Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  Whilst it’s a rather big ask, I hope you’ll contact me.

  Sincerely,

  Nigel H. Clifford, Ph.D.

  Norham Gardens, Oxford

  Oxfordshire, U.K. OX2 6QD

  Caro smoothed the paper with the flat of her hand. Jude was a Briton, just as she’d suspected, and posh. His father had attended Eton and had known Uncle Nigel. Why had Jude’s stepmother refused to say if he was alive or dead?

  She mulled over the words, hunting for subtext. Considering the subject of your article, I decided she was protecting you. What kind of article required protection?

  A controversial one. She lifted the second letter. The envelope was addressed to Dr. J. Fleming in Lucerne, Switzerland.

  9 November

  Dear Jude,

  I was a bit puzzled when I received your letter, as I didn’t recognize the name “Fleming.” Then I read your explanation regarding the pseudonym. For this reason, I’m extremely honored that you’re willing to travel incognito to meet me. I applaud your bravery as I’m sure this wasn’t an easy decision. I also agree that we shouldn’t speak on the phone.

  I have many questions about your article, and only you can answer them. I will be leaving the country for a few weeks—just a routine dig in Bulgaria—but I shall return to Oxford on 28 November. Let’s have tea at my house on the afternoon of the 29th.

  If you are hiring a car, I’m right off the motorway. I do hate to be presumptuous, but perhaps you could give my niece a lift to Oxford? Caro lives in London, Flat 4, 32½ Bow Street. It’s out of your way if you’re leaving from Heathrow. I’ll be happy to reimburse you (and I’ll rest easier knowing Caro is with you). During your visit to Oxford, you are welcome to lodge at my home. There’s plenty of room to kick about; however, if you are allergic to cats, be forewarned: one on the premises.

  Looking forward to meeting you.

  Sincerely,

  Nigel Clifford

  P.S. I’ve added Caro’s telephone number, along with her photograph—not for matchmaking purposes but clarification: Her flatmate is blond, too, but rather short and hobbit-like. They have been known to pose as each other to chase off undesirable guests. I wouldn’t want you to bring the wrong girl to tea.

  Hobbit-like? Caro smiled and traced a finger over his signature: the square N, curlicue C, and upswept d at the end of Clifford.

  Not for matchmaking purposes. What an odd statement; yet it was probably true. Her uncle wouldn’t have known if Jude was young, old, married, or warty, much less if he was her type. She’d never told anyone, not even Phoebe, about her secret weakness for tall, big-shouldered men with dimples, blue eyes, and dark hair.

  So what had been the purpose of this meeting in Oxford? Jude had written an article, one so inflammatory that he’d gone into hiding, and it had caught her uncle’s attention. She rubbed her eyes. If only Phoebe were here. They could sort these letters and decide what to do with Jude.

  Caro swept biscuit crumbs off the bed, grabbed the phone, and punched in the numbers to the Bow Street flat. She smiled. By now Phoebe had doubtlessly found the carb stash that Caro kept in the medicine cabinet. The phone rang and rang. Caro glanced at her watch. It was eight P.M. in Kardzhali; London was two hours behind. Phoebe should have been home, pulling her wardrobe together for the next day.

  As Caro hung up, she remembered a line from one of the letters. I have many questions about your article. Had Uncle Nigel been looking into experimental treatments for heart patients? Maybe the answers were in her uncle’s backpack.

  She pushed the phone aside, grabbed the pack, and dumped the contents onto the bed: ink pens, pill bottles, tiny flashlight, rabbit’s-foot keychain, wallet, and passport. The objects were flecked with red. A tear slid down her cheek, fell off her chin, and hit the flashlight. The dried blood there reconstituted and ran down the metal barrel. She turned on the penlight and aimed the beam over medicine bottles and keys. Ordinary items from an extraordinary life.

  Then she saw Uncle Nigel’s passport. Blood droplets were scattered across the burgundy cover. She dropped the penlight and reached for the booklet. Dark whorls obliterated the PEAN and UN in European Union along with the U in United Kingdom.

  She swallowed around the knot in her throat and flipped pages, following the bloody trail to page fourteen. Uncle Nigel’s boxy handwriting filled the red-and-white grids, forming a tidy column.

