by Gayle Lynds
He stopped the Durango at a red light. Nervous energy cascaded through him. He was worried about her. And about him. If she were found under his care, his boss wouldn't exactly give him a medal. As the light turned green, he drove ahead slowly, letting the police car overtake and pass them.
"What's happening?" she demanded.
"They've pulled ahead."
"Is it safe for me to come up?"
His pulse quickened. "No. There's another cop car at the next intersection. You're hot, lady. So hot you could get us both third-degree burns."
She looked shocked. He turned the Durango south on Fifth Avenue.
He said, "How about putting down that gun now?"
"Not yet."
"Then when?"
She didn't answer, and her beauty-queen's face was steely.
He stared at her. "Let me remind you I'm not the enemy. I saved you. Three times now. Got it? As an exercise in politeness, you might start by thanking me. Then find something besides my gun to play with."
He glanced down in time to see uncertainty flit across her face. Then her features returned to uncompromising. She might not have the skills of a La Femme Nikita, but she had the attitude. She was afraid, but she fully intended to protect herself from everyone. Even him.
"Right now," she said carefully, "your actions aren't enough to convince me."
"Oh, man," he breathed. The Browning was still pointed at his heart. "Then maybe you did kill that shrink."
"Orion? No!" Her face was horrified. Her blue eyes narrowed in the gloom. "What makes you think that?"
"I went back to your apartment. Talked to some cops. They seemed very interested in you and where you'd gone. And of course just now—I don't know whether you could hear it—but the radio of those two cops who stopped us said there was an all-units call out for you. Seems to me you're likely their number-one suspect."
She was silent
"There's another police cruiser," he whispered sharply. "God. The NYPD's earning its pay tonight!"
"Where is it?"
He told her the car was also stopped at the intersection. As he drove through, he saw the turn signals were on. As he watched his rearview mirror, he urged, "Go on. Take a chance. Fill me in. It's safe. After all, you're the one with the gun. For instance, how come you can see all of a sudden?"
Julia tried to decide what to do. He was right—her hands hurt like hell. She'd scraped them when she'd fallen from the killer's blow, but the fingers were working. The palms burned and stung, but she thought she wasn't much worse off than she'd been last night in London when she'd fallen on them there. At least she hoped not.
She caught her breath. It was only last night . . . So much had happened since then—her sight, her mother's murder, the same vicious woman trying to kill her, and now the NYPD out in full force doing everything they could to capture her.
She had no time to waste on a few minor scratches. She kept her gaze glued to this stranger. This Sam Keeline, CIA, in his big leather jacket with the tight waist and his rumpled blond hair. The crease between his eyes had deepened, and his jaw seemed set somewhere between concrete and granite. He had a very nice jaw, and she liked the raw-boned look of his face. In fact, under different circumstances she would've enjoyed just admiring him. And he was right, he had saved her—
But then, supposedly, so had Norma, by becoming her companion. She couldn't . . . wouldn't. . . trust him.
She asked for a report on the police cruiser that was behind them on Fifth.
"They're a half block back," he told her.
"Are they trying to catch up?"
"They're moving with the traffic. I'll go over to Park now that we're south of where you live. See whether they follow us."
She tried to swallow. As they made the turn, her throat was so tight it seemed a fist of fear permanently gripped it. "Are they following?"
Finally he exhaled. "No."
"Good." She let the moment of relief sink in. "Okay. You first. Tell me what you know. As you pointed out, I'm the one with the gun."
He had nothing to lose. "Ever hear of the Amber Room?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
He took his gaze from watching for the police long enough to examine her face. He saw nothing there to make him suspicious of her denial. So with his nerves throbbing with the excitement of his quest, he told her about his Russian grandfather in Baltimore who'd raised him with stories of the room's enormous panels. How they'd been created like jigsaw puzzles from dazzling amber so fragile and thin that much of it was only a fifth of an inch thick. As he talked, he saw she was listening but with little interest.
