Reap the Wind

by Iris Johansen

  Half of Cordoza’s face blew away.

  Something dark and soft splattered on the glass of the pyramid.

  Cordoza’s brains.

  Brenter screamed and dove to the ground. It was too late. The front of his black jacket blossomed with blood from another spray of bullets.

  Christ, what was happening?

  Hans threw himself to the side and reached inside his jacket for his knife as bullets blasted the wall next to him.

  What had gone wrong? It was supposed to be fixed. Brian said it was fixed. . . .

  “Sorry, my boy.”

  Hans turned on his side. Brian was standing in the moonlight with an Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun in his hands and a gentle smile on his lips.

  “You said it was fixed,” Hans said dazedly.

  Brian nodded. “It was fixed. No guards. Just me.”

  “Why?”

  “It was part of the deal. A few sacrificial lambs were required, and I felt obligated to do the butchering myself. After all, you are my men.” Brian raised the Ingram and aimed it at Hans’s head. Fear burst through him. He had just seen Cordoza’s brains splatter onto the pyramid and knew what that gun could do. Brian hesitated, lowered the barrel of the gun, and sprayed a short burst of bullets into Hans’s body.

  Pain.

  Hans cried out, slumped over, and lay still.

  “It was only part of the deal, Hans,” Brian said regretfully.

  Hans lay motionless, biting his lower lip to keep back the screams of agony that would bring another round of bullets.

  He heard the click of Brian’s footsteps on the cobblestones as he walked toward the gate.

  He was dying. Brian had killed him.

  Hatred boiled acid-black inside him.

  He was going to die because Brian had wanted that goddamn statue and made a deal to get it.

  He wouldn’t die.

  He wasn’t as smart as Brian, but he was younger and stronger.

  And Brian wasn’t so smart. He hadn’t done the job right. The one inflexible rule was that you made sure of the hit, and Brian had broken the rule. Hans could have done it better. . . .

  His hysterical laugh was almost a sob as he began crawling toward the gate. Anything for Brian. Let me do it, Brian. Let me kill myself for you. I can do it better.

  He crawled slowly, painfully, feeling the blood gushing from his wounds onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. As soon as he got out of the courtyard, he’d stop the blood.

  He’d get himself help.

  He’d live, goddammit.

  Because he couldn’t die while Brian Ledford was still alive.

  As usual, after Alex and Caitlin finished breakfast the next morning, Alex called the desk at the Hilton to retrieve his messages. There was only one message that had been left at eight forty-five that same morning.

  Alex crashed down the receiver and turned to Caitlin. “Jackpot. A message from Irmak.”

  Caitlin looked at him, startled. “What was it?”

  He looked down at the message he had scrawled on the pad beside the telephone. “‘I have something for you. Come to Selim the Great’s mosque at ten o’clock this morning.’ ”

  “I’ll get my purse.”

  “Hurry. We’ll have to find a taxi, and there are over five hundred mosques in Istanbul.”

  Caitlin picked up her kidskin bag and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “No one knows that better than I do. Kemal must have taken me to every one of them,” she said dryly. “And an amazing number appeared to house the remains of a personage who was either termed ‘great’ or ‘magnificent.’ We’ll be lucky to find a taxi driver who can find the place.”

  Selim’s mosque was on the other side of Istanbul, and it took Alex and Caitlin over an hour to reach it from the cottage. Irmak was waiting outside, looking ridiculously out of place in his robes among the crowd of tourists milling about. Irmak spotted Alex, and as he drew closer, Alex noticed his fat brown face was coated with a greasy sweat.

  “Here it is.” Irmak’s hand was shaking as he handed Alex a slim white oblong box. “A gift.”

  Alex looked down at the box impatiently. “You can’t bribe me, Irmak.”

  “It’s not from me. It’s from Ledford.”

  Alex felt a chill as he remembered a drift of blue cashmere lying coiled on the doorstep of the house in Paris. “Ledford? He’s here?”

  “I don’t know,” Irmak muttered. “I don’t know anything. Leave me alone.” He turned and started to waddle away.

