"In Their Footsteps" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)Eleven“A sleeper. That’s what Delphi must be,” said Richard. They had not dared discuss the matter in the limousine-no telling whom their driver really worked for. But here, in a noisy restaurant, with waiters whisking back and forth, Richard could finally spell out his theories. “I’m sure that’s what he meant.” “A sleeper?” asked Beryl. “Someone they recruit years in advance,” said her uncle. “As a young adult. The person may be kept inactive for years. They live a normal life, try to gain influence in some trusted position. And then the signal’s sent. And the sleeper’s activated.” “So that’s what he meant by dormant,” said Beryl. “Not dead. But not active, either.” “Precisely.” “For this sleeper to be of any use to them, he’d have to be in a position of influence. Or close to it,” said Beryl thoughtfully. “Which describes Stephen Sutherland to a T,” said Richard. “American ambassador. Access to all security data.” “It also describes Philippe St. Pierre,” said Hugh. “Minister of Finance. In line for French prime minister-” “And extremely vulnerable to blackmail,” added Beryl, thinking of Nina and Philippe. And of Anthony, the son born of their illicit affair. “I’ll contact Daumier,” said Hugh. “Have St. Pierre vetted again.” “While he’s at it,” said Richard, “ask him to vet Nina.” “Nina?” “Talk about positions of influence! An ambassador’s wife. Mistress to St. Pierre. She could’ve heard secrets from both sides of the bed.” Hugh shook his head. “Considering her double digit IQ, Nina Sutherland’s the last person I’d expect to work for Intelligence.” “And the one person who’d get away with it.” Hugh glanced around impatiently for the waiter. “We have to leave for Paris at once,” he said, and slapped enough marks on the table to pay for their coffees. “There’s no telling what’s happening to Jordan.” “If it is Nina, do you think she could get at Jordan?” asked Beryl. “All these years, I’ve overlooked Nina Sutherland,” said Hugh. “I’m not about to make the same mistake now.” Daumier met them at Orly Airport. “I have reexamined the security files on Philippe and Nina,” he said as they rode together in his limousine. “St. Pierre is clean. His record is unblemished. If he is the sleeper, we have no evidence of it.” “And Nina?” Daumier gave a deep sigh. “Our dear Nina presents a problem. There was an item that was not addressed in her earlier vetting. She was eighteen when she first appeared on the London stage. A small part, quite insignificant, but it launched her acting career. At that time, she had an affair with one of her fellow actors-an East German by the name of Berte Klausner. He claimed he was a defector. But three years later, he vanished from England and was never heard from again.” “A recruiter?” asked Richard. “Possibly.” “How on earth did this little affair make it past Nina’s vetting?” asked Beryl. Daumier shrugged. “It was noted when Nina and Sutherland were married. By then she’d retired from the theater to become a diplomat’s wife. She didn’t serve in any official capacity. As a rule, security checks on wives-especially if they are American-are not as demanding. So Nina slipped through.” “Then you have evidence of possible recruitment,” said Beryl. “And she could have had access to NATO secrets by way of her husband. But you can’t prove she’s Delphi. Nor can you prove she’s a murderer.” “True,” admitted Daumier. “I doubt you’ll get her to confess, either,” said Richard. “Nina was once an actress. She could probably brazen her way through anything.” “That is why I suggest the following action,” said Daumier. “A trap. Tempt her into making a move.” “With what bait?” asked Richard. “Jordan.” “That’s out of the question!” said Beryl. “He has already agreed to it. This afternoon, he will be released from prison. We move him to a hotel where he will attempt to be conspicuous.” Hugh laughed. “Not much of a stretch for our Jordan.” “My men will be stationed at strategic points in the hotel. If-and when-an attack occurs, we will be prepared.” “Things could go wrong,” said Beryl. “He could be hurt-” “He could be hurt in prison, as well,” said Daumier. “At least this may provide us with answers.” “And possibly a dead body.” “Have you a better suggestion?” Beryl glanced at Richard, then at her uncle. They were both silent. She looked at Daumier. “What do you want “You’d complicate things, Beryl,” said Hugh. “It’s better for you to stay out of the picture.” “The Vanes’ house has excellent security,” said Daumier. “Reggie and Helena have already agreed that you should stay with them.” “But I haven’t agreed,” said Beryl. “Beryl.” It was