"In Their Footsteps" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)Nine“This is crazy,” said Richard. “An unacceptable risk.” To his annoyance, Beryl simply waltzed over to the closet and stood surveying her wardrobe. “What do you think would be appropriate tonight? Formal or semi?” “You’ll be out in the open,” said Richard. “An art reception! I can’t think of a more public place.” Beryl took out a black silk sheath, turned to the mirror, and calmly held the dress to her body. “A public place is the safest place to be,” she observed. “You were supposed to stay here! Instead you go running around town-” “So did you.” “I had business…” She turned and walked into the bedroom. “I did, too,” she called back cheerfully. He started to follow her, but halted in the doorway when he saw that she was undressing. At once he turned around and stood with his back pressed against the doorjamb. “A craving for a three-star meal doesn’t constitute necessity!” he snapped over his shoulder. “It wasn’t a three-star meal. It wasn’t even a half star. But it was better than eggs and moldy bread.” “You’re like some finicky kitten, you know that? You’d rather starve than deign to eat canned food like every other cat.” “You’re quite right. I’m a spoiled Persian and I want my cream and chicken livers.” “I would’ve brought you back a meal. Catnip included.” “You weren’t here.” And that was his mistake, he realized. He couldn’t leave this woman alone for a second. She was too damn unpredictable. No, actually she And what he didn’t want her to do was leave the flat tonight. But he could already hear her stepping into the black dress, could hear the whisper of silk sliding over stockings, the hiss of the zipper closing over her back. He fought to suppress the images those sounds brought to mind-the long legs, the curve of her hips…He found himself clenching his jaw in frustration, at her, at himself, at the way events and passions were spinning out of his control. “Do me up, will you?” she asked. He turned and saw that she’d moved right beside him. Her back was turned and the nape of her neck was practically within kissing distance. “The hook,” she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. He inhaled the flowery scent of shampoo. “I can’t seem to fasten it.” He attached the hook and eye and found his gaze lingering on her bare shoulders. “Where did you get that dress?” he asked. “I brought it from Chetwynd.” She breezed over to the dresser and began to slip on earrings. The silk sheath seemed to mold itself to every luscious curve of her body. “Why do you ask?” “It’s Madeline’s dress. Isn’t it?” She turned to look at him. “Yes, it is,” she said quietly. “Does that bother you?” “It’s just-” he let out a breath “-it’s a perfect fit. Curve for curve.” “And you think you’re seeing a ghost.” “I remember that dress. I saw her wear it at an embassy reception.” He paused. “God, it’s really eerie, how that dress seems made for you.” Slowly she moved toward him, her gaze never wavering from his face. “I’m not her, Richard.” “I know.” “No matter how much you may want her back-” “Her?” He took her wrists and pulled her close to him. “When I look at you, I see only Beryl. Of course, I notice the resemblance. The hair, the eyes. But “Your prisoner?” she murmured. “If need be.” He kissed her again and heard an answering purr of contentment from her throat. She tilted her head back, and his lips slid to her neck, so smooth, so deliciously perfumed. “Then you’ll have to tie me up…” she whispered. “Whatever you want.” “…because there’s no other way you’re going to keep me here tonight.” With a maddening laugh, she wriggled free and walked into the bathroom. Richard suppressed a groan of frustration. From the doorway, he watched as she pinned up her hair. “Exactly what do you expect to get out of this event, anyway?” he demanded. “One never knows. That’s the joy of intelligence gathering, isn’t it? Keep your ears and eyes open and see what turns up. I think we’ve learned quite a lot already about François. We know he has a sister who’s ill. Which means François needed money. Working as a janitor in an art gallery couldn’t possibly pay for all the care she needed. Perhaps he was desperate, willing to do anything for money. Even work as a hired assassin.” “Your logic is unassailable.” “Thank you.” “But your plan of action is insane. You don’t need to take this risk-” “But I do.” She turned to him, her hair now regally swept into a chignon. “Someone wants me and Jordan dead. And there I’ll be tonight. A perfectly convenient target.” “That’s the plan, is it?” he said. “Tempt the killer into making a move?” “If that’s what it takes to save Jordan.” “And what’s to stop the killer from carrying it out?” “My two bodyguards. And you.” “I’m not infallible, Beryl.” “You’re close enough.” “I could make a mistake. Let my attention slip.” “I trust you.” “But I don’t trust myself!” Agitated, he began to pace the bedroom floor. “I’ve been out of the business for years. I’m out of practice, out of condition. I’m forty-two, Beryl, and my reflexes aren’t what they used to be.” “Last night they seemed quick enough to me.” “Walk out that door, Beryl, and I can’t guarantee your safety.” She came toward him, looking him coolly in the eye. “The fact is, Richard, you can’t guarantee my safety anywhere. In here, out on the streets, at an artist’s reception. Wherever I am, there’s a chance things could go wrong. If I stay in this flat, if I stare at these walls any longer, thinking of all the things that could happen, I’ll go insane. It’s better to be out “The one to set yourself up as bait?” “Our only lead is a dead man-François. Someone hired him, Richard. Someone who may have connections to Galerie Annika.” For a moment Richard