moist; now they hardened again. “If the Russians get to Berlin, my wife and children… well, that won’t happen. The Russians will be stopped, long before they get to Germany.” The way he said that made it clear he didn’t believe his own conviction.
“You might help to shorten this war by doing what I ask,” Michael told him. “There’s a lot of territory between the coast and Berlin.”
Mouse said nothing; he just stood staring into space, his hands hanging at his sides.
“How much money do you want?” Michael prodded.
Mouse was silent. Then he said softly, “I want to go home.”
“All right. How much money do you need for that?”
“No. Not money.” He looked at Michael. “I want you to get me to Berlin. To my wife and children. I’ve been trying to find a way out of Paris ever since I escaped from the hospital. I couldn’t get two miles out of the city before a security patrol picked me up. You need a pickpocket, and I need an escort. That’s what I’ll agree to.”
“Impossible!” Gaby spoke up. “It’s out of the question!”
“Wait.” Michael’s voice was firm. He had been planning on finding a route to Berlin anyway, to contact agent Echo and find the big-game hunter who’d had the Countess Margritta murdered. The photograph of Harry Sandler, smiling as he stood atop the carcass of a lion, had never been very far from Michael’s mind. “How would I get you there?”
“That’s your job,” Mouse said. “Mine is putting a piece of paper in a man’s pocket. I’ll do it-and I’ll do it with no mistakes-but I want to go to Berlin.”
Now it was Michael’s turn for silent deliberation. Getting himself to Berlin was one thing; escorting an escapee from a lunatic asylum was quite another. His instincts told him to say no, and they were rarely wrong. But this was a matter of fate, and Michael had little choice. “Agreed,” he said.
“You’re mad, too!” Camille wailed. “As mad as he is!” But her voice wasn’t as stricken as it had been before, because she recognized the method in his madness.
“We go tomorrow morning,” Michael said. “Our agent leaves his building at thirty-two minutes after eight. It takes him approximately ten minutes to walk his route. I’ll work out on the map where I want the job done; in the meantime, you’ll stay here tonight.”
Camille started to roar with indignation again, but there was no point in it. “He’ll sleep on the floor!” she snapped. “He won’t dirty my linens!”
“I’ll sleep right here.” Mouse motioned to the kitchen floor. “I might get hungry tonight, anyway.”
Camille took the revolver back from Michael. “If I hear any noise in here, I’ll shoot to kill!”
“In that case, madam,” Mouse said, “it’s best to tell you that I snore.”
It was time to get some sleep. They all had a busy day tomorrow. Michael started for the bedroom, but Mouse said, “Hey! Hold on! Which coat pocket do you want the paper in? Outside or inside?”
“Outside will do. Inside would be better.”
“Inside it is, then.” Mouse took another apple from the bowl and crunched into it. He glanced at Camille. “Anyone going to offer me some soup, or must I starve to death before morning?”
She made a noise that might’ve been a snarl, threw open a cupboard, and got a bowl for him.
In the bedroom Michael took off his cap and shirt and sat on the edge of the bed, studying a map of Paris by the light of a white candle. Another candle was lighted on the other side of the bed, and Michael looked up at Gaby’s shadow as she undressed. He smelled the apple-wine fragrance of her hair as she brushed it back. It should be done equidistantly between Adam’s building and his office, he decided as he studied the map again. He found the spot he was looking for, and he marked it with his fingernail. Then he looked up once more, at the woman’s shadow.
He felt the fine down of hair stir from the back of his neck along his spine. Tomorrow was going to be a walk on the edge of danger; perhaps an encounter with death. His heart was beating harder. He watched Gaby’s shadow as she peeled off her slacks. Tomorrow might bring death and destruction, but tonight they were alive, and…
He smelled the faint aroma of cloves as Gaby drew back the sheet and slipped into bed. He folded the map of Paris and put it aside.
Michael turned and looked at her. Candlelight glittered in her sapphire eyes, and her black hair lay over the pillow, the sheet barely up over her breasts. She looked back at him and felt her heart flutter; then she lowered the sheet, just a fraction of an inch, and Michael saw and recognized the invitation.
