by Fritz Galt
On the front page of the newspaper, the black-and-white photo of a studious, bespectacled face appeared in a thick black border. It was an obituary for the coroner, Dr. Laudier. Beside that was a lurid color photo of a body floating face down in a lake full of algae. The headline read, “Montreux Coroner Perishes in Storm.”
Natalie clutched her stomach and eased into a chair.
The woman rattled off something in French with an agitated whisper. Natalie must have looked blank, so she tried English. “I saw Mick leave.”
This young woman was a mystery unto herself. “How do you know my husband?”
The woman pursed her lips and sat back in silence, her sunglasses concealing her expression.
“What happened to him?” Natalie asked.
The woman gave a wan smile as if she were no longer interested in discussing the matter.
“Where did he go?”
The woman nodded to herself. She seemed able to field that question. “He left in a car.”
She turned a cheek, still pink from the fresh morning air, and pointed with her chin to the alleyway.
“See the flowers in the street?”
Natalie bent over the sea-blue wall of the terrace. Pink geranium petals lay flattened by a pair of tire tracks. A single set of footprints led to where the car had stood.
That must have been Mick.
All right, where the hell was he going? Was he preparing some surprise for her?
“Whose car was it?”
The woman frowned.
Natalie returned to the coroner’s face in the newspaper. Contrary to what the headline said, he couldn’t have perished in the storm. The storm was mostly over by the time she and Mick had reached the hospital, and Dr. Laudier was very much alive at that time.
Someone could have killed him and dumped him in the lake.
Her limbs suddenly felt like chunks of ice. The same thing could be happening to Mick. For all she knew, she might be next.
Suddenly, the switched bodies at the morgue seemed more than a juvenile prank.
She moved her chair close to the stranger. “Did someone take my husband hostage?”
“No,” the woman replied. “Nobody took him.”
“Then what in the world happened?”
The young woman lowered the newspaper and set her sunglasses on the table. “It was une femme. He left with a woman.”
Natalie sat back. “What woman?” Just how many people knew that her husband was there? “We don’t know any woman here.”
The young woman seemed unimpressed.
“Exactly what did you see?” Natalie asked.
Worry lines had appeared on the young blonde’s otherwise cherubic face. Her short-cropped hair hung in tousled bangs over wide-set blue eyes that seemed to observe her from two angles.
“Don’t you understand?” the stranger said finally. “It was another woman.”
Natalie nearly snorted, but stopped short. How could Mick have managed, either physically or emotionally, to have another woman in his life? And why? The whole idea was preposterous.
But so was his disappearance.
“What makes you think you know my husband so well?” she asked lightly.
“I don’t want to become involved. These things happen.”
“Nothing just happens,” Natalie said. Wasn’t that what Mick said? “Not to my husband, anyway. And especially not an affair.”
The young woman took another sip, careful not to leave lipstick on the cup. “She was young. Excellent physique. She wore a miniskirt. It was a logical conclusion.”
Natalie stared at the watery horizon for a long time. Okay, supposing Mick was having an affair.
At least he was still alive.
The telephone jangled in the foyer. Moments later, a waitress popped out the doorway. “Are you Madame Pierce?”
What a relief.
The young woman who seemed to know her whole life’s story smiled knowingly and patted her on the hand for encouragement.
Natalie bolted inside and grabbed the phone.
“Hi, Mick.”
A man’s voice came over the line. “Madame Pierce?”
She shuddered. Just like the gendarme and the young woman, another stranger was intervening in her life.
“Who are you?” she shot out. “Do you know where Mick is?”
Was he just another policeman with poor manners, not bothering to identify himself? She wasn’t ready to visit another morgue.
“What a fine way to greet a friend and ally.”
“A friend? I don’t know who you are. Are you from the police? Why are you calling?”
If the call was not related to Mick, it would be wasting valuable time. For all she knew, Mick was being seduced by a slut at that very moment, or drowning in lake algae.
If it had to do with Alec, it was definitely wasting her time.
“I, too, am looking for sir,” the voice said, coming to her with a singsong accent straight from India.
“Well, so am I.”
“Have I just missed him?”
“He’s gone,” Natalie said. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“He’s gone? He expired? How horrible.”
“I mean, I can’t find him.”
“Oh, you are meaning that you misplaced your husband.”
She stared at the phone. “Who are you anyway?”
She heard a sudden intake of air, as if the man were shocked or offended. She didn’t care if the vile creature hung up. At the same time, she recognized the invitation to a dangerous dance. One she was in no mood to accept.
“Tell me your name, or I hang up,” she said.
The voice returned, this time sliding into a vaguely southern European inflection. “What an extraordinary response from a signora who has just lost her dear husband.”
“Who are you? And what exactly do you want?”
“My name, it eez not important. And I want nothing.” The accent had metamorphosed fluidly into icy, Parisian French.
“Then why in the world am I talking to you?”
