Reap the Wind

by Iris Johansen

  He reached for the telephone and dialed Simon Goldbaum in New York.

  “Jesus, don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Time’s running out. I have to have something on Ledford. Anything.”

  “A report came in yesterday afternoon, but I haven’t had time to look at it. Call me back at the office at a decent hour tomorrow after I go over it.”

  “Go down to the office now.”

  “Do you know what time it is here?”

  “Now.”

  “It will cost you triple.”

  “What else is new?”

  “Okay.” Goldbaum sighed. “But it’s probably not going to be worth your money.”

  “I’m at the InterContinental in Paris.”

  “I’ll get back to you.” Goldbaum hung up the phone.

  Alex replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair. He had hoped Goldbaum would have something he could get his teeth into and block out the thought of Caitlin’s wary, bitter expression as she had looked at him earlier that night. What was so different? All his life people had been looking at him with that same wariness and uncertainty. They seemed to sense his own cynicism and distrust and returned it tenfold. Except for Caitlin. At first she had been wary of him, but that had faded and become—

  He pushed back the chair and stood up. He couldn’t think of Caitlin now. Thinking about her made the hollowness and guilt rush back and engulf him, and he had to concentrate on Ledford and those names. He strode toward the bedroom. He’d take a shower, order coffee, and try to think of a new way to put the pieces together.

  KRAKOW VOWS TO CAPTURE TERRORISTS WHO BOMBED SAINT-ANTOINE.

  Alex studied the headline of the morning paper the waiter had brought with the coffee. Christ, that’s all he needed, a do-gooder galloping around, tilting at windmills, and getting in his way at every turn.

  The phone rang just as he finished his third cup of coffee.

  “I told you that you couldn’t stop me,” Ledford said.

  Alex’s grip tightened on the receiver. “Where are you?”

  Ledford ignored the question. “And you left that lovely house on the Place des Vosges. What a shame. I’m very much afraid the lady was to blame.”

  “Stay away from her, Ledford.”

  “Perhaps. The scarf I sent her was merely a teasing little jest. However, it really annoyed me the way you rushed to her defense. I’ll have to explore my feelings on the subject of Ms. Vasaro. Tell me, is she—”

  Alex threw out a name to distract his attention. “Why did Dalpré want Saint-Antoine blown up?”

  “Dalpré?” Ledford was silent for a moment. “You’ve put that many pieces together so quickly? Ah, I do love that mind of yours, Alex.”

  Alex froze with shock. Christ, he couldn’t believe he had hit it lucky with such a wild shot. “Why?”

  “I really didn’t want to blow it up, but Dalpré has no respect for antiquity and I had to have the Wind Dancer.”

  “Then why did he order you to steal some of the most valuable antiquities in the world?”

  “You don’t understand. He didn’t order me to steal them. I had to persuade him the thefts should be an integral part of the operation.” He laughed. “He wants to be Napoleon and I told him they’d form a solid monetary backup for the treasury of his new regime.”

  “Christ, and he fell for it?”

  “Well, I think the darling man may have his own plans for my little treasure trove.”

  “You sound like you deserve each other.”

  “Certainly he deserves me, but I really think I rate something better than Dalpré.” He paused. “I knew you’d be upset with me about Saint-Antoine.”

  “Upset? You’re insane.”

  “No, I merely compartmentalize.” Ledford paused. “But now I’m having trouble putting you back into a box. I suppose it’s because I’ve never resolved how I felt about you. I do like things neat.”

  “Is Dalpré going—”

  “I don’t want to talk about Dalpré.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Nothing.” He paused. “I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.” His own voice lowered to a level above a whisper. “And to let you know there’s nothing I can’t take away from you.”

  He hung up.

  Alex tried to rid himself of the rage tearing through him and assimilate what information he had received from the call.

  Not much. Only two facts had emerged; he was still being watched and, if Ledford was to be believed, Dalpré was a confirmed conspirator. It was dangerous to believe Ledford and yet everything he had said fit. Dalpré had both the contacts and the muscle to initiate a coup, and his advocacy of a unification of Europe was no secret.

  The phone rang again fifteen minutes later.

  “It’s pretty weak,” Goldbaum said as soon as Alex picked up the receiver. “Istanbul.”

  “Go on.”

  “About fourteen months ago Ledford applied for a visa and went to Turkey. He did the entire tourist bit, toured the Dardanelles coast, and then spent two weeks in Istanbul.” He hesitated. “He bought a house there.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, and he didn’t want anyone to know about the buy. It took my man weeks to sift through all the paperwork and dummy corporations, but Ledford was the purchaser.”

  “Does he still own it?”

  “He did five days ago.”

  “Give me the address.”

  “Two fourteen Street of Swords. Now can I go home and go to bed?”

  “Not yet. I want you to dig up all you can on a British industrialist named Benjamin Carter and on Raoul Dalpré.”

  “The Raoul Dalpré?”

  “Interpol.”

  Goldbaum whistled. “That’s kinda dicey. I hear he can get damned vicious, and he’s got the power to pull out the stops.”

