“I appreciate that, Tully, thanks.” She gazed around the quiet great room. Everything seemed to be in order. Except for the chair cushions.
Fifteen minutes later, when they were both satisfied that no one else was in the cottage, the caretaker left with a wave and a tip of his silvered head, and she was alone.
With a final glance toward the new window latch, Maggie climbed the stairs once more. Had someone broken in to search the cottage? Who? And what were they looking for?
There’s been a break-in.
She stopped on the landing, remembering, suddenly, the two strangers in their dark business suits. Showing up at The Piano Cat, standing before her, asking for Johnny’s files. And then, two days later, the shop and her apartment had been searched. Robbers, the police assured her. But her jewelry and cash had not been taken. Only the contents of her husband’s briefcase, found open on the floor. Empty.
No need for rocket science there. And now, a broken lock. Was this about you, too, Johnny? She glanced out the landing window, toward the boathouse.
But first—
The guest room was at the rear of the cottage. A small leather trunk stood at the base of the white-quilted bed, and Maggie dropped to her knees in front of it. The lock appeared to be unbroken.
Raising the heavy lid, she was enveloped by the evocative scents of sandalwood and Guerlain. Very gently she shifted the satin-wrapped albums and treasures that had belonged to her mother. And there, beneath a small cloth doll, was the false wooden floor. Hidden underneath it, the letters she’d come for. Letters from Sofia Orsini.
She touched the hidden latch, lifted the secret floor. Reaching inside for the letters, she froze. What if someone had been searching for Sofia’s letters?
Maggie carried the small stack of airmail envelopes down to the porch and settled onto the old swing.
Thunderous rain clouds were gathering to the west. The night Brian had been born—two months early—she and Fee had been here at the cottage.
The skylight above her had danced with lightning.
She’d been sitting at the old upright, playing Chopin, her huge abdomen pressed against the keyboard. Without warning, the pain had ripped into her and the music ended with a crash of chords. “Oh Jesus God Fee! The baby—It’s too soon!”
The skylight swooped down toward her.
“I’m here, Maggie darling, hold on to me, Maggie, hold on tight!”
Maggie gazed down at the letters in her hand. We lived through so much together, Fee. I missed you so when you moved to Rome.
But Fee had been so happy there, intoxicated by life. Her early letters had been full of her work at the embassy, new friends and explorations, a red motor scooter, and her favorite café in the Piazza Navona. And always the latest adventures of Magnus3—the third generation offspring of Magnus.
But then she had met Victor Orsini, and it all turned dark.
Maggie found the letter she wanted and slipped it from its ribbon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MARTHA’S VINEYARD. LATE AFTERNOON, JULY 4
I’ve met a man, Maggie. He’s like no man I’ve ever known. We met in an art gallery at the foot of the Spanish Steps. He’s an American expat, quite wealthy, I think. Collects religious art. Rubens, Botticelli, Tintoretto, da Vinci. And he’s a music lover, like you. Has a small collection of rare sheet music, illuminated manuscripts, autographed scores. He’s brilliant, Maggie, charismatic. Older than I, but strong and exciting.
The breeze from the sea was picking up. Maggie unfolded the next letter from Fee just as the rain clouds surrounded the setting sun.
I’ve news, Maggie darling, earthshaking news. I’m pregnant! Me, the ultimate “I’ve-no-time-for-children-because-I-have-a-career” woman. Now this, so late in my life. I still can’t believe it! Victor has asked me to marry him. Last night he gave me a sapphire ring that belonged to his mother. The doctors say I’m strong and healthy, but Victor says I should move into the villa. Please come, the gardens are so beautiful. And you can finally meet Victor.
But the visit was postponed, and then, within a month, the small wedding had taken place. Just two witnesses, Maggie, friends of Victor’s, he thought it best...
Thomas James Orsini was born soon after. His christening was the only time she’d been able to see Fee. Six long years since she’d seen them. After that, in the months and years that followed, only letters that had grown darker and darker.
Victor thinks it best if I take a leave from the embassy to be with Tommy...
