Before she could change her mind, she called the concierge for a car, dressed quickly, and scribbled a message on the hotel stationery. At the last minute, she fastened the green silk to her hair.
Then she edged into Beckett’s shadowed room, using the extra key he had given her.
He was there, sleeping soundly, one arm flung across his eyes. A bare, muscular shoulder was just visible above a fold of white sheet. The Golden, curled on the bed next to him, raised his head to gaze at her. She raised a finger to her lips, smiled, and whispered, “Shh. I’ll keep your secret if you’ll keep mine.” Seeming to understand, the Golden put his head back down on his paw but kept his eyes on her.
Her gaze returned to the colonel and her hand moved without conscious thought, as if to smooth the sheets over the broad shoulder. Her fingers stopped in mid-air, remembering the feel of him as they’d danced. Don’t even think about touching him.
Very quietly, she moved the tumble of books on his nightstand to one side. The Average Joe’s Guide to Classical Music. No wonder he’d known about Van Cliburn. She smiled, touched, glancing at the other titles. The new Winston Churchill biography, Neil Sheehan’s A Bright Shining Lie. Dark heroes, World War II, Vietnam, Afghanistan. And there, tossed over a nearby chair, a worn gray t-shirt with the words, Got Freedom?
She left the message on the nightstand. “I hope you will understand, Michael,” she whispered as she closed the door behind her.
* * *
Gideon pulled the Fiat over to the side of the hairpin road and walked to the edge of the cliff. It felt good to be out of the confining car, good to breathe the valley air and feel the sun warm his neck.
He was on a hilltop just beyond the town of Gordes. Now, before dropping down into the deep valley, he wanted to enjoy this view of Abbaye de Sénanque. Below him, solitary and austere and veiled in white light, the twelfth-century Cistercian abbey waited tranquilly in a sea of lavender. In a few hours the church would be alive with music, but for this moment it belonged only to him.
He stood for a long time, savoring the beauty and serenity of the old abbey rising out of the purple wilderness. Pure light on red cliffs, and the valley carpeted with flowers. This place spoke to him. There was a spirit here, like the spirit in his Luberon vineyard. Inspiration…a passage of new music was forming in his mind, like swirling crystals arranging themselves into intricate patterns against the bright sky. A passage that spoke of sunlight and chimes, lavender and prayer.
A sudden breeze carried the scent of distant rain. He lifted his head and felt on his face the faintest breath of a Provençal thunderstorm, the kind that broke suddenly, wildly across the hills and then just as quickly was gone.
The pattern of crystal notes broke, rearranged, found a stormy new intensity on the phantom piano in his head, as Gideon climbed back into the car and drove down into the valley.
* * *
Beckett groaned and sat up, shielding his eyes against the glare of sunlight. His head felt thick and fuzzy. He fumbled for his watch and glasses on the small table beside the bed. The white envelope fell unseen to the floor.
He squinted at his watch. After ten already.
Dropping back to the bed, he lit one of the last two cigarettes left in their crumpled package and watched the blue smoke swirl lazily toward the spinning ceiling fan. The Golden was sitting by the French doors, waiting for him.
Dark dreams still swirled in his head. He couldn’t shake the strong sense of danger, the sense of being followed, last night after the reception. Maggie had been driven back to the inn by an Aixois policeman. He’d taken a more circuitous route, watching a parade of changing headlamps catch his rearview mirror. Twice he’d glimpsed a dark compact, once a jeep, once a low-slung sports car—maybe a Jag or a Zee—glinting silver in the moonlight. He thought he’d lost them, but—damn. His instincts were rarely wrong.
After Maggie’s nightmare, he’d stayed watchfully awake. A bad case of JDFR, Sugar would call it. Just Didn’t Feel Right.
Half sitting up in the bed, Beckett pulled the hotel phone over and balanced it on his chest. He dialed the concierge. “Have you made the arrangements I requested last night?” he asked.
“Mais oui, everything is in readiness. We will take care of Madame O’Shea’s surprise this afternoon, while she is out,” answered the young concierge, who enjoyed satisfying the unusual requests of his guests. “This one is quite a challenge.”
