Wicked Beauty

by Susan Lewis

  Since it was routine for the entire inner circle to be questioned after any breach of security, Chris merely nodded and drank some more.

  Koehler seemed about to move on when Rudy said, ‘Do we know if the police are looking for this reporter yet?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Koehler answered, ‘which is the advantage, or disadvantage, depending on which way you look at it, of undercover operations. Your disappearance can be somewhat old, and your trail therefore cold, by the time it’s realized that something has gone wrong. However, we must assume that the police will, at some point, be alerted, which is why we are organizing a clean-up of Mr Russell’s office and apartment.’

  ‘Is it known whether or not he got any information out before you learned who he was?’ Chris asked.

  ‘There don’t appear to have been any leaks, but of course we are monitoring the situation closely. Something of interest that has transpired is that his girlfriend is the reporter who’s working with Mrs Hendon. Did you know that?’

  ‘Once you told me his name, yes,’ Chris answered.

  Koehler was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Mm,’ he said finally. ‘This search for Katherine is becoming extremely inconvenient, and costly in more ways than one, so it must be ended as quickly and satisfactorily as possible.’ Then directly to Chris, ‘When you have completed the Dubai operation, I want you to return to England and watch Mrs Hendon very closely. Under no circumstances is she to be allowed to meet with Katherine – and I am now increasingly of the opinion that that has become one of Katherine’s intentions. It makes sense for only one reason, and that reason must not be revealed to anyone, least of all to Mrs Hendon. So, I hope you understand me, Chris, when I say that there can be no meeting.’

  Chris was staring down at his glass, wondering, ironically, exactly when the title of hired assassin had been added to his job description, but since there was no precise definition of any of the inner circle’s roles, it was only an idle muse.

  Koehler was watching him. ‘Speak your mind,’ he said sharply.

  Chris looked up. ‘I was just thinking,’ he said, ‘that accidents are extremely easy to arrange in that part of the world. The terrain is rough and the sea notoriously unpredictable.’

  Koehler nodded curtly. ‘Maybe that could be pointed out to Elliot Russell’s girlfriend too,’ he said, impatiently.

  Chris raised his glass in acknowledgement, then downed the rest of his drink.

  ‘So,’ Koehler said, ‘we will now go through the details of your upcoming operation in Dubai. Rudy assures me everything is in order, but as we don’t want a repeat of the débâcle we had at the airfield in Zurich, we will go over it again so that I can be certain you have been fully brought up to date with the changes that occurred during your absence. After we have finished, I must attend a shareholders’ meeting in Rome, which I hope you will fly me to.’

  Katherine was standing at the tall, balconied window of a three star hotel gazing down at the Ticino river, where swans were gliding about in the untroubled flow, and small children were throwing in bread. She was in Sesto Calende, a small, picturesque town some fifty miles north-west of Milan, and no more than two from the southern shore of Lake Maggiore. It was no small miracle that she’d made it here, after managing to escape Venice complete with laptop, money and the few other essentials she carried, without being followed. Had it not been for the Guggenheim curator warning her to be careful of the pickpocket who appeared to be stalking her, she’d never have known he was there – until it was too late. But she might not be so lucky next time, which was why she hadn’t risked leaving this hotel at all in the last three days, except once, to go to the bank to change more dollars into euro.

  She was in a corner room on the third floor, whose other window overlooked a small piazza, which yesterday had been transformed into a bustling market offering everything from fruit and veg, to salamis and cheeses, to lace and cast iron kitchenware. Still she hadn’t ventured down, for she’d become much more fearful of crowds since the narrow escape in Venice, and besides, what would she do with anything she bought? She had no room in her life now for bric-à-brac, no room for anything except this frantic bid for survival – and time, so much time to think the kind of thoughts that were becoming increasingly desperate and destructive.

