"In Their Footsteps" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)FourJordan stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his cappuccino and casually glanced in the direction of the blonde sitting three tables away. At once she averted her gaze. She was attractive enough, he noted. Mid-twenties, with a lean, athletic build. Nothing overripe about that one. Her hair was cut like a boy’s, with elfin wisps feathering her forehead. She wore a black sweater, black skirt, black stockings. Fashion or camouflage? He shifted his gaze ahead to the street and the evening parade of pedestrians. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the woman again looking his way. Ordinarily it would have flattered him to know he was the object of such intense feminine scrutiny. But something about this particular woman made him uneasy. Couldn’t a fellow wander the streets of Paris these days without being stalked by carnivorous females? It had been such a pleasant outing up till now. Minutes after sending Beryl and Richard on their way, he’d slipped out of his hotel room in search of a decent watering hole. A stroll across Place Vend me, a visit to the Olympia Music Hall, then a midnight snack at Café de la Paix -what better way to spend one’s first evening in Paris? But perhaps it was time to call it a night. He finished his cappuccino, paid the tab, and began walking toward the Rue de la Paix. It took him only half a block to realize the woman in black was following him. He had paused at a shop window and was gazing in at a display of men’s suits when he spotted a fleeting glimpse of a blond head reflected in the glass. He turned and saw her standing across the street, intently staring into a window. A lingerie shop, he noted. Judging by the rest of her outfit, she’d no doubt choose her knickers in black, as well. Jordan continued walking in the direction of Place Vend me. Across the street, the woman was paralleling his route. He walked another half block. So did she. He stopped and pretended to study another shop window. She did likewise. He crossed the street and walked straight up to her. She turned and regarded him with a startled look. Plainly she had not expected a face-to-face confrontation. She opened her mouth and shut it again, all the time staring at him with those big gray eyes. Rather pretty eyes, he observed. “Perhaps you don’t understand me? “Yes,” she murmured, “I speak English.” “Then perhaps you can explain why you’re following me.” “But I am not following you.” “Yes, you are.” “No, I am not!” She glanced up and down the street. “I am taking a walk. As you are.” “You’re dogging my every step. Stopping where I stop. Watching every move I make.” “That is preposterous.” She pulled herself up, a spark of outrage lighting her eyes. Real or manufactured? He couldn’t be sure. “I have no interest in you, “Am I?” In answer, she spun around and stalked away up the Rue de la Paix. “I don’t think I am imagining things!” he called after her. “You English are all alike!” she flung over her shoulder. Jordan watched her storm off and wondered if he had jumped to conclusions. If so, what a fool he’d made of himself! The woman rounded a corner and vanished, and he felt a moment’s regret. After all, she had been rather attractive. Lovely gray eyes, unbeatable legs. Ah, well. He turned and continued on his way toward the Place Vend me and the hotel. Only as he reached the lobby doors of the Ritz did that sixth sense of his begin to tingle again. He paused and glanced back. In a distant archway, he spied a flicker of movement, a glimpse of a blond head just before it ducked into the shadows. She was still following him. Daumier answered the phone on the fifth ring. “All?” “Claude, it’s me,” said Richard. “Are you having us tailed?” There was a pause, then Daumier said, “A precaution, my friend. Nothing more.” “Protection? Or surveillance?” “Protection, naturally! A favor to Hugh-” “Well, it scared the living daylights out of us. The least you could’ve done was warn me.” Richard glanced toward Beryl, who was anxiously pacing the hotel room. She hadn’t admitted it, but he knew she was shaken, and that for all her bravado, all her attempts to throw him out of her suite, she was relieved he’d stayed. “Another thing,” he said to Daumier, “we seem to have misplaced Jordan.” “Misplaced?” “He’s not in his suite. We left him here hours ago. He’s since vanished.” There was a silence on the line. “This is worrisome,” said Daumier. “Do your people have any idea where he is?” “My agent has not yet reported in. I expect to hear from her in another-” “Not our most experienced operative, I admit. But quite capable.” “It was a man following us tonight.” Daumier laughed. “Richard, I am disappointed! I thought you, of all people, knew the difference.” “I can bloody well tell the difference!” “With Colette, there is no question. Twenty-six, rather pretty. Blond hair.” “It was a man, Claude.” “You saw the face?” “Not clearly. But he was short, stocky-” “Colette is five foot five, very slender.” “It wasn’t her.” Daumier said nothing for a moment. “This is disturbing,” he concluded. “If it was not one of our people-” Richard suddenly pivoted toward the door. Someone was knocking. Beryl stood frozen, staring at him with a look of fear. “I’ll call you back, Claude,” Richard whispered into the phone. Quietly he hung up. There was another knock, louder this time. “Go ahead,” he murmured, “ask who it is.” Shakily she called out, “Who is it?” “Are you decent?” came the reply. “Or should I try again in the morning?” “ Jordan!” cried a relieved Beryl. She ran to open the door. “Where have you been?” Her brother sauntered in, his blond hair tousled from the night wind. He saw Richard and halted. “Sorry. If I’ve interrupted anything-” “Not a thing,” snapped Beryl. She locked the door and turned to face her brother. “We’ve been worried sick about you.” “I just went for a walk.” “You could have left me a note!” “Why? I was right in the neighborhood.” Jordan flopped lazily into a chair. “Having quite a nice evening, too, until some woman started following me around.” Richard’s chin snapped up in surprise. “Woman?” “Rather nice-looking. But not my type, really. A bit vampirish for my taste.” “Was she blond?” asked Richard. “About five foot five? Mid-twenties?” Jordan shook his head in amazement. “Next you’ll tell me her name.” “Colette.” “Is this a new parlor trick, Richard?” Jordan said with a laugh. “ESP?” “She’s an agent working for French Intelligence,” said Richard. “Protective surveillance, that’s all.” Beryl gave a sigh of relief. “So that’s why we were followed. And you had me scared out of my wits.” “You “You just said-” “Daumier had only one agent assigned to surveillance tonight. That woman, Colette. Apparently she stayed with Jordan.” “Then who was following us?” demanded Beryl. “I don’t know.” There was a silence. Then Jordan asked peevishly, “Have I missed something? Why are we all being followed? And when did Richard join the fun?” “Richard,” said Beryl tightly, “hasn’t been completely honest with us.” “About what?” “He neglected