She looked at him. “So you think it might be true.”
He paused. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m preparing myself for the worst. And so should you.” He went to the closet and took out her wrap. “Come on. It’s time to confront the facts, little sister. Whatever they may be.”
At seven o’clock, they arrived at Le Petit Zinc, the café where Daumier had arranged to meet them. It was early for the usual Parisian supper hour, and except for a lone couple dining on soup and bread, the café was empty. They took a seat in a booth at the rear and ordered wine and bread and a remoulade of mustard and celeriac to stave off their hunger. The lone couple finished their meal and departed. The appointed time came and went. Had Daumier changed his mind about meeting them?
Then, at seven-twenty, the door opened and a trim little Frenchman in suit and tie walked into the dining room. With his graying temples and his briefcase, he could have passed for any distinguished banker or lawyer. But the instant his gaze locked on Beryl, she knew, by his nod of acknowledgment, that this must be Claude Daumier.
But he had not come alone. He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened again, and a second man entered the restaurant. Together they approached the booth where Beryl and Jordan were seated. Beryl stiffened as she found herself staring not at Daumier but at his companion.
“Hello, Richard,” she said quietly. “I had no idea you were coming to Paris.”
“Neither did I,” he said. “Until this morning.”
Introductions were made, hands shaken all around. Then the two men slid into the booth. Beryl faced Richard straight across the table. As his gaze met hers, she felt the earlier sparks kindle between them, the memory of their kiss flaring to mind. Beryl, you idiot, she thought in irritation, you’re letting him distract you. Confuse you. No man has a right to affect you this way—certainly not a man you’ve only kissed once in your life. Not to mention one you met only twenty-four hours ago.
Still, she couldn’t seem to shake the memory of those moments in the garden at Chetwynd. Nor could she forget the taste of his lips. She watched him pour himself a glass of wine, watched him raise the glass to sip. Again, their eyes met, this time over the gleam of ruby liquid. She licked her own lips and savored the aftertaste of Burgundy.
“So what brings you to Paris?” she asked, raising her glass.
“Claude, as a matter of fact.” He tilted his head at Daumier.
At Beryl’s questioning look, Daumier said, “When I heard my old friend Richard was in London, I thought why not consult him? Since he is an authority on the subject.”
“The St. Pierre bombing,” Richard explained. “Some group no one’s ever heard of is claiming responsibility. Claude thought perhaps I’d be able to shed some light on their identity. For years I’ve been tracking every reported terrorist organization there is.”
“And did you shed some light?” asked Jordan.
“Afraid not,” he admitted. “Cosmic Solidarity doesn’t show up on my computer.” He took another sip of wine, and his gaze locked with hers. “But the trip isn’t entirely wasted,” he added, “since I discover you’re in Paris, as well.”
“Strictly business,” said Beryl. “With no time for pleasure.”
“None at all?”
“None,” she said flatly. She pointedly turned her attention to Daumier. “My uncle did call you, didn’t he? About why we’re here?”
The Frenchman nodded. “I understand you have both read the file.”
“Cover to cover,” said Jordan.
“Then you know the evidence. I myself confirmed the witness statements, the coroner’s findings—”
“The coroner could have misinterpreted the facts,” Jordan asserted.
“I myself saw their bodies in the garret. It was not something I am likely to forget.” Daumier paused as though shaken by the memory. “Your mother died of three bullet wounds to the chest. Lying beside her was Bernard, a single bullet in his head. The gun had his fingerprints. There were no witnesses, no other suspects.” Daumier shook his head. “The evidence speaks for itself.”
“But where’s the motive?” said Beryl. “Why would he kill someone he loved?”
“Perhaps that is the motive,” said Daumier. “Love. Or loss of love. She may have found someone else—”
“That’s impossible,” Beryl objected vehemently. “She loved him.”
Daumier looked down at his wineglass. He said quietly, “You have not yet read the police interview with the landlord, M. Rideau?”
Beryl and Jordan looked at him in puzzlement. “Rideau? I don’t recall seeing that interview in the file,” said Jordan.
“Only because I chose to exclude it when I sent the file to Hugh. It was a…matter of discretion.”
Discretion, thought Beryl. Meaning he was trying to hide some embarrassing fact.
“The attic flat where their bodies were found,” said Daumier, “was rented out to a Mlle Scarlatti. According to the landlord, Rideau, this Scarlatti woman used the flat once or twice a week. And only for the purpose of…” He paused delicately.
“Meeting a lover?” Jordan said bluntly.
Daumier nodded. “After the shooting, the landlord was asked to identify the bodies. Rideau told the police that the woman he called Mlle Scarlatti was the same one found dead in the garret. Your mother.”
Beryl stared at him in shock. “You’re saying my mother met a lover there?”
“It was the landlord’s testimony.”
“Then we’ll have to talk face-to-face with this landlord.”
“Not possible,” said Daumier. “The building has been sold several times over. M. Rideau has left the country. I do not know where he is.”
Beryl and Jordan sat in stunned silence. So that was Daumier’s theory, thought Beryl. That her mother had a lover. Once or twice a week she would meet him in that attic flat on Rue Myrha. And then her father found out. So he killed her. And then he killed himself.
