Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Mr. Trott,” Veronica said crossly. “You’re late. I’ve already ordered.”

  Clea heard the man’s voice, speaking behind her, and in the midst of pouring tea, her hand froze.

  “I have no time for tea,” he said. “I came only to confirm the arrangements.”

  That was all he said, but his tone of command, the English coarsened by some unidentifiable accent, was enough to make Clea suck in a breath in panic. She didn’t dare glance back over her shoulder; she didn’t dare let him see her face.

  She didn’t need to see his; his voice was all she needed to recognize him.

  She’d heard it before, floating above the sound of lapping Mediterranean waves and the growl of a boat’s engine. She remembered how that same voice had cut through the darkness. Just before the bullets began to fly.

  All her instincts were screaming at her to lurch from this table and flee. But I can’t, she thought. I can’t do anything to draw his attention.

  So she sat unmoving, her hands gripping the tablecloth. So acutely did she sense the man’s presence behind her, she was surprised that he didn’t seem at all aware of her.

  Her heartbeat thudding, she sat motionless at the table.

  Trott watched Veronica light a cigarette and take in an unhurried drag of smoke. She seemed not in the least bit worried, which only proved what a stupid bitch she was, he decided. She thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks her husband’s too important to our operations. What she doesn’t know is that we’ve already found a replacement for Oliver Cairncross.

  Casually she exhaled a cloud of smoke. “The cargo’s all there. Nothing missing. I told you it would be, didn’t I?”

  “Mr. Van Weldon is not pleased.”

  “Why, because I borrowed one of his precious little trinkets? It was only for a few weeks.” Calmly she exhaled another cloud of smoke. “We’ve been stuck with your bloody crates for months now-at no small risk to ourselves. Why shouldn’t I borrow what’s in them? I got the dagger back, didn’t I?”

  “This is not the time or place to speak of it,” cut in Trott. He passed a newspaper across the table to Veronica. “The information is circled. We’ll expect it to be ready and waiting.”

  “At your beck and call, your highness,” said Veronica, her voice dripping with mockery.

  Trott pushed his chair back, preparing to leave. “What about compensation?” asked Veronica. “For all our trouble?”

  “You’ll have it. After all items are accounted for.”

  “Of course they will be,” said Veronica. She blew out another cloud of smoke. “We’re not fools, you know.”

  Clea heard the man’s chair scrape back. He was rising to his feet. Instinctively she huddled closer to the table, afraid to be noticed. She forced herself to take a sip of tea, to pretend no interest whatsoever in the monster standing behind her.

  When she heard him walk away, she went almost limp with relief. She glanced back.

  Veronica was still sitting at the table, gazing down at a newspaper. After a moment she ripped off half a page, folded it and stuffed it in her purse. Then she, too, rose and left.

  It took a while before Clea’s nerves steadied enough for her to stand. Veronica was already walking out of the park. Clea started to follow, but her legs were shaking too hard. She took a few steps, faltered and stopped.

  By then Jordan had realized something was wrong. She heard his footsteps, and then his arm was around her waist, supporting her, steadying her.

  “We can’t stay here,” she whispered. “Have to hide-”

  “What happened?”

  “It was him-”

  “Who?”

  “The man from the Cosima!” Wildly she glanced around, her gaze sweeping the park for sight of the blond man.

  “Clea, what man?”

  She focused at last on Jordan. His gaze seemed to steady her. He held her face in his hand, the pressure of his fingers warming through her numbness.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  She swallowed. “I’ve heard his voice before. The night the Havelaar went down. I was in the water, swimming alongside the lifeboat. He was the one who-the one who-” She blinked, and tears spilled down her face. Softly she finished, “The one who ordered his men to shoot.”

  Jordan stared at her. “The man with Veronica? You’re absolutely certain?”

  “He passed by my table. I recognized his voice. I’m sure it was him.”