to mention that he was here in Paris in 1973. He knew Mum and Dad.” Jordan ’s gaze at once shot to Richard’s face. “Is that why you’re here now?” he asked quietly. “To prevent us from learning the truth?” “No,” said Richard. “I’m here to see that the truth doesn’t get you both killed.” “Could the truth really be that dangerous?” “It’s got someone worried enough to have you both followed.” “Then you don’t believe it “If it was that simple-if it was just a case of Bernard shooting Madeline and then taking his own life-no one would care about it after all these years. But someone obviously does care. And he-or she-is keeping a close watch on your movements.” Beryl, strangely silent, sat down on the bed. Her hair, which she’d gathered back with pins, was starting to loosen, and silky tendrils had drifted down her neck. All at once Richard was struck by her uncanny resemblance to Madeline. It was the hairstyle and the watered-silk dress. He recognized that dress now-it was her mother’s. He shook himself to dispel the notion that he was looking at a ghost. He decided it was time to tell the truth, and nothing but. “I never did believe it,” he said. “Not for a second did I think Bernard pulled that trigger.” Slowly Beryl looked up at him. What he saw in her gaze-the wariness, the mistrust-made him want to reach out to her, to make her believe in him. But trust wasn’t something she was about to give him, not now. Perhaps not ever. “If he didn’t pull the trigger,” she asked, “then who did?” Richard moved to the bed. Gently he touched her face. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to help you find out.” After Richard left, Beryl turned to her brother. “I don’t trust him,” she said. “He’s told us too many lies.” “He didn’t lie to us exactly,” Jordan observed. “He just left out a few facts.” “Oh, right. He conveniently neglects to mention that he knew Mum and Dad. That he was here in Paris when they died. Jordie, for all we know, “He seems quite chummy with Daumier.” “So?” “Uncle Hugh trusts Daumier.” “Meaning we should trust Richard Wolf?” She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Jordie, you must be more exhausted than you realize.” “And you must be more smitten than you realize,” he said. Yawning, he crossed the floor toward his own suite. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded. “Only that your feelings for the man obviously run hot and heavy. Because you’re fighting them every inch of the way.” She pursued him to the connecting door. “Hot?” she said incredulously. “Heavy?” “There, you see?” He breathed a few loud pants and grinned. “Sweet dreams, baby sister. I’m glad to see you’re back in circulation.” Then he closed the door on her astonished face. When Richard arrived at Daumier’s flat, he found the Frenchman still awake but already dressed in his bathrobe and slippers. The latest reports on the bombing of the St. Pierre residence were laid out across his kitchen table, along with a plate of sausage and a glass of milk. Forty years with French Intelligence hadn’t altered his preference for working in close proximity to a refrigerator. Waving at the reports, Daumier said, “It is all a puzzle to me. A Semtex explosive planted under the bed. A timing mechanism set for 9:10-precisely when the St. Pierres would be watching Marie’s favorite television program. It has all the signs of an inside operation, except for one glaring mistake-Philippe was in England.” He looked at Richard. “Does it not strike you as an inconceivable blunder?” “Terrorists are usually brighter than that,” admitted Richard. “Maybe they intended it only as a warning. A statement of purpose. ‘We can reach you if we want to,’ that sort of thing.” “I still have no information on this Cosmic Solidarity League.” Wearily Daumier ran his hands through his hair. “The investigation, it goes nowhere.” “Then maybe you can turn your attention for a moment to my little problem.” “Problem? Ah, yes. The Tavistocks.” Daumier sat back and smiled at him. “Hugh’s niece is more than you can handle, Richard?” “Someone else was definitely tailing us tonight,” said Richard. “Not just your agent, Colette. Can you find out who it was?” “Give me something to work with,” said Daumier. “A middle-aged man, short and stocky-that tells me nothing. He could have been hired by anyone.” “It was someone who knew they were coming to Paris.” “I know Hugh told the Vanes. They, in turn, could have mentioned it to others. Who else was at Chetwynd?” Richard thought back to the night of the reception and the night of Reggie’s indiscretion. Blast Reggie Vane and his weakness for booze. That was what had set this off. A few too many glasses of champagne, a wagging tongue. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike the man. Poor Reggie was a harmless soul; certainly he’d never meant to hurt Beryl. Rather, it was clear he adored her like a daughter. Richard said, “There were numbers of people the Vanes might have spoken to. Philippe St. Pierre. Nina and Anthony. Perhaps others.” “So we are talking about any number of people,” Daumier said, sighing. “Not a very short list,” Richard had to admit. “Is this such a wise idea, Richard?” The question was posed quietly. “Once before, if you recall, we were prevented from learning the truth.” How could he not remember? He’d been stunned to read that directive from Washington: “Abort investigation.” Claude had received similar orders from his superior at French Intelligence. And so the search for Delphi and the NATO security breach had come to an abrupt halt. There’d been no explanation, no reasons given, but Richard had formed his own suspicions. It was clear that Washington had been clued in to the truth and feared the repercussions of its airing. A month later, when U.S. Ambassador Stephen Sutherland leaped off a Paris bridge, Richard thought his suspicions confirmed. Sutherland had been a political appointee; his unveiling as an enemy spy would have embarrassed the president himself. The matter of the mole was never officially resolved. Instead, Bernard Tavistock had been posthumously implicated as Delphi. Conveniently tried and found guilty, thought Richard. Why not pin the blame on Tavistock? A dead man can’t deny the charges. With new determination, Richard rose from the chair. “This time, Claude,” he said, “I’m tracking him down. And no order from Washington is going to stop me.” “Twenty years is a long time. Evidence has vanished. Politics have changed.” “One thing hasn’t changed-the guilty party. What if we were wrong? What if Sutherland wasn’t the mole? Then Delphi may still be alive. And operational.” To which Daumier added, “And very, very worried.” Beryl was awakened the next morning by Richard knocking on her door. She blinked in astonishment as he handed her a paper sack, fragrant with the aroma of freshly baked croissants. “Breakfast,” he announced. “You can eat it in the car. Jordan ’s already waiting for us downstairs.” “Waiting? For what?” “For you to get dressed. You’d better hurry. Our appointment’s for eight o’clock.” Bewildered, she shoved back a handful of tangled