Beckett left a message for Sugarman, then moved naked to the bathroom. The face that stared out at him from the mirror was tired and troubled. He rubbed the gray-flecked jaw as he looked into the flinty eyes. How does she see me, he wondered.
A girl’s voice, high and slightly off-key, reached him from the open balcony doors. “Now, what the devil?” muttered Beckett. He pulled on a pair of jeans and moved barefoot out onto his balcony.
He leaned around the leafy partition. The tiny maid, dwarfed by a frilly white uniform, was singing as she rubbed lavender scent into the flowered carpet.
“Mademoiselle,” he called. “Where is Mrs. O’Shea?” The singing stopped abruptly. The girl turned with a smile, then saw the dark look on his face. “But she is not here, Monsieur Beck-ette,” she said. “Madame left over one hour ago. She asked me to tell you that she left a message for you, by your books.”
He found it on the floor, the first words turning him cold. “Heard from Z.”
Zachary Law. Bloody hell. Somehow, she’d been in touch with him. His heart thudded like cannons as he read the words. “Meeting him at Sénanque Abbey. Please give me today. I need to see him alone. Forgive me. M.” Beneath the words, a scrawled postscript: “It’s not like Paris. Z won’t hurt me.”
“Goddamn it,” shouted Beckett, lunging for his Nikes. She didn’t know the danger. He should have told her last night.
He was still buttoning his shirt as he raced down the stairs, Shiloh loping behind him. He was almost out the hotel door when he stopped in the lobby and turned to the young concierge.
“Did you rent a car for Madame O’Shea this morning?” he asked.
The young Frenchman smiled. “Mais oui, Monsieur.”
“What make?”
“A yellow Renault.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “She did not like your flowers, Monsieur?”
Beckett halted, halfway through the door, and swung around. “What did you say?”
“The wildflowers, Monsieur.” The concierge stared at the rigid body and shook his head. “Daisies. You did not—”
“Who delivered them?” Beckett demanded through clenched teeth.
“A tall blond gentleman, Monsieur. In sunglasses. It was odd, now that I think of it—a delivery man, driving a silver Jaguar. But then, in Provence—”
Last night. Moonlight glinting silver on a sports car in his rearview mirror.
Beckett and the dog were already out the door.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
AIX-EN-PROVENCE. EARLY AFTERNOON, JULY 9
Sugarman gazed down at the file in his hand. Vanessa Durand. On paper, the beautiful art gallery owner was a successful, innocent businesswoman. A friend of Fee’s, a woman trying to help them find Orsini. So why didn’t he trust her? She’d worked for Orsini in Rome. She sent John O’Shea to Hyères. Okay. No crime there. Unless…
His cell phone jangled, scattering his thoughts. Sugarman pitched wadded balls of yellow legal paper toward a wastebasket as he answered. “Yes, sir, good morning.”
The Admiral’s voice rumbled in his ear.
Sugarman listened, pitched, and scored. Swish!
“Nada. Yet. But Maggie O’Shea’s attending more performances today. My gut tells me Zachary Law and Victor Orsini are close. We’ll find them.”
He sent another paper ball sailing across the room. I just need time, he told himself, and a major dose of seren-fucking-dipity. “I know, I know,” he murmured into the receiver. “Three more days ‘til the twelfth. If we’re right, then we’re running out of time. I say we c
ancel the President’s plans.”
The answer did not surprise him. This President refused to give in to fear. And he was, after all, asking to alter the schedules of the world’s most powerful leaders.
“This guy has a world-class knowledge of explosives, sir,” warned Sugarman. “He’s a master of disguise, he can get a weapon past any airport or embassy security, he can patch into iPhones and computers—”
The words in his ear were sharp and final.
“Yes, sir,” said Sugarman. So, he told himself, we protect The Man and his guests, like it or not. Level four cover. An attack in New York would be—shit! He said, “We still don’t know for sure if the President is the target.”
Sugarman listened, then sat up, paper basketballs forgotten.
