Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  That was good. He still had the press conference to hold, and he'd planned it to be outside the main gates of the compound, where most of the media were already lying in wait. Rain might move the event indoors, where they could corner Julia. He wanted to avoid that. He moved quickly, eager to take care of business. He felt the urgent press of time. Only three days until the election.

  Creighton nodded at a Secret Service agent who materialized briefly from the forest. A rifle cradled in his arms, the man surveyed all around and melted back among the trees. As he reached the retreat, Creighton felt a surge of ownership and pride. Then he strode past the wrought-iron fence that guaranteed no children would trespass into this haven. He locked the gate and eagerly entered the retreat.

  There were many stories in the family about the airy building. As a young man he'd heard one of his father's business acquaintances compare his father to the robber barons of old, who, yoked by wealth and responsibilities, created bucolic sanctuaries to renew themselves between ruthless forays into capitalism. Perhaps the man had been right, because this had been old Lyle's private refuge, where he'd come to make tough business decisions, to read company reports in peace, and to sit alone as the sun set, drinking brandy, smoking the best Cuban cigars, and listening to the tranquil sounds of nature.

  Presidents from Eisenhower to Clinton had visited Arbor Knoll, and each was invited to this refuge near the woods for drinks and quiet talk. Lyle would always have his photo taken with them on the steps, sometimes with his sons and grandchildren. Occasionally the photos would appear in newspapers and magazines and on television.

  Here in the retreat, too—it was rumored—he sometimes met women. Creighton never saw any overt proof, but he remembered the staff muttering about how the old man would come out here dressed in an impeccable suit and tie and return hours later rumpled and with lipstick on his collar. But the retreat had no bed, and the narrow sofa was hardly the stuff of romance. And no one ever saw a woman come onto the estate who was unaccounted for.

  As Creighton entered, he saw Vince already there. His son waited in Lyle's favorite chair—a soft buttercream leather darkened to a Crayola brown over the years where it'd supported the old man's heavy body. Vince was reading Forbes magazine and smoking a Camel Light 100. They had much to decide, and all of it was vital.

  As soon as he saw his father, Vince put the magazine on the table next to him. "So what do you really think about Marguerite's death?"

  Creighton closed the door. His calm, reassuring hawklike face quickly readjusted into forced melancholy. "Unfortunate, but, I'm afraid, necessary. Marguerite saw our woman. And you know Marguerite. She'd have put the hounds of hell on her until she found her." He fell into the leather captain's chair next to his son. "Marguerite gave no quarter. Her death is one of my less favorite events. On the other hand, imagine the damage she'd have done if she'd read the packet. All the money would've gone back to Dad, and he would've pissed it away. That includes your inheritance."

  Vince recrossed his legs, and his beige cotton chinos wrinkled fashionably. He dragged on his cigarette. There was a small part of him that had enjoyed the murder. There was nothing quite like drama in the family, and the voyeuristic qualities of it interested him. "You're right. I thought the same thing myself. But when I got the phone call this morning, it hit me all over again—"

  "Sorry I couldn't ring you myself. Your mother wanted to call you and the other children. I couldn't make an exception." He got to the heart of his mission. "Where's Dad's packet? You're sure that Keeline didn't read it? It could sink us."

  When Creighton had told his brother David about the arrogant old man's packets, David had raged, "I told you we should've killed the old bastard. I don't give a damn if he is our father. You've got to get over that, Creighton. He's dangerous to us. That nursing home isn't secure." But Creighton told him, as he had when they'd had Lyle declared incompetent, "If you want him dead, do it. But you'll have to pay the inheritance tax for all of us." David was far too much in love with money to do that, so Creighton had simply ordered security at the nursing home increased, and John Reilly and his staff up there were warned if old Lyle ran amuck again, they'd be fired and worse.

  Vince pulled out the brown-paper packet he'd taken from Sam Keeline and handed it to his father. "Everything's under control. Keeline's too worried about his job to give us any serious trouble."

  "You're sure? Didn't he used to be one of the Company's top field agents?"