He paused for dramatic effect. "Then the Amber Room disappeared. Just plain evaporated. Into thin air. No one's seen it since."
She radiated disbelief. "That's not possible! It was too large. Too famous. Too hard to hide!"
He liked her enthusiasm. "It disturbs the imagination, doesn't it?"
"You think it survived, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Still, I don't see what that's got to do with me."
Sam nodded. If he was right about Daniel Austrian, she had a connection to the Amber Room she either didn't yet know or wasn't willing to divulge.
It was her turn to talk now. He asked, "Why is that killer chasing you?"
She was silent. Then she admitted, "She's the one who killed my mother."
Sam was astonished. "How do you know?"
"I watched her do it." There no longer seemed a reason to hide that she'd been an eyewitness, not after what had happened at Orion's. Brice had probably already told the NYPD she was no longer blind and claimed she hadn't killed Orion. But Orion's wife, Edda, had been there, and Edda had heard her threaten someone with murder. That was tough testimony to disprove. Julia could hire a thousand-dollar-an-hour lawyer, and he'd probably get her out on bail in a few days. But meanwhile, the real killer would vanish. Julia would be worse off trying to find her then than she was now.
Sam demanded, "What do you mean, you watched her do it?"
"Exactly what it sounds like. I saw her shoot both the cab driver and my mother." She hesitated, her mother's pain again piercing her, and her guilt. "I couldn't stop it. I tried, but I was too late. Then my sight disappeared again."
Sam shook his head. "I don't think you get it, Austrian. You're out of your league here. Whatever's going on, you're dealing with a woman who's trained. She's a killer. You can see it in her shoulders. No woman moves naturally like that."
Instantly she was alert. "What are you talking about?"
Sam described the woman's economy of motion, her strength, her fighting skills, her clever disguise, and the sureness of her decisions. "She's professionally trained and highly experienced. She knows what she's doing, because she's done it all hundreds of times. In fact, I think she recognized me from somewhere, and I know her. I just can't recall where or when or whatever name she was using then. You get it?" He paused so she'd get the full effect. "Someone sent a trained agent and killer after your mother and you."
She was shocked. "She's no simple thief?"
"She's too damn good to be a simple anything."
Julia's breath became shallow. Her chest tightened. "If it wasn't a simple robbery, what was it?"
"You tell me."
25
MEMOIR ENTRY
I have just read through my oldest memoir entries, and I am mortified at my hatred. That is why I began writing—I wanted to kill you both. It seemed the only just solution. What you had done was evil, and I was impaled on the past.
But there must be some other way to rectify the wrongs. I will pray about this.
5:45 PM PACIFIC STANDARD TIME, SATURDAY
ALOFT OVER THE WESTERN UNITED STATES
Night's violet light hung over the snowy Rocky Mountains as the jet flew on toward Sacramento and another evening and day of campaigning. Worried and distracted about Julia, Creighton listened as his chief of staff, Jack Hart, gave him the bad news about t
he previctory party Monday night. To be held at Arbor Knoll, it was an opportunity to make an important display to the press. The staff had hoped glamorous photos from it would hit the front pages of newspapers and appear on CNN all day during the election, now just a little more than two days away.
"We're getting regrets from everyone who matters." Hart was slumped wearily in the seat across from Creighton. "The governors of New York, Massachusetts, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. The Speaker of the House. The CEOs of big business." He reeled off names in a monotone of dismay. "None of the major celebrities is willing to fly out from Hollywood. Even the cardinal's hedging—"
Creighton's expression was sober, but not because he was worried about the election. What was preying on him was whether Maya Stern had taken care of Julia. "You're doing the best you can, Jack. Just let them know that if they change their minds, the door's always open."
"It's not that they don't want us to win."
"I know. They just don't think we will. Are contributions drying up, too?"
"Let's put it this way. Pledged money has slowed to a trickle, and new donors have vanished into the ether."
Creighton chuckled. Jack looked at him in surprise.
Creighton said, "Everyone loves a winner. But if they think you're a loser, you might as well have rabies." He shrugged. "Get some rest, old friend. We'll be in Sacramento soon."
