“We’re going the wrong way!” she cried, and glanced nervously out the window. The man in the black sweater was still there. His gaze passed over the Fiat, and then his head snapped around. Glaring at Caro, he held up his cell phone, as if to take her photograph.
“Get out of here, Jude!” She pointed. “That man is taking a picture of your car.”
Jude steered the Fiat onto the sidewalk and drove toward an outdoor café. Pedestrians leaped from their tables and scattered.
“Hold tight.” Jude’s voice sounded amazingly calm, as if he drove on sidewalks every day. He didn’t flinch when a plastic chair went flying over the hood.
Caro shut her eyes when the Fiat plowed into a green chalkboard where the daily specials were written in pink chalk. She opened one eye just as Jude drove off the sidewalk, into the boulevard, and zigzagged across four lanes of traffic. He turned down a narrow street, the tires bouncing over cobblestones. A bearded man leaped out of the way and fell into a garbage bin. The can tipped over and rolled down the alley. A policeman on a motorcycle swerved around the corner and rammed into the can.
At the end of the street, three police cars blocked the exit. Jude drove the Fiat toward the opposite sidewalk. The tires jumped the curb and slammed into wooden boxes. Onions and potatoes went flying and rolled down the sidewalk. A metal light pole rose up, but before Caro could scream, Jude swung the Fiat back into the street and cut down an alley. The sirens faded as he navigated down a series of narrow lanes. He took another right, onto a street lined with row houses. In the distance, floodlights shone on St. John the Precursor.
“It’s getting dark,” Jude said and turned down another side road.
“But that’s good. The police will have a harder time finding us.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I should call Mr. Velikov.” Caro fumbled in her bag. A second later, she remembered that her phone was lying in pieces on the sidewalk.
“No.” Jude caught her arm. “Don’t call anyone.”
Every drop of her blood rushed to her head. She jerked away and scooted against her window. Flashing a malicious gaze, she said, “Mr. Velikov will understand.”
“Don’t be naïve.”
Caro bit down a sharp retort and glared out the window. He didn’t know her well enough to pass judgment. Yes, she was naïve, but her deductive skills were intact. Who’d cut Jude’s tendons? Was he a victim or some type of assassin?
“Didn’t you see me at the hotel?” Jude’s calm voice held a flinty edge. “You ran away.”
“But you found me. You always do.”
“You’re sorry I didn’t leave you back there? The burly fellow had you in a headlock.”
“That doesn’t make you a hero.”
“I’m not trying to be one.” He turned down a street that was lined with empty warehouses.
“Look, Jude, I don’t know what’s going on, or how you’re mixed up in this. All I know is, those men followed me from my hotel and kidnapped me on Bulgarian Boulevard. They stuffed me into the boot of their car. And there was a dead woman inside. They would have killed me, too.”
Jude stiffened. “You were kidnapped?”
“But I got away. The short guy chased me. I jabbed him with an ink pen. It’s not my fault he stumbled and got smashed. Well, maybe it is. A little.” She lifted her chin. “I’m not sorry. Not one bit.”
Jude didn’t comment. She frowned and shook his arm. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m a manslaughterer.”
“He deserved to die.” Jude shifted gears, and the car passed a building with shattered windows. A skinny dog trotted over to a trash bin and stood on its hind legs. The rest of the street looked deserted.
“You’re not telling me everything,” she said. “I saw you looking at that creepy Bulgarian. You know him, don’t you?”
Jude squeezed the steering wheel, and his jaw clenched.
“You do know him!” She unbuckled her seat belt. “Stop the car. Now!”
Jude angled the car to the curb, then shifted in his seat. His legs looked too long to fit comfortably in the cramped car. He started to touch her hand, but she grabbed the door handle and said, “Don’t.”
“Caro, listen. I do know that man. But it’s not what you think.”
She cracked open the door. Cold air blew around her shoulders, stirring her hair. “Start talking,” she said.
“The men who kidnapped you are assassins.” Jude stared down at his legs.
“I can believe that. But how did you figure it out?” Because he’s mixed up with them? She swallowed.
