Hot Ice

us.”
    “I get itchy—not knowing where he is. In front of us, or behind.” It made him think of Nam again, where the jungle hid too much. He preferred the dark streets and mean alleys of the city.
    Whitney glanced over her shoulder and grimaced. The forest had already closed in behind them. She wanted to take comfort in the deep greens, the moistness, and the cool air, but Doug was making her see gnomes. “Well, there’s no one in the forest but us. So far we’ve been one step ahead of them every time.”
    “So far. Let’s keep it that way.”
    “Why don’t we pass the time with conversation. You could tell me about the papers.”
    He’d already decided she wouldn’t let it go and that he’d give her enough information to stop her from nagging him. “Know much about the French Revolution?”
    She shifted the hateful pack as she walked. It would be best, Whitney calculated, not to mention the quick look she’d had at the one page already. The less Doug thought she knew, the more he might tell her.
    “Enough to get me though a French history class in college.”
    “How about rocks?”
    “I passed on geology.”
    “Not limestone and quartz. Real rocks, sugar. Diamonds, emeralds, rubies as big as your fist. Put them together with the Reign of Terror and fleeing aristocrats and you have a lot of potential. Necklaces, earrings, unset stones. A hell of a lot was stolen.”
    “And more hidden or smuggled out.”
    “Right. When you think about it, there’s more still missing than anyone will ever find. We’re going to find a little part. It’s all I need.”
    “The treasure’s two hundred years old,” she said quietly and thought again of the paper she’d skimmed. “Part of French history.”
    “Royal antiques,” Doug murmured, already seeing them gleam in his hands.
    “Royal?” The word had her glancing up. He was looking off into middle distance, dreaming. “The treasure belonged to the king of France?”
    It was close enough, Doug decided. Closer than he’d intended her to get this soon. “It belonged to the man who was smart enough to get his hands on it. It’s going to belong to me. Us,” he corrected, anticipating her. But she fell silent.
    “Who was the woman who gave Whitaker the map?” she asked at length.
    “The English lady? Ah—Smythe-Wright. Yeah, Lady Smythe-Wright.”
    As the name hit home, Whitney stared into the forest. Olivia Smythe-Wright was one of the few members of the gentry who fully deserved the title. She’d devoted herself to the arts and charity with a near-religious fervor. Part of the reason, or so she’d often said, was that she was a descendant of Marie Antoinette’s. Queen, beauty, victim—a woman some historians deemed a selfish fool and others called a victim of circumstance. Whitney had been to some of Lady Smythe-Wright’s functions and had admired her.
    Marie Antoinette and lost French jewels. A page of a journal dating from 1793. It made sense. If Olivia had believed the papers were history… Whitney remembered reading of her death in the Times. It had been a ghastly murder. Bloody and without apparent motive. The authorities were still investigating.
    Butrain, Whitney thought. He’d never be brought to justice now or have a trial by his peers. He was dead and so was Whitaker, Lady Smythe-Wright, and a young waiter named Juan. The motive for all sat in Doug’s pocket. How many more had lost their lives for a queen’s treasure?
    No, she couldn’t think of it that way. Not now. If she did, she’d turn around and give up. Her father had taught her many things, but the first, the most important, was to finish no matter what. Perhaps it had the edges of pride, but it was her breeding. She’d always been proud of it.
    She’d go on. She’d help Doug find the treasure. Then she’d decide what to do about it.
    He found himself looking around at every rustle. According to his guidebook, the forests abounded with life. Nothing very dangerous, he recalled. This wasn’t the land of safaris. In any case, it was two-legged carnivores he worried about.
    By this time, Dimitri would be very annoyed. Doug had heard some graphic stories about what happened when Dimitri was annoyed. He didn’t want any firsthand knowledge.
    The forest smelled of pine and morning. The large, leafy trees cut the glare of the sun he and Whitney had lived with for days. Instead, it came in shafts, white, shimmering, and lovely. There were flowers underfoot that smelled