In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (50 page)

Twelve

At twelve-fifteen Veronica Cairncross left her London flat, climbed into a taxi and was driven to Sloane Street where she had lunch at a trendy little café. Afterward she strolled on foot toward Brompton Road, in the general direction of Harrods.

She took her sweet time in one shop to purchase lingerie, and in another shop to try on a half-dozen pairs of shoes.

A disguised Clea observed all of this from a distance and with a growing sense of exasperation. Not only did this exercise seem more and more pointless, but also her long black wig was itchy, her sunglasses kept slipping down the bridge of her nose and her new short-heeled pumps were killing her. Perhaps she should have slipped into that same shoe shop where Veronica had spent so much time and picked up a pair of sneakers for herself. Not that she could have afforded anything in there. Veronica clearly frequented only the priciest establishments.
What is it like to be so idle
and so rich?
Clea wondered as she trailed the elegant figure up Brompton Road.
Doesn’t the woman ever get tired of
constant partying and shopping?

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Oh, sure. The poor thing must be bored to tears.

She followed Veronica into Harrods. Inside she lingered a discreet distance away and watched Veronica sample perfumes, browse among scarves and handbags. Two hours later, loaded down with purchases, Veronica strolled out and hailed a taxi.

Clea scurried out after her and after a few frantic glances, spotted another taxi, this one with tinted windows. She climbed in.

Jordan was waiting in the back seat.

“There she goes,” said Clea. “Stay with her.” Their driver, a grinning Sikh whom Jordan had hired for the day, expertly threaded the taxi into traffic and maintained a comfortable two-car distance behind Veronica’s vehicle.

“Anything interesting happen?” asked Jordan.

“Not a thing. Lord, that woman can shop. She’s way out of my league. Any trouble staying with me?”

“We were right behind you.”

“I don’t think she noticed a thing. Not me or the taxi.” Sighing, Clea sat back and pulled off the wig. “This is getting us nowhere. So far all we’ve found out is that she has time and money on her hands. And a lot of both.”

“Be patient. I know Ronnie, and when she gets nervous, she spends money like water. It’s her way of blowing off stress. Judging by all the packages she was carrying, she’s under a lot of stress right now.”

Veronica’s taxi had turned onto Kensington. They followed, skirting Kensington Gardens, and headed south-west.

“Now where’s she going?” Clea sighed.

“Odd. She’s not headed back to the flat.”
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Veronica’s taxi led them out of the shopping district, into a neighborhood of business and office buildings. Only when the taxi stopped and let Veronica off at the curb did Jordan give a murmur of comprehension.

“Of course,” he said. “Biscuits.”

“What?”

“It’s Oliver’s company. Cairncross Biscuits.” Jordan nodded at the sign on the building. “She’s here to see her husband.”

“Hardly a suspicious thing to do.”

“Yes, it seems quite innocent, doesn’t it?”

“Are you implying otherwise?”

“I’m just thinking about Oliver Cairncross. The firm’s been in his family for generations. Appointment to the queen and all that….”

She studied Jordan’s finely chiseled face as he mulled it over.
Such eyelashes he has,
she thought. No man had a right to such long eyelashes. Or such a kissable mouth. She could watch him for hours and never tire of the way his face crooked up on one side when he was thinking hard.

Oh, Jordan. How I’m going to miss you when this is
over….

“Cairncross biscuits are internationally known,” said Jordan. “They’re shipped all over the world.”

“So?”

“So I wonder which firm is used to transport all those cookie crates. And what’s really inside them.”

“Uzis, you mean?” Clea shook her head. “I thought Oliver was supposed to be the innocent party. The cuck-olded husband. Now you’re saying
he’s
the one in league with Van Weldon? Not Veronica?”

“Why not both of them?”

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“She comes out again,” said their driver.

Sure enough, Veronica had reappeared. She climbed back into her taxi.

“You wish me to follow her?” asked the Sikh.

“Yes. Don’t lose her.”