Jude cut his eyes at her. “They tried to kill me.”
A tingling sensation started in Caro’s fingertips and crept across her palms, as if thousands of baby spiders had hatched beneath her flesh. She slammed her door and took a breath. “When?”
“Two years ago. The guy who got hit by the lorry? Well, he held me down while the tall Bulgarian cut my tendons. Another man was with them. A big redheaded guy. But I haven’t seen him in Kardzhali.”
She forced herself to keep breathing, but the prickly feeling got stronger, plunging into her forearms. “Why would your attackers come after me?”
“I’m fairly sure they killed your uncle,” he said.
Her legs began to shake. She put her hands on her knees, trying to hold them still. What would Jude think when she told him about her roommate’s violent death? Would he claim Phoebe’s murder was part of an international conspiracy or the work of two Bulgarian thieves? Were those men mixed up in the underground antiquities trade? She’d gone on digs with Uncle Nigel many times, and without fail, they’d encountered black marketers. Archaeology was a dirty, lucrative business, and it could be deadly. So, yes, thieves could have killed her uncle. But had those same men attacked Jude two whole years ago?
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t see how this is connected? You. Me. Uncle Nigel.”
“I don’t know, either.” He glanced away.
He’s not telling the truth. She looked at her legs. She’d stopped shaking, but the itchy-crawly feeling had moved into her chest and she couldn’t get a deep breath. Pressing one hand against her sternum she said, “Mr. Velikov can help. Let’s find a phone.”
Jude stared out his window, tracking the skinny dog. “And tell him what?”
“What you told me. That those men killed my uncle.”
“We’ll talk about Velikov later. Right now, we need to get out of the city and hide the car.”
“Don’t go to the Hotel Ustra. It’s not safe.” She watched Jude’s face, her heart pounding. Had he burgled her room or was he trying to help? And how had he found her on Bulgarian Boulevard—in all that traffic?
He swerved down a wide street. “I know a safe place.”
“Good. Then we’ll call the embassy.”
He glanced away from the road and gave her a penetrating stare. “I don’t trust the authorities, especially in Bulgaria.”
“Not even the British consulate?”
He shook his head. “You shouldn’t trust them, either.
She rubbed her chest, feeling too tired to argue. At least the spiders had finally gone quiet. Through the windshield, a rosy streak held over the mountains, rising into layers of blue. Concrete buildings blotted out part of the sky, with chimneys and satellite dishes jutting up from the rooftops. The buildings looked empty, even though the upper-level windows glowed with fluorescent lighting.
Jude steered the Fiat into the street and drove south. The buildings ended and weedy fields began. He angled up a steep driveway and parked in front of the Akacia Hotel. Through a gap in the evergreens, Caro saw the Kardzhali Dam.
“This is too close to town,” she cried. “Let’s drive a little farther. The dam is only fifty kilometers from the Turkish border.”
“We won’t make it through the checkpoint. Turkish border crossings are tough.” He opened his door. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
They walked to the lobby in silence. While
Jude spoke to the clerk, Caro tried to calm down. She glanced into the bar and watched a silver-haired man push a white rag over a marble counter. A television hung down from the ceiling, and canned laughter rang out. Behind the bar was a restaurant with knotty-pine walls and a fireplace.
She expected the desk clerk to demand their passports. She pulled hers out, but the clerk slid a key across the polished counter. Jude lifted it.
Caro wasn’t a hundred percent sure that he was trustworthy—he seemed rather paranoid—but she wasn’t letting him get away until she had some answers. She followed him to room 344.
He unlocked the door and swung it open. She stepped past him and dumped her bag onto the bed. Through the windows, the lights of downtown Kardzhali were starting to shine.
“All right,” she said. “How did you know my uncle was tortured?”
“Can you read French?”
“Yes.”
He pulled a wrinkled Le Monde from his backpack. “Turn to page four.”
Her hands trembled as she flipped the pages.