  Jordan gave a quick glance around the park. Then he pulled Clea close, wrapping his arm protectively around her shoulder. “Let’s get into the car.”

  “Wait.” She went back to Veronica’s table and snatched up the discarded newspaper.

  “What’s that for?” asked Jordan.

  “Veronica left it. I want to see what she tore out.”

  Their taxi was waiting. As soon as they climbed in the back seat, Jordan ordered, “Move. See that we’re not followed.”

  The Sikh driver grinned at them in the mirror. “A most interesting day,” he declared, and sent the cab screeching into traffic.

  Jordan draped his jacket over Clea’s shoulders and took her hands in his. “All right,” he coaxed gently. “Tell me what happened.”

  Clea took a shaky breath and sank back against the seat. No one was following them. Jordan’s hand, warm and steady, seemed to radiate enough courage for them both.

  “Did you hear what they were saying?”

  “No. They were speaking too softly. And I was afraid to get any closer. After I realized who he was…” She shuddered, thinking of the man’s voice. In her nightmares she’d heard that same voice drifting across the black Mediterranean waters. She’d remember the explosion of gunfire. And she’d remember Giovanni, slumping across the lifeboat…

  Her head came up. “I do remember something. Veronica called him by name. Mr. Trott.”

  “You’re sure that was it? Trott?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure.”

  Jordan’s grip tightened around hers. “Veronica. If I ever get my hands around her elegant little neck…”

  “At least now we know. She’s the link to Van Weldon. Delancey paid for the Eye. She stole it back. Someone earned a nice profit. And the only loser was Guy Delancey.”

  “What about the newspaper?”

  Clea looked down at the folded pages. “I saw Veronica tear something out.”

  Jordan glanced at the newspaper’s date, then tapped their taxi driver on the shoulder. “Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of today’s Times?”

  “But of course. And the Daily Mail, as well.”

  “Just the Times will do.”

  The driver reached over and pulled out a slightly mangled newspaper from the glove compartment. He handed it back to Jordan.

  “The top of page thirty-five and six,” said Clea. “That’s what she’s torn out.”

  “I’m looking for it.” Jordan thumbed quickly through the driver’s copy. “Here it is. Top of page thirty-five. Article about the Manchester slums. Building renovations. Another about horse breeding in Ireland.”

  “Try the other side.”

  Jordan flipped the page. “Let’s see. Scandal in some ad agency. Drop-off in the fishing harvest. And…” He paused. “Today’s shipping schedule for Portsmouth.” He looked at Clea.

  “That’s it! That has to be it. One of their ships must be arriving in port.”

  “Or leaving.” He sat back, deep in thought. “If Van Weldon has a vessel in Portsmouth, then it’s here for either a delivery…”

  “Or a pickup,” she finished for him.

  They looked at each other, both struck by the same startling thought.

  “It’s taking on cargo,” she said. “It must be.”

  “It could be purely legitimate cargo.”

  “But there’s the chance…” She glanced up as they pulled in front of their hotel. At once she was climbing out the door. “We have to call Portsmouth. Check which vessels are Van Weldon’s.”
r />   “Clea, wait-”

  But she was already hurrying into the building.

  By the time he’d settled with their driver and followed her up to the room, Clea was already on the phone. A moment later she hung up and turned to Jordan in triumph.

  “There’s a Villafjord scheduled to dock at five this afternoon. She sails again at midnight. And she’s registered to the Van Weldon company.”

  For a moment he stared at her without speaking. Then he said flatly, “I’m going to call the police.” He reached for the phone.

  She grabbed his hand. “Don’t! Jordan.”

  “We have to alert the authorities. It could be the best chance they’ll have to nail Van Weldon.”

  “That’s why we can’t blow it! What if we’re wrong? What if his ship’s here to take on a cargo of-of undies or something? We’ll look like a pair of idiots. So will the police.” She shook her head. “We can’t tell them until we know exactly what’s on board.”