I miss Magnus3 so much, but Victor says he won’t have dogs in the villa...
No, this wouldn’t be a good time for a visit, I took a fall yesterday...
Victor says. Victor wants. Victor needs. Victor forgives… Over the years, with each letter, her strong, independent friend had grown weaker and more vulnerable.
Why didn’t I trust my instincts that you weren’t safe? Why didn’t I insist that you leave?
Lightning lit the dark sky over the sea as Maggie slipped Fee’s final letter, hastily written on a fog-bound French island, from the ribbon. A brief note clipped to it said, in an unfamiliar, flowing script, “Your friend Sofia asked me to send this to you. I fear she is in danger. You will find her at Couvent de la Brume in Brittany.” The Convent of the Fog. It was signed, simply, Soeur Marie Clair.
So much more trouble than you knew, Sister. But by the time Fee’s letter had arrived, Fee was dead. Maggie felt the guilt and pain wash over her in waves as, once more, she opened Fee’s last letter.
How did this happen to me, Maggie? Just five days ago, I was sitting in a sunlit garden in Rome.
Then Victor’s body blocked out the light as he handed me the custody papers. I looked into his cold eyes, I heard the cruelty in the voice. “I must leave Rome. I am taking my son with me,” he said. “Pack his clothes. He leaves with me tomorrow.”
“My son,” he said. I did not understand until that moment the dangerous extent of my husband’s possessiveness. And I knew without a doubt that I would never see my son again.
Of course we argued. I tried to stop him and he hit me, right there in the garden. Tommy ran over to protect me. He’s so brave, my darling boy. Then Victor turned and hit his son, Maggie! I will never forgive him. Or myself.
That was the moment our marriage ended.
I knew about Victor’s secret safe, behind the Rubens. That night, taking our passports, I found he’d hidden thousands of euros, a journal, and the key to a case that held a very old manuscript of music. Of course I thought of you, although it’s a violin concerto, I think. I took it all, Maggie. As insurance—and hopefully a rare musical score will be worth something if I need more cash. Then I ran with Tommy before sunrise. I had help, I have a friend I trust...
Maggie gazed up at the flickering sky. Who was your trusted friend, Fee? Who betrayed you? And where are the journal and manuscript you took that night?
A sharp crack of thunder. Lightning flashed on the white-capped, gunmetal sea.
Hurry, thought Maggie. Her eyes found Fee’s last words.
There is a huge difference between love and possession, and I know now that Tommy and I were Victor’s possessions, just like his priceless art. I’ve read his journal, Maggie. My husband is brilliant, vengeful, and a monster. He thinks he is all-powerful but he has one weakness. Me. And I will take him down.
When the fog lifts, I will try to make my way home to you. Whatever happens to me now, I deserve. But Tommy is innocent, he is your godson. I need you to remember the promise you made in the church that morning of Tommy’s baptism. To always protect my son.
Please, just burn these letters. Fee.
But she hadn’t burned them. We are responsible for the lives we save. Something, some inner voice, compelled her to hide them. Fee had left her some clues in the letters, she was sure of it. She’d take them with her, study every word.
What had Johnny said to her in the dream? Begin with me.
Dropping the
letters to the table, she stood and walked with determination out onto the windy terrace.
It was time to go to the boatyard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS, VIRGINIA. SUNSET, JULY 4
The log cabin was glowing like a lantern in the purpling light. Tall pines crowded against the redwood porch and whispered against a deck cantilevered out over the precipitous hillside like the prow of a ship.
Steep wooden steps wound down through the firs to a crescent of rocky beach, where a small lake glinted like a mirror. Not far from the shore, an arched fishing pole flashed silver in the light. The man sat hunched in a gently rocking rowboat, a stark silhouette against the darkening sky, gazing up at the cabin. The words on the old cap pulled low over his head said, Fish Fear Me.
The last sunlight of the day slanted in rays over the mountain peak, lighting the tips of the high firs like candles. A “V” of snow geese flew overhead, their call as haunting and mysterious as the whistle of a freight train disappearing into the hills of Virginia. Their wings caught the final flames of the sun as the man watched them vanish beyond the blue mountain.