  The only coded message she’d received from Xavier since leaving Venice had been to reassure her he was still alive and in England. She’d sent him a message, telling him about the flash of inspiration she’d had at the Guggenheim, but whether he’d picked it up yet, she still didn’t know. Maybe he was thinking it over, but even if he was, she knew he’d consider it too risky, which it was, to the point of utter madness, because she didn’t actually know the woman she’d told him about, so she had absolutely no idea whether or not she could trust her, never mind if she would be willing to help. All she had to go on was her instincts, which, in themselves, were based on no more than one brief meeting, when the two of them had hit it off well enough for her to be invited for a weekend at the woman’s country home. But the woman, whose name still eluded her, had had a certain quality about her that made Katherine feel that it could be OK to trust her, and when coupled with the fact that they’d met at a party for Rachel Hendon’s brother-in-law, it was almost enough to persuade her that the stars, for once, had been working in her favour. This was the closest link to Rachel, outside of the British Government, that she’d been able to come up with so far, plus she was sure she remembered the woman saying that her country home was in Cornwall, and as big a place as Cornwall might be, anywhere in the county was going to be a hell of a lot closer to Rachel than where she was now. However, she needed Xavier to find the woman’s name, then initiate the contact, and she knew very well that the chances of persuading him weren’t much better than persuading Franz to give up his search.

  Turning away from the window she stared down at the jazzy orange and blue covers on the skinny-mattressed beds, then going between them she lifted the lamp and phone off the nightstand, unplugged them, and connected her computer. Minutes later, after checking her email for the third time that day, she came off line, having received no new messages. So the wait, the fear and the excruciating loneliness continued.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Laurie said, looking into Rachel’s anguished face, ‘and I agree, it’s painting as strange a picture as any Modigliani masterpiece, when we consider the timing of his entry into your life, how ready he’s been to lend support since, the way he dropped everything at a moment’s notice to fly to the Caribbean, the fact that someone else had been on the island asking questions before you arrived, when he was the only one, apart from us two and Elliot, who knew about the passport and driving licence …’

  ‘Plus all the phone calls while we were there, his very abrupt departure, his failure to contact either of us since,’ Rachel added sharply.

  Laurie agreed. ‘Plus all that … Like I said, it doesn’t look good. However, there’s a chance we could be viewing it all from the wrong angle. No, I’m serious,’ she said, at Rachel’s look of incredulity. ‘Since I told you about the Modigliani, we’ve found out something else that could throw a whole other light on his relationship with Franz Koehler.’

  Wishing she weren’t quite so eager to hear anything that would throw another light on anything to do with Chris Gallagher, Rachel merely waited for her to continue.

  ‘It turns out,’ Laurie said, keeping her fingers crossed she wasn’t holding out too much false hope here, ‘that his father worked for the intelligence services in Borneo and Yemen, back in the fifties.’

  Rachel’s expression showed no signs of thawing. ‘Is that it?’ she said.

  ‘Not quite,’ Laurie replied. ‘There’s also the fact that Chris went to Cambridge, and as we all know that particular university is a fertile recruiting ground for the clandestine agencies.’

  ‘So what you’re saying,’ Rachel responded, ‘is that because he went to Cambridge, and because his father was wor
king for British intelligence some forty-odd years ago, that he could be now?’

  Laurie pulled a face. ‘OK, I know it’s a stretch,’ she said, ‘but when I talked it over with Max he actually didn’t have too much of a problem with it. Apparently the intelligence services do know about the Phraxos special project, and there’s no limit to who they’ll use as contacts or informants or whatever they want to call them.’

  Rachel’s eyes moved to the small patio garden that Lucy had been taking care of since she’d departed for Cornwall. It felt like such a long time since she’d last been here, and so much had happened – it was like a different place, somehow remote and alien. She didn’t really want to stay any longer, so she was going to spend the next couple of nights at Anna’s, before going back down to Killian – and now, after hearing this, the prospect of bumping into him wasn’t, in truth, quite so daunting.

  ‘Have you managed to get through to him at all?’ she asked, turning back to Laurie.