stood gazing at her, thinking, He went to the nightstand and picked up the Glock. A pound and a half of steel and plastic, that’s all he had to protect her with. It felt flimsy, insubstantial, against all the dangers lurking beyond the front door. “You’re coming with me?” she said. He turned and looked at her. “You think I’d let you go alone?” She smiled, so full of confidence it frightened him. It was Madeline’s old smile. Madeline, who’d been every bit as confident. He slid the Glock into his shoulder holster. “I’ll be right beside you, Beryl,” he said. “Every step of the way.” Anthony Sutherland stood posing like a little emperor beside his bronze cast of the Madonna with jackal. He was wearing a pirate shirt of purple silk, black leather pants and snakeskin boots, and he seemed not in the least bit fazed by all the photographers’ flashbulbs that kept popping around him. The art critics were in vapors over the show. “Frightening.” “Disturbing.” “Images that twist convention.” These were some of the comments Beryl overheard being murmured as she wandered through the gallery. She and Richard stopped to look at another of Anthony’s bronzes. At first glance, it had looked like two nude figures entwined in a loving embrace. Closer inspection, however, revealed it to be a man and woman in the process of devouring each other alive. “Do you suppose that’s an allegory for marriage?” said a familiar voice. It was Reggie Vane, balancing a glass of champagne in one hand and two dainty plates of canapés in the other. He bent forward and gave Beryl an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You’re absolutely stunning tonight, dear. Your mother would be proud of you.” “Reggie, I had no idea you were interested in modern art,” said Beryl. “I’m not. Helena dragged me here.” In disgust, he glanced around at the crowd. “Lord, I hate these things. But the St. Pierres were coming, and of course Marie always insists Helena show up as well, just to keep her company.” He set his empty champagne glass on top of the bronze couple and laughed at the whimsical effect. “An improvement, wouldn’t you say? As long as these two are going to eat each other, they might as well have some bubbly to wash each other down.” An elegantly attired woman swooped in and snatched away the glass. “Please, be more respectful of the work, Mr. Vane,” she scolded. “Oh, I wasn’t being disrespectful, Annika,” said Reggie. “I just thought it needed a touch of humor.” “It is absolutely perfect as it is.” Annika gave the bronze heads a swipe of her napkin and stood back to admire the interwoven figures. “Whimsy would ruin its message.” “What message is that?” asked Richard. The woman turned to look at him, and her head of boyishly cropped hair suddenly tilted up with interest. “The message,” she said, gazing intently at Richard, “is that monogamy is a destructive institution.” “That’s marriage, all right,” grunted Reggie. “But free love,” the woman continued, “love that has no constraints and is open to all pleasures-that is a positive force.” “Is that Anthony’s interpretation of this piece?” asked Beryl. “It’s how “An acquaintance. I know his mother, Nina.” “Where is Nina, by the way?” asked Reggie. “You’d think she’d be front-and-center stage for Beryl had to laugh at Reggie’s imitation of Nina. Yes, when Queen Nina wanted an audience, all she had to do was throw one of these stylish bashes, and an audience would invariably turn up. Even poor Marie St. Pierre, just out of the hospital, had put in an appearance. Marie stood off in a corner with Helena Vane, the two women huddled together like sparrows in a gathering of peacocks. It was easy to see why they’d be such close friends; both of them were painfully plain, neither one was happily married. That their marriages were not happy was only too clear tonight. The Vanes were avoiding each other, Helena off in her corner darting irritated looks, Reggie standing as far away as possible. And as for Marie St. Pierre-her husband wasn’t even in the room at the moment. “So this is in praise of free love, is it?” said Reggie, eyeing the bronze with new appreciation. “That is how I see it,” said Annika. “How a man and a woman should love.” “I quite agree,” said Reggie with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Banish marriage entirely.” The woman looked provocatively at Richard. “What do you think, Mr…?” “Wolf,” said Richard. “I’m afraid I don’t agree.” He took Beryl’s arm. “Excuse us, will you? We still have to see the rest of the collection.” As he led Beryl away toward the spiral staircase, she whispered, “There’s nothing to see upstairs.” “I want to check out the upper floors.” “Anthony’s work is all on the first floor.” “I saw Nina slink up the stairs a few minutes ago. I want to see what she’s up to.” They climbed the stairs to the second-floor gallery. From the open walkway, they paused to look over the railing at the crowd on the first floor. It was a flashy gathering, a sea of well-coiffed heads and multicolored silks. Annika had moved into the limelight with Anthony, and as a new round of flashbulbs went off, they embraced and kissed to the sound of applause. “Ah, free love,” sighed Beryl. “She obviously has samples to pass around.” “So I can see.” Beryl gave him a sly smile. “Poor Richard. On duty tonight and can’t indulge.” “ “Aren’t you tempted? Just a little?” He looked at her with amusement. “You’re baiting me, Beryl.” “Am I?” “Yes, you are. I know exactly what you’re up to. Putting me to the test. Making me prove I’m not like your friend the surgeon. Who, as you implied, also believed in free love.” Beryl’s smile faded. “Is that what I’m doing?” she asked softly. “You have a right to.” He gave her hand a squeeze and glanced down again at