In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (20 page)

“Then that’s what I’ll have to get. If you could make a few calls, speed things up.”

“No guarantees.”

“Understood. Oh, and one more thing,” said Richard.

“We’ve been trying to get ahold of Hugh Tavistock. It seems he’s vanished. Have you heard anything about it?”

“No. But I will check my sources. Anything else?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Sakaroff grunted. “I was afraid you would say that.” Richard hung up. Stepping away from the pay phone, he glanced around at the subway platform. He saw nothing suspicious, only the usual stream of nighttime com-muters—couples holding hands, students with backpacks.

The train for Creteil-Préfecture rolled into the station.

Richard stepped onto it, rode it for three stops, then got off.

He lingered on the next platform for a few minutes, sur-184

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veying the faces. No one looked familiar. Satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he boarded the Bobigny-Picasso train and rode it to Gare de l’Est. There he stepped off, walked out of the station, and headed briskly back to the
pension.

He found Beryl still awake and sitting in an armchair by the window. She’d turned off all the lights, and in the darkness she was little more than a silhouette against the glow of the night sky. He shut and bolted the door.

“Beryl?” he said. “Everything all right?” He thought he saw her nod. Or was it just the quivering of her chin as she took a breath and let out a soft, slow sigh?

“We’ll be safe here,” he said. “For tonight, at least.”

“And tomorrow?” came the murmured question.

“We’ll worry about that when the time comes.” She leaned back against the chair cushions and stared straight ahead. “Is this how it was for you, Richard?

Working for Intelligence? Living day to day, not daring to think about tomorrows?”

He moved slowly to her chair. “Sometimes it was like this. Sometimes I wasn’t sure there’d be a tomorrow for me.”

“Do you miss that life?” She looked at him. He couldn’t see her face, but he felt her watching him.

“I left that life behind.”

“But do you miss it? The excitement? That lovely promise of violence?”

“Beryl. Beryl, please.” He reached for her hand; it was like a lump of ice in his grasp.

“Didn’t you enjoy it, just a little?”

“No.” He paused. Then softly he said, “Yes. For a short
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time. When I was very young. Before it turned all too real.”

“The way it did tonight. Tonight, it was real for me.

When I saw that man lying there…” She swallowed. “This afternoon, you see, we had lunch together, the three of us.

They had the veal. And a bottle of wine, and ice cream.

And I got them to laugh….” She looked away.

“It seems like a game, at first,” said Richard. “A make-believe war. But then you realize that the bullets are real.

So are the people.” He held her hand in his and wished he could warm it, warm her. “That’s what happened to me.

All of a sudden, it got too real. And there was a woman….” She sat very still, waiting, listening. “Someone you loved?” she asked softly.

“No, not someone I loved. But someone I liked, very much. It was in Berlin, before the Wall came down. We were trying to bring over a defector to the West. And my partner, she got trapped on the wrong side. The guard spotted her. Fired.” He lifted Beryl’s hand to his lips and kissed it, held it.

“She…didn’t make it?”

He shook his head. “And it wasn’t a game of make-believe any longer. I could see her body lying in the no-man’s-zone.

And I couldn’t reach her. So I had to leave her there, for the other side….” He released her hand. He moved to the window and looked out at the lights twinkling over Paris.

“That’s when I left the business. I didn’t want another death on my conscience. I didn’t want to feel…responsible.” He turned to her. In the faint glow from the city, her face looked pale, almost luminous. “That’s what makes this so hard for me, Beryl. Knowing what could happen if I make a mistake.

Knowing that your life depends on what I do next.” 186

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For a long time, Beryl sat very still, watching him.

Feeling his gaze through the darkness. That spark of attraction crackled like fire between them as it always did. But tonight there was something more, something that went beyond desire.

She rose from the chair. Though he didn’t move, she could feel the fever of his gaze as she glided toward him, could hear the sharp intake of his breath as she reached up and touched his beard-roughened face. “Richard,” she whispered, “I want you.”