Richard. He spoke quietly. Unbendingly. “Jordan will be protected from all angles. They’ll be ready for the attack. This time, nothing will go wrong.” “Can you guarantee it? Can any of you?” There was silence. “Nothing can be guaranteed, Beryl,” said Daumier quietly. “We have to take this chance. It may be the only way to catch Delphi.” In frustration, she looked out the window, thinking of the options. Realizing there were none-not if any of this was to be resolved-she said softly, “I’ll agree to it on one condition.” “What’s that?” She looked at Richard. “I want you to be with him. I trust you, Richard. If you’re watching Jordan, I know he’ll be all right.” Richard nodded. “I’ll be right by his side.” “Who else knows about this plan?” asked Hugh. “Just a few of my people,” said Daumier. “I was careful not to let any of this leak out to Philippe St. Pierre.” “What do Reggie and Helena know?” asked Beryl. “Only that you need a safe place to stay. They are doing this as a favor to old friends.” As an old friend was exactly the way Beryl was greeted upon arrival at the Vanes’ residence. As soon as the gates closed behind the limousine, and they were inside the high walls of the compound, she was swept into the comfort of their home. It all seemed so safe, so familiar: the English wallpaper, the tray of tea and biscuits on the end table, the vases of flowers perfuming the rooms. Surely nothing could hurt her here… There was scarcely time to say goodbye to Richard. While Daumier and Hugh waited outside in the car, Richard pulled Beryl into his arms. They shared a last embrace, a last kiss. “You’ll be perfectly safe here,” he whispered. “Don’t leave the compound for any reason.” “ “I won’t let anything happen to him.” He tipped up her chin and pressed his lips to hers. “And that,” he murmured, “is a promise.” He touched her face and grinned, a confident grin that made her believe anything was possible. Then he walked away. She stood on the doorstep and watched the car drive out of the compound, saw the iron gates close shut behind it. “Come, Beryl,” said Reggie, affectionately draping his arm around her shoulders. “I have an instinct about these things. And I’m positive everything will turn out just fine.” She looked up at Reggie’s smiling face. Jordon was down on all fours in his jail cell, rattling a pair of dice in his hand. His cellmates, the two shaggy, ripe-smelling ruffians-or could that odor be Jordan’s?-hovered behind him, stamping their feet and yelling. Jordan threw the dice; they tumbled across the floor and clattered against the wall. Two fives. Jordan raised his fist in triumph. Hugh’s disbelieving gaze scanned the interior of the cell. Over the cot was draped a red-checked tablecloth, laid out with platters of sliced beef, poached salmon, a bowl of grapes. A bottle of wine sat chilling in a plastic bucket. And on a chair beside the bed was neatly stacked a half dozen leather-bound books and a vase of roses. “This is a prison?” quipped Hugh. “Oh, I’ve spruced it up a bit,” said Jordan. “The food was wretched, so I had some delivered. Brought in the reading material, as well. But,” he said with a sigh, “I’m afraid it’s still very much a prison.” He tapped the bars. “As you can see.” He looked at Daumier. “So, are we ready?” “If you are still willing.” “Haven’t much of a choice, have I? Considering the alternative.” The guard unlocked the door and Jordan stepped out, carrying his bundle of street clothes. But he couldn’t walk away without a proper goodbye to his cellmates. He turned and found Fofo and Leroi staring at him mournfully. “Afraid this is it, fellows,” he said. “It’s been-” he thought a moment, struggling to come up with the right adjective “-a uniquely fragrant experience.” On impulse, he tossed his tailored linen jacket to the disbelieving Fofo. “I think that might fit you,” he said. “Wear it in good health.” Then, with a farewell wave, he followed his companions out of the building and into Daumier’s limousine. They drove him to the Ritz-same floor, different room. A fashionably appropriate place for an assassination, he thought wryly as he came out of the shower and dressed in a fresh suit. “Bulletproof windows,” said Daumier. “Microphones in the front room. And there’ll be two men, stationed across the hall. Also, you should have this.” Daumier reached into his briefcase and pulled out an automatic pistol. He handed it to Jordan, who regarded the weapon with a raised eyebrow. “Worst-case scenario? I’ll actually have to defend myself?” “A precaution. You know how to use one?” “I suppose I can muddle through,” said Jordan, expertly sliding in the ammunition clip. He looked at Richard. “Now