in her hand, a slim shard of steel, the blade glistening wet in the moonlight.
Vanderveen met her gaze, his face tightening. She seemed to sense his thoughts, as she clambered to her feet and took a fast step back, her eyes fixed on his. Strangely enough, she seemed wary, but not afraid. He could tell the difference; he was all too familiar with the nuances of joyless expressions.
Kill her, said the voice inside.
He took a slow step forward; for the moment, his body was as irrational as his mind, his limbs trembling with rage. She moved the knife in front of her body, as if to remind him that she still had it. Still, her expression did not change. Her face was cool but not distant; she was entirely engaged in the moment.
She’s too much of a risk… Just look at the mess she’s left you. Kill her now.
He took another step forward, which she countered with another step back. She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind and clamped it shut. They were separated by 2 feet at most; if he moved quickly and got hold of the knife hand, he could crush her trachea in a matter of seconds. He just needed the slightest distraction…
Feet in the underbrush, branches whipping around an advancing form. Vanderveen stepped into the shadows instinctively, and the woman froze in place.
“Hello?” a gruff, cautious voice, asked with authority. “Police. Is anyone there?”
Raseen’s gaze skipped to the shadows, questioning. Vanderveen moved carefully forward, nodded once, then stepped back. He was now completely reliant on her, and it occurred to him how quickly the tables had turned; in other circumstances, it would have been almost amusing.
Raseen dropped down to the wet grass, simultaneously wiping her hand over the cut near her left eye. Smearing the blood over her face, she positioned herself next to one of the bodies and cried out in faltering French. “I’m over here! Please, help me! Please…”
The noise through the brush grew louder, leaves sliding under fast, heavy feet, branches snapping. A portly figure burst into view. Even in the dark, Vanderveen could make out the patrol uniform and the radio hooked to the right side of the man’s belt. The officer took in the scene, murmuring an obscenity. Then he dropped to his knees next to Raseen. “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, etes-vous blesse?” Are you hurt?
In one swift motion, Raseen grabbed the policeman’s hands and pulled him over her body, lifting him off his feet. At the same time, Vanderveen approached from behind, the Benchmade knife coming out of his pocket. He flipped his thumb and the serrated, 4-inch blade sprang free, clicking into place.
The policeman shouted a warning to no one in particular and started to rise, struggling to find a foothold in the slick grass. He was clambering to his feet, fumbling for the radio, when Vanderveen knocked off his cap with his left hand. At the same time, he gripped a handful of hair, pulled the man’s head to the left, and thrust the knife up under the right ear. The police officer shuddered and emitted a strange sound, something between a cough and a scream. Then he went still. Vanderveen jiggled the blade back and forth a few times before pulling it out and releasing his grip. The dead man fell to the ground with a muffled thump.
Yasmin Raseen was already moving. Her coat was soaked in blood; pulling it off, she rubbed the cloth liner over the damp grass, then used it to wipe her face. Then she placed the knife inside the coat and wrapped it into a bundle, arranging the material under her left arm so that none of the stains were visible.
For the moment, she was unarmed. She glanced at the knife in Vanderveen’s hand, but a quick look at her face told him that nothing had changed; she remained unafraid.
She could not have known what her indifference meant; she had no way of knowing that it was this — her complete lack of fear — that had saved her life. If she had shown an ounce of panic, a moment of indecision, or a trace of dependence on him, he would have killed her instantly. Instead, he wiped down his knife and carefully dropped the weapon next to one of the bodies. Then he took Raseen’s free arm and guided her out of the park.
The lights of the hotel were all but extinguished by the time they returned. Vanderveen pulled open the front door and led her past the drooping, disinterested eyes of the girl at the desk, past the wilting plants in the shabby stairwell. They climbed the dark stairs. In the room on the second floor, Raseen felt her way into the bathroom and flipped on the light, then closed the door behind her. Vanderveen heard tap water running in the sink as he went to the window. Cracking the drapes slightly, he stared down at the road. There was no sign of anything amiss, though he could hear distant sirens through the glass.
They had dropped their bloodied coats into a pair of trash cans on the way back, reaching the hotel clothed only in jeans and T-shirts. The brisk walk back from the park had taken less than twenty minutes, but that was more than enough time for his rage to climb to impossible heights. The woman had compromised everything to satisfy her idle curiosity. She had overstepped her bounds, exceeded any authority her connections afforded her. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, his fury had pushed him past any semblance of rationality; now, he was willing to endure any consequence to see her dead. He would leave her body in the room if he had to. At least, that was how he felt until the door swung open and she appeared before him, backlit by the bulbs over the sink. Then it all fell away, and he could not help but stare in frank admiration.
Her beauty was evident in any light, but there was something about the dark that brought out what lay within, perversely illuminating her darkest desires. Raseen had stripped off the T-shirt and stood before him in worn jeans and a black lace bra. The light from behind made her curves stand out in sharp relief, but it was not her physical attributes that pulled him in. There was something else that he found inexplicably unique and appealing, something about her utter indifference that stripped him of all self-control; he felt as though he would do anything to elicit some kind of reaction, something beyond the enigmatic crease between her eyebrows. He wanted to know who she really was, what had driven her into the life she was leading. What had created her? Who — if anyone — had turned her into a killer?
And then it all came back: the rage, the frustration, the desire to simplify what had become too confusing. Vanderveen could recognize his sudden changes in mood, but he could not control them, just as he could not control the circumstances that had shaped his youth. He was on her in an instant, his left hand like a vise around her throat. He pinned her to the wall, grabbing her right hand with his, and crossing it over her body to control both arms. He was surprised when she refused to struggle. Even as a minute passed and her face turned scarlet from lack of air, she refused to lash out with her feet, to cry out with the last of her breath.
“You stupid bitch.” He hissed the words, his face not more than an inch from hers. The fact that she wouldn’t