At once she was swept into his arms. No other embrace, no other kiss, had ever stolen her breath the way this one did.
We are like that couple in bronze,
she thought.
Starved
for each other. Devouring each other.

But this was a feast of love, not destruction.

She whimpered and her head fell back as his mouth slid to her throat. She could feel every stroke of his hands through the silky fabric of her dress. Oh Lord, if he could do this to her with her clothes on, what lovely torment would he unleash on her naked flesh? Already her breasts were tingling under his touch, her nipples turned to tight buds.

He unzipped her dress and slowly eased it off her shoulders.

It hissed past her hips and slid into a silken ripple on the floor. He, too, traced the length of her torso, his lips moving slowly down her throat, her breasts, her belly. Shuddering with pleasure, she gripped his hair and moaned, “No fair…”

“All’s fair,” he murmured, easing her stockings down her thighs. “In love and war….”

By the time he had her fully undressed, by the time he’d shed his own clothes, she was beyond words, beyond
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protest. She’d lost all sense of time and space; there was only the darkness, and the warmth of his touch, and the hunger shuddering deep inside her. She scarcely realized how they found their way to the bed. Eagerly she sank backward onto the mattress, and heard the squeak of the springs, the quickening duet of their breathing. Then she pulled him down against her, drew him onto and into her.

Starved for each other,
she thought as he captured her mouth under his, invaded it, explored it.
Devouring each
other.

And like two who were famished, they feasted.

He reached for her hands, and their fingers entwined in a tighter and tighter knot as their bodies joined, thrusted, exulted. Even as her last shudders of desire faded away, he was still gripping her hands.

Slowly he released them and cradled her face instead.

He pressed gentle kisses to her lips, her eyelids. “Next time,” he whispered, “we’ll take it slower. I won’t be in such a hurry, I promise.”

She smiled at him. “I have no complaints.”

“None?”

“None at all. But next time…”

“Yes?”

She twisted her body beneath him, and they tumbled across the sheets until her body was lying atop his. “Next time,” she murmured, lowering her lips to his chest, “it’s my turn to do the tormenting.”

He groaned as her mouth slid hotly down to his belly.

“We’re taking turns?”

“You’re the one who said it. All’s fair…”

“…in love and war.” He laughed. And he buried his hands in her hair.

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* * *

They met in the usual place, the warehouse behind Galerie Annika. Against the walls were stacked dozens of crates containing the paintings and sculptures of would-be artists, most of them no doubt talentless amateurs hoping for a spot on a gallery wall. But who can really say which is art and which is rubbish? thought Amiel Foch, gazing around at the room full of crated dreams. To me, it is all the same. Pigment and canvas.

Foch turned as the warehouse door swung open. “The bomb went off as planned,” he said. “The job is done.”

“The job is
not
done,” came the reply. Anthony Sutherland emerged from the night and stepped into the warehouse. The thud of the door shutting behind him echoed across the bare concrete floor. “I wanted the woman neu-tralized. She is still alive. So is Richard Wolf.” Foch stared at Anthony. “It was a delayed fuse, set off two minutes after entry! It could not have ignited on its own.”

“Nevertheless, they are still alive. Thus far, your record of success is abysmal. You could not finish off even that stupid creature, Marie St. Pierre.”

“I will see to Mme St. Pierre—”

“Forget her! It’s the Tavistocks I want dead! Lord, they’re like cats! Nine bloody lives.”

“Jordan Tavistock is still in custody. I can arrange—”

“Jordan will keep for a while. He’s harmless where he is. But Beryl has to be taken care of soon. My guess is that she and Wolf are leaving Paris. Find them.”

“How?”

“You’re the professional.”

“So is Richard Wolf,” said Foch. “He will be difficult to trace. I cannot perform miracles.”
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There was a long silence. Foch watched the other man pace among the crates, and he thought,
This boy is nothing
like his mother. This one has the ruthlessness to see things
through. And the nerve not to flinch at the consequences.

“I cannot search blindly,” said Foch. “I must have a lead.

Will they go to England, perhaps?”

“No, not England.” Anthony suddenly stopped pacing.

