"In Their Footsteps" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)OneJordan Tavistock lounged in Uncle Hugh’s easy chair and amusedly regarded, as he had a thousand times before, the portrait of his long-dead ancestor, the hapless Earl of Lovat. Ah, the delicious irony of it all, he thought, that Lord Lovat should stare down from that place of honor above the mantelpiece. It was testimony to the Tavistock family’s sense of whimsy that they’d chosen to so publicly display their one relative who’d, literally, lost his head on Tower Hill-the last man to be officially decapitated in England-unofficial decapitations did not count. Jordan raised his glass in a toast to the unfortunate earl and tossed back a gulp of sherry. He was tempted to pour a second glass, but it was already five-thirty, and the guests would soon be arriving for the Bastille Day reception. For the most part, he avoided these caviar and black-tie bashes his Uncle Hugh seemed so addicted to throwing. But tonight’s event-in honor of their house guests, Sir Reggie and Lady Helena Vane-might prove more interesting than the usual gathering of the horsey set. This was the first big affair since Uncle Hugh’s retirement from British Intelligence, and a number of Hugh’s former colleagues from MI6 would make an appearance. Throw into the brew a few old chums from Paris-all of them in London for the recent economic summit-and it could prove to be a most intriguing night. Anytime one threw a group of ex-spies and diplomats together in a room, all sorts of surprising secrets tended to surface. Jordan looked up as his uncle came grumbling into the study. Already dressed in his tuxedo, Hugh was trying, without success, to fix his bow tie; he’d managed, instead, to tie a stubborn square knot. “Jordan, help me with this blasted thing, will you?” said Hugh. Jordan rose from the easy chair and loosened the knot. “Where’s Davis? He’s much better at this sort of thing.” “I sent him to fetch that sister of yours.” “Beryl’s gone out again?” “Naturally. Mention the words ‘cocktail party,’ and she’s flying out the door.” Jordan began to loop his uncle’s tie into a bow. “Beryl’s never been fond of parties. And just between you and me, I think she’s had just a bit too much of the Vanes.” “Hmm? But they’ve been lovely guests. Fit right in-” “It’s the nasty little barbs flying between them.” “Oh, “And have you seen the way Reggie follows Beryl about, like a puppy dog?” Hugh laughed. “Around a pretty woman, Reggie “Well, it’s no wonder Helena’s always sniping at him.” Jordan stepped back and regarded his uncle’s bow tie with a frown. “How’s it look?” “It’ll have to do.” Hugh glanced at the clock. “Better check on the kitchen. See that things are in order. And why aren’t the Vanes down yet?” As if on cue, they heard the sound of querulous voices on the stairway. Lady Helena, as always, was scolding her husband. “ “Yes, and it’s always you, isn’t it?” Sir Reggie fled into the study, pursued by his wife. It never failed to puzzle Jordan, the obvious mismatch of the pair. Sir Reggie, handsome and silver haired, towered over his drab little mouse of a wife. Perhaps Helena’s substantial inheritance explained the pairing; money, after all, was the great equalizer. As the hour edged toward six o’clock, Hugh poured out glasses of sherry and handed them around to the foursome. “Before the hordes arrive,” he said, “a toast, to your safe return to Paris.” They sipped. It was a solemn ceremony, this last evening together with old friends. Now Reggie raised his glass. “And here’s to English hospitality. Ever appreciated!” From the front driveway came the sound of car tires on gravel. They all glanced out the window to see the first limousine roll into view. The chauffeur opened the door and out stepped a fiftyish woman, every ripe curve defined by a green gown ablaze with bugle beads. Then a young man in a shirt of purple silk emerged from the car and took the woman’s arm. “Good heavens, it’s Nina Sutherland and her brat,” Helena muttered. “What broom did Outside, the woman in the green gown suddenly spotted them standing in the window. “Hello, Reggie! Helena!” she called in a voice like a bassoon. Hugh set down his sherry glass. “Time to greet the barbarians,” he said, sighing. He and the Vanes headed out the front door to welcome the first arrivals. Jordan paused a moment to finish his drink, giving himself time to paste on a smile and get the old handshake ready. Bastille Day-what