They didn’t. They stayed on Veronica’s tail all the way to Regent’s Park. There Veronica alighted from the taxi and began to walk across Chester Terrace, toward the Tea House.

“Back into action.” Clea sighed. “I hope it’s not another two-hour hike.” She pulled on a new wig—this one shoulder length and brown—and climbed out of the cab.

“How do I look?”

“Irresistible.”

She leaned inside and kissed him on the mouth. “You, too.”

“Be careful.”

“I always am.”

“No, I mean it.” He pulled her around by the wrist. His grip was insistent, reluctant to let go. “If there was any other way I could do it instead of you, I would—”

“She knows you too well, Jordan. She’d spot you in a second. Me, she’d scarcely recognize.”

“Just don’t let your guard down. Promise me.” She gave him a breezy grin that masked all the fears she had rattling inside. “And you promise not to vanish.”

“I’ll keep you right in view.”

Still grinning, Clea turned and crossed Chester Terrace.

Veronica was well ahead of her. She seemed to be merely wandering, strolling toward Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, its season of bloom now past. There she lingered, every so often glancing at her watch. Oh, Lord, not waiting for another lover, Clea thought.

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Without warning Veronica turned and began walking in Clea’s direction.

Clea ducked under an arbor and pretended to inspect the label on the climbing rose. Veronica didn’t even glance her way, but headed toward the Tea House.

After a moment Clea followed her.

Veronica had seated herself at a table, and she had a menu propped open in front of her. Clea took a seat two tables behind Veronica and sat facing the other way. At this hour the Tea House was relatively quiet, and she could hear Veronica’s whiney voice ordering a pot of Darjeeling and iced cakes.
Now I’ll waste another hour,
thought Clea,
waiting for that silly woman to have her tea.

She glanced toward Cumberland Terrace. Sure enough, there was Jordan sitting on a bench, his face hidden behind a newspaper.

The waiter approached. Clea ordered a pot of Earl Grey and watercress sandwiches. Her tea had just arrived when a man crossed the dining terrace toward Veronica.

Clea caught only a glimpse of him as he moved past her table. He was fair haired, blonder than Jordan, with wide shoulders and a powerful frame—just the sort of hunk Veronica would probably go gaga over. Clea felt a spurt of irritation that yet another hour would be wasted while Veronica made cow eyes at her latest admirer.

“Mr. Trott,” Veronica said crossly. “You’re late. I’ve already ordered.”

Clea heard the man’s voice, speaking behind her, and in the midst of pouring tea, her hand froze.

“I have no time for tea,” he said. “I came only to confirm the arrangements.”

That was all he said, but his tone of command, the 470

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English coarsened by some unidentifiable accent, was enough to make Clea suck in a breath in panic. She didn’t dare glance back over her shoulder; she didn’t dare let him see her face.

She didn’t need to see
his;
his voice was all she needed to recognize him.

She’d heard it before, floating above the sound of lapping Mediterranean waves and the growl of a boat’s engine. She remembered how that same voice had cut through the darkness. Just before the bullets began to fly.

All her instincts were screaming at her to lurch from this table and flee.
But I can’t,
she thought.
I can’t do
anything to draw his attention.

So she sat unmoving, her hands gripping the tablecloth.

So acutely did she sense the man’s presence behind her, she was surprised that he didn’t seem at all aware of
her.

Her heartbeat thudding, she sat motionless at the table.

Trott watched Veronica light a cigarette and take in an unhurried drag of smoke. She seemed not in the least bit worried, which only proved what a stupid bitch she was, he decided. She thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks her husband’s too important to our operations. What she doesn’t know is that we’ve already found a replacement for Oliver Cairncross.

Casually she exhaled a cloud of smoke. “The cargo’s all there. Nothing missing. I told you it would be, didn’t I?”

“Mr. Van Weldon is not pleased.”

“Why, because I borrowed one of his precious little trinkets? It was only for a few weeks.” Calmly she exhaled another cloud of smoke. “We’ve been stuck with your
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bloody crates for months now—at no small risk to ourselves. Why shouldn’t I borrow what’s in them? I got the dagger back, didn’t I?”