How did they know where to go? If only he could be so sure of where he was going.
“Safe flight, darlins’,” he murmured, raising his thermos in salute. Then he took a long drink of the bourbon.
He pulled back on the fishing pole, and a shaft of pain exploded through his side. He doubled over with an oath. Just seven months earlier, he’d been so hard and strong and healthy. And then his life changed in a split second. The fractured skull, the punctured lung, the hole in the side of his chest. The broken leg.
His peppered brows spiked as he looked down at his forearms, the bones so much more prominent now since his agonizing struggle back to life.
The empty line dangled in front of him. “Damned trout,” he muttered.
Colonel Michael Jefferson Beckett scowled, his fist hitting against the old boat in frustration. Then he clamped his teeth together and pulled on the oars, ignoring the fire that shot across his chest. The air was deep blue with twilight as he turned the boat toward the shore.
Again his eyes found the cabin windows through the pines. Home. But empty. No one waiting for him there. He took another long swallow of the bourbon.
He missed his old hound dog, Red. He missed his old life. He missed—
The sudden scream of automatic gunfire split the air.
A flash of brilliant light.
“Incoming!” shouted Beckett, throwing himself down in the rowboat, hands over his head, heart pounding like ricocheting rocks in his chest.
More explosions, blooming in the sky. He was on the ground, in the dusty square. Bright flashes, screams. The whining spit of bullets, the smell of burning flesh. The roar of thunder, a searing blast of heat. A shout, Allahu Akbar! Dust exploding around him, shattered glass, blood everywhere. Christ, the kid. No, Farzad! Don’t...
The rowboat rocked, spun gently. Beckett opened his eyes, sat up, shook his head. Looked up to see fireworks lighting the sky. Not gunfire. “Christ,” he murmured. Today was the Fourth of July. Bloody fool. He drank again.
The rowboat scraped against the stony beach. Now it was the only sound disturbing the quiet, the fireworks and haunting call of the geese only a memory. Beckett gripped a heavy carved cane and grunted with pain as he climbed slowly over the bow.
In the blue dusk, he searched for the wooden steps that climbed the steep hillside through the pines up to the cabin. He’d built those stairs. Used to run to the top in under a minute. And now…one step at a time, the doc said. It would take him ten, maybe fifteen minutes to negotiate.
He froze as he heard the sound.
The dull roar of a motorboat, growing louder, coming fast across the lake.
Toward the cabin.
He squinted into the distance.
There. One small light. Aimed directly at him.
His rifle was locked in the cabin. One hundred steps up.
He looked up at the steep stairs, disappearing into indigo shadows, and grasped the railing.
The sound of the motorboat grew louder in the darkness.
* * *
The motor cut off suddenly.
One-third of the way up the stairs, Beckett stopped and searched the dense forest and black beach below. He stood very still, tense and listening.
The only sounds were the sigh of the wind in the firs and the soft slap of lake water against the rocky beach.
Then he heard the footsteps, stealthy and quick on the wooden stairs, and the uneven, halting click of large animal paws. A low growl.
Christ.
Beckett pulled back into the shadows and waited. His left hand gripped the flashlight. In his right hand he hefted the cane, stiff and ready.
Two dark figures emerged from the shadows.
“Stop right there.” Beckett clicked on the flashlight and stepped forward.
“Mike, is that you? Geez, you scared the shit outta me.”
“Sugar. I should have known.”
Standing next to Simon Sugarman was a large, too-thin golden retriever. Clearly nervous. Pulling back on the leash. Hard.
Beckett leaned closer, squinting in the darkness. The dog had only three legs. “Jesus. Don’t tell me that’s…
Sugarman was staring at him. “Helluva way to greet an old partner, Mike. Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you everything.”
Beckett scowled at the agent. “What the devil are you doing here, Sugar? Since when do you work on holidays?”