  She shook her head. ‘Phone’s permanently off. I called his gallery in Bond Street. Seems he’s out of the country, and they’re not sure when he’s due back.’

  ‘Have you been to see the gallery?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just like any other in Mayfair. Small, with an air of stuffy exclusivity and a challenging display of modern art.’

  Rachel’s smile was weak. ‘So we know what’s in the shop front, it’s what’s being dealt under the counter that’s the mystery.’

  ‘A case of the silk stocking and the dagger,’ Laurie responded wryly. ‘Or the butterfly and the gun.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’m meeting Max. I just wanted to come and say hello in person, and give you the good news … well, news anyway.’

  Rachel got to her feet. ‘I’m glad you did,’ she said. ‘If nothing else it’s a mitigating circumstance, and since I’m still having such a hard time seeing him as the kind of monster it would take to have worked his way into my life the way he did … However, the fact still remains that he never told me he was married, and when he knew what a major issue that would be for me …’ She was shaking her head. ‘I still don’t feel inclined to trust him.’

  Realizing how hurt and shaken Rachel was by the duplicity, Laurie gave her a hug. ‘If you ask me, he’d help his case a bit more if he were in touch,’ she murmured. Then pulling back, ‘Have you talked to Anna about any of it yet?’

  ‘No, I just can’t bring myself to, because that whole scene, Stacey and Robert, Chris and me … It’s still giving me the creeps … Just thank God I didn’t sleep with him, because I came so damned close.’

  Though Laurie knew, because Rachel had already told her, that Chris was the one who’d stopped it, she made no mention of it as she led the way through the kitchen to the front door. ‘I’m going to be very interested to hear what Beanie says when you see her on Friday,’ she said, turning back. ‘You’re still going, are you?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘It’s the end of shoot party that night, and I really don’t want to hang around for it, because, to quote Anna, “Stacey’s husband is going to be there, thank God.” So if he isn’t in the country now, he’s obviously expected by the end of the week.’ She looked at Laurie, then put her hands over her face and gave a long, low growl of frustration. ‘Why does this have to be happening?’ she said. ‘Why can’t he just be who I thought he was?’

  ‘It’s rather a shame we can’t ask Haynes about him,’ Laurie commented.

  Rachel scoffed. ‘The chances of getting a straight answer there are about as good as getting one from this Conchis character, who by the way, is turning out to be as scary as hell.’

  ‘Have you finished it yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither. Anyway, I’m presuming we’ve decided to give Chris the benefit of the doubt for the moment, by not going to Haynes.’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘I’ll be guided by you, because personally, I seem to be messing up all over with who I decide to trust.’

  Laurie smiled. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, giving her another hug. ‘You’re coming to view the Landen interview, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I wouldn’t mind talking to Gino too, if he’s free. Better still, I wouldn’t mind talking to Chris. Or Katherine. Or Franz Koehler.’ She laughed and raged. ‘Please God, someone speak to us, before we go out of our minds.’

  With those words still echoing in her ears Laurie ran down the street to the nearest station, and less than an hour later she was at Max’s hotel, pacing up and down, as they both worked the phones, trying to find someone, anyone, who might have seen or heard from Elliot in the past six days.

  Chapter 23

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT Laurie was at Elliot’s apartment, wandering aimlessly around and trying hard to keep herself focused as she spoke to Rachel on the phone. They’d spent the best part of the day piecing the Landen interview together with everything else they’d learned about Katherine, and Phraxos, though as yet they couldn’t include anything Max had been able to tell them about Elliot’s meeting in Paris. Since that was such a truly horrifying scenario – and one that was almost impossible for Laurie to think about in the light of Elliot’s failure to return – she preferred, at least when talking to Rachel, to concentrate on other aspects of Phraxos, or the murder, or even what Chris’s role might be.

  Right now they were talking about the anonymous phone call Rachel had received before leaving the villa. From there they moved on to Patrick Landen, and all the time she kept glancing at the door, still daring to hope that it would open at any minute and Elliot would walk in, larger than life, and twice as ignorant of what she wanted from him. And who cared about that now, just as long as he came back.

