by Gayle Lynds
Her brain seemed to grow exceedingly calm. Her pulse slowed. She knew the answer. She was becoming what she needed to be.
She grabbed the pistol. "Thank you. I'll hold on to it for you." As her hands continued to burn and throb, she promised herself she wasn't badly hurt.
Sam's brows shot up as she rested the weapon on her knees. She'd taken advantage of his grandiose gesture. The gun was pointed half at him, still a threat. She'd wanted it, and the message was that she'd use it if she felt she needed to, and she wasn't going to fall for any of his stupid tricks. So much for his beauty-queen analysis. She was definitely La Femme Nikita, but without the training and skills. And somehow that brought a stirring inside he hadn't felt in a long time, not with any of his women. A stirring he didn't need. What he needed was his gun back.
She knew so little about guns she might fall for a simple lie, "Don't be stupid. If we hit one good bump, the gun could go off and someone could die. Like me!"
She thought about it. "Then don't hit any bumps."
His admiration grew, but he wouldn't show it. "Swell."
They rode on silently angry, allied because of circumstance, not choice.
From her huddled crouch on the floor, Julia found her gaze riveted by Keeline's face. It was strong, with prominent bones and a rangy handsomeness that exuded confidence. His gray eyes were direct and unsettling. His sandy hair was rumpled, and his hands gripped the steering wheel with casual power. Everything about him announced predatory magnetism, and inwardly she shook her head. This was the wrong place and the wrong time to be thinking. . . wondering—
She pushed her thoughts away. "Why did you come tonight? What did you want to tell me about my grandfather Austrian and the Amber Room?"
He watched the stalled traffic ahead. "I got a packet in the mail yesterday. The packet was full of folded sheets of paper. It was addressed to me, but I was able to read only a little before it was taken away. There were hints in it that the room had survived, and that the sender knew where it was—"
Julia was alert. "You received a packet yesterday? Friday? Describe it."
"Nothing special. Brown paper and tape. About half the size of a manila envelope. It was sent from Armonk—"
Her voice was strained. "Where is it now?"
He knew he shouldn't tell her. He'd been ordered to keep his mouth shut. But the situation she was in stank, and her family seemed to be part of it. He had to see her reaction to what he would tell her. "My boss. Vince Redmond."
She sat back. The pistol sank to her lap. She licked her lips. "My cousin. Creighton's son. I was afraid of that." The news seemed to be a hammer blow.
"Whatever it is you're thinking," Sam said, "I'd like to hear."
She remained on the floor of the Durango, the pistol on her raised knees, saying nothing. Finally she looked up. "Mr. Keeline, I intend to find and stop the woman who killed my mother. You need to know that. That was only twenty-four hours ago. Tonight she also killed Orion Grapolis, a psychologist in my building—a wonderful, kind man who had just helped me to see again. But now everything's a lot more complicated than I'd thought. I'm not sure exactly what is happening to me."
She looked directly at him. She told herself she was crazy to give him information. That if she'd learned anything in the last day it was she had to be careful whom she thought was a friend. But at the same time, he'd saved her life three times, and he'd just told her about the packet and about her cousin. Plus, she was holding his gun—loaded and the safety off.
At this point, she could see no harm in it. So she said evenly, "My mother also received a packet last night. It was wrapped in brown paper and tape, and it was from Armonk, too. She put it in her purse, and when we were robbed, the killer stole the packet along with everything else."
So that was it. His pulse hammered. "The killer was after the packet."
"My thinking exactly. The jewel robbery must've been a cover."
"Your mother's packet could've been about the Amber Room, too."
Julia frowned. "That doesn't make sense. My mother and I were very close. If she knew anything about any Amber Room, she'd have said something at some point. But I've never heard of it from her or anybody." She looked at him, abruptly filled with suspicion. "In fact, I've got only your word this room, if it exists, is involved at all. Maybe there's something else about the packet you're not telling me."