the crowd. In the downstairs gallery, a pair of musicians began to play. As the sweet sounds of flute and guitar floated through the building, Beryl suddenly sensed a pair of eyes watching her. She looked down at the cluster of bronze statues and spotted Anthony Sutherland, standing by his Madonna with jackal. He was gazing right at her. And the expression in his eyes was one of cold calculation. Instinctively she shrank away from the railing. “What is it?” asked Richard. “Anthony. It’s the way he looks at me.” But by then Anthony had already turned away and was shaking Reggie Vane’s hand. An odd young man, thought Beryl. What sort of mind dreams up these nightmarish visions? Women nursing jackals. Couples devouring each other. Had it been so difficult, growing up as Nina Sutherland’s son? She and Richard wandered through the second-floor gallery, but found no sign of Nina. “Why are you so interested in finding her?” asked Beryl. “It’s not her so much as the way she went up those stairs. Obviously trying not to be noticed.” “And you noticed her.” “It was the dress. Those trademark bugle beads of hers.” They finished their circuit of the second floor and headed up the staircase to the third. Again, no sign of Nina. But as they moved along the walkway, the musicians in the first-floor gallery suddenly ceased playing. In the abrupt silence that followed, Beryl heard Nina’s voice-a few loud syllables-just before it dropped to a whisper. Another voice answered-a man’s, speaking softly in reply. The voices came from an alcove, just ahead. “It’s not as if I haven’t been patient,” said Nina. “Not as if I haven’t “I know. I know-” “Do you know what it’s been “I never let you want for anything.” “Oh, how “The boy has had the best-everything he’s ever wanted. Now he’s twenty-one. My responsibility ends.” “Your responsibility,” said Nina, “has only just Richard yanked Beryl around the corner just as Nina emerged from the alcove. She stormed right past them, too angry to notice her audience. They could hear her high heels tapping down the staircase to the lower galleries. A moment later, a second figure emerged from the alcove, moving like an old man. It was Philippe St. Pierre. He went over to the railing and stared down at the crowd in the gallery below. He seemed to be considering the temptation of that two-story drop. Then, sighing deeply, he walked away and followed Nina down the stairs. Down in the first-floor gallery, the crowd was starting to thin out. Anthony had already left; so had the Vanes. But Marie St. Pierre was still standing in her corner, the abandoned wife waiting to be reclaimed. A full room’s length away stood her husband Philippe, nursing a glass of champagne. And standing between them was that macabre sculpture, the bronze man and woman devouring each other alive. Beryl thought that perhaps Anthony had hit upon the truth with his art. That if people weren’t careful, love would consume them, destroy them. As it had destroyed Marie. The image of Marie St. Pierre, standing alone and forlorn in the corner, stayed with Beryl all the way back to the flat. She thought how hard it must be to play the politician’s wife-forever poised and pleasant, always supportive, never the shrew. And all the time knowing that your husband was in love with another woman. “She must have known about it. For years,” said Beryl softly. Richard kept his gaze on the road as he navigated the streets back to Passy. “Who?” he asked. “Marie St. Pierre. She must have known about her husband and Nina. Every time she looks at young Anthony, she’d see the resemblance. And how it must hurt her. Yet all these years, she’s put up with him.” “And with Nina,” said Richard. Beryl sat back, puzzled. “You think Philippe is Anthony’s father?” “That’s what Nina meant, of course. All that talk about Philippe’s responsibilities. She meant Anthony.” She paused. “Art school must be very expensive.” “And Philippe must’ve paid a pretty bundle over the years, supporting the boy. Not to mention Nina, whose tastes are extravagant, to say the least. Her widow’s pension couldn’t have been enough to-” “What is it?” asked Beryl. “I just had a flash of insight about her husband, Stephen Sutherland. He committed suicide a month after your parents died-jumped off a bridge.” “Yes, you told me that.” “All these years, I’ve thought his death was related to the Delphi case. I suspected he was the mole, that he killed himself when he thought he was about to be discovered. But what if his reasons for jumping off that bridge were entirely personal?” “His marriage.” “And young Anthony. The boy he discovered wasn’t his son at all.” “But if Stephen Sutherland wasn’t Delphi…” “Then we’re back to a person or persons unknown.” Instinctively she glanced over her shoulder, checking to see if they were being followed. Just behind them was the Peugeot with the two French agents; beyond that she saw only a stream of anonymous headlights. Richard was right, she thought. She should have stayed in the flat. She should have kept her head low, her face out of sight. Anyone could have spotted her this afternoon. Or they could be following her right this moment, could be watching her from somewhere in that sea of headlights. Suddenly she longed to be back in the flat, safely surrounded by four walls. It began to seem endless, this drive to Passy, a journey through a darkness full of perils. When at last they pulled up in front of the building, she was so anxious to get inside that she quickly started to climb out of the car. Richard pulled her back in. “Don’t get out yet,” he said. “Let the men check it first.” “You don’t really think-” “It’s a precaution. Standard operating procedure.” Beryl watched the two French agents climb the steps and unlock