  “Wait,” Alex called after him. “Where is—” He stopped.

  Irmak was fading into the crowd. Impossible to get to him now.

  Caitlin stared at the box with horrified fascination, and Alex knew she was remembering the scarf left before her own front door. “Open it,” she said hoarsely.

  He slipped off the ribbon and slowly opened the box.

  Lying like an exquisite wax blossom on its bed of tissue paper was a single black tulip.

  Alex picked up the card that lay tucked beside the tulip.

  “What does it say?” Caitlin asked.

  “It’s not a note from Ledford,” Alex said. “It’s just one of those typed cards with a brief history of the tulip that usually accompanies bouquets sold to the tourists.” He read it aloud to her. “‘Contrary to popular belief, the tulip did not originate in Holland but was brought from Turkey to the court of Louis XIV in France by the French ambassador to the Ottoman court. The flower flourished and the bulbs—’ ”

  “No!”

  Alex’s gaze flew from the note to her face.

  She was marble pale, her eyes glittering. “Don’t you see? Black is the color of mourning. A black blossom brought to France.”

  “My God,” he whispered.

  The box fell from his hands. The black tulip tumbled out in the street and was crushed under his shoe as he ran out into the street to hail a taxi to take them back to the cottage.

  A black blossom brought to France.

  Vasaro!

  “It could be only a warning,” Alex said as he dialed the number for Vasaro. “Everything could still be all right.”

  “There’s no reason for him to hurt anyone at Vasaro.” Caitlin sat down in the chair, every muscle rigid, staring at the phone. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But I’ll just get in touch with Jonathan and warn him to—”

  “I’m sorry, monsieur, there’s trouble on the line.” The operator’s voice was bored as it broke in. “Please place your call again.”

  “Trouble on the line,” he told Caitlin. He spoke quickly into the receiver again. “There’s a pharmacy in the village. I don’t know the number. Try there.”

  “It will do no good. My board indicates a cable malfunction in the area. Please place your call again.”

  Panic tightened Alex’s chest as he hung up the phone. The phone lines to Vasaro had been cut. The certainty was overpowering. God, he could almost visualize the glint of sunlight on the stainless steel of the wire cutter as the line had been severed.

  “What’s wrong?” Caitlin whispered, gazing at his expression.

  Alex didn’t look at her as he checked in his jacket pocket for his passport. “Maybe nothing. But I’m going to Vasaro anyway.”

  “You go out in the street and hail a taxi.” Caitlin picked up the receiver of the telephone. “I’ll call and make reservations for us on the first flight to Nice.”

  “It could be a trap for you.”

  “And it could be a ploy to draw you away from me so that they can kill me here.”

  Alex had thought of that possibility too. Catch-22. He could get Kemal to protect her while he was gone, but he knew he would be frantic with worry all the time he was at Vasaro.

  “I’m going, Alex.” Caitlin’s voice was trembling. “No one can stop me. It’s Vasaro.”

  Alex nodded and headed for the door. Vasaro was the focal point of her existence, and he had no right to attempt to dissuade
her. He could only try to protect her.

  Jesus, he felt helpless. His only hope was Jonathan Andreas. Jonathan was sharp, alert, and knew the situation. Thank God Jonathan was still at Vasaro.

  It took Jonathan and Chelsea three hours to travel from Vasaro to the vineyard in the hills where Jennings had arranged to have their meeting at the home of an old friend.

  In appearance Albert Jennings’s slightly rotund frame and plump face bore a genial resemblance to the cozy stereotype of the old family physician. The only feature belying that impression was the sleek perfection of his white hair, cut with such skill that every wave lay fastidiously in place. The standard politician’s haircut, thought Chelsea as she followed Jennings and Jonathan out onto the veranda overlooking the vineyards.

  On the long drive Albert Jennings had been affable to Jonathan, scrupulously courteous to Chelsea, and never once indicated this meeting was anything more than a get-together of compatriots in a foreign country.