"I don't know if there was anything else in the packet. If I did, I probably wouldn't be here," he told her. "As for the Amber Room, you've got the Russian people's word. For the past few years artists at the Catherine Palace have been using old photos and drawings to rebuild the Amber Room. Look, there was an exhibition not long ago here at the Natural History Museum. Some of them sat in a room and worked on a couple of new panels. It was covered in the Times." He could've banged himself on the head for that. Of course she'd missed it. She'd been blind.
Julia sensed his remorse and was irritated "Blind people 'read' the papers, Mr. Keeline. We go to movies, opera, art shows, the ballet. We probably get more out of music and dialogue and other sounds than the sighted, and if we have some nice person along to describe things occasionally it's a plus."
"Sorry." There was a break in the traffic, and he hit the accelerator, turning toward the Lincoln Tunnel.
She realized he'd turned the Durango west. Not east.
She was furious. "I told you to take me to Oyster Bay!"
"Bad plan. The police . . . maybe your killer, too . . . could be right there waiting for you. How do you think they figured out you went to your uncle Brice's?"
Her face seemed to pale in the car's shadows. "How?"
"I don't know, but I do wonder. I was hoping you could answer that, too."
She put strength in her tones, but she felt shaky with unpleasant possibilities. "How did you know where to find me?" she countered.
"I deduced it," he said simply. "I'd done research on you that included names and addresses of close friends and relatives. So when you headed north on the subway, I looked for your geographically closest relative or friend. That was Brice Redmond."
"Maybe the police and the killer figured it out the same way."
"Maybe." But he wasn't convinced. Then he saw an all-night market. Miraculously, there was a parking space nearby. He pulled in.
"What are you doing!"
"Market for bandages. I'll be right back." He turned off the motor and took his keys. He showed no fear of the gun that still rested on her knees.
She knew he was right. Unless he made some overt move to hurt her, she wouldn't shoot. Her gaze followed the keys.
"Forget it," he said. "If you drive anywhere in Manhattan with the cops looking for you, you're going to end up in custody. Besides, you don't know how to operate a standard transmission. I'll be right back."
And he was gone. She felt caged on the floor. A sense of profound loneliness filled her. She couldn't tell exactly what had triggered the emotion, but she had an uneasy feeling that his leaving was part of it. Instantly she pushed the thought away. Maybe he was nice and he'd helped her, but she didn't know him.
And what was he really doing in the market?
Sam quickly found a pay phone. He called information in Port Washington on Long Island, which was where Pink's sister lived. He asked for her phone number.
Pink answered, his usual irritable self. "How'd you find me?"
"How do you expect I found you?" Sam retorted.
Over the miles, Pink chuckled. Of course, the most direct route was long-distance information, unless Sam was at Langley where personnel records were kept. And Pink doubted very much Sam was at Langley. "What's up?" In the kitchen, Pink heard his sister and the girls cleaning up after dinner. They were laughing.
"I need your vast brain and experience to identify a lady."
"Hey! So where'd you meet this lady?"
"Let's just say I ran into her. I think I recognized her, and she knew me from somewhere in the past. I can't remember
where. But I think you've met her, too."
Pink was suspicious again. "Why?"
"I'll get to that. Just listen. She's in her mid thirties, I'd say, and—" he went on to describe the woman Julia Austrian called Norma from when he'd first seen her, not as disguised now. Then he took a breath. Pink would go ape: "She'd have been in the Company. Probably on some wet job. Working alone. She—"
"Holy hell, Sam! What're you doing? Are you out of your skull? You're intelligence, for Christ's sake, not field ops! Does Vince Redmond—?"
Sam's voice dropped. "Dammit, Pink, hold down the goddamn lecture. I need this. You worked a lot closer and more recently with those people. Now who is she? She's hard, skilled, and cold as ice. Does she ring any bells?"
Pink was silent for some time. At last he sighed. "Eight years ago, Prague. Then in Guatemala. A colonel of their's on our payroll thought it gave him a license to execute his enemies. One of them was DEA. We had to eliminate him. Your woman sounds a hell of a lot like the Janitor who did the job—Maya Stern. I doubt I'm wrong. There aren't many like her in the Company. At least not women."
