Читать книгу In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen - Тесс Герритсен, Tess Gerritsen - Страница 10

Buckinghamshire, England

The Eiffel Tower was melting. Jordan stood beside the buffet table and watched the water drip, drip from the ice sculpture into the silver platter of oysters below it. So much for Bastille Day, he thought wearily. Another night, another party. And this one’s about run its course.

“You have had more than enough oysters for one night, Reggie,” said a peevish voice. “Or have you forgotten your gout?”

“Haven’t had an attack in months.”

“Only because I’ve been watching your diet,” said Helena.

“Then tonight, dear,” said Reggie, plucking up another oyster, “would you mind looking the other way?” He lifted the shell to his mouth and tipped the oyster. Nirvana was written on his face as the slippery glob slid into his throat.

Helena shuddered. “It’s disgusting, eating a live animal.” She glanced at Jordan, noting his quietly bemused look. “Don’t you agree?”

Jordan gave a diplomatic shrug. “A matter of upbringing, I suppose. In some cultures, they eat termites. Or quivering fish. I’ve even heard of monkeys, their heads shaved, immobilized—”

“Oh, please,” groaned Helena.

Jordan quickly escaped before the marital spat could escalate. It was not a healthy place to be, caught between a feuding husband and wife. Lady Helena, he suspected, normally held the upper hand; money usually did.

He wandered over to join Finance Minister Philippe St. Pierre and found himself trapped in a lecture on world economics. The summit was a failure, Philippe declared. The Americans want trade concessions but refuse to learn fiscal responsibility. And on and on and on. It was almost a relief when bugle-beaded Nina Sutherland swept into the conversation, trailing her peacock son, Anthony.

“It’s not as if Americans are the only ones who have to clean up their act,” snorted Nina. “We’re none of us doing very well these days, even the French. Or don’t you agree, Philippe?”

Philippe flushed under her direct gaze. “We are all of us having difficulties, Nina—”

“Some of us more than others.”

“It is a worldwide recession. One must be patient.”

Nina’s jaw shot up. “And what if one cannot afford to wait?” She drained her glass and set it down sharply. “What then, Philippe, darling?”

Conversation suddenly ceased. Jordan noticed that Helena was watching them amusedly, that Philippe was clutching his glass in a whiteknuckled fist. What the blazes was going on here? he wondered. Some private feud? Bizarre tensions were weaving through the gathering tonight. Perhaps it’s all that free-flowing champagne. Certainly Reggie had had too much. Their portly houseguest had wandered from the oyster tray to the champagne table. With an unsteady hand, he picked up yet another glass and raised it to his lips. No one was acting quite right tonight. Not even Beryl.

Certainly not Beryl.

He spied his sister as she reentered the ballroom. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering with some unearthly fire. Close on her heels was the American, looking just as flushed and more than a little bothered. Ah, thought Jordan with a smile. A bit of hanky-panky in the garden, was it? Well, good for her. Poor Beryl could use some fresh romance in her life, anything to make her forget that chronically unfaithful surgeon.

Beryl whisked up a glass of champagne from a passing servant and headed Jordan’s way. “Having fun?” she asked him.

“Not as much as you, I suspect.” He glanced across at Richard Wolf, who’d just been waylaid by some American businessman. “So,” he whispered, “did you wring a confession out of him?”

“Not a thing.” She smiled over her champagne glass. “Extremely tight-lipped.”

“Really?”

“But I’ll have another go at him later. After I let him cool his heels for a while.”

Lord, how beautiful his baby sister could be when she was happy, thought Jordan. Which, it seemed, wasn’t very often lately. Too much passion in that heart of hers; it made her far more vulnerable than she’d ever admit. For a year now she’d been lying doggo, had dropped out entirely from the old mating game. She’d even given up her charity work at St. Luke’s—a job she’d dearly loved. It was too painful, always running into her ex-lover on the hospital grounds.

