by Gayle Lynds
“They won’t find us if we’re not here.” She directed the light over the wall to the left again and hurried around piles of bald tires to get closer. “I thought I saw something.” She inspected the floor and snatched up a rusted metal object, its bent shape resembling an oversize mechanic’s grease gun.
He joined her. “What is it?”
She handed it to him. “You tell me.”
“Put the flash on it.” He examined it. “’Strewth! It’s an ancient Sten gun.”
“That’s what I hoped.” Liz rummaged again. Cheap, rapid-firing, and disposable, the Sten gun was the weapon the British had dropped by the cratefuls to the French Resistance during World War II.
Awed, he turned the rusty relic in his hands. “One of our better inspirations. This one’s got a bowed barrel, though, so my guess is someone threw it away right here.” He looked at her. “You’re hoping this was a transition point.”
She picked up a yellowed paper crumbling at the edges. “Damn right. Look, here’s more evidence—a wanted poster in French and German for a maqui.”
“If you’re right, we’ve got another way out.”
Liz peered carefully around. During the war, the maquis had created secret places throughout Paris, even in the catacombs and sewers, to meet and plan. Whenever possible, they set up another room first to look like a dead end, so the Nazis would quit searching before they found the real hideout.
Simon studied the ceiling. “Would concealed hinges help?”
She whirled. “Where?”
He was staring up. “See how fancy the ceiling is? Too fancy for a storage place.”
She aimed the light where he pointed. The ceiling had ornate wood molding in squares about two and a half feet diagonally. Like the walls and the Sten gun, the ceiling had blackened with time.
Simon took the flash. “Watch the line of the molding. See how it indents a few inches and then straightens out? Two hinges. The way it’s built, the hinges are pretty much invisible. Reminds me of the music room in Oaten Place.” Oaten Place was in Kent, the family home of their grandmother Childs, née Oaten.
“The squire’s secret bedroom? You’re right.” The family story was that four generations earlier, Squire Oaten fell in lust with his children’s music teacher. While his wife and children summered in Portofino, he’d had the clandestine love nest built.
Liz and Simon stacked tires beneath the hinges. She balanced the tires, and he scrambled up. He pressed the wood around the hinges until he felt more than heard the telltale click. He pushed up. The panel creaked and opened. Red and yellow light streaked down. He raised his head carefully.
She whispered, “What do you see?”
“Not much yet. Hold on to the tires. I’m going to jump.”
As she steadied the pile, he grabbed either side of the opening and sprang. Catlike and muscular, he pulled himself up almost effortlessly.
As his feet disappeared, she asked, “What’s there, Simon?”
His face appeared over the edge, dirty and grinning. “This is good. You’re going to love it.”
“I’ll take that with a grain of salt.” She handed up their things.
As he aimed the light down to give her illumination, she rolled the tires back to the stack. Again she heard footsteps and voices in the stairwell. Growing louder.
She ran. “Here I come.” Swinging her arms back, she hunched and leaped straight up, her hands extended.
Simon caught her wrists with a strong grip and grunted with the strain.
She grabbed his wrists. Pain exploded from the wound on her arm. She blocked it. Not now. And felt that momentary queasiness and fear of empty space, as she dangled helplessly…off the sheer cliff in Santa Barbara. His face was strained, neck veins bulging, eyes closed as he pulled her up. She had never seen a prettier sight. With a sudden surge, he lifted her the last six inches and dragged her over the rim.
She flopped like a flounder. “Thanks, I needed—”
Breathing hard, he held his fingers to his lips, set the trapdoor back in place, and crouched. Gaudy neon lights flashed through the window and across his face.
She pulled herself up to her haunches beside him. Together, they listened.
Voices again, this time directly below. She held her Glock close and gazed at Simon. She recognized the same kind of old, cold fear she always felt while waiting. But as quickly as they had arrived, the voices disappeared. She heard no door closing, but that could be because the door was too far away.
