In Their Footsteps / Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

“Who carried the policy?”

  “Lloyd’s of London.”

  “Have you contacted them?”

  “Yes. They were skeptical of my story. Kept asking me what I wanted out of this, whether I had a grudge against the Van Weldon company. Then they learned about my prison record. After that, they didn’t believe anything I said.” Sighing, she went to the bed and sat down. “I told my cousin Tony to drop out of sight—he’s the obvious person they’d use to track me down. He’s in a wheelchair. Vulnerable. He’s hiding out somewhere in Brussels. I can’t really expect much help from him. So I’m floundering around on my own.”

  A long silence passed. When at last she found the courage to look up, she saw that Jordan was frowning at the wall, and that Richard Wolf was obviously not convinced of her story.

  “You don’t believe me, do you, Mr. Wolf?” she said.

  “I’ll reserve judgment for later. When I’ve had a chance to check the facts.” He turned to Jordan. “Can we talk outside?”

  Jordan nodded and followed Richard out of the room.

  From the window Clea watched the two men standing in the garden below. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could read their body language—the nods, the grim set of Jordan’s face. After a few moments Richard climbed in his car and drove away. Jordan reentered the building.

  Clea stood waiting for him. She was afraid to face him, afraid to confront his skepticism. Why should he believe her? She was an ex-con. In the past month she had told so many lies she could scarcely keep them all straight. It was too much to ask that he would take her word for it this time.

  The door opened and Jordan entered, his expression unreadable. He studied her for a moment, as though not certain just what to do with her. Then he let out a deep breath.

  “You certainly know how to throw a fellow for a loop,” he said.

  “I’m sorry” was all she could think of saying.

  “Sorry?”

  “I never meant to drag you into this. Or your family either. It would be easier all around if you just go home. Somehow I’ll get to London.”

  “It’s a little late in the game, isn’t it? To be casting me off?”

  “You’ll have no problems. Van Weldon isn’t interested in you.”

  “But he is.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Richard wanted to tell me. On his way to meet us, he was followed. Someone’s watching Chetwynd, monitoring everyone’s comings and goings.”

  Clea stiffened with alarm. “They followed him here?”

  “No, he lost them.”

  “How can he be sure?”

  “Believe me, Richard’s an old hand at this. He’d know if he was followed.”

  Heart racing, she began to pace the room. She didn’t care how skilled Richard Wolf might be—the chances were, he would underestimate Van Weldon’s power, his resources. She’d spent the past month fighting for her life. She’d made it her business to learn everything she could about Van Weldon, and she knew, better than anyone, how far his tentacles reached. He had already discovered the link between her and the Tavistocks. It was just a matter of time before he used that knowledge to track her down.

  She stopped pacing and looked at Jordan. “What next? What does your Mr. Wolf have in mind?”

  “A fact-finding mission. Some discreet inquiries, a chat with Lloyd’s of London.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?”

  “We sit tight and wait right here. He’ll call us in the morning.”

  She nodded and turned away. In the morning, she thought, I’ll be gone.

  Victor Van Weldon was having another attack, and this was a severe one, judging by the pallor of his face and the tinge of blue around his lips. Van Weldon was not long for this world, thought Simon Trott—a few months at the most. And then he’d be gone and the path would be clear for his appointed successor—Trott himself.

  If Van Weldon didn’t sack him first, a possibility that was beginning to seem likely since the latest news had broken.

  “How can this be?” Van Weldon wheezed. “You said it was under control. You said the woman was ours.”

  “A third party stepped in at the last moment. He ruined everything. And we lost a man.”

  “What about this family you mentioned—the Tavistocks?”

  “The Tavistocks are a distraction, nothing more. It’s not them I’m worried about.”

  “Who, then?”

  Trott paused, reluctant to broach the possibility. “Interpol,” he said at last. “It seems the woman has attracted their attention.”

