Stranded with a Spy Read Online Free

after the iris scan and voice data print had verified his identity. “Again.”
    “Roger that. You want to confirm the location? GPS is showing her parked about ten yards off the causeway leading to the island of Mont St. Michel, in what should be about eight feet of water.”
    “The tide’s out, Hawkeye, so it’s high and dry. She’s walking up to the island from her car, minus her suitcase.”
    “Could be intending to establish initial contact before making the drop.”
    “Could be,” Cutter agreed, shouldering open his car door. “Check the tide tables for me, will you? I want to know how long we’ve got here.”
    “Will do.”
    He could have spared Mike the trouble, Cutter realized as he trailed his target toward the massive gates guarding the entrance to the walled town. Warning signs posted at several points along the causeway warned visitors in five different languages to stick to designated walkways to avoid dangerous quicksand. The signs also advised that high tide would occur at eighteen hundred hours that evening.
    Three and a half hours, Cutter thought grimly. Plenty of time for Ms. Dawes to establish contact, return to her car and retrieve the disk.
    As he had at Caen, he stayed out of her line of sight. Not hard to do, with so many tourists thronging the narrow, cobbled streets. Then again, Dawes made for an easy tail. She wasn’t all that tall. Five-six, according to the background dossier OMEGA had hastily compiled on her. Yet her cap of shining blond hair acted like a beacon amid the shadows thrown by the tall, narrow buildings lining the streets and alleys. The navy blazer she wore with a white tank top and jeans also stood out among the post-summer throng of primarily middle-aged tourists in jogging suits and windbreakers.
    Eyeing the trim rear and slender thighs encased by those jeans, Cutter had to admire Congressman Kent’s taste, if not his morals. Ms. Dawes’s behind looked eminently gropeable. Her front looked pretty good, too. Narrow waist. Full breasts. A determined chin softened by lips he suspected might tempt a man to sin if she ever smiled. Cutter could certainly understand why the clown she’d picked up in a D.C. bar had described her to the press as a real piece of eye candy.
    But it was the way she moved that stirred unwelcome memories. Cutter had known a woman who walked with that same hip-swinging grace once. He still wore the scars she’d left on him.
    Which was probably why he noticed when Ms. Dawes began to move with considerably less elegance. Obviously, the climb up the winding streets and steep stairs was taking its toll. Her pace got slower and more deliberate. Her shoulders started to sag. She paused more often to study shop windows displaying fresh pastries, cheeses, handmade lace and the inevitable cheap souvenirs.
    Cutter was thirty yards behind her when she veered toward a small café carved out of the rock below the walls of the cathedral. Potted geraniums added splashes of color to the tiny patio, which contained all of three tables. Dawes dropped into a chair at the only empty table. When she shoved her sunglasses to the top of her head to study the menu, lines of exhaustion were etched into her face.
    Cutter continued his surveillance from a combination boulangerie and sandwich shop across the street. Surrounded by the seductive aroma of fresh-baked baguettes and twisted loaves of rye, he ordered a ham and Swiss and coffee. He carried both to a stand-up table in the window and had the crusty sandwich halfway to his mouth when he froze.
    Eyes narrowing to slits behind his mirrored sunglasses, Cutter assessed the heavyset male who scooted his chair around to face Dawes. Early fifties. Dressed as a tourist in no-press khaki knit pants, a blue windbreaker and a baseball cap with some kind of a logo on it. Heavy jowls, flushed cheeks and a knowing smile that lifted the hairs on the back of Cutter’s neck.
    The guy knew Dawes. He’d recognized her, perhaps had