  "That's long over. He lost it when his girlfriend got killed in East Berlin. Since then he's buried himself in analysis. He's afraid to take big chances. Not to worry." Vince paused. "Is Maya Stern bringing you the packet that went to Marguerite?"

  "Yes. You'll have to make arrangements with her to deliver it here this afternoon." Creighton loosened his tie and opened his collar. With his son he released his public mask. His eyes flattened and hardened. "And the news story you planted with the Sunday Times in London?"

  "It's going to appear tomorrow morning." Vince exuded satisfaction. Just as he liked a well-oiled bureaucracy that delivered on time, a well-executed plan pleased him. "Their reporter's been checking sources abroad and here, and it's already leaked out. I understand the Washington Post and the Los Angeles Times are looking into it right now, which means other U.S. media are probably on the scent, too. There should be just enough time zone difference so our papers here can break it in their morning editions, too. America's going to be completely prepared for Staffeld to drop his bomb tomorrow afternoon." Chief Superintendent Staffeld of Scotland Yard was the unwitting linchpin who was going to make their plan to win the presidency work.

  Creighton chuckled. "Tomorrow the campaign shit really hits the fan."

  "Your phones will ring off the hook, but now your staff's up for it. You did a great job preparing them. They won't go off half-cocked and out of desperation try to run Doug Powers's name into the ground. It's going to make you look magnanimous. Of presidential stature. And when an international cop as important as Staffeld confirms the revelations about Powers, you'll win in a landslide."

  Quietly thrilled, Creighton looked out through the bank of windows that faced west. He inhaled the odors of the aromatic woods that lined the walls. He'd coveted this airy building as long as he could remember, because its possession had always been so important to his father. It was still filled with Lyle's presence. Some one thousand square feet, its walls climbed nearly twenty feet, as giant as the old man and his ambitions. No wonder it'd become the family's symbol.

  Creighton had left it unchanged: The oversized buttercream chair in which Vince sat. Its matching buttercream sofa. The simple writing desk with its jewel-encrusted humidor. The wood sideboard with glasses gleaming on top. The semicircle of leather captain's chairs—he sat in the one closest to Vince. He could've insisted Vince vacate the seat of honor, but Creighton prided himself on being better than his father. The chair was merely a small symbol. What mattered was the power. That reminded him of the imminent arrival of one potential problem—Julia.

  "We've got to keep Julia here," he told his son. "She regained her vision once. We can't afford to have her get it back again. Probably she wouldn't do anything about our woman, but only a fool takes chances."

  "You think she could get her sight back again?"

  "That's what Dr. Dupuy told me. I called him in Paris. He said it can definitely happen again and again with her disorder until she regains her sight permanently. On the other hand, the one bout of sight in London could be just an aberration. But we can't take any chances."

  Vince nodded. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. He was his father's foremost confidant and adviser. They understood and trusted one another. When his father won the presidency, Vince would be appointed director of Central Intelligence, the DCI, among the youngest ever. He had all the necessary credentials and experience and should pass the confirmation hearings with flying colors.

  As DCI he'd have more intimate
access to the Oval Office than even Bill Casey had with Ronald Reagan. Together, he and his father would react in the name of the United States to every overseas election, technological leap, violent skirmish, assassination, and war. They'd be on top of the inner workings of foreign governments. They'd understand the fears and goals of the globe's leaders. And they'd be able to act quickly in the best interests of the nation.

  "Julia shouldn't give you any trouble. She'll be relieved to stay." Vince hesitated. All morning he'd been wondering just how important to Creighton he was. He'd been controlling his anger about what he'd read in the packet sent by his grandfather to Sam Keeline. But his sharp, handsome features remained calm, and his voice was neutral as he said, "I didn't know we had the Amber Room. Where is it?"

  Creighton studied his son in his father's throne. Vince could fool everyone, even his mother, but not Creighton. They were too much alike. He heard the anger and frustration Vince was trying to hide. He said mildly, "So you read Dad's packet."

