The Lost Concerto

by Helaine Mario

  “I was playing the piano while my husband was dying. I chose my music—”

  The shock of her words hit him like a fist. “Your husband died because he was looking for your godson.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe it’s not possible to have both art and love. A soloist is always alone.” Abruptly, she turned her back on the piano.

  He watched her walk away from him, across the darkened stage toward the wings.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  PARIS. AFTERNOON, JULY 7

  The key turned in the lock and instantly he was alert. She was back.

  Very quietly, Dane moved closer to the hidden door, tense and ready to spring. If Magdalena O’Shea was an American agent, she would be cautious, inspecting the room carefully.

  “Merci bien, Lieutenant Henri.”

  A man’s murmured farewell, the sound of a door closing. She was alone. Suddenly she moved into his line of sight. A small crystal lamp illuminated her face.

  It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear. The words suddenly swirled in his head. He was Romeo once again, seeing his Juliet for the first time at the Capulet feast.

  Juliet moved out of vision.

  A click. Faint music. The Madrigals, arriving at the hall for the Capulet’s banquet.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was Chopin, not Madrigals. No London stage, no darkened theatre, but a hotel room on the Left Bank. Sounds of movement. Drawers opening and closing. Packing, fair Juliet?

  Her voice, placing a call to a Boston hospital in the United States. Asking for Lucinda Jacobs’ room. The woman had survived? A mistake. It won’t happen again.

  A sigh of frustration, a door opening. The sound of water. He closed his eyes and saw her small, boyish body in the shower. He imagined her, slippery with scented soap, hot water running in shiny rivers down over her flat stomach.

  He crushed her scarf tightly in his fingers. It would be so easy. Grab her from behind, slip the scarf around her mouth to keep her from screaming, take her right there on the tiled floor. Or perhaps he would take her in the shower, standing up, under the hot stinging water. Yes. Tiny, pointed breasts pushing against his skin. Lifting her, slippery and struggling, impaling her against the wet tiles. She was so small.

  He smiled at his body’s quick response to his fantasies. Huge and aching and ready for her. He moved silently into her bedroom.

  Yes, he thought. Why not?

  He stopped in front of the bathroom door.

  The blade of the Laguiole pressed against his hip, as hard and demanding as the erection in his loins. She would tell him what he wanted to know. He could make a woman say anything.

  His hand closed on the brass doorknob.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  PARIS. AFTERNOON, JULY 7

  “Aix-en-Provence?” In the small CIA office near the Louvre, Simon Sugarman turned to Beckett. “I knew Maggie would come through for us. When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow, early. Henri took her back to the hotel.”

  Beckett lifted the soft blue sweatshirt Maggie had forgotten when she returned to her hotel, then tossed it onto the chair. “Or so she promised. She’s like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” He gazed at the Golden, who was curled, shivering and panting, beneath the desk. “I’m leaving the dog here with you, Sugar. He wants nothing to do with me.”

  “No way, Mike. I’m outta here. Got the team focused on finding a ‘G. Black’ now, thanks to la Maggie. And I’m headed south to Hyères, to follow up on that art gallery where Vanessa Durand sent John O’Shea.”

  “Something doesn’t feel right about that story, Sugar. About her…”

  “You don’t think she’s just an innocent art gallery owner either?”

  The phone on the table jangled. The skittish Golden jolted, backed further under the desk as both men reached for the receiver.

  “Beckett here. What’s going on?” He listened with absolute concentration. “Okay, I want you guys to stay on her family like a June bug on a hot mare.” He hung up the telephone. “Luze Jacobs gets out of the hospital today.”

  Sugarman’s eyes were hooded. “She doesn’t know how lucky she is.”

  “Her surgeon said she was wearing some kind of stiff corset that deflected the knife.”

  “A knife…”

  Their eyes met.

  “A Laguiole. The team finally got to question her. Congratulations, Sugar. Your quarry has taken the bait.”

  Sugarman waved a dismissive hand. “What about Maggie’s kid?”

  “Brian O’Shea and his wife are safe on Cape Cod. I assigned a unit to guard them as soon as I heard about the attack on Jacobs.”

