LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  He leaned down and unlocked the horizontal door, then gave it a slight tug. It came up without complaint, silently, obligingly. A good door, he thought – but for some strange reason the basement lights did not come on when he opened it.

  No problem, he would turn them on manually. He located the switch he had installed near the entrance, put there to keep the lights burning in winter when he shut the door behind him. He flicked the switch up. No lights. He flicked it back down. Still no lights.

  This was very odd, to say the least. During the power outage, the electricity in the entire house was off. But tonight he could still see light from inside the manor slanting across the top of the steps.

  Well, what difference did it make? It would be the circuit breaker, which he could reset in the morning. For now he had his flashlight and his orders to bring up a specific bottle of cognac whose location he knew very well. He’d best get that taken care of and call it a night, especially if Isabelle had correctly read Monsieur’s mood.

  He closed the door against the cold, descended the steps and hobbled down the familiar basement passageways. Ninety feet later he came around a corner and nearly bumped into the open wine cellar door. He stopped in his tracks, extinguished his flashlight and held his breath.

  This was much stranger than lights that did not work. He had been the last person down here. Delors didn’t have the keys, and Michelet had not shown up until dinner time. He always locked the door of the wine cellar when he left. It was second nature, like taking off his boots at bed time.

  Still he had been pretty agitated by those wild dogs and their idiot trainers. The crate they knocked down broke several bottles of irreplaceable wine, an ugly occurrence Monsieur might blame him for. He wasn’t young anymore, either. There were times when his memory failed him. This was probably one of them.

  He was about to turn his flashlight back on when he thought he saw something in the wine cellar, a movement in the darkness, scarcely detectable but real. He was probably seeing things, but instinct told him to cautious. What if those idiot dogs and their trainers were right? What if there had been more than just rats down here? The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He’d better find out. It was his job as guardian of the wine.

  He moved forward with small steps, trying not to scrap his boots.

  Very strange, he thought. There were no lights on anywhere, but for some reason it did not seem as dark down here as it had seemed the night of the power outage.

  It was not as dark! In the penumbra of the wine cellar, he could make out the carefully arranged crates and the wire mesh gate. He soon spotted the source of the light. It was a tiny dial that resembled the lighted face of a stereo, sitting on top of a stack of crates. His first thought was that it might be a timing device for a terrorist bomb.

  Then he saw legs to either side of it. He looked up, feeling short of breath. On the crates stood the ghostly figure of a man. A big man. His back faced the door, and his head was resting against a heating duct. He was an eavesdropper, it didn’t take an educated man to figure that out. The thing with the glowing dial was some kind of recorder.

  He was probably a journalist, thought Henri. Or someone hired by political opponents to listen in on Monsieur’s secrets. No one dangerous, not like a wine thief. Still, he owed Monsieur this man’s head on a platter, recorder and all.

  Henri tightened his grip on the heavy flashlight. He could deal the intruder a powerful blow, but not while he was up so high. Should he grab one of his legs and try to pull him off the crates?

  No, he would have to think of something better than that. The man looked strong. If they got into a free for all, he would probably escape. Besides, he was perched on top of the Lafite from the late fifties. Monsieur might prefer having his political discussions recorded to losing a bottle of that nectar.

  Then a good thing happened. The man climbed carefully down from the crates and got himself into a kneeling position on the floor where he could be knocked silly. Henri knew the man wasn’t going anywhere soon; he had left the recording machine where it was. No, he was fishing around in his backpack for something. He pulled out what looked like a pack of batteries and started to open it . . .

  Henri approached silently, raised his flashlight and delivered a crushing blow to the man’s head. The man flopped on his stomach and lay motionless. Henri raised his flashlight again but decided he’d better stop. He’d read in the newspaper about some guy who thought he had a right to kill an intruder and had ended up in jail for doing it.

  He turned on his flashlight to get a look at the man’s wounds. Nothing. He had wrecked the bulb. What did he expect? The thing wasn’t meant to be a club.

  He made his way over to the wall and turned on the wine cellar light. It remained dark but the furnace came on. He felt its hot breath blowing through holes the intruder had evidently cut in the ducts.

  Henri checked on his victim. The man was breathing evenly. This was good. He wasn’t dead, just out cold.

  He took the recording machine down from the crates, pulling on a wire until a miniature microphone jumped out of one of the ducts. The dial still glowed. He held it to the unconscious man’s face – and felt as if he was going to have a stroke.

  Jesus, Holy Madonna, in the name of the Father, why was the world so complicated? This man was Nicole’s boyfriend, soon to be her fiancé, soon to be family! Had she already told her father about him? Had Monsieur accepted this man and entrusted him with the task of recording tonight’s conversations?

  Or was this young man a scoundrel deceiving the whole Michelet clan?