He let out a relieved breath and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. It left a sooty streak. “That wasn’t bad.”
“It could’ve been worse.” Her adrenaline pulsed like lava.
They looked at each other, exchanging a moment of complete honesty.
“Shit!” she exploded.
He released a pent-up gust of air. “Double bloody damn!”
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Christ, why did I ever think I wanted to do this for a living?”
They inhaled several times, glancing at each other, locked in uneasy truth.
“It’s been a long couple of days,” she said finally.
“You’re telling me. And we still don’t know where the files are.”
“Or Sarah and Asher.”
“What a bloody awful situation.”
She sank back and crossed her legs, feeling better after her tantrum. “You say bloody a lot.”
He collapsed beside her, stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, and leaned back on his hands. “Only at times like these. You swear a lot, too. You may not have noticed.”
“Must be the situation. I need to eat and sleep and never think about death, destruction, and greed again.”
“Well”—he shot her a wicked grin—“you’ve come to the right place.” He swung an arm.
Her eyes moved first, then her head. Mirrored panes on the ceiling above the bed reflected its kingly size and its purple velvet coverlet. Little pillows in the shapes of various genitalia were arranged beneath the headboard, which sported a painted rocking horse, noticeably well endowed. Drawings of nude women and men in a multitude of provocative poses decorated the walls. A bidet and toilet were visible through one door, and a small kitchen showed through another, all illuminated only by the loud neon lights that winked in through a single large window.
Liz burst into laughter. “Who would have thought!”
“Imagine the delight of the maquis.”
“I’m not sure I’m capable.”
The trapdoor was beside an oversize dresser. She got to her feet.
He saw what she was doing. “I’ll help.”
She put her hip into it. “No need. Women have been moving furniture for thousands of years.”
He leaned his shoulder against it anyway, and they shoved. When two dresser legs were resting on the trapdoor, Simon checked the bolt on the studio’s door and hurried to the window, where he pressed back to the side, out of sight. His chin was brown with beard stubble. Dust coated his hair. His tan sports jacket was filthy. She suddenly wanted to ask how his nose got broken. Instead, she knelt beside his gym bag and took out the three oversize prints of the baron’s photo wall.
“I’m going to snatch a bit of time to work.” She carried them closer to the window, where the light was best, and sat on the floor.
Thirty-Five
As Simon peered down at the carnival atmosphere of Pigalle, four men stood in a huddle beneath his window, smoothing their jackets, as if assuring themselves they had their pistols. Two more emerged from the garage, carrying automatic rifles close to their sides, where they would be less noticeable. A Citroën sedan filled the garage’s opening. It reminded him of the one that passed him as he had sped away from the baron’s château.
He described for Liz what he saw. Legs crossed in a lotus position, she studied the three big photos. She looked like a college girl, auburn head bent, intense.
“Find anything?” he asked.
“It’s amazing the people the baron consorted with. Everyone from Maria Callas and Aristotle Onassis to George and Laura Bush. Parties, yachting, official occasions, political events, coronations. There’s almost fifty years of photos here, and he’s in every one. Considering his companions’ star quality, my guess is he was showing restraint. He probably could’ve hung ten times this many.” She looked up, her face somber. “And if Themis and Cronus are of like stature—”
“Exactly. Their photos and the blackmailer’s may be there, too. But which ones?”
“Good question.” She resumed her scrutiny, muttering to herself.
Simon reported, “Malko’s just joined the crew. He’s giving instructions. Wish I could lip-read. I thought I recognized that Citroën. He’s getting in it and driving off.”
Liz’s mind was elsewhere. “Both your father and Grey Mellencamp were prominent politicians. If we’re right that your father was blackmailed for his vote, and Grey Mellencamp was probably blackmailed for something similar, since he was secretary of state at the time, then the man with the files isn’t after just money. That’s confirmed by his blackmailing Terrill Leaming, making him take the fall for the baron.”