Then Sam remembered. Berlin! Eleven or twelve years ago. Stern. He'd seen her once at a briefing. She wasn't easy to forget. Beautiful, but one look into her eyes told you whatever you had in mind was a bad idea. "Where is she now, Pink?"
"No clue. She quit four years ago and vanished. If you're mixed up in anything that involves her, and Redmond or the DCI don't know—"
"Thanks, old buddy. I owe you, and I'll be in touch."
He hung up and went to buy what he'd come in to buy.
Austrian was exactly where Sam had left her when he hopped back into the driver's seat and set a sack next to her.
"Supplies," he said. "I got some white paint and a brush to change the numbers on my license plate, just in case somebody finally gets around to linking me to you. And I'm tired of worrying about your hands. So I got you some antibiotic wipes and ointment. Also some gauze and tape. Do something about your injuries." He dropped the package next to her, took out the paint and brush, and started to turn away when he found himself staring again into the barrel of his own Browning.
Her blue eyes were hard and angry. "Who did you call on that phone? Tell me!"
Sam looked at the gun and then at her. "I guess I should've known you'd follow me. Damn idiotic of you to get out of the car."
"The call. Or I'll shoot."
"You can't even drive a stick shift," Sam told her. "And if you'd given me a chance, I would've told you. It's for you, dammit."
"Tell me!" Her hands on the gun were beginning to shake with fury.
Sam's gut was tight as he watched the gun. "Back on Seventieth Street when I blocked your 'Norma' with the Durango, we got a good look at each other. I sensed she recognized me, and I vaguely recognized her. I didn't know from where or when, except it had to be in the Company, so I called my buddy Pink because it's been a long time since I was in ops or around black work. I described 'Norma.' He knew her at once. Her name's Maya Stern. She was a Company assassin. She quit four years ago and vanished."
Julia stared at him. She wanted to believe him. But—
Sam kept his voice steady. "Look, I've given you no reason to distrust me. Everything I've done has helped you. I'm telling the truth. The woman trying to kill you is an ex-CIA assassin named Maya Stern." Then he reached toward her. "Believe me or don't, but we have to fix your hands. You can still hold the gun. I'll do one hand at a time."
Something painful and brittle inside her seemed to relax as she watched him take antibiotic wipes, ointment, gauze, and tape out of the bag on the seat. His fingers were long and strong, and there was a sense of authority in them. As he cleaned and dressed the wounds on her hands, his touch seemed to warm her skin. It made her uneasy, and yet she found she liked it. Wanted him to touch her even more. Angry with herself, she repressed the feelings and tried to see behind his gray, alluring eyes. He was, or had been, a professional spy. Could she trust anything she saw or didn't see in him?
She wanted to, because he was right. She needed help. She couldn't drive this car. She didn't have even an ATM card with her. She felt powerless—exposed—without easy access to her money.
His voice was gentle. "I'll bet your hands hurt like hell. All those nerve endings. I know what you do, Austrian. That you're an exceptional pianist. It must terrify you to injure your hands." He smiled at her, and the breath seemed to catch in his throat. He wanted to go on looking at her, at the strange mixture of vulnerability and strength. "I'm not lying, you know. Why would I? The only reason I came to see you was the Amber Room. For the rest, I don't know any more than you."
She asked, "Do you like working for the CIA?"
"Very much. It makes sense to me. That's one thing I believe in—Langley's goals. The United States needs an intelligence agency, and I like to feel I'm making a contribution."
"Where do you want to take me?"
"To my place in Alexandria. Between Maya Stern and the police, you've got to get out of Manhattan. You'll be safe where I live. Then we can decide what to do."
He put tape over the gauze bandages and sat back. She felt the sudden absence of his touch.
But she couldn't think about that. She considered his plan. She couldn't return to the maisonette. Manhattan wasn't safe for her. She couldn't go to Arbor Knoll. She hated to think it . . . but her cousin Vince and her uncle Brice might be part of what was happening. Oyster Bay could be dangerous, too. She still had the gun, and if Keeline was lying, at least he was only one person to deal with.
