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

Seven

“He can’t get in,” said Beryl. “The door’s locked.”

“They’ll have a passkey. If they managed to get in here earlier…”

“What do we do?”

“ Jordan ’s room. Move!”

At once she was on her knees and crawling toward the connecting door. Only when she’d reached it did she realize Richard wasn’t following her.

“Come on!” she whispered.

“You go. I’ll hold them off.”

She glanced back in disbelief. “What?”

“They’ll check this room first to see if we’ve been hit. I’ll slow them down. You get out through Jordan’s suite. Head for the stairwell and don’t stop running.”

Beryl crouched frozen in the connecting doorway. This is suicide. He has no gun, no weapon at all. Already he was slipping through the shadows. She could just make out his figure, poised by the door. Waiting for the attack.

The knock on the door made her jerk in panic. “Mlle Tavistock?” called a man’s voice. Beryl didn’t answer; she didn’t dare to. “Mademoiselle?” the voice called again.

Richard was gesturing frantically at her through the darkness. Get out! Now.

I can’t leave him, she thought. I can’t let him fight this alone.

A key grated in the lock.

There was no time to consider the risks. Beryl grabbed the bedside lamp, scrambled toward Richard, and planted herself right beside him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he whispered.

“Shut up,” she hissed back.

They both flattened against the wall as the door swung open in front of them. There was a pause, the span of just a few heartbeats, and then they heard footsteps cross the threshold into the room. The door slowly swung closed, revealing the silhouettes of the intruders-two men, standing in the darkness. Beryl could feel Richard coil up beside her, could almost hear his silent one-two-three countdown. Suddenly he was flying at the nearest man; the force of the impact sent both men slamming to the floor.

Beryl raised the lamp and brought it crashing down on the head of the second intruder. He collapsed at her feet, facedown and groaning. She dropped beside him and began patting his clothes for a gun. Through his jacket, she felt a hard lump under his arm. A holster? She rolled him over onto his back. Only then, as a crack of light through the partially closed door spilled across his face, did she realize their mistake.

“Oh, my God,” she said. She glanced at Richard, who’d just grabbed his opponent by the collar and was about to shove him against the wall. “Richard, don’t!” she yelled. “Don’t hurt him!”

He paused, still clutching the other man’s collar in his fists. “Why the hell not?” he muttered.

“Because these are the wrong men, that’s why!” She went to the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light.

Richard blinked in the sudden brightness. He stared at the hotel manager, cowering in his grip. Then he turned and looked at the man who lay groaning by the door. It was Claude Daumier.

At once Richard released the manager, who promptly shrank away in terror. “Sorry,” said Richard. “My mistake.”

“If I’d known it was you,” said Beryl, pressing a bag of ice to Daumier’s head, “I wouldn’t have whacked you so hard.”

“If you had known it was me,” muttered Daumier, “I would hope you wouldn’t have whacked me at all.” He sat up on the couch and caught the bag of ice before it could slide off. “Zut alors, what did you use, chérie? A brick?”

“A lamp. And not a very big one, either.” She glanced at Richard and the hotel manager. Both men were looking slightly the worse for wear-especially the manager. That black eye of his was colorful testimony to the damaging potential of Richard’s fist. Now that the crisis was over, and they were safely barricaded in the manager’s office, the situation struck Beryl as more than a little hilarious. A senior French Intelligence agent, beaned by a lamp? Richard, still nursing his bruised knuckles. And the poor hotel manager, assiduously maintaining a safe distance from those same knuckles. She could have laughed-if the whole affair hadn’t been so frightening.

There was a knock on the door. Instantly Beryl tensed, only to relax again when she saw that it was a policeman. I’m still high on adrenaline, she thought as she watched Daumier and the cop converse in French. Still expecting the worst.

The policeman withdrew, closing the door behind him.

“What did he say?” Beryl asked.

“The shots were fired from across the plaza,” said Daumier. “They have found bullet casings on the rooftop.”

“And the gunman?” asked Richard.

Regretfully Daumier shook his head. “Vanished.”

“Then he’s still on the loose,” said Richard. “And we don’t know when he’ll strike again.” He looked at the manager. “What about that telephone wire? Who could’ve cut it?”

The man shrank back a step, as though expecting another blow. “I do not know, monsieur! One of the maids, she says her passkey was misplaced for a few hours today.”

“So anyone could have gotten in.”

“No one from our staff! They are thoroughly checked. You see, we have many important guests.”

“I want your employees revetted. Every last one of them.”

The manager nodded meekly. Then, still wincing in pain from the black eye, he left the office.

