In Their Footsteps / Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

  “So we know they’re still alive,” said Hugh.

  “As of this afternoon, anyway.”

  They were sitting in Chetwynd’s library, the room they’d turned into a crisis headquarters. Hugh had hurried back to Chetwynd that morning, and all day the three of them had sat waiting for word from their police contacts.

  This last news was good. Jordan had made it safely to London.

  Not that Richard was surprised. In the few months he’d known his future brother-in-law, he’d come to appreciate Jordan’s resourcefulness. In a pinch there were few men Richard would rather have at his side.

  Clea Rice, too, was a survivor. Together, they might just stay alive.

  Richard looked at Hugh. The older man was looking drained and weary. The worry showed plainly in Hugh’s round face. “That price on Clea Rice’s head will be drawing every contract man in Europe,” said Richard.

  “Surely, Lord Lovat,” said MacLeod, “you can marshal some help from your intelligence contacts. We have to find them.”

  Hugh shook his head. “My Jordan was reared in the lap of the intelligence business. All these years he’s been listening. Learning. He’s probably picked up a trick or two. Even with help, it won’t be easy to track him down. Which means it won’t be easy for Van Weldon to track him down, either.”

  “You don’t know Victor Van Weldon the way I do,” said MacLeod. “At this point, he’ll be willing to pay a fortune to get rid of Clea Rice. I’m afraid money is the world’s best motivator.”

  “Not money,” said Richard. “Fear. That’s what will keep Jordan alive.”

  “Blast it all,” said Hugh. “Why do we know so little about this Victor Van Weldon, anyway? Is he so untouchable?”

  “I’m afraid he is,” admitted MacLeod. He sank into a chair by the fireplace. “Victor Van Weldon has always operated on the fringes of international law. Never quite crossing the boundaries into illegality. At least, never leaving any evidence of it. He hides behind a regiment of lawyers. Keeps homes in Gstaad, Brussels and probably a few places we haven’t found out about. He’s like some rare bird, almost never sighted, but very much alive.”

  “You can’t dredge up any evidence against him?”

  “We know he’s involved in international arms shipments. Dabbles in the drug trade. But every time we think we have hard evidence, it disintegrates in our hands. Or a witness dies. Or documents vanish. For years it’s been a source of frustration for me, how he manages to elude me. Only recently did I realize how many friends in high places he has, keeping him apprised of my every move. That’s when I changed tactics. I picked out my own team of men. An independent team. We’ve spent the past six months gathering information on Van Weldon, ferreting out his Achilles’ heel. We know he’s sick—emphysema and heart failure. He hasn’t much longer to live. Before he dies, I want him to face a little earthly justice.”

  “You sound like a man on crusade,” said Richard.

  “I’ve lost…people. Van Weldon’s work.” MacLeod looked at him. “It’s something one doesn’t forget. The face of a dying friend.”

  “How close are you now to building a case?”

  “We have the foundations. We know Van Weldon took big losses last year. The European economy—it’s affected even him. With his empire on the brink of ruin, he was bound to try something desperate. That’s when the Havelaar went down. Eight men dead, a fortune lost at sea—all of it fully insured. I couldn’t convince the Spanish authorities to foot the bill for a proper investigation. It would’ve required a salvage crew, ships and equipment. Van Weldon, we thought, had slipped away again. Then we heard about Clea Rice.” MacLeod sighed. “Unfortunately, Miss Rice is not the sort of witness to base any prosecution on. Prison record. Family of thieves. Here we finally find a weapon against Van Weldon, and it’s one that could backfire in court.”

  “So you can’t use her as the basis of any legal case,” said Hugh.

  “No. We need something tangible. For instance, the artwork listed on the Havelaar’s manifest. We know bloody well it didn’t go down with the ship. Van Weldon’s stashed it somewhere. He’s waiting for an opportunity to sell it off piece by piece. If we just knew where he’s hidden it.”

  “It was supposedly shipped from Naples.”

