After drinking a cup of coffee and taking a few sips of cognac, Tessa was still shivering; she stood, went over to Jean-Claude’s desk, and picked up a box of matches.
Lorne, who was standing near the fireplace, stepped to one side, and Tessa bent down, struck a match, put it to the paper and chips in the grate. The fire took hold immediately, started to crackle and burn, and flames flew up the chimney.
Then there was a huge explosion in the chimney, and the grate and logs were thrown out into the room. The inside of the chimney began to tumble down.
Tessa and Lorne didn’t know what hit them. They were thrown backward by the blast. Lorne hit his head on the edge of the coffee table, and Tessa landed with a crash against the stout legs of a wooden table. They both passed out amidst the burning logs blown out of the exploding grate.
The fire on the carpet burned quickly. Flames instantly spread to the floor-length draperies at the windows, then to the chairs, with their summer fabric slipcovers. Within minutes the room was an inferno.
It was Lorne who came around first, and as he struggled to his feet, he realized his sports jacket was on fire. He wrestled himself out of it, threw it on the floor, ran over to Tessa, saw that the chiffon dress was aflame around her body. Without regard for his hands, he tore off as much of the dress as he could, then taking hold of her feet, he dragged her into the hall. He closed the library door to contain the fire.
Though loath to leave her, he ran down the short corridor to the kitchen. None of the help was in sight, but he shouted, “Fire! Fire!” as he filled a pan with water, ran back to his sister. Lorne threw the water over her face, hair, and shoulders, and ran back to the kitchen for another panful.
He was filling two pans when Gerard, the houseman, appeared, looking frightened as he pulled on a shirt. “Fire!” Lorne shouted at him and ran out of the kitchen. “Get everyone out of this house. And bring the pan of water first,” Lorne thought to say as he headed back to Tessa.
He emptied the water on her, dousing the smoldering dress. Then he heard Adele screaming, “Mummy! Mummy! What’s happened?” The nine-year-old clattered down the front stairs, followed by the younger children’s nanny, Christabel.
“Uncle Lorne, what’s happened to Mummy?” Adele cried, then screamed when she saw her mother’s inert body and the burned chiffon dress.
“Stop it! Shut up, Adele!” Lorne shouted at her. “She’ll be fine. Go back upstairs, get the little ones out of bed. Go on! Go! And you, too, Christabel, don’t stand there gaping.”
The two of them fled, and Gerard ran to him, shouting, “I’ve called the police. They come quickly. And ambulance. Here’s the water.”
“Thanks,” Lorne said and poured the water on Tessa once again. And then, kneeling down, he looked at his sister and gulped. Her hair and one side of her face had been badly burned. He took hold of her hand, put his fingers on her wrist, and found a pulse. It was slow but steady. Tessa began to moan, and her eyes fluttered slightly. Then she lay very still. He stifled his fear.
Looking up at Gerard, Lorne said, “Go upstairs, please, make sure Adele is rounding up the twins, and François.” Just as he finished his sentence, he saw them all trooping down the stairs, being led by Christabel; behind them came Adele, who was as white as a sheet.
Lorne stood up and shepherded them out through the front door, endeavoring to shield them. “Go and wait for Papa,” he said to them, motioning to Christabel, not wishing them to see their mother’s burnt clothing and hair, not to mention her face. He realized that her legs were also badly burned.
Adele hesitated, and he said to her in a kinder tone, “You’ve got to be brave, darling. For your mother’s sake. You’re the eldest, so please go and look after your little sisters, see to Chloé and Constance.”
“Yes, Uncle Lorne, but—”
“No buts. Go on, do as I say, darling.”
One of the three-year-old twins escaped from Christabel, came running to him. He saw that it was Chloé, although it was hard sometimes to distinguish between them. “Oh, Maman, poor Maman!” Chloé cried, and before he could stop her, she was kneeling next to Tessa, patting her hand gently. Lorne scooped her up, hugged her to him, and carried her outside. “Now we shall wait for Papa,” he murmured, handed her over to Adele, and went back into the house.
