In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (24 page)

“Bernard and Madeline Tavistock. They were shot to death in a garret in Pigalle.”

“But that was a murder and suicide. I saw the report.”

“Or were they both murdered? By Delphi?” Leitner looked at Hugh. “I gave no such order. And that is the truth.”

“Meaning some of what you told us is
not
the truth?” Richard probed.

Leitner took a deep breath of oxygen and painfully 220

Tess Gerritsen

wheezed it out. “Truth, lies,” he whispered. “What does it matter now?” He sank back in his chair and looked at the commandant. “I wish to rest. Take these people away.”

“Herr Leitner,” said Richard, “I’ll ask this one last time.

Is Delphi really dead?”

Leitner met his gaze with one so steady, so unflinching, it seemed that surely he was about to tell the truth. But the answer he gave was puzzling at best.

“Dormant,” he said. “That is the word I would use.”

“So he’s not dead.”

“For your purposes,” Leitner said with a smile, “he is.”
Eleven

“A sleeper. That’s what Delphi must be,” said Richard.

They had not dared discuss the matter in the limousine—

no telling whom their driver really worked for. But here, in a noisy restaurant, with waiters whisking back and forth, Richard could finally spell out his theories. “I’m sure that’s what he meant.”

“A sleeper?” asked Beryl.

“Someone they recruit years in advance,” said her uncle.

“As a young adult. The person may be kept inactive for years. They live a normal life, try to gain influence in some trusted position. And then the signal’s sent. And the sleeper’s activated.”

“So that’s what he meant by dormant,” said Beryl. “Not dead. But not active, either.”

“Precisely.”

“For this sleeper to be of any use to them, he’d have to be in a position of influence. Or close to it,” said Beryl thoughtfully.

“Which describes Stephen Sutherland to a T,” said 222

Tess Gerritsen

Richard. “American ambassador. Access to all security data.”

“It also describes Philippe St. Pierre,” said Hugh.

“Minister of Finance. In line for French prime minister—”

“And extremely vulnerable to blackmail,” added Beryl, thinking of Nina and Philippe. And of Anthony, the son born of their illicit affair.

“I’ll contact Daumier,” said Hugh. “Have St. Pierre vetted again.”

“While he’s at it,” said Richard, “ask him to vet Nina.”

“Nina?”

“Talk about positions of influence! An ambassador’s wife. Mistress to St. Pierre. She could’ve heard secrets from both sides of the bed.”

Hugh shook his head. “Considering her double digit IQ, Nina Sutherland’s the last person I’d expect to work for Intelligence.”

“And the one person who’d get away with it.” Hugh glanced around impatiently for the waiter. “We have to leave for Paris at once,” he said, and slapped enough marks on the table to pay for their coffees. “There’s no telling what’s happening to Jordan.”

“If it is Nina, do you think she could get at Jordan?” asked Beryl.

“All these years, I’ve overlooked Nina Sutherland,” said Hugh. “I’m not about to make the same mistake now.” Daumier met them at Orly Airport. “I have reexamined the security files on Philippe and Nina,” he said as they rode together in his limousine. “St. Pierre is clean. His record is unblemished. If he is the sleeper, we have no evidence of it.”

In Their Footsteps

223

“And Nina?”

Daumier gave a deep sigh. “Our dear Nina presents a problem. There was an item that was not addressed in her earlier vetting. She was eighteen when she first appeared on the London stage. A small part, quite insignificant, but it launched her acting career. At that time, she had an affair with one of her fellow actors—an East German by the name of Berte Klausner. He claimed he was a defector. But three years later, he vanished from England and was never heard from again.”

“A recruiter?” asked Richard.

“Possibly.”

“How on earth did this little affair make it past Nina’s vetting?” asked Beryl.

Daumier shrugged. “It was noted when Nina and Sutherland were married. By then she’d retired from the theater to become a diplomat’s wife. She didn’t serve in any official capacity. As a rule, security checks on wives—

especially if they are American—are not as demanding. So Nina slipped through.”

“Then you have evidence of possible recruitment,” said Beryl. “And she could have had access to NATO secrets by way of her husband. But you can’t prove she’s Delphi.

Nor can you prove she’s a murderer.”

“True,” admitted Daumier.

“I doubt you’ll get her to confess, either,” said Richard.