an excuse for a party! He tugged at the coattails of his tuxedo, gave his ruffled shirt one last pat, and resignedly headed out to the front steps. Let the dog and pony show begin. Now where in blazes was his sister? At that moment, the subject of Jordan Tavistock’s speculation was riding hell-bent for leather across a grassy field. Poor old Froggie needs the workout, thought Beryl. And so do I. She bent forward into the wind, felt the lash of Froggie’s mane against her face, and inhaled that wonderful scent of horseflesh, sweet clover and warm July earth. Froggie was enjoying the sprint just as much as she was, if not more. Beryl could feel those powerful muscles straining for ever more speed. She’s a demon, like me, thought Beryl, suddenly laughing aloud-the same wild laugh that always made poor Uncle Hughie cringe. But out here, in the open fields, she could laugh like a wanton woman and no one would hear. If only she could keep on riding, forever and ever! But fences and walls seemed to be everywhere in her life. Fences of the mind, of the heart. She urged her mount still faster, as though through speed she could outrun all the devils pursuing her. Bastille Day. What a desperate excuse for a party. Uncle Hugh loved a good bash, and the Vanes Yet that’s what Uncle Hugh seemed to do all day. The highlight of She galloped harder, letting Froggie have free rein. They raced across the last stretch of field and through a copse of trees. Froggie, winded now, slowed to a trot, then a walk. Beryl pulled her to a halt by the church’s stone wall. There she dismounted and let Froggie wander about untethered. The churchyard was deserted and the gravestones cast lengthening shadows across the lawn. Beryl clambered over the low wall and walked among the plots until she came to the spot she’d visited so many times before. A handsome obelisk towered over two graves, resting side by side. There were no curlicues, no fancy angels carved into that marble face. Only words. Bernard Tavistock, 1930-1973 Madeline Tavistock, 1934-1973 On earth, as it is in heaven, we are together. Beryl knelt on the grass and gazed for a long time at the resting place of her mother and father. Beryl sat with her eyes closed and heard that happy sound through the passage of twenty years. Through the evening buzz of insects, the clink of Froggie’s bit and bridle, she heard the sounds of her childhood. The church bell tolled-six chimes. At once Beryl sat up straight. Oh, no, was it already that late? She glanced around and saw that the shadows had grown, that Froggie was standing by the wall regarding her with frank expectation. She dashed out of the churchyard and climbed onto Froggie’s back. At once they were flying across the field, horse and rider blended into a single sleek organism. She saw a flash of red, heard the squeal of tires across pavement. Froggie swerved sideways and reared up. The sudden lurch caught Beryl by surprise. She tumbled out of the saddle and landed with a stunning thud on the ground. Her first reaction, after her head had stopped spinning, was astonishment that she had fallen at all-and for such a stupid reason. Her next reaction was fear that Froggie might be injured. Beryl scrambled to her feet and ran to snatch the reins. Froggie was still spooked, nervously trip-trapping about on the pavement. The sound of a car door slamming shut, of someone running toward them, only made the horse edgier. “Don’t come any closer!” hissed Beryl over her shoulder. “Are you all right?” came the anxious inquiry. It was a man’s voice, pleasantly baritone. American? “I’m fine,” snapped Beryl. “What about your horse?” Murmuring softly to Froggie, Beryl knelt down and ran her hands along Froggie’s foreleg. The delicate bones all seemed to be intact. “Is he all right?” said the man. “It’s a she,” answered Beryl. “And yes, she seems to be just fine.” “I really Suppressing a smile, Beryl straightened and turned to look at the man. Dark hair, dark eyes, she noted. And the definite glint of humor-nothing stiff-upper-lip about this one. Forty plus years of laughter had left attractive creases about his eyes. He was dressed in formal black tie, and his broad shoulders filled out the tuxedo jacket quite impressively. “I’m sorry about the spill,” he said. “I guess it “This is a country road, you know. Not exactly the place to be speeding. You never can tell what lies around the bend.” “So I’ve discovered.” Froggie gave her an impatient nudge. Beryl