  “We searched his Naples warehouse. We also searched—not always legally, mind you—every building we know he owns. We’re talking about large items, not things you can just hide in a closet. Tapestries and oil paintings and even a few statues. Wherever he’s keeping it, it’s a large space.”

  “There must be a warehouse you don’t know about yet.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Interpol’s not authorized to handle this alone,” said Hugh. “You’re going to need assistance.” He reached for the telephone and began to dial. “It’s not the customary way of doing things. But with Jordan’s life at stake…”

  Richard listened as Hugh made the contacts, called in old favors from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, as well as MI5—domestic intelligence. After he hung up, Hugh looked at Richard.

  “Now I suggest we get to work ourselves,” said Hugh.

  “London?”

  “Jordan’s there. He may try to reach us. I want to be ready to respond.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said MacLeod, “is why he hasn’t called you already.”

  “He’s cautious,” said Richard. “He knows the one thing Van Weldon expects him to do is contact us for help. Under the circumstances, Jordan’s best strategy is to keep doing the unexpected.”

  “Precisely the way Clea Rice has operated all these weeks,” observed MacLeod. “By doing the unexpected.”

  Van Weldon was waiting for the call. He picked up the receiver. “Well?”

  “They’re here,” said Simon Trott. “They were spotted leaving Lloyd’s of London, as you predicted.”

  “Is the matter concluded?”

  There was a pause. “Unfortunately, no. They vanished off Brook Street—a jewelry store. The proprietor claims ignorance.”

  The news made Van Weldon’s chest ache. He paused a moment to catch his breath, the whole time silently cursing Clea Rice. In all his years he’d never known such a tenacious opponent. She was like a thorn that couldn’t be plucked out, and she seemed to keep burrowing ever deeper.

  When he’d managed to catch his breath again, he said, “So she did go to Lloyd’s. Did she take the dagger?”

  “Yes. She must have been rather peeved to learn it was a fake.”

  “And the real Eye of Kashmir?”

  “Safely back where it belongs. Or so I’ve been assured.”

  “The Cairncross woman brought us to the brink of disaster. She cannot go unpunished.”

  “I quite agree. What do you have in mind?”

  “Something unpleasant,” said Van Weldon. Veronica Cairncross was an opportunistic bitch. And a fool as well to think she could slip one over on them. Her greed had taken her too far this time, and she was going to regret it.

  “Shall I see to Mrs. Cairncross myself?” asked Trott.

  “Wait. First confirm the collection is safe. It must go on the market within the month.”

  “So soon after the Havelaar? Is that wise?”

  Trott raised a good point. It was risky to release the artwork onto the market. To think of all those assets bundled away, untouchable, just when he needed them most! Last year he had overextended himself, had made a few too many commitments to a few too many cartels. Now he needed cash. Lots of it.

  “I cannot wait,” said Van Weldon. “It must be sold. In Hong Kong or Tokyo, we could fetch excellent prices, and without much notice. Buyers are discreet in Tokyo. See that the collection is moved.”

  “When?”

  “The Villafjord is scheduled to dock in Portsmouth tomorrow. I will be on board.”

  “You…are coming here?” There was an undertone of dismay in Trott’s voice. He should be dismayed. What had started as a minor difficulty ha
d ballooned into a crisis, and Van Weldon was disgusted with his heir apparent. If Trott could not handle such simple matters as Veronica Cairncross and Clea Rice, how could he hope to assume the company’s helm?

  “I will see to the shipment myself,” said Van Weldon. “In the meantime, I expect you to find Clea Rice.”

  “We have the Tavistocks under surveillance. Sooner or later, Jordan and the woman will surface.”

  Perhaps not, thought Van Weldon as he hung up. By now Clea Rice would be weary, demoralized. Her instinct would be to run as far and as fast as she could. That would take care of the problem—temporarily, at least.

  Van Weldon felt better. He decided there was really no need to worry about Clea Rice. By now she’d be long gone from London.

  It’s what any sensible woman would do.