  Vince exploded, "Of course I did! How else would I hear about the Amber Room? You've never said a goddamned word about it!"

  Creighton leaned forward, his face earnest. Mentally he analyzed his body, made certain nothing but the confidence and relaxation that came from complete honesty showed anywhere in his gestures or expression.

  He said, "Son, I heard rumors about it when I was your age, too. I don't know what you read, but I can tell you if the Amber Room still exists, I don't have it. And I can't imagine Dad could've kept me from discovering it. Years ago I overheard a conversation between him and Dan Austrian. Dad would never admit it—you know what a tight-lipped bastard he is—but from what they said, Dan Austrian was the one who might've had the room. But that's it. I never heard another word."

  "So why did the old man write he had it?"

  "To get attention. He doesn't want to be in the rest home. We both know that. He wants someone to 'rescue' him, and he'll say anything, do anything, to get out of there. Then he'll try to regain control of his money."

  Vince nodded slow agreement. "He'll give it all away to every bleeding heart that comes down the pike. He'd claim anything to get out of there."

  Creighton smiled. Vince was a good son, and he trusted him on most things. "Anything else on the agenda?"

  "Nothing I can think of. Keep me apprised wherever you are. I'll do the same. You fly out tonight for California?"

  "Right. The whistle-stop's tomorrow." He glanced at his Rolex. "Let's go. Julia should be here. I'll be glad to get her under our control."

  13

  Julia's oval face was tight with strain as the luxurious limo arrived at Arbor Knoll. Her full lips felt parched, and her eyes were hot with her drive to see again. She closed them and rested her forehead against the cool window glass. Her long hair fell forward, and she pushed it behind her ears to keep it out of her face. She was preparing herself to meet the Redmonds.

  From the time she'd awakened in London, Mozart's Requiem had filled her mind, reverberating its solemnity through her cells, an aching echo of the loss of her mother. At Juilliard she'd learned the Requiem was played in 1849 at the funeral of the great pianist Chopin in Paris, where he'd died, too young. Her mother had also died too young.

  The passionate music lifted her spirits as she stepped out of the limo at Arbor Knoll. Here she hoped to find out what had traumatized her the night of her debut. Discover the cause of her blindness, so she could see and bring her mother's killer to justice. She repressed the recurring desire to kill the woman herself.

  Her family crowded around, offering sympathy. She imagined them in her mind, the handsome clan. They were all here—uncles, wives, cousins. A horde of electric, vigorous people who shared a genetic background and a sense of their rightful places in the world. Individually they were intelligent and funny.

  On the downside, they could also be overpowering, self-centered, and so goal-oriented they were brutally insensitive. But this was one of the times all their finest traits came forward—the awareness of shared purpose and history, a belief that if one was hurt all were hurt, and genuine affection.

  The Redmonds were rallying for one of their own, for Julia. She was touched.

  "I'm really sorry," one of her cousins said. "What a terrible loss."

  "It's so awful, Julia," said another.

  Over and over they expressed their condolences as they walked her into the mansion with its odors of cool marble and old woods and baking pastries wafting from the kitchen at the back. And flowers. She smelled funeral flowers everywhere.

  She thanked them and told them she was sorry, too. They wanted to know what had happened. As she related the story of the murders, she felt her anger, so close to the surface anyway, flair up again. They were also outraged, and their understanding gave her a moment of peace.

  The parish priest introduced himself. Although Julia wasn't Catholic, her mother had been. A lump swelled in Julia's throat as he told her what a fine woman her mother had been. He invited her to stop by the church anytime.

  Creighton's wife offered her a late breakfast.

  "Not yet," Julia said. She was incapable of eating. "But thanks." She had to get to work: "Do you remember the night of my debut, Alexis?"

  "I'll never forget it, honey," Alexis said softly. She took Julia's hand. "Why?"

  "Was there anything unusual? Something that would've upset me a lot?"