Richard began to pace, carelessly yanking his tie loose as he moved. “We have an intruder who cuts the phone line. A marksman stationed across the plaza. A high-powered rifle positioned for a shot straight into Beryl’s room. Claude, this is sounding worse by the minute.”

“Why would they try to kill me?” asked Beryl. “What have I done?”

“You’ve asked too many questions, that’s what.” Richard turned to Daumier. “You had it right, Claude. The matter’s not dead, not by a long shot.”

“We were both in that room, Richard,” said Beryl. “How do you know he was aiming at me?”

“I wasn’t the one walking past that window.”

“You’re the one who’s CIA.”

“The qualifying prefix is ex, as in, no longer with the Company. I’m not a threat to anyone.”

“And I am?”

“Yes. By virtue of your name-not to mention your curiosity.” He glanced at Daumier. “We need a safe house, Claude. Can you arrange it?”

“We keep a flat in Passy for protection of witnesses. It will serve your purpose.”

“Who else knows about it?”

“My people. A few ministry officials.”

“That’s too many.”

“It is the best I can offer. It has an alarm system. And I will assign guards.”

Richard paused, thinking, weighing the risks. At last he nodded. “It will have to do for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll come up with something else. Maybe a plane ticket.” He looked at Beryl.

This time she didn’t protest. Already she could feel the adrenaline fading away. A moment ago, every nerve felt wired for action; now a plane home was beginning to sound sensible. All it took was a short flight across the Channel, and she’d be safe in the refuge of Chetwynd. It was all so easy, so tempting.

And she was so very, very tired.

With a numb sense of detachment, Beryl listened as Daumier made the necessary phone calls. He hung up and said, “I will have a car and escort brought around. Beryl’s clothes will be delivered to the flat later. Oh, and Richard, you will no doubt want this.” He reached under his suit jacket and withdrew a semiautomatic pistol from his shoulder holster. He handed it to Richard. “A loan. Just between us, of course.”

“Are you sure you want to part with it?”

“I have another.” Daumier slid off his holster, which he also gave to Richard. “You remember how to use one?”

Richard checked the ammunition clip and nodded grimly. “I think it’ll come back.”

A policeman knocked on the door. The car was waiting.

Richard took Beryl’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Time to drop out of sight for a while. Are you ready?”

She looked at the gun he was holding, noted how easily he handled it, how comfortably he slid it into the holster. A professional, she thought. The transformation was almost frightening. How well do I really know you, Richard Wolf?

For now, the question was irrelevant. He was the one man she could count on, the one man she had to trust.

She folowed him out the door.

“We should be safe here. For tonight, at least.” Richard double-bolted the apartment door and turned to look at her.

She was standing in the center of the living room, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, a dazed look in her eyes. This was not the brash and stubborn Beryl he knew, he thought. This was a woman who’d faced sheer terror and knew the worst wasn’t over yet. He wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and promise her that nothing would ever hurt her while he was around, but they both knew it was a promise he might not be able to keep. In silence, he circled the flat, checking to see that the windows were secure, the drapes closed. A glance outside told him there were two guards watching the building, one at the front entrance, one at the rear. A safety net, he thought. For when I let my attention slip. And it would slip. Sooner or later, he would have to sleep.

Satisfied that all was locked up tight, he went back to the living room. He found Beryl sitting on the couch, very quiet, very still. Almost…defeated.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She gave a shrug, as though the question was irrelevant-as though they had far more important things to consider.

He took off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. “You haven’t eaten. There’s some food in the kitchen.”

Her gaze focused on his shoulder holster. “Why did you quit the business?” she asked.

“You mean the Company?”

She nodded. “When I saw you holding that gun, it…it suddenly struck me. What you used to be.”

He sat down beside her. “I’ve never killed anyone. If that makes a difference.”

“But you’re trained to do it.”

“Only in self-defense. That’s not the same thing as murder.”

She nodded, as though trying very hard to agree with him.

He took the Glock from the holster and held it out to her. She regarded it with undisguised abhorrence.

“Yes, I understand how you feel,” he said. “This gun’s a semiautomatic. Nine millimeter bullets, sixteen cartridges to the magazine. Some people consider it a work of art. I think of it as a tool of last resort. Something I hope to God I never have to use.” He set it on the coffee table, where it lay like an evil reminder of violence. “Pick it up if you want to. It’s not very heavy.”

“I’d rather not.” She shuddered and looked away. “I’m not afraid of guns. I mean, I’ve handled rifles before. I used to go shooting with Uncle Hugh. But those were only clay pigeons.”

“Not quite the same thing.”