  Caro traced a shaking finger over the ink. When had Uncle Nigel written these phrases? Years ago? Or were they quick notes he’d made at the Perperikon dig site? He’d been a list maker with a fondness for word play, subtext, and puzzles. From the time she’d come to live with him, she’d spent Christmas mornings solving intricate anagrams and simple ciphers, and the clues had led to her presents. When she was older, Uncle Nigel had always included a small coded message in his notes to her.

  She read the phrases again but felt even more confused. They looked like anagrams, but her uncle would never throw in a garbled word like vumv. He would have taken pains to create three actual phrases, like Naval Cum Novelle or Cave Man Oven Lull.

  So what were these odd scribblings? An inventory of some sort? Her hair swung forward as she leaned closer to study her uncle’s handwriting. It was firm and unwavering until the last two phrases. Below them, a comma of blood covered the bottom of the page.

  A shiver ran up Caro’s backbone. She took a slow, deliberate breath and released it. A Gee Creme Mock. He’d written these phrases after the attack. She hoped they weren’t complicated ciphers. Despite Uncle Nigel’s best efforts, she’d never been able to crack anything involving multiple alphabets. In his haste, he would have left simple anagrams. And vumv was the saddest clue of all: He’d written it—to her—while he lay dying.

  She carried the passport to the desk, opened a drawer, and grabbed a pen. Then she decoded A Gee Creme Mock, transposing the letters on her wrist. When she and Uncle Nigel had played word games, he’d insisted that she write the solutions on her arm or leg because a good cryptographer wouldn’t leave a trail for the enemy. “If you lose your paper,” he used to say, “then you’ve lost control of your secrets.”

  The tip of the pen dented her flesh as she wrote Rock Meg Meece. That didn’t make sense. She moved a little higher on her arm and wrote Cockermeg. But E, E, and M were left over. No, that wouldn’t work, either.

  The ceiling shook, followed by a thud, and the Russians began to shriek. A door slammed, and her concentration snapped. She leaned over the passport and struggled to find her place, but she couldn’t focus. Then she remembered that Uncle Nigel sometimes added a twist, transposing a phrase from each line. She ran her finger under A Gee Creme Mock and moved down to the next line, Ion N Tore. Her heart sped up when she exchanged Mock and Tore.

  A Gee Creme Tore.

  Yes, this felt right. She opened her hand and in tiny letters wrote Ergometer on her palm. But what to do with the leftover C, A, and two Es?

  From the hallway, she heard a rattling sound. The nighttime housekeeper, no doubt, wanting to pull back the sheets and leave a chocolate. Or maybe the Russians had stumbled downstairs, bringing their argument into the public domain.

  Caro fought the urge to look through the peephole and squinted at A Gee Creme Tore until her vision blurred. The letters seemed to dodge and push each other as they formed a coherent arrangement. Meteora, Greece.

  CHAPTER 10

  Georgi Ivanov ran across the hotel parking lot, climbed into his brown Dacia, and hunched down in the seat. He’d been so close to the girl. So close he could smell her musk. But that bigwig from the Interior Ministry was guarding her. She’d recognized Georgi, too, and she had alerted the bigwig. Thanks to Teo’s misbehavior at the airport, their faces would be familiar to many.

  The hotel’s doors swung open and three policemen walked out of the lobby. Georgi scooted lower in his seat. His mobile phone buzzed and spun around on the console. He picked it up. “Yes?”

  “It is me,” Teo said. “I am
still in the Sofia jail. But they will release me soon. Can you pick me up?”

  “Me, me, me. That is your problem, Teo. You suffer from me-ness.” Georgi saw a flash of movement by the black doors. They opened again, and the ministry official stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “I followed your instructions, and now I am caught,” Teo said.

  “I will call back.”

  “Wait, no—”

  Georgi threw down the mobile and leaned toward the windshield. The policemen climbed into a white Opel Astra. The back tires kicked up snow as they drove out of the lot. Georgi pulled a wrinkled fax from the glove compartment. Caroline Clifford’s image stared back at him. His fingernail scraped over the paper as he traced her pewter eyes, following the slight tilt at the edges. Nice.

