"In Their Footsteps" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)

Twelve

“Amiel Foch,” said Daumier, flipping through a file folder. “Age forty-six, formerly with French Intelligence. Presumed dead three years ago, after a helicopter crash off Cyprus-”

“He faked his own death?” asked Richard.

Daumier nodded. “It is not an easy matter to resign from Intelligence and simply start work as a mercenary. One would be subject to constraints.”

“But if one is declared dead-”

“Precisely.” Daumier skimmed the next page and stopped. “Here it is,” he said. “The link we have been searching for. In 1972, M. Foch served as our liaison to the American mission. It seems there was a telephone threat against Ambassador Sutherland’s family. For several years, Amiel Foch remained in contact with the Sutherland household. He was later reassigned to other duties, until his…death.”

“When he became available for private clients. To perform any service,” said Hugh.

“Including assassination.” Daumier closed the folder and said to his assistant, “Bring in Mrs. Sutherland.”

The woman who walked through the door was the same brash and confident Nina Sutherland that Richard had always known. She swept into the room, glanced around with disdain at her audience, then gracefully settled into a chair. “A bit late in the day for a command performance, don’t you think?” she asked.

And a performance was just what they were going to get, thought Richard. Unless they shook her up. He pulled up a chair and sat down, facing her. “You know that Anthony’s been taken into custody?”

A flicker of fear-just a flicker-rippled through her eyes. “It’s a mistake, of course. He’s never done anything wrong in his life.”

“Murder through hire? Contracts with assassins?” Richard raised an eyebrow. “Ironclad charges, multiple witnesses. I’d say this is serious enough to warrant a very long stay behind bars.”

“But he’s only a boy and not-”

“He’s of age. And fully responsible for his crimes.” Richard glanced at Daumier. “Claude and I were just discussing what a shame it was. To be locked up so young. He’ll be, how old when he’s released, Claude? Fifty, do you think?”

“I would guess closer to sixty,” said Daumier.

“Sixty.” Richard shook his head and sighed. “His whole life behind him. No wife. No children.” Richard looked Nina sympathetically in the eyes. “No grandchildren…”

Nina’s face had turned ashen. She said in a whisper, “What do you want from me?”

“Cooperation.”

“And what’s my payback?”

“We can be lenient,” said Daumier. “After all, he is just a boy.”

Swallowing hard, Nina looked away. “It’s not his fault. He doesn’t deserve to be-”

“He’s responsible for the deaths of two French agents. And the attempted murders of Marie St. Pierre and Jordan.”

“He didn’t do anything!”

“But he hired Amiel Foch to do his dirty work. What kind of a monster did you raise, Nina?”

“He was only trying to protect me!”

“From what?”

Nina’s head drooped. “The past,” she whispered. “It never goes away. Everything else changes, but the past…”

The past, thought Richard, remembering Heinrich Leitner’s words. We’re always in its shadow. “You were Delphi,” he said. “Weren’t you?”

Nina said nothing.

He leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a quiet, almost intimate murmur. “Perhaps it started out as a bit of a lark,” he suggested. “An amusing game of spies and counterspies. Perhaps you liked the excitement. Or was it the money that tempted you? Whatever the reason, you passed a secret or two to the other side. Then it was classified documents. And suddenly you were in their pocket.”

“It was only for a short time!”

“But by then it was too late. NATO intelligence got wind of it. And they were closing in. So you worked out a way to shift the blame. Somehow you lured Bernard and Madeline to your little love nest in Rue Myrha. There you shot them both.”

“No.”

“You planted the documents near Bernard’s body.”

“No.”

Richard grabbed Nina by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “And then you walked away and went on with your merry life. Isn’t that how it went?”

Nina gave a pitiful sob. “I didn’t kill them!”

“Isn’t it?”

“I swear I didn’t kill them! They were already dead!”

Richard released her. Nina sank back into the chair, her whole body shuddering with sobs.

“Who killed them?” demanded Richard. “Amiel Foch?”

“No, I never asked him to.”

“Philippe?”

She looked up sharply. “No! He was the one who found them. He was frantic when he called me. Afraid he’d be accused of it. That’s when I called in Foch. Asked him to make arrangements with Rideau, the landlord. A cash payment to change his testimony.”

“And the documents? Who planted them?”

“Foch did. By then, the police had already been called. Foch had to slip the briefcase into the garret.”

Jordan cut in, “She’s just admitted she’s Delphi. Now we’re supposed to believe some other mysterious culprit did the killing?”

“It’s the truth!” insisted Nina.

“Oh, right!” sneered Jordan. “And the killer just happened to choose the very flat where you and Philippe met every week?”

Nina shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t know why he chose our flat.”

“It had to be you. Or Philippe,” said Jordan.

“I would never…he would never…”

“Who else knew about the garret?” asked Richard.