  “But the only way to learn that is…” He froze in the midst of that thought. “Don’t you even dare suggest it.”

  “Just one little tiny peek inside.”

  “No. This is the perfect time to call in Richard. Let him-or someone else-handle it.”

  “But I don’t trust anyone else!”

  Again he reached for the phone.

  Again she grabbed his hand and held on tightly. “If we let too many people in on this,” she said, “I guarantee there’ll be a leak. Van Weldon will hear about it, and that’ll be it for our big chance. Jordan, we have to wait till the last minute. And we have to be sure of what they’ll find.”

  “You don’t really think you can stroll aboard that ship and have a look around, do you?”

  “When it comes to making unauthorized entries, I had the world’s best teacher.”

  “Uncle Walter? He got caught, remember?”

  “I won’t get caught.”

  “Because you’re not going anywhere near the Villafjord.” He shook off her hand and began to dial the telephone.

  Desperately she snatched away the receiver. “You’re not doing this!” she cried.

  “Clea.” He heaved a sigh of frustration. “Clea, you have to trust me on this.”

  “No, you have to trust me. Trust my judgment. I’m the one with everything to lose!”

  “I know that. But we’re both tired. We’re going to make mistakes. Now’s the time to call the police and put an end to all this. To get back to our lives-our real lives. Don’t you see?”

  She looked into his eyes. Yes, I see, she thought. You’ve had enough of running. Enough of me. You want your own life back, and I don’t blame you.

  Defiantly she raised her chin. “I want to go home, too. I’m sick of hotels and strange beds and dyed hair. I want this all to be over with just as much as you do. That’s why I say we do it my way.”

  “Your way’s too bloody risky. The police-”

  “I told you, I don’t trust them!” Agitated, she paced over to the window, paced back. “I’ve survived this long only because I didn’t trust anyone. I’m the only one I can count on.”

  “You can count on me,” he said quietly.

  She shook her head and laughed. “In the real world, darling, it’s every man for himself. Remember that. You can’t trust anyone.” She turned and looked at him. “Not even me.”

  “But I do.”

  “Then you’re crazy.”

  “Why? Because you’re an ex-con? Because you’ve made a few mistakes in your life?” He moved toward her and took her by the shoulders. “Are you afraid to have me believe in you?”

  She gave a nonchalant toss of her head. “I’d hate to disappoint anyone.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. “I have complete faith,” he whispered. “And so should you.”

  His kiss was sweet enough to break her heart. And that frightened her, because she knew now there could be no clean parting between them, no easy goodbyes. The break would be painful and haunting and bitter.

  And inevitable.

  He pulled back. “I’m going to have to trust you now, Clea. To do as I ask. To stay in this room and let me take care of this.”

  “But I-”

  He silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips. “No arguments. I’m going to assert a little male authority here. Something I damn well should have done ages ago. You’re going to wait for me. Here, in this room. Understood?”

  She looked at his unyielding expression. Then she gave a sigh. “Understood,” she said meekly.

  He smiled and kissed her.

  She smiled, too, as he walked out of the room. But when she went to the window and watched him leave the building, her smile faded. What makes you think I’m so damn trustworthy? she thought.

  Turning, she saw Jordan’s jacket, which she’d left draped over a chair. Impulsively she thrust her hand in the pocket and pulled out the gold watch. She flipped open the dented cover and looked at the name engraved inside: Bernard Tavistock.

  And she thought, This will end it. Here and now. It’s going to end anyway, and I might as well do it sooner than later. If I take this watch, something he treasures, I’ll cut the ties. Cleanly. Decisively. After all, that’s what I am. A thief. An ex-con. He’ll be relieved to see me go.

  She thrust the watch into her own pocket. Maybe she’d mail it back to him someday. When she was good and ready. When she could think of him without feeling that painful twist of her heart.

  Glancing out the window, she saw that Jordan was nowhere in sight. Goodbye, she thought. Goodbye, my darling gentleman.

