Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  "To the White House?"

  "They end up there sometimes," he admitted.

  "All those reports and papers sound interesting," Julia said without conviction. "But you don't act like you spend all your time behind a desk. How long have you been out of 'field ops,' as you call them, and how come you remember it all so well?"

  "I was in the Operations Directorate four years," he went on casually. "That's why I was stationed in West Berlin, and why I was in Europe and could personally look into the Amber Room."

  "When did you transfer to Intelligence?"

  "About nine years ago. Right after Berlin." Six months after Irini was raped and murdered, and he'd had enough of violence to last a lifetime. Or so he'd thought. But he wasn't going to tell her about Irini. It was no one's business but his own.

  She considered what he'd told her. "It sounds as if you really didn't belong in ops, no matter how good you were. There's all that careful research you did about Himmler and the Amber Room and what you're doing now in intelligence. I'll bet you're really a scholar under all that macho training."

  He smiled. "Guilty as charged, Your Honor. Eastern Europe and Russia."

  She nodded as he brushed it all off with humor. She had sensed something like that all along. He was beginning to make more sense. A scholar and a reluctant killer. What a combination. No wonder she found him complex.

  He picked up their dishes. "You better check out the bad news in the Times."

  The news was very bad. Julia's throat tightened as she saw her photo on the front page. The story gave the "facts": Orion Grapolis, PhD, a respected psychologist, had been shot to death about 8:00 PM Saturday in his apartment on New York's Upper East Side. The suspect was a new patient—the formerly blind pianist Julia Austrian. Police found a gun beside the chair in which she'd sat, and the widow claimed to have heard Austrian angrily threaten to kill her husband.

  The story went on to speculate how Austrian's status as the prime suspect would affect her uncle Creighton Redmond's already troubled bid for the presidency. There followed excerpts from a statement by Creighton, in which he said he and the Redmond family loved Julia Austrian very much and urged her to turn herself in.

  Julia felt a wave of relief as she read that. Right now Creighton seemed like an inviting anchor in a ferocious storm. She should phone him. He was in California on a whistle-stop campaign today, but she could get in touch with him through Arbor Knoll.

  Maybe, as Brice had said, Creighton could help her out of this mess—

  But then she read on. Her voice shook as she said, "Listen to this:

  Redmond's statement, issued by his press office, said the family grieved for Austrian. "For many years she's been unstable," he said. "We believe the tragic murder of her mother in London Friday night must have sent her over the edge. It is the only explanation that makes sense to us, because she is fundamentally a good and decent person."

  Sam frowned. "What's that about your being unstable?"

  The shock of Creighton's blatant lie almost made her gasp. She'd never been unstable. Upset, yes. Grief-stricken, certainly. But never close to being crazy. She sped through the next paragraph. Grimly she informed him, "There's worse:

  Austrian's former psychiatrist, Walter Dupuy, M.D., who has psychiatric clinics in New York and Paris, treated her for three years after she first went blind.

  Dupuy's statement claims the diagnosis was conversion hysteria and that often hysterics could become dangerous.

  In a telephone interview, Dupuy explained, "Naturally I cannot divulge what went on in our sessions. They were and are privileged. But it is safe to say Austrian has been emotionally unbalanced for at least a decade. She's a hysteric."

  "A hysteric." Julia was stunned. "They've just used the hot-button word the family's avoided for years. They know damn well it's conversion disorder, but they always told outsiders my blindness was physical. They wanted to avoid the stigma . . . the prejudice of anything that smacked of mental illness. And now just to make sure the world gets the point, Dupuy is calling me dangerous!" Outrage rose up her throat, and a flush stung her cheeks. "That bastard Dupuy," she growled. "And Creighton, too! Why? It makes no sense."

  "Forgive me," Sam said quietly, "because I know the Redmonds are important to you. But I've just been reading excerpts from all of your uncles