“They can get into a big reception, sir,” he warned. “Especially a man who’s faceless. I guarantee it.”
Sugarman moved to the window and looked down into the small courtyard. “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”
A new note of urgency in the answering voice.
“Yeah, I hear you. We need Victor Orsini. Yesterday. But I have an idea, sir. If you’re willing. May be crazy, but I think it’s worth a shot…”
Ten minutes later, Sugarman clicked off his cell and stared unseeing at the floor. “All hell’s gonna break loose,” he said. “It’s on your shoulders now, Maggie O’Shea. Babe, you have got to find Zach Law.”
* * *
Maggie stood quietly in the back of the soaring arched nave in the Abbey of Sénanque, captivated by the simplicity and the harmony of line. The church was a great tunnel of light and shade, a place of austere beauty devoid of paintings, sculpture, and stained glass. The only richness, thought Maggie, was the grand piano, lit by bands of dusty light that poured through three high arched windows.
Beyond the windows, the lavender garden waited. Was Zach waiting there for her now? Standing in the silent shadowy nave, a curious calm settled over her. Zachary Law felt very close.
Would it be Zach who strode onto the stage?
The small orchestra of men and women sat quietly, hands on their instruments, waiting. The conductor entered, followed moments later by the soloist. But the pianist chosen to premiere the concerto was a young Asian. If you’re not playing, Zach, then where are you? Once more, her gaze swept the crowd.
The baton came down. The piano’s opening trills fell around her like the golden light that rained from the high stone walls. Chords that were hauntingly, achingly familiar.
She recognized the music immediately. It was Zachary Law’s concerto.
And then she turned her head and saw him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
SÉNANQUE ABBEY. AFTERNOON, JULY 9
“Don’t even think about it.”
Dane had just locked the Jag when he heard the low voice behind him. He turned. It was Magdalena O’Shea’s colonel, pointing the black barrel of a gun at his heart.
His hand hovered near his knife, the Laguiole’s blade newly sharpened.
They stood, not moving, at the edge of the small field where visitors parked. The faint sound of violins and piano echoed toward them from the abbey.
“Over there,” said the man, motioning him toward the offices behind the abbey. “The French authorities have some questions for you. And so do I.”
Behind the mirrored glasses, Dane’s eyes swept the field. The abbey, straight ahead. Two buses, some eighty or ninety cars. To the left, a wall of rock and gorse leading out of the valley. To his right, the field dropped off into a steep rock-filled ravine. “You will get no answers from me,” he said.
“Shut up and move,” said the man. He took a step closer.
Dane coughed, raising a hand to his mouth. The man recognized the danger just as the knife slipped into Dane’s fingers, but he reacted just seconds too late. Dane dropped to the earth and lashed out with his boot at the man’s bad knee, smashing him into the hood of a parked Fiat. His pistol arced into the air.
Dane flung himself toward the gun. Then the man was on top of him.
Locked together, they rolled over bone-grinding rocks toward the edge of the ravine.
A wild barking, from the parking lot.
A hard knee to the groin, a harsh scrape of breath. The flash of the knife. A brutal fist, numbing the arm. Now the bright blade, skittering across silver rock.
No gun, no knife. No rules. A shuddering kick, smashing into ribs. A muttered curse, a sickening blow to the kidneys. A sudden dark burst of blood from Dane’s nose, splattering their faces with streaks of crimson.
Dane’s hands closed around the man’s neck. Gasping for breath, his opponent slammed a savage blow to his skull. They crashed backwards together, tumbling toward the edge of the ravine.
A thumb, digging into an eye. A chopping blow to the temple.
A fist to the back of the neck.
They both saw it at the same time. Through the red mist, a glint of half moon, caked in earth and rust. They threw themselves at the scythe.
Dane reached for the blade, but the man’s fingers closed around the wooden handle and hurled it out of reach. Dane slammed his boot into the man’s back. The man grabbed Dane’s leg and twisted. Somewhere, a dog was howling.
The scythe was just feet away from them. They rolled together, locked like lovers, toward the blade.