“He wants something else. The ‘deal’ he was talking to the baron about.”
She looked up and considered Simon’s profile, the good chin, the determined mouth, then moved her mind back to business. “You wondered at one point whether something besides the publicity for my new shows had made this situation erupt. What if you’re right? What if the blackmailer is choosy and blackmails only when he needs some action to make one of his deals succeed?”
“As with the baron? Of course, his attempt there failed miserably, and it failed with Grey Mellencamp and with my father. Three deaths. What we don’t know is how many times he’s succeeded.”
“Exactly. If we’re right and he’s a Titan, he won’t stop easily. He’ll still try to put this deal together.”
“I agree, but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Our main problem’s escape. You’re dirty enough to have been dragged down a muddy road.” As she bristled, he said quickly, “And I probably look as if I’ve been on a three-week bender. The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. Let’s clean up, eat whatever’s here, and get out.” He headed into the bathroom and closed the door.
“Get out how?” she asked. But he did not answer.
As water rushed in the bathroom, Liz strode to the window. A delivery van with a florist’s logo had backed into the driveway, blocking it, while eight men jumped out of the side door. Her stomach knotted. Reinforcements had arrived. Two pairs deployed up and down the block, while another ran into the garage, and the fourth crossed the street. She surveyed the area, viscerally aware Simon and she were the intended prey of a squad of armed hunters who gave every appearance of being well trained, well disciplined, and thoroughly determined.
At the same time, raucous life on the street went on, absorbing the quiet killers into the crowds. On the corner ahead, a mime in whiteface pretended to be a windup tin soldier, while another, sporting a bulbous red nose, nimbly juggled four oversize dildos. Each dildo was a different brilliant color. A throng had gathered, laughing.
But what held her attention were the mimes’ white faces. They transported her back to when she was negotiating the coming-in of the Carnivore—in Avignon—disguised as a countrywoman, calling out her wares. When a traveling circus paraded up the street, she joined the crowd to watch as the clowns arrived—tumbling and stopping for exaggerated handshakes. Excited, she pushed her bike closer and clapped her hands. Released, the bike slammed into a white-faced clown dressed like a roly-poly sailor. She smiled at the memory. Almost instantly, the smile turned to grief.
She had no time for that.
In a closet, she found lightweight trousers a little too large, a pullover shirt that was also too big, and a jacket that would do. Everything was black—good for the night. She dressed quickly, wondering about their hostess. She looked through the bureau until she found the answer. She shook her head, smiling wryly at herself, and sat on the floor again with the three big prints. With a yellow Magic Marker from her shoulder bag, she circled the three photos of the baron with Grey Mellencamp. One had been taken within the last decade, and the second looked as if it were from two decades ago, while the third appeared to be even older. She studied the last one, contemplating.
When Simon emerged with a clean face and hands, his jacket slung over his arm, she said, “I have a question for you.”
“Let’s hear it.” He threw his jacket onto the bed, rolled up his sleeves, and went into the kitchen. “Keep talking. I can hear you from here.”
“You remember us at Childs Hall?”
Whenever her mother and father were away on “business,” she had stayed at Childs Hall in Belgravia, where Simon, their grandparents, his parents, and his stepbrother, Michael—Mick—resided in generational family magnificence. Simon had been a baby when his mother and Sir Robert married. Now that their grandparents and Simon’s parents were dead, Mick and his family lived there alone.
“How could I forget? That monstrosity of a dining room table is still there. Might as well be glued to the floor. Never get that whale out the door.”
“What about the eucalyptus logs Grandpa imported from North Africa?”
“Every September, several cords still arrive, faithful as a bad debt. Mick’s a great believer in tradition. Remember the playroom upstairs?”
“How could I forget?”
“Your dolls are still in residency. Barbie and the whole blasted lot. They’re in your cupboard, as if you were going to turn up tomorrow to torment Mick and me. Next thing you know, new chaps’ll be queuing up to peer in your windows again, too.”