stroked the horse’s neck, all the time intensely aware of the man’s gaze. “I do have something of an excuse,” he said. “I got turned around in the village back there, and I’m running late. I’m trying to find some place called Chetwynd. Do you know it?” She cocked her head in surprise. “You’re going to Chetwynd? Then you’re on the wrong road.” “Am I?” “You turned off a half mile too soon. Head back to the main road and keep going. You can’t miss the turn. It’s a private drive, flanked by elms-quite tall ones.” “I’ll watch for the elms, then.” She remounted Froggie and gazed down at the man. Even viewed from the saddle, he cut an impressive figure, lean and elegant in his tuxedo. And strikingly confident, not a man to be intimidated by anyone-even a woman sitting astride nine hundred muscular pounds of horseflesh. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked. “It looked like a pretty bad fall to me.” “Oh, I’ve fallen before.” She smiled. “I have quite a hard head.” The man smiled, too, his teeth straight and white in the twilight. “Then I shouldn’t worry about you slipping into a stupor tonight?” “ He frowned. “Excuse me?” “A stupor brought on by dry and endless palaver. It’s a distinct possibility, considering where you’re headed.” Laughing, she turned the horse around. “Good evening,” she called. Then, with a farewell wave, she urged Froggie into a trot through the woods. As she left the road behind, it occurred to her that she would get to Chetwynd before he did. That made her laugh again. Perhaps Bastille Day would turn out more interesting than she’d expected. She gave the horse a nudge of her boot. At once Froggie broke into a gallop. Richard Wolf stood beside his rented MG and watched the woman ride away, her black hair tumbling like a horse’s mane about her shoulders. In seconds she was gone, vanished from sight into the woods. He never even caught her name, he thought. He’d have to ask Lord Lovat about her. Tell me, Hugh. Are you acquainted with a black-haired witch tearing about your neighborhood? She was dressed like one of the village girls, in a frayed shirt and grass-stained jodhpurs, but her accent bespoke the finest of schools. A charming contradiction. He climbed back into the car. It was almost six-thirty now; that drive from London had taken longer than he’d expected. Blast these backcountry lanes! He turned the car around and headed for the main road, taking care this time to slow down for curves. No telling what might be lurking around the bend. A cow or a goat. Or another witch on horseback. Which he certainly had had of her. There was no doubt whatsoever that it was the female of the species he’d been looking at. All that raven hair, those laughing green eyes. He suppressed the thought, shoved it into the quicksand of bad memories. Nightmares, really. Those terrible echoes of his first assignment, his first failure. It had colored his career, had kept him from ever again taking anything for granted. That was the way one It was starting to wear him down. But he’d miss the work. Those delicious whiffs of danger, the international chess game of wits. The world was changing so fast, and you didn’t know from day to day who your enemies were… He spotted, at last, the turnoff to Chetwynd. Flanked by majestic elms, it was as the black-haired woman had described it. That impressive driveway was more than matched by the manor house standing at the end of the road. This was no mere country cottage; this was a castle, complete with turrets and ivy-covered stone walls. Formal gardens stretched out for acres, and a brick path led to what looked like a medieval maze. So this was where old Hugh Tavistock had repaired to after those forty years of service to queen and country. Earldom must have its benefits-one certainly didn’t acquire this much wealth in government service. And Hugh had struck him as such a down-to-earth fellow! Not at all the country nobleman type. He had no airs, no pretensions; he was more like some absentminded civil servant who’d wandered, quite by accident, into MI6’s inner sanctum. Amused by the grandeur of it all, Richard went up the steps, breezed through the security gauntlet, and walked into the ballroom. Here he saw a number of familiar faces among the dozens of guests who’d already arrived. The London economic summit had drawn in diplomats and financiers from across the continent. He spotted at once the American ambassador, swaggering and schmoozing like the political