The child-like muse was the only female in sight. No, wait. Over there. A woman, still as snow. So still he’d almost missed her. Beckett couldn’t see her face. Only the chaos of black hair, long and loose, and one bare leg ending in a bright orange running shoe.
He pulled off his glasses as he moved toward her. Bloody fool, he mocked himself. “Mrs. O’Shea? Are you Doctor Magdalena O’Shea?”
She was lost in thought and turned quickly, as if startled to hear the male voice behind her. She stood with unconscious grace to face him.
“Yes, I’m Maggie O’Shea.”
It was a voice made for reading poetry, low and sonorous as a church bell. He looked down into huge eyes of a deep, disturbing green. The kind of green you see in the heart of the forest. Eyes that had distance in them.
She was as slender as a boy and the simple running shorts and t-shirt, loose on her small frame, made her seem both innocent and tough at the same time. Winged brows above a straight nose, skin as pale as the alabaster statues surrounding her—except for the purple hollows that tinged the high cheekbones and shadowed the guarded eyes.
Pretty woman, he thought.
She took a step back. “And you are?”
He realized that he had frightened her. Suddenly conscious that he was staring, he stepped out of the shadows and tried to reshape his mouth into a smile.
“Good mornin’, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Mike Beckett. Colonel Michael Jefferson Beckett, United States Army, Retired.”
Maggie O’Shea’s eyes widened in surprise as she looked up into the face of the man towering above her. “I didn’t expect to meet you here, Colonel. How did you find me?”
“Your concierge. You asked directions to the cemetery.” He shook his head at her naiveté. “I’ve had to hit the ground running because you changed your hotel.” The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. What the devil was Sugar thinking?
She stared at the tensing muscles in his jaw. “I did leave a message for you. The Ambassador Hotel was too huge and impersonal.” Her chin tilted defensively.
“Does Sugar know?”
“He doesn’t control my life, Colonel. No one does. I’m here now. Surely that’s what counts.” She bent to the Golden until she was eye to eye and offered the back of her hand for him to sniff. “Hello there, fella, good dog. What’s your name?”
The Golden shrank back, and she raised an eyebrow at Beckett.
“He needs therapy, not a name,” he said gruffly.
She stared at him. “Your dog deserves a name, no matter what.”
“He’s not my dog, ma’am.”
She shook her head, raising one arm to lift the heavy hair off her neck. It was hard to look away from her. Damn, she surely wasn’t what he’d expected. He thought about the small, romantic Left Bank hotel she’d chosen, set in a misty cobblestone courtyard. Yes, it suits you, he thought.
* * *
His eyes had distance in them.
Eyes that had seen too much violence? But the sound of his voice—slow, deep and easy—was much more reassuring than the forbidding expression. She liked the way he moved, too—the easy grace, even with a bad leg, and the quick eyes. Except for the hint of wariness in his body.
And now those disturbing gray eyes were on her, assessing. Waiting, glinting at her with a deep and serious intelligence. This man would not suffer fools gladly.
Maggie stared at the crooked nose, the wide grim mouth, the silvery day-old beard. It was a battered face, she thought, a Tom-Selleck-without-the-mustache face, deeply scored by life. He was not a handsome man, and yet there was something compelling about his strong, angular features. Gazing at him, she thought of a forest—trees, earth, rock.
Beckett’s eyes moved to the quote on her t-shirt—Where words leave off, music begins. “Sugar says you play with the Boston Symphony.”
“I’m afraid I only sell sheet music these days. I don’t play the piano anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. My grandma always said that we need music in our lives so we’ll know how heaven sounds when the angels sing.”
Maggie liked the image and wondered why the words didn’t match the expression on his face. That slight, self-mocking smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—eyes as cold and dark as the winter sea off the Vineyard.
“We need to talk, Mrs. O’Shea.”
The Golden bristled and Beckett’s sudden tension silenced Maggie’s response. She felt the instant reaction of his body and looked up to see a man in a black warm-up suit biking slowly toward them down the winding lane. She noticed, too, the subtle shift of the colonel’s body, as if to shield her. What’s going on here? Maggie wondered.