“They didn’t!”
“They did, you know.” He emerged from the kitchen carrying a long piece of baguette topped by yellow cheese, along with a glass of red wine. He handed both to her. “I made an embarrassment of quid off them. ‘Here, boy, go away.’ And my absolute favorite: ‘Have you seen her naked?’” He smiled. “I sacrificed my youth for you.”
“Is that why you kept loitering outside my door? You were hoping to see me undress?” She took a bite of bread and cheese.
“I had become an entrepreneur. I had responsibilities to fulfill.”
“You were on your way to being a pimp…or a spy.” She found herself smiling. “We had a lot of fun. Those were good times.”
They paused, catching each other’s gazes, and Simon said quietly, “Why’d you think of that now?” He returned to the kitchen.
“I’m coming to that.” She eyed the photo thoughtfully. “If we’re right that the blackmailer’s working on some deal that’s not only significant but urgent, then the baron’s bank was probably only one piece of it. The deal could involve another company or organization, or a raft of them. It could mean not just funding but meeting government regulations, lining up subsidiaries, all kinds of things.”
“You’re thinking that there could’ve been earlier events related to the ‘deal.’”
“Yes, more blackmailings that failed. It would’ve been with someone in a position to cast a vote, or approve a course of action, or make a decision that would’ve immediately affected the deal. He or she died, or unexpectedly quit, or committed suicide, or voted in a completely out-of-character way, seeming to defy reason.” She drank the wine—good vin ordinaire—and wolfed down the food.
“What are you getting at?” He reappeared with his own bread, cheese, and wine and resumed his post at the window.
She dusted her fingers, gulped the last of her wine, and joined him, carrying the oldest of the prints. “Do you recognize any of these men?” She pointed to the photo she had circled with the yellow Magic Marker.
He stared. “When was that taken?” He bit off a piece of bread.
“Your youth is showing. I’d say the early sixties, around the time I was born. I’ll admit I didn’t recognize th
e three at first either.”
Simon studied the photo. “Well, that’s the baron and Grey Mellencamp and…damn! That’s Uncle Henry.” Simon stuffed bread and cheese into his mouth.
“That’s what I thought.” Henry, Lord Percy, had been Sir Robert’s mentor. Not a true uncle to either Simon or her, but a beloved grandfatherly figure who had shared Christmases at the Childses’ house in London and who often invited the whole family up to his estate in Northumberland for winter ice-skating and summer boating. With his own private petting zoo and hundreds of acres for exploring, horseback riding, and picnicking, visiting Uncle Henry’s place was always an exciting event for a child.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Simon said. “Henry moved in the highest circles.”
“Maybe higher than we knew. Is he still alive?”
“Yes, but he’s in his mid-nineties at least.”
“His estate can’t be more than two hundred miles from Dreftbury, so it’s convenient. As I recall, he used to read three newspapers a day and never saw a newsmagazine he didn’t like.”
Simon nodded. “He kept his finger on the political pulse. Knew everyone, too.”
“He might be able to help us figure out what the blackmailer’s really after.”
“True. But he may not be home. And even if he is, his memory could be dust.”
“Call the house. If Clive answers, we’ll know Henry’s there. Do you remember the number?”
“Of course. Engraved in my brainstem.” Simon took out his cell. “I won’t say anything, so as not to alarm them. We’ll just have to take our chances with the rest.”
As he punched in numbers, she studied the street, trying to figure out a way to escape.
Abruptly, Simon broke the connection and grimaced. “Poor Clive. I woke him up. Sounded mad as a hornet, too.”
“Good. Clive hasn’t changed. With luck, neither has Henry. But we still have the problem of getting out of here intact. How about through the garage?”
“Not unless you want to tackle three well-armed Goliaths. Every once in a while, their cigarette smoke trails out, so I know they’re still there. We’re cornered. Unless, of course, you’ve developed an appetite for a shoot-out.”