the front door. While one man stood watch on the steps, the other vanished inside. “But how could anyone find out about the flat?” she asked. “Payoffs. Leaks.” “You don’t think Claude Daumier-” “I’m not trying to scare you, Beryl. I just believe in being careful.” She watched as the lights came on inside the flat. First the living room, then the bedroom. At last, the man on the steps gave them the all-clear signal. “Okay, it must be clean,” said Richard, climbing out of the car. “Let’s go.” Beryl stepped out onto the curb. She turned toward the building and took one step up the sidewalk- – and was slammed backward against the car as an explosion rocked the earth. Shattered glass flew from the building and rained onto the street. Seconds later, the sky lit up with the hellish glow of flames shooting through the broken windows. Beryl sank to the ground, her ears still ringing from the blast. She stared numbly as tongues of flame slashed the darkness. She couldn’t hear Richard’s shouts, didn’t realize he was crouched right beside her until she felt his hands on her face. “Are you all right?” he cried. “Beryl, look at me!” Weakly she nodded. Then her gaze traveled to the front walkway, to the body of the French agent lying sprawled near the steps. “Stay put!” yelled Richard as he pivoted away from her. He dashed over to the fallen man and knelt beside him just long enough to feel for a pulse. At once he was back at Beryl’s side. “Get in the car,” he said. “But what about the men?” “That one’s dead. The other one didn’t stand a chance.” “You don’t know that!” “Just get in the car!” ordered Richard. He opened the door and practically shoved her inside. Then he scrambled around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. “We can’t just leave them there!” cried Beryl. “We’ll have to.” He started the engine and sent the car screeching away from the curb. Beryl watched as a succession of streets blurred past. Richard drove like a madman, but she was too stunned to feel afraid, too bewildered to focus on anything but the river of red taillights stretching ahead of them. “ Jordan,” she whispered. “What about Jordan?” “Right now I have to think about you.” “They found the flat. They can get to him!” “I’ll take care of it later. First we get you to a safe place.” “Where?” He swerved across two lanes and shot onto an off ramp. “I’ll come up with one. Somewhere.” To die. She shivered and shrank deep into the seat. “And then what?” she whispered. “What happens next?” He looked at her. “We get out of Paris. Out of the country.” “You mean-go home?” “No. It won’t be safe in England, either.” He turned his gaze back to the road. The car seemed to leap through the darkness. “We’re going to Greece.” Daumier answered the phone on the second ring. “All?” A familiar voice growled at him from the receiver. “Richard?” said Daumier. “Where are you?” “A safe place. You’ll understand if I don’t reveal it to you.” “And Beryl?” “She’s unhurt. Though I can’t say the same for your two men. Who knew about the flat, Claude?” “Only my people.” “Who else?” “I told no one else. It should have been a safe enough place.” “Apparently you were wrong. Someone found out.” “You were both out of the flat earlier today. One of you could have been followed.” “It wasn’t me.” “Beryl, then. You should not have allowed her out of the building. She could’ve been spotted at Galerie Annika this afternoon and followed back to the flat.” “My mistake. You’re right, I shouldn’t have left her alone. I can’t afford to make any more mistakes.” Daumier sighed. “You and I, Richard, we have known each other too long. This is not the time to stop trusting each other.” There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Richard said, “I’m sorry, but I have no choice, Claude. We’re going under.” “Then I will not be able to help you.” “We’ll go it alone. Without your help.” “Wait, Richard-” But the line had already gone dead. Daumier stared at the receiver, then slowly laid it back in the cradle. There was no point in trying to trace the call; Richard would have used a pay phone-and it would be in a different neighborhood from where he’d be staying. The man was once a professional; he knew the tricks of the trade. Maybe-just maybe-it would keep them both alive. “Good luck, my friend,” murmured Daumier. “I am afraid you will need it.” Richard risked one more call from the pay phone, this one to Washington, D.C. His business partner answered with his usual charmless growl. “Sakaroff here.” “Niki, it’s me.” “Richard? How is beautiful Paris? Having a good time?” “A lousy time. Look, I can’t talk long. I’m in trouble.” Niki sighed. “Why am I not surprised?” “It’s the old Delphi case. You remember? Paris, ’73. The NATO mole.” “Ah, yes.” “ Delphi ’s come back to life. I need your help to identify him.” “I was KGB, Richard. Not Stasi.” “But you had connections to the East Germans.” “Not directly. I had little contact with Stasi agents. The East Germans, you know…they preferred to operate independently.” “Then who There was a pause. “Perhaps…” “Yes?” “Heinrich Leitner,” said Sakaroff. “He is the one who could tell you. He oversaw Stasi’s Paris operations. Not a field man-he never left East Berlin. But he would be familiar with Delphi ’s work.” “Okay, he’s the man I’ll talk to. So how do I get to him?” “That is the difficult part. He is in Berlin -” “No problem. We’ll go there.” “-in a high-security prison.” Richard groaned. “That “You’ll need approval. That will take days. Papers, signatures…” “Then that’s what I’ll have to get. If you could make a few calls, speed things up.” “No guarantees.” “Understood. Oh, and one more thing,” said Richard. “We’ve been trying to get ahold of Hugh Tavistock. It seems he’s vanished. Have you heard