It was Dane who gripped the steel beneath his fingers and dragged it closer.
* * *
Beckett felt the heavy blade press against his neck. There was a roaring inside his head. Golden eyes smiled down at him.
No way, you fucking bastard. If he could just reach—his fingers tore at his pocket, searched, clutched, locked on cold metal. His lighter.
He gripped his adversary’s wrist with savage brutality. The orange flame shot high, moved closer. Beckett forced the fire against the man’s palm as he looked into the glowing eyes. “This hand hurt her,” he whispered.
The man roared, as flame seared flesh.
Fingers torn away. Ragged, gasping breath.
A sharp kick, sending the scythe sliding down into the ravine.
A rock held high, blocking out the sun.
Beckett twisted away, toward the edge of the ravine.
Over! Falling, falling.
Blue sky, then red darkness.
* * *
She saw him first in profile, his left side toward her, a bearded man in a camel sports coat leaning against a stone pillar in the back of the nave. His fingers drummed his thigh to the rhythm of the music in a gesture she remembered immediately. He was alone.
Classical jazz notes swirled around her.
She could not breathe. He was taller than she remembered and very thin, with the high brow and the jutting, bony nose above the bearded chin. His skin was darkened by the sun. Black hair, still much too long, fell over his forehead and curled behind the ears. The way his shoulder curved into the muscular back. Oh, God. He was so much like Brian.
He swung his head around and looked directly at her.
The music faded, all sound stopped.
He’s alive.
The abbey seemed to blur around the edges of her vision. Dazed and lightheaded, Maggie was unable to move. She simply stood and stared at him. He’s older, she thought with shock. The gentleness was gone from the dark, sensitive eyes. A jagged scar ran from his temple down the side of his face. The man who looked down at her was still disconcertingly handsome, but now the face was hard, and scored by pain.
A rush of memories, dizzying. She took a step toward him, holding out her hands. “Zach?”
He was looking at her as he would a stranger.
“Zach,” she said again.
She saw the shock jolt his body. “Slim?” he said, in the voice she remembered. The old endearment seemed to rise unbidden to his lips.
But then the dark lashes lowered over his eyes, like the shadow of wings on bright stone. He turned fully to face her. The empty right sleeve of his coat
swung gently toward her as he moved.
Zachary Law no longer had a right arm.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
SÉNANQUE ABBEY. AFTERNOON, JULY 9
Her denial was immediate. “No! Oh dear God, Zach. Not your arm—”
Her words sounded as if they echoed toward him through a long tunnel. But the words didn’t matter; he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her face. She was much thinner, but startlingly beautiful. Her hair was still long, caught back at the nape of her neck with an emerald ribbon. He had forgotten how green her eyes were. Eyes that still, after all the years, gazed at him in his dreams.
The notes of his concerto crashed around him. He raised a finger to touch her cheek. “You still look like a girl,” he said.
* * *
Maggie looked at his empty jacket sleeve. All in an instant, she saw him the way he had been. Alone on a spot-lit stage. The sensitive hands, long-fingered and strong, flying across the keys; the power and passion of Tchaikovsky and Beethoven and Chopin, flung out into the far corners of the dark theatre; the wild, tumultuous applause. The exultant look on his face.
The true extent of his loss hit her with sudden, devastating brutality. A great rush of pain and rage surged through her.
“Zach. Your music.”
They stared at each other, not breathing, like two lost children. His breath came out as he grasped her arm tightly with his left hand. “Get hold of yourself, Slim,” he said, unconsciously using the old nickname again. The concerto was approaching the end of the first movement, and several pairs of curious eyes in the back rows already were focused on them. “Come with me.”
He dropped his hand and hefted a cane that had been resting against the pillar. Not his leg, too. She watched him move haltingly, favoring his right leg, toward the door.
She followed him out into the purple valley.
* * *
Dane opened his eyes and saw that he was bleeding on the black leather seat. Merde! His hand was on fire.
There was sharp pain and a thick, wet stickiness above his left eye. Forehead, he thought groggily. What else?
The Lost Concerto Page 24