hair. “I don’t recall making any appointments for this morning.” “I made it for us. We’re lucky to get one, considering the man doesn’t see many people these days. His wife won’t allow it.” “Whose wife?” she said in exasperation. “Chief Inspector Broussard. The detective in charge of your parents’ murder investigation.” Richard paused. “You do want to speak to him, don’t you?” “You don’t have to come,” he said, turning to leave. “Jordan and I can-” “Give me ten minutes!” she snapped and closed the door on him. She made it downstairs in nine minutes flat. Richard drove with the self-assurance of a man long familiar with the streets of Paris. They crossed the Seine and headed south along crowded boulevards. The traffic was as insane as London ’s, thought Beryl, gazing out at the crush of buses and taxis. She finished her croissant and brushed the crumbs off the file folder lying in her lap. Contained in that folder was the twenty-year-old police report, signed by Inspector Broussard. She wondered how much the man would remember about the case. After all this time, surely the details had blended together with all the other homicide investigations of his career. But there was always the chance that some small unreported detail had stayed with him. “Have you met Broussard?” she asked Richard. “We met during the course of the investigation. When I was interviewed by the police.” “They questioned you? Why?” “He spoke to all your parents’ acquaintances.” “I never saw your name in the police file.” “A number of names didn’t make it to that file.” “Such as?” “Philippe St. Pierre. Ambassador Sutherland.” “Nina’s husband?” Richard nodded. “Those were politically sensitive names. St. Pierre was in the Finance Ministry, and he was a close friend of the prime minister’s. Sutherland was the American ambassador. Neither were suspects, so their names were kept out of the official report.” “Meaning the good inspector protected the high and mighty?” “Meaning he was discreet.” “Why did your name escape the report?” “I was just a bit player asked to comment on your parents’ marriage. Whether they ever argued, seemed unhappy, that’s all. I was only on the periphery.” She touched the file on her lap. “So tell me,” she said, “why are you getting involved now?” “Because you and Jordan are. Because Claude Daumier asked me to look after you.” He glanced at her and added quietly, “And because I owe it to your father. He was…a good man.” She thought he would say more, but then he turned and gazed straight ahead at the road. “Wolf,” asked Jordan, who was sitting in the back seat, “are you aware that we’re being followed?” “What?” Beryl turned and scanned the traffic behind them. “Which car?” “The blue Peugeot. Two cars back.” “I see it,” said Richard. “It’s been tailing us all the way from the hotel.” “You knew the car was there all the time?” said Beryl. “And you didn’t think of mentioning it?” “I expected it. Take a good look at the driver, Jordan. Blond hair, sunglasses. Definitely a woman.” Jordan laughed. “Why, it’s my little vampiress in black. Colette.” Richard nodded. “One of the friendlies.” “How can you be sure?” asked Beryl. “Because she’s Daumier’s agent. Which makes her protection, not a threat.” Richard turned off Boulevard Raspail. A moment later, he spotted a parking space and pulled up at the curb. “In fact, she can keep an eye on the car while we’re inside.” Beryl glanced at the large brick building across the street. Over the entrance archway were displayed the words “A nursing home.” “This is where Inspector Broussard lives?” “He’s been here for years,” said Richard, as he gazed up at the building with a look of pity. “Ever since his stroke.” Judging by the photograph tacked to the wall of his room, ex-Chief Inspector Broussard had once been an impressive man. The picture showed a beefy Frenchman with a handlebar mustache and a lion’s mane of hair, posing regally on the steps of a Paris police station. It bore little resemblance to the shrunken creature now propped up, his body half-paralyzed, in bed. Mme Broussard bustled about the room, all the time speaking with the precise grammar of a former teacher of English. She fluffed her husband’s pillow, combed his hair, wiped the drool from his chin. “He remembers everything,” she insisted. “Every case, every name. But he cannot speak, cannot hold a pen. And that is what frustrates him! It is why I do not let him have visitors. He wishes so much to talk, but he cannot form the words. Only a few, here and there. And how it upsets him! Sometimes, after a visit with friends, he will moan for days.” She moved to the head of the bed and stood there like a guardian angel. “You ask him only a few questions, do you understand? And if he becomes upset, you must leave immediately.” “We understand,” said Richard. He pulled up a chair next to the bedside. As Beryl and Jordan watched, he opened the police file and slowly laid the crime-scene photos on the coverlet for Broussard to see. “I know you can’t speak,” he said, “but I want you to look at these. Nod if you remember the case.” Mme Broussard translated for her husband. He stared down at the first photo-the gruesome death poses of Madeline and Bernard. They lay like lovers, entwined in a pool of blood. Clumsily Broussard touched the photo, his fingers lingering on Madeline’s face. His lips formed a whispered word. “What did he say?” asked Richard. “ The old man was gazing at the other photos now, his left hand beginning to quiver in agitation. His lips moved helplessly; the effort to speak came out in grunts. Mme Broussard leaned forward, trying to make out what he was saying. She shook her head in bewilderment. “We’ve read his report,” said Beryl. “The one he filed twenty years ago. He concluded that it was a murder and suicide. Did he truly believe that?” Again, Mme Broussard translated. Broussard looked up at Beryl, his gaze focusing for the first time on her black hair. A look of wonder came over his face, almost a look of recognition. His wife repeated the question. Did he believe it was a murder and suicide? Slowly Broussard shook his head. Jordan asked, “Does he understand the question?” “Of course he does!” snapped Mme Broussard. “I told you, he understands everything.” The man was tapping at one of the photos now, as though trying to point something out. His wife asked a question in French. He only slapped harder at the photo. “Is he trying to point at something?” asked Beryl. “Just a corner of the picture,” said Richard. “A view of empty floor.” Broussard’s whole body seemed to be quivering with the effort to speak. His wife leaned forward again, straining to make out his words. She shook her head. “It makes no sense.” “What did he say?” asked Beryl. “ He shook his head and angrily batted away the towel. “I do not know what he means,” Mme Broussard said with a sigh. “Maybe I do,” said Richard. He bent close to Broussard. Broussard gave a sigh of relief and collapsed against his pillows. Wearily he nodded. “That’s what he was trying to say,” said Richard. “ “Briefcase?” echoed Beryl. “Do you think he means the one with the