  What was he going to do? What he always did, he supposed: ask for Isabelle’s advice.

  The man Nicole called Steven groaned and stirred. Time to go, Henri thought. Yes, it was definitely time to go. He put the recording machine under his arm and hobbled down the dark passageways to the exit.

  Isabelle was waiting for him at the entrance to the kitchen. Her concern turned to curiosity when she saw the strange looking apparatus he was carrying and the blood on his flashlight.

  ***

  “So you just up and ran away?” Sophie asked.

  “I had some help,” Nicole said. “I have a teenage cousin who can be a nuisance. But he was great tonight. He got me to the station on time and he’s now wearing my nightgown and sleeping in my bed, just in case anyone checks on me. By the time they figure out I’m gone, Steven and I should be out of France.”

  “You really love him, don’t you?”

  Nicole averted her eyes and blushed. “Yes, I do. I hope he loves me as much.”

  “He does. I can promise you that.”

  “Does he talk about me a lot?”

  Sophie nodded. She felt restless. She knew she had to begin her monologue at some point if she was going to say what she wanted to say before Steven returned. But it wasn’t easy. They had been chatting amiably for almost a half hour. Nicole had warmed up to her a little, but they were still basically strangers.

  The right moment to broach topics so personal and painful did not seem as if it would come of its own accord. Sophie decided she’d better dive in and trust that Nicole could handle it.

  “He talks about you incessantly, dear,” she said. “He loves you more than you can imagine. But there is something about Steven you should know. I have entrusted myself with the task of telling you.”

  Nicole sat up straight, her beautiful face drawn with tension. “What is it?”

  “This is very difficult for me. What I’m going to say doesn’t just involve Steven. It involves your father, it involves me. I want you to try to keep one thing firmly in mind as I make these revelations. Steven loves you with all his heart. You must not doubt his loyalty. He is totally committed to you. If you’re going to be angry with anyone, that person should not be him. It should be me. Or your father.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  Sophie poured them both a snifter of Armagnac. Nicole watched her inten
tly, too curious, or too worried, to drink.

  “First, Nicole, you owe your original meeting with Steven to me and my machinations. My name did not seem to ring a bell when I mentioned it earlier. You’ve got a lot on your mind, but you’re an informed and well-read person. I suspect you’ve heard that same name on many occasions.”

  “Sophie Marx, the journalist?” Nicole said.

  “That’s the dirty word. Journalist.”

  “You’re her?”

  “Yes. Nicole, I think you’d better drink your Armagnac. You see, I hired Steven to befriend you. I was trying to gain information about your father.”

  “What?” She was stunned.

  “Please, Nicole. I beg you to keep an open mind and listen to me. I’m not proud of what I did, but when you’ve heard me out, I think you’ll agree it wasn’t such a bad thing.”

  “The tennis club? All that was a lie?”

  “I arranged for him to get the job, yes.”

  Nicole started to tremble, tears of rage welling in her eyes. “You mean his coming on to me, all that was theater? You paid him to get me in bed? You paid him? And all along I was saying to myself, he’s so different from arrogant French boys, so interested in me as a person and not just my body, so kind – ”

  “Nicole, please. He fell in love with you before anything intimate happened. He called me from Nice and told me he was quitting the assignment, that he simply couldn’t reconcile his feelings for you with what I was asking of him. Do you know what it meant for him to give up that assignment? Nicole, he wants to be a journalist. I had given him a start the likes of which few young hopefuls ever receive. I was providing him with a lavish expense account at a time when he was broke. And still, he chose you over all of that. It’s the truth, Nicole, the absolute truth.”

  “Then he quit with this nonsense of spying on my father?”

  “No, not exactly. He tried to quit. I was shameless. I was ruthless. I was manipulative. I needed him to get my story, so I gave him more money. I ridiculed and cajoled him. I convinced him your father had plans for you that would ruin your life.”

  “He did. He does. But that’s beside the point. Steven had no right to deceive me. No right whatsoever. It is a denial of trust and honesty and everything else that love demands.”

  “It’s not that cut-and-dried, Nicole. He fell in love with you, he fell in love with the dream of helping me do a great story on a man I considered dangerous to the future of his country and the world. Steven was in a dilemma from which he did not know how to escape. He was trying to get out, though. Trying to find the courage to confess to you. He put it off for the second time when you mentioned your father’s Wednesday night political meetings.”

  “Oh, my God, he’s taken such advantage of me. Is that where he was when he said he was playing a tournament in Dijon? After I had introduced him to the caretakers and given him a tour of the house? I trusted him. I trusted him with my life. This . . . this is disgusting.”

