“You’re tired,” he said, abruptly rising. “Please rest, and I’ll be back this evening.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do some checking around and see if I can’t find out who bought Bathsheba on the black market. There are a couple of people here in Paris who might know.” He saw it in her face—knowledge, pain, deep uncertainty about what she should do. He raised his hand, knowing excuses would come out if she chose to speak at all. “No, you don’t have to tell me a thing, ever, if that’s what you decide. But if you can’t give me the answers, I’ve simply got to go out and try to find them myself. You do understand that, don’t you, love?”
She nodded, splaying her fingers over her stomach, so flat-looking beneath the stark white sheet. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t, not yet—I have to speak to—”
He leaned down and kissed her, then was gone. Rafaella lay there staring a moment at the closed door. He was a good man, and his real name was O’Sullivan. She liked it.
What am I going to do?
There was no answer, no sound at all in her room. I just had a miscarriage, she thought blankly, and to her surprise, she felt the tears welling up again.
Giovanni’s Island
April 2001
DeLorio couldn’t believe it. He was a millionaire. Nothing had changed except an old man he’d rarely seen in his life had died, and now he was filthy rich. He just stood there grinning like a fool; he couldn’t believe it. He was free; at last he was out from under his old man’s thumb. His old man had tried to be cool about it, to play it down, but DeLorio wasn’t stupid. He knew what was what now. There would be new rules to the game, and he’d be the one to write them, no one else.
His old man had done more than play down his inheritance, he’d tried to make it seem like a dung pile, but DeLorio had an idea of his grandfather’s worth. It was a lot, more than his old man had, he’d wager. And there wasn’t any more money to be spent on his mother—not that he would have minded, of course, if she’d been willing to cut back her expenses.
His old man was stupid. He was too old to know what was good for the family, what family there was left. Just the two of them now.
His father had told him, looking him straight in the eyes, that he was sorry Sylvia had been in that accident. And DeLorio had said, “Did you have her killed?” Dominick had smiled sadly and replied, “Of course not. She was your mother, she was once my wife. It was an accident, a terrible tragedy. Shocking.”
No more would his old man tell him he couldn’t go into drugs. He had no more power over DeLorio Giovanni. DeLorio was the man of the future: Dominick Giovanni was a relic of the past. He might as well hang it up; DeLorio was ready to take over.
It wouldn’t be long now. He had the money, he had the brains. And he had the connections in Cartagena. And in Miami. The old man didn’t know it, but Mario Calpas respected him—DeLorio. He believed in him, believed that the old man was over the hill. But Mario hadn’t ordered the hit on him. No, that was Bathsheba. Maybe if his old man asked him real nice, he’d try his hand at wiping out the assassins. That smug-mouthed Irish jerk, Marcus Devlin, was a useless imbecile. He’d done nothing, not a damned thing. The fact that he’d saved the old man’s life, well, that was just the luck of the draw. All Marcus was interested in was screwing Rafaella Holland. DeLorio’s hands fisted. Then, slowly, he relaxed, splaying his fingers, smiling. He shouldn’t let little things get to him anymore. Things were looking up now. He was in control.
In the hallway, Merkel took a call from Callie at the resort. She wondered if he could tell her Marcus’s plans. There were decisions that had to be made and besides, everyone was asking for him. A popular guy was Marcus, Merkel thought, and told Callie that he’d have to get back to her. Marcus was off on business for Mr. Giovanni, somewhere in Europe. Callie rang off, telling him that he should come over to the resort and see Punk’s new hairdo—it was called big hair and it was still very blond and had a gorgeous purple stripe running from the cowlick down to her neck. Merkel said he’d do that. Punk was a hoot. Then he went to see Mr. Giovanni, who was alone in the library and didn’t look pleased to admit Merkel. That made Merkel nervous and uneasy.
“I wanted to ask you about Marcus, Mr. Giovanni. Callie called from the resort, asking about him and his plans. I told her I’d ask you.”
“Maybe you should be asking me what my plans are for Marcus.”
Mr. Giovanni was using his soft, smooth-as-honey voice that made Merkel’s flesh crawl. Merkel didn’t understand that, and he wasn’t certain, all of a sudden, if he ever wanted to.