  Van Weldon reacted with a violent spasm of coughing. When at last he’d caught his breath again, he turned his malevolent gaze to Trott. “You have brought us to disaster.”

  “I’m sure it can be remedied.”

  “You left the task to fools. And so,” he added ironically, “did I.”

  “The police have nothing. Our man is dead. He can’t talk.”

  “Clea Rice can.”

  “We’ll find her again.”

  “How? Every day she grows more and more clever. Every day we seem to grow more and more stupid.”

  “Eventually we’ll have a lead. Our contact in Buckinghamshire—”

  Van Weldon gave a snort. “That contact is a liability! I want the connection severed. And there must be a consequence. I will not tolerate such treachery.”

  Trott nodded. Consequences. Penalties. Yes, he understood their necessity.

  He only hoped that he would not someday be on the receiving end.

  It was well after dark when Richard Wolf finally drove in through the gates of Chetwynd. As he passed between the stone pillars his gaze swept the road, searching for a telltale silhouette, a movement in the bushes. He knew he was being watched, just as he knew he’d been followed earlier today. Even if he didn’t quite believe Clea Rice’s story, he did believe that she was in real danger. Her fear had infected him as well, had notched up his alertness to the point he was watching every shadow. He was glad Beryl had gone off to London for a few days. He’d call her later and suggest she stay longer—anything to keep her well away from this Clea Rice mess.

  A car he didn’t recognize was parked in the driveway.

  Richard pulled up beside it. Cautiously he got out and circled around the Saab, glanced through the window at the interior. Inside were a few folded newspapers, nothing to identify the driver.

  He went up the steps to the house.

  Davis greeted him at the front door and helped him off with his raincoat. “You have a visitor, Mr. Wolf.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Who is it?”

  “A Mr. Archibald MacLeod. He’s in the library.”

  “Did he mention the purpose of his visit?”

  “Some sort of police business.”

  At once Richard crossed the hall to the library. A man—brown haired, short but athletic build—stood beside the far bookcase, examining a leather-bound volume. He looked up as Richard entered.

  “Mr. MacLeod? I’m Richard Wolf.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve made inquiries. I’ve just spoken to an old colleague of yours—Claude Daumier, French Intelligence. He assures me I can have complete confidence in you.” MacLeod closed the book and slid it back on the shelf. “I’m from Interpol.”

  “And I’m afraid I’m quite in the dark.”

  “We believe you and Mr. Tavistock have stumbled into a somewhat hazardous situation. I’m anxious to see that no one gets hurt. That’s why I’m here to ask for your cooperation.”

  “In what matter?”

  “Tell me where I can find Clea Rice.”

  Richard hoped his alarm didn’t show on his face. “Clea Rice?” he asked blankly.

  “I know you’re familiar with the name. Since you requested an ID of her fingerprints. And a copy of her criminal record. The American authorities alerted us to that fact.”

  The man really must be with the police, Richard concluded. Nevertheless, he decided to pr
oceed cautiously. Just because MacLeod was a cop didn’t mean he could be trusted.

  Richard crossed to the fireplace and sat down. “Before I tell you anything,” he said, “I’d like to hear the facts.”

  “You mean about Clea Rice?”

  “No. About Victor Van Weldon.”

  “Then will you tell me how to find Miss Rice?”

  “Why do you want her?”

  “We’ve decided it’s time to move on her. As soon as possible.”

  Richard frowned. “You mean—you’re arresting her?”

  “Not at all.” MacLeod faced him squarely. “We’ve used Miss Rice long enough. It’s time to bring her into protective custody.”

  A soft drizzle was falling as Clea stepped out the front door of the Munstead Inn. It was past midnight and all was dark inside, the other occupants having long since retired. For a full hour she had lain awake beside Jordan, waiting until she was certain he was asleep. Since the revelations of that afternoon, mistrust seemed to loom between them, and they had staked out opposite sides of the bed. They’d scarcely spoken to each other, much less touched.