  He grabbed his mobile and punched in the numbers for Hotel Ustra. When the clerk answered, Georgi asked her to ring Clifford’s room. The woman rudely demanded to know who was calling. Georgi slapped his mobile shut. “Лайно,” he said. Shit. He had time. He had more time than they knew.

  He lifted his arm and sniffed his floral shirt. The fabric reeked of its previous owner. Time for a new outfit. Something with a hood or a designer label. He was in the perfect place to shop. He watched the black doors, hoping a tall, lean man would emerge. A woman darted out and rushed down the sidewalk, her bleached blond hair spilling down the front of her white jacket. Very nice. But she wasn’t the Clifford girl.

  Georgi licked his lips as the woman moved down the sidewalk. From the rear, she looked even better, her tight black pants showing the flexion of her perky buttocks and slender thighs.

  He got out of the car and vaulted over the slick pavement, landing on a rock-lined path. He lifted a large, jagged stone and slipped it into his pocket. His long legs cut through the air like scissors as he ran over to the woman.

  “Dobar wecher,” he said, drawing his lips into a grin. “Do you speak Bulgarian?”

  “A little,” she replied. “I’m from Moscow.”

  “You need taxi?” He gestured in the Dacia’s direction.

  “I need time alone.” She flashed him a discourteous look and headed down the sidewalk. Georgi glanced around. No one was out. It was too cold. But not too cold for him. He pulled the rock from his pocket and slammed it against her head. Her knees buckled, but he caught her before she fell. He slipped his hand around her waist, pulling her firmly against his chest. She moaned, and her head lolled against his shoulder.

  He stepped off the sidewalk, holding her upright, and started toward the lot. Her long legs stretched behind her and her boots dug two trenches through the snow. When he saw the Dacia, he slipped his free hand into his pocket and clicked the remote trunk release. The lid creaked open, dislodging a chunk of snow to the ground. He swung around to the rear and dumped the girl in the trunk. Her jacket gaped open, and her breasts spilled out of a leopard-print blouse. She stirred a little, flinging a hand over her face.

  “Soon,” he told her, and slammed the trunk. Her muffled screams rose up as he drove off. On his way out of town, he saw shapes following the car. The wild dogs had caught the scent of blood and death. But they would not feast tonight. He pressed his foot a little harder against the gas pedal, and then he turned up the radio and hummed along with the children’s choir as they sang “I Want to Go to Heaven.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Caro sat cross-legged in the wooden chair and flipped pages in Uncle Nigel’s passport. She couldn’t assume he’d been lucid while he’d written these anagrams. What did Meteora, Greece mean? Was he directing her somewhere or warning her to stay away? Why name a specific place? Why hadn’t he named his murderer?

  She stopped on page sixteen and examined a faint red mark. It was an immigration stamp. She flipped another page. No blood. No more anagrams.

  Caro squinted at the second phrase, Ion N Tore, and transposed the words into Ion N Mock, just as Uncle Nigel had taught her. Nick Moon? Coin Monk? Monk Icon?

  Definitely the last one. Monk Icon. The clifftop monasteries were in Meteora, Greece. The churches were filled with Byzantine relics, including icons. When she was a tiny girl, she’d visited the area with Uncle Nigel, but she couldn’t remember anything except red-tiled buildings that sat atop huge boulders. Now, he was sending her back to look for a monk and an icon. He’d known she would bring hers, so this wasn’t a wild quest. He’d left directions. She was to travel to Meteora, Greece, locate a monk, and show him her icon. But her uncle hadn’t indicated which monastery she should visit, nor had he named the monk.

  She pressed her tongue against her upper lip and started to decode the next set of clues, but her doorknob rattled.

  “Miss Clifford?” a British voice called. “It’s Jude.”

  “Just a moment.” She shoved the passport and pen into the desk drawer. Then she hurried to the bed, scooped up her uncle’s belongings, and fitted them into the backpack. On her way to the door, she darted into the bathroom and scrubbed the ink off her arm.

  “Coming!” she called and leaned toward the mirror, raking her fingers through her hair. After a day of travel, she resembled a hedgehog.

