Free Naked by Francine Pascal

cooped up in that hotel room with nothing to do but reflect on the horrible nightmare and wait for a message from the informant. There was no clue as to when he might receive word.Each passing hour only served to feed the paranoia that sprang from his dream. Maybe he was just a sitting duck. Maybe there
was
no informant. The Agency could have been duped. It had happened before. This anxiously awaited communication might merely be a setup devised by Loki to get Tom out of the way.
    Miraculous
    But no. . . despite his fear, his instincts told him the informant was legitimate. It wasn’t that he trusted the Agency. He simply knew how his brother operated. Loki was too proud and confident to resort to red herrings and decoys. He tended to take the direct approach, orchestrating events without concern for consequence and breaking human beings according to his will. He wouldn’t see the need for precautionary tactics.
    In fact, Tom’s greater concern right now was the informant’s life span. What were the actual odds that he could get to Tom before Loki got to him? If history could provide any indication, those odds were dismal—
    There was a faint rustling at the door.
    Reflexively Tom shot up from his seat at the desk and reached for the automatic pistol tucked into his jacket pocket. A small envelope slid under the narrow crack and onto the hotel-room floor. Keeping his pistol drawn, Tom jumped forward and snatched it up. He couldn’t help but nod in satisfaction. Whoever this operative was, he was good. Few people could have evaded Loki for this long.
    Tom tucked his gun away, then ripped open the envelope. Inside was a note and small silver key bearing the number 214.
    Tomorrow 7:21 P.M .
—
the station Zoologischer Garten on the Hardenbergplatz. Track 8.
    Box 214
    Without a second glance, Tom placed the note in the hotel ashtray and dropped a lit match over it. He stared as the flames engulfed the paper and turned it to black ash. He could be back with Gaia in forty-eight hours, assuming all went well at the train station tomorrow. Assuming the informant could stay alive that long.
    SOMEBODY WAS SPEAKING ARABIC. Gaia could hear scraps of conversation, but she couldn’t see a thing. Her eyelids fluttered, and she found herself staring up at a black surface, dancing with fast-moving light. She was lying on a soft, uneven cushion, and it was rumbling, bouncing.
    A Good Liar
    Then suddenly a face appeared, looming just over hers.
    â€œAre you all right?” Paul asked.
    â€œI think so,” she replied, clearing her throat. There was a crackle of static. It hit her: she was in a taxi.
    â€œDo you want to sit up?” he asked. His skin was still pale, but Gaia couldn’t tell if that was due to fear or due to the light of the passing streetlamps.
    Gaia nodded, and with a couple of awkward shifts Paul helped her head off his lap until she was sitting upright. For a moment she stared at the back of the driver’s head through the wall of bullet-proof glass that separated the front seat from the back. He was chattering on a CB radio in Arabic; he was asking someone about the best route uptown. . . . Gaia tuned out the harsh, guttural sounds. She glanced over her shoulder. Nobody was chasing them; there were no sirens, no shouts or rocks being thrown. They’d made a clean escape.
    Paul seemed unsure what to say next.
    â€œUh. . . where’s Brendan?” Gaia asked.
    â€œHe went back to his dorm.” His voice was oddly flat and still. “I told him I’d take care of you. We’re supposed to leave him a message that you’re okay when we get home.”
    â€œI’m fine,” she said. She frowned, shaking her head, trying to orient herself. The nondescript offices of Midtown flew by outside the windows. She must have been in the cab for at least ten minutes already. “What happened back there?”
    He laughed shortly. “You don’t