But tonight the old sparkle was back in her eyes and he was glad to see it. He noticed how it flared even more brightly as Richard Wolf glanced her way. All those flirtatious looks passing back and forth! He could almost feel the crackle of electricity flying between them.

“…a well-deserved honor, of course, but a bit late, don’t you think, Jordan?”

Jordan glanced in puzzlement at Reggie Vane’s flushed face. The man had been drinking entirely too much. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m afraid I wasn’t following.”

“The Queen’s medal for Leo Sinclair. You remember Leo, don’t you? Wonderful chap. Killed a year and a half ago. Or was it two years?” He gave his head a little shake, as though to clear it. “Anyway, they’re just getting ’round to giving the widow his medal. I think that’s inexcusable.”

“Not everyone who was killed in the Gulf got a medal,” Nina Sutherland cut in.

“But Leo was Intelligence,” said Reggie. “He deserved some sort of honor, considering how he…died.”

“Perhaps it was just an oversight,” said Jordan. “Papers getting mislaid, that sort of thing. MI6 does try to honor its dead, and Leo sort of fell through the cracks.”

“The way Mum and Dad did,” said Beryl. “They died in the line of duty. And they never got a medal.”

“Line of duty?” said Reggie. “Not exactly.” He lifted the champagne glass unsteadily to his lips. Suddenly he paused, aware that the others were staring at him. The silence stretched on, broken only by the clatter of an oyster shell on someone’s plate.

“What do you mean by ‘not exactly’?” asked Beryl.

Reggie cleared his throat. “Surely…Hugh must have told you…” He looked around and his face blanched. “Oh, no,” he murmured, “I’ve put my foot in it this time.”

“Told us what, Reggie?” Jordan persisted.

“But it was public knowledge,” said Reggie. “It was in all the Paris newspapers…”

“Reggie,” Jordan said slowly. Deliberately. “Our understanding was that my mother and father were shot in Paris. That it was murder. Is that not true?”

“Well, of course there was a murder involved—”

“A murder?” Jordan cut in. “As in singular?”

Reggie glanced around, befuddled. “I’m not the only one here who knows about it. You were all in Paris when it happened!”

For a few heartbeats, no one said a thing. Then Helena added, quietly, “It was a very long time ago, Jordan. Twenty years. It hardly makes a difference now.”

“It makes a difference to us,” Jordan insisted. “What happened in Paris?”

Helena sighed. “I told Hugh he should’ve been honest with you, instead of trying to bury it.”

“Bury what?” asked Beryl.

Helena’s mouth drew tight.

It was Nina who finally spoke the truth. Brazen Nina, who had never bothered with subtleties. She said flatly, “The police said it was a murder. Followed by a suicide.”

Beryl stared at Nina. Saw the other woman’s gaze meet hers without flinching. “No,” she whispered.

Gently Helena touched her shoulder. “You were just a child, Beryl. Both of you were. And Hugh didn’t think it was appropriate—”

Beryl said again, “No,” and pulled away from Helena’s outstretched hand. Suddenly she whirled and fled in a rustle of blue silk across the ballroom.

“Thank you. All of you,” said Jordan coldly. “For your most refreshing candor.” Then he, too, turned and headed across the room in pursuit of his sister.

He caught up with her on the staircase. “Beryl?”

“It’s not true,” she said. “I don’t believe it!”

“Of course it’s not true.”

She halted on the stairs and looked down at him. “Then why are they all saying it?”

“Ugly rumors. What else can it be?”

“Where’s Uncle Hugh?”

Jordan shook his head. “He’s not in the ballroom.”

Beryl looked up toward the second floor. “Come on, Jordie,” she said, her voice tight with determination. “We’re going to set this thing straight.”

Together they climbed the stairs.

Uncle Hugh was in his study; through the closed door, they could hear him speaking in urgent tones. Without knocking, they pushed inside and confronted him.

“Uncle Hugh?” said Beryl.

Hugh cut her off with a sharp motion for silence. He turned his back and said into the telephone, “It is definite, Claude? Not a gas leak or anything like that?”