  A moment later she, too, left the room.

  Thirteen

  Richard Wolf was on the telephone to Brussels when the doorbell rang. He paid it no attention-the butler would see to any visitors. Only when he heard Davis’s polite knock on the study door did Richard break off his conversation.

  The butler, looking oddly uncertain, stood in the doorway. It was something Richard hadn’t gotten the hang of, dealing with all these servants. His Yankee sense of privacy was always being violated by all the maids and butlers and underbutlers whom the Tavistocks insisted upon keeping underfoot.

  “Pardon the interruption, Mr. Wolf,” said Davis. “But there’s a foreign gentleman at the door. He insists upon speaking to you at once.”

  “Foreign?”

  “A, er, Sikh, I believe.” Davis made a whirling gesture over his head. “Judging by the turban.”

  “Did he say what his business was?”

  “He said he would speak only to you.”

  Richard cut the call short and followed Davis to the front door.

  There was indeed a Sikh waiting on the front step, a short, pleasant-looking fellow with a trim beard and a gold tooth. “Mr. Wolf?” he inquired.

  “I’m Richard Wolf.”

  “You called for a taxi.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  Without a word the Sikh handed an envelope to Richard.

  Richard glanced in the envelope. Inside was a single gold cuff link. It was inscribed with the initials J.C.T.

  Jordan’s.

  Calmly Richard nodded and said, “Oh, right. Of course. I’d forgotten all about that appointment. Let me get my briefcase.”

  While the Sikh waited on the doorstep, Richard ducked back into the study, slid a 9 mm automatic into his shoulder holster and reemerged carrying an empty briefcase.

  The Sikh directed him to a taxi at the curb.

  Neither of them said a thing as the car moved through traffic. The Sikh drove exactly the way one expected of a cab driver-calmly. Recklessly.

  “Are we going some place in particular?” asked Richard.

  “Harrods. You will stay there half an hour. Visit all the floors. Perhaps make a purchase. Then you’ll return to my taxi. You will recognize it by the number-twenty-three. I will wait for you at the curb.”

  “What am I to expect?”

  The Sikh grinned
in the rearview mirror. “I do not know. I am only the driver.” He paused. “We are being followed.”

  “I know,” said Richard.

  At Harrods Richard got out and entered the store. Inside he did as instructed, wandering about the various departments. He bought a silk scarf for Beryl and a tie for his father back in Connecticut. He was aware of two men lingering nearby, a short man and a blond man. They were good-it was a full five minutes before he noticed them, and only because he’d glimpsed them in a mirror as he tried on top hats. He lost them briefly in the gourmet foods section, but picked them up again in housewares. If Jordan hoped to make contact, it was going to be difficult. Richard knew he could shake these guys if he wanted to. But then he’d probably shake Jordan, as well.

  A half hour later he walked out of Harrods. He spotted taxi number twenty-three parked across the street, the Sikh driver still sitting patiently behind the wheel.

  He crossed the street and climbed in the back seat of the taxi. “No luck,” he said. “I was watched the whole time. Is there a backup plan?”

  “This is the plan,” said a familiar voice.

  Richard glanced up in surprise at the rearview mirror, at the face of the bearded, turbaned driver. Jordan’s brown eye winked back at him.

  “Gotcha,” said Jordan, and pulled the taxi into traffic.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Little game of wits. How am I doing so far?”

  “Splendidly. You outsmarted me.” Richard glanced back and spotted the same car following them.

  “I see them,” said Jordan.

  “Where’s Clea Rice?”

  “A safe place. But things are coming to a head. We need help.”

  “Jordan, Interpol’s already stepped in. They want Van Weldon’s head. They’ll arrange for the woman’s safety.”

  “How do I know we can trust them?”

  “They’d been watching over her for weeks. Until you two shook them off.”

  “Veronica’s working for Van Weldon. Oliver may be, as well.”

  Richard, stunned, fell momentarily silent.