“I’ve just discovered who our Bathsheba is, Merkel. Aren’t you interested in knowing?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Giovanni. Certainly, sir.”
“It’s our dear Rafaella’s stepfather, Charles Winston Rutledge III. What do you think of that, Merkel? Speechless, I see. I must admit that I was speechless as well, in a manner of speaking. It does make me wonder about Rafaella and her motives, doesn’t it you? Sure it does. And now our Marcus is compromised, shall we say. He’s in Miss Holland’s company, in her bed, and in all probability he’s in her confidence. Oh, yes, Marcus is definitely compromised.”
It was more than Merkel could take in. It sounded incredible, yet somehow— He shook his head and said, “Is there anything I can do, Mr. Giovanni?”
Dominick shook his head. “No, just stand ready, Merkel. I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Mr. Giovanni! Sir!”
“Yes, certainly. You are my man, my creature, as a character of Shakespeare’s would say. Yes, my dear creature, stand ready.”
Paris, France
April 2001
Marcus held her hand. He didn’t want to let it go even though she was asleep. Her flesh was soft, firm, pale as her face was still. A nurse had brushed her hair back from her face. It was lank and dull, but that didn’t matter. She was all right, thank God, and no thanks to him, Marcus, the horny bandit. He still couldn’t believe he’d gotten her pregnant when she’d been on the pill. In the future they’d have to be very careful, since it appeared that his sperm was happily at home in her womb and quite ready to stake claim.
The future.
It didn’t give him pause now. He’d discovered over the past couple of days that all the insanity that had defined his life for the past two and a half years—all the deceptions, the damnable assignments, Dominick Giovanni himself and his devious, quite ruthless mind, the danger—all of it was out of the limelight of his mind. No, his priorities had definitely shifted, and now he viewed all the other as simply things to be taken care of before he and Rafaella could get on with their lives.
She’d feel the same way. At least she’d better. When she was feeling back to normal, he’d tell her the truth. Maybe if he were open, she would be also. Actually, as soon as she cracked her eyes open, he’d start talking. He’d been a fool not to prove his trust of her sooner.
“You’re looking awfully serious. For a change, I should say. How are you, Mr. Marcus O’Sullivan?”
“I’m tired and worried and skinny because I haven’t eaten forever, and lonesome as hell. I am not, however, horny. Those days are long over.”
Rafaella smiled and squeezed his fingers. “You’re not, huh? I wonder how long that will last.”
“Probably until we’re married.” He looked thoughtful. “I’ll plan a real kinky wedding night, though, one that will sizzle you so that you make all those cute little noises deep down in your throat.”
She had no answer to that, just stared at him as if he had a loose bolt somewhere in his brain. Finally she said, “There’s so much happening, so much that has happened in the past, and all of it touches me—us—and it’s a mess. I don’t know what to do, Marcus.”
“It’ll stay a mess until you tell me all about it. No, don’t start shaking your heard at me. I decided you needed an example set for you. A good example from a good man. Here goes: my real name is Marcus Ryan O’Sullivan
and my home is Chicago. I’m a partner in—it’s true, I swear it—in a munitions factory that earns its livelihood from government contracts. For example, we provide parts for the F-15 fighter. Also, we develop high-density mines that the government pays us a bundle for. We sell to the NATO countries, but we’ve never, ever, in our professional lives sold to any countries not specifically approved by the State Department. My partner’s name is John Savage and I keep in touch with him and through him with a man named Ross Hurley, my contact with the U.S. Customs Service.”
“You’re not making this up, are you?”
“No. Why?”
“To get me to spill my guts to you. Oh, no, I take that back.” She sighed, then said, “You’re not, are you, Marcus? Oh, no, you’re as honest as my Great Aunt Mildred, who wouldn’t lie to the postman about including a letter inside a package and paying more postage. I always knew you couldn’t be a criminal, it just didn’t fit, but your association with Giovanni, well—tell me the rest of it and I’ll believe everything you say.”
“It’s not just sex.”