“Uncle Hugh!”

Stubbornly he kept his back turned to her. “Yes, yes,” he said into the phone, “I’ll tell Philippe at once. God, this is horrid timing, but you’re right, he has no choice. He’ll have to fly back tonight.” Looking stunned, Hugh hung up and stared at the telephone.

“Did you tell us the truth?” asked Beryl. “About Mum and Dad?”

Hugh turned and frowned at her in bewilderment. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You told us they were killed in the line of duty,” said Beryl. “You never said anything about a suicide.”

“Who told you that?” he snapped.

“Nina Sutherland. But Reggie and Helena knew about it, too. In fact, the whole world seems to know! Everyone except us.”

“Blast that Sutherland woman!” roared Hugh. “She had no right.”

Beryl and Jordan stared at him in shock. Softly Beryl said, “It is a lie. Isn’t it?”

Abruptly Hugh started for the door. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “I have to take care of this business—”

“Uncle Hugh!” cried Beryl. “Is it a lie?”

Hugh stopped. Slowly he turned and looked at her. “I never believed it,” he said. “Not for a second did I think Bernard would ever hurt her…”

“What are you saying?” asked Jordan. “That it was Dad who killed her?”

Their uncle’s silence was the only answer they needed. For a moment, Hugh lingered in the doorway. Quietly he said, “Please, Jordan. We’ll talk about it later. After everyone leaves. Now I really must see to this phone call.” He turned and left the room.

Beryl and Jordan looked at each other. They each saw, in the other’s eyes, the same shock of comprehension.

“Dear God, Jordie,” said Beryl. “It must be true.”

FROM ACROSS THE BALLROOM, Richard saw Beryl’s hasty exit and then, seconds later, the equally rapid departure of a grim-faced Jordan. What the hell was going on? he wondered. He started to follow them out of the room, then spotted Helena, shaking her head as she moved toward him.

“It’s a disaster,” she muttered. “Too much bloody champagne flowing tonight.”

“What happened?”

“They just heard the truth. About Bernard and Madeline.”

“Who told them?”

“Nina. But it was Reggie’s fault, really. He’s so drunk he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Richard looked at the doorway through which Jordan had just vanished. “I should talk to them, tell them the whole story.”

“I think that’s their uncle’s responsibility. Don’t you? He’s the one who kept it from them all these years. Let him do the explaining.”

After a pause, Richard nodded. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Maybe I’ll just go and strangle Nina Sutherland instead.”

“Strangle my husband while you’re at it. You have my permission.”

Richard turned and spotted Hugh Tavistock reentering the ballroom. “Now what?” he muttered as the man hurried toward them.

“Where’s Philippe?” snapped Hugh.

“I believe he was headed out to the garden,” said Helena. “Is something wrong?”

“This whole evening’s turned into a disaster,” muttered Hugh. “I just got a call from Paris. A bomb’s gone off in Philippe’s flat.”

Richard and Helena stared at him in horror.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Helena. “Is Marie—”

“She’s all right. A few minor injuries, but nothing serious. She’s in hospital now.”

“Assassination attempt?” Richard queried.

Hugh nodded. “So it would seem.”

IT WAS LONG PAST MIDNIGHT when Jordan and Uncle Hugh finally found Beryl. She was in her mother’s old room, huddled beside Madeline’s steamer trunk. The lid had been thrown open, and Madeline’s belongings were spilled out across the bed and the floor: silky summer dresses, flowery hats, a beaded evening purse. And there were silly things, too: a branch of sea coral, a pebble, a china frog—items of significance known only to Madeline. Beryl had removed all of these things from the trunk, and now she sat surrounded by them, trying to absorb, through these inanimate objects, the warmth and spirit that had once been Madeline Tavistock.

Uncle Hugh came into the bedroom and sat down in a chair beside her. “Beryl,” he said gently, “it’s time…it’s time I told you the truth.”

“The time for the truth was years ago,” she said, staring down at the china frog in her hand.