appointee he was. Across the room he saw a trio of old acquaintances from Paris. There was Philippe St. Pierre, the French finance minister, deep in conversation with Reggie Vane, head of the Paris Division, Bank of London. Off to the side stood Reggie’s wife, Helena, looking ignored and crabby as usual. Had Richard A woman’s loud and brassy laugh drew Richard’s attention to another familiar figure from his Paris days-Nina Sutherland, the ambassador’s widow, shimmering from throat to ankle in green silk and bugle beads. Though her husband was long dead, the old gal was still working the crowd like a seasoned diplomat’s wife. Beside her was her twenty-year-old son, Anthony, rumored to be an artist. In his purple shirt, he cut just as flashy a figure as his mother did. What a resplendent pair they were, like a couple of peacocks! Young Anthony had obviously inherited his ex-actress mother’s gene for flamboyance. Judiciously avoiding the Sutherland pair, Richard headed to the buffet table, which was graced with an elaborate ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower. This Bastille Day theme had been carried to ridiculous extremes. “Rather makes one want to burst out singing the ‘Marseillaise,’ doesn’t it?” said a voice. Richard turned and saw a tall blond man standing beside him. Slenderly built, with the stamp of aristocracy on his face, he seemed elegantly at ease in his starched shirt and tuxedo. Smiling, he handed a glass of champagne to Richard. The chandelier light glittered in the pale bubbles. “You’re Richard Wolf,” the man said. Richard nodded, accepting the glass. “And you are…?” “Jordan Tavistock. Uncle Hugh pointed you out as you walked into the room. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself.” The two men shook hands. Jordan ’s grip was solid and connected, not what Richard expected from such smoothly aristocratic hands. “So tell me,” said Jordan, casually picking up a second glass of champagne for himself, “which category do you fit into? Spy, diplomat or financier?” Richard laughed. “I’m expected to answer that question?” “No. But I thought I’d ask, anyway. It gets things off to a flying start.” He took a sip and smiled. “It’s a mental exercise of mine. Keeps these parties interesting. I try to pick up on the cues, deduce which ones are with Intelligence. And half of these people are. Or were.” Jordan gazed around the room. “Think of all the secrets contained in all these heads-all those little synapses snapping with classified data.” “You seem to have more than a passing acquaintance with the business.” “When one grows up in this household, one lives and breathes the game.” Jordan regarded Richard for a moment. “Let’s see. You’re American…” “Correct.” “And whereas the corporate executives arrived in groups by stretch limousine, you came on your own.” “Right so far.” “And you refer to intelligence work as “You noticed.” “So my guess is…CIA?” Richard shook his head and smiled. “I’m just a private security consultant. Sakaroff and Wolf, Inc.” Jordan smiled back. “Clever cover.” “It’s not a cover. I’m the real thing. All these corporate executives you see here want a safe summit. An IRA bomb could ruin their whole day.” “So they hire you to keep the nasties away,” finished Jordan. “Exactly,” said Richard. And he thought, At that moment, Jordan ’s attention suddenly shifted to a new arrival. Richard turned to see who had just entered the ballroom. At his first glimpse of the woman, he stiffened in surprise. It was that black-haired witch, dressed not in old jodhpurs and boots this time, but in a long gown of midnight blue silk. Her hair had been swept up into an elegant mass of waves. Even from this distance, he could feel the magical spell of her attraction-as did every other man in the room. “It’s her,” murmured Richard. “You mean you two have met?” asked Jordan. “Quite by accident. I spooked her horse on the road. She was none too pleased about the fall.” “You actually unhorsed her?” said Jordan in amazement. “I didn’t think it was possible.” The woman glided into the room and swept up a glass of champagne from a tray, her progress cutting a noticeable swath through the crowd. “She certainly knows how to fill a dress,” Richard said under his breath, marveling. “I’ll tell her you said so,” Jordan said dryly. “You wouldn’t.” Laughing, Jordan set down his glass. “Come on, Wolf. Let me properly introduce you.” As they approached her, the woman flashed Jordan a smile of