classified file?” Richard frowned at Broussard. The man was exhausted, his face a sickly gray against the white linen. Mme Broussard took one look at her husband and moved in to shield him from Richard. “No further questions, Mr. Wolf! Look at him! He is drained-he cannot tell you more. Please, you must leave.” She hurried them out of the room and into the hallway. A nun glided past, carrying a tray of medicines. At the end of the hall, a woman in a wheelchair was singing lullabies to herself in French. “Mme Broussard,” said Beryl, “we have more questions, but your husband can’t answer them. There was another detective’s name on that report-an Etienne Giguere. How can we get in touch with him?” “Etienne?” Mme Broussard looked at her in surprise. “You mean you do not know?” “Know what?” “He was killed nineteen years ago. Hit by a car while crossing the street.” Sadly she shook her head. “They did not find the driver.” Beryl caught Jordan ’s startled look; she saw in his eyes the same dismay she felt. “One last question,” said Jordan. “When did your husband have his stroke?” “1974.” “Also nineteen years ago?” Mme Broussard nodded. “Such a tragedy for the department! First, my husband’s stroke. Then three months later, they lose Etienne.” Sighing, she turned back to her husband’s room. “But that is life, I suppose. And there is nothing we can do to change it…” Back outside again, the three of them stood for a moment in the sunshine, trying to shake off the gloom of that depressing building. “A hit and run?” said Jordan. “The driver never caught? I have a bad feeling about this.” Beryl glanced up at the archway. They drove north, to the Seine. Once again, the blue Peugeot followed them, but none of them paid it much attention; the French agent had become a fact of life-almost a reassuring one. Suddenly Jordan said, “Hold on, Wolf. Let me off on Boulevard Saint-Germain. In fact, right about here would be fine.” Richard pulled over to the curb. “Why here?” “We just passed a café-” “Oh, Jordan,” groaned Beryl, “you’re not hungry already, are you?” “I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” said Jordan, climbing out of the car. “Unless you two care to join me?” “So we can watch you eat? Thank you, but I’ll pass.” Jordan gave his sister an affectionate squeeze of the shoulder and closed the car door. “I’ll catch a taxi back. See you later.” With a wave, he turned and strolled down the boulevard, his blond hair gleaming in the sunshine. “Back to the hotel?” asked Richard softly. She looked at him and thought, “No,” she said, looking straight ahead. “Not yet.” “Then where to?” “Take me to Pigalle. Rue Myrha.” He paused. “Are you certain you want to go there?” She nodded and stared down at the file in her lap. “I want to see the place where they died.” Café Hugo. Yes, this was the place, thought Jordan, gazing around at the crowded outdoor tables, the checkered tablecloths, the army of waiters ferrying espresso and cappuccino. Twenty years ago, Bernard had visited this very café. Had sat drinking coffee. And then he had paid the bill and left, to meet his death in a building in Pigalle. All this Jordan had learned from the police interview with the waiter. But it happened a long time ago, thought Jordan. The man had probably moved on to other jobs. Still, it was worth a shot. To his surprise, he discovered that Mario Cassini was still employed as a waiter. Well into his forties now, his hair a salt-and-pepper gray, his face creased with the lines of twenty years of smiles, Mario nodded and said, “Yes, yes. Of course I remember. The police, they come to talk to me three, four times. And each time I tell them the same thing. M. Tavistock, he comes for café au lait, every morning. Sometimes, “But she wasn’t with him on that particular day?” Mario shook his head. “He comes alone. Sits at that table there.” He pointed to an empty table near the sidewalk, red-checked cloth fluttering in the breeze. “He waits a long time for “And she didn’t come?” “No. Then she calls. Tells him to meet her at another place. In Pigalle. I take the message and give it to M. Tavistock.” “She spoke to you? On the telephone?” “ “That would be the address in Pigalle?” Mario nodded. “My father-M. Tavistock-did he seem at all upset that day? Angry?” “Not angry. He seems-how do you say?-worried. He does not understand why No new information here, thought Jordan. He turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. “Are you certain it was Mme Tavistock who called to leave the message?” he asked. “She says it is her,” said Mario. “And you recognized her voice?” Mario paused. It lasted just the blink of an eye, but it was enough to tell Jordan that the man was not absolutely certain. “Yes,” said Mario. “Who else would it be?” Deep in thought, Jordan left the café and walked a few paces along Boulevard Saint-Germain, intending to return on foot to the hotel. But half a block away, he spotted the blue Peugeot. His little blond vampiress, he thought, still following him about. They were headed in the same direction; why not ask her for a ride? He went to the Peugeot and pulled open the passenger door. “Mind dropping me off at the Ritz?” he asked brightly. An outraged Colette stared at him from the driver’s seat. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded. “Get out of my car!” “Oh, come, now. No need for hysterics-” “Go away!” she cried, loudly enough to make a passerby stop and stare. Calmly Jordan slid into the front seat. He noted that she was dressed in black again. What was it with these secret agent types? “It’s a long walk to the Ritz. Surely it’s not “I do not even know who you are,” she insisted. “I know who A spark of laughter flickered in her eyes. She gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, but he could see the smile tugging at her lips. “Shut the door,” she snapped. “And use the seat belt. It is regulation.” As they drove up Boulevard Saint-Germain, he kept glancing at her, wondering if she was really as fierce as she appeared. That black leather skirt and the scowl on her face couldn’t disguise the fact she was actually quite pretty. “How long have you worked for Daumier?” he asked. “Three years.” “And is this your usual sort of assignment? Following strange men about town?” “I follow instructions. Whatever they are.” “Ah. The obedient type.” Jordan sat back, grinning. “What did Daumier tell you about this particular assignment?” “I am to see you and your sister are not harmed. Since today she is with M. Wolf, I decide to follow you.” She paused and added under her breath, “Not as simple as I thought.” “I’m not all that difficult.” “But you do the unexpected. You catch me by surprise.” A car was honking at them. Annoyed, Colette glanced up at the rearview mirror. “This traffic, it gets worse every-” At her sudden silence, Jordan glanced at her. “Is something wrong?” “No,” she said after a pause, “I am just imagining things.” Jordan turned and peered through the rear window. All he saw was a line of cars snaking down the boulevard. He looked back at Colette. “Tell me, what’s a nice girl like you doing