  ‘So the Landen interview,’ Rachel was saying, sounding very like the producer she’d once been, ‘when taken as a whole doesn’t really tell us as much about Phraxos as it does about Katherine, and her motives for getting involved in the company. Her father is let down, possibly even sacrificed, by his own government, her family goes to pieces as a result, and she wants revenge. She’s an intelligent woman, so she knows how to wrap it all up by making a public stand of opposing politics, to the point of becoming a campaign manager, then she gets herself involved with Franz Koehler, and Phraxos, and who does she invite to the party? Not the Democrats, who’d probably love nothing more than all that lovely loot, but the Republicans – i.e. those who refused an inquiry into her father’s murder. The Phraxos money could be extremely effective in getting them back into power, which it did, so basically she was setting them up, and no one can deny they’re a sitting target now, because their affiliation to Phraxos is crawling all over the Pentagon like a virus.’

  ‘The last headcount gave us forty-three known investors,’ Laurie said, ‘though there are obviously more. However, the point is, we only care about America insofar as it affects Britain. So we need to know how deeply Phraxos has penetrated our own government, and what part Katherine Sumner played in it. We know about Tim, but there have to be others, though considering our failure to come up with anyone yet, there’s a good chance that the penetration hadn’t quite got going.’

  ‘But the intelligence services are on it,’ Rachel pointed out.

  ‘True,’ Laurie replied, sitting down on the edge of a sofa and holding herself tight. Where was he? Where the hell was he? Please God, let him get in touch tonight.

  ‘So what we really need to know is who in Britain actually ordered the intelligence operation? And if you say the Government, you’re not the journalist I think you are.’

  ‘No, I know it doesn’t have to be the PM, or someone at that supremely high a level,’ Laurie replied. ‘Basically, in this case, I’d say it depends on who the Metropolitan Police’s head honcho is best mates with, because the intelligence services are conducting investigations into potential high office scandals all the time, and no prime minister is exempt – unless he happens to be the best mate who ordered it, I suppose.’

  ‘So who is Mr Met
best mates with?’ Rachel wondered. ‘The reigning PM, who is giving me a very public wide berth? Someone a little lower down the ranks with leadership ambitions? An Opposition member?’

  ‘We obviously need to find out,’ Laurie responded, not adding, if Elliot were here he’d probably know already.

  ‘OK. So, going back to Katherine,’ Rachel said, ‘it’s a pity that no one by the name of Xavier Lachère was at the scene of her father’s murder, or holding a prominent position in Iran at that time, but I still think it’s a lead worth pursuing.’

  ‘We are,’ Laurie assured her, then suddenly spun round, her heart in her throat, as someone approached the front door. A flyer was pushed underneath and her eyes closed as anger and disappointment extinguished the brief onrush of hope. Wiping a hand over her face, she took a breath to continue, then realizing she’d lost the thread, she said, ‘Sorry, I’m a bit on edge. I keep hoping Elliot will walk in the door.’

  ‘Is that where you are now? At the flat?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel better to be here. Oh! Hang on, someone’s trying to get through.’ Quickly she switched lines. ‘Hello?’ she said, daring to hope.

  ‘It’s Max. Where are you?’

  ‘At Elliot’s. Any news?’

  ‘No. I was just checking to see if you had any.’

  Laurie’s heart tightened with even more dread. ‘No. Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m on the other line, can I call you back?’

  ‘Sure. You know the number.’

  Clicking back to Rachel, she said, ‘Sorry. That was Max.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is Max still in London?’

  ‘Yep. His wife turned up yesterday too. They’re staying here until we get some news on Elliot. We’re going to the police if we don’t hear anything by the morning.’

  ‘Sounds wise,’ Rachel answered. ‘If nothing else it’ll get the press on the case, and we’re notoriously good at taking care of our own.’