In the meantime, Gerard’s wife, Solange, had appeared, carrying two fire extinguishers. She and Gerard cautiously opened the door of the small library; together they sprayed foam into the room and did the best they could to blanket the burning carpet and curtains with it. Warning Solange to watch herself, and not to go inside the room, Gerard ran down to the kitchen.
He returned within seconds carrying two large buckets of water, which the two of them threw onto the fire. The couple hurried back to fill the buckets once more, and they made a good job of containing the fire. They had been determined to prevent it from spreading through the house.
When he saw their efforts, Lorne exclaimed, “You’re doing great! Keep going. I have to attend to my sister.”
Kneeling on the floor next to Tessa, he let his eyes sweep over her, endeavoring to ascertain how badly burned she was. He couldn’t tell, although he believed her legs were the worst. The chiffon dress had been ankle length, and it had really been set aflame. He closed his eyes momentarily, then snapped them open as he heard her moan. Her eyes were still closed, and she was inert. There was nothing he could do but wait. He knew better than to move her. That would endanger her life.
Suddenly shivers were running through him and his hands were hurting. He looked down at them and realized for the first time how burned they were. But he had been lucky. . . .
A commotion was erupting outside, and Lorne struggled to his feet, feeling slightly nauseated and dizzy as he made his way to the front door. There were two ambulances coming to a standstill, two fire engines, and three police cars. Behind these vehicles he saw Jean-Claude’s vintage Jaguar. The firemen and paramedics went into action immediately.
Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, Lorne went down the steps to tell Jean-Claude what had happened. It was only at this moment that he realized why he had made everyone go outside the house. At the back of his mind had been the name Jonathan Ainsley. He had wanted Clos-Fleuri empty because he was worried there were additional explosives planted in other rooms. He must inform Jean-Claude immediately, explain why he suspected this.
Lorne began to sway just as he reached Jean-Claude, and before he could say a word he passed out. The ambulancemen ran forward with a stretcher.
It was Gerard who told his boss what had happened, but because he knew nothing about a man called Jonathan Ainsley, he did not mention his name. However, Jean-Claude thought of him immediately and experienced a sick feeling. That maniac could have been responsible for the explosion. It also occurred to him that he should have Clos-Fleuri searched at once by the police. But first he must get to his injured wife and his children.
As he ran toward the ancient house, his heart was pounding and fear was spreading through his limbs. He saw Adele, his two little girls, Chloé and Constance, and his four-year-old-son, François, and waved to them. And went on running. To get to his darling Tessa, the light of his life. He prayed to God she was alive.
Gerard, who had returned to the house, was waiting for him in the circular hall with Solange. The paramedics had just entered, but they stood to one side when they recognized him.
Jean-Claude knelt down next to Tessa, murmuring her name, holding her hand, and finally she opened her eyes. She tried to say his name, failed, and closed her eyes again.
Jean-Claude, stricken and shaking, looked up at one of the paramedics, his eyes pleading. His mouth was so dry he could hardly speak. “Is she—”
The paramedic cut him off. “She must go immediately to the burn unit at the American Hospital of Paris,” the man said, nodded, and gave Jean-Claude a half-smile. It somehow told him that Tessa would make it.
Jean-Claude insiste
d everyone, including Gerard and his wife, go back to Paris. He wanted Clos-Fleuri torn apart for bombs. Hakim drove the family; Gerard and Solange followed in his Renault. Jean-Claude knew he must telephone Tessa’s parents, but he wanted to be sure his wife was properly installed in the hospital before he made the call. As he sat next to Tessa in the ambulance, he silently prayed with all his heart for his wife to live. And he prayed for her twin brother, Lorne.
The Hartes flew to Paris the following day.
In the early hours of Saturday morning, Paula and Shane O’Neill; their youngest son, Desmond; M and Larry; Linnet and Simon; along with Jack Figg, boarded the private jet owned by O’Neill Hotels International which was waiting at Stansted Airport.