  “I need information and twenty-four-hour surveillance.” Goldbaum started to object, and Alex cut him short. “I know. It’s going to cost me. Whatever it takes.”

  “Desleppes is in Brussels. . . . Maybe I could put him on it. Anything else?”

  Alex glanced at the headlines of the newspaper. “Surveillance on Lars Krakow. I want to know everything his investigation turns up on the terrorists.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t expect me to find them before he does.” Goldbaum’s tone was caustic. “I’m not a miracle worker, you know.”

  “I wish you were. I could use a miracle right now.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line, and then Goldbaum said gruffly, “Go to bed. Hell, you must be tireder than me if you’re going the miracle route. I’ll get what you need.”

  Before Alex could answer, he had hung up with his usual abruptness.

  Istanbul. It made sense. Where better to hide priceless works of art than in a house in an Asian country with close ties to Europe? Ledford could be on his way to that house in Istanbul right now. The thought made the blood pound fiercely through Alex’s veins. He could have the son of a bitch.

  From the moment Goldbaum had mentioned Turkey, something had caught at Alex, tugged at his memory. Why the hell couldn’t he put his finger on it? Oh, well, it would come to him and, in the meantime, he would be on his way.

  He picked up the telephone receiver and called Air France for reservations to Geneva and then placed a call to Jonathan Andreas’s suite.

  By two that afternoon Alex was ready to leave and went next door to tell Caitlin what he had learned.

  “I’m going with you,” Caitlin said flatly.

  “I’m not arguing with you,” Alex said. “I’ve thought about it and I think you’ll be safer with me.”

  “Good, I’ll pack.” Caitlin turned and moved toward the bedroom. “I can be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “Not yet. I want you to give me two days in Istanbul alone.”

  She stopped and turned around. “Why?”

  “I have to find a house for you.” As she continue
d to look at him suspiciously, he shook his head. “For God’s sake, I’m being followed and I don’t know how long it will take to lose him. I have to find a place that’s safe for you.”

  “Is Paris safe for me?”

  “No, but at least here I can surround you with guards and Jonathan will make sure nothing happens to you. Day after tomorrow he’ll get tickets for the film crew, Chelsea, and you to fly to Nice. When you all arrive at the airport, I’ve arranged with Goldbaum to have a woman of your general description meet you in the ladies’ rest room. You’ll change clothes and she’ll use your ticket to fly to Nice with the rest of the party, where she will conveniently disappear. Jonathan will put you on a flight to Istanbul before he leaves for Nice and I’ll meet you at the airport in Istanbul. By the time any interested party discovers you haven’t gone to Nice, I’ll have you safely stowed away.”

  Caitlin was silent a moment. “You’re not trying to deceive me?”

  He flinched. “No, that’s all over.”

  “All right, two days.”

  Relief washed over him. “Thank God you’re being reasonable.”

  “Do you think I’m not frightened?” she demanded. “I keep seeing that blue scarf. . . . I don’t want to die and I don’t know anything about this. It’s not my world.”

  “I could try to find a safe house for you somewhere else.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I promised Jonathan I’d get the Wind Dancer back. I keep my promises.”

  He hadn’t expected anything else. Caitlin had a staunch and rigid sense of honor in a world that had almost forgotten its meaning. She was as bound by guilt and her promise as he was by his obsession to catch Ledford. Jesus, he had made a mess of everything.

  “Jonathan checked on Alfred Connaught. Kilane Downs burned to the ground and he was killed in the fire. It was presumed his entire art collection was also destroyed.” She smiled mirthlessly. “But we know better, don’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Chelsea’s agreed to go on with the launch. It’s very kind of her. We don’t deserve it.”

  “We paid her almost three million dollars to guarantee her kindness.” He held up his hand as Caitlin started to protest. “Sorry. It was kind. She didn’t have to go through with it. Since we don’t have the Wind Dancer, she and Jonathan and the camera crew will skip the Nice shots and go directly to Vasaro to film the rest of the commercials.” He added, “And I’ve had Jonathan send Peter ahead to Vasaro to keep an eye out for anything that doesn’t look right.”

  “My mother.” Caitlin’s gaze flew to his face. “Will my mother be safe?”

  “It’s only a precaution,” he said quickly. “Call and tell her you have to stay in Paris due to business and Peter will visit so he can study Catherine’s journal. There’s no real reason to suspect any trouble, and we don’t want to alarm her.”

  Caitlin relaxed and nodded. “That’s what I thought. There would be no reason for him to hurt anyone at Vasaro if I’m not there.”

  “I lost Karazov at the airport in Geneva,” Ferrazo told Ledford as soon as he answered the phone. “I don’t know how the hell he slipped away from me. One minute he was there and the next he was gone.”

  “I’ll tell you how he slipped away from you,” Ledford said caustically. “He’s been tailed for five years by the KGB and the CIA. In that time a man becomes very skilled at eluding a tail when it suits his convenience. Why the hell weren’t you more careful?”

  “I tried to—” Ferrazo broke off and then said, “I went up to his chalet at St. Basil. The house was closed and there was no sign of him. Should I keep looking for him here in Switzerland?”