Sugarman looked down at the dog, still straining against the leash. “Maybe I just wanted to see how my old pal was doing.” Beckett could hear the concern in Sugarman’s voice. “You’ve seen better days, pal, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”
“Automatic fire at close range packs one hell of a wallop.” Beckett scowled down at the shivering Golden. “Who’s the dog?”
“All in good time. Aren’t you gonna invite an old pal up?”
Beckett glared at him. Sugar had more secrets than a Mafia lawyer at a Mob funeral. He pointed upward with his cane. “You comin’ or not?”
The agent placed a large hand on the colonel’s shoulder. “It’s been seven months, Mike. At least you could act happy to see me.”
“When we work together, Sugar, people die.”
The two men stared at each other, then began the slow climb toward the cabin.
* * *
The high-beamed room wavered with firelight. It was a beautiful space of glowing red woods, huge windows, and hand-made bookcases—dark and rough-hewn, like the colonel himself. Soft leather chairs were drawn close to the fireplace, and in the far corner, a circular staircase disappeared into the bedroom loft.
Beckett added more wood to the fire, his eyes on the dog. The Golden limped slowly to the far corner of the room, crawled beneath a table, whimpered. A head case. The dog’s brown eyes locked on his. Darkened with—what? Recognition?
Beckett turned to Sugarman. “Beer’s in the fridge. Is this Farzad’s dog?”
Sugarman found two beers, handed one to Beckett, then sank into the leather couch and sighed with approval. “Just gimme a crossword puzzle and a cold Sam Adams, pal, and I’m your permanent house guest.” He looked around the beamed room. “Nice. But the end of nowhere.”
Beckett set a bowl of water under the table near the dog’s nose. The Golden shrank back from him with a soft, wary growl. He could see the scars, white zigzags across the chest and hind quarters. Yeah. The dog recognized him, all right. “The dog, Sugar?”
Sugarman sighed. “Yeah, he’s Farzad’s dog. Just arrived at Andrews on a military flight yesterday. Couldn’t leave him over there, Mike. We couldn’t bring any animals home after ‘Nam, remember? But now, from Afghanistan, we can. He’s had a rough time, Mike.”
Beckett stiffened. “I thought the dog died that day.”
No, Farzad! Don’t...
He closed his eyes against the sudden flashes of fire
in the dark. The screams. The smoke. The first enormous punch of pain.
He shook his head, turned to walk haltingly toward Sugarman across the room.
Sugarman shook his head. “Dog survived. Chest and leg wounds, like you. Docs couldn’t save his front leg. You both got stones, Mike, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m just too mean to die, Sugar. Only thing I know is to keep fighting.”
Beckett eyed his friend. “You still searching for your terrorists? Following their money trails no matter who gets caught in your net?”
“Bada-bing!” A bright light sparked deep in the brown eyes. “Operation Green Quest is alive and well. Money is the lifeblood of terrorists, you know that. You can’t tear down the terrorists without taking down their suppliers. But you’ve got to go through Seven Veils these days to get to the source of the money—bank vaults, charities, secret Cayman accounts, private donors. Couriers smuggling cash across borders, or anything that can be turned into cash—jewels, drugs, weapons, whatever. I’m working the stolen art angle now, with Interpol. Museum pieces, oils and watercolors, sculptures and antiquities, even rare instruments and musical scores. ‘Cultural Property,’ they call it.”
“And the real reason you’re here.”
“Okay, yeah. Something’s coming down, Mike. There’s been a huge uptick in chatter, all the intelligence points to an upcoming strike. New York, we think.”
“And this has to do with missing art how?”
“Interpol thinks one guy is behind this. A major player, with a major network. Someone who controls international trade in illicit art, antiquities. Uses the money against us. Name’s Victor Orsini.”
“And you need to find him.”
“Bingo. The clock is ticking.”
Beckett glanced toward the Golden hiding under the table. “And the dog?”
Sugarman popped another beer, settled deeper into the sofa. “Oh. Yeah. About the dog. Did he ever have a name?”
“No idea. You’re not leaving him here, Sugar. He’s the last thing I need in my life. Or want.”
The Lost Concerto Page 9