by Leon, Judith
She straightened, turned around and leaned her back and head against the wall. She held her hand to her stomach, which was now slowly turning over.
If at all possible, she should do it. Over two months with Jean Paul, and still nothing. If he was innocent and she got caught, her actions would be impossible to justify. Her credibility would be irreparably damaged. But what lasting difference would it make? If he was innocent. But if he was guilty, she simply couldn’t pass up this chance. And if he was guilty and she got caught?
“So don’t get caught,” she said.
Again she surveyed the ledge. It was walkable, just barely, if she didn’t let herself get psyched out by the height. Which, she assured herself, was no big thing. It’s only two stories.
Sprawling oaks protecting the house from the road made certain she couldn’t be seen from the street. The loop-around driveway didn’t extend this far, so even if late guests arrived, they probably wouldn’t notice the lady clinging to the east wing’s second-floor ledge. And no guards were to be seen.
The immediate problem was her gown. She looked down at the white silk. No way could she inch down that ledge in a tight, floor-length dress. How about pulling the hem up, twisting it in a bunch, stuffing it down the low-cut front? But the material would wrinkle. How would she explain that?
She scanned the room. Maybe she could find a way to tie the dress hitched halfway up her legs? Or around her waist? She snicked open the evening bag and checked her watch’s luminous dial. Five minutes or less before the meeting should start.
She dashed to the closest bank of drawers and pulled one open. Even in her agitated state, stunned delight momentarily halted her. Ten nests of white cotton filled the drawer and each nest held four incredibly azure-blue eggs. She opened the drawer in the next row over.
More beautiful eggs, these perfectly round with a deep black background and white splotches. Manfred Wagner was a bird egg collector.
Fascinating, but it doesn’t solve your problem, she told herself.
She looked down at the dress again. Not only did she have a problem with securing it so it wouldn’t trip her up, the rough stone would catch and damage it. It would get filthy. She had to shuck the dress. And what did she have under? Nothing but panty hose and high heels.
The panty hose had to come off, too: the stone would rip them to shreds. That left her stark naked. Think. Think! It must already be a quarter to eleven. The meeting, if the participants were on time, was starting.
She ran to the door and unlocked it. She pressed her ear to the wooden panel and could hear nothing in the hall. Her mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton from one of the egg nests. If she were caught running around up here—But it just wouldn’t work to go out on that ledge naked.
She opened the door a crack, peeked into the hall, dashed across it into the small bedroom and yanked open the closet door. Not one stitch of clothing! Nothing but empty hangers.
In the adjacent bathroom she grabbed the largest towel, which lay folded over the edge of the tub. She combed frantically through every drawer: hairpins, scissors, tweezers, combs and a brush, extra towels and washcloths. Not one safety pin.
“My kingdom for a safety pin!”
A rush of panic warmed the skin of her throat. “Stay cool, Nova.”
Again she checked the hall, then, towel in hand, dashed back to the egg room, locking the door behind her. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the room’s dim light, then she went to the table, kicked off her shoes, unzipped the gown, stepped out of it and draped it over the nearest chair.
Chapter 17
Nova peeled out of her panty hose and draped them alongside the gown. She slid the dark green towel across her back, under her arms, wrapped it around her chest just above her breasts, then twisted and tucked in one corner. The towel’s lower edge covered her hips with several inches to spare.
When examined again, the ledge was still only a miserly nine inches wide. “Nova, my dear, this is no worse than that little challenge in Tibet.”
She’d done Tibet with a vicious wind whipping her back and her face caressing the sheer, seemingly featureless cliff, and she had survived. Here she had only to deal with the ledge’s narrowness and one short section of protruding decorative block. Instinct said to go with what had worked before, face to the wall.
Check time. The luminous watch dial read ten-fifty, already five minutes past meeting start time.
She dragged a chair to the open window, climbed onto it, backed through the window onto the ledge. Oh, God. The stone protrusion blocked her view of the library window itself, but no light came from the room. Someone had apparently closed the drapes. But please not the window.
Lack of illumination from the library was actually a plus; light gushed from all windows on the lower floor, so the building’s upper half was now cast, by contrast, into deep shadow.
Her toes wanted to curl too tightly. She sucked in a deep breath. “Relax,” she crooned to herself. With her right hand, she pushed at the open windowpane that had to be nearly closed in order for her to edge past. But not too hard.
If she pushed hard, her mind would play tricks: she would feel as if the block wall was pushing back. She’d overcompensate and cling too tightly, tense up till she became little more than a frozen decoration on the outside of Manfred Wagner’s house.
The pane moved easily. She left the opening just wide enough to slip her fingertips back inside. You’re in your living room, practicing, and Diva is watching. See yourself sliding effortlessly down to that window.
She slid one step to her right. The imagery was working.
She reached the vertical slab. Hugging the wall with only the gentlest embrace, she estimated the slab’s size: two feet wide and jutting out from the building face about the same width as the ledge. Maybe eight inches.
With her right toes she traced the line of the ledge. Now, she thought. Shift weight onto your right foot.
The wall started pushing.