  “Nicole”

  “I can’t talk anymore. I have to go. I can’t take this at a time when everyone but me is trying to run my life. Perhaps my father is right. Perhaps I am naive and need to be protected from the scoundrels of this world.”

  “I understand why you are upset, Nicole. But before you leave, I would like to tell you what Steven overheard at your father’s country home.”

  She was already on her feet. She did not answer.

  “If you’re looking for scoundrels, Nicole, leave Steven out of this. Your father has a monopoly on the title. He and a group of his cronies are sabotaging Boeing airplanes. He is responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent men, women and children. He has done this horrible thing for political gain. He thinks that if he turns the French economy around while he’s Minister of Industry, he will be elected President of France. That, my dear, is what the man who truly loves you learned while he was eavesdropping on your father’s meeting.”

  “It can’t be,” Nicole said. “How can I believe something like that? I know father isn’t a kind man, but a saboteur of passenger jets? No, that’s hardly possible. He hasn’t a heart, but he’s not evil. He’s not, is he, Madame Marx?”

  Sophie knew she had almost lost Nicole, but now she could feel her coming back. She said, “Steven is at the manor right now with a member of the United States government. They have photographic equipment and listening devices. They will be here shortly. You can decide then whether or not these allegations are true.”

  “No . . . they cannot be true. I assure you, they cannot be.”

  “Nicole – ”

  “What?”

  “This was a very dangerous thing for Steven to attempt. Your father’s group is making payment to an ex-KGB agent tonight for his role in the crashes. This man, whose name is Walter Claussen, is to receive one and a half billion francs. You can imagine the type of security Steven and his colleague are up against. It’s possible they won’t make it back at all. Please stay here and wait with me. I beg you. If things go badly we’re going to need each other.”

  Nicole began to tremble again. Tears streamed down her ravaged face. “I . . . I don’t know what to do or whom to believe. I’m . . . so tired.”

  Sophie took her gently by the arm. “Why don’t you lie down and have a rest. There’ll be a lot to talk about when he returns.”

  “What if he doesn’t return? What if – ”

  “Shhh. Rest now.”

  Nicole did not resist when Sophie led her to Steven’s bedroom. She lay down and curled up, clutching a pillow. Sophie tiptoed out and closed the door. She had done what she set out to do. Whether it had been a good idea or not, she wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Forty

  Warner received the light signal, the first in a long time. He held the pocket knife across the control box terminals, and the furnace roared to life.

  But the light, for some reason, did not go out. Had Steven gotten careless? Or sleepy? This was entirely unacceptable. He reattached the thermostat wires, fearing it could grow noticeably colder upstairs if he did not and, seething with irritation over his partner’s slothfulness, headed for the wine cellar.

  Groaning met him as he approached the door. Steven was on his knees, blood trickling down the side of his head, his hands groping aimlessly for support.

  Warner grabbed him with both arms and hauled him to his feet. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

  “I . . . don’t – ”

  “Where’s the CVR?”

  Steven seemed confused. He pointed to the crates where he had been standing. It was not there. He tried to sit back down, but Warner wouldn’t let him.

  “Steven . . . Steven! What happened? Try to remember.”

  “I don’t . . . know. I just woke up down there.”

  “Try to remember!”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Steven, do you know where you are?”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve got to go. Now. We’ve got to run.”

  “The CVR? Did you . . . find it?”

  “Steven, someone has been here. They’ve knocked you out and taken the recorder. Come on. Get tough. If we don’t get out of here, we’re finished.”

  Warner slung the dazed man’s arm over his shoulder and half dragged, half carried him to the steps. “Can you walk on your own now?” he asked, puffing like a locomotive.

  “I . . . I think so.”

  “Then move. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Steven started up the stairs, fell, took a few steps on all fours, then got to his feet. His head seemed to be clearing. He pushed open the door and hit the lawn running.

  Jesus Christ, he was in shape, thought Warner, following. He took a quick glance through the kitchen window as they raced away from the house. Henri! It had been Henri who had come into the basement! He was holding up the CVR, making some sort of animated presentation to his wife. This meant they had just been discovered in the last few minutes. Judging from Henri’s behavior, the men
in the dining room had not yet been told.

  Now was the critical time, thought Warner. Now was when they had to give it everything they had.

  He caught up to Steven, who was keeping a fast steady pace. “You okay?”

  “I’m all right, Frank. Still dazed but all right. Jesus, what happened?”

  “Henri must have come down for wine while you were listening. He’s in the kitchen with the CVR right now. Don’t talk. Save your strength. We have to cover some ground.”

  They passed under the trees where the crows had once mounted a noisy attack and reached the edge of the meadow that led to the lily ponds. The forest glistened in the moonlight. It seemed far, far away. Patches of ground fog clung to ditches and indentations in the terrain. Cover if and when they needed it. Not much but some.