"All right," she said at last. "But one trick, one bad move, and I shoot. I don't know much about guns, but I intend to stay close enough to you that it won't matter."
"Well." Sam grinned at her. "I guess that's the best I can hope for. Stay down there."
The Browning immediately thrust up. "Where are you going'?"
"To paint the license plate. In case anyone got the state and number."
He was gone before she could move. She raised up, praying no police would pass by. She saw his head disappear down behind the car. She watched it bob up and down as he worked.
Then he was back. He dropped the paint and wet brush back into the sack and shoved the sack under his seat. "No point letting anyone know I've altered the State of Virginia's work."
Sam started the car and pulled out into the street. As they stopped at an intersection, he checked her. She was a shadowy waif on the floor, but he'd learned her appearance was deceptive. She was strong and in good physical shape. She was smart. And she was one hell of a lot more determined to take on a situation that was far beyond her capabilities than he'd ever have guessed.
"I'll make a deal with you," he said. "I'll tell you everything I know, if you'll tell me everything you know. Since I've already unloaded about the Amber Room and Vince Redmond, it seems only fair you fill me in now. Then you can ask me any questions you like, and I'll even answer them."
He shifted into first touched the accelerator, and moved the Durango into traffic. As they continued west toward the tunnel, she told him what she remembered. As she talked, she moved her knees to hide the gun. Then she slipped a bandaged hand down and locked the Browning's safety into place.
26
9:20 PM, SATURDAY
WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NEW YORK
Lyle Redmond sat at his window and stared out unseeing at the cold stars flickering silver above the night-cloaked Westchester hills. He was nervous and worried. Since the priest had left late this afternoon, the old man had been making plans. He had to admit he was scared. He didn't know how far he could push his sons. If he got caught breaking out of this prison, they might finally decide he was too much trouble to keep alive.
Still, he had to try.
Behind him his radio was playing "Night and Day," one of Cole Porter's hit tunes from the 1930s. The lilting music made him think of love, of how he'd adored Marguerite. She'd been a sweet little girl, but even as she'd grown olde
r and defied him, he'd never loved her any less. He'd never forced her into line as he had his sons. In an odd way, he'd loved her more because she'd stood up to him. None of the boys, not even that so-called rebel Brice, had the guts to take him on as Marguerite had. Until, of course, he was old, and they could convince a young judge he was crazy.
He leaned tiredly against the armrest, his chin in his palm, as he gazed out at the night. When his wife had died, Marguerite had become the only important female in his life. It was true there'd been the women in Oyster Bay whom he'd slipped away to meet, but he bad a secret entrance to his estate so no one there would know for certain they'd existed. It would've dishonored the memory of his wife.
Sometimes he'd drunk too much and come back to the mansion with clues on him—lipstick stains, perfume smudged into his shirt—but none of the kids or staff had caught him. His secret passage was too good. Then there were the society women in the city. He'd needed them not just for sex but for the big events Daniel Austrian had thrown and for the business parties that'd mattered. But those glittery women had left so little an imprint that he no longer remembered most of their names. None had ever measured up to his wife, Mary, or later to Marguerite.
He sighed, remembering it all, and looked at the clock. He had to get moving. It was nearly nine-thirty.
He heaved himself up from his chair, turned off the radio, and put on his bathrobe. To bust out of here tomorrow night with Father Michael, he needed to steal two critical keys. And the best time was now. The staff was tired and less alert, and the craft room, where a set of the keys was locked away, would be busy with Saturday night entertainment
His heart beat a nervous tattoo against his chest. He slid his crepey feet into his slippers and shuffled down the hall. His great mop of white hair was a wreath illuminated in the overhead fluorescent lights.
"Feeling better, sir?" Security Chief John Reilly appeared where the hall opened into the expansive foyer. His face was passive, but Lyle saw the watchfulness in his eyes. Reilly was always watching, always waiting for him.