“But you were both so very young. You were only eight, and Jordan was ten. You wouldn’t have understood—”

“We could’ve dealt with the facts! Instead you hid them from us!”

“The facts were painful. The French police concluded—”

“Dad would never have hurt her,” said Beryl. She looked up at him with a ferocity that made Hugh draw back in surprise. “Don’t you remember how they were together, Uncle Hugh? How much in love they were? I remember!”

“So do I,” said Jordan.

Uncle Hugh took off his spectacles and wearily rubbed his eyes. “The truth,” he said, “is even worse than that.”

Beryl stared at him incredulously. “How could it be any worse than murder and suicide?”

“Perhaps…perhaps you should see the file.” He rose to his feet. “It’s upstairs. In my office.”

They followed their uncle to the third floor, to a room they seldom visited, a room he always kept locked. He opened the cabinet and pulled a folder from the drawer. It was a classified MI6 file labeled Tavistock, Bernard and Madeline.

“I suppose I…I’d hoped to protect you from this,” said Hugh. “The truth is, I myself don’t believe it. Bernard didn’t have a traitorous bone in his body. But the evidence was there. And I don’t know any other way to explain it.” He handed the file to Beryl.

In silence she opened the folder. Together she and Jordan paged through the contents. Inside were copies of the Paris police report, including witness statements and photographs of the murder scene. The conclusions were as Nina Sutherland had told them. Bernard had shot his wife three times at close range and had then put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. The crime photos were too horrible to dwell on; Beryl flipped quickly past those and found herself staring at another report, this one filed by French Intelligence. In disbelief, she read and reread the conclusions.

“This isn’t possible,” she said.

“It’s what they found. A briefcase with classified NATO files. Allied weapons data. It was in the garret, where their bodies were discovered. Bernard had those files with him when he died—files that shouldn’t have been out of the embassy building.”

“How do you know he took them?”

“He had access, Beryl. He was our Intelligence liaison to NATO. For months, Allied documents were showing up in East German hands, delivered to them by someone they code-named Delphi. We knew we had a mole, but we couldn’t identify him—until those papers were found with Bernard’s body.”

“And you think Dad was Delphi,” said Jordan.

“No, that’s what French Intelligence concluded. I couldn’t believe it, but I also couldn’t dispute the facts.”

For a moment, Beryl and Jordan sat in silence, dismayed by the weight of the evidence.

“You don’t really believe it, Uncle Hugh?” said Beryl softly. “That Dad was the one?”

“I couldn’t argue with the findings. And it would explain their deaths. Perhaps they knew they were on the verge of being discovered. Disgraced. So Bernard took the gentleman’s way out. He would, you know. Death before dishonor.”

Uncle Hugh sank back in the chair and wearily ran his fingers through his gray hair. “I tried to keep the report as quiet as possible,” he said. “The search for Delphi was halted. I myself had a few sticky years in MI6. Brother of a traitor and all, can we trust him, that sort of thing. But then, it was forgotten. And I went on with my career. I think…I think it was because no one at MI6 could quite believe the report. That Bernard had gone to the other side.”

“I don’t believe it, either,” said Beryl.

Uncle Hugh looked at her. “Nevertheless—”

“I won’t believe it. It’s a fabrication. Someone at MI6, covering up the truth—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Beryl.”

“Mum and Dad can’t defend themselves! Who else will speak up for them?”

“Your loyalty’s commendable, darling, but—”

“And where’s your loyalty?” she retorted. “He was your brother!”

“I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Then did you confirm that evidence? Did you discuss it with French Intelligence?”

“Yes, and I trusted Daumier’s report. He’s a thorough man.”

“Daumier?” queried Jordan. “Claude Daumier? Isn’t he chief of their Paris operations?”

“At the time, he was their liaison to MI6. I asked him to review the findings. He came to the same conclusions.”

“Then this Daumier fellow is an idiot,” said Beryl. She turned to the door. “And I’m going to tell him so myself.”

“Where are you going?” asked Jordan.

