When she did, she realized she would have to tend to her grand-mother. Mustering her courage, she reentered the kitchen and found a towel, intending to begin by cleaning the blood from her gran’s head wound. As she approached, though, she realized her grandmother wasn’t moving. There wasn’t even the rhythmic heave and fall of her chest as she took in air. Jillian crept closer and, placing her hand alongside her grandmother’s cold flesh, realized that she was gone.
The storm raged for two more days. Seven-year-old Jillian couldn’t bring herself to remain inside with the body of her dead grandmother lying in the kitchen, so she stayed in the barn, keeping warm beneath a pile of horse blankets. When the police finally did arrive, she wondered how they had even known she needed help.
The police came with Jillian’s aunt. When they found her in the barn, her aunt suddenly began to cry. She blamed the weather, the terrible weather. She was crying so hard that one of the policemen had to tell Jillian himself that her mother and father wouldn’t be coming home. They had died in a car accident on the way back from selling their sheep. They had fetched a good price early and were trying to beat the storm back to the farm, but they had seriously misjudged it.
One horrible storm had managed to take away the three most important people in Jillian’s life. It was no wonder that rough weather still made her feel so uncomfortable. In fact, storms had grown to become a metaphor for Jillian, representing the uncertainty and cruelty that could be disproportionately visited on one person’s life no matter how little that person had done to deserve it. It was, in part, why she had surrendered herself to a life of science. Science was a world of constants-rules and processes, which could always be counted on. The part she cared not to think about was that science was also a world that was to a significant degree cold, unfeeling, and exceedingly inhuman.
Of course there were people passionate about their pursuits, but very rarely were they passionate about other human beings. In the academic world of “publish or perish,” very few put anything above their love of science. It was indeed a cold place, incredibly enriching for the mind but not so enriching for the soul.
As a remarkably attractive woman, Jillian Alcott was a rarity in the academic world and constantly found herself treated as an object to be possessed rather than as a woman deserving of love. Throughout her education, both her fellow students and many of her professors had desired her simply for her stunning outward appearance. None of them had the courage to look beyond her all too often cold demeanor to see the person she really was. Had anyone taken the time to really study her, to study her with even half the vigor with which they pursued their vaunted scientific investigations, they might have seen a woman who had not yet been able to make it past those two horrific storm-plagued days in Cornwall when she was seven years old, a woman who, though braver than most on the outside, was still, on the inside, incredibly frightened. Life, her career, and even the prospect of learning to love someone again only to have them ripped from her, all terrified Jillian Alcott.
The worse the storm, the worse her feelings of impending doom, and today was no different. On days like this, her only comfort came from indulging herself. And though it sounded terribly cliché, even to her, the one thing that made her feel better was shopping. And her favorite place to shop was the Harvey Nichols department store in Knightsbridge.
As she exited the Tube station and raced through the rain across Sloane Street, Alcott decided that with nothing but the day’s mail awaiting her at home, she’d make an evening of it at her beloved Harvey Nics. It was either that or the television at home, and as much of a social cripple as she was, Alcott knew it was better for her to be out among the living and breathing.
Alcott decided to head up to the store’s Fifth Floor Café for something to eat before she began her shopping. Finding a small table for two, she placed her belongings on the opposite chair and sat down. The rain pounded against the glass roof and ran down the windows at the front of the café in white foamy sheets that made it appear as if she was sitting behind a waterfall. As a streak of lightning ripped through the sky, followed by a booming peal of thunder, Alcott decided she wanted a glass of wine.
Forty-five minutes later, the storm was still raging as Jillian paid for her meal. Despite the two glasses of Pinot Gris she had consumed, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something bad out there with her name on it. Blaming her unease on the storm, she got up from her table and decided that it was time to do a little shopping.
Taking the escalators to the third floor to browse through the lingerie section, she felt a chill along the back of her long, slender neck. She was even more frightened than before and didn’t know why.
As she moved through the lingerie department, her feelings of impending doom came to a crescendo and finally made sense as a powerfully built man grabbed her urgently by the arm and said, ”Come with me if you want to live.”
TWENTY
What are you doing?” demanded Alcott as she was muscled toward the back of the department.
“Saving your life,” replied Scot Harvath as he kept her moving toward one of the green emergency exit signs.
Alcott tried to twist out of his grasp. “You’re hurting me. Let me go.”
“Someone has been following you since you left the Abbey College.”
She had wanted to blame her unease on the storm, but on a more primal level Jillian had sensed all afternoon that something wasn’t right. It was as if she had felt someone’s eyes on her. But the only way this man could have known she was being followed was if he had been following her as well. “Who are you?”
“That’s not important right now,” said Harvath as he increased their pace.
“If you don’t stop this, I’m going to scream. Do you hear me?”
“You scream and we’re both dead.”
Alcott was about to show him she was serious when she felt something hard pressed into her back. Without even seeing it, she instinctively knew what it was-a gun. “Why are you doing this?”
“Over your shoulder, by the elevator.”
Alcott looked. “What about it?”
“The tall man standing next to it. Do you see him? Dark hair. Dark skin.”
“Yes, why?”
“He’s been sent here to kill you,” responded Harvath as he turned Jillian back around and continued to maneuver her toward the door marked Emergency Exit.
Alcott was just about to tell this man one last time that he was insane and to unhand her when she heard gunshots and all of the mannequins around them began exploding. “Get down,” yelled her captor, knocking her to the ground as they were showered with pieces of flesh-colored fiberglass.
As Alcott started to scream, Harvath counted to three and rolled off her, coming up on one knee with the compact eleven-shot,. 40-caliber Beretta Mini Cougar Type D pistol that had been waiting for him when he arrived in London. As good an agent, and a friend, as Nick Kampos was, arranging weapons for Harvath in foreign countries was something even he couldn’t do. For that, Harvath reluctantly had to call on Ozan Kalachka and ask him for a favor. A favor the man was only too happy and able to arrange.
Catching sight of their assailant, Harvath began firing.
The unsilenced weapon bucked in his hand as Harvath let loose with a deafening three-round volley. The store was in complete pandemonium, with shoppers screaming and running for their lives. Keeping low while he expertly weaved his way through the racks of clothing and display stands, the attacker was less than twenty yards away and closing fast. Harvath desperately wanted to get off another round of shots, but there were too many people in his way.