“No one.”

“Marie St. Pierre?”

“No.” She paused, then whispered, “Yes, perhaps…”

“So Philippe’s wife knew.”

Nina nodded miserably. “But no one else.”

“Wait,” Jordan suddenly interjected. “Someone else did know about it.”

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” said Richard.

“I heard it from Reggie. Helena knew about the affair-Marie told her. And if Marie knew about the garret on Rue Myrha, then-”

“So did Helena.” Richard stared at Jordan. With that one look, they both knew what the other was thinking.

Beryl.

Instantly they both turned to leave. “Get us some backup!” Richard snapped to Daumier. “Have them meet us there!”

“The Vanes’ residence?”

Richard didn’t answer; he was already running out the door.

“Get in the car,” said Helena.

Beryl halted, her hand frozen on the door handle of the Mercedes. “There’ll be questions, Helena.”

“And I’ll have the answers. I was asleep, you see. I slept all night. And when I woke up, you were gone. Left the compound on your own, never to be seen again.”

“Reggie will remember-”

“Reggie won’t remember a thing. He’s stone drunk. As far as he knows, I never left the bed.”

“They’ll suspect you-”

“It’s been twenty years, Beryl. And they still don’t suspect.” She raised the gun. “Get in. The driver’s seat. Or do I have to change my story? Tell them I thought I was shooting a burglar?”

Beryl stared at the gun barrel pointed squarely at her chest. She had no choice. Helena really would shoot her. She climbed into the car.

Helena slid in beside her and tossed the keys into Beryl’s lap. “Start the engine.”

Beryl turned the key; the Mercedes purred to life like a contented cat. “My mother never meant to hurt you,” said Beryl softly. “She was never interested in Reggie. She never wanted him.”

“But he wanted her. Oh, I saw how he used to look at her! Do you know, he used to say her name in his sleep. There I’d be, lying next to him, and he’d be thinking of her. I never knew, I never really knew, if they were…” She swallowed. “Drive.”

“Where?”

“Just go out the gate. Go!”

Beryl eased the Mercedes out of the garage and across the cobblestoned courtyard. Helena pressed a remote control and the iron gate automatically swung open. It closed again behind them as they drove through. Ahead stretched the tree-lined road. No other cars, no other witnesses.

The steering wheel felt slick with her sweat. Beryl gripped it tightly, just to keep her hands from shaking. “My father never hurt you,” she whispered. “Why did you have to kill him?”

“Someone had to be blamed. Why not make it a dead man? And the fact it was Nina’s secret flat-that made it all the more convenient.” She laughed. “You should have seen how Nina and Philippe scrambled to cover things up.”

“And Delphi?”

Helena shook her head in bewilderment. “What about Delphi?”

So she knows nothing about it, thought Beryl. All this time, we’ve been chasing the wrong clues. Richard will never know-will never suspect-what really happened.

The road began to curve and wind through the trees. They were headed into the depths of the Bois de Boulogne. Is this where they’ll find me? she wondered, dismayed. In some lonely copse of trees? At the muddy bottom of a pond?

She peered ahead to the road beyond their headlights. They were approaching another curve.

It may be my only chance. I can let her shoot me. Or I can go down fighting. She pointed the car on a straight course. Then she hit the accelerator pedal. The engine roared and tires screamed. Beryl was thrust back against the seat as the Mercedes lurched forward.

Helena cried out, “No!” and clawed for control of the wheel. A split-second before they hit the trees, Helena managed to swerve them sideways. Suddenly they were tumbling like helpless riders in an out-of-control carnival ride. The Mercedes toppled over and over, windows shattered, and the two passengers were flung against the dashboard.

The car came to rest on its roof.

It was the blare of the horn that dragged Beryl back to consciousness. And the pain. Excruciating pain, tearing at her leg. She tried to move and realized that her chest was wedged against the steering wheel, and that her head was somehow cradled in the small space between the windshield and the upside-down dashboard. She pushed away from the steering wheel. The effort made her cry out in pain, but she managed to slide her body a few precious inches across the crumpled roof. For a moment, she rested, gasping for breath, waiting for the pain in her leg to ease. Then, gritting her teeth, she pushed again and managed to slide through into a larger pocket of space. The front seat? Everything seemed so mangled, so confusing in the darkness. The tumble had left her disoriented.

But she was not so dazed that she didn’t smell the odor of gasoline growing stronger every second. I have to get to a window-have to squeeze through before it explodes. Blindly she reached out to feel her surroundings, and her hand shoved up against something warm. Something wet. She twisted her head around and came face-to-face with Helena’s corpse.

Beryl screamed. Suddenly frantic to get out, to escape those sightless eyes, she squirmed away, clawing for the window. New pain, even more excruciating, ripped through her shattered leg and flooded her eyes with tears. She touched window frame, bits of glass and then…a branch! I’m almost there. Almost there.