“No. Not quite.”

“You asked why I quit the Company.” He pointed to the Glock. “That was one of the reasons. I’ve never killed anyone, and I’m not itching to. For me, the intelligence business was a game. A challenge. The enemy was well-defined-the Russians, the East Germans. But now…” He picked up the gun and held it thoughtfully in his palm. “The world’s turned into a crazy place. I can’t tell who the enemy is anymore. And I knew that sooner or later, I’d lose my edge. I could already feel it happening.”

“Your edge?”

“It’s my age, you know. You hit forty and you don’t react the way you did as a twenty-year-old. I like to think I’ve grown smarter, instead, but what I really am is more cautious. And a lot less willing to take risks.” He looked at her. “With anyone’s life.”

She met his gaze. Looking into her eyes, he suddenly found himself wanting to babble all sorts of crazy things. To tell her that the one life he didn’t want to risk was hers. When had this stopped being a mere baby-sitting job? he wondered. When had it become something much more? A mission. An obsession.

“You frighten me, Richard,” she said.

“It’s the gun.”

“No, it’s you. All the things I don’t know about you. All the secrets you’re keeping from me.”

“From now on, I promise I’ll be absolutely honest with you.”

“But it started out as half truths. Not telling me you knew my parents. Or how they died. Don’t you see, it’s my childhood all over again! Uncle Hugh with his head full of classified secrets.” She let out a breath of frustration and looked away. “Then I see you with that…thing.”

He touched her face and gently turned it toward him. “It’s just a temporary evil,” he murmured. “Until this is over.” She kept looking at him, her eyes bright and moist, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. She wants to trust me, he thought. But she’s afraid.

He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her. Once. Twice. The second time, he felt her lips yield under his, felt her whole body seem to turn liquid at his touch. He kissed her a third time and found his hands sliding through her hair, his fingers hopelessly becoming tangled in all that raven silk. She sighed, a delicious sound of surrender, invitation, and she sagged backward onto the couch.

Suddenly he, too, was falling, tumbling on top of her. Their lips met in a touch that instantly turned electric. She reached around his neck and pulled him down hard against her-

And flinched. That blasted gun again. The holster had pushed into her breast, had served as an ugly reminder of all the things that had happened today. All the things that could still happen.

He looked at her face, at her hair flung across the cushions, at the mingling of fear and desire he saw in her eyes. Not now, he thought. Not this way.

Slowly he pulled away and they both sat up. For a moment, they remained side by side on the couch, not touching, not speaking.

She said, “I’m not ready for this. I’ll put my life in your hands, Richard. But my heart, that’s a different matter.”

“I understand.”

“Then you’ll also understand that I’m not a fan of James Bond, or anyone remotely like him. I’m not impressed by guns, or by the men who use them.” She rose to her feet and moved pointedly away from the couch. Away from him.

“So what does impress you?” he asked. “If not a man’s gun?”

She turned to him and he saw a flicker of humor cross her face. The old Beryl, he thought. Thank God she’s still there, somewhere.

“Straight talk,” she said. “That’s what impresses me.”

“Then that’s what you’ll get. I promise.”

She turned and walked to the bedroom. “We’ll see.”

Jordan was not impressed by this lawyer, no, he was not impressed at all.

The man had greasy hair and a greasy little mustache, and he spoke English with the exaggerated accent of a second-rate actor playing a stereotypical Frenchman. All those “eets” and “zees” and “Mon Dieus.” Still, Jordan reasoned, since Beryl had hired the man, he must be one of the best attorneys in Paris.

You could have fooled me, thought Jordan, gazing across the prison interview table at the smarmy M. Jarre.

“Not to worry,” said the man. “Everything will be taken care of. I am reviewing the papers now, and I believe we will soon reach an agreement to have you released.”

“What about the investigation?” asked Jordan. “Any progress?”

“Very slow. You know how it is, M. Tavistock. In a city as large as Paris, the police, they are overworked. You cannot be impatient.”

“And my uncle? Have you been able to reach him?”

“He is in complete agreement with my planned course of action.”

“Is he coming to Paris?”

“He is detained. Business keeps him at home, I am afraid.”

“At home? But I thought…” Jordan paused. Didn’t Beryl say Uncle Hugh had left Chetwynd?

M. Jarre rose from the table. “Rest assured that all that can be done, will be done. I have instructed the police to transfer you to a more comfortable cell.”

“Thank you,” said Jordan, still puzzling over the reference to Uncle Hugh. As the attorney was leaving the room, Jordan called out, “M. Jarre? Did my uncle happen to mention how his…negotiations went in London?”