She stopped dead in place, her weight evenly distributed, her hands and right cheek flat against the wall. Don’t push back!
Her palms and soles were suddenly wet enough to finger-paint the cool stones. A bead of sweat tickled as it ran from her armpit down her right side. “Don’t stop moving.”
She shifted her hips and forced her weight fully onto her right foot. Again she pictured the ledge running across her living room floor: she eased herself around the protruding stone, but the towel caught on the rough corner of the slab.
Don’t stop moving!
The towel pulled tight.
Just when she was certain the towel would be pulled off, the material escaped the tiny granite fingers. The sensation that the towel would slip, tangle around her feet, or maybe make an eye-catching fall past the ground-floor windows nearly overpowered her. She battled the urge to take her hands from the wall to hike up the maddening bit of cloth.
She ignored it and continued inching along till she reached the library window. It was still open.
A frisson of released tension and excitement raced up her spine. She grabbed the partly open window to steady herself. Her psyche immediately stabilized. She relaxed her body against the stone. She listened closely and heard voices speaking in German.
“I wanted…fully aware of the importance…timing. Gall is set for…August fifteenth.”
Not surprisingly, the voice was Manfred Wagner’s. Very distinctive, although he seemed to have his back to her so she missed some of his words.
“But it can only be a success if Detlev is able…exact time of departure. Since he has assured us that this will be no problem, I am confident…carry out your instructions.”
A slight silence, then another voice started speaking, as if someone had nodded to Wagner, then indicated the next man should begin.
“I feel confident we’ve anticipated and essentially contained any damage we might have sustained regarding the British coal plant.”
Nova d
idn’t recognize this voice.
“More incidents will, of course, keep questions fresh in the minds of the media, so we must continue vigilance,” the voice continued. “Tomorrow morning’s event, for example, is going to stir up the press hounds again.”
Something special had been planned for the morning? Maybe she’d really stumbled on to something.
Another pause.
Then the same voice. “The faxes will go out tomorrow.”
Faxes…Her mind started to chase off after that incredible word.
She yanked her sprinting thoughts into line: her job was to memorize every word, every sound. Speculation would come later.
“I can handle it.” Same voice.
“Good.”
It was a different voice. It sounded like Jean Paul’s. But one word was too little, especially through drapes and a mere slit of open window.
“I took the liberty of asking you…I felt this was the perfect…we’re all here in one place, to toast…successes.” Wagner again.
Another pause. She shifted weight slightly back and forth, keeping her muscles loose. There was, after all, a trip back to the egg room.
She heard the unmistakable popping signature of a champagne cork. General murmurs, some rustling sounds. “Fellow visionaries.” Wagner’s voice again. “To the future. To bringing sanity and peace to our species at last. Terra eterna!”
Voices repeated together what sounded like a salute, their nuances’ individuality masked in simultaneous utterance. Not fifteen or twenty men and not just three. More like four, five, or possibly six.
“I should return to my guests.” It was Wagner, projecting his voice again.
“And I’m afraid I must leave. I have an early day tomorrow.” Good. Another for-certain. That was Kleitman.
So she now had Wagner, Kleitman and at least two and maybe three voices not identified. She could tell they were all moving away, toward the library door.
Finally she heard the closing of the door’s heavy latch.
She shifted onto the balls of her feet a couple of times. Keeping a tight grip with her right hand on the edge of the open window, with her left hand she hitched the towel up under her arms.
The minute she released the windowpane, insecurity grabbed and squeezed her chest like a vise. She took several slides left before realizing she wasn’t breathing. “Breathe, woman,” she whispered, “or you’re going to provide this reception with some pretty X-rated entertainment.”
At the block protrusion, as if determined to thwart her, the towel seemed to reach out and grab the granite’s rough edge again.
She edged past the jutting protrusion and the towel slipped.
She hugged the wall. Her nipples shrank at sudden contact with the cool stone. The towel’s plunge stopped at the level of her knees. Her palms were sweaty again.
She had to keep moving. The towel escaped over her knees to her ankles.
“Oh, God!” Her bare bottom was exposed for the world to see, and the sound of her thudding heart had to be audible at least fifty feet in every direction.
She hesitated. The wall began pushing.
She immediately stepped out of the towel, left foot, then right.
She finally reached the window and yanked open the panel. She squeezed back inside, her heart beating as though she’d run up Denali. She dropped her feet to the floor and poked her head out the window. The towel lay in open view, dark green terry cloth draped over dark green bushes. The angle from the downstairs’ windows to the bushes was steep. From inside the first-floor rooms it shouldn’t be visible.
No one would find it tonight. But what about tomorrow? With luck, Manfred Wagner’s gardeners would never mention it to their boss. She picked up the panty hose, sat on the chair opposite her gown, and took a couple of deep breaths. Even if they did, how could Wagner connect her to a towel on a bush?
Joe felt Blair’s hand on his arm. She squeezed hard. Her face was composed but her voice, though soft, vibrated with excitement. “Time to leave.”