The biker passed, and Beckett turned to her. “Time to go,” he said.
Maggie refused to move. “You’re obviously used to giving orders, Colonel Beckett,” she said, “but I’m not used to taking them.”
Granite eyes glinted at her. Then he pushed his hand through the silvered fringe of hair in exasperation. “I can see that, ma’am. Let’s walk.” He waited a beat. “Please.”
She relented and fell into step beside him and the Golden. “Why did you follow me here?” she demanded.
Clearly searching for time, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a battered pack of cigarettes and a dull gold lighter. This colonel had carpenter’s hands, ringless, scarred, and powerful. And just how did he get all those scars?
“Mrs. O’Shea?” Beckett was looking at her with an odd expression. He narrowed his eyes, smiled grimly, and slipped the cigarette back into his pocket.
“The Café de la Paix must be open by now. Shall we go ask about Zachary Law?”
“We? Well, ma’am, the dog and I are on our way to the Café de la Paix. You are going back to your hotel to pack your suitcase.”
Her confusion sparked into anger. “Like hell I will!”
“Didn’t see that coming,” he muttered to the Golden.
“I’m not going anywhere until I find my godson,” said Maggie, locking her arms across her chest. “I won’t be told what to do.”
His unyielding face was so close that she felt his breath on her cheek. This time she refused to step back. “This isn’t Dodge City, Colonel. You can’t just run me out of town.”
“Sugarman must have been out of his mind to involve you in this. You’re an amateur who will end up compromising the mission. You’re—what? One hundred ten soaking wet?”
Arrogant bastard. She turned away to conceal the sudden temper that burned her skin.
“Don’t fight me,” he warned her. “I’ll win.”
The full force of his will hit her like a blow, but she stood her ground. “I. Won’t. Leave,” she told him with finality.
CHAPTER THIRTY
PARIS. MORNING, JULY 6
The desk clerk at the Ambassador Hotel shook his head as he watched the tall, fair-haired man stride across the lobby. He’d spoken French, insisting he needed to see Madame O’Shea. Angry and rude. Alors. Perhaps he should not have revealed that Madame had moved to Relais Odette.
* * *
In the cemetery of Père Lachaise, Beckett stared at Maggie in disbelief. “I’m pitching but you’re not catching, ma’am. I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“You’re playing the wrong page of music, Colonel,” she said. “I didn’t ask to be here. And this isn’t about my safety.”
“Oh, but it is, Mrs. O’Shea. You’ve gotten involved in some very risky business and I—”
“I understand the risks only too well. My good friend was attacked in my music shop. I’m not so naïve as to think the intruder was after a Berlioz score. Especially since he had a knife.”
He spiked an eyebrow. “A knife is vicious. Intimate. How is she doing?”
“Frightened. But she’s going to be okay, thank God. She thinks her corset deflected the knife.”
“A corset?”
She offered a faint smile. “Long story. But I hate that she was threaten
ed because of me. Just one more reason why I’m here. It’s the right thing to do.”
He shook his head. “Right thing, maybe, but wrong reason when a knife is involved.”
She glanced down at the Golden. “Is he always this difficult?”
The Golden gazed at her thoughtfully, as if considering her question.
“You may not know this, Colonel Beckett, but my home and music shop were vandalized after my husband died. His computer was stolen, as were several files. Someone wanted information from my husband. Not me.”
The silver eyes locked on hers. “Not you…”
Something is wrong, thought Maggie. The colonel’s words, like Tchaikovsky’s huge introduction to his first symphony, were set in the wrong key.
“Musicians are not immune from danger, Colonel. Sousa fell through the stage floor while conducting. Vivaldi was born during an earthquake, Simon Barere died while performing at Carnegie Hall. The American composer Blitzstein was beaten to death by three French sailors.”
“Maybe they didn’t like his music.” Beckett shook his head. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“I’m a trained pianist. I take care of myself, I don’t need protecting. And I’m not afraid.”
“Then you’re naïve, ma’am.” He eyed her slender arms, the narrow ankles just visible above the neon-orange Reeboks. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I do many things I shouldn’t do.”