greeting. Then her gaze shifted to Richard, and instantly her expression went from easy familiarity to a look of cautious speculation. “So,” she said, civilly enough, “we meet again.” “I hope you’ve forgiven me.” “Never.” Then she smiled. What a smile! Jordan said, “Darling, this is Richard Wolf.” The woman held out her hand. Richard took it and was surprised by the firm, no-nonsense handshake she returned. As he looked into her eyes, a shock of recognition went through him. “May I introduce Beryl Tavistock,” said Jordan. “My sister.” “So how do you happen to know my Uncle Hugh?” Beryl asked as she and Richard strolled down the garden path. Dusk had fallen, that soft, late dusk of summer, and the flowers had faded into shadow. Their fragrance hung in the air, the scent of sage and roses, lavender and thyme. He moves like a cat in the darkness, Beryl thought. So quiet, so unfathomable. “We met years ago in Paris,” he said. “We lost touch for a long time. And then, a few years ago, when I set up my consulting firm, your uncle was kind enough to advise me.” “ Jordan tells me your company’s Sakaroff and Wolf.” “Yes. We’re security consultants.” “And is that your real job?” “Meaning what?” “Have you a, shall we say, He threw back his head and laughed. “You and your brother have a knack for cutting straight to the chase.” “We’ve learned to be direct. It cuts down on the small talk.” “Small talk is society’s lubricant.” “No, small talk is how society avoids telling the truth.” “And you want to hear the truth,” he said. “Don’t we all?” She looked up at him, trying to see his eyes in the darkness, but they were only shadows in the silhouette of his face. “The truth,” he said, “is that I really am a security consultant. I run the firm with my partner, Niki Sakaroff-” “Niki? That wouldn’t be Nikolai Sakaroff?” “You’ve heard the name?” he asked, in a tone that was just a trifle too innocent. “Former KGB?” There was a pause. “Yes, at one time,” he said evenly. “Niki may have had connections.” “Connections? If I recall correctly, Nikolai Sakaroff was a full colonel. And now he’s your business partner?” She laughed. “Capitalism does indeed make strange bedfellows.” They walked a few moments in silence. She asked quietly, “Do you still do business for the CIA?” “Did I say I did?” “It’s not a difficult conclusion to come to. I’m very discreet, by the way. The truth is safe with me.” “Nevertheless I refuse to be interrogated.” She looked up at him with a smile. “Even under torture, I assume?” Through the darkness she could see his teeth gleaming in a grin. “That depends on the type of torture. If a beautiful woman nibbles on my ear, well, I might admit to anything.” The brick path ended at the maze. For a while, they stood contemplating that leafy wall of shadow. “Come on, let’s go in,” she said. “Do you know the way out?” “We’ll see.” She led him through the opening and they were quickly swallowed up by hedge walls. In truth, she knew every turn, every blind end, and she moved through the maze with confidence. “I could do this blindfolded,” she said. “Did you grow up at Chetwynd?” “In between boarding schools. I came to live with Uncle Hugh when I was eight. After Mum and Dad died.” They rustled through the last slot in the hedge and emerged into the center. In a small clearing there was a stone bench and enough moonlight to faintly see each other’s face. “They were in the business, too,” she said, circling the grassy clearing slowly. “Or did you already know that?” “Yes, I’ve…heard of your parents.” At once she sensed an undertone of caution in his voice and wondered why he’d gone evasive on her. She saw that he was standing by the stone bench, his hands in his pockets. “What have you heard about them?” she asked. “I know they died in Paris.” “In the line of duty. Uncle Hugh says it was a classified mission and refuses to talk about it, so we never do.” She stopped circling and turned to face him. “I seem to be thinking about it a lot these days.” “Why?” “Because it happened on the fifteenth of July. Twenty years ago tomorrow.” He moved toward her, his face still hidden in shadow. “Who reared you, then? Your uncle?” She smiled. “‘Reared’is a bit of an exaggeration. Uncle Hugh gave us a home, and then he pretty much turned us loose to grow up as we pleased. Jordan ’s done quite well for himself, I think. Gone to university and all. But then, Jordie’s the smart one in the family.” Richard moved closer-so close she thought she