“Because I am the only one in the world who can ease your pain. I can tell you exactly who has walked away with your husband.”
Her fingers flew up to her face. “Nobody has walked away with my husband.”
“If that eez the way you choose to see eet. However, should you hope to see ever your husband alive, do not track him down. Do not publicize thees. Do not contact the journals or the authorities.”
The voice was all too clear, as if finalizing a business deal.
But it was a losing bargain for her. Her silence for her husband’s disappearance.
“You little—” she finally exploded. “Don’t you tell me who I can talk to.”
She smashed the phone into its cradle.
Her ears clamored with a thousand bells. This was a nightmare. The morning had begun so idyllically. Then everything had suddenly gone wrong. Could she make it all go away?
She stepped outside for air.
The footprints in the flower petals were still there. The truth could not be so easily erased.
Her heart was beating wildly, calling her to action.
She could run after the car. She could drive around Montreux like a crazy person until she found Mick. He would still be only minutes away.
She fought to regain her composure, to use her mind and not her emotions.
She studied the footprints leading to the tire tracks. They were a single set at a measured pace. He had marched directly, willingly, to the car. Then he had climbed in.
Was he pulling another Alec?
If he had engineered his own disappearance, just like Alec, it wasn’t the least bit funny.
She remembered her surprise at the morgue the previous night. Despite all identifying evidence, it wasn’t Alec’s body. From the way Mick gawked at the body, it was a surprise to him, too.
He had had no time the previous night to arrange a similar disappearing act. She knew.
She hadn’t let him out of bed all night.
Which led her back to the young blonde’s theory.
Perhaps she was onto something, and Mick had fallen for a woman in a miniskirt. And the woman was somehow associated with the creep on the phone.
Had Mick fallen for the oldest trick in the book?
She tried to imagine it. Mick had seemed lonely and distant lately. The creep may have used a woman to seduce him for the past few weeks. Or months?
Did Mick have the libido, or the imagination? She tried to clear those conflicting thoughts from her mind.
What did they want from him?
Money? She kept track of their personal finances, and all the money was there.
Perhaps they had wanted him to reveal spy secrets. Names of agents, operatives and operations. If so, would Mick talk?
Of course he would resist. He wouldn’t talk and would call their bluff. Divulging to Natalie his infidelity would gain them nothing.
Maybe that was why they captured him now, to extract information through torture.
But they didn’t know Mick. He was strong. He would hold onto his secrets.
The next step beyond that was to threaten to harm someone else if he didn’t talk. They could threaten to harm her. Then he would have to talk.
She fought back angry tears. She could see his large, gray Pueblo Indian eyes imploring her to save herself. To disappear. To let him go.
She examined the scattered pink petals as if trying to read tea leaves at the bottom of a cup.
Why had he left so willingly? He had sprinted down the stairs and not hesitated to get into that car without notifying her. Maybe he did have a thing for that woman in the miniskirt. Maybe Natalie no longer mattered to him.
How much of a traitor was he?
Selling out his country was one thing, but cheating on his wife was another. She knew, without any further thought, that she would do whatever it took to get him back.
Whether he was guilty or not would come out later.
Whoever took him, and for whatever purpose, no longer mattered. Regardless of where their marriage stood, she wanted him back. Whether he wanted it or not.
She wouldn’t fall to her knees and pray for his return. She wouldn’t wither away and die a lonely woman. She wouldn’t entrust the work to a clumsy embassy staff or indifferent police official. She would leave that crowd in the lurch, just like Alec and Mick had left her.
She would do anything, go anywhere and become whatever it took to get him back.
She would sell out completely. She would become Rambo, if need be. Or a slut.
Or even a goddamned spy.
She glanced across the terrace and swept her messed up hair out of her face. The only witness available seemed to know not only their names, but thought she knew the intimate details of their lives.
The young woman was Natalie’s only link to Mick.
Natalie had to calm down. She had only one chance to get it right and win the woman’s confidence.
Natalie walked past the empty tables and slid into the chair opposite her.
“What kind of car would you say it was?”
The woman set aside her newspaper and twirled a tiny spoon in her espresso. “A Citroën,” she said at last.
“And did you notice the license plate?”
She laughed airily. “What do you think I am? A private eye?”
Natalie allowed a smile, but she had to know with whom she was dealing. “What color was the license plate?”
“Blue.” The word came out naturally, with all its dreadful implications.
Since Switzerland wasn’t a member of the European Union, border control officers still questioned each visitor passing in and out of the country. Blue plates helped diplomats and workers at embassies and agencies of the United Nations pass unchecked through Geneva’s numerous border crossings with France.
The Citroën and its passengers could have been foreign nationals from any country in Europe, or beyond.
“Did you notice the number on the plate?”
“The first two digits were 28.”
Natalie didn’t know what country the code related to, but she could research that later.