Once they were settled in their seats and the Falcon was airborne, Shane spoke. He said, for the second time, “Tessa is going to be all right. I just want you all to know that. I’ve had several calls from Jean-Claude, and the doctors in the burn unit are positive. Good news about Lorne. He’s much better. He has concussion and his hands are burned, as are his ankles. But Tessa and Lorne are going to live, and they’ll have the best care for their burns.”
“But what about Tessa’s face?” Desmond said, staring at his father. “I thought you said she was badly burned.” The twenty-one-year-old, who had always been close to his half sister, stared at his father, obviously distressed.
“She will be as beautiful as ever, Des, honestly. I wouldn’t lie to you. Jean-Claude told me they can perform miracles with plastic surgery these days.”
M interjected quietly, “This is the work of that bastard Jonathan Ainsley.” She glanced at her mother, who was white-faced and strained, and then at Jack. “Don’t you both agree?”
Paula could only nod.
Jack said, “Certainly I do. It has his signature all over it. We’re going to take care of him, M. I promise you.” He smiled reassuringly at Paula. She nodded, trusting him.
“I just want to get to the hospital,” Linnet said, reaching forward and taking hold of Paula’s hand. Seeing how worried and nervous her mother was, she added, “Dad’s right, Mummy. Tessa will be fine, you’ll see. She’s a fighter.”
“She’s a Harte!” M exclaimed. “And we won’t let anybody defeat us, least of all that, that—”
“Bastard,” her mother interrupted, supplying the appropriate word.
Looking across at M, Shane now asked, “I do hope you canceled that yacht and the cruise, M. You did, didn’t you?”
“I left a message on their answer machine, Dad, explaining I would have to reschedule for late September. Or perhaps even cancel. They weren’t open when we left the flat this morning. I’ll telephone the charter company again once we’ve seen Tessa at the hospital. Anyway, they’ve got my deposit, so I’m sure they’re not worried.”
“Good girl,” Shane murmured and gave his youngest daughter an encouraging smile. “You can’t expose yourself to any danger. I won’t allow it.”
Desmond looked at M. “Can I go in with you when they let us see Tessa?”
“Yes, of course, Des. Try not to worry, she will be all right.”
“Her face,” he said again, very softly. “Her very, very beautiful face.”
“I know,” M murmured and blinked back her tears.
Faraway in St. Petersburg, Jonathan Ainsley stood on the top deck of the Janus, looking out to sea, pressing a cell phone to his ear.
“Hello?” he said, knowing exactly who it was. This was the mobile he kept for his chief hatchet man. No one else had the number. This one was reserved for Sam Herbert Samson.
“Boss?” Sam said. “It’s me. Calling from gay Paree.”
“Do you have good news, Sam?”
“I certainly do. The party went off as planned. The one we had in the library.”
“That’s very good news. Well done.”
Sam clutched the phone tighter, listening to that cultured, aristocratic voice. It had always intimidated him. He was now wondering how to explain the next bit of news. Taking deep breaths, Sam finally jumped in feetfirst. “I still have to check how many are left around, Boss. Unfortunately, I had to leave the party early. I’m going back now. I’ll give you a jingle later today.”
“Very well, Sam. Do what you have to do. I have the utmost faith in you. After all, I know you are thorough. I know you won’t become another Bart and make yourself redundant. Are you staying at your usual place?”
“I sure am, Boss,” Sam answered, his throat suddenly dry with nervousness.
“I’m glad to hear it. Call me as soon as you know the final results of the party.”
“I will, Boss.” Sam closed his phone. The Boss had already cut him off. But that was his way. As he pocketed his phone, he couldn’t help worrying about that mention of Bart, long since dead. He hated it when the boss referred to him. Bart had died in mysterious circumstances.
On Tuesday, May fifteenth, Richie Zhèng landed at Heathrow Airport. After he had cleared customs, he took his rolling carry-on bag and hurried outside. He saw the chauffeur at once. He was carrying a sign which had the name Croesus printed on it. He smiled. Jack was creative.
Once he was settled in the backseat, Richie told the driver, “The Grosvenor Hotel, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver responded, sounding as if he knew this already.