She giggled. It was a wonderful sound, and Marcus laughed. His first laugh in more days than he could count. He leaned down and kissed her mouth. “You can keep your maiden name, I don’t mind. I’m macho—we’ve proved that countless times—but sensitive macho. Besides, you make lots of money and I’m not stupid. Yeah, I like it: Rafaella Holland O’Sullivan. It has a ring. All the newspapers in the country are going to want that byline.”
“You’re crazy. Get back to your tale.”
He kissed her again. “A hard woman. You’ll like John Savage, my partner. We drew straws and I won—or lost, depending on your viewpoint. Here’s what happened nearly three years ago. Our business was just taking off in a big way. We had credibility with all the bigwigs and the Defense Department, with all the other feds too, even Congress; we kept to our bids and we rarely ran over our target dates or upped our initial bids. Now, here’s the fly in the ointment. John and I are first cousins, and our Uncle Morty—my mother’s older brother—was on our payroll. Come to find out, we were under investigation by the U.S. Customs Service and they accused Uncle Morty of selling goodies to foreign agents, notably guys selling stuff to Iran. Not a particularly wonderful thing to have happen to a relatively new company that could use all the credibility it could get.
“Neither John nor I believed Uncle Morty guilty, but there was evidence, and the bottom line was that good old Uncle Morty had been netted by a very gorgeous woman. He’s about the most benign guy you can imagine—short, bald, and tubby—but the truth is, he’s just plain naive, incredibly so in this case, and he did whatever this woman told him to do. She, unlike Uncle Morty, was one smart cookie, and she was long gone before everything cracked wide open.
“But we ended up making a deal with Hurley of the Customs Service. One of us would go undercover and nail this very elusive fellow whose name was Dominick Giovanni. When he was safely under wraps—that is, when the feds had gotten him—Uncle Morty would be off the hook. Understand, Uncle Morty was looking at life imprisonment and we couldn’t find that woman or any of the middle guys who’d done all the circuitous routing of the F-15 parts to Iraq. He’s been in protective custody ever since, free but not really, not completely. He’ll be really free the day Dominick isn’t.
“And that, my dear Ms. Holland, is the truth. What do you think?”
“I’m overwhelmed. But why would they offer that deal to you, two businessmen?”
“Both John and I had been field agents in Europe. We were well trained and were really very good. We stayed in the CIA for five years, then started up our own arms company. That’s why I speak some French and a smattering of German. It seemed a good idea, and we’d met a lot of people in the Defense Department and made good impressions.”
“I wonder if you guys were set up,” she said thoughtfully. “You know, by this guy Hurley.”
“Naw, but I’d like to believe it if I could. No, Uncle Morty had been played for a fool. The funny thing is, you will like him when you finally meet him.”
Rafaella suddenly grabbed his hand and shook it. “But the danger, Marcus. If Dominick ever found out, he’d—”
“Right. He’d blow my head off. I’d be history.”
“No wonder you couldn’t tell me anything. I can’t get over the fact that both of us are here pretending to be what we aren’t, only I really am a writer and I really did write that biography of Louis Rameau and I did truly intend to write a biography of Dominick Giovanni, it’s just that it wouldn’t have been written the way he expected it to be.”
“I’m beginning to see. You want to nail him too?”
“Yes, nail him but good. I wanted to write a book that would hold him up to the world, to show indisputably what a horrible man he really is: amoral, ruthless, cruel.”
“This Bathsheba thing came as a complete surprise to you.”
“Yes, it truly did.” She looked over at him, and he hated the pain he saw in her expression.
“Tell me, Rafe. I’ll do my damnedest to help.”
“The painting Bathsheba was stolen ten years ago by my stepfather, Charles Winston Rutledge III.”
Marcus stared at her, unconsciously squeezing her fingers. “Good grief.”
“You’ve got that right. I don’t understand this serendipity, this calling himself Bathsheba, but I do know why he’s tried to kill Giovanni.” Rafaella broke off when a new nurse came soft-footed into the room, closing the door behind her. Marcus hadn’t seen this one before. She was older, more formidable-looking, her white uniform pristine and starched crisp. She was smiling, however, and carrying a tray with a glass of water and a paper cup holding several capsules. She said in perfect English, “You’re looking much better, Mrs. O’Sullivan. Now, I have some pills your doctor ordered for you. You must take all of them now, please.”