  Ledford thought about it. “No, Geneva was a red herring.”

  “You want me to go back to Paris? He might try to contact the woman.”

  “I have plenty of people in Paris who can keep watch on the hotel, and Andreas has tightened security so we wouldn’t know whether Karazov contacted her or not. Go to Vasaro and wait in case she goes back there.”

  Ledford hung up, frowning. Undoubtedly, Alex had laid a false trail and then made tracks for his real destination. Alex seldom acted impulsively or erratically, therefore he must have learned something to have galvanized him to leave Paris. Ledford carefully reviewed their conversations; no slips of any importance, so it followed Alex must have obtained information from one of his usual sources. Now, what possible loose thread had Alex managed to pull?

  The hosue on the Street of Swords.

  He must have shredded that mountain of paperwork and found out about the house. The knowledge should have upset Ledford, but instead he found himself experiencing an almost fatherly pride.

  Pride and pleasure. Alex clearly had his priorities back in order. He had deserted the Vasaro woman the moment he had seen a way to move forward in the joust between them.

  “I told you I could do the job better than Ferrazo.”

  Ledford turned to look at Hans and felt a sharp jab of annoyance. He was not sure if his impatience was caused by boredom with the boy himself or the comparisons Brian had been making between Hans and Alex of late. “You did, didn’t you? But then, you think you can do any job better than anyone else.”

  “Let me go after him. I’ll find him.”

  “No need. I believe my friend Alex has gone to Istanbul. We’ll just call someone to keep an eye on him. I need you here.”

  Hans scowled. “Why are we still in Paris? I thought all you wanted was the statue.”

  “We have to finish this job first.”

  “We’ve already finished it. You said I did a good job on the cathedral.”

  “Very good, but blowing Saint-Antoine’s was only the first step.” Ledford smiled. “There’s another facet to the operation.”

  “And I can be part of it?”

  “Oh, yes, dear heart.” Ledford smiled benignly. “I have every intention of making you part of it.” He reached for the telephone again. “Now be still while I make this call to Istanbul.”

  “I suppose you’re going to get the Gypsy to watch Karazov?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t you ever let me meet him?”

  “The Gypsy’s a very secretive fellow. He prefers not to be the focus of attention.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, but I really don’t know why you should want to meet him. You have very little in common.” Ledford was already dialing. “However, the man is quite efficient. Yes, I think the Gypsy will do very nicely.”

  The house on the Street of Swords was not a house at all; it was a palace.

  The wooden building towered three stories high. Glittering leaded-glass windows punctuated the lower levels of the front facade of the palace, and on the upper level intricately carved filigree wood shutters veiled the area that once must have housed the harem quarters. Two golden domes, shimmering brilliantly under the strong sun, dominated the wings stretching on either side of the central building. Two fourteen-foot brass-bound doors led into the palace. The doors originally had been painted deep crimson but were faded now to a rich cinnamon color. A small courtyard with a graceful white and turquoise mosaic fountain fronted the entrance. A master craftsman had lavished time and artistry on the high ornamental black iron fence enclosing both the palace and courtyard. In the iron he had wrought flamingos pacing with majestic dignity, peacocks with plumage unfurled, falcons soaring in flight.

  Alex had arrived in Istanbul late the night before, and this morning had managed to dig out the history and location of the house. He had spent all the rest of the morning standing across the street in this twisting, stinking alley intersecting the Street of Swords, sweating like a pig and waiting for someone to enter that impressive front gate.

  Dead end.

  There had been no sign of Ledford or anyone resembling the kind of criminal element with whom he surrounded himself. Ledford’s house was evidently closed, and he hadn’t even caught sight of a servant in the c
ourtyard. If Ledford was using the house as a cache for the stolen artwork, he would have left a ring of guards around the place.

  Yet Ledford’s purchase of the palace had to have some purpose. Both the fact of the purchase and the retention of the house indicated it must have some part in Ledford’s overall plan. But it was not only logic but instinct that was nagging at Alex to stay in Istanbul. Ever since Goldbaum had mentioned Ledford’s trip to Turkey, he’d had the frustrating feeling he always experienced when he saw a puzzle piece ready to be positioned but unable to find the right spot to slip it into.

  Something was going to happen here, dammit.

  But Alex couldn’t wait around indefinitely for Ledford to show up. He had to have facts or leads that would put him on the initiative and, although he had visited Istanbul several times in the past, he knew damn well he wasn’t equipped to ferret out what he needed on this foreign terrain. He would have to find someone who could supply him with the information he needed.

  Alex left the alley and returned quickly by taxi to the Hilton. The moment he reached his room he placed a call to Rod McMillan at Langley. “I’m in Istanbul and I need help.”

  “You arrogant son of a bitch. You expect me to give it to you?”

  “I need a native who knows the underbelly of the city and all the snakes that crawl out from beneath it at night. Either give me a name or I’ll go looking for him myself.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Catching snakes in Istanbul can be dangerous. Are you sure you want me risking my neck in those alleyways?”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line. “Someday I’m going to rid myself of you, Karazov. Very violently.”