anything about it?” “No. But I will check my sources. Anything else?” “I’ll let you know.” Sakaroff grunted. “I was afraid you would say that.” Richard hung up. Stepping away from the pay phone, he glanced around at the subway platform. He saw nothing suspicious, only the usual stream of nighttime commuters-couples holding hands, students with backpacks. The train for Creteil-Préfecture rolled into the station. Richard stepped onto it, rode it for three stops, then got off. He lingered on the next platform for a few minutes, surveying the faces. No one looked familiar. Satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he boarded the Bobigny-Picasso train and rode it to Gare de l’Est. There he stepped off, walked out of the station, and headed briskly back to the He found Beryl still awake and sitting in an armchair by the window. She’d turned off all the lights, and in the darkness she was little more than a silhouette against the glow of the night sky. He shut and bolted the door. “Beryl?” he said. “Everything all right?” He thought he saw her nod. Or was it just the quivering of her chin as she took a breath and let out a soft, slow sigh? “We’ll be safe here,” he said. “For tonight, at least.” “And tomorrow?” came the murmured question. “We’ll worry about that when the time comes.” She leaned back against the chair cushions and stared straight ahead. “Is this how it was for you, Richard? Working for Intelligence? Living day to day, not daring to think about tomorrows?” He moved slowly to her chair. “Sometimes it was like this. Sometimes I wasn’t sure there’d be a tomorrow for me.” “Do you miss that life?” She looked at him. He couldn’t see her face, but he felt her watching him. “I left that life behind.” “But do you miss it? The excitement? That lovely promise of violence?” “Beryl. Beryl, please.” He reached for her hand; it was like a lump of ice in his grasp. “Didn’t you enjoy it, just a little?” “No.” He paused. Then softly he said, “Yes. For a short time. When I was very young. Before it turned all too real.” “The way it did tonight. Tonight, it was real for me. When I saw that man lying there…” She swallowed. “This afternoon, you see, we had lunch together, the three of us. They had the veal. And a bottle of wine, and ice cream. And I got them to laugh…” She looked away. “It seems like a game, at first,” said Richard. “A make-believe war. But then you realize that the bullets are real. So are the people.” He held her hand in his and wished he could warm it, warm her. “That’s what happened to me. All of a sudden, it got too real. And there was a woman…” She sat very still, waiting, listening. “Someone you loved?” she asked softly. “No, not someone I loved. But someone I liked, very much. It was in Berlin, before the Wall came down. We were trying to bring over a defector to the West. And my partner, she got trapped on the wrong side. The guard spotted her. Fired.” He lifted Beryl’s hand to his lips and kissed it, held it. “She…didn’t make it?” He shook his head. “And it wasn’t a game of make-believe any longer. I could see her body lying in the no-man’s-zone. And I couldn’t reach her. So I had to leave her there, for the other side…” He released her hand. He moved to the window and looked out at the lights twinkling over Paris. “That’s when I left the business. I didn’t want another death on my conscience. I didn’t want to feel…responsible.” He turned to her. In the faint glow from the city, her face looked pale, almost luminous. “That’s what makes this so hard for me, Beryl. Knowing what could happen if I make a mistake. Knowing that your life depends on what I do next.” For a long time, Beryl sat very still, watching him. Feeling his gaze through the darkness. That spark of attraction crackled like fire between them as it always did. But tonight there was something more, something that went beyond desire. She rose from the chair. Though he didn’t move, she could feel the fever of his gaze as she glided toward him, could hear the sharp intake of his breath as she reached up and touched his beard-roughened face. “Richard,” she whispered, “I want you.” At once she was swept into his arms. No other embrace, no other kiss, had ever stolen her breath the way this one did. But this was a feast of love, not destruction. She whimpered and her head fell back as his mouth slid to her throat. She could feel every stroke of his hands through the silky fabric of her dress. Oh Lord, if he could do this to her with her clothes on, what lovely torment would he unleash on her naked flesh? Already her breasts were tingling under his touch, her nipples turned to tight buds. He unzipped her dress and slowly eased it off her shoulders. It hissed past her hips and slid into a silken ripple on the floor. He, too, traced the length of her torso, his lips moving slowly down her throat, her breasts, her belly. Shuddering with pleasure, she gripped his hair and moaned, “No fair…” “All’s fair,” he murmured, easing her stockings down her thighs. “In love and war…” By the time he had her fully undressed, by the time he’d shed his own clothes, she was beyond words, beyond protest. She’d lost all sense of time and space; there was only the darkness, and the warmth of his touch, and the hunger shuddering deep inside her. She scarcely realized how they found their way to the bed. Eagerly she sank backward onto the mattress, and heard the squeak of the springs, the quickening duet of their breathing. Then she pulled him down against her, drew him onto and into her. And like two who were famished, they feasted. He reached for her hands, and their fingers entwined in a tighter and tighter knot as their bodies joined, thrusted, exulted. Even as her last shudders of desire faded away, he was still