“But—”
“Go ahead, love. I haven’t known anything this long, what will a few more hours matter? We’ll finish this off later. Your health is the most important thing.”
She looked at him. He was perfectly serious. Rafaella took the four capsules. The nurse was taking her blood pressure, speaking softly to her. She lay back, almost instantly feeling the drowsiness pull at her. The nurse finished with the blood pressure and was straightening to stand beside her bed. Rafaella heard her say to Marcus, “Now, Mr. O’Sullivan, it’s your turn. No, sir, don’t move. You recognize a silencer, I’m sure.”
A gun. “No,” Rafaella whispered, and tried to pull herself upright in bed. But she couldn’t move; she felt heavy and strangely numb, and the room was turning dark.”
“Who are you? Another Tulp?” Marcus’s voice, low and calm and furious.
“Let’s not waste time, Mr. O’Sullivan. Now, listen very carefully. Your little tart here will shortly be quite unconscious. I’ve got two men dressed as orderlies outside with a gurney. We’re all leaving here shortly. You try anything, anything at all, and I’ll kill her. Do believe me. Then I’ll kill you and maybe some of the hospital staff. And then I’d get away. I’ve got the gun and the element of surprise. Now, will you cooperate?”
Marcus took stock, weighed his options, all in under two seconds. “Who sent you?” he asked, his eye on her gun. “Who are you working for?”
“You’ll know soon enough. Good, she’s out. Don’t move, Mr. O’Sullivan. You wouldn’t look particularly sexy as a corpse.” Marcus watched her walk to the door, open it just a crack, and motion to someone outside. In a moment, two men wheeling a gurney came into the room.
“Don’t underestimate me because I’m a woman, Mr. O’Sullivan.” She watched impassively as the men lifted Rafaella off the bed and onto the gurney. They smoothed the covers over her, a very professional-looking job with neatly tucked-in corners, then nodded to the woman.
“I believe we’re ready to leave this place. Don’t forget, Mr. O’Sullivan.” She lowered the gun under the cover and he could make out its outline, th
e muzzle pressing against Rafaella’s left breast.
“I won’t forget,” he said, and meant it. He wanted to go after her, but he knew the chances were slim indeed that he’d disarm her without being hurt himself or Rafaella being shot. He walked beside the gurney into the hospital corridor. His chance would come.
Who had sent the woman? Two choices, only two. Bathsheba or Dominick. No, there was Olivier as well. But Rafaella’s stepfather? He’d threaten his own stepdaughter? And how could Bathsheba be her stepfather? How could he try to kill Dominick, knowing she was there on the island? None of it made any sense.
Marcus couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the gun muzzle against Rafaella’s breast. He kept cool and kept walking. There would be other opportunities. The two men, dressed in their white jackets, looked slightly bored, like orderlies anywhere. The woman’s face was impassive.
She reminded him a bit of Tulp: hard, tough eyes as mean as nails.
Where would they be taken?
“Mr. O’Sullivan! Un moment, s’il vous plait!”
It was a young, fresh-faced nurse who was calling to him, and she was trotting down the corridor toward them, waving a sheet of paper. Marcus saw the gun jerk, felt the alarm of the two men. The young nurse was smiling at him, unsuspecting, waving the piece of paper.
Twenty-two
Long Island, New York
April 2001
Charles Rutledge left Pine Hill Hospital just after ten o’clock at night. It was cold, only forty-six degrees, and thick leaden clouds obscured the quarter-moon. He shivered in his cashmere coat and pulled on his soft York-leather driving gloves.
The hospital parking lot was well-lit, but there weren’t many cars at this time of night. Charles was bone-tired and depressed. Life—once a Garden of Eden created especially for him by a beneficent fate—now seemed pallid and cold and empty as a desert, and he hated it. It was like purgatory—the uncertainty of each hour, not knowing when it would end and what the ending would be, the paleness of Margaret’s face, the damnable doctors just nodding and trying to pretend optimism. He’d noticed today how Margaret’s hair seemed duller than just the day before, and it scared him. Was it a sign that she was failing?
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