"Maybe I'll take a nap." Jack stood. The jet bounced with sudden turbulence, and he grabbed the seat's back to steady himself. "Hope that miracle you talked about happens soon. We sure as hell don't have much time left."
Jack Hart's long face was so gloomy that Creighton knew he didn't believe anything could save them now.
It made Creighton smile wider. "Get that nap."
"Yes, sir."
As Hart moved forward to the staff's cabin, Creighton's phone rang. Instantly a frown dented his brow as he listened to the report from Maya Stern about her failure. Fury engulfed him followed by an instant backlash of disquiet.
"I'll go to Oyster Bay and wait for Austrian there," Maya said. According to Brice, Julia wanted to know how Stern had found her, so it was logical Julia would try the Oyster Bay employment service next. "But if the police get to her first—"
"If they do, I have legitimate sources to whom they'll turn her over. There'll be plenty of time to call you in."
"She's mine!" Her voice had sudden energy.
Creighton heard her furious disappointment. He needed not only Stern's complete loyalty, but her ability to remain focused, undistracted. Although he was enraged by her failure, he said calmly, "No one can control every situation. Next time you'll get her. If she appears in Oyster Bay, you know what to do." He paused. "What about Keeline? He might go to Oyster Bay with her, but he might not. If they separate, we need to know what Keeline's up to. Not even you can be in two places."
Maya was silent. "Then I'll need more people. I'll contact the Janitors, and—"
After 1980, the CIA downsized its assassin program, and, like Maya Stern, a high percentage of assassins left. Other retired agents had formed a club years ago so they could meet, drink, and reminisce about Company secrets they could tell no one else. But the assassins had little interest in talk, so they created their own group. They called themselves the Janitors, Company jargon for their profession—they cleaned up and made situations tidy. Mostly silent, solitary individuals, they never wanted or held an official club meeting. Instead, they stayed in contact for one reason alone—to tell each other about wet jobs on the open market.
"I'd rather you remain invisible to everyone but Vince and me. I'll have Vince make the arrangements. Talk to him in fifteen minutes. Discuss with him what I want done, and then tell him who you want. We'll need help for you, and to cover three places at the same time: Oyster Bay, Keeline's place in DC, and One Police Plaza here."
"And I'll run them?"
"You and Vince." With the exception of Stern, he always layered in middlemen between him and the occasional violence. The Janitors would be well paid, but they'd never know where the money originated, or why. They wouldn't care.
"Very well then." She hung up.
A light sweat had formed on Creighton's forehead. He pulled out a silk handkerchief and mopped it. Maya still made him uneasy.
He dialed his son Vince at home in Georgetown. Vince was shaken by the news about Keeline. Creighton had berated him for that earlier, and now in the muted hum of the jet's motors, Creighton described Stern's failure. "We have to assume the situation is out of control." Fury percolated just beneath the composed words.
"Agreed."
"Contact Dr. Dupuy again. Tell him this time we need a public statement. From those other two he brought into it, too. He's had a free ride for years. It's time he paid off for all the South Shore real estate we financed, not to mention that clinic in Paris."
They discussed who else they could use.
At last Creighton nodded, pleased. "I like it. Arrange it."
"And Sam Keeline? I've thought about it, and I've decided what he's doing is going after the Amber Room again. He must've read far enough in Grandfather's packet to think some Austrian or Redmond has information. He interviewed Dan Austrian about the room years ago. Maybe he's decided Dan told Julia something. That could be why he made the appointment to see her and then helped her. Too bad he didn't show up ten minutes later. He'd have missed her."
"But he did, and now he's a potential danger. We need to find him and get rid of him. Talk to David. Keeline may have accounts at one or more of David's banks. With luck, there'll be ATM and credit cards. We want everything tracked." Although he knew nothing of Creighton's plan, David was committed to Creighton's presidency.