BRITISH ARCHAEOLOGIST MURDERED IN BULGARIA
Sir Nigel Clifford, a world-renowned Oxford University professor and archaeologist, was murdered Thursday night at the Perperikon cultural site in southern Bulgaria. The seventy-two-year-old professor was found the following morning by tourists. Police refused to speculate on the motive, but a source claimed it was a robbery gone awry. Although details are sketchy, it appears that the archaeologist was tortured—both Achilles tendons were severed, and he was savagely bitten. The Interior Ministry told the British embassy in Sofia that they will bring the murderers to justice. A spokesperson for the embassy said, “We are deeply shocked and saddened by the murder of Dr. Clifford. . . .”
Caro lowered the paper. Okay, fine. Jude hadn’t personally known details of her uncle’s murder. He’d learned the gory details from Le Monde. But he was still holding back.
He rubbed his forehead. “I’ve been keeping track of odd murders,” he said.
“Isn’t that an unusual hobby for a biochemist?”
“Not if your Achilles tendons have been cut.” His eyes blazed. “In the last two years, there have been four reported cases of severed tendons. Your uncle’s case is the fifth.”
Caro rubbed the back of her head and winced. How hard had the Bulgarian hit her? She couldn’t feel a lump, but her scalp was tender and she was having trouble focusing. Maybe she had a concussion. Jude was watching, so she said, “I got bashed in the head.”
“An ice pack will help.” He grabbed the plastic bucket and stepped into the hall.
She sat down on the bed and rummaged in her bag for Mr. Velikov’s phone number. No, he might not believe her version of Teo’s accident. Better to ring Mr. Hughes. His secretary put Caro through right away.
“Miss Clifford!” he cried. “Everyone is looking for you, my dear. Where are you?”
“I’m—” she broke off when she heard a muffled noise from his end of the phone, as if he’d covered the receiver with his hand, and then she heard him whisper, “It’s her.”
Her? A spider ran up her backbone, and she shivered. Stop it, Caro. He didn’t mean you.
“Mr. Hughes, I’ve called to say good-bye. I’m leaving Kardzhali.”
“No, you mustn’t go. Firstly, there’s been a dreadful incident at the Kardzhali morgue. Your uncle’s body is missing.”
“You mean, like, misplaced?” Her throat narrowed to a pinpoint, but she managed to suck in a breath.
“Stolen.” Mr. Hughes paused. “Miss Clifford, I don’t wish to alarm you, but a field agent from MI5 is in the building. He needs a word with you, too.”
“Why?” She couldn’t breathe. The spiders had burrowed under her skin, weaving taut strands around her ribs. MI5 wanted to speak to her?
“I’m not privy to the details,” Mr. Hughes said. “But I’m afraid there’s more bad news. A fax from the Kardzhali police just came across my desk. A man was killed on Bulgarian Boulevard. An eyewitness claims that a woman fitting your description pushed the victim into the path of an oncoming lorry. Another witness gave the police your name. Normally the embassy doesn’t get involved in criminal investigations, but considering the ambassador knew your uncle . . .”
“Wait—a man gave the police my name? No one in Kardzhali knows my name. Except for . . .”
“Except for whom, my dear?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is. However, the police also faxed a rather grainy photograph of you. Some chap took it at the crime scene with his mobile phone. Now, I’m sure you can explain—”
“I didn’t murder anyone, it was self-defense. See, these two awful men kidnapped me.”
There was a thrumming silence. Finally he said, “I see.”
“I know it sounds far-fetched,” she said, “but you had warned me about the dangers in Bulgaria, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“I was on my way to the bus station when two men grabbed me. I’m pretty sure they’re the ones who ransacked my hotel room.”
“Er, when did the alleged kidnapping happen?”
“There’s nothing alleged about it.” She paused, wondering if she should mention the dreadful news about Phoebe. She decided against it and plowed on. “I’m sure you can find lots of witnesses because it happened less than an hour ago on Bulgarian Boulevard. The fiends locked me in the trunk, Mr. Hughes. A dead woman was in there, too.”
Mr. Hughes released an explosive sigh. “Dead, you say?”