could see his eyes glittering above her in the darkness. “And which one are you?” “I suppose…I suppose I’m the wild one.” “The wild one,” he murmured. “Yes, I think I can tell…” He touched her face. With that one brief contact, he left her skin tingling. She was suddenly aware of her pounding heart, her quickening breath. His lips grazed hers; it was the lightest of kisses, but it was heady with the taste of champagne. At once she craved another kiss, a longer kiss. For a moment, they stared at each other, both hovering on the edge of temptation. Beryl surrendered first. She swayed toward him, against him. His arms went around her, trapping her in their embrace. Eagerly she met his lips, met his kiss with one just as fierce. “The wild one,” he whispered. “Yes, definitely the wild one.” “Demanding, too…” “I don’t doubt it.” “…and “I hadn’t noticed…” They kissed again, and by the ragged sound of his breathing, she knew that he, too, was a helpless victim of desire. Suddenly a devilish impulse seized her. She pulled away. Coyly she asked, “Now will you tell me?” “Tell you what?” he asked, plainly confused. “Whom you really work for?” He paused. “Sakaroff and Wolf, Inc.,” he said. “Security consultants.” “Wrong answer,” she said. Then, laughing wickedly, she turned and scampered out of the maze. At 8:45, as was her habit, Marie St. Pierre patted on her bee pollen face cream, ran a brush through her stiff gray hair, and then slipped under the covers of her bed. She flicked on the TV remote control and awaited her favorite program of the week-“Dynasty.” Though the voices were obviously dubbed and the settings garishly American, the stories were close to her heart. Love and power. Pain and retribution. Yes, Marie knew all about love and pain. It was the retribution part she hadn’t quite mastered. Every time the anger bubbled up inside her and those old fantasies of revenge began to play out in her mind, she had only to consider the consequences of such action, and all thoughts of vengeance died. No, she loved Philippe too much. And they had come so far together! From finance minister to prime minister would be such a short, short climb… She suddenly focused on the TV as a brief news item flashed on the screen-the London economic summit. Would Philippe’s face appear? No, just a pan of the conference table, a five-second view of two dozen men in suits and ties. No Philippe. She sat back in disappointment and wondered, for the hundredth time, if she should have accompanied her husband to London. She hated to fly, and he’d warned her the trip would be tiresome. Better to stay home, he’d told her; she would hate London. Still, it might have been nice to go away with him for a few days. Just the two of them in a hotel room. A change of scenery, a new bed. It might have been the spark their marriage so terribly needed- A thought suddenly crossed her mind. A thought so painful that it twisted her heart in knots. Or was he alone? She sat trembling for a moment, considering the possibilities. The images. At last she could resist the impulse no longer. She reached for the telephone and dialed Nina Sutherland’s Paris apartment. The phone rang and rang. She hung up and dialed again. Still it rang unanswered. She stared at the receiver. So Nina has gone to London, too, she thought. And there they would be together, in his hotel room. She rose from the bed. “Dynasty” had just come on the TV; she ignored it. Instead she got dressed. She would drive past Nina’s apartment in Neuilly. Check the windows to see if her lights were on inside. No, she wouldn’t think about that, not yet. Fully dressed now, she hurried downstairs, picked up her purse and keys in the darkened living room, and opened the front door. Just as she felt the night air against her face, her ears were blasted by a deafening roar. The explosion threw her off her feet, flinging her forward down the front steps. Only her outstretched arms beneath her prevented her head from slamming against the concrete. She was vaguely aware of glass raining down around her and then of the soft crackle of flames. Slowly she managed to roll over onto her back. There she lay, staring upward at the fingers of fire shooting through her bedroom window. It was meant for her, she thought. The bomb was meant for her. As fire sirens wailed closer, she lay on her back in the broken glass and thought, And she watched her bedroom burn above her. |
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