  Now she was leaving, and it was all for the better. The break was cleaner this way—no sloppy emotions, no uneasy farewells. He was the gentleman. She was the ex-con. Never the twain could meet.

  The back gate squealed as she opened it. She froze, listening, but all she heard was the whisper of drizzle on tree leaves and, in the distance, the barking of a dog. She pulled her jacket tightly against the moist chill and began to trudge down the road.

  It would be an all-night walk; by daybreak she could be miles from here. If her feet held out. If she wasn’t spotted by the enemy.

  Ahead stretched the twin hedgerows lining both sides of the road. She debated whether or not to walk on the far side of the hedge, where she would be hidden from the road, but after a few steps in the mud she decided the pavement was worth the risk. She wouldn’t get far in this sucking mire. Chances were, no one would be driving this late at night, anyway. She slogged back around the hedge and clambered onto the road. There she froze.

  The silhouette of a man was standing before her.

  “You could have told me you were leaving,” said Jordan.

  Relieved it was him, she found her breath again. “I could have.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “You would have stopped me. And I can’t afford any more delays. Not when I know they’re one step behind.”

  “You’ll be safer with me than without me.”

  “No, I’m safer on my own. I’m getting good at this, you know. I may actually survive to see the ripe old age of thirty-one.”

  “As what, a fugitive? What kind of life is that?”

  “At least it’s a life.”

  “What about Van Weldon? He gets off with murder?”

  “I can’t do anything about that. I’ve tried. All it’s earned me is a bunch of thugs on my tail and a head of peroxide-damaged hair. I give up, okay? He wins. And I’m out of here.” She turned and began to walk away, down the road.

  “Why did you come to England, anyway? Was it really the dagger you were after?”

  “Yes. I thought, if I could steal it back, I’d have my evidence. I could prove to everyone that Van Weldon was lying. That he’d filed a false claim. And maybe—maybe someone would believe me.”

  “If what you’re saying is true—”

  “If it’s true?” She turned in disgust and continued walking up the road. Away from him. “I suppose I made up the guy with the gun, too.”

  He followed her. “You can’t keep running. You’re the only witness to what happened to the Havelaar. The only one who can nail Van Weldon in court.”

  “If he doesn’t nail me first.”

  “The police need your testimony.”

  “They don’t believe me. And they won’t without solid evidence. I wouldn’t trust the police, anyway. You think Van Weldon got rich playing by the rules? Hell, no. I’ve checked into him. He has a hundred lawyers who’ll pull strings to get him off. And probably a hundred cops in his pocket. He owns a dozen ships, fourteen hotels and three casinos in Monaco. Okay, so last year he didn’t do so well. He got overextended and lost a bundle. That’s why he ditched the Havelaar to—pardon the pun—keep his head above water. He’s a little desperate and a little paranoid. And he’ll squash anyone who gets in his way.”

  “I’ll get you help, Clea.”

  “You have a nice mansion and a CIA-in-law. That’s not enough.”

  “My uncle worked for MI6. British Intelligence.”

  “I suppose your uncle’s chummy with a few members of Parliament?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “So is Van Weldon. He makes friends everywhere. Or he buys them.”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Clea, eight men died on the Havelaar. You saw it happen. How can you walk away from that?”

  “You think it’s easy?” she cried. “I try to sleep at night, and all I see is poor Giovanni slumping over the lifeboat. I hear gunfire. And Vicenzo moaning. And I hear the voice of that man. The one on the Cosima. The one who ordered them all killed….” She swallowed back an unexpected swell of tears. Angrily she wiped them away. “So, no, it ain’t easy. But it’s what I have to do if I want—”

  Jordan cut her off with a sharp tug on her arm. Only at that instant did Clea notice the flicker of light reflected in his face. She spun around to face the road.

  In the distance a car was approaching. As it rounded a curve, its headlights flitted through the hedgerow branches.