  Twelve

  At twelve-fifteen Veronica Cairncross left her London flat, climbed into a taxi and was driven to Sloane Street where she had lunch at a trendy little café. Afterward she strolled on foot toward Brompton Road, in the general direction of Harrods. She took her sweet time in one shop to purchase lingerie, and in another shop to try on a half-dozen pairs of shoes.

  A disguised Clea observed all of this from a distance and with a growing sense of exasperation. Not only did this exercise seem more and more pointless, but also her long black wig was itchy, her sunglasses kept slipping down the bridge of her nose and her new short-heeled pumps were killing her. Perhaps she should have slipped into that same shoe shop where Veronica had spent so much time and picked up a pair of sneakers for herself. Not that she could have afforded anything in there. Veronica clearly frequented only the priciest establishments. What is it like to be so idle and so rich? Clea wondered as she trailed the elegant figure up Brompton Road. Doesn’t the woman ever get tired of constant partying and shopping?

  Oh, sure. The poor thing must be bored to tears.

  She followed Veronica into Harrods. Inside she lingered a discreet distance away and watched Veronica sample perfumes, browse among scarves and handbags. Two hours later, loaded down with purchases, Veronica strolled out and hailed a taxi.

  Clea scurried out after her and after a few frantic glances, spotted another taxi, this one with tinted windows. She climbed in.

  Jordan was waiting in the back seat.

  “There she goes,” said Clea. “Stay with her.”

  Their driver, a grinning Sikh whom Jordan had hired for the day, expertly threaded the taxi into traffic and maintained a comfortable two-car distance behind Veronica’s vehicle.

  “Anything interesting happen?” asked Jordan.

  “Not a thing. Lord, that woman can shop. She’s way out of my league. Any trouble staying with me?”

  “We were right behind you.”

  “I don’t think she noticed a thing. Not me or the taxi.” Sighing, Clea sat back and pulled off the wig. “This is getting us nowhere. So far all we’ve found out is that she has time and money on her hands. And a lot of both.”

  “Be patient. I know Ronnie, and when she gets nervous, she spends money like water. It’s her way of blowing off stress. Judging by all the packages she was carrying, she’s under a lot of stress right now.”

  Veronica’s taxi had turned onto Kensington. They followed, skirting Kensington Gardens, and headed southwest.

  “Now where’s she going?” Clea sighed.

  “Odd. She’s not headed back to the flat.”

  Veronica’s taxi led them out of the shopping district, into a neighborhood of business and office buildings. Only when the taxi stopped and let Veronica off at the curb did Jordan give a murmur of comprehension.

  “Of course,” he said. “Biscuits.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Oliver’s company. Cairncross Biscuits.” Jordan nodded at the sign on the building. “She’s here to see her husband.”

  “Hardly a suspicious thing to do.”

  “Yes, it seems quite innocent, doesn’t it?”

  “Are you implying otherwise?”

  “I’m just thinking about Oliver Cairncross. The firm’s been in his family for generations. Appointment to the queen and all that….”

  She studied Jordan’s finely chiseled face as he mulled it over. Such eyelashes he has, she thought. No man had a right to such long eyelashes. Or such a kissable mouth. She could watch him for hours and never tire of the way his face crooked up on one side when he was thinking hard. Oh, Jordan. How I’m going to miss you when this is over….

  “Cairncross biscuits are internationally known,” said Jordan. “They’re shipped all over the world.”

  “So?”

  “So I wonder which firm is used to transport all those cookie crates. And what’s really inside them.”

  “Uzis, you mean?” Clea shook her head. “I thought Oliver was supposed to be the innocent party. The cuckolded husband. Now you’re saying he’s the one in league with Van Weldon? Not Veronica?”

  “Why not both of them?”

  “She comes out again,” said their driver.

  Sure enough, Veronica had reappeared. She climbed back into her taxi.

  “You wish me to follow her?” asked the Sikh.

  “Yes. Don’t lose her.”

  They didn’t. They stayed on Veronica’s tail all the way to Regent’s Park. There Veronica alighted from the taxi and began to walk across Chester Terrace, toward the Tea House.

