Betrayals

by Carla Neggers

  Jean-Paul relished the taste of the hot, bitter coffee from a twenty-four-hour store on Cambridge Street as he walked back up Joy to the intersection of Mt. Vernon. He’d been debating for hours whether or not to go ahead and meet Annette in Marblehead. What was she trying to accomplish with that nonsense about Thomas Blackburn being Le Chat? With Annette, he never knew. He had considered taking the next plane west and returning to the life he had in Honolulu. It wasn’t much: odd jobs, a seedy room, too many trips to bars. He’d tried to make friends, but what was the point? He had a knack for getting good people killed.

  He remembered Benjamin Reed’s screams of agony as he’d slowly died.

  Remembered Stephen Blackburn’s courageous attempt to defend himself and his party.

  And Quang Tai’s absolute refusal to show fear or pain to the countrymen whose tactics he so despised.

  I should have died that day, not them.

  Jean-Paul had fought as long as he could before being wounded and relieved of his weapon. He had assumed the guerrillas would execute him, but instead they’d marched him off as their latest trophy, a French mercenary prisoner. They’d taken his gun and used it to kill others.

  Five years of hell he’d endured.

  Every day, every hour of his captivity, he had thought of Annette and what she’d done.

  Stephen, Benjamin, Tai. All dead because she had lacked the fortitude to kill Jean-Paul and Thomas herself.

  All dead because Jean-Paul had been stupid enough to go up against her again. Would Gisela have wanted him to reduce himself to blackmail—to endangering innocent people—to get to Annette Winston Reed?

  He had survived his ordeal in the subhuman conditions of the jungle POW camp and emerged into a South Vietnam in the midst of all-out war. Sick and dispirited, Jean-Paul gave up on any idea of exposing Annette or getting back Gisela’s Jupiter Stones—until Quentin Reed arrived in Saigon in the fall of 1973.

  Quentin wasn’t a bad sort, just naive and frightened, but he’d gotten himself into a jam. Jean-Paul had waited to see if he’d extricate himself. He hadn’t. At first he’d okayed the drug smugglers’ use of Winston & Reed planes, not knowing exactly what they were up to. The next time, he’d done it out of fear of reprisal. So Jean-Paul had stepped in and threatened to tell the police what he’d done, using Quentin’s troubles as an opportunity to get to Annette. He doubted he’d have gone so far as to turn Quentin in to the authorities, but he was somewhat surprised when Annette’s bright, sensitive son had agreed to her demand he remain in Boston and give up any hope of a life with Tam. Why not just tell her to go to hell and return to Saigon and take his chances?

  It was probably just as well, on one level at least, that he hadn’t. In going after Annette through Quentin and his misdeeds, Jean-Paul had ruined the smugglers’ neat little means of exporting their illicit product—but they didn’t blame him. They blamed Quentin. If he’d returned to Vietnam, Jean-Paul would have been compelled, no doubt, to save his life. He’d experienced a twinge of guilt at his role in Quentin’s abandonment of Tam, but Quentin could have defied his mother and gotten Tam out of Saigon without stepping into the country. Still, Annette would have never tolerated a Vietnamese—and especially Tai’s daughter—in her family.

  More to the point, Tam had known too much about Annette. A survivor herself, smart, lively Tam had gotten plugged into the same network as the woman she’d have as her mother-in-law and, Jean-Paul believed, became suspicious that Annette had been responsible for her father’s death. Jean-Paul warned her not to seek vengeance.

  “Vengeance?” Tam had laughed in disbelief. “I’ve seen too much suffering in my country to bother with vengeance. No, I’ll use what I know about Annette to get what I want.”

  What she wanted was no less than a life with Quentin in the United States.

  Jean-Paul had kept an eye on her and Jared, and had been appalled when Rebecca Blackburn turned up in Saigon. He waited for Tam to make her move, prayed she wouldn’t…and hoped Stephen Blackburn’s beautiful, crazy daughter would get out of Southeast Asia before anything happened to her.

  Finally, in the predawn hours of April 29, 1975, Jean-Paul realized—too late—that Tam had gone to Annette Reed with what she knew about 1963. The Vietnamese assassin was Annette’s answer to her demands.