“To pack my things,” she said. “Are you coming, Jordan?”

“Pack?” said Hugh. “Where in blazes are you headed?”

Beryl threw a glance over her shoulder. “Where else,” she answered, “but Paris?”

RICHARD WOLF GOT THE CALL at six that morning. “They are booked on a noon flight to Paris,” said Claude Daumier. “It seems, my friend, that someone has pried open a rather nasty can of worms.”

Still groggy with sleep, Richard sat up in bed and gave his head a shake. “What are you talking about, Claude? Who’s flying to Paris?”

“Beryl and Jordan Tavistock. Hugh has just called me. I think this is not a good development.”

Richard collapsed back on his pillow. “They’re adults, Claude,” he said, yawning. “If they want to jet off to Paris—”

“They are coming to find out about Bernard and Madeline.”

Richard closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh, wonderful, just what we need.”

“My sentiments precisely.”

“Can’t Hugh talk them out of it?”

“He tried. But this niece of his…” Daumier sighed. “You have met her. So you would understand.”

Yes, Richard knew exactly how stubborn Miss Beryl Tavistock could be. Like mother, like daughter. He remembered that Madeline had been just as unswerving, just as unstoppable.

Just as enchanting.

He shook off those haunting memories of a long-dead woman and said, “How much do they know?”

“They have seen my report. They know about Delphi.”

“So they’ll be digging in all the right places.”

“All the dangerous places,” amended Daumier.

Richard sat up on the side of the bed and clawed his fingers through his hair as he considered the possibilities. The perils.

“Hugh is concerned for their safety,” said Daumier. “So am I. If what we think is true—”

“Then they’re walking into quicksand.”

“And Paris is dangerous enough as it is,” added Daumier, “what with the latest bombing.”

“How is Marie St. Pierre, by the way?”

“A few scratches, bruises. She should be released from the hospital tomorrow.”

“Ordnance report back?”

“Semtex. The upper apartment was completely demolished. Luckily Marie was downstairs when the bomb went off.”

“Who’s claiming responsibility?”

“There was a telephone call shortly after the blast. It was a man, said he belonged to some group called Cosmic Solidarity. They claim responsibility.”

“Cosmic Solidarity? Never heard of that one.”

“Neither have we,” said Daumier. “But you know how it is these days.”

Yes, Richard knew only too well. Any wacko with the right connections could buy a few ounces of Semtex, build a bomb, and join the revolution—any revolution. No wonder his business was booming. In this brave new world, terrorism was a fact of life. And clients everywhere were willing to pay top dollar for security.

“So you see, my friend,” said Daumier, “it is not a good time for Bernard’s children to be in Paris. And with all the questions they will ask—”

“Can’t you keep an eye on them?”

“Why should they trust me? It was my report in that file. No, they need another friend here, Richard. Someone with sharp eyes and unerring instincts.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“I hear through the grapevine that you and Miss Tavistock shared a degree of…simpatico?”

“She’s way too rich for my blood. And I’m too poor for hers.”

“I do not usually ask for favors,” said Daumier quietly. “Neither does Hugh.”

And you’re asking for one now, thought Richard. He sighed. “How can I refuse?”

After he’d hung up, he sat for a moment contemplating the task ahead. This was a baby-sitting job, really—the sort of assignment he despised. But the thought of seeing Beryl Tavistock again, and the memory of that kiss they’d shared in the garden, was enough to make him grin with anticipation. Way too rich for my blood, he thought. But a man can dream, can’t he? And I do owe it to Bernard and Madeline.

Even after all these years, their deaths still haunted him. Perhaps the time had come to close the mystery, to answer all those questions he and Daumier had raised twenty years ago. The same questions MI6 and Central Intelligence had firmly suppressed.

Now Beryl Tavistock was poking her aristocratic nose into the mess. And a most attractive nose it was, he thought. He hoped it didn’t get her killed.

He rose from the bed and headed for the shower. So much to do, so many preparations to make before he headed to the airport.