  “Back into action.” Clea sighed. “I hope it’s not another two-hour hike.” She pulled on a new wig—this one shoulder length and brown—and climbed out of the cab. “How do I look?”

  “Irresistible.”

  She leaned inside and kissed him on the mouth. “You, too.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  “No, I mean it.” He pulled her around by the wrist. His grip was insistent, reluctant to let go. “If there was any other way I could do it instead of you, I would—”

  “She knows you too well, Jordan. She’d spot you in a second. Me, she’d scarcely recognize.”

  “Just don’t let your guard down. Promise me.”

  She gave him a breezy grin that masked all the fears she had rattling inside. “And you promise not to vanish.”

  “I’ll keep you right in view.”

  Still grinning, Clea turned and crossed Chester Terrace.

  Veronica was well ahead of her. She seemed to be merely wandering, strolling toward Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, its season of bloom now past. There she lingered, every so often glancing at her watch. Oh, Lord, not waiting for another lover, Clea thought.

  Without warning Veronica turned and began walking in Clea’s direction.

  Clea ducked under an arbor and pretended to inspect the label on the climbing rose. Veronica didn’t even glance her way, but headed toward the Tea House.

  After a moment Clea followed her.

  Veronica had seated herself at a table, and she had a menu propped open in front of her. Clea took a seat two tables behind Veronica and sat facing the other way. At this hour the Tea House was relatively quiet, and she could hear Veronica’s whiney voice ordering a pot of Darjeeling and iced cakes. Now I’ll waste another hour, thought Clea, waiting for that silly woman to have her tea.

  She glanced toward Cumberland Terrace. Sure enough, there was Jordan sitting on a bench, his face hidden behind a newspaper.

  The waiter approached. Clea ordered a pot of Earl Grey and watercress sandwiches. Her tea had just arrived when a man crossed the dining terrace toward Veronica.

  Clea caught only a glimpse of him as he moved past her table. He was fair haired, blonder than Jordan, with wide shoulders and a powerful frame—just the sort of hunk Veronica would probably go gaga over. Clea felt a spurt of irritation that yet another hour would be wasted while Veronica made cow eyes at her latest admirer.

  “Mr. Trott,” Veronica said crossly. “You’re late. I’ve already ordered.”

  Clea heard the man’s voice, speaking behind her, and in th
e midst of pouring tea, her hand froze.

  “I have no time for tea,” he said. “I came only to confirm the arrangements.”

  That was all he said, but his tone of command, the English coarsened by some unidentifiable accent, was enough to make Clea suck in a breath in panic. She didn’t dare glance back over her shoulder; she didn’t dare let him see her face.

  She didn’t need to see his; his voice was all she needed to recognize him.

  She’d heard it before, floating above the sound of lapping Mediterranean waves and the growl of a boat’s engine. She remembered how that same voice had cut through the darkness. Just before the bullets began to fly.

  All her instincts were screaming at her to lurch from this table and flee. But I can’t, she thought. I can’t do anything to draw his attention.

  So she sat unmoving, her hands gripping the tablecloth. So acutely did she sense the man’s presence behind her, she was surprised that he didn’t seem at all aware of her.

  Her heartbeat thudding, she sat motionless at the table.

  Trott watched Veronica light a cigarette and take in an unhurried drag of smoke. She seemed not in the least bit worried, which only proved what a stupid bitch she was, he decided. She thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks her husband’s too important to our operations. What she doesn’t know is that we’ve already found a replacement for Oliver Cairncross.

  Casually she exhaled a cloud of smoke. “The cargo’s all there. Nothing missing. I told you it would be, didn’t I?”

  “Mr. Van Weldon is not pleased.”

  “Why, because I borrowed one of his precious little trinkets? It was only for a few weeks.” Calmly she exhaled another cloud of smoke. “We’ve been stuck with your bloody crates for months now—at no small risk to ourselves. Why shouldn’t I borrow what’s in them? I got the dagger back, didn’t I?”

  “This is not the time or place to speak of it,” cut in Trott. He passed a newspaper across the table to Veronica. “The information is circled. We’ll expect it to be ready and waiting.”