“I have no doubt. But things could get very rough.” Beckett pushed his hands deep into his pockets, clearly frustrated.
“Things not going the way you planned, Colonel?”
He took a deep breath. “Just what the devil did Sugarman tell you?”
She looked down at the wedding band on her left hand. “Simon came to me because a very long time ago I was—involved—with Zachary Law. Simon is convinced that Zach is alive and the link to finding Fee’s son. Because of the photo of Zach with Victor Orsini in the Café de la Paix.”
“How much do you know about Orsini?”
She could sense the anger behind the controlled voice. “He was married to my good friend, Sofia Orsini. But you already know all this,” she said, watching him. “What you don’t know is that when my godson was born, I promised to protect him. I didn’t. So here I am.”
“How about this, Mrs. O’Shea? You go home, and I’ll find your godson for you.”
“How about this, Colonel? You’re not concerned about my safety. You just don’t trust me not to mess up your operation.”
Beckett looked over at the Golden. “Welcome to Beckett-No-Win-Roulette,” he muttered. “Your friend Sofia’s involvement with Victor Orsini cost her her life. You know it, and so do I. Now you’re looking for her son. And Orsini doesn’t want his kid found.”
“Do you believe Victor Orsini murdered his wife?”
“I believe he’s a man with too many secrets. And a man with secrets to hide is a dangerous man.”
“So the danger comes from Orsini. At least that explains why Simon insisted that I work with you. Although, like you, I would prefer to work on my own.” She locked eyes with his. “Something wrong, Colonel?”
He nodded uncomfortably. “It’s just…I’ve never met a lady piano player before.”
“Then we’re even.” She watched his face as she put her suspicion into words. “Because I’ve never met an army intelligence officer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
PARIS. MORNING, JULY 6
Chanel sunglasses and a swirl of silken scarf obscured the face of the elegant Frenchwoman who rode her bicycle down the Rue du Chat qui Peche. In the crowded square of Place Saint-Michel, she stopped by the Davioud fountain to gaze up at the huge stone sculpture of the Archangel Michael and the Devil. Sorbonne students in tight black t-shirts sprawled around the stone rim, smoking and deliberately ignoring the tourists who threw coins and photographed “Le vrai Paris” with their iPhone cameras.
She looked toward the small glass-fronted bistro on the north edge of the swirling square. Bistro de la Fontaine was charming with its art deco canopy above a red door and windows displaying artfully arranged wine bottles and baskets of bread and cheese.
Today three Gendarmes and several tall Americans with wires in their ears stood talking by the door. A line of official black SUVs were parked on the street in front of the bistro. Inside, the French Foreign Minister was having breakfast with the American Secretary of State.
The woman dismounted, leaning her bicycle against the fountain’s rim. The small satchel in the rear basket was hidden by a bouquet of bright flowers.
Wandering away from the bike, she took photographs of the fountain, the square, a young Frenchwoman trailing her hand dreamily in the fountain’s water. Then, with a last look at the glass-walled bistro, she turned and walked quickly toward St. Germaine, leaving her bicycle behind. In a moment the crowds swallowed her, and she was gone.
* * *
In the dappled shade of Père Lachaise cemetery, Maggie repeated her question. “Are you an intelligence officer, Colonel Beckett?”
Beckett felt the muscle jump angrily in the hollow of his cheek. He glanced down at the Golden, searching for a distraction, but the dog looked away and he was on his own. “Why the devil would you think that?” he asked, too quietly.
“Because I think you are here because of Victor Orsini, not Fee’s son. But frankly, I’m not interested in your political intrigue. This may be your job, but I made a promise to my husband and my godson, and I intend to keep that promise.”
He bristled. “Political intrigue? I’m just a disillusioned old soldier who used to push papers through five miles of hallway at the Pentagon.”
“Disillusion breeds a hard edge of cynicism.”
“This is just another run-of-the-mill operation, Mrs. O’Shea.” His shrug was unconcerned. “Find Zachary Law. With luck he leads us to the kid. Then we all pack up, and I go home to my place in the mountains. In and out.”