  “Did Jacobs give a description?”

  “He wore a stocking over his face. But he called her Titania.”

  “Shakespeare!” Sugarman snapped his fingers. “Come to Mama, baby.”

  “Goddamn it, Sugar, he’s a cobra and Maggie O’Shea is his rabbit! He’s after her. And he’s had more than enough time to fly to France. If he knows she’s in Paris…”

  “Sometimes in this work, the innocents have to get hurt so that we can stop the bad guys. You know it, Mike. Who’s to say what’s right and what’s wrong?”

  Beckett looked over at the Golden as he reached for his cell phone. “I know,” he muttered. “You think I’m Gepetto tossing sweet Pinocchio into the wood chipper.”

  Damned dog wasn’t wrong.

  * * *

  In the Left Bank hotel room on Rue Christine, a cloud of hot steam surged over Dane as he inched open the bathroom doorway.

  The sharp buzz of the telephone sounded behind him.

  His hand dropped from the doorknob. Another ring. The shower stopped.

  He moved quickly across the bedroom carpet and disappeared behind the Chinese screen.

  Dashing footsteps. “Luze? Hello? Oh. Yes, Colonel. Sorry, I was hoping for another call.” Dane could hear the disappointment in her voice.

  Colonel? Intrigued, Dane pressed closer to the crack of the screen. She was so close that he could breathe in her flowered scent. He’d taken his mirrored glasses off, and he smiled, knowing his strange golden irises glowed dangerous as tiger’s eyes.

  “…pack after the theatre so I’ll be ready to leave for Aix first thing in the morning.”

  Aix. Dane froze. She was going to Aix with a colonel?

  More words, too low to understand. Speak louder, he cursed her. Then her voice, clear and shocking. “If we find Gideon…”

  Gideon. Dane’s face hardened with shock. That was why the picture in her dresser was so familiar. Why Victor wanted her. But why was she searching for Gideon?

  “Meet you now? But I need to…”

  A meeting? Speak louder, my angel.

  “…bags will be with the concierge.” Her voice was angry. “Two hours. Yes, fine, I’ll lock the door and stay put!” There was a crack as she disconnected the call.

  “Like hell I will,” she said aloud to the empty room.

  Dane heard the bathroom door close once more. So, she was going to meet this mysterious colonel. Someone Dane wanted very much to see. She would be easy to follow. Then…Aix-en-Provence. Closer to Victor. But why?

  No time for games now. He had to identify the colonel. And determine their business in Provence. He moved quietly toward the door, then stopped to look back at the ivory nightgown draped over bed.

  “Don’t forget to pack that bit of satin, fair Juliet,” he whispered. “You and I still have unfinished business together.”

  The mirrored glasses dropped like a silver curtain over his eyes as he disappeared into the empty hallway.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  PARIS. AFTERNOON, JULY 7

  Maggie stood in the Jardins du Luxembourg on the Left Bank. At the end of a narrow pool, the Medici Fountain dripped under a leafy arch of green. Soft sunlight spun down through the trees, and she watched the water shine and darken like a Monet pai
nting in ever-changing patterns of light and shadow. Today, the calm water held no nightmare images of jagged rocks or shattered sailboats.

  The colonel would be furious with her for going out. But his warnings sounded so unbelievable in this quiet, sunlit glade.

  The hell with Beckett’s rules. She needed to be doing something other than hiding away in a garret bedroom grieving. Just for a little while, she needed to see people involved in the everyday unfolding of their lives—buying bread, reading to a child by the Seine. A stolen kiss in an outdoor café. Not worried about missing children, phantom lovers, lost music. Or a bomb in a crowded square.

  The colonel’s car would be pulling up to her hotel soon. Use the time. She hurried across the sweeping terrace, past the gardeners pruning the orange trees, past the blank-eyed French queens carved in stone.

  Just ahead, a tangle of young French school children squealed and clapped in delight. The Théâtre des Marionnettes, Maggie realized with pleasure as she saw the colorful slapstick action of the puppets.

  “Guignol!” cried a little boy with a high-pitched voice to the most famous puppet in France. “Prenez-garde!”