  At once Jordan and Clea were dashing back the way they’d come. The hedges were too high and thick to cross; their only escape route was along the road. Rain had left the pavement slippery, and Clea’s every step was bogged down by the mud still clinging to her shoes. Any second they’d be spotted.

  Jordan yanked her sideways, through a gap in the hedge.

  They tumbled through and landed together in a bed of wet grass. Seconds later the car drove past and continued on, toward the Munstead Inn. Through the stillness of the night they heard the engine’s growl fade away. Then there was nothing. No car doors slamming, no voices.

  “Do you think they’ve gone on?” whispered Clea.

  “No. It’s a dead-end road. There’s only the inn.”

  “Then what are they doing?”

  “Watching. Waiting for something.”

  For us, she thought.

  Suddenly she was frantic to get away, to escape the threat of that car and its faceless occupants. This time she didn’t dare use the road. Instead she headed across the field, not knowing where she was going, knowing only that she had to get as far away from the Munstead Inn as she could. The mud sucked at her shoes, slowing every step, making her stumble again and again, until she felt as if she was trapped in that familiar nightmare of pursuit, her legs refusing to work. She was panting so hard she didn’t hear Jordan following at her heels. Only when she fell to her knees and he reached down for her did she realize he was right beside her.

  He pulled her back to her feet. She stood swaying, her legs shaky, her breath coming in gasps. Around them stretched the dark vastness of the field. Overhead the sky was silvery with mist and rain.

  “We’re all right,” he panted, struggling to catch his breath, as well. “They’re not following us.”

  “How did they know where to look for us?”

  “It couldn’t have been the Munsteads.”

  “Then it was Richard Wolf.”

  “No,” said Jordan firmly. “It wasn’t Richard.”

  “They could’ve followed him—”

  “He said he wasn’t followed.”

  “Then he was wrong!” She pulled away. “I should never have trusted you. Any of you. Now it’s going to get me killed.” She turned and struggled on through the mire.

  “Clea, wait.”

  “Go home, Jordan. Go back to being a gentleman.”

  “Can you keep
on running?”

  “Damn right I can! I’m getting as far away as possible. I yanked on the tiger’s tail. I was lucky to live through it.”

  “You think Van Weldon will let you go? He’ll hunt you down, Clea. Wherever you run, you’ll be looking over your shoulder. You’re a constant threat to him. The one person who could destroy him. Unless he destroys you first.”

  She turned. In the darkness of the field his face was a black oval against the silver of the night clouds. “What do you want me to do? Fight back? Surrender?” She gave a sob of desperation. “Either way, Jordan, I’m lost. And I’m scared.” She hugged herself in the rain. “And I’m freezing to death.”

  At once his arms came around her, pulling her into his embrace. They were both damp and shivering, yet even through their soaked clothes she felt his warmth seep toward her. He took her face in his hands, and the kiss he pressed to her lips was enough to sweep away, just for a moment, her discomfort. Her fear. As the rain began to beat down on the fields and the clouds swept across the moon, she was aware only of him, the salty heat of his mouth, the way his body molded itself around hers.

  When at last she’d caught her breath again, and they stood gazing at each other in the darkness, she found she was no longer shaking from fear, but from longing.

  For him.

  He said softly, “I know a place we can go tonight. It’s a long walk. But it will be warm there, and dry.”

  “And safe?”

  “And safe.” Again he framed her face in his hands and kissed her. “Trust me.”

  I have no choice, she thought. I’m too tired to think of what I should do. Where I should go.

  He took her hand. “We cross this field, then follow the roads,” he said. “On pavement, so they won’t be able to track our footprints.”

  “And then?”

  “It’s a three-, four-mile walk. Think you can make it?”

  She thought about the men in the car, waiting outside the Munstead Inn. She wondered if somewhere, in the cylinder of one of their guns, there lurked a bullet with her name on it.

  “I can make it,” she said, her pace quickening. “I’ll do anything,” she added under her breath, “to stay alive.”