“Greece. The island of Paros.”

“You mean…the Rideau family?”

“Wolf will try to contact him. I’m sure of it.” Anthony let out a snort of disgust. “My mother should have taken care of Rideau years ago. Well, there’s still time to do it.” Foch nodded. “I leave for Paros.”

After Foch had left, Anthony Sutherland stood alone in the warehouse, gazing about at the crates. So many hopes and dreams locked away in here, he reflected. But not mine. Mine are on display for all to see and admire. The work of these poor slobs may molder into eternity. But I am the toast of Paris.

It took more than talent, more than luck. It took the help of Philippe St. Pierre’s cold hard cash. Cash that would instantly dry up if his mother was ever exposed.

My father Philippe,
thought Anthony with a laugh.
Still
unsuspecting after all these years. I have to hand it to my
lovely mother—she knows how to keep them under her
spell.

But feminine wiles could take one only so far.

If only Nina had cleaned up this matter years ago.

Instead, she’d left a live witness, had even paid the man to leave the country. And as long as that witness lived, he was like a time bomb, ticking away on some lonely Greek island.

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Anthony left the warehouse, walked down the alley, and climbed into his car. It was time to go home. Mustn’t keep his mother awake; Nina did worry about him so. He tried never to distress her. She was, after all, the only person in this world who really loved him. Understood him.

Like peas in a pod, Mother and I,
he thought with a smile. He started his car and roared off into the night.

They came to escort him from his cell at 9:00 a.m. No explanations, just the clink of keys in the door, and a gruff command in French.

Now what? wondered Jordan as he followed the guard up the corridor to the visitation room. He stepped inside, blinking at the glare of overhead fluorescent lights.

Reggie Vane was waiting in the room. At once he waved Jordan to a chair. “Sit down. You look bloody awful, my boy.”

“I feel bloody awful,” said Jordan, and sank into the chair.

Reggie sat down, too. Leaning forward, he whispered conspiratorially, “I brought what you asked for. There’s a nice little
charcuterie
around the corner. Lovely duckling terrine. And a few
baguettes.
” He shoved a paper bag under the table.
“Bon appétit.”
Jordan glanced in the bag and gave a sigh of pleasure.

“Reggie, old man, you’re a saint.”

“Had some nice leek tarts to go with it, but the cop at the front desk insisted on helping himself.”

“What about wine? Did you manage a decent bottle or two?”

Reggie shoved a second bag under the table, eliciting a
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musical clink from the contents. “But of course. A Beaujolais and a rather nice Pinot noir. Screw-top caps, I’m afraid—they wouldn’t allow a corkscrew. And you’ll have to hand over the bottles as soon as they’re empty. Glass, you know.”

Jordan regarded the Beaujolais with a look of sheer contentment. “How on earth did you manage it, Reggie?”

“Just scratched a few itchy palms. Oh, and those books you wanted—Helena will bring them by this afternoon.”

“Capital!” Jordan folded the bag over the bottles. “If one must be in prison, one might as well make it a civi-lized experience.” He looked up at Reggie. “Now, what’s the latest news? I’ve had no word from Beryl since yesterday.”

Reggie sighed. “I was dreading that question.”

“What’s happened?”

“I think she and Wolf have left Paris. After the explosion last night—”

“What?”

“I heard it from Daumier this morning. The flat where Beryl was staying was bombed last night. Two French agents killed. Wolf and your sister are fine, but they’re dropping out for a while, leaving the country.” Jordan gave a sigh of relief. Thank God Beryl was out of the picture. It was one less problem to worry about.

“What about the explosion?” he asked. “What does Daumier say about it?”

“His people feel there are similarities.”

“To what?”

“The bombing of the St. Pierre residence.” Jordan stared at him. “But that was a terrorist attack.

Cosmic Solidarity or some crazy group—” 192

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“Apparently bombs are sort of like fingerprints. The way they’re put together identifies their maker. And both bombs had identical wiring patterns. Something like that.” Jordan shook his head. “Why would terrorists attack Beryl? Or me? We’re civilians.”