In his Georgetown study, Vince nodded. His quick brain was ticking off ways to maximize their situation. "I'll get the names and addresses of Keeline's family and friends from Langley as soon as we hang up."
"Agreed. Perhaps he'll stick with Julia to get information. If we track Keeline, maybe we'll find Julia, too. Meanwhile, we need to notify Reilly at the rest home in case either Julia or Keeline shows up." Creighton paused. "We'll need more muscle to cover all bases and back up Stern. Stern suggested the Janitors, and I agree. But I want you to contact them and make up a story to give them that leaves the campaign out."
Vince considered the problem. "We'll tell them Keeline's gone rogue. He's helping a killer evade the authorities and is a major security risk. If he's arrested and the public learns half of what he knows—"
"Didn't you tell me about some woman's death in East Berlin—"
"Irini Baum. She was Stasi, but Keeline turned her and fell in love with her. If Keeline talks about it, he'll compromise operatives we still have in the field."
Creighton gave a cold smile. "Find him, Vince. Find him fast. If he's killed in the process, the Company's better off."
8:45 PM EASTERN STANDARD TIME, SATURDAY
NEW YORK CITY
Sam and Julia were stuck in traffic. The stream of vehicles was bumper-to-bumper, and Sam was acutely aware of the beautiful woman sitting next to him. He felt an old urge of protectiveness. But it was instantly followed by rejection: He didn't ever want to feel protective again.
He knew she was trying to understand the events of the last twenty-four-odd hours and what they meant. Her fine-featured face was ravaged, as if those events were either too horrible to think about, or too impossible to talk about. But Sam needed to know all of it. Mistake or not, he was already helping her, and the only way he could keep doing that—and maybe find out whether Daniel Austrian had told her anything about the Amber Room—was if she trusted him.
Not that he was necessarily going to trust her.
There was another police cruiser about four cars back, but it'd made no move to overtake him. Sam was beginning to think maybe the killer hadn't really recognized him and that no one else had connected him to Austrian, so they'd be safe as long as she was out of sight and nothing else caused the police to stop th
em.
So as they sat caught in traffic, he reached for his Browning.
She barked, "Stop! I'll shoot!"
"Not with that weapon."
She quickly edged it to the side, pointed it down toward the floorboards next to his feet, and yanked the trigger. She was trying to frighten him, not kill him.
There was no explosion. She yanked again. Nothing.
He took the weapon away from her. "You might not be complaining about your hands, but they're weak. Otherwise you would've resisted better."
She reached for her door handle.
"Look!" He held the pistol low in front of her face. "This is the safety. It's on. There's no way you were ever going to shoot me or anybody else." He pressed the safety off. "Now you can kill me. If you want."
She was staring at him with huge eyes brimming with outrage and fury. He liked that she was a woman of passion, and if the circumstances had been different, he'd really have enjoyed finding out exactly how passionate. But not now. No, what he needed from her was information. Then he'd decide whether he'd continue to help her, which he seemed to have somehow backed into doing.
He turned the Browning around and politely offered it to her butt first. "Still want to kill me? The safety's off. But remember I may be the only friend you have. Whatever's happened . . . whatever you've done or not done . . . I don't know. But I'm willing to listen and maybe help. Have any other better offers?"
Julia glared at Sam Keeline's pistol. Rage filled her as she huddled on the floor. She wanted to rip it from his hand and pump bullets into his heart. She wanted to shoot the woman who'd murdered her mother and Orion. She wanted to kill Brice for letting Norma be her companion.
She wanted to—
She felt the tide of violence settle over her as if she were another person. A monster. She didn't recognize herself. Couldn't believe she'd thought more about killing people in the last twenty-four hours than in her entire twenty-eight years. What was happening to her? What was she becoming?
And then she remembered her mother's terrible suffering. Her unspeakable pain. Remembered Orion's shocked gasp and the blood pouring down his chest. Remembered the bone-chilling terror of a muzzle pressed into her own temple. And her guilt that if she'd only been able to keep her sight when her mother was shot, she might've been able to save her and none of the rest would've happened.