  Over and over he had pleaded with Tam to forget Quentin and just let Jared Sloan get her out of Vietnam, but Tam had wanted everything: her baby, Quentin, a life in the U.S. “Quentin loves me,” she would say, so disarmingly.

  As he started down pretty Mt. Vernon Street, Jean-Paul was reminded of the streets of Paris in his boyhood and was glad to shove aside the dark memories of Quang Tam. During his years of captivity, he had coped with his isolation and suffering by recalling every detail of his childhood with his eccentric, warm-hearted mother. Gisela had loved people and wanted them to love her, and she’d wanted to be somebody—not frantically, not jealously. Just for the fun of it.

  “Why couldn’t I have been born a baroness?” she would ask him, laughing.

  So she became one. Then Jean-Paul became a successful race-car driver, and it was too late for Gisela to recant and claim her famous son without jeopardizing the life she’d come to love on the Riviera. Jean-Paul hadn’t minded. He and his mother understood one another.

  Had she died hating him?

  He shook off the question, as he had for thirty years.

  Automatically he glanced up at Annette’s magnificent house. He spotted a dark-haired girl pausing at the wrought-iron gate and squinting up at the fanlight above the front entrance.

  His stomach lurched as he recognized her.

  Mai Sloan.

  No!

  Jean-Paul threw down his foam cup and felt his insides burn as he began to run.

  The Jupiter Stones and justice—vengeance—weren’t worth another life.

  Not a child’s life.

  With his limp, he couldn’t move fast enough. And what are you going to do when you catch up with her? She’ll only scream. Annette will come out and see she’s Quentin’s daughter—so obviously Quentin’s daughter—and that’ll be that. She’ll whisk Mai inside….

  Jean-Paul slowed, wheezing.

  He couldn’t risk moving too soon.

  Haven’t you caused enough trouble? he asked himself. You should have followed Gisela into the Mediterranean thirty years ago.

  Better than that, he should have killed Annette under the olive tree that miserable day when she’d handed him twenty thousand dollars in payment for the life she’d just destroyed.

  There was no undoing the past; he could only make the present right.

  Nothing would happen to Mai Sloan.

  He settled into the shadows.

  “Nothing,” he said aloud, waiting.

  Grateful that Quentin was about to leave, Annette went to answer the front door. She’d had all she could take of her son. But she was in a relatively good mood. There’d be an end to all this soon…finally. It wasn’t the first time she’d had such a thought. When she’d gotten rid of Jean-Paul in 1959, she’d believed she was free. And then in 1963—for years she’d waited futilely for firm word that he was dead. And 1975. She’d shot Jean-Paul herself and would have made sure he was dead, but Nguyen Kim, her primary contact with the Saigon underworld, had insisted they leave at once for Tan Son Nhut. As it was, they’d only barely gotten out in the ARVN plane he’d commandeered. She shuddered at the memory of the artillery fire all around them, but they’d managed to arrive in Thailand safely. Annette had conducted some business there, quietly arranged for Kim’s emigration to the United States, earning his undying gratitude, then taken a commercial flight back to Boston. For the next fourteen years she’d thought despite the uneasy status quo among herself, Quentin and Jared, at least Jean-Paul was dead.

  She took a bite of scone and checked through the side window.

  She gasped, recognizing the girl on her doorstep at once as Mai Sloan.

  Her ha
nds trembling, Annette opened the door. At first she thought the girl’s Asian features were unexpected, then decided it was her Caucasian features—and then realized they blended together, inseparable, right.

  Annette smiled her most gracious smile. “Hello, dear,” she said, hearing the slight catch in her voice. “You must be Mai Sloan.”

  The girl smiled back, obviously relieved at her welcome, but Annette had to call on all her powers of self-restraint not to fall back into the entry and slam the door shut.

  In particular when she smiled, Mai’s resemblance to Quentin—to Benjamin—was unmistakable.

  Mai said, “And you’re my great-aunt Annette, right?”

  No, Annette thought, no longer any question—or hope—left, I’m your grandmother.