In the cab she said nothing and looked as cool as an ice princess, but she’d passed him a thumbs-up sign. The minute they were free of the cab she slipped her arm in the crook of his elbow. They sauntered away from her hotel’s entrance. “So what have you got?” he asked.
“Wyczek told Jean Paul there would be a meeting in the library. I couldn’t find you. I had to work fast. I located the library and figured out a way to listen from the ledge outside.”
“What? How could you?” He took a step away from her and examined her dress. As untouched as virgin snow.
She shrugged. “I found something else to wear.”
“And why? What about the tape recorder?”
“Jean Paul borrowed the pen. I don’t think he suspects it’s anything but a pen, but I couldn’t get it back in time to plant it because when I looked for him, he’d disappeared. As I said, time was short.”
“Mmm.” Just what, he thought, did she mean by something else to wear? “So give me the rundown.”
She started reciting, squinting in concentration while spinning out a word-for-word replay. He’d several times observed her debriefing with Cupid. Part-time spy status notwithstanding, Blair was astonishingly skilled at memorizing and regurgitating details. She guessed four to six men were involved. She fingered Wagner and Kleitman as two absolutely definite makes.
“And König?”
“A third man also spoke. A voice definitely different from Wagner’s or Kleitman’s. But I couldn’t identify him. The person who simply said yes could have been that same man, but I have to say, my impression was that the person who said yes was Jean Paul.”
“Let me think a minute.” They kept up the slow walk. It was great, at last, to get something concrete to go on. He said, “Something called ‘Gall’ will happen on August fifteenth. That’s a little less than a month. It’s no doubt another ‘punishment.’ Any idea what was meant by ‘this morning’s event’?”
“None.”
“Okay. The same voice then says ‘The faxes will go out tomorrow.’”
He stopped walking and looked at her.
“Right,” she said.
A thrill of discovery prickled the skin at the back of his neck. “These Earth Alliance bigwigs are concerned about their organization being blamed for the attack on the dam. All of them could be legitimately concerned about such blame and still be as innocent as nuns. And who knows what ‘Gall’ actually is? Could be another innocent thing. Maybe a fund-raising event. Though I have to say, the name Gall sure doesn’t evoke in me the kind of positive feeling customarily used to separate people from their money. But faxes! The Fucker always sends faxes.
“You said Wagner opened champagne and offered the toast, and they all said…what?”
“A Latin phrase that means earth eternal. Terra eterna.”
“Sounds Latin. Maybe it’s an Earth Alliance rallying cry. Cupid can check it out. You know,” he said, his thoughts now racing, “so far Operation Jacaranda’s been based on little more than a vague suggestion, though from a reliable agent, that somehow The Fucker was associated with Earth Alliance. But this is urgent stuff. I’ll roust Davidson pronto. Can you get away from König and come with me?”
She shook her head. “I’ll debrief tomorrow, as soon as Jean Paul leaves me.”
He finished his thought. “We need more minds working on König and on Earth Alliance, and right now.”
“Just what I was thinking,” she said as they reached the hotel entrance.
Nova started to walk inside but he caught her arm. “You did a great job.”
She gave him a smile, one that struck him as a little sad. “Thanks, Joe.”
“I suppose if I told you I wish like hell you would get on a plane tomorrow and take a bunch of folks backpacking in Outer Mongolia you’d just give me that special icy look?”
“What look?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” He turned back to find a cab. He was excited about Nova’
s discovery, but part of him still doubted whether the legendary Nova Blair could pull off this mission—alive. He’d do anything to make sure she did.
Nova undressed, wrapped herself in her robe, sat very deliberately in the large overstuffed chair in the corner of the lovely room she had shared with Jean Paul for many nights, tucked her legs under her and stared into space. Her thoughts turned dark. Human history seemed damned, endlessly revolving around deeds often done in the name of a just cause. Human life was trapped in this monstrous dominance-crazed world plagued by suffering and destruction. The Founder was no different, no matter how valid he thought his cause was. I possess the truth. My way is the right way. I’ll tell you how to live and think. Disagree, and I’ll kill you. Refuse to submit, I’ll kill those you love.
Instead of soaring high on the thrill of discovery, she felt crushed by the weight of it. She didn’t want to believe the implications of what she’d heard. Because, no matter what her instincts screamed, the evidence argued that Jean Paul was guilty. Guilty of so much pain and destruction.
She sat, paralyzed by her thoughts. When she snapped out of her reverie, she looked at the clock and realized Jean Paul could arrive at any moment. She braced herself for his arrival, reminding herself of the many innocent dead who were the reason why she was here, willing to dirty her hands.
He came in smiling, happy. She felt nauseated.
They made love. She felt as though a fairy godmother with a sadistic streak had let her sample for a time the wonderful intimate feelings normal people shared. But you can have only a sample, the bad fairy said with a cackle. And you’re not normal. So don’t get impossible notions.
Jean Paul flicked off the small light on the table by the bed, snuggled next to her spoon-fashion, his hand cupping her breast. She closed her eyes and thought about what she would tell Cupid tomorrow. Suddenly her stomach lurched, her eyes snapped open. Terra eterna. Terratornis.
