are involved in it. And you can’t get out of it just by walking away. Rostov will never let up until he has both of us, and as we’ve both learned, he’s good at finding people. Besides, I can’t drive with these damned handcuffs On.”
“That’s hardly my problem.” She was short on sympathy at the moment. This man was likely to get her killed, and she didn’t even know him. Didn’t know anything about him. Didn’t want to know anything about him. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry if it puts you out, but I’m driving straight to the nearest police station. After that, you’re on your own. Tell them anything you like, I won’t say anything about you being a spy, but I’m not going to be involved in this any longer. It’s dangerous.”
“Look, lady—Cora, whatever your name is—”
“Clara!”
“Clara. Whether you like it or not, you are involved in this. Going to the police is out. There is no one you can trust. No one. Do you understand?”
“No, I do not.” Clara felt better now that she had made a decision. “The Virginia State Police are in no way involved with the KGB, if it’s even the KGB who’s after us and not some sort of crooks you ripped off in some sort of dope deal or something. Not that I care,” she added hastily, not wanting him to get the idea that he had to kill her to silenceher. “You do what you want, but that’s where this van and I are headed. To the police.”
“Oh no you’re not.”
“You can’t stop me! I saved your life! Besides, you can’t drive. Remember the handcuffs?”
Fear made her voice shrill. He looked at her for a moment through the darkness, his eyes glittering. Then she heard him take a breath. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh.
“You don’t trust me. Fair enough. I probably wouldn’t believe this myself. Let’s take it point by point, shall we? Reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. My agency ID is in there.”
Hesitating, casting a long, considering look at him, Clara finally did as she was told. Her hand touched the hard muscle of his lower back—he had gestured to the left rear pocket of the faded jeans that fit him like a second skin—and drew back instinctively. She did not like touching him, even for so straightforward a reason. There was something … sexual about it. He was too male. Primitive male force seemed to emanate from his pores. And she had reason to know that he could be violently aggressive. No, touching him wasn’t a safe thing to do. But she wanted very much to look at his ID to see if he was telling the truth about this whole misadventure being tied up with the government, at least. So she forced her hand to slide inside his pocket and extract the flat leather wallet she found there.
“Flip on the overhead light,” he directed. She did. Keeping one eye on the road, she nevertheless managed a thorough look at the wallet’s contents: a reasonable amount of cash, a MasterCard, American Express and a Sears charge card, a picture of a very pretty blonde woman slightly thinner than herself, his Maryland driver’s license,and the ID card that proclaimed him one John Thomas McClain, employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. Both the driver’s license and the CIA card bore identical photos of the man sitting beside her: There was no mistake. She flipped the wallet shut, tucked it back inside the breast pocket of his black sweatshirt, and turned off the overhead light, all without a word. She could feel him looking at her, but she steadfastly refused to look at him again. Funny, the knowledge that he worked for her own government should have made her feel safer, but it didn’t.
“Look, Clara. I know you’re scared, and you’re right to be scared. The people who are after us—us, not just me—are killers. You think you’ll be safe with the police. And you’d be right, if it were only the KGB we were dealing with. The chances of a state police trooper being a mole are remote. But ask
“That’s hardly my problem.” She was short on sympathy at the moment. This man was likely to get her killed, and she didn’t even know him. Didn’t know anything about him. Didn’t want to know anything about him. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry if it puts you out, but I’m driving straight to the nearest police station. After that, you’re on your own. Tell them anything you like, I won’t say anything about you being a spy, but I’m not going to be involved in this any longer. It’s dangerous.”
“Look, lady—Cora, whatever your name is—”
“Clara!”
“Clara. Whether you like it or not, you are involved in this. Going to the police is out. There is no one you can trust. No one. Do you understand?”
“No, I do not.” Clara felt better now that she had made a decision. “The Virginia State Police are in no way involved with the KGB, if it’s even the KGB who’s after us and not some sort of crooks you ripped off in some sort of dope deal or something. Not that I care,” she added hastily, not wanting him to get the idea that he had to kill her to silenceher. “You do what you want, but that’s where this van and I are headed. To the police.”
“Oh no you’re not.”
“You can’t stop me! I saved your life! Besides, you can’t drive. Remember the handcuffs?”
Fear made her voice shrill. He looked at her for a moment through the darkness, his eyes glittering. Then she heard him take a breath. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh.
“You don’t trust me. Fair enough. I probably wouldn’t believe this myself. Let’s take it point by point, shall we? Reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. My agency ID is in there.”
Hesitating, casting a long, considering look at him, Clara finally did as she was told. Her hand touched the hard muscle of his lower back—he had gestured to the left rear pocket of the faded jeans that fit him like a second skin—and drew back instinctively. She did not like touching him, even for so straightforward a reason. There was something … sexual about it. He was too male. Primitive male force seemed to emanate from his pores. And she had reason to know that he could be violently aggressive. No, touching him wasn’t a safe thing to do. But she wanted very much to look at his ID to see if he was telling the truth about this whole misadventure being tied up with the government, at least. So she forced her hand to slide inside his pocket and extract the flat leather wallet she found there.
“Flip on the overhead light,” he directed. She did. Keeping one eye on the road, she nevertheless managed a thorough look at the wallet’s contents: a reasonable amount of cash, a MasterCard, American Express and a Sears charge card, a picture of a very pretty blonde woman slightly thinner than herself, his Maryland driver’s license,and the ID card that proclaimed him one John Thomas McClain, employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. Both the driver’s license and the CIA card bore identical photos of the man sitting beside her: There was no mistake. She flipped the wallet shut, tucked it back inside the breast pocket of his black sweatshirt, and turned off the overhead light, all without a word. She could feel him looking at her, but she steadfastly refused to look at him again. Funny, the knowledge that he worked for her own government should have made her feel safer, but it didn’t.
“Look, Clara. I know you’re scared, and you’re right to be scared. The people who are after us—us, not just me—are killers. You think you’ll be safe with the police. And you’d be right, if it were only the KGB we were dealing with. The chances of a state police trooper being a mole are remote. But ask
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