in French Intelligence?” She smiled-the first real smile he’d seen. It was like watching the sun come out. “I am earning a living.” “Meeting interesting people?” “Quite.” “Finding romance?” “Regrettably, no.” “What a shame. Perhaps you should find a new line of work.” “Such as?” “We could discuss it over supper.” She shook her head. “It is not allowed to fraternize with a subject.” “So that’s all I am,” he said with a sigh. “A subject.” She dropped him off on a side street, around the corner from the Ritz. He climbed out, then turned and said, “Why not come in for a drink?” “I am on duty.” “It must get boring, sitting in that car all day. Waiting for me to make another unexpected move.” “Thank you, but no.” She smiled-a charmingly impish grin. It carried just a hint of possibility. Jordan left the car and walked into the hotel. Upstairs, he paced for a while, pondering what he’d just learned at Café Hugo. That phone call from Madeline-it just didn’t fit in. Why on earth would she arrange to meet Bernard in Pigalle? It clearly didn’t go along with the theory of a murder-suicide. Could the waiter be lying? Or was he simply mistaken? With all the ambient noise of a busy café, how could he be certain it was really Madeline Tavistock making that phone call? Once again he left the hotel and stepped into the brightness of midday. A taxi sat idling near the front entrance, but the driver was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Colette was still parked around the corner; he’d ask her to drive him back to Boulevard Saint-Germain. He turned up the side street and spotted the blue Peugeot still parked there. Colette was sitting inside; through the tinted windshield, he saw her silhouette behind the steering wheel. He went to the car and tapped on the passenger window. “Colette?” he called. “Could you give me another lift?” She didn’t answer. Jordan swung open the door and slid in beside her. “Colette?” She sat perfectly still, her eyes staring rigidly ahead. For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then he saw the bright trickle of blood that had traced its way down her hairline and vanished into the black fabric of her turtlenecked shirt. In panic, he reached out to her and gave her shoulder a shake. She slid toward him and toppled into his lap. He stared at her head, now resting in his arms. In her temple was a single, neat bullet hole. He scarcely remembered scrambling out of the car. What he did remember were the screams of a woman passerby. Then, moments later, he focused on the shocked faces of people who’d been drawn onto this quiet side street by the screams. They were all pointing at the woman’s arm hanging limply out of the car. And they were staring at him. Numbly, Jordan looked down at his own hands. They were smeared with blood. From the crowd of onlookers standing on the corner, Amiel Foch watched the police handcuff the Englishman and lead him away. An unintended development, he thought. Not at all what he’d expected to happen. Then again, he hadn’t expected to see Colette LaFarge ever again. Or, even worse, to be seen by her. They’d worked together only once, and that was three years ago in Cyprus. He’d hoped, when he walked past her car, with his head down and his shoulders hunched, that she would not notice him. But as he’d headed away, he’d heard her call out his name in astonishment. He’d had no alternative, he thought as he watched the attendants load her body into the ambulance. French Intelligence thought he was dead. Colette could have told them otherwise. It hadn’t been an easy thing to do. But as he’d turned to face her, his decision was already made. He had walked slowly back to her car. Through the windshield, he’d seen her look of wonder at a dead colleague come back to life. She’d sat frozen, staring at the apparition. She had not moved as he approached the driver’s side. Nor did she move as he thrust his silenced automatic into her car window and fired. The crowd was dispersing. It was time to leave. He edged toward the curb. Quietly he dropped his pistol in the gutter and kicked it down the storm drain. The weapon was stolen, untraceable; better to have it found near the scene of the crime. It would cement the case against Jordan Tavistock. Several blocks away, he found a telephone. He dialed his client. “Jordan Tavistock has been arrested for murder,” said Foch. “Whose murder?” came the sharp reply. “One of Daumier’s agents. A woman.” “Did Tavistock do it?” “No. I did.” There was a sudden burst of laughter from his client. “This is priceless! Absolutely priceless! I ask you to follow Jordan, and you have him framed for murder. I can’t wait to see what you do with his sister.” “What do you wish me to do?” asked Foch. There was a pause. “I think it’s time to resolve this mess,” he said. “Finish it.” “The woman is no problem. But her brother will be difficult to reach, unless I can find a way into the prison.” “You could always get yourself arrested.” “And when they identify my fingerprints?” Foch shook his head. “I need someone else for that job.” “Then I’ll find you someone,” came the reply. “For now, let’s work on one thing at a time. Beryl Tavistock.” A Turkish man now owned the building on Rue Myrha. He’d tried to improve it. He’d painted the exterior walls, shored up the crumbling balconies, replaced the missing roof slates, but the building, and the street on which it stood, seemed beyond rehabilitation. It was the fault of the tenants, explained Mr. Zamir, as he led them up two flights of stairs to the attic flat. What could one do with tenants who let their children run wild? By all appearances, Mr. Zamir was a successful businessman, a man whose tailored suit and excellent English bespoke prosperous roots. There were four families in the building, he said, all of them reliable enough with the rent. But no one lived in the attic flat-he’d always had difficulty renting that one out. People had come to inspect the place, of course, but when they heard of the murder, they quickly backed out. These silly superstitions! Oh, people claim they do not believe in ghosts, but when they visit a room where two people have died… “How long has the flat been empty?” asked Beryl. “A year now. Ever since I have owned the building. And before that-” he shrugged “-I do not know. It may have been empty for many years.” He unlocked the door. “You may look around if you wish.” A puff of stale air greeted them as they pushed open the door-the smell of a room too long shut away from the world. It was not an unpleasant room. Sunshine washed in through a large, dirt-streaked window. The view looked down over Rue Myrha, and Beryl could see children kicking a soccer ball in the street. The flat was completely empty of furniture; there were only bare walls and floor. Through an open door, she glimpsed the bathroom with its chipped sink and tarnished fixtures. In silence Beryl circled the flat, her gaze moving across the wood floor. Beside the window, she came to a halt. The stain was barely visible, just a faint brown blot in the oak planks. “I have tried to sand the stain away,” said Mr. Zamir. “But it goes very deep into the wood. Even when I think I have erased it, in a few weeks the stain seems to reappear.” He sighed. “It frightens them away, you know. The tenants, they do not like to see such reminders on their floor.” Beryl swallowed hard and turned to look out the window. She asked quietly, “Who owned this building, Mr. Zamir? Before you did?” “There were many owners. Before me, it was a M. Rosenthal. And before him, a M. Dudoit.” “At the time of the murder,” said Richard, “the landlord was a man named Jacques Rideau. Did you know him?” “I am sorry, I do not. That would have been many years ago.” “Twenty.” “Then I would not have met him.” Mr. Zamir turned to the door. “I will leave you alone. If you have questions, I will be down in number three for a while.” Beryl heard the man’s footsteps creak down the stairs. She looked at Richard and saw that he was standing off in a corner, frowning at the floor. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “About Inspector Broussard. How he kept trying to point at that photo. The spot he was pointing to would be somewhere around here. Just to the left of the door.” “There’s nothing to look at. And there was nothing in the photo, either.” “That’s what bothers me. He seemed so troubled by it. And there was something about a briefcase…” “The NATO file,” she said softly. He looked at her. “How much have you been told about Delphi?” “I know it wasn’t Mum or Dad. They would never have gone to the other side.” “People go over for different reasons.” “But not them. They certainly didn’t need the money.” “Communist sympathies?” “Not the Tavistocks!” He moved toward her. With every step he took, her pulse seemed to leap faster. He came close enough to make her feel threatened. And tempted. Quietly he said, “There’s always blackmail.” “Meaning they had secrets to hide?” “Everyone does.” “Not everyone turns traitor.” “It depends on the secret, doesn’t it? And how much one stands to lose because of it.” In silence they gazed at each other, and she found herself wondering how much he really did know about her parents. How much he wasn’t admitting to. She sensed he knew a lot more than he was letting on, and that suspicion loomed like a barrier between them. Those secrets again. Those unspoken truths. She had grown up in a household where certain conversational doors were always kept locked. She turned away. “They had no reason to be vulnerable to blackmail.” “You were just a child, eight years old. Away at boarding school in England. What did you really know about them? About their marriage, their secrets? What if it was your mother who rented this flat? Met her lover here?” “I don’t believe it. I won’t.” “Is it so difficult to accept? That she was human, that she might have had a lover?” He took her by the shoulders, willing her to meet his gaze. “She was a beautiful woman, Beryl. If she’d wanted to, she could have had any number of lovers.” “You’re making her out to be a tramp!” “I’m considering all the possibilities.” “That she sold out Queen and country? To keep some vile little secret from surfacing?” Angrily she wrenched away from him. “Sorry, Richard, but my faith runs a little deeper than that. And if you’d known them, really known them, you’d never consider such a thing.” She pivoted away and walked to the door. “I did know them,” he said. “I knew them rather well.” She stopped, turned to face him. “What do you mean by ‘rather well’?” “We…moved in the same circles. Not the same team, exactly. But we worked at similar purposes.” “You never told me.” “I didn’t know how much I “CIA?” He nodded. “I was recruited straight out of the university. Not exactly my first career choice. But somehow they’d gotten hold of my master’s thesis, an analysis of Libyan arms capabilities. It turned out to be amazingly close to the mark. They knew I was fluent in a few languages. And that I had taken out quite a large sum in student loans. That was the carrot, you see-the loan payoff. The foreign travel. And, I have to admit, the idea intrigued me, the chance to work as an Intelligence analyst…” “Is that how you met my parents?” He nodded. “NATO knew it had a security leak, originating in Paris. Somehow weapons data were slipping through to the East Germans. I’d just arrived in Paris, so there was no question that I was clean. They assigned me to work with Claude Daumier at French Intelligence. I was asked to compose a dummy weapons report, something close to, but not quite, the truth. It was encoded and transmitted to a few select embassy officials in Paris. The idea was to pinpoint the possible source of the leak.” “How were my parents involved?” “They were attached to the British embassy. Bernard in Communications, Madeline in Protocol. Both were really working for MI6. Bernard was one of a few who had access to classified files.” “So he was a suspect?” Richard nodded. “Everyone was. British, American, French. Right up to ambassadorial level.” Again he began to pace, carefully measuring his words. “So the dummy file went out to the embassies. And we waited to see if it would turn up, like the others, in East German hands. It didn’t. It ended up here, in a briefcase. In this very room.” He stopped and looked at her. “With your parents.” “And that closed the file on Delphi,” she said. Bitterly she added, “How neat and easy. You had your culprit. Lucky for you he was dead and unable to defend himself.” “I didn’t believe it.” “Yet you dropped the matter.” “We had no choice.” “You didn’t care enough to learn the truth!” “No, Beryl. We didn’t have the choice. We were instructed to call off the investigation.” She stared at him in astonishment. “By whom?” “My orders came straight from Washington. Claude’s from the French prime minister. The matter was dropped.” “And my parents went on record as traitors,” she said. “What a convenient way to close the file.” In disgust she turned and left the room. He followed her down the stairs. “Beryl! I never really believed Bernard was the one!” “Yet you let him take the blame!” “I told you, I was ordered to-” “And of course you always follow orders.” “I was sent back to Washington soon afterward. I couldn’t pursue it.” They walked out of the building into the bedlam of Rue Myrha. A soccer ball flew past, pursued by a gaggle of tattered-looking children. Beryl paused on the sidewalk, her eyes temporarily dazzled by the sunshine. The street sounds, the shouts of the children, were disorienting. She turned and looked up at the building, at the attic window. The view suddenly blurred through her tears. “What a place to die,” she whispered. “God, what a horrible place to die…” She climbed into Richard’s car and pulled the door closed. It was a blessed relief to shut out the noise and chaos of Rue Myrha. Richard slid in behind the driver’s seat. For a moment, they sat in silence, staring ahead at the ragamuffins playing street soccer. “I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said. “I want to see Claude Daumier.” “Why?” “I want to hear his version of what happened. I want to confirm that you’re telling me the truth.” “I