  The cry of the child followed her, a warning note sounding in the flute-like voice. “Regardez! En arriere…” Look behind you! Maggie swung around.

  A bright puppet waving a huge club advanced on the unsuspecting Guignol. At the edge of her vision, a man in the crowd turned his head quickly away. Tall, with long, wheat-blond hair under a brimmed hat. A sudden, vague sense of alarm washed over her. The man moved again. For a brief instant the sun flashed on mirrored glasses.

  “Oh, God.” Fear leaped at her. The wolf-faced man in the photograph. Her stomach contracted into a tight hard knot. She dropped her eyes and somehow had the presence of mind to remain still. When she raised her eyes again, the face was gone. Had he seen her?

  She took a deep breath. Imagination? No. Get out of the park, quickly! Call the colonel. Where the hell was her cell? Back in the hotel room.

  She forced herself to turn her back on the theatre. Was he behind her? Dear God, where could she hide? She gripped the card with Beckett’s phone number, deep in her jeans pocket. Her eyes searched the open garden. Marionette theatre, playground, carousel, waffle stand. No public telephone, no help from the colonel now. She was on her own.

  Just hide, get out of sight. Get away from this dangerous, open garden.

  Bright painted horses slid past her. The gay organ music flowing from the carousel was speeding up. Without thought she jumped onto the spinning merry-go-round. Quickly she ducked down behind a moving horse.

  Faces whirled by her, distorted, threatening, like grinning masks glimpsed from a rushing train.

  There he was! A tall blond man, moving past the women who smoked and gossiped on the long benches. A bell rang. The horse beneath her hand lurched, stopped.

  What now? She scanned the park, saw the pale globes that marked the Luxembourg Metro entrance. The trains! Her fingers searched for a Metro token. Hurry.

  She jumped off the merry-go-round, ran across the slippery grass toward a group of Sorbonne students in tight black t-shirts. She slipped among the backpacks, moved with them. With one last backward glance at the crowded garden, she clattered down the Metro stairs.

  * * *

  Dane stared after her hurrying figure as she disappeared down the Metro steps.

  He hadn’t expected her to turn so suddenly. Did you see me, Juliet? Did you recognize my face? He pulled off the bush hat and moved toward the Metro entrance.

  * * *

  The down escalator carried her deep underground.

  Maggie ran down a long tiled corridor, twisted through the turnstile, felt the trembling of the tunnels beneath her feet. The screeching of a train tore into her, then vanished into the subterranean maze. Her mouth was dry with fear.

  What now? The bright route map was on the wall in front of her. Where was Beckett’s office? Near the Louvre, he’d said. She heard the rumble of an approaching train. Lights swept across dark tracks. She ran down the steep stairway and boarded the train.

  The doors slid closed and the train pulled from the station. Strangers closed in around her, locked with her now in the rushing steel tube. Blurred faces stared blankly at her, frozen for an instant in the harsh glare of station bulbs, then disappearing as the pitch-black tunnel swallowed the light.

  Maggie realized that she was holding her breath. She raised her eyes to the crowd of faces. No tall blond man in sunglasses.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, whirled. An old woman, off balance by the rocking train. Maggie looked into the tired eyes. What would you do if I told you that a man is chasing me? Insanity.

  They were slowing into a station. She studied the Metro map. She was on the Orange Line. Gare de St. Michel, Cité, then the big exchange at Châtelet. She could get to Beckett’s office from there. Bright lights flashed by as the train picked up speed again, sped through the dark tunnel. She hated being trapped under the ground.

  She turned her head. And saw the fair hair, heart-stoppingly unmistakable, reflected in the train’s window at the far end of the car.

  Oh God, he was on the train.

  He raised his head and looked directly at her. He knows I recognized him! A sob escaped her throat as she pushed behind the safe broad shoulders of a fat muttering Frenchman.

  When she looked again, the face was gone.

  The train rumbled into the Cité station. Get off the damned train!

  Ducking her head, she moved toward the sliding doors. She forced herself to stand still, staring at her own reflection in the dark glass, while riders hurried from the train. Eyes huge in the small white face. Wait, wait. A wave of people surged into the car. Almost… Just as the doors began to close, Maggie bent low, darted from the train, rudely pushed past the people standing by the door.