She looked up at Richard and saw the flicker of sympathy in his eyes. He believes it, too, she thought. Suddenly she resented him simply for being here, for hearing the most shameful secret of her family.
They heard a soft beeping. Daumier reached under his jacket and frowned at his pocket pager. “I am afraid I will have to leave,” he said.
“What about that classified file?” asked Jordan. “You haven’t said anything about Delphi.”
“We’ll speak of it later. This bombing, you understand—it is a crisis situation.” Daumier slid out of the booth and picked up his briefcase. “Perhaps tomorrow? In the meantime, try to enjoy your stay in Paris, all of you. Oh, and if you dine here, I would recommend the duckling. It is excellent.” With a nod of farewell, he turned and swiftly walked out of the restaurant.
“We just got the royal runaround,” muttered Jordan in frustration. “He drops a bomb in our laps, then he scurries for cover, never answering our questions.”
“I think that was his plan from the start,” said Beryl. “Tell us something so horrifying, we’ll be afraid to pursue it. Then our questions will stop.” She looked at Richard. “Am I right?”
He met her gaze without wavering. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because you two obviously know each other well. Is this the way Daumier usually operates?”
“Claude’s not one to spill secrets. But he also believes in helping out old friends, and your uncle Hugh’s a good friend of his. I’m sure Claude’s keeping your best interests at heart.”
Old friends, thought Beryl. Daumier and Uncle Hugh and Richard Wolf—all of them linked together by some shadowy past, a past they would not talk about. This was how it had been, growing up at Chetwynd. Mysterious men in limousines dropping in to visit Hugh. Sometimes Beryl would hear snatches of conversation, would pick up whispered names whose significance she could only guess at. Yurchenko. Andropov. Baghdad. Berlin. She had learned long ago not to ask questions, never to expect answers. “Not something to bother your prett
y head about,” Hugh would tell her.
This time, she wouldn’t be put off. This time she demanded answers.
The waiter came to the table with the menus. Beryl shook her head. “We won’t be staying,” she said.
“You’re not interested in supper?” asked Richard. “Claude says it’s an excellent restaurant.”
“Did Claude ask you to show up?” she demanded. “Keep us well fed and entertained so we won’t trouble him?”
“I’m delighted to keep you well fed. And, if you’re willing, entertained.” He smiled at her then, a smile with just a spark of mischief. Looking into his eyes, she found herself wavering on the edge of temptation. Have supper with me, she read in his smile. And afterward, who knows? Anything’s possible.
Slowly she sat back in the booth. “We’ll have supper with you, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You play it straight with us. No dodging, no games.”
“I’ll try.”
“Why are you in Paris?”
“Claude asked me to consult. As a personal favor. The summit’s over now, so my schedule’s open. Plus, I was curious.”
“About the bombing?”
He nodded. “Cosmic Solidarity is a new one for me. I try to keep up with new terrorist groups. It’s my business.” He held a menu out to her and smiled. “And that, Miss Tavistock, is the unadulterated truth.”
She met his gaze and saw no flicker of avoidance in his eyes. Still, her instincts told her there was something more behind that smile, something yet unsaid.
“You don’t believe me,” he said.
“How did you guess?”
“Does this mean you’re not having supper with me?”
Up until that moment, Jordan had sat watching them, his gaze playing Ping-Pong. Now he cut in impatiently. “We are definitely having supper. Because I’m hungry, Beryl, and I’m not moving from this booth until I’ve eaten.”
With a sigh of resignation, Beryl took the menu. “I guess that answers that. Jordie’s stomach has spoken.”
Amiel Foch’s telephone rang at precisely seven-fifteen.
“I have a new task for you,” said the caller. “It’s a matter of some urgency. Perhaps this time around, you’ll prove successful.”
The criticism stung, and Amiel Foch, with twenty-five years’ experience in the business, barely managed to suppress a retort. The caller held the purse strings; he could afford to hurl insults. Foch had his retirement to consider. Requests for his services were few and far between these days. One’s reflexes, after all, did not improve with age.
Foch said, with quiet control, “I planted the device as you instructed. It went off at the time specified.”
“And all it did was make a lot of bloody noise. The target was scarcely hurt.”
“She did the unexpected. One cannot control such things.”
“Let’s hope this time you keep things under better control.”
“What is the name?”
“Two names. A brother and sister, Beryl and Jordan Tavistock. They’re staying at the Ritz. I want to know where they go. Who they see.”
“Nothing more?”
“For now, just surveillance. But things may change at any time, depending on what they learn. With any luck, they’ll simply turn around and run home to England.”
“If they do not?”
“Then we’ll take further action.”
“What about Mme St. Pierre? Do you wish me to try again?”
The caller paused. “No,” he said at last, “she can wait. For now, the Tavistocks take priority.”
Over a meal of poached salmon and duck with raspberry sauce, Beryl and Richard thrusted and parried questions and answers. Richard, an accomplished verbal duelist, revealed only the barest sketch of his personal life. He was born and reared in Connecticut. His father, a retired cop, was still living. After leaving Princeton University, Richard joined the U.S. State Department and served as political officer at embassies around the world. Then, five years ago, he left government service to start up business as a security consultant. Sakaroff and Wolf, based in Washington, D.C., was born.