It took about an hour to reach the hotel, and Richie went immediately to the front desk, where he registered under the name on his birth certificate and on his legitimate Canadian passport: Richard Thomas Sutton. He used the Canadian passport.
Within seconds he was shown up to his suite, where he unpacked his bag and then freshened up in the bathroom. Returning to the bedroom, he took stock of the room in general, lifted his two laptops out of the carry-on, and slipped them into a double-sided canvas tote. After pocketing the key, he left the room, went down in the elevator. As he crossed the lobby, Richie glanced around, saw nobody he knew, and hurried out to the hotel’s courtyard.
Walking at a steady pace, enjoying the fresh air on this sunny spring morning, he headed for Mount Street and Cardigan International.
Jack Figg was waiting for him there. He introduced Richie to James Cardigan, and the three of them sat down in James’s private office.
“Did you get everything done in Switzerland?” Jack asked, knowing the answer before Richie spoke. He trusted this young man implicitly. He was brilliant, efficient, and dedicated. And as trustworthy as his grandfather Zhèng Wen Li.
“I did, Jack. It all went smoothly. I also have all the passwords, codes, and Jonathan Ainsley’s personal identification number, the security code for his personal computer at the bank.”
“So explain again what you’re intending to do so that James can understand it as well, Richie.”
“With all these codes now in my possession, plus my knowledge about filling out the online forms, I can transfer money anywhere in the world.”
“In other words, you are now in control of Ainsley’s money,” James asserted.
“That’s correct. I also control my grandfather’s money, the hundred million he invested with Ainsley. Because he gave me all his codes. And I control Grisha Lebedev’s investment with Ainsley in his Belvedere-Macau Private Bank.”
It was James who, looking startled, asked, “How the hell did you manage to do that?”
“I didn’t. But as Jack knows, I am currently employing six hackers, the most brilliant in the world, and they hacked Lebedev’s computers and got everything we needed.”
“Who are they?” James gave Richie a searching glance and went on to probe, “And where are they?”
“I can’t tell you who they are, that’s confidential, and anyway, you have no need to know. There’s one here in England, another in Macau, one in Stockholm, two in Germany, and yet another in Iceland. They’re scattered.”
“So what’s the final plan?” Jack asked and sat back.
“I can explain it, Jack, but I’m going to do it in broad strokes because
it becomes very complicated. And you’re not all that into computers, are you?”
Jack smiled ruefully. “No, I’m not.”
“All right, here goes,” Richie said. “At your meetings with my grandfather, you and he agreed that the best way to stop Ainsley was to go after the money. And it was Wen Li who dreamed up the idea of using me as an instrument, in a sense. This idea he put into motion by dangling the carrot in front of Ainsley: one hundred million U.S. dollars as an investment in Ainsley’s bank, providing I was given a job at Belvedere to learn more about the business of banking before inheriting my own bank from Grandfather.”
“I remember every detail,” Jack murmured. Looking across at James, he added, “And Ainsley took the carrot. Also, he saw Richie as a future partner, in my opinion. He always grabs the main chance.”
“Apparently he had no option. Over the last few years, as he’s recovered from his many operations in the clinic, he has been playing silly games with the money, and he’s rendered himself vulnerable,” Richie confided.
“In what way?” James asked, focusing on Richie.
“He spent a lot of his own money on that ridiculous yacht; competing with Roman Abramovich by making it slightly larger than his was so foolish. He has not, as yet, dipped into my grandfather’s money, but he has used some of Lebedev’s investment with him. Now, and here’s the whole point of the plan, Lebedev is highly suspicious, and he’s going to start asking tough questions real soon. Also, he’s pissed off at Ainsley, because Ainsley made a play for the new woman in Lebedev’s life, a woman called Galina. I see a blowup imminently, and that’s why I have to act in the next couple of days.”
“I know you have incredible sources,” Jack said, giving Richie a reassuring smile. “But would you mind explaining one thing? How do you know about Lebedev’s attitude toward Ainsley?”
“I have someone inside Lebedev’s trading company, an impeccable source. A man I went to school with.”
“In America?” Jack asked.
Breaking the Rules (Harte Family Saga Book 7) Page 39