what happens?” “Have a meal in the restaurant downstairs,” said Richard. “Take your time, make sure you’re seen by as many employees as possible. Leave a big tip, be conspicuous. And return to your room.” “And then?” “We wait and see who comes knocking.” “What if no one does?” “They will,” said Daumier grimly. “I guarantee it.” Amiel Foch received the call a mere thirty minutes later. It was the hotel maid-the same woman who’d been so useful a week before, when he’d needed access to the Tavistocks’ suites. “He is back,” she said. “The Englishman.” “Jordan Tavistock? But he’s in prison-” “I have just seen him in the hotel. Room 315. He seems to be alone.” Foch grimaced in amazement. Perhaps those Tavistock family connections had come through. Now he was a free man-and a vulnerable target. “I need to get into his room,” said Foch. “Tonight.” “I cannot do it.” “You did it before. I’ll pay double.” The maid gave a snort of disgust. “It’s still not enough. I could lose my job.” “I’ll pay more than enough. Just get me the passkey again.” There was a silence. Then the woman said, “First, you leave the envelope. Then, I get you the key.” “Agreed,” said Foch, and hung up. He immediately made a call to Anthony Sutherland. “Jordan Tavistock is out of prison,” he said. “He’s taken a room at the Ritz. Do you still wish me to proceed?” “This time, I want it done right. Even if I have to supervise it myself. When do we move?” “I do not think it is wise-” Foch swallowed his angry response. It was a mistake letting Sutherland take part. The boy was just a voyeur, eager to experience the ultimate power-the taking of a life. Foch had sensed it years ago, from the day they’d first met. He’d known just by looking at him that he’d be addicted to thrills, to intensity, be it sexual or otherwise. Now the young man wished to experience something novel. Murder. This was a mistake, surely, a mistake… “Remember who’s paying your fees, M. Foch,” said Sutherland. “And outrageous fees, too. I’m the one who makes the decisions, not you.” “Tonight,” agreed Sutherland. “I’ll be there.” At eleven-thirty, Jordon turned off the lights in his hotel room, stuffed three pillows under the bedspread, and fluffed it all up so that it vaguely resembled a human shape. Then he took his position by the door, next to Richard. In the darkness they sat and waited for something to happen. Anything to happen. So far, the evening had been a screaming bore. Daumier had made him a prisoner of his own hotel room. He’d watched two hours of telly, glanced through Sighing, he leaned back against the wall. “Is this the sort of thing you used to do, Wolf?” he murmured. “A lot of waiting around. A lot of boredom,” said Richard. “And every so often, a moment of abject terror.” “What made you leave the business? The boredom or the terror?” Richard paused. “The rootlessness.” “Ah. The man longs for home and hearth.” Jordan smiled. “So tell me, does my sister figure into the equation?” “Beryl is…one of a kind.” “You didn’t answer the question.” “The answer is, I don’t know,” Richard admitted. He squared his shoulders to ease the tension in his muscles. “Sometimes, it seems like the world’s worst possible match. Sure, I can put on a tuxedo, stand around swirling a snifter of brandy. But I don’t fool anyone, least of all myself. And certainly not Beryl.” “You really think that’s what she needs? A fop in black tie?” “I don’t know what she needs. Or what she wants. I know she probably thinks she’s in love. But how the devil can anyone know for certain, when things are so crazy?” “You wait till things “And live with the consequences.” “You’re already lovers, aren’t you?” Richard looked at him in surprise. “Are you always so inquisitive about your sister’s love life?” “I’m her closest male relative. And therefore responsible for defending her honor.” Jordan laughed softly. “Someday, Wolf, I may have to shoot you. That is, if I survive the night.” They both laughed. And they settled back to wait. At 1:00 a.m., they heard the faint click of a door closing in the hallway. Had someone just stepped out of the stairwell? Instantly Jordan snapped fully alert, his adrenaline kicking into overdrive. He whispered, “Did you hear-” Richard was already rising to a crouch. Through the darkness, Jordan could sense the other man tensing for action. Where were Daumier’s agents? he wondered frantically. Were the two of them on their own? A key grated slowly in the lock. Jordan froze, heart thundering, the sweat breaking out on his palms. The gun felt slippery in his grasp. The door swung open; two figures slowly edged into the room. The first took aim at the bed. A single bullet was all