What seemed curious was that the young woman had noticed such a detail in the first place, and even stranger still that she had shared the number with Natalie. After all, if she were part of some nefarious scheme, why would she divulge such a crucial piece of information? Or was she lying?
Playing Inspector Clouseau was not going to be easy.
The young woman tilted back on her metal chair and appeared to consider Natalie’s predicament. Then she leaned forward, reached under the table and lightly touched her knee.
“Let me help you get over this, Natalie. You can stay with me.”
Once again, Natalie was thrown off guard. How could this stranger who acted so boldly not be a part of the crime?
Natalie tried to size the woman up. If she was associated with the bastard on the phone, she could lie through her teeth and withhold facts without a qualm. Was she subtly reeling Natalie in?
Just as they had gotten to Mick?
She scanned the sparkling lake and tried to formulate a way to keep the acquaintanceship going and see how it played out without placing her own life at risk.
Sailboats skimmed over the graveyard of ships sunk the night before. How easy it would be to forget the past and create a new persona.
How much did the woman really know about her? There was a good chance that she didn’t know Natalie’s character all that well.
Since duplicity seemed to be the order of the day, why not play, too? Alone in the world, she could throw away her past, her profession and, while she was at it, her self-respect.
She could benefit from being the wronged woman, too distraught to react decisively. She could take advantage of the young woman’s pity to keep her close, hoping to see through her deceptions and glean all the information she could.
“Are you sure you can afford to help me?” Natalie asked.
A demure smile played on the young woman’s lips. Her thumbs snapped the straps of a workout suit under her bib overalls. “Of course, I have a busy program today.”
“I can see that.”
The young woman made a small concession. “You may call me ‘Barbara.’”
“Okay. Thank you, Barbara.”
Barbara extended a hand.
Natalie shook it firmly. “Now, help me get out of here. I can’t stand the thought of my husband with that other woman. He won’t find me waiting for him when he gets back.”
“Would you like to attend my class?”
“You’re a teacher?” Natalie asked, surprised.
“Aerobics instructor. My weekly class starts at ten o’clock.”
Natalie glanced down at her bare feet and faded jeans, and suddenly noticed that the soft breeze was rippling across her silk camisole.
She had paraded around the terrace all morning half undressed. Folding her hands over her thin shoulder straps, she said, “Wait here while I put some clothes on. And I have to make a call.”
“Finish dressing,” Barbara said. “But if you want to come with me, you mustn’t call anyone.” Her eyes told Natalie that she was serious.
“I’ll just get my things.”
She ran past the dreaded telephone and up the stairs. If she could just start all over again, and Mick was back home…
But he wasn’t. And she was beginning another life, a life of deception. She couldn’t apply a false mustache as easily as Mick could, but she could be teed off at him. Which was no act.
Sitting on the floor and tugging on her sneakers, she visually checked off an inventory of the items she would leave behind. She would leave the door unlocked. She would take her wallet, passport, money and embassy security card, but she would leave Mick’s billfold.
Otherwise, she wanted to disappear without a trace under mysterious circumstances, perhaps having been seduced or abducted.
Okay, so she was leaving with an aerobics instructor, but everybody including the man on the phone, the embassy, SATO, Mick and whoever else out there was jerking her around would get the picture: she was nowhere to be found, and she was a force to be reckoned with.
Then her eye caught the envelope from the Women’s Clinic. She had no interest in opening it unless Mick was there. Without him, it was a meaningless piece of paper. She would leave it on the bed. Maybe Mick would come back and open it, and remember her…
In the open drawer of the bedside table, she saw a folded sheet of paper. She remembered now. It was the transcript containing the dead man’s last words. Maybe they could tell her more than she had originally thought. She slipped the page into her back pocket.
Everything else would remain in place.
She lingered over her husband’s gold watch with her wedding inscription. It would break her heart to leave the watch behind, but then again, Mick had already broken her heart.
Oh, damn it all. She took the watch anyway and slid it into her pocket.
She was sure the hotel would call the police once they found the room vacant and its occupants gone. Mick’s identification card would lead them to the embassy.
If she was going to disappear from the Swiss Riviera and cut her mission in Geneva short, she would have to contact SATO.
She hated to speak to the anonymous, electronically masked, gender-neutral voice, especially about a matter so close to her heart as Mick and Alec. But it was necessary. It was even more critical than calling her boss, Economics Counselor Darcy Quierrar, or even Everett Hoyle, head of Mick’s section.
Then she remembered Barbara’s stern admonition. No calls. Utter secrecy. Who was this Barbara, who knew so much about her and was helping to engineer her escape, but revealed so little of herself? Unless—
“Coming?”
She turned.
Barbara leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, her wide-set eyes taking in the room.
Unless Barbara was her SATO contact.
Chapter 7
Everett Hoyle lumbered into the secure rooms of the CIA station in Bern, Switzerland, carrying a red classified file folder in one hand and an orange Denver Broncos mug away from his round belly in the other.