The attorney glanced back. “They are still in progress, I understand. But I am sure he will tell you himself.” He gave a nod of farewell. “Good evening, M. Tavistock. I hope you find your new cell more agreeable.” He walked out.

What the dickens is going on? thought Jordan. He wondered about this all the way to his cell-his new cell. One look at the pair of shady characters seated inside and his suspicions about M. Jarre deepened. This was more agreeable quarters?

Reluctantly Jordan stepped inside and flinched at the clang of the door shutting behind him. The jailer walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

The two prisoners were staring at his fine Italian shoes, which contrasted dreadfully with the regulation prison garb he was wearing.

“Hello,” said Jordan, for want of anything else to say.

“Anglais?” asked one of the men.

Jordan swallowed. “Oui. Anglais.”

The man grunted and pointed to an empty bunk. “Yours.”

Jordan went to the bunk, set his bundle of street clothes on the foot of the bed, and stretched out on the mattress. As the two prisoners babbled away in French, Jordan kept wondering about that greasy attorney and why he had lied about Uncle Hugh. If only he could get in touch with Beryl, ask her what was going on…

He sat up at the sound of footsteps approaching the cell. It was the guard, escorting yet another prisoner-this one a balding, round-cheeked man with a definite waddle and a pleasant enough face. The sort of fellow you’d expect to see standing behind a bakery counter. Not your typical criminal, thought Jordan. But then, neither am I.

The man entered the cell and was directed to the fourth and last bunk. He sat down, looking stunned by the circumstances in which he found himself. François was his name, and from what Jordan could gather using his elementary command of French, the man’s crime had something to do with the fair sex. Solicitation, perhaps? François was not eager to talk about it. He simply sat on his bed and stared at the floor. We’re both new to this, thought Jordan.

The other two cellmates were still watching him. Sullen young men, obviously sociopathic. He’d have to keep his eye on them.

Supper came-an atrocious goulash accompanied by French bread. Jordan stared at the muddy brown gravy and thought wistfully of his supper the night before-poached salmon and roast duckling. Ah, well. One had to eat regardless of one’s circumstances. What a shame there wasn’t a bottle of wine to wash down the meal. A nice Beaujolais, perhaps, or just a common Burgundy. He took a bite of goulash and decided that even a bad bottle of wine would be welcome-anything to dull the taste of this gravy. He forced himself to eat it and made a silent vow that when he got out of here-if he got out of here-the first place he’d head for was a decent restaurant.

At midnight, the lights were turned off. Jordan stretched out on the blanket and made every effort to sleep, but found he couldn’t. For one thing, his cellmates were snoring to wake the dead. For another, the day’s events kept playing and replaying in his mind. That drive with Colette from Boulevard Saint-Germain. The way she had glanced at the rearview mirror. If only he had paid more attention to who might be following them back to the hotel. And then, against his will, he remembered the horror of finding her body in the car, remembered the stickiness of her blood on his hands.

Rage bubbled up inside him-an impotent sense of fury about her death. It’s my fault, he thought. If she hadn’t been watching over him, protecting him.

But that’s not why she died, Jordan thought suddenly. He was nowhere nearby when it happened. So why did they kill her? Did she know something, see something…

…or someone?

His thoughts veered in a new direction. Colette must have spotted a face in her rearview mirror, a face in the car that was following them. After she’d dropped Jordan off at the Ritz, maybe she’d seen that someone again. Or he’d seen her and knew she could identify him.

Which made the killer someone Colette knew. Someone she recognized.

He was so intent on piecing together the puzzle, he didn’t pay much attention to the creak of the bunk springs somewhere in the cell. Only when he heard the soft rustle of movement did he realize that one of his cellmates was approaching his bed.

It was dark; he could make out only faintly a shadowy figure moving toward him. One of those young hoods, he thought, come to rifle his jacket.

Jordan lay perfectly still and willed his breathing to remain deep and even. Let the coward think I’m still asleep. When he moves close enough, I’ll surprise him.

The shadow slipped quietly through the darkness. Six feet away, now five. Jordan ’s heart was pounding, his muscles already tensed for action. Just a little closer. A little closer. He’ll be reaching for the jacket hanging at the foot of the bed…

But the man moved instead to Jordan ’s head. There was a faint arc of shadow-an arm being raised to deliver a blow. Jordan ’s hand shot out just as his assailant attacked.