the gunman managed to squeeze off before Richard flew at him sideways. The force of his assault sent both men thudding to the floor. Jordan shoved his gun into the ribs of the second intruder and barked, “Freeze!” To Jordan’s astonishment, the man didn’t freeze, but turned and fled from the room. Jordan dashed after him into the hall, just in time to see the two French agents tackle the fugitive to the floor. They yanked him, kicking and squirming, back to his feet. In amazement, Jordan stared at the man. “I’m bleeding!” spat Anthony Sutherland. “They broke my nose! I think they broke my nose!” “Keep squealing, and they’ll break a lot more,” growled Richard. Jordan turned and saw Richard haul the gunman out of the room. He yanked his head back, so Jordan could see his face. “Take a good look. Recognize him?” “Why, it’s my bogus attorney,” said Jordan. “M. Jarre.” Richard nodded and forced the balding Frenchman to the floor. “Now let’s find out his real name.” “It’s extraordinary,” mused Reggie, “how very much you look like your mother.” The butler had long since cleared away the coffee cups, and Helena had vanished upstairs to see to the guest room. Beryl and Reggie sat alone together, enjoying a nip of brandy in his wood-paneled library. A fire crackled in the hearth-not for warmth on this July night, but for reassurance, the ancestral comfort of flames against the night, against the world’s evils. Beryl cradled the brandy snifter in her hands and watched the reflection of firelight in the golden liquid. She said, “When I remember her, it’s from a child’s point of view. So I remember only the things a child finds important. Her smile. The softness of her hands.” “Yes, yes. That was Madeline.” “I’ve been told she was quite enchanting.” “She was,” said Reggie softly. “She was the loveliest, most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known…” Beryl looked up and saw that he was staring at the fire as though seeing, in its flames, the faces of old ghosts. She gave him a fond look. “Mother told me once that you were her oldest and dearest friend.” “Did she?” Reggie smiled. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Did you know we played together, as children. In Cornwall…” He blinked and she thought she saw the faint gleam of tears on his lashes. “I was the first, you know,” he murmured. “Before Bernard. Before…” Sighing, he sank back in his chair. “But that was a long time ago.” “You still think of her a great deal.” “It’s difficult not to.” He drained his brandy glass. Unsteadily he poured another-his third. “Every time I look at you, I think, ‘There’s Madeline, come back to life.’ And I remember how much, how very much I miss her-” Suddenly he stiffened and glanced at the doorway. Helena was standing there, wearily shaking her head. “You’ve had more than enough for tonight, Reggie.” “It’s only my third.” “And how many more will come after that one?” “Bloody few, if you have your way.” Helena came into the room and took his arm. “Come, darling. You’ve kept Beryl up long enough. It’s time for bed.” “It’s only one o’clock.” “Beryl’s tired. And you should be considerate.” Reggie looked at their guest. “Oh. Oh, yes, perhaps you’re right.” He rose to his feet and moved on unsteady legs toward Beryl. She turned her face as he bent over to plant a kiss on her cheek. It was a wet, sloppy kiss, heavy with the smell of brandy, and she had to suppress the urge to pull away. He straightened, and once again she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “Good night, dear,” he murmured. “You’ll be perfectly safe with us.” With a sense of pity, Beryl watched the old man shuffle out of the library. “He’s simply not able to tolerate spirits the way he used to,” said Helena, sighing. “The years pass, you know, and he forgets that things change. Including his capacity for liquor.” She gave Beryl a rueful smile. “I do hope he didn’t bore you too much.” “Not at all. We talked about Mother. He said I remind him of her.” Helena nodded. “Yes, you do resemble her. Of course, I didn’t know her nearly as well as Reggie did.” She sat down on the armrest of a chair. “I remember the first time I met her. It was at my wedding. Madeline and Bernard were there, practically newlyweds themselves. You could see it, just by the way they looked at each other. Quite a lovely couple…” Helena picked up Reggie’s brandy snifter, tidied the table. “When we met again in Paris, it was fifteen years later, and she hadn’t aged a bit. It was eerie how unchanged she was. When all the rest of us felt so acutely the passage of time.” There was a long pause. Then Beryl asked, “Did she have a lover?” The question was asked softly, so softly it was almost swallowed in the gloom of that library. The silence that followed stretched on so long, she thought perhaps her words had gone unnoticed. But then Helena said, “It shouldn’t surprise you, should it? Madeline had that magic about her. That certain something the rest of us seem to lack. It’s a matter of luck, you know. It’s not something one achieves through effort or study. It’s in one’s genes. An inheritance, like a silver spoon in one’s mouth.” “My mother wasn’t born with a silver spoon.” “She didn’t need one. She had that magic, instead.” Abruptly Helena turned to leave. But in the doorway she caught herself and looked back at Beryl with a smile. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.” Beryl nodded. “Good night, Helena.” For a long time, Beryl frowned at the empty doorway and listened to Helena ascend the stairs. She went to the hearth and stared at the dying embers. She thought of her mother, wondered if Madeline had ever stood here, in this library, in this house. Yes, of course she would have. Reggie was her oldest friend. They would have visited back and forth, the two couples, as they had in England years before… Before Helena had insisted Reggie accept the Paris post. The question suddenly came to her: Unless one was fleeing Beryl’s head lifted. She found herself staring at a ridiculous statuette on the mantelpiece-a fat little man holding a rifle. It had the inscription: “Reggie Vane-most likely to shoot his own foot. Tremont Gun Club.” Lined up beside it were various knickknacks from Reggie’s past-a soccer medal, an old photo of a cricket team, a petrified frog. Judging by the items on display, this must be Reggie’s private abode, the room to which he retreated from the world. The room that would hold his secrets. She scanned the photos, and nowhere did she see a picture of Helena. Nor was there one on the desk or on the bookshelves-a fact she thought odd, for she remembered her father’s library and all the snapshots of Madeline he kept so conspicuously in view. She moved to Reggie’s cherry desk and quietly began to open the drawers. The first revealed the expected clutter of pens and paper clips. She opened the second and saw only a sheaf of cream-colored stationery and an address book. She closed the drawers and began to circle the room, thinking, Her gaze came to rest on the leather footstool. It appeared to be a matched set with the easy chair, but it had been moved out of position, and instead sat at the side of the chair where it served no purpose…except to stand on. She glanced directly up at the mahogany breakfront that stood against the wall. The shelves were filled with antique books, protected behind glass doors. The cabinet was at least eight feet tall, and on top was a matched pair of china bowls. Beryl pushed the footstool over to the breakfront, climbed onto the stool, and reached up to retrieve the first bowl. It was empty and coated in dust. So was the second bowl. But as she slid the bowl back onto the cabinet, she met resistance. She reached back as far as she could, and her fingers met something flat and leathery. She grasped the edge and pulled it off the cabinet. It was a photo album. She took it over to the hearth and sat down by the dying fire. There she opened the cover to the first picture in the album. It was of a laughing, black-haired girl. The girl was twelve years old perhaps, and sitting on a swing, her skirt bunched up hoydenishly around her thighs, her bare legs dangling. On the next page was another photo-the same girl, a bit older now, dressed in May Day finery, flowers woven into her tangled hair. More photos, all of the black-haired girl: clad in waders and fishing in a stream, waving from a car, hanging upside down from a tree branch. And last-a wedding photo. It had been torn jaggedly in two, so that the groom was missing, and only the bride remained. For an eternity, Beryl stared at the face she knew from her childhood-the face so very much like her own. She touched the smiling lips, traced the upswept tendrils of black hair. She thought about how it must be for a man to so desperately love a woman. To lose her to another man. To flee from those memories of her to a foreign city, only to have her reappear in that same city. And to find that, even fifteen years later, the feelings remain, and there is nothing you can do to ease your anguish, nothing at all…so long as she is alive. Beryl shut the album and went to the telephone. She didn’t know how to reach Richard, so she dialed Daumier’s number instead and was greeted by a recorded message, intoned in businesslike French. After the beep, she said, “Claude, it’s