“Nina was once an actress. She could probably brazen her way through anything.”

“That is why I suggest the following action,” said Daumier. “A trap. Tempt her into making a move.”

“With what bait?” asked Richard.

“Jordan.”

224

Tess Gerritsen

“That’s out of the question!” said Beryl.

“He has already agreed to it. This afternoon, he will be released from prison. We move him to a hotel where he will attempt to be conspicuous.”

Hugh laughed. “Not much of a stretch for our Jordan.”

“My men will be stationed at strategic points in the hotel. If—and when—an attack occurs, we will be prepared.”

“Things could go wrong,” said Beryl. “He could be hurt—”

“He could be hurt in prison, as well,” said Daumier. “At least this may provide us with answers.”

“And possibly a dead body.”

“Have you a better suggestion?”

Beryl glanced at Richard, then at her uncle. They were both silent.
I can’t believe they’re agreeing to this,
she thought.

She looked at Daumier. “What do you want
me
to do?”

“You’d complicate things, Beryl,” said Hugh. “It’s better for you to stay out of the picture.”

“The Vanes’ house has excellent security,” said Daumier. “Reggie and Helena have already agreed that you should stay with them.”

“But I haven’t agreed,” said Beryl.

“Beryl.” It was Richard. He spoke quietly. Unbend-ingly. “Jordan will be protected from all angles. They’ll be ready for the attack. This time, nothing will go wrong.”

“Can you guarantee it? Can any of you?” There was silence.

“Nothing can be guaranteed, Beryl,” said Daumier quietly. “We have to take this chance. It may be the only way to catch Delphi.”

In Their Footsteps

225

In frustration, she looked out the window, thinking of the options. Realizing there were none—not if any of this was to be resolved—she said softly, “I’ll agree to it on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

She looked at Richard. “I want you to be with him. I trust you, Richard. If you’re watching Jordan, I know he’ll be all right.”

Richard nodded. “I’ll be right by his side.”

“Who else knows about this plan?” asked Hugh.

“Just a few of my people,” said Daumier. “I was careful not to let any of this leak out to Philippe St. Pierre.”

“What do Reggie and Helena know?” asked Beryl.

“Only that you need a safe place to stay. They are doing this as a favor to old friends.”

As an old friend was exactly the way Beryl was greeted upon arrival at the Vanes’ residence. As soon as the gates closed behind the limousine, and they were inside the high walls of the compound, she was swept into the comfort of their home. It all seemed so safe, so familiar: the English wallpaper, the tray of tea and biscuits on the end table, the vases of flowers perfuming the rooms. Surely nothing could hurt her here….

There was scarcely time to say goodbye to Richard.

While Daumier and Hugh waited outside in the car, Richard pulled Beryl into his arms. They shared a last embrace, a last kiss.

“You’ll be perfectly safe here,” he whispered. “Don’t leave the compound for any reason.”

“
You’re
the one I worry about. You and Jordan.”

“I won’t let anything happen to him.” He tipped up her chin and pressed his lips to hers. “And that,” he murmured, 226

Tess Gerritsen

“is a promise.” He touched her face and grinned, a confident grin that made her believe anything was possible.

Then he walked away.

She stood on the doorstep and watched the car drive out of the compound, saw the iron gates close shut behind it.

I’m with you,
she thought.
Whatever happens, Richard, I’m
right there beside you.

“Come, Beryl,” said Reggie, affectionately draping his arm around her shoulders. “I have an instinct about these things. And I’m positive everything will turn out just fine.” She looked up at Reggie’s smiling face.
Thank God for
old friends,
she thought. And she let him lead her back into the house.

Jordon was down on all fours in his jail cell, rattling a pair of dice in his hand. His cellmates, the two shaggy, ripe-smelling ruffians—or could that odor be Jordan’s?—

hovered behind him, stamping their feet and yelling.

Jordan threw the dice; they tumbled across the floor and clattered against the wall. Two fives.

“Zut alors!”
groaned the cellmates.

Jordan raised his fist in triumph.
“Oh, là là!”
Only then did he see his visitors staring at him through the bars.

“Uncle Hugh!” he said, jumping to his feet. “Am I glad to see you!”

Hugh’s disbelieving gaze scanned the interior of the cell. Over the cot was draped a red-checked tablecloth, laid out with platters of sliced beef, poached salmon, a bowl of grapes. A bottle of wine sat chilling in a plastic bucket.