gripping her hands. Slowly he released them and cradled her face instead. He pressed gentle kisses to her lips, her eyelids. “Next time,” he whispered, “we’ll take it slower. I won’t be in such a hurry, I promise.” She smiled at him. “I have no complaints.” “None?” “None at all. But next time…” “Yes?” She twisted her body beneath him, and they tumbled across the sheets until her body was lying atop his. “Next time,” she murmured, lowering her lips to his chest, “it’s my turn to do the tormenting.” He groaned as her mouth slid hotly down to his belly. “We’re taking turns?” “You’re the one who said it. All’s fair…” “…in love and war.” He laughed. And he buried his hands in her hair. They met in the usual place, the warehouse behind Galerie Annika. Against the walls were stacked dozens of crates containing the paintings and sculptures of would-be artists, most of them no doubt talentless amateurs hoping for a spot on a gallery wall. But who can really say which is art and which is rubbish? thought Amiel Foch, gazing around at the room full of crated dreams. To me, it is all the same. Pigment and canvas. Foch turned as the warehouse door swung open. “The bomb went off as planned,” he said. “The job is done.” “The job is Foch stared at Anthony. “It was a delayed fuse, set off two minutes after entry! It could not have ignited on its own.” “Nevertheless, they are still alive. Thus far, your record of success is abysmal. You could not finish off even that stupid creature, Marie St. Pierre.” “I will see to Mme St. Pierre-” “Forget her! It’s the Tavistocks I want dead! Lord, they’re like cats! Nine bloody lives.” “Jordan Tavistock is still in custody. I can arrange-” “Jordan will keep for a while. He’s harmless where he is. But Beryl has to be taken care of soon. My guess is that she and Wolf are leaving Paris. Find them.” “How?” “You’re the professional.” “So is Richard Wolf,” said Foch. “He will be difficult to trace. I cannot perform miracles.” There was a long silence. Foch watched the other man pace among the crates, and he thought, “I cannot search blindly,” said Foch. “I must have a lead. Will they go to England, perhaps?” “No, not England.” Anthony suddenly stopped pacing. “Greece. The island of Paros.” “You mean…the Rideau family?” “Wolf will try to contact him. I’m sure of it.” Anthony let out a snort of disgust. “My mother should have taken care of Rideau years ago. Well, there’s still time to do it.” Foch nodded. “I leave for Paros.” After Foch had left, Anthony Sutherland stood alone in the warehouse, gazing about at the crates. So many hopes and dreams locked away in here, he reflected. But not mine. Mine are on display for all to see and admire. The work of these poor slobs may molder into eternity. But I am the toast of Paris. It took more than talent, more than luck. It took the help of Philippe St. Pierre’s cold hard cash. Cash that would instantly dry up if his mother was ever exposed. But feminine wiles could take one only so far. If only Nina had cleaned up this matter years ago. Instead, she’d left a live witness, had even paid the man to leave the country. And as long as that witness lived, he was like a time bomb, ticking away on some lonely Greek island. Anthony left the warehouse, walked down the alley, and climbed into his car. It was time to go home. Mustn’t keep his mother awake; Nina did worry about him so. He tried never to distress her. She was, after all, the only person in this world who really loved him. Understood him. They came to escort him from his cell at 9:00 a.m. No explanations, just the clink of keys in the door, and a gruff command in French. Now what? wondered Jordan as he followed the guard up the corridor to the visitation room. He stepped inside, blinking at the glare of overhead fluorescent lights. Reggie Vane was waiting in the room. At once he waved Jordan to a chair. “Sit down. You look bloody awful, my boy.” “I feel bloody awful,” said Jordan, and sank into the chair. Reggie sat down, too. Leaning forward, he whispered conspiratorially, “I brought what you asked for. There’s a nice little Jordan glanced in the bag and gave a sigh of pleasure. “Reggie, old man, you’re a saint.” “Had some nice leek tarts to go with it, but the cop at the front desk insisted on helping himself.” “What about wine? Did you manage a decent bottle or two?” Reggie shoved a second bag under the table, eliciting a musical clink from the contents. “But of course. A Beaujolais and a rather nice Pinot noir. Screw-top caps, I’m afraid-they wouldn’t allow a corkscrew. And you’ll have to hand over the bottles as soon as they’re empty. Glass, you know.” Jordan regarded the Beaujolais with a look of sheer contentment. “How on earth did you manage it, Reggie?” “Just scratched a few itchy palms. Oh, and those books you wanted-Helena will bring them by this afternoon.” “Capital!” Jordan folded the bag over the bottles. “If one must be in prison, one might as well make it a civilized experience.” He looked up at Reggie. “Now, what’s the latest news? I’ve had no word from Beryl since yesterday.” Reggie sighed. “I was dreading that question.” “What’s happened?” “I think she and Wolf have left Paris. After the explosion last night-” “I heard it from Daumier this morning. The flat where Beryl was staying was bombed last night. Two French agents killed. Wolf and your sister are fine, but they’re dropping out for a while, leaving the country.” Jordan gave a sigh of relief. Thank God Beryl was out of the picture. It was one less problem to worry about. “What about the explosion?” he asked. “What does Daumier say about it?” “His people feel there are similarities.” “To what?” “The bombing of the St. Pierre residence.” Jordan stared at him. “But that was a terrorist