  Thirty-Three

  Rebecca couldn’t stop moving. Her grandfather had twice insisted she sit down because she was driving him crazy, but he himself had trouble standing still. They were in the parlor, trying to figure out where Mai Sloan could have gone. Jared had called from the airport with the news her plane had landed safely and she was on the loose somewhere in Boston. Was she headed to Winston & Reed? Quentin’s condominium on Boylston Street? The Winston house on Mt. Vernon? West Cedar? Even Rebecca’s studio was a possibility.

  Rebecca notified security at the Winston & Reed building and called the watchman at her building on Congress Street, describing Mai as best she could. She left her grandfather’s number with both.

  Jared was on his way to Quentin’s condominium on the Public Garden.

  There was no answer at Annette Reed’s house.

  “I can’t stand this,” Rebecca said. “I’m going over to Mt. Vernon and have a look. Will you be okay here? You look exhausted.”

  Her grandfather gave her a pointed look. “I should say I got more sleep last night than you did.”

  She felt her face redden, but she really had no idea if he knew about her and Jared or was just making a good guess. “I’m not eighty,” she told him.

  “Neither am I.”

  “Grandfather—”

  “Ah,” he said, peeking through the front window, “my cab’s here.”

  “Your cab? Where are you going?”

  He ignored her question. “Find Mai and sit on her until Jared gets back. I’ve something I need to do.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not used to having anyone worry about me anymore. Don’t you start.”

  He headed into the entry, Rebecca on his heels. He paid no attention to her. Looking grimly determined, he got his old umbrella out of the coat closet.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Rebecca asked him.

  He sighed. “Isn’t being cracked in the head by Jean-Paul Gerard enough to convince you there are dangers involved here?”

  “You know Gerard isn’t going to kill me. He just wants me out of the way—maybe for my own protection, who knows? The same with Mai. He’s not going to hurt her. He had his chance in Saigon and saved her life instead.”

  Thomas added a rain hat that looked as if it had seen a few too many tropical storms. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Acting on impulse, Rebecca grabbed his arm, even as she stifled a surge of panic. “Grandfather, please.”

  A kind of pain crossed his face. “Rebecca, please.” He pried her fingers loose and held them tightly against his chest, reminding her of the powerful man he’d been in his younger years. “I know your brain is in overdrive as you try to put all these pieces together, but understand this—I will not have you hurt. This is my affair—my responsibility. It’s something I should have dealt with thirty years ago.”

  “I was involved then. I was the one who found the Jupiter Stones in the first place.”

  “You were four years old.”

  “Mai wasn’t a day old when that assassin tried to kill her, so age has damned little to do with it. If you’re involved, you’re involved. Let me help you—”

  “Move aside, Rebecca,” he said, not ungently, “before you discover how much strength your old grandfather has left.”

  She relented, and he let go of her hand. “Wherever you’re going—do you need the Jupiter Stones?”

  “At this point I doubt they’ll make any difference.”

  Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “You know something, don’t you?”

  Out on West Cedar, the cab’s horn honked impatiently.

  “My dear, I have a doctorate in Asian history.” He smiled mischievously, his eyes suddenly dancing. “I know a great deal.”

  His smile and teasing only accentuated how much Rebecca didn’t want anything to happen to him—how much she couldn’t bear to lose him. Don’t go away from me, she thought. Please, Grandfather, not yet.

  Biting her lip, she followed him out to the front steps. It was drizzling and chilly, and she thought of Mai wandering alone in the dank city.

  “But do you know,” Rebecca said to her grandfather, “that Annette Reed and not Jean-Paul Gerard was Le Chat?”

  She’d intended her statement to rock her grandfather to his very core—to make him stop and tell her what was going on, what the phone call earlier had been about, why he’d called a cab, where he was headed—but he merely frowned up at her from the bottom of the steps.

  He said, “That kind of idle speculation will land you in court for slander.”

  She crossed her arms under her breasts and leaned against the doorjamb. “Not if it’s true.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “No—”

  “Then it’d come to a choice between the word of a Blackburn and the word of a Winston. Two hundred years ago a Blackburn would have won. But today?” He tucked his old umbrella under one arm. “Ponder that while I’m off.”