“This is not the time or place to speak of it,” cut in Trott.

He passed a newspaper across the table to Veronica. “The information is circled. We’ll expect it to be ready and waiting.”

“At your beck and call, your highness,” said Veronica, her voice dripping with mockery.

Trott pushed his chair back, preparing to leave. “What about compensation?” asked Veronica. “For all our trouble?”

“You’ll have it. After all items are accounted for.”

“Of course they will be,” said Veronica. She blew out another cloud of smoke. “We’re not fools, you know.” Clea heard the man’s chair scrape back. He was rising to his feet. Instinctively she huddled closer to the table, afraid to be noticed. She forced herself to take a sip of tea, to pretend no interest whatsoever in the monster standing behind her.

When she heard him walk away, she went almost limp with relief. She glanced back.

Veronica was still sitting at the table, gazing down at a newspaper. After a moment she ripped off half a page, folded it and stuffed it in her purse. Then she, too, rose and left.

It took a while before Clea’s nerves steadied enough for her to stand. Veronica was already walking out of the park.

Clea started to follow, but her legs were shaking too hard.

She took a few steps, faltered and stopped.

By then Jordan had realized something was wrong. She 472

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heard his footsteps, and then his arm was around her waist, supporting her, steadying her.

“We can’t stay here,” she whispered. “Have to hide—”

“What happened?”

“It was him—”

“Who?”

“The man from the
Cosima!
” Wildly she glanced around, her gaze sweeping the park for sight of the blond man.

“Clea, what man?”

She focused at last on Jordan. His gaze seemed to steady her. He held her face in his hand, the pressure of his fingers warming through her numbness.

“Tell me,” he said.

She swallowed. “I’ve heard his voice before. The night the
Havelaar
went down. I was in the water, swimming alongside the lifeboat. He was the one who—the one who—” She blinked, and tears spilled down her face.

Softly she finished, “The one who ordered his men to shoot.”

Jordan stared at her. “The man with Veronica? You’re absolutely certain?”

“He passed by my table. I recognized his voice. I’m sure it was him.”

Jordan gave a quick glance around the park. Then he pulled Clea close, wrapping his arm protectively around her shoulder. “Let’s get into the car.”

“Wait.” She went back to Veronica’s table and snatched up the discarded newspaper.

“What’s that for?” asked Jordan.

“Veronica left it. I want to see what she tore out.” Their taxi was waiting. As soon as they climbed in the
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back seat, Jordan ordered, “Move. See that we’re not followed.”

The Sikh driver grinned at them in the mirror. “A most interesting day,” he declared, and sent the cab screeching into traffic.

Jordan draped his jacket over Clea’s shoulders and took her hands in his. “All right,” he coaxed gently. “Tell me what happened.”

Clea took a shaky breath and sank back against the seat.

No one was following them. Jordan’s hand, warm and steady, seemed to radiate enough courage for them both.

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“No. They were speaking too softly. And I was afraid to get any closer. After I realized who he was…” She shuddered, thinking of the man’s voice. In her nightmares she’d heard that same voice drifting across the black Mediterranean waters. She’d remember the explosion of gunfire. And she’d remember Giovanni, slumping across the lifeboat….

Her head came up. “I do remember something. Veronica called him by name. Mr. Trott.”

“You’re sure that was it? Trott?”

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

Jordan’s grip tightened around hers. “Veronica. If I ever get my hands around her elegant little neck…”

“At least now we know. She’s the link to Van Weldon.

Delancey paid for the Eye. She stole it back. Someone earned a nice profit. And the only loser was Guy Delancey.”

“What about the newspaper?”

Clea looked down at the folded pages. “I saw Veronica tear something out.”

Jordan glanced at the newspaper’s date, then tapped 474

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their taxi driver on the shoulder. “Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of today’s
Times?
”

“But of course. And the
Daily Mail,
as well.”

“Just the
Times
will do.”

The driver reached over and pulled out a slightly mangled newspaper from the glove compartment. He handed it back to Jordan.