  “Why don’t you sit here, Ms. Benedict?” Jennings indicated a comfortably cushioned white filigreed Empress chair positioned for views of the verdant hills and terraced vineyards. He turned and looked out over the vineyard in the late afternoon sunlight. The vines were overflowing with dusky purple grapes. “It’s the time of the vintage. Wonderful view. I was stationed in France during World War Two and I remember when I first came back here after the war I took one look at these hills and swore I’d retire somewhere in this province.” He smiled. “But things change, don’t they? Now I want to be near my grandchildren. You should understand that because you have a daughter.”

  Chelsea smiled tightly. “Yes, I have a daughter. Her name is Marisa.”

  Jonathan seated himself in the chair beside her, facing Jennings, silently aligning himself with her against the enemy. “A lovely girl, Al. You’d enjoy meeting her.”

  Jennings smiled warmly as he leaned back against the stone balustrade. “I’m sure any offspring of Ms. Benedict’s couldn’t help but be charming. The entire world pays tribute to the beauty and talent of Chelsea Benedict.”

  Chelsea’s hands tightened on the metal arms of the chair. “Let’s get to it, shall we? I don’t have much patience for this kind of bull. You’re here because of me, aren’t you?”

  Jennings’s smile lost none of its wattage as he nodded. “We deemed it wise to have a small discussion with Jonathan regarding his association with you.”

  Chelsea glared at him defiantly. “We’ve been careful. We’ve been seen together only in connection with the Wind Dancer and the launching of the perfume.”

  “Back off, Al.” Jonathan’s quiet voice had a steely undercurrent. “This is none of your business.”

  “It is his business.” Chelsea turned fiercely on Jonathan. “Of course it’s his business. You’re public property.”

  “The hell I am.”

  “Actually, when I arranged this trip it was merely to issue a warning regarding any future involvement,” Jennings said. “You’re right, you’ve behaved with exemplary discretion, Ms. Benedict.”

  “We’re going to be married, Al,” Jonathan said.

  “No!” Chelsea’s voice was sharp, and she tried to temper it as she turned to Jennings. “Tell him. What the hell are you waiting for?”

  For a moment a flicker of genuine sympathy transformed the smooth urbanity of Jennings’s expression as he looked at her. “You realize this isn’t a duty I’d choose to accept. Personally, I admire you tremendously.”

  “Tell him.”

  Jennings turned to Jonathan. “It won’t do, Jonathan. Divorce, jail, the ugliness of the court case. She’d ruin your chances with the voters. There’s no way we can promise you the nomination if you marry her.”

  “Yet you ‘admire her tremendously,’ ” Jonathan said bitterly. “Are you aware that she got her GED in that jail cell and when she got out she worked until she received a bachelor of arts degree at Columbia? That she speaks four languages?” Jennings started to say something, but Jonathan gave him no opportunity. “And that she’s chairperson for Safe Houses for Abused Children, gave five hundred thousand dollars last year to MADD, made four commercials and toured twenty-three cities in the campaign to solve the literacy problem in the United States?”

  Chelsea looked at him, startled. She hadn’t realized Jonathan knew that much about her life away from him.

  Jonathan glanced at her face and smiled faintly. “Sorry to blow that rough-diamond image you’re always trying to foist on me, but did you really think I wouldn’t want to know all about the woman I love?” His smile faded as he turned back to Jennings. “And besides, it always pays to have ammunition when the shooting starts.”

  Jennings shook his head. “Every political campaign has to be aimed at the lowest common denominator of the population. There’s a hell of a lot of prejudice running rampant out there, and it would show up at the polls.” Jennings met Jonathan’s gaze directly. “Even if we could overcome the stigma of that court case, there’s still her public image to contend with. She may be as charitable as Mother Teresa, but she’s still bawdy, impulsive, and says exactly what she thinks.” He held up his hand as Jonathan opened his lips to protest. “I agree that last quality is one to be admired, but not in a first lady. Diplomacy is the name of the game.”

  “Are you finished?” Jonathan asked.

  Jennings nodded.