am, Beryl.” She turned to him. His gaze was steady, unflinching. She looked straight ahead, trying to ignore all those heated signals passing between them. “I want to talk to Daumier.” After a pause, he said, “All right. If that’s what it’ll take for you to believe me.” A phone call revealed that Daumier was not in his office; he’d just left to conduct another interview with Marie St. Pierre. So they drove to Cochin Hospital, where Marie was still a patient. Even from the far end of the hospital corridor, they could tell which room was Marie’s; half a dozen policemen were stationed outside her door. Daumier had not yet arrived. Madame St. Pierre, informed that Lord Lovat’s niece had arrived, at once had Beryl and Richard escorted into her room. They discovered they weren’t the only visitors Marie was entertaining that afternoon. Seated in chairs near the patient’s bed were Nina Sutherland and Helena Vane. A little tea party was in progress, complete with trays of biscuits and finger sandwiches set on a rolling cart by the window. The patient, however, was not partaking of the refreshments; she sat propped up in bed, a sad and weary-looking French matron dressed in a gray robe to match her gray hair. Her only visible injuries appeared to be a bruised cheek and some scratches on her arms. It was clear from the woman’s look of unhappiness that the bomb’s most serious damage had been emotional. Any other patient would have been discharged by now; only her status as St. Pierre ’s wife allowed her such pampering. Nina poured two cups of tea and handed them to Beryl and Richard. “When did you arrive in Paris?” she said. “Jordan and I flew in yesterday,” said Beryl. “And you?” “We flew home with Helena and Reggie.” Nina sat back down and crossed her silk-stockinged legs. “First thing this morning, I thought to myself, I really should drop in to see how Marie’s doing. Poor thing, she does need cheering up.” Judging by the patient’s glum face, Nina’s visit had not yet achieved the desired result. “What’s the world coming to, I ask you?” said Nina, balancing her cup of tea. “Madness and anarchy! No one’s immune, not even the upper class.” “Especially the upper class,” said Helena. “Has there been any progress on the case?” asked Beryl. Marie St. Pierre sighed. “They insist it is a terrorist attack.” “Well, of course,” said Nina. “Who else plants bombs in politicians’ houses?” Marie’s gaze quickly dropped to her lap. She looked at her hands, the bony fingers woven together. “I have told Philippe we should leave Paris for a while. Tonight, perhaps, when I am released. We could visit Switzerland…” “An excellent idea,” murmured Helena gently. She reached out to squeeze Marie’s hand. “You need to get away, just the two of you.” “But that’s turning tail,” said Nina. “Letting the criminals know they’ve won.” “Easy for you to say,” muttered Helena. “It wasn’t your house that was bombed.” “And if it was my house, I’d stay right in Paris,” Nina retorted. “I wouldn’t give an inch-” “You’ve never had to.” “What?” Helena looked away. “Nothing.” “What are you muttering about, Helena?” “I only think,” said Helena, “that Marie should do exactly what she wants. Leaving Paris for a while makes perfect sense. Any friend would back her up.” “I “Yes,” murmured Helena, “of course you are.” “Are you saying I’m not?” “I didn’t say anything of the kind.” “You’re muttering again, Helena. Really, it drives me up a wall. Is it so difficult to come right out and say things?” “Oh, please,” moaned Marie. A knock on the door cut short the argument. Nina’s son, Anthony, entered, dressed with his usual offbeat flair in a shirt of electric blue, a leather jacket. “Ready to leave, Mum?” he asked Nina. At once Nina rose huffily to her feet. “More than ready,” she sniffed and followed him to the door. There she stopped and gave Marie one last glance. “I’m only speaking as a friend,” she said. “And I, for one, think you should stay in Paris.” She took Anthony’s arm and walked out of the room. “Good heavens, Marie,” muttered Helena, after a pause. “Why do you put up with the woman?” Marie, looking small as she huddled in her bed, gave a small shrug. “I’ve always thought you were a saint just to let that bitch in your door,” said Helena. “If it were up to me…” “One must keep the peace” was all Marie said. They tried to carry on a conversation, the four of them, but so many silences intervened. And overshadowing their talk of bomb blasts and ruined furniture, of lost artwork and damaged heirlooms, was the sense that something was being left unsaid. That even beyond the horror of these losses was a deeper loss. One had only to look in Marie St. Pierre’s eyes to know that she was reeling from the devastation of her life. Even when her husband, Philippe, walked into the room, Marie did not perk up. If anything, she seemed to recoil from Philippe’s kiss. She averted her face and looked instead at the door, which had just swung open again. Claude Daumier entered, saw Beryl, and halted in surprise. “You are “We were waiting to see you,” said Beryl. Daumier glanced at Richard, then back at Beryl. “I have been trying to find you both.” “What’s wrong?” asked Richard. “The matter is…delicate.” Daumier motioned for them to follow. “It would be best,” he said, “to discuss this in private.” They followed him into the hallway, past the nurses’ station. In a quiet corner, Daumier stopped and turned to Richard. “I have just received a call from the police. Colette was found shot to death in her car. Near Place Vend me.” “Colette?” said Beryl. “The agent who was watching Jordan?” Grimly Daumier nodded. “Oh, my God,” murmured Beryl. “Jordie-” “He is safe,” Daumier said quickly. “I assure you, he’s not in danger.” “But if they killed her, they could-” “He has been placed under arrest,” said Daumier. His gaze, quietly sympathetic, focused on Beryl’s shocked face. “For murder.” Long after everyone else had left the hospital room, Helena remained by Marie’s bedside. For a while they said very little; good friends, after all, are comfortable with silence. But then Helena could not hold it in any longer. “It’s intolerable,” she said. “You simply can’t stand for this, Marie.” Marie sighed. “What else am I to do? She has so many friends, so many people she could turn against me. Against Philippe…” “But you must do something. Anything. For one, refuse to speak to her!” “I have no proof. Never do I have proof.” “You don’t need proof. Use your eyes! Look at the way they act together. The way she’s always around him, smiling at him. He may have told you it was over, but you can see it isn’t. And where is he, anyway? You’re in the hospital and he scarcely visits you. When he does, it’s just a peck on the cheek and he’s off again.” “He is preoccupied. The economic summit-” “Oh, yes,” Helena snorted. “Men’s business is always so bloody important!” Marie started to cry, not sobs, but noiseless, pitiful tears. Suffering in silence-that was her way. Never a complaint or a protest, just a heart quietly breaking. Marie said in a whisper, “It is even worse than you know.” “How can it possibly be