attack. Cosmic Solidarity or some crazy group-” “Apparently bombs are sort of like fingerprints. The way they’re put together identifies their maker. And both bombs had identical wiring patterns. Something like that.” Jordan shook his head. “Why would terrorists attack Beryl? Or me? We’re civilians.” “Perhaps they think otherwise.” “Or perhaps it wasn’t terrorists in the first place,” said Jordan, suddenly pushing out of his chair. He paced the room, pumping fresh blood to his legs, his brain. Too many hours in that cell had turned his body to mush; he needed a stiff walk, a slap of fresh air. “What if,” he suggested, “that bombing of the St. Pierre place wasn’t a terrorist attack at all? What if that Cosmic Solidarity nonsense was just a cover story to hide the real motive?” “You mean it wasn’t a political attack?” “No.” “But who would want to kill Philippe St. Pierre?” Jordan suddenly stopped dead as the realization hit him. “Not Philippe,” he said softly. “His wife. Marie.” “ “No! Marie was the “I don’t know where he is.” “Ask Daumier.” “He doesn’t know, either.” “Then find out where my uncle’s gone off to. If ever I needed a family connection, it’s right now.” After Reggie had left, the guard escorted Jordan back to his cell. The instant he stepped inside, the familiar smells assaulted him-the odor of sour wine and ripe bodies. Back with old friends, he thought, looking at the two Frenchmen snoring in their cots, the same two men whose cell he’d shared when he was first arrested. A drunk, a thief and him. What a happy little trio they made. He went to his cot and set down the two paper bags with the food and wine. At least he wouldn’t have to gag on any more goulash. Lying down, he stared at the cobwebs in the corner. So many leads to follow, to run down. The greek tavern keeper slid two glasses of retsina onto their table. “Summertime, we have many tourists,” he said with a shrug. “I cannot keep track of foreigners.” “But this man, Rideau, isn’t a tourist,” said Richard. “He’s been living on this island twenty years. A Frenchman.” The tavern keeper laughed. “Frenchmen, Dutchmen, they are all the same to me,” he grunted and went back into the kitchen. “Another dead end,” muttered Beryl. She took a sip of retsina and grimaced. “People actually “And some of them even enjoy it,” said Richard. “It’s an acquired taste.” “Then perhaps I’ll acquire it another time.” She pushed the glass away and looked around the gloomy taverna. It was midday, and passengers from the latest cruise ship had started trickling in from the heat, their shopping bags filled with the usual tourist purchases: Grecian urns, fishermen’s caps, peasant dresses. Immersed in the babble of half a dozen languages, it was easy for Beryl to understand why the locals might not bother to distinguish a Frenchman from any other outsider. Foreigners came, they spent money, they left. What more did one need to know about them? The tavern keeper reemerged from the kitchen carrying a sizzling platter of calamari. He set it on a table occupied by a German family and was about to head back to the kitchen when Richard asked, “Who might know about this Frenchman?” “You waste your time,” said the tavern keeper. “I tell you, there is no one on this island named Rideau.” “He brought his family with him,” said Richard. “A wife and a son. The boy would be in his thirties now. His name is Gerard.” A dish suddenly clattered to the floor behind the counter of the bar. The dark-eyed young woman standing at the tap was frowning at Richard. “Gerard?” she said. “Gerard Rideau,” said Richard. “Do you know him?” “She doesn’t know anything,” the tavern keeper insisted, and waved the young woman toward the kitchen. “But I can see she does,” said Richard. The woman stood staring at him, as though not certain what to do, what to say. “We’ve come from Paris,” said Beryl. “It’s very important we speak to Gerard’s father.” “You are not French,” said the woman. “No, I’m English.” Beryl nodded toward Richard. “He’s American.” “He said…he said it was a Frenchman I should be careful of.” “Who did?” “Gerard.” “He’s right to be careful,” said Richard. “But he should know things have gotten even more dangerous. There may be others coming to Paros, looking for his family. He has to talk to us, The woman hesitated, then went into the kitchen. A moment later, she reemerged. “He does not answer the telephone,” she said. “I will have to drive you there.” It was a bumpy ride down a lonely stretch of road to Logaras beach. Clouds of dust flew in the open window and coated the jet black hair of their driver. Sofia was her name, and she had been born on the island. Her father managed the hotel near the harbor; now her three brothers ran the business. She could do a better job of it, she thought, but of course no one valued a woman’s opinion, so she worked instead at Theo’s tavern, frying calamari, rolling dolmas. She spoke four languages; one must, she explained, if one wished to live off the tourist trade. “How do you know Gerard?” asked Beryl. “We are friends” was the answer. Lovers, guessed Beryl, seeing the other woman’s cheeks redden. “His family is French,” said Sofia. “His mother died five years ago, but his father is still alive. But their name is not Rideau. Perhaps-” she looked at them hopefully “-it is a different family you are looking for?” “They might have changed their name,” said Beryl. They parked near the beach and strode out across the rocks and sand. “There,” said Sofia, pointing to a distant sailboard skimming the water. “That is Gerard.” She waved and called to him in Greek. At once the board spun around, the multicolored sail snapping about in a neat jibe. With the wind at his back, Gerard surfed to the beach like a bronzed Adonis and dragged