  Jonathan got to his feet. “Go to hell.” He turned to Chelsea. “We’re finished here.”

  “No, we’re not.” Chelsea jerked her thumb at the French doors. “Take a walk, Jennings. I’ll handle this.”

  Jennings hesitated and then straightened away from the balustrade. “We want only the best for him. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “I know it is,” Chelsea said. “It’s going to be fine. Just leave us alone.”

  Jennings nodded and moved toward the French doors across the veranda. “I’ll tell Paul to delay tea.”

  Jonathan waited until the doors closed behind Jennings and then said with great precision, “No, Chelsea.”

  “Don’t tell me no.” Chelsea jumped to her feet and moved to look out over the vineyards. “You don’t have anything to say about this. We’re not going to see each other again until after you receive the nomination.”

  Jonathan was incredulous. “Jennings is wrong. The voters would accept you.”

  “Because you do? If the majority of the population consisted of an army of Jonathan Andreases, maybe we’d have a chance. But it doesn’t. What did Jennings say? The lowest common denominator?”

  “It appears I have more respect for the voters than either of you do,” Jonathan said quietly. “I believe they respect intelligence and personal integrity more than a holier-than-thou pristine facade.”

  “You can’t risk it.”

  “It’s my career, Chelsea.”

  “And I won’t ruin it.” Chelsea’s eyes were blazing as she turned to face him, her voice uneven. “So listen to me. This is what we’re going to do. We separate and don’t see each other again until the night of the launch of the perfume, then we go our own ways until after you win the nomination.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She ignored him. “When you’re nominated we’ll be seeing each other in public and legitimately because I’ll be working on your campaign. After you become president it will be safe for you to—”

  “Make you my mistress and sneak you up the back stairs of the White House,” Jonathan finished for her. “Sorry, love, I find that totally unacceptable.”

  “It’s all we’re going to have,” she said flatly. “I’m serious about this, Jonathan. I’ve never seen myself as a femme fatale, and I refuse to be the kind of vamp men deep-six their ambitions for. If you don’t agree to my terms, I’ll never see you again.”

  Jonathan gazed intently at her. “You’re bluffing.”

  “I’m not a master negotiator like you, Jonathan. I don’t know anything about bluffing. I have only one weapon, and I’m going to
use it. If you want us to have anything together, you’ll take your shot.”

  A flicker of anger crossed his face. “I don’t like this, Chelsea.”

  “Do you feel emasculated because I won’t let you play the big, noble hero?” Chelsea scoffed. “Too bad. That’s not the way the world works any longer.”

  “You’re trying to make me angry.”

  She turned away. “Maybe I am. That would be one solution.”

  “The wrong solution. I’m going to tell Jennings I’m not going to run.”

  “It will be only a waste of time to withdraw from this campaign. In five years, perhaps even less, you’ll realize what we had is over and you’ll run for office then. Because you want it, Jonathan.” She met his gaze bleakly. “You know I keep my promises. Make me the bad guy and I won’t see you again.”

  He looked at her a long time. “Christ, you’re tough.”

  “You bet I am.” She turned away from the balustrade. “Now, let’s tell Jennings he doesn’t have to worry about me any longer.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll tell him myself.” Chelsea moved toward the French doors. “And then I’ll inform him in my impulsive, bawdy fashion that he can screw his tea party and take us back to the hotel in Cannes.”

  “He hurt you.”

  “Hell no. I know what I am.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  “Well, I know what we are.” She opened the door and smiled bitterly over her shoulder. “We’re history, Jonathan.” She added, “Until you become history, Mr. President.”

  He started after her across the veranda. “I’m not going to let you do this, you know. I’ll find a way to block you.”

  That was the possibility that terrified her. Jonathan could be just as stubborn as she, and he had proved his brilliance and innovativeness time after time over the years. He had never turned that acumen in her direction, but she had no doubt he’d be a formidable adversary. She wanted desperately to keep the fragile contact she had suggested to Jonathan. Dear God, she hoped he wouldn’t push her toward the final break.