Nicholas Marten 01 - The Exile
Page 74
It was growing dark, and Marten felt the pull of the tide at his feet as he walked in the shallow water at the ocean’s edge. The only light there was came from the last streaks of sun on the horizon, and he turned in the surf and started back for his car. Rebecca had come through with remarkable strength. She had even appeared before both houses of the Russian parliament to thank them for their kindness and support in the terrible aftermath of the Tsarevich’s assassination. Later she had had a private session with President Gitinov himself where she had received his personal condolences and thanked him as well. Afterward she had simply asked to return to her previous life in Switzerland, and she had done just that. She was safely there now, protected by special agents of the Neuchâtel Kantonspolizei and caring once again for the Rothfels children.
After everything, Marten knew he should be grateful, and he was. Yet one thing remained that was still difficult for him to accept, and that was Rebecca’s true heritage. The confirmation of it was all there in Alexander’s office in Lausanne as he had promised, the complete file—obtained, as he had said, with “money and persistence”—that followed her trail backward from the stored files of the now-defunct House of Sarah home for unwed mothers in Los Angeles. It led to someone named Marlene J. in a place unknown, and then to a person called Houdremont in Port of Spain, Trinidad, then to a Ramon in Palma, Majorca, and then to a Gloria, also in Palma. And, finally, to her royal family in Copenhagen. The DNA report was there, too, and he’d read enough of those to know it was authentic, or at least it looked to be authentic. Still, knowing Alexander or Raymond or whatever you wanted to call him, and knowing the Baroness and what she had done and was capable of, who could be sure of anything? It might all be true or it might all have been cannily put together to give Rebecca the royal lineage necessary to become the wife of the Tsar of All Russia. But what would he do now, ask for Rebecca and the Prince and his wife to submit to a new DNA test? To what end other than his own? Rebecca had a mother and father she believed were hers and loved, and two people who had lost a daughter had received what they thought was a miracle. How could he chance destroying that? The answer was, he couldn’t.
He walked on, and his thoughts went to Clem. It was she, after all, who, when he told her of the beach here at Kekaha and the fond memories from childhood, had suggested he come here after his examinations to reflect and renew. It was an idea he’d embraced right away, and he’d wanted her to come with him, but she’d said no, this was something he needed to do alone and for himself. As much as he missed her, she’d been right, and the combination of solitude, long walks, and snorkeling had given him an inner peace he hadn’t felt for as long as he could remember.
Clem was a marvel, a delightful, sometimes frightful, loving, caring woman with a huge and courageous heart. He could picture her now in Manchester in her haphazard flat on Palatine Road, books and papers scattered everywhere as she prepared for the upcoming semester, and all the while still nose to claw with her father, the same as she had been the whole time he’d known her.
He loved her and he was sure she loved him, yet he knew she sensed there was some part of him he hadn’t shared with her. She’d never pressed him about it. It was as if she knew he would tell her in his own time and she was willing to wait until he did. And he knew one day he would, when he’d earned his degree and was gainfully employed and could truly contemplate spending the rest of his life with her, perhaps even with children. That was a year off, though, maybe two. By then, he hoped and prayed, the danger of his past would have faded to nothing and he would feel comfortable enough to tell her about it. Tell her who he really was, and who he had been, and the truth of what had happened.
Marten stepped out of the surf and walked alone across the sand toward his rental car, happy in the fact that in the morning he would go back to Manchester and to Clem and to the green and peaceful world that had become his. What was it Kovalenko had told him? Go back to your English gardens. It is a much better life.
Just ahead was his car, and as he approached he could see something scrawled across the windshield in big bold letters, as if it had been done with a bar of soap. In the dim light he couldn’t make out exactly what it was, or imagine who had done it, or why. Who cared? It might be a nuisance, but in the scheme of things it meant nothing. Then he was closer and saw what it was. His heart went to his throat and a chill rifled down his spine. Scrawled in an angry hand, covering most of the windshield and accentuated by an exclamation mark, were the four most terrifying letters he could imagine.
LAPD!
They’d found him.
BOOKS BY ALLAN FOLSOM
The Day After Tomorrow
Day of Confession
The Exile
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For technical information and advice I am especially grateful to Paul Tippin, former Los Angeles Police Department homicide investigator; Tony Fitzpatrick, Detective Inspector, Murder Investigations Unit, West Midlands Police, England; David Davidson, M.D.; Pete Noyes, investigative television reporter; Olga Gottlieb; Gillian Hush; Lorcan Sirr; Antonia Bailey Camilleri; Ian Trenwith; and Norton F. Kristy, Ph.D. For suggestions and corrections to the manuscript, I am particularly thankful to Robert Gleason, Hilary Hale, and Marion Rosenberg.
I am especially indebted to Tom Doherty for his faith in the project; and to Robert Gottlieb, who managed to keep me directed and on keel during the long and arduous process of taking The Exile from idea to manuscript.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE EXILE
Copyright © 2004 by Allan Folsom
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781466817197
First eBook Edition : March 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Folsom, Allan.
The exile / Allan Folsom.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates Book.”
ISBN 0-765-30946-7 (acid-free book)
EAN 978-0765-30946-4
1. Police—California—Los Angeles—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Americans—England—Fiction. 4. Police corruption—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. 6. World politics—Fiction. 7. Conspiracies—Fiction. 8. California—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3556.O398E95 2004
813’.54—dc22
2004010065
First Edition: September 2004