He leaned over her, and he kissed her. Lightly at first, on the corners of her lips. And then her lips parted and he kissed her deeply, flame to flame. As their kiss went on, moist and hot, he could almost hear the steam drifting from their pores. Her lips tried to keep him, but he pulled away and stared at her. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said softly. “After tomorrow we might never see each other again.”
“I know… I want to be yours tonight,” Gaby said. “And tonight I want you to be mine.”
She drew him to her, and he pulled the sheet aside. She was naked underneath, her body taut with anticipation. Her arms went around his neck, and they kissed while he reached down, unbuckled his belt, and undressed. As the candles threw their shadows large upon the walls, their bodies pressed together, embraced in the goosedown mattress. She felt his tongue flick across her throat, a touch that was so delicate yet so intense it made her gasp, and then his head slid downward and his tongue swirled between her breasts. She gripped his hair as his tongue moved in slow, precise circles. A fiery pulse beat inside her, growing hotter and stronger. Michael felt her tremble, the taste of her sweet flesh in his mouth, and he grazed his lips down her stomach, down to the dark curls between her thighs.
His tongue in that place, moving as it did, made Gaby arch her body and clench her teeth to stifle a moan. He opened her like a pink flower, his fingers gentle. His tongue slowly traveled up and down the route Gaby had led him to. She gasped as he caressed her, starting to whisper his name, but realized she didn’t know it and never would. But this moment, this sensation, this joy; these things were enough. Her eyes were moist, and so was her yearning center. Michael kissed the hollow of her throat with burning lips; he shifted his position and eased himself smoothly into her.
He was large, but her body made room for him. He filled her with velvet heat, and her hands on his shoulders felt the muscles move beneath the skin. Michael balanced on his palms and toes above her, and thrust himself deep within, his hips moving to a slow rhythm that made Gaby gasp and moan. Their bodies entwined and thrust together, pulled apart and pressed together once again; Michael’s sinuous, strong movements molded Gaby’s body like hot clay, and she yielded her bones to his muscles. His nerves, his flesh, his blood sang with a symphony of sensations, aromas, and textures. The scent of cloves drifted up from the tangled sheet, and Gaby’s body breathed the heady, pungent aroma of passion. Her hair was damp, beads of moisture glistening between her breasts. Her eyes were dreamy, fixed on an inner focus, and her legs clasped around his hips to hold him deep inside as he rocked her, gently. Then he was on his back and she above him, her body poised on his hardness, her eyes closed, her black hair cascading around her shoulders like a waterfall. He lifted his hips off the bed, and her body with him, and she leaned forward against his chest and whispered three soft words that had no meaning but the ecstasy of the moment.
Michael cupped his body around hers, and she threw her hands back to grip the iron bedframe as they first strained against each other, then moved in a delicate unison. It became a dance of passion, a ballet of silk and iron, and at its zenith Gaby cried out, heedless of who might hear, and Michael let his control go. His spine arched, his body held in her pulsing grip, and the pressure flooded out of him in several bursts that left him dazed.
Gaby was drifting, a white ship with billowing sails and a strong hand on the wheel. She relaxed into his embrace, and they lay together, breathing as one, as a distant cathedral chimed the midnight hour.
Sometime before dawn, Michael brushed the hair away from her face and kissed her forehead. He stood up, careful so as not to awaken her, and he walked to the window. He looked out over Paris, as the sun showed a faint edge of pink against night’s dark blue. It was already light over Stalin’s land, and the sun’s burning eye rose over Hitler’s territory. This was the beginning of the day he’d come from Wales for; within twenty-four hours he would have the information or he would be dead. He breathed the morning air and smelled the scent of Gaby’s flesh on him.
Live free, he thought. A last command from a dead king.
The cool, brisk air reminded him of a forest and a white palace, a long time ago. The memories stirred a fever that would never be quenched; not by a woman, not by love, not by any city built by the hand of man.
His skin prickled, as if by hundreds of needles. The wildness was on him, fast and powerful. Black hair rose