Baby-sitting jobs—how he hated them.

But at least this one would be in Paris.

ANTHONY SUTHERLAND STARED out his airplane window and longed fervently for the flight to be over and done with. Of all the rotten luck to be booked on the same Air France flight as the Vanes! And then to be seated straight across the first-class aisle from them—well, this really was intolerable. He considered Reggie Vane a screaming bore, especially when intoxicated, which at the moment Reggie was well on the way to becoming. Two whiskey sours and the man was starting to babble about how much he missed jolly old England, where food was boiled as it should be, not sautéed in all that ghastly butter, where people lined up in proper queues, where crowds didn’t reek of garlic and onions. He’d lived too many years in Paris now—surely it was time to retire from the bank and go home? He’d put in many years at the Bank of London’s Paris branch. Now that there were so many clever young V.P.s ready to step into his place, why not let them?

Lady Helena, who appeared to be just as fed up with her husband as Anthony was, simply said, “Shut up, Reggie,” and ordered him a third whiskey sour.

Anthony didn’t much care for Helena, either. She reminded him of some sort of nasty rodent. Such a contrast to his mother! The two women sat across the aisle from each other, Helena drab and proper in her houndstooth skirt and jacket, Nina so striking in her whitest-white silk pantsuit. Only a woman with true confidence could wear white silk, and his mother was one who could. Even at fifty-three, Nina was stunning, her dark, upswept hair showing scarcely a trace of gray, her figure the envy of any twenty-year-old. But of course, thought Anthony, she’s my mother.

And, as usual, she was getting in her digs at Helena.

“If you and Reggie hate it so much in Paris,” sniffed Nina, “why do you stay? If you ask me, people who don’t adore the city don’t deserve to live there.”

“Of course, you would love Paris,” said Helena.

“It’s all in the attitude. If you’d kept an open mind…”

“Oh, no, we’re much too stuffy,” muttered Helena.

“I didn’t say that. But there is a certain British attitude. God is an Englishman, that sort of thing.”

“You mean He isn’t?” Reggie interjected.

Helena didn’t laugh. “I just think,” she said, “that a certain amount of order and discipline is needed for the world to function properly.”

Nina glanced at Reggie, who was noisily slurping his whiskey. “Yes, I can see you both believe in discipline. No wonder the evening was such a disaster.”

“We weren’t the ones who blurted out the truth,” snapped Helena.

“At least I was sober enough to know what I was saying!” Nina declared. “They would have found out in any event. After Reggie there let the cat out of the bag, I just decided it was time to be straight with them about Bernard and Madeline.”

“And look at the result,” moaned Helena. “Hugh says Beryl and Jordan are flying to Paris this afternoon. Now they’ll be mucking around in things.”

Nina shrugged. “Well, it was a long time ago.”

“I don’t see why you’re so nonchalant. If anyone could be hurt, it’s you,” muttered Helena.

Nina frowned at her. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“No, really! What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” Helena snapped.

Their conversation came to an abrupt halt. But Anthony could tell his mother was fuming. She sat with her hands balled up in her lap. She even ordered a second martini. When she rose from her seat and headed down the aisle for a bit of exercise, he followed her. They met at the rear of the plane.

“Are you all right, Mother?” he asked.

Nina glanced in agitation toward first class. “It’s all Reggie’s bloody fault,” she whispered. “And Helena’s right, you know. I am the one who could be hurt.”

“After all these years?”

“They’ll be asking questions again. Digging. Lord, what if those Tavistock brats find something?”

Anthony said quietly, “They won’t.”

Nina’s gaze met his. In that one look they saw, in each other’s eyes, the bond of twenty years. “You and me against the world,” she used to sing to him. And that’s how it had felt—just the two of them in their Paris flat. There’d been her lovers, of course, insignificant men, scarcely worth noting. But mother and son—what love could be stronger?

He said, “You’ve nothing to worry about, darling. Really.”

“But the Tavistocks—”

“They’re harmless.” He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I guarantee it.”