  Now where? She was disoriented by the noise and shadows, the thick crush of people. She was surrounded by a sea of broad backs and shoulders.

  The train began to pull away. She turned to search the moving car for a tall blond head. Oh God, where was he?

  She swung her head, searching for a gendarme. High on the tiled wall she saw the “Sortie” sign. The exit.

  “Je m’excuse. Excusez-moi.” The crowd closed in around her. She raised her voice. “Pardonnez-moi! Let me through, damn it!”

  Over there. The escalator to the street. Maggie’s heart sank when she saw the people crowded together at the base of the moving stairway. Then, to her left, the doors of an elevator slid open. Without thought she ran into the metal box, wedging herself into the far corner behind a thick Frenchwoman wrapped in a stained white jacket.

  Close the doors, close the doors. More people crowded into the elevator.

  Above the open doors, a message flashed on and off. Maggie stared at the words. “Dans huit secondes prochaine departe.” In eight seconds the elevator doors would close. Eight more seconds? Oh God.

  Six, now. She kept her eyes riveted on the flashing number under the sign. Five. More bodies crowded into the box. She heard a shout from somewhere out on the platform, to the left. Him? Four. Three.

  Running footsteps. Two.

  A voice. Low, angry. “Arretez!”

  No, don’t wait! She pressed her back hard against the wall. The whine of a motor. Eyes riveted to the flashing numbers. One! The elevator doors began to slide closed. A man’s hand grasped the edge of the metal door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  PARIS. AFTERNOON, JULY 7

  Sugarman hung up his cell phone and turned to Beckett with an odd expression in his eyes.

  “Isn’t she ready yet?” asked Beckett.

  “Henri says her luggage is in the lobby. But she’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Jesus, Sugar! Where the hell was Henri?”

  “She asked him to get coffee for her. Take it easy, pal. She probably stepped into the courtyard.”

  “And I’m the bloody tooth fairy!”

>   “She told the concierge that she just needed some air and to tell Henri she would be back by four.” Sugarman glanced down at his watch, then reached for his International Tribune. “Relax. Henri will find her. And it’s only ten to four. Doc’s a smart woman, she knows what she’s doing. Give her a chance.”

  Beckett turned away to look at the Golden. “Something’s not right,” he murmured.

  * * *

  The hand clutched the elevator door. Maggie saw a flash of sapphire as she closed her eyes. The mechanism lurched. She heard a guttural curse. The heavy doors slammed shut. The elevator began to rise.

  Only moments of safety, she knew. He would run to the stairs. She kept her eyes on the closed doors. The elevator shuddered, bumped to a stop. Would he be waiting? She was propelled by the crowd out into the bright sunshine.

  The air vibrated around her with high, unexpected sound. A small plaque nailed to a tree told her that she was in the tiny marketplace of Louis Lepine. The piercing sounds were birds!

  Birds everywhere. The air was quick with their cries. She froze, surrounded by cages of every size, stacked like giant blocks ten feet high. She was in the bird market.

  The cages were arranged in a maze of dark narrow aisles, stacked higher than her head. Quickly she hid behind a wall of screeching jays. God, why had she forgotten her phone!

  She turned left, then right, deeper into the fluttering maze. The high leafy trees blocked the sun, trapping her in sharp-edged, shrieking darkness.

  Disoriented, Maggie ran down the dark paths. She looked frantically around, her instincts primitive—she needed a safe, covered place. A place to hide.

  There. Above the treetops to her right, she saw the spire of Notre Dame. The church, she thought. I can hide there. With a last backward glance, she ran past the high stacked cages.

  * * *

  She’d gone off the grid.

  Beckett paced angrily back and forth in the small CIA office. The argument had been fierce but swiftly decided. Four o’clock had come and gone, with no Maggie O’Shea. Something was wrong. Sugarman had gone to Maggie’s hotel, Beckett staying in the office to wait for her call. Hadn’t he given her his goddamned cell number? Could the office phone be their only link to Maggie? Dammit, he had to do something!