Beryl. I have to speak to you at once. I think I’ve found some new evidence. Please, come get me! As soon as you-” She stopped, her hand suddenly frozen on the receiver. What was that click on the line? She listened for other sounds, but heard only the pounding of her own heart-and silence. She hung up. The extension, she thought. Someone had been listening on the extension. Quickly she rose to her feet. Clutching the album firmly in her arms, she left Reggie’s library and hurried across the foyer. After disarming the security system, she stepped out the front door. Outside, it was a cool night, the sky clear, the stars faintly twinkling against the distant haze of city light. She looked across the stone courtyard and saw that the iron gates were closed-no doubt locked, as well. As a bank executive in Paris, Reggie was a prime target for terrorists; he would install the very best security for his home. And then what? Thumb a ride to the nearest police station? Daumier’s flat? She traced the perimeter of the courtyard, searching the high wall for a doorway, an exit. She spotted another gate, but it, too, was locked. No way around it, she thought. She’d have to climb over. Quickly she scanned the trees and spotted an apple tree with a branch overhanging the wall. Clutching the photo album in one hand, she scrambled up onto the lowest branch. It was an easy climb to the next branch, and the next, but every movement made the tree sway and sent apples thudding noisily to the ground. At the top of the wall, she tossed the album down on the other side and dropped to the ground beside it. At once she scooped up the album and turned toward the road. The blinding beam of a flashlight made her freeze. “So it’s not a burglar after all,” said a voice. “What on earth are you doing, Beryl?” Squinting against the light, Beryl could barely make out Helena’s silhouette standing before her. “I…I wanted to take a walk. But the gate was locked.” “I would have opened it for you.” “I didn’t want to wake you.” She turned her gaze from the flashlight. “Please, could you drop the torch? It hurts my eyes.” The beam slowly fell, and stopped at the photo album in Beryl’s arms. Beryl had clasped the album to her chest, hoping Helena hadn’t recognized it, but it was too late. She had already seen it. “Where was it?” asked Helena softly. “Where did you find it?” “The library,” said Beryl. No point in lying now; the evidence was there, plainly in her grasp. “All these years,” murmured Helena. “He kept it all these years. And he swore to me-” “What, Helena? What did he swear to?” There was silence. “That he no longer loved her,” came the whispered answer. Then a laugh, full of self-mockery. “I’ve lost out to a ghost. It was hopeless enough when she was alive. But now she’s dead, and I can’t fight back. The dead, you see, don’t grow old. They stay young and beautiful. And perfect.” Beryl took a step forward, her arms extended in sympathy. “They weren’t lovers, Helena. I know they weren’t.” “I was never perfect enough.” “But he married you. There must have been love involved-” Helena stepped away, angrily brushing off Beryl’s offer of comfort. “Not love! It was spite. Some stupid, masculine gesture to show her he couldn’t be hurt. We were married a month after she was. I was his consolation prize, you see. I gave him all the right connections. And the money. He happily accepted those. But he never really wanted my love.” Again, Beryl tried to reach out to her; again, Helena rebuffed the gesture. Beryl said softly, “It’s time to move on, Helena. Make your own life, without him. While you’re still young…” “He “But all these years, you must have known! You must have suspected that Reggie was the one who-” “Not Reggie.” “Helena, please think about it!” “He was obsessed, unable to let her go! To let another man have her-” “It was me.” Those three words, uttered so quietly, chilled Beryl’s blood to ice. She stared at the silhouette standing before her, her thoughts instantly shifting to ones of escape. She could flee down the road, pound at the nearest door… She shifted onto the balls of her feet and was about to make a dash past Helena, when she heard the click of the pistol hammer. “You look so very much like her,” whispered Helena. “When I first saw you, years ago at Chetwynd, it was almost as if she’d come back. And now, I have to kill her all over again.” “But I’m not Madeline-” “It makes no difference now who you are. Because you know.” Helena raised her arm and Beryl saw, through the shadows, the faint gleam of the gun in her hand. “The garage, Beryl,” she said. “We’re going for a drive.” |
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