He caught the other man’s wrist and heard a grunt of surprise. His attacker came at him with his free hand. Jordan deflected the blow and scrambled off the bunk. Still gripping his attacker’s wrist, he gave it a vicious twist, eliciting a yelp of pain. The man was thrashing to get free now, but Jordan held on. He was not going to get away. Not without learning a lesson. He shoved the man backward and heard the satisfying thud of his opponent’s body hitting the cinder-block wall. The man groaned and tried to pull free. Again, Jordan shoved. This time they both toppled over onto a cot, landing on its sleeping occupant. The man in Jordan ’s grasp began to writhe, to jerk. At once Jordan realized this was no longer a man fighting to free himself. This was a man in the throes of a convulsion.

He heard the sound of footsteps and then the cell lights flashed on. A guard yelled at him in French.

Jordan released his assailant and backed away in surprise. It was the moon-faced François. The man lay sprawled on the bed, his limbs twitching, his eyes rolled back. The young hood on whom François had landed frantically rolled away from beneath the body and stared in horror at the bizarre display.

François gave a last grunt of agony and fell still.

For a few seconds, everyone watched him, expecting him to move again. He didn’t.

The guard gave a shout for assistance. Another guard came running. Yelling at the prisoners to stand back, they rushed into the cell and examined the motionless François. Slowly they straightened and looked at Jordan.

“Est mort,” one of them murmured.

“That-that’s impossible!” said Jordan. “How can he be dead? I didn’t hit him that hard!”

The guards merely stared at him. The other two prisoners regarded Jordan with new respect and backed away to the far side of the cell.

“Let me look at him!” demanded Jordan. He pushed past the guards and knelt by François. One glance at the body and he knew they were right. François was dead.

Jordan shook his head. “I don’t understand…”

“Monsieur, you come with us,” said one of the guards.

“I couldn’t have killed him!”

“But you see for yourself he is dead.”

Jordan suddenly focused on a fine line of blood trickling down François’s cheek. He bent closer. Only then did he spot the needle-thin dart impaled in the dead man’s scalp. It was almost invisible among the salt-and-pepper hairs of his temple.

“What in blazes…?” muttered Jordan. Swiftly he glanced around the floor for a syringe, a dart gun-whatever might have injected that needle point. He saw nothing on the floor or on the bed. Then he looked down at the dead man’s hand and saw something clutched in his left fist. He pried open the frozen fingers and the object slid out and landed on the bedcovers.

A ballpoint pen.

At once he was hauled back and shoved toward the cell door. “Go,” said the guard. “Walk!”

“Where?”

“Where you can hurt no one.” The guard directed Jordan into the corridor and locked the cell door. Jordan caught a fleeting glimpse of his cellmates, watching him in awe, and then he was hustled down the hallway and into a private cell, this one obviously reserved for the most dangerous prisoners. Double-barred, no windows, no furniture, only a concrete slab on which to lie. And a light blazing down relentlessly from the ceiling.

Jordan sank onto the slab and waited. For what? he wondered. Another attack? Another crisis? How could this nightmare possibly get any worse?

An hour passed. He couldn’t sleep, not with that light shining overhead. Footsteps and the clank of keys alerted him to a visitor. He looked up to see a guard and a well-dressed gentleman with a briefcase.

“M. Tavistock?” said the gentleman.

“Since there’s no one else here,” muttered Jordan, rising to his feet, “I’m afraid that must be me.”

The door was unlocked, and the man with the briefcase entered. He glanced around in dismay at the Spartan cell. “These conditions…Outrageous,” he said.

“Yes. And I owe it all to my wonderful attorney,” said Jordan.

“But I am your attorney.” The man held out his hand in greeting. “Henri Laurent. I would have come sooner, but I was attending the opera. I received M. Vane’s message only an hour ago. He said it was an emergency.”

Jordan shook his head in confusion. “Vane? Reggie Vane sent you?”

“Yes. Your sister requested my immediate services. And M. Vane-”

“Beryl hired you? Then who the hell was…” Jordan paused as the bizarre events suddenly made sense. Horrifying sense. “M. Laurent,” said Jordan, “a few hours ago, there was a lawyer here to see me. A M. Jarre.”

Laurent frowned. “But I was not told of another attorney.”

“He claimed my sister hired him.”

“But I spoke to M. Vane. He told me Mlle Tavistock requested my services. What did you say was the other attorney’s name?”

“Jarre.”

Laurent shook his head. “I am not familiar with any such criminal attorney.”

Jordan sat for a moment in stunned silence. Slowly he raised his head and looked at Laurent. “I think you’d better contact Reggie Vane. At once.”

“But why?”

“They’ve already tried to kill me once tonight.” Jordan shook his head. “If this keeps up, M. Laurent, by morning I may be quite dead.”