the board onto the sand. “Gerard,” said Sofia, “these people are looking for a man named Rideau. Is that your father?” Instantly Gerard dropped his sailboard. “Our name is not Rideau,” he said curtly. Then he turned and walked away. “Gerard?” called Sofia. “Let me talk to him,” said Richard, and he followed the other man up the beach. Beryl stood by Sofia and watched the two men confront each other. Gerard was shaking his head, denying any knowledge of any Rideau family. Through the whistle of the wind, Beryl heard Richard’s voice and the words “bomb” and “murder.” She saw Gerard glance around nervously and knew that he was afraid. “I hope I have done the right thing,” murmured Sofia. “He is worried.” “He should be worried.” “What has his father done?” “It’s not what he’s done. It’s what he knows.” At the other end of the beach, Gerard was looking more and more agitated. Abruptly he turned and walked back to Sofia. Richard was right behind him. “What is it?” asked Sofia. “We go,” snapped Gerard. “My father’s house.” This time the drive took them along the coast, past groves of struggling olive trees on their left, and the gray-green Aegean on their right. The smell of Gerard’s suntan lotion permeated the car. Such a dry and barren land, Beryl observed, looking out across the scrub grass. But to a man from a French slum, this would have seemed like a paradise. “My father,” said Gerard as he drove, “speaks no English. I will have to explain to him what you are asking. He may not remember.” “I’m sure he does remember,” said Richard. “It’s the reason you left Paris.” “That was twenty years ago. A long time…” “Do “Fifteen,” said Gerard. “Then you must remember 66 Rue Myrha. The building where you lived.” Gerard gripped the steering wheel tightly as they bounced onto a dirt road. “I remember the police coming to see the attic. Asking my father questions. Every day, for a week.” “What about the woman who rented the attic?” asked Richard. “Her name was Scarlatti. Do you remember her?” “Yes. She had a man,” said Gerard. “I used to listen to them through the door. Every Wednesday. All the sounds they made!” Gerard shook his head in amusement. “Very exciting for a boy my age.” “So this Mlle Scarlatti, she used the attic only as a love nest?” asked Beryl. “She was never there except to make love.” “What did they look like, these two lovers?” “The man was tall-that’s all I remember. The woman, she had dark hair. Always wore a scarf and sunglasses. I do not remember her face very well, but I remember she was quite beautiful.” Like her mother, thought Beryl. Could she be wrong? Had it really been her, meeting her lover in that run-down flat in Pigalle? She asked softly, “Was the woman English?” Gerard paused. “She could have been.” “Meaning you’re not certain.” “I was young. I thought she was foreign, but I did not know from where. Then, after the murders, I heard she was English.” “Did you see their bodies?” Gerard shook his head. “My father, he would not allow it.” “So your father was the first to see them?” asked Richard. “No. It was the man.” Richard glanced at Gerard in surprise. “Which man?” “Mlle Scarlatti’s lover. We saw him climb the steps to the attic. Then he came running back down, quite frantic. That’s when we knew something was wrong and called the police.” “What happened to that man?” “He drove away. I never saw him again. I assumed he was afraid of being accused. And that was why he sent us the money.” “The payoff,” said Richard. “I guessed as much.” “For silence?” asked Beryl. “Or false testimony.” He asked Gerard, “How was the money delivered?” “A man came with a briefcase only hours after the bodies were found. I’d never seen him before-a short, rather stocky Frenchman. He came to our flat, took my father into a back room. I did not hear what they said. Then the short man left.” “Your father never spoke to you about it?” “No. And he told us we were not to speak of it to the police.” “You’re certain that the briefcase contained money?” “It must have.” “How do you know?” “Because suddenly we had things. New clothes, a television. And then, soon afterward, we came to Greece. And we bought the house. There, you see?” He pointed. In the distance was a sprawling villa with a red-tiled roof. As they drove closer, Beryl saw bougainvillea trailing up the whitewashed walls and spilling over a covered veranda. Just below the house, waves lapped at a lonely beach. They parked next to a dusty Citroën and climbed out. The wind whistled in from the sea, stinging their faces with sand. There was no other house in sight, only this solitary building, tucked into the crags of a barren hill. “Papa?” called Gerard, climbing the stone steps. He swung open the wrought-iron gate. “Papa?” No one answered. Gerard pushed through the front door and stepped across the threshold, Beryl and Richard right behind him. Their footsteps echoed through silent rooms. “I called here from the tavern,” said Sofia. “There was no answer.” “His car is outside,” said Gerard. “He must be here.” He crossed the living room and started toward the dining room. “Papa?” he said, and halted in the doorway. An anguished cry was suddenly wrenched from his throat. He took a step forward and seemed to stumble to his knees. Over his shoulder, Beryl caught a view into the formal dining room beyond. A wood table stretched the length of the room. At the far end of the table, a gray-haired man had slumped onto his dinner plate, scattering chick-peas and rice across the table’s surface. Richard pushed past Gerard and went to the fallen man. Gently he grasped the head and lifted the face from its pillow of mashed rice. In the man’s forehead was punched a single bullet-hole. |
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