“And that’s what brought me to London last week,” he said. “Several American firms wanted security for their executives during the summit. I was hired as consultant.”
“And that’s all you were doing in London?” she asked.
“That’s all I was doing in London. Until I got Hugh’s invitation to Chetwynd.” His gaze met hers across the table.
His directness unsettled her. Is he telling me the truth, fiction or something in between? That matter-of-fact recitation of his career had struck her as rehearsed, but then, it would be. People in the intelligence business always had their life histories down pat, the details memorized, fact blending smoothly with fantasy. What did she really know about him? Only that he smiled easily, laughed easily. That his appetite was hearty and he drank his coffee black.
And that she was intensely, insanely, attracted to him.
After supper, he offered to drive them back to the Ritz. Jordan sat in the back seat, Beryl in the front—right next to Richard. She kept glancing sideways at him as they drove up Boulevard Saint-Germain toward the Seine. Even the traffic, outrageously rude and noisy, did not seem to ruffle him. At a stoplight, he turned and looked at her and that one glimpse of his face through the darkness of the car was enough to make her heart do a somersault.
Calmly he shifted his attention back to the road. “It’s still early,” he said. “Are you sure you want to go back to the hotel?”
“What’s my choice?”
“A drive. A walk. Whatever you’d like. After all, you’re in Paris. Why not make the most of it?” He reached down to shift gears, and his hand brushed past her knee. A shiver ran through her—a warm, delicious sizzle of anticipation.
He’s tempting me. Making me dizzy with all the possibilities. Or is it the wine? What harm can there be in a little stroll, a little fresh air?
She called over her shoulder, “How about it, Jordie? Do you feel like taking a walk?” She was answered by a loud snore.
Beryl turned and saw to her astonishment that her brother was sprawled across the back seat. A sleepless night and two glasses of wine at supper had left him dead to the world. “I guess that’s a negative,” she said with a laugh.
“What about just you and me?”
That invitation, voiced so softly, sent another shiver of temptation up her spine. After all, she thought, she was in Paris….
“A short walk,” she agreed. “But first, let’s put Jordan to bed.”
“Valet service coming up,” Richard said, laughing. “First stop, the Ritz.”
Jordan snored all the way back to the hotel.
They walked in the Tuileries, a stroll that took them along a gravel path through formal gardens, past statues glowing a ghostly white under the street lamps.
“And here we are again,” said Richard, “walking through another garden. Now if only we could find a maze with a nice little stone bench at the center.”
“Why?” she asked with a smile. “Are you hoping for a repeat scenario?”
“With a slightly different ending. You know, after you left me in there, it took me a good five minutes to find my way out.”
“I know.” She laughed. “I was waiting at the door, counting the minutes. Five minutes wasn’t bad, really. But other men have done better.”
“So that’s how you screen your men. You’re the cheese in the maze—”
“And you were the rat.”
They both laughed then, and the sound of their voices floated through the night air.
“And my performance was only…adequate?” he said.
“Average.”
He moved toward her, his smile gleaming in the shadows. “Better than adquate?”
“For you, I’ll make allowances. After all, it was dark….”
“Yes, it was.” He moved closer, so close she had to t
ilt her head up to look at him. So close she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “Very dark,” he whispered.
“And perhaps you were disoriented?”
“Extremely.”
“And it was a nasty trick I played….”
“For which you should be soundly punished.”
He reached over and took her face in his hands. The taste of his lips on hers sent a shudder of pleasure through her body. If this is my punishment, she thought, oh, let me commit the crime again…. His fingers slid through her hair, tangling in the strands as his kiss pressed ever deeper. She felt her legs wobble and melt away, but she had no need of them; he was there to support them both. She heard his murmur of need and knew that these kisses were dangerous, that he, too, was fast slipping toward the same cliff’s edge. She didn’t care—she was ready to make the leap.
And then, without warning, he froze.
One moment he was kissing her, and an instant later his hands went rigid against her face. He didn’t pull away. Even as she felt his whole body grow tense against her, he kept her firmly in his embrace. His lips glided to her ear.
“Start walking,” he whispered. “Toward the Concorde.”
“What?”
“Just move. Don’t show any alarm. I’ll hold your hand.”
She focused on his face, and through the shadows she saw his look of feral alertness. Swallowing back the questions, she allowed him to take her hand. They turned and began to walk casually toward the Place de la Concorde. He gave her no explanation, but she knew just by the way he gripped her hand that something was wrong, that this was not a game. Like any other pair of lovers, they strolled through the garden, past flower beds deep in shadow, past statues lined up in ghostly formation. Gradually she became more and more aware of sounds: the distant roar of traffic, the wind in the trees, their shoes crunching across the gravel…
And the footsteps, following somewhere behind them.
Nervously she clutched his hand. His answering squeeze of reassurance was enough to dull the razor edge of fear. I’ve known this man only a day, she thought, and already I feel that I can count on him.
In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts Page 5