She looked at him as if he’d just told her the South had won the Civil War. “But you need me to find Zach.”
“Sugar thinks we need you. I don’t.” He pictured the bloodless face of the young woman who had died so needlessly under his watch in Kandahar. Not again. “Do you really believe Zachary Law is alive?”
Speaking to the sky, she said, “It’s possible he didn’t die in that bombing. He was injured, he may have lost his memory.” Talking too fast, she added, “Or perhaps he simply found another life, another woman.”
Right, thought Beckett. Maybe if Beirut had left the guy blind and deaf. And impotent.
“I hate secrets,” she said. “I hate not knowing the truth.”
“You’ve fallen into a world that’s all about secrets,” he admitted. “Did Sugar ever tell you about the husband who reported to work at the CIA and discovered that his boss was his wife?”
The faint, brief smile rewarded him. “What’s really bothering you, Mrs. O’Shea?”
“In my heart, I think Zach must be dead. Maybe he didn’t love me any longer, but he would never have abandoned his music. Never! It was the very blood coursing through his body.” She gazed toward the clouds. “Life without music would be unbearable for Zach, impossible. If he were still alive, I would have heard his music—on the radio, in a concert hall, somewhere. I would have known…”
“But there’s more, isn’t there?”
“Yes. Zachary Law composed the concerto that was on the disc he sent to his father, I’m certain of that. But he is not the person playing that piano.”
“If you think Law’s dead, Mrs. O’Shea, then why the devil are you here?”
“Maybe this is part of the answer.” She was staring down at the grave of a French officer killed in WWI. The inscription on the worn blue stone implored the soldier’s wife not to forget him. Two words had been added later: I remember.
In the green stillness, Beckett watched the lost, bewildered expression shadow her face. The bright, hurt look in her eyes. “St
irring up the past like this can’t be easy for you.”
“People die, Colonel, and the rest of us just have to get on with it. Maybe I’m here because the past won’t rest until I know the truth.” She hugged her shoulders, and he wondered suddenly whether she was talking about Zachary Law—or her husband.
* * *
Just ahead of them on the path, an old veteran with caved cheeks and lieutenant bars on his worn uniform sat on the grass. Maggie watched as the colonel stooped, spoke softly, then gently pressed several folded euros into the soldier’s palm.
He scares me, she thought. But he gives money to a homeless man when most people I know would just walk on by. He tries to ignore that beautiful Golden—but there is something in his eyes when he looks at that dog. She said, “You’re not what I expected, Colonel Beckett.”
“People are always more than one thing, ma’am.”
They walked on without speaking.
At the end of the path, they stopped, struck by the cemetery’s powerful memorial to Holocaust victims. “Evil isn’t just an abstract concept, Mrs. O’Shea,” he said, staring up at the emotional sculpture.
Maggie gazed at the skeletal stone figure, breaking the grip of his barbed-wire prison and rising into the bright morning sky. “There was an orchestra of prisoners at Auschwitz, did you know that?” she said suddenly. “Music composed by Jews was found at Thereseinstadt and several other camps.” She turned to him. “How is it possible? Why do we let things go so far?”
“Maybe because we can’t imagine such evil.” Beckett squinted into the distance. “No man knows how he’ll behave until he hears the sound of boots on the stairs, the knock on the door in the dead of night. The Jews were stripped of all human dignity. And yet—”
“And yet these same people somehow found the courage to make music, to love and have faith. To keep the human spirit alive. Defiance.”
Maggie looked up at the memorial, stark and anguished against the cloudless sky. “When Winston Churchill was asked to cut arts funding in favor of the war effort, he simply replied, ‘Then what are we fighting for?’”
Beckett nodded. “I was in Jerusalem last year, witnessed a suicide bombing in a café,” he said quietly. “Fifteen dead, including two children. The next morning, I went back with the investigating team. The café was filled with people, drinking their coffee. Defiance. It’s the right word. I guess that’s why some of us keep fighting. For them, and for ourselves.”
The Lost Concerto Page 12