  Rebecca had no intention of pondering anything. “It makes sense, you know. Annette had the Jupiter Stones in her possession in 1959. If Jean-Paul Gerard was going to spend the next three decades trying to get them back, why’d he give them to her in the first place?”

  “I’m not listening—”

  “Why do they mean so much to him? You were at Baroness Majlath’s funeral. Any guesses?”

  He refused to answer. His back to her, he walked out to the street.

  Rebecca just talked louder. “Jean-Paul hasn’t just been after the stones for the past thirty years. He wants revenge, too. If he was Le Chat, Annette only did what he might have expected her to do, so vengeance wouldn’t really be a factor. But if she framed him and wrecked his life for something he didn’t even do, he’d carry that grudge for a long time.”

  Thomas swung around abruptly, his face red, and pointed the end of his closed umbrella at her. “That’s enough, Rebecca. I suggest you learn to practice a little discretion.”

  The cab driver had rolled down his window. “Lady, buster—you want to talk or you want to get moving?”

  “Do you mind if I go about my business?” Thomas asked his granddaughter quietly.

  “You don’t need my permission. So go ahead. Do what you have to do.”

  He gave her a mock bow. “Thank you.”

  “But Grandfather—am I right?”

  If he heard her, he pretended not to, and Rebecca kicked the open door in frustration, adding another scuff and crack for the neighbors to complain about. But as she went back inside, she turned in time to see her grandfather blow her a kiss. She blew him one back, fighting sudden tears. He was an old snob and a man of secrets and riddles, and she loved him with all her heart.

  “Where to?” the cab driver asked.

  “Marblehead Neck. I’ll give you more specific directions when we get there.”

  “You know it’s going to cost you—”

  “Yes,” Thomas interrupted wearily, “I know.”

  He settled back against the ragged seat and prayed he was doing the right thing. Acceding to Annette’s wishes, abandoning the search for Mai Sloan, not telling Rebecca where he was headed.

  Aah, he thought, choices.

 
; “You okay back there?” the driver asked.

  Thomas nodded, exhausted. Rebecca had been right about that. He supposed he must look terrible. When a person reached the rather advanced age of seventy-nine, people tended to think he or she was going to expire any moment, without warning. Thomas wouldn’t mind going that way—but not today, thank you. Not before he’d had a chance to finish things with Annette.

  Until this week he hadn’t really known she’d been behind Tam’s death. He had always had that glimmer of doubt that Quentin, secure in his new high-level job at Winston & Reed and ever-afraid of his mother, might actually have put out the word that he didn’t want his ex-lover coming into the country. But knowing Annette as he did, Thomas realized she was the more likely suspect.

  Either way, Mai Sloan would have been in serious danger if Jared had stayed in Boston and pushed for answers. He had chosen to take her to San Francisco. Legally, she was his daughter. Thomas supported that decision. He continued to believe it had been the right one.

  But Quentin…

  Thomas, as much as anyone, knew how persuasive and charming and awe-inspiring Annette could be.

  I should have whisked Quentin from her years ago and raised him myself—or tried to undermine her influence and get him to see his own strengths, get him to defy her.

  He hadn’t, of course. And Quentin had proved incapable of doing anything but worshiping his mother and believing every nasty thing she said about him, her own son.

  “Oh, Annette,” Thomas said to himself, so tired he could scarcely breathe, “whatever happened to you?”

  The driver eyed him worriedly in the rearview mirror. Thomas smiled back, and they drove on.

  Thirty-Four

  One of the great terrors of Annette’s life was when her nephew had arrived in Boston after his close call in Saigon. She hadn’t necessarily intended Jared or Rebecca to die that night. Her specific instructions to the man Kim had hired were to locate the Jupiter Stones and to make absolutely certain that Tam and her baby—Annette didn’t even know if she’d had it yet—didn’t leave the country. She had told him to use his discretion regarding anything unforeseen that came up. There were a variety of ways he could have dealt with two American witnesses, although, of course, shooting them was by far the surest.