“Quite. But I escaped. One of the men chased me into traffic. He caught up with me. We struggled.” And I stabbed him with a ballpoint pen. “He somehow lost his balance, and a truck ran over him.”
She winced. Even to her own ears, she sounded crazy, like a twenty-five-year-old nincompoop tour guide instead of a methodical, reasonable ex-scholar.
“Yes, very well. Stay where you are, Miss Clifford. A car will be there momentarily.”
“But . . .” She hadn’t said where she was. Or had she? The whole afternoon was gummed together, hanging in sticky webs. Jude stepped into the room. He set down the bucket and frowned. In three long strides, he crossed to the bed and pulled the receiver from her hand. Then he jerked the cord from the wall. It made a loud crack. “I thought you understood,” he cried. “You mustn’t ring anyone.”
“I was only talking to Mr. Hughes at the embassy.”
“Right. Only the embassy. I’m sure the police are on their way. We’ve got to leave.” Jude lifted her bag, hooked the strap over her shoulder, and steered her out of the room.
“I’m not five years old,” she snapped. “I can walk.”
He released her elbow and stepped back, a pulse leaping under his jaw.
She lifted her hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we should go in separate directions. MI5 wants to talk to me. And I want to talk to them. I suppose it’s about my uncle. His body is missing.”
“Yes, I went to the morgue this morning, and—”
Caro’s stomach tightened and her hand fell limply to her side. “You what?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I went for information. When I arrived, the morgue was in an uproar.”
“But why did you go to the morgue? Why are you poking into my business?”
“I’ll explain later. Because I’m sure your friend at the embassy has alerted the police to pick us up. They’ll be here any minute.” He touched her arm.
She shrugged him off.
“We’re wasting time.” He gripped her shoulder and directed her down the stairs. The desk clerk waved as they headed out the door.
Jude looked up at the sky. It was streaked with purple, and stars were starting to shine. “Night’s falling. We shouldn’t linger.”
“We shouldn’t be together,” she said. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m the little criminal. Let me go to the embassy, and you can drive away.”
“I’m not leaving you.” He
flung open the passenger door. “Now, hop inside before you stir up any more trouble.”
CHAPTER 18
Ilya Velikov steered his car onto Bulgarian Boulevard, his headlights moving over the pedestrians. He didn’t normally respond to traffic accidents, but he’d made an exception after he’d heard that apparently witnesses had seen a British national, a woman, push a bystander into the path of a truck.
According to the dispatcher, the British woman had long, fuzzy blond hair and she’d been carrying a red plaid duffel bag. Impossible. He had just spoken to Caroline Clifford. She’d seemed sweet and quite genuine, but very, very young. And the young were often impulsive and unwise.
He climbed out of his car and pushed through the pedestrians, flashing his badge.
“Interior Ministry,” he kept repeating. “Step aside, please.”
Straight ahead, the ambulance blocked two lanes, with police cars parked on either side. The chilly night air snapped his coat as he walked toward the ambulance. Blue lights wheeled over the crowd, sweeping across trees and dingy buildings that lined the wide street. Abandoned vehicles clogged the lanes, their headlights cutting through the dusk. Some of the drivers stood on their cars to gawk.
The crowd parted, and Velikov saw yellow barricades surrounding a white truck. A mangled corpse was wedged beneath the rear tires. Rescue workers knelt around it, arguing about the best way to extract the body. An officer interrogated a man in a black sweater, taking copious notes.
Velikov stepped around them, toward a dark puddle that led to the truck. The undercarriage and doors were splattered with flesh and bone fragments. The body lay under the rear tires. One eyeball stared out of the crushed skull; the other eye dangled from the socket, resting against the corpse’s stubby nose.
“Has the victim been identified?” Velikov asked a smooth-faced officer. The young man was impeccably dressed, his navy shirt tucked into his trousers, and the trouser legs were stuffed into Doc Marten bovver boots, the same kind Velikov himself had worn when he’d been in the militia.
“No, Comrade Inspector,” the officer said.
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 10