And on a chair beside the bed was neatly stacked a half dozen leather-bound books and a vase of roses. “This is a prison?” quipped Hugh.

In Their Footsteps

227

“Oh, I’ve spruced it up a bit,” said Jordan. “The food was wretched, so I had some delivered. Brought in the reading material, as well. But,” he said with a sigh, “I’m afraid it’s still very much a prison.” He tapped the bars. “As you can see.” He looked at Daumier. “So, are we ready?”

“If you are still willing.”

“Haven’t much of a choice, have I? Considering the alternative.”

The guard unlocked the door and Jordan stepped out, carrying his bundle of street clothes. But he couldn’t walk away without a proper goodbye to his cellmates. He turned and found Fofo and Leroi staring at him mournfully.

“Afraid this is it, fellows,” he said. “It’s been—” he thought a moment, struggling to come up with the right adjective

“—a uniquely fragrant experience.” On impulse, he tossed his tailored linen jacket to the disbelieving Fofo. “I think that might fit you,” he said. “Wear it in good health.” Then, with a farewell wave, he followed his companions out of the building and into Daumier’s limousine.

They drove him to the Ritz—same floor, different room.

A fashionably appropriate place for an assassination, he thought wryly as he came out of the shower and dressed in a fresh suit.

“Bulletproof windows,” said Daumier. “Microphones in the front room. And there’ll be two men, stationed across the hall. Also, you should have this.” Daumier reached into his briefcase and pulled out an automatic pistol. He handed it to Jordan, who regarded the weapon with a raised eyebrow.

“Worst-case scenario? I’ll actually have to defend myself?”

“A precaution. You know how to use one?” 228

Tess Gerritsen

“I suppose I can muddle through,” said Jordan, expertly sliding in the ammunition clip. He looked at Richard.

“Now what happens?”

“Have a meal in the restaurant downstairs,” said Richard. “Take your time, make sure you’re seen by as many employees as possible. Leave a big tip, be conspicuous. And return to your room.”

“And then?”

“We wait and see who comes knocking.”

“What if no one does?”

“They will,” said Daumier grimly. “I guarantee it.” Amiel Foch received the call a mere thirty minutes later.

It was the hotel maid—the same woman who’d been so useful a week before, when he’d needed access to the Tavistocks’ suites.

“He is back,” she said. “The Englishman.”

“Jordan Tavistock? But he’s in prison—”

“I have just seen him in the hotel. Room 315. He seems to be alone.”

Foch grimaced in amazement. Perhaps those Tavistock family connections had come through. Now he was a free man—and a vulnerable target. “I need to get into his room,” said Foch. “Tonight.”

“I cannot do it.”

“You did it before. I’ll pay double.” The maid gave a snort of disgust. “It’s still not enough.

I could lose my job.”

“I’ll pay more than enough. Just get me the passkey again.”

There was a silence. Then the woman said, “First, you leave the envelope. Then, I get you the key.”
In Their Footsteps

229

“Agreed,” said Foch, and hung up.

He immediately made a call to Anthony Sutherland.

“Jordan Tavistock is out of prison,” he said. “He’s taken a room at the Ritz. Do you still wish me to proceed?”

“This time, I want it done right. Even if I have to su-pervise it myself. When do we move?”

“I do not think it is wise—”

“When do we move?”

Foch swallowed his angry response. It was a mistake letting Sutherland take part. The boy was just a voyeur, eager to experience the ultimate power—the taking of a life. Foch had sensed it years ago, from the day they’d first met. He’d known just by looking at him that he’d be addicted to thrills, to intensity, be it sexual or otherwise.

Now the young man wished to experience something novel. Murder. This was a mistake, surely, a mistake….

“Remember who’s paying your fees, M. Foch,” said Sutherland. “And outrageous fees, too. I’m the one who makes the decisions, not you.”

Even if they are stupid, dangerous decisions?

wondered Foch. At last he said, “It will be tonight. We wait for him to sleep.”

“Tonight,” agreed Sutherland. “I’ll be there.” At eleven-thirty, Jordon turned off the lights in his hotel room, stuffed three pillows under the bedspread, and fluffed it all up so that it vaguely resembled a human shape. Then he took his position by the door, next to Richard. In the darkness they sat and waited for something to happen.