  Alexis Redmond still had a slight southern accent, a reflection of her Georgia debutante background. "Darlin', it was a splendid night. You were a bit nervous beforehand, and then the audience was just too excited for its own good . . . or yours. That's what I remember. Of course, later there was your father's death in that tragic accident while we were all asleep. Up until then, it was a very successful evenin'." She paused, considering. "Don't you think it's time you gave up bein' worried about audiences? Certainly, you've paid mightily for it with your blindness—"

  Disappointed, Julia thanked Alexis and circulated among her cousins. Why did so many people think that if nothing was physically wrong, she should be able to will herself well? She put that perennial struggle from her mind and continued to ask her cousins about the night of her debut. They remembered the music and the party at Arbor Knoll but could add nothing new. Several seemed uneasy with the question, probably because it'd been the eve of another family death—her father's.

  "If there's anything I can do, Julia, please call on me." It was her cousin Matt. She recognized his voice and recalled a brisk, patrician young man who'd grayed early. He was David's son, a Wall Street lawyer, and he was running for a U.S. Senate seat from New York. He took her hand and squeezed it.

  She murmured her gratitude.

  Her uncle David arrived at her side. "Looks as if Matt's got the New York seat sewed up, Julia. We're going to have Creighton as president and Matt as a senator. Not bad for a family just getting into politics." He chuckled proudly. Of course, the family had long been a force in state and national policy, but usually not publicly.

  Julia said, "I thought you were worried about the incumbent Matt had to run against. He's very popular—"

  "And very much out of the race." David laughed. "Seems he's quietly received a multimillion-dollar offer to be the CEO for a major pharmaceutical company in San Diego. He'll get plenty of stock options and a platinum parachute. Of course, if he wins reelection, the deal's off. Trying to decide has distracted him so much he really hasn't put on a convincing campaign. Matt will win easily."

  "Thanks, Dad." Matt's voice rippled with amusement.

  "You did that, David?" Julia asked, although she knew the answer. The family always got what it wanted. Money alone wasn't power. It was what you did with it that counted. "You had a connection?"

  She could hear David's satisfaction. "We recently took over the pharmaceutical company's debt at an interest rate very advantageous to them. They were happy to listen to my suggestion for a new CEO, especially since the senator was qualified."

 
But Julia knew David would've found something else to bribe the senator away if he hadn't been "qualified" for the pharmaceutical post. She was always stunned by the Redmonds' bald use of power, but for the family it was simply business as usual.

  Her uncle Creighton joined them. His voice was kind, concerned. "You must be getting tired, Julia. Come into the den where it's quiet. We should talk about the future. David? Want to join us? Brice is waiting."

  He took Julia's hand, put it on his arm, and led her away.

  As she stepped inside the doorway, Julia stopped. She could feel the familiar rectangle of sunlight to her right that told her where she was. Impulsively she released Creighton's arm. "Let me." Attracted like steel to a musical magnet, she walked toward the big Steinway. Perhaps a miracle would happen—

  But no. The darkness remained, its cloak painful. For a moment it seemed permanent. She pushed her disappointment away and focused on the piano. No one else in the family played, but the housekeeper saw that it was tuned regularly.

  Her knee touched the bench. She sat.

  "Julia?" Creighton questioned. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

  "I appreciate your concern. It's very kind of you." She could sense her three uncles hesitate and stop. And then she knew what to play. The perfect piece. It would tell them about her mother better than she ever could.

  Her fingers flew to the keys, and the long-limbed opening of Chopin's atmospheric Nocturne in B-flat Minor surged into the room. Quiet power and gentleness shone in the music. Soon it segued into the middle section with its colorful chromatic notes, sumptuous phraseology, and her mother's lively charm. She could see her mother clearly then, the chin held high, the sparkling eyes, that natural way she had of making everyone feel comfortable.

  As Julia played on, she heard on the periphery of her senses people crowding into the den, murmuring. And then at the ending she saw death. Her mother's. The notes soared with passion, sorrow, love, and the indomitableness of the human spirit. Her mother's. The nocturne turned the tragedy into both death and birth, yin and yang, the entirety of human experience. Life.