  She strode into the hall, leaned against the door, and squinted through the peephole. Jude gazed straight ahead. He’d discarded his sweater and jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at his neck, and she saw the start of curly black hairs on his upper chest. He reached up and smoothed his ponytail. His previous stubble was gone, and she noticed a tiny nick on his chin.

  Cute guy, bad timing. She stepped away from the door. Part of her wanted to be alone with the anagrams, but another part wanted to quiz Jude about those letters. Were they the only reason he’d followed her to Bulgaria?

  Couldn’t the matter have been settled over the telephone? Never mind that he didn’t own a mobile.

  She removed the chain lock and opened the door. The poignant scent of Acqua di Parma drifted over her.

  “Miss Clifford,” he said, bowing slightly. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all.” She smoothed her hair. He disturbed her in more ways than she wished to count.

  He pointed at the elevator. “I was on my way to the mezzanine bar. Would you like to join me?”

  “I’m a bit tired.” Translation: You’re as baffling as the anagrams. I don’t need more puzzles.

  “We’ll give it a miss, then.”

  “But I’d like to talk.” Because you’re exceptionally intriguing.

  She opened the door wider. He stepped past her and she caught the scent of his cologne again. Handsome men made her nervous, but Jude also looked as if he could defend himself in a pub brawl.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked. “There’s wine in the mini fridge.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Not much of a choice, I’m afraid.” She knelt beside the icebox. Bottles clinked as she pulled out a Chablis. She tipped the bottle over two glasses and handed one to him. “Cheers,” he said.

  She raised her glass and repeated Uncle Nigel’s favorite toast: “Here’s mud in your eye.”

  After she took a sip, she set her glass on the desk and picked up the letters. “Why were you using an alias?”

  “I didn’t want to be found.” He stared down into his wineglass.

  “Why not?” She sat on the edge of the chair and tucked her feet around the rungs.

  “Long story.” He tossed down the wine and grimaced. “Several things happened. Including a broken romance.”

  A romance. Not surprising. Had it broken from Jude’s end or the woman’s? And why was he bringing it up? To show that he wasn’t a pervert? Or unattached? No little wife waiting for him in Switzerland?

  Caro set down the letters. “Uncle Nigel had a heart condition. Did your article concern cardiac issues?”

  “No, genetics.”

  “Why would my uncle be interested in that?” She lifted her glass and drained it.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.” He nodded at her glass. �
�I’m empty, too. Shall I open another bottle?”

  “Open two, if you don’t mind. Not that I’m a sot. The bottles are awfully tiny.”

  “Indeed they are.” He walked to the fridge.

  “Do you have any idea why my uncle wanted us to meet?” she asked.

  “I assumed you were a biochemist, too,” Jude said.

  “Nothing of the sort.” Her voice sounded too cheerful, and she cringed. Dammit, the wine had fizzed straight to her brain, making her unnaturally chatty. Worse, she couldn’t control it. “I was a Ph.D. candidate, but I quit. Now I’m a tour guide.”

  “A Ph.D.” His eyebrows went up a little, as if he hadn’t expected her to be a scholar. “What did you study?”

  “History. Specifically heretics in the medieval church.”

  He fell silent as he opened another bottle of Chablis. “Why did you give it up?”

  She shrugged, as if she were always going off on tangents. The truth was scarier. She wasn’t free-spirited or capricious. She was so vigilant her motto was semper para-tus , always prepared.

  Jude handed her a swaying glass of Chablis, and his shirtsleeve pulled back slightly, revealing a sturdy wrist. He stepped back to the wall, reestablishing the neutral space between them.

  “I’m sure you’re a fantastic guide,” he said. “I can see you wearing pearls and escorting groups through Windsor Castle.”

  “Quite the opposite.” She lifted her free hand and rubbed her forehead, trying to smooth out her thoughts. The Chablis had loosened her up, and in a bad way. She squashed an impulse to tell him about her secret specialty: wicked history, the smuttier the better. Once she got going, she’d never shut up. Lecturing this man about Catherine the Great’s sexual preferences would be grossly uncouth, wouldn’t it?

  He smiled, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “When you aren’t leading tourists through the Tate, what do you do?” he asked.