Now You See Him Read Free

eyes would be justified.
    Travers shook his head. "I don't think you'd be harmless if you were in a coma," he said. "That's why I'm warning you. Don't hurt her any more than she has been already. Find out what you need to know, and then I'll get you out of there. I have a dozen places at my disposal if you want to finish your recuperation."
    "I've finished my recuperation," he said savagely, hating his weakened state. "I've just about gone off my nut these past few weeks. There's no end to the things I can accomplish, even while I'm still so knocked up. As soon as your cousin tells me about her friends, I can move on to another job, and no one will ever bother her again. I'm not that interested in pumping a lovesick female for information, but I'm sick of sitting on my butt watching other people ball up things I've been working on for years."
    "That's between you and Ross Cardiff," Travers said stiffly. "I wouldn't presume to give you advice."
    "The hell you wouldn't," Michael said with a ghost of a smile. "Particularly when it comes to your precious cousin. Don't worry, old man. She'll be safe as houses with me."
    "Considering your expertise in explosives, that's hardly a sterling recommendation," Travers said. "Just remember, you're a dangerous young man. But I can be a dangerous old man, when me and mine are threatened. I'm letting you go to Belle Reste because I want this settled once and for all. Tread carefully."
    "I can't do much else, now can I?" Michael countered, lifting his metal cane in a negligent gesture. "Don't worry," he said again. "When I leave St. Anne, your cousin won't even know her brain's been picked clean."
    "For your sake, you'd best hope so," Travers grumbled as the Rolls pulled up beside a small private jet.
    Michael didn't bother to answer. Private citizens like Daniel Travers were one of the few things that made his job easier. He didn't know what motivated the man—patriotism, civic duty, or sheer boredom—and he didn't particularly care. All that mattered was that Travers put his considerable resources at the disposal of certain select branches of the secret service organizations of various countries, Travers's own and Great Britain among them. All the man asked for in return was a vicarious taste of the excitement and the knowledge that he'd struck a blow for democracy or whatever he was after.
    Michael suspected he was deeply disappointed by the recent easing of relations with Eastern Europe. Travers still managed to cheer himself up with thoughts of Middle Eastern terrorists and the subversive branches of the IRA, but even South Africa seemed to be mellowing. If things continued as they were, Daniel Travers would be out of a hobby and Michael would be out of a job.
    He doubted it would happen, though. He didn't trust any of it. Not the lessening of repression in Eastern Europe, not the free elections in Latin America, not the hopeful steps in South Africa. Thirty-seven years of life on the edge had made him an extremely cynical man, and a few examples of media manipulation and feel-good public relations weren't going to convince him that the intrinsic nature of the world had changed from bad to good. As long as there were people left alive, he and others like him would be needed. And the nastier, more unpleasant the job, the more often he would be the one to be called.
    He hadn't been exaggerating—the past few weeks had been holy hell. He'd been pretty well shot to pieces, and a body takes time to heal, particularly one that had gone through this sort of thing too many times. He didn't like drugs, and his mind instinctively resisted painkillers, even when his body craved them. The pain had been the only thing that had kept him going when he'd first emerged from three weeks in intensive care. The pain, and the hatred.
    Normally the idea of weeks in the sun, lying there doing nothing but swelter, would be his idea of hell, especially after such a long stretch of forced inactivity. But he