any worse?” Marie didn’t reply. She just looked down at the abrasions on her arms. They were only minor scrapes, the aftermath of flying glass, but she stared at them with what looked like quiet despair. But Marie hadn’t the will. One could see that, just by the slump of her shoulders. A man sat on the bench across from him, silently eyeing Jordan ’s clothes, his shoes, his watch. A well-pickled fellow by the smell of him, thought Jordan with distaste. Or did that delightful odor, that unmistakable perfume of cheap wine and ripe underarms, emanate from the other occupant of the jail cell? Jordan glanced at the man snoring blissfully in the far corner. Yes, there was the likely source. The man on the bench was still staring at him. Jordan tried to ignore him, but the man’s gaze was so intrusive that Jordan finally snapped, “What are you looking at?” “Pardon?” “Yes, of course it’s gold!” said Jordan. The man grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. He rose and shuffled across the cell to sit beside Jordan. Right beside him. His gaze dropped speculatively to Jordan ’s shoes. Jordan sighed. “Yes, they’re Italian.” The man reached over and fingered Jordan ’s linen jacket sleeve. “All right, that’s it,” said Jordan. “Hands to yourself, chap! The man simply grinned wider and pointed to his own shoes, a pair of cardboard and plastic creations. “You like?” “Very nice,” groaned Jordan. The sound of footsteps and clinking keys approached. The man sleeping in the corner suddenly woke up and began to yell, “M. Tavistock?” called the guard. Jordan jumped at once to his feet. “Yes?” “You are to come with me.” “Where are we going?” “You have visitors.” The guard led him down a hall, past holding cells jammed full with prisoners. Good grief, thought Jordan, and he’d thought his cell was bad. He followed the guard through a locked door into the booking area. At once his ears were assaulted with the sounds of bedlam. Everywhere phones seemed to be ringing, voices arguing. A ragtag line of prisoners waited to be processed, and one woman kept yelling that it was a mistake, all a mistake. Through the babble of French, Jordan heard his name called. “Beryl?” he said in relief. She ran to him, practically knocking him over with the force of her embrace. “Jordie! Oh, my poor Jordie, are you all right?” “I’m fine, darling.” “You’re really all right?” “Never better, now that you’re here.” Glancing over her shoulder, he saw Richard and Daumier standing behind her. The cavalry had arrived. Now this terrible business could be cleared up. Beryl pulled away and frowned at his face. “You look ghastly.” “I probably smell even worse.” Turning to Daumier, he said, “Have they found out anything about Colette?” Daumier shook his head. “A single bullet, nine millimeters, in the temple. Plainly an execution, with no witnesses.” “What about the gun?” asked Jordan. “How can they accuse me without having a murder weapon?” “They do have one,” said Daumier. “It was found in the storm drain, very near the car.” “And no witnesses?” said Beryl. “In broad daylight?” “It is a side street. Not many passersby.” “But someone must have seen something.” Daumier gave an unhappy nod. “A woman did report seeing a man force his way into Colette’s car. But it was on Boulevard Saint-Germain.” Jordan groaned. “Oh, great. That would’ve been me.” Beryl frowned. “You?” “I talked her into giving me a ride back to the hotel. My fingerprints will be all over the inside of that car.” “What happened after you got into the car?” Richard asked. “She let me off at the Ritz. I went up to the room for a few minutes, then came back down to talk to her. That’s when I found…” Groaning, he clutched his head. “Lord, this can’t be happening.” “Did you see anything?” Richard pressed him. “Not a thing. But…” Jordan ’s head slowly lifted. “Colette may have.” “You’re not sure?” “While we were driving to the hotel, she kept frowning at the mirror. Said something about imagining things. I looked, but all I saw was traffic.” Miserable, he turned to Daumier. “I blame myself, really. I keep thinking, if only I’d paid more attention, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up-” “She knew how to protect herself,” interrupted Daumier. “She should have been prepared.” “That’s what I don’t understand,” said Jordan. “That she was caught so off guard.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s still plenty of daylight. We could go back to Boulevard Saint-Germain. Retrace my steps. Something might come back to me.” His suggestion was met with dead silence. “Jordie,” said Beryl, softly, “you can’t.” “What do you mean, I can’t?” “They won’t release you.” “But they have to release me! I didn’t do it!” He looked at Daumier. To his dismay, the Frenchman regretfully shook his head. Richard said, “We’ll do whatever it takes, Jordan. Somehow we’ll get you out of here.” “Has anyone called Uncle Hugh?” “He’s not at Chetwynd,” said Beryl. “No one knows where he is. It seems he left last night without telling anyone. So we’re going to see Reggie and Helena. They’ve friends in the embassy. Maybe they can pull some strings.” Dismayed by the news, Jordan could only stand there, surrounded by the chaos of milling prisoners and policemen. “The police think I’m guilty?” he ventured. “I am afraid so,” said Daumier. “And you, Claude? What do you think?” “Of course he knows you’re innocent!” declared Beryl. “We all do. Just give me time to clear things up.” Jordan turned to his sister, his beautiful, stubborn sister. The one person he cared most about in the world. He took off his watch and firmly pressed it into her hand. She frowned. “Why are you giving me this?” “Safekeeping. I may be in here a rather long time. Now, I want you to go home, Beryl. The next plane to London. Do you understand?” “But I’m not going anywhere.” “Yes, you are. And Richard is damn well going to see to it.” “How?” she retorted. “By dragging me off by the hair?” “If that’s what it takes.” “You need me here!” “Beryl.” He took her by the shoulders and spoke quietly. Sensibly. “A woman’s been killed. And she was trained to defend herself.” “It doesn’t mean I’m next.” “It means they’re frightened. Ready to strike back. You have to go home.” “And leave you in this place?” “Claude will be here. And Reggie-” “So I fly home and leave you to rot in prison?” She shook her head in disagreement. “Do you really think I’d do that?” “If you love me, you will.” Her chin came up. “If I love you,” she said, “I’ll do no such thing.” She threw her arms around him in a fierce, uncompromising embrace. Then, brushing away tears, she turned to Richard. “Let’s go. The sooner we talk to Reggie, the sooner we’ll clear up this mess.” Jordan watched his sister walk away. It was just like her, he thought, to steer her own straight and stubborn course through that unruly crowd of pickpockets and prostitutes. “Beryl!” he yelled. “Go home! Don’t be a bloody idiot!” She stopped and looked back at him. “But I can’t help it, Jordie. It runs in the family.” Then she turned and walked out the door. |
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