Half crawling, half dragging herself, she managed to squeeze through the opening. Just as her body rolled onto the ground, the dirt beneath her seemed to give way and she began to slide down a leafy embankment. She landed in a ditch near some trees.

A burst of light suddenly shot into the sky. Through eyes blurred with agony, she looked up and saw the first flicker of the inferno. Seconds later, she heard the popping of glass, then a terrifying whoosh as a fountain of flames engulfed the vehicle.

Why, Helena? Why? The flames blurred, faded into a gathering darkness. She closed her eyes and shivered among the fallen leaves.

Three miles from the Vanes’ residence, they spotted the fire. It was a car, upended, stretched diagonally across the road. A Mercedes.

“It’s Helena’s,” shouted Richard. “My God, it’s Helena’s!” He leaped out and ran toward the burning car. He almost tripped over a shoe lying in the road. To his horror he saw it was a woman’s pump. “Beryl!” he screamed. He was about to make a desperate lunge for the car door when the flames suddenly shot higher. A window burst out, scattering glass across the pavement. The searing heat sent him stumbling backward, his nostrils stinging with the stench of his own singed hair. He recovered his balance and was about to make another lunge through the flames when Jordan grabbed his arm.

“Wait!” cried Jordan.

Richard wrenched away. “Have to get her out!”

“No, listen!”

That’s when he heard it-a moan, almost inaudible. It came not from the car, but from somewhere in the trees.

At once he and Jordan were scrambling along the roadside, yelling Beryl’s name. Again, Richard heard the moan, closer now, coming from the shadows just below the road. He clambered down the dirt bank and stumbled into a drainage ditch.

That’s where he found her, sprawled among the leaves. Barely conscious.

He gathered her up and was terrified by how limp, how cold her body felt in his arms. She’s in shock, he realized. We have precious little time…

“Have to get her to a hospital!” he yelled.

Jordan ran ahead and yanked open the car door. Richard, clutching Beryl in his arms, slid into the back seat.

“Go!” he barked.

“Hang on,” muttered Jordan, scrambling into the driver’s seat. “It’s going to be a wild ride.”

With a screech of tires, their car shot off down the road. Stay with me, Beryl, Richard begged silently as he cradled her body in his arms. Please, darling. Stay with me…

But as the car sped through the darkness, she seemed to grow ever colder to his touch.

Through the haze of anesthesia, she heard him call her name, but the sound of his voice seemed so very far away, seemed to come from a distant place she could not possibly reach. Then she felt his hand close tightly over hers, and she knew he was right beside her. She could not see his face; she could not muster enough strength to open her eyes. Yet she knew he was there, that he would still be there when she awoke the next morning.

But it was Jordan whom she saw sitting by her bed. The late-morning sunlight streamed over his fair hair and a leather-bound book of poetry lay in his lap. He was reading Milton. Dear Jordan, she thought. Ever reliable, ever serene. If only I had inherited such peace of mind.

Jordan glanced up from the page and saw that she was awake. “Welcome back to the world, little sister,” he said with a smile.

She groaned. “I’m not so sure I want to be back.”

“The leg?”

“Killing me.”

He reached for the call button. “Time to indulge in the miracle of morphine.”

But even miracles take time. After the nurse delivered the injection, Beryl closed her eyes and waited for the pain to ease, for the blessed numbness to descend.

“Better?” asked Jordan.

“Not yet.” She took a deep breath. “God, I hate being an invalid. Talk to me. Please.”

“About what?”

Richard, she thought. Please tell me about Richard. Why he isn’t here. Why he’s not the one sitting in that chair…

Jordan said, quietly, “You know, he was here. Earlier this morning. But then Daumier called.”

She lay still, not speaking. Waiting to hear more.

“He cares about you, Beryl. I’m sure he does.” Jordan closed his book and set it on the bedside table. “Really, he seems an agreeable fellow. Quite capable.”

“Capable,” she murmured. “Yes, he is that.”

“He didn’t turn tail and run. He did look after you.”

“As a favor,” she amended. “To Uncle Hugh.”

He didn’t answer. And she thought that Jordie, too, had his doubts about their odds for happiness. And so did she. From the very beginning.

The morphine began to take effect. Little by little, she felt herself drift toward sleep. Only vaguely did she hear Richard enter the room and speak softly to Jordan. They murmured something about Helena and her body being burned beyond recognition. As the drug swept her brain toward unconsciousness, a memory suddenly flashed with horrifying vividness into her mind-the flames engulfing the car, engulfing Helena.

For loving too deeply, too fiercely, this was Helena’s punishment.

She felt Richard take her hand and press it to his lips.

And what punishment, she wondered, would be hers?