Hot Ice

Remo’s arms. Luck was the biggest part of the game, he reminded himself. It was what he liked the best. “It’ll take them a while to track down the hotel. Then they’ll sit and wait.” He grinned a little, nodding. “Yeah, they’ll wait for us.”
    “How?” Whitney demanded. “For God’s sake how could they be here already?”
    “When you’re dealing with Dimitri, you don’t ask how. You just look over your shoulder.”
    “He’d need a crystal ball.”
    “Politics,” Doug said. “Remember what your old man told you about connections? If you had one in the CIA and you made a call, pushed a button, you could be on top of someone without leaving your easy chair. A call to the Agency, to the Embassy, to Immigration, and Dimitri had a handle on our passports and visas before the ink was dry.”
    She moistened her lips and tried to pretend her throat hadn’t gone dry. “Then he knows where we’re going.”
    “You bet your ass. All we have to do is stay one step ahead. Just one.”
    Whitney let out a little sigh when she realized her heart was thumping. The excitement was back. If she gave herself time it would smother the fear. “Looks like you know what you’re doing after all.” When he turned his head to scowl at her she gave him a quick, friendly kiss. “Smarter than you look, Lord. Let’s go to Madagascar.”
    Before she could rise, he caught her chin in his hand. “We’re going to finish this there.” His fingers tightened briefly, but long enough. “All of this.”
    She met him look for look. They had too far to go to give in now. “Maybe,” she said. “But we have to get there first. Why don’t we catch that plane?”
    Remo picked up a silky bit of fluff Whitney would have called a nightgown. He balled it into his fist. He’d have his hands on Lord and the woman before morning. This time they wouldn’t slip through his fingers and make him look like a fool. When Doug Lord walked back in the door he’d put a bullet between his eyes. And the woman—he’d take care of the woman. This time… slowly he ripped the gown in half. The silk tore with hardly a whisper. When the phone rang, he jerked his head, signaling the other men to flank the door. Using the tip of his thumb and finger, Remo lifted the receiver. When he heard the voice, his sweat glands opened.
    “You’ve missed them again, Remo.”
    “Mr. Dimitri.” He saw the other men look over and turned his back. It was never wise to let fear show. “We’ve found them. As soon as they come back, we’ll—”
    “They won’t be back.” With a long, smooth sigh, Dimitri blew out smoke. “They’ve been spotted at the airport, Remo, right under your nose. The destination is Antananarivo. Your tickets are waiting for you. Be prompt.”

CHAPTER
4
    Whitney pushed open the wooden shutters on the window and took a long look at Antananarivo. It didn’t, as she’d thought it would, remind her of Africa. She’d spent two weeks once in Kenya and remembered the heady morning scent of meat smoking on sidewalk grills, of towering heat and a cosmopolitan flare. Africa was only a narrow strip of water away, but Whitney saw nothing from her window that resembled what she remembered of it.
    Nor did she find a tropical island flare. She didn’t sense the lazy gaiety she’d always associated with islands and island people. What she did sense, though she wasn’t yet sure why, was a country completely unique to itself.
    This was the capital of Madagascar, the heart of the country, city of open-air markets and hand-drawn carts existing in complete harmony and total chaos alongside high-rise office buildings and sleek modern cars. It was a city, so she expected the habitual turmoil that brewed in cities. Yet what she saw was peaceful: slow, but not lazy. Perhaps it was just the dawn, or perhaps it was inherent.
    The air was cool with dawn so that she shivered, but didn’t turn away. It didn’t have the smell of Paris, or Europe, but of something riper. Spice mixed with the first whispers of heat that threatened the morning chill. Animals. Few cities carried even a wisp of animal in their air. Hong Kong smelled of the harbor and London of traffic. Antananarivo smelled of something older that wasn’t quite ready to fade under concrete or steel.
    There was a haze as heat hovered above the cooler ground. Even as she stood, Whitney could feel the temperature change, almost degree by degree. In another hour, she thought, the sweat