Touch of Magic Read Online Free Page A

and the money, should it be discovered.
    The man at the customs gate closed her suitcase. She was in Los Angeles.
    She moved toward the taxi area, smiling at the stupid American pigs who tried to flirt with her. Bringing in the money Ballieu needed had been her responsibility. She had volunteered for the job. Vol unteered because she wanted to meet Henri Bal lieu .
    He was an old man, almost fifty. Too old for this job, too cautious, the younger members of the cell in Paris said.
    Khadija flexed lithe muscles, their deadly skills hidden beneath the tight jeans and expensive capi talist whore boots that her mission required as dis guise. She was here to advance herself, to report any flaw in Ballieu's judgment -- and to make sure nothing went wrong.
    She slung her coat into the back of a taxi that opened its door to her.
    Though no one knew it, she had a personal reason for wanting to cause the downfall of Henri Ballieu .

    *    *    *

    Near a boarded-up fish house in Topanga Canyon, Ballieu stepped out of a phone booth. Pain twisted his belly. Three years ago they'd said they'd cut the pain out of him, but they hadn't.
    It was why he was going to get this piece of film at any cost -- as a memorial to himself. And nobody knew. His pale eyes scanned the twisting two-lane road that led through the canyon. It was almost deserted at this hour. His car, left where it was expected by American comrades, was hidden in shadows. He was satisfied he hadn't been followed.
    Ballieu smoothed back thinning blond hair, the legacy of his French father. It had been an easy matter to call the still frantic nightclub, say he wanted to book the girl who had helped with the magic act, get her name and telephone number. Tomorrow it would be equally easy to get rid of her.
    He started toward his car, reflexes quickening as another car pulled off and stopped. A youth in shorts and a sweatshirt got out and started toward the telephone booth. He glanced at Ballieu . Inno cent, probably, but Henri Ballieu didn't believe in taking risks.
    "Excuse me," Ballieu said. "I'm trying to find a friend's house."
    Americans were so fawningly accommodating. Ballieu plunged his knife in as the youth turned.
    The knife was better than using a bullet, which could be linked and identified. As soon as the death shudder came, Ballieu pulled on surgical gloves. He picked money out of the dead man's wallet to make it look like robbery and extracted the knife.
    Judgment, he thought with a vicious triumph. Judgment was what gave him an edge. There were those who thought he was growing too old for his work, but he would show them. He had taken care of the greedy magician. He had lost the men in the alley. In little more than forty-eight hours he could get the film.
    The single problem remaining was the woman who had received that cassette tape.
    Ballieu wiped his knife on his victim's sweatshirt and, with his tongue, absently licked away a warm stain that remained at the hilt.

Three

    Bill Ellery rolled over and felt the fire dart in jagged bolts through his shoulder.   He opened his eyes on a standard hotel clock-radio. Eight o'clock. When had he ever slept until eight in the midst of a crisis? Why had Oliver let him?
    He swung his hips from the bed and sat for a moment, clad only in narrow white briefs. Good old basic Bill, he thought bitterly. No colored jocks, no after-shave, because your brother, the smart young senator, always chose both so carefully.
    A lot of good the basics had done him last night. He'd still lost Sammy. His throat knotted so he could hardly swallow. He remembered that feeling. It was how you held in tears.
    Sammy had been the first real friend he'd ever had. He'd understood Ellery's sense of humor. They'd talked about things -- all kinds of things. Sam's family had begged Ellery to join them for holidays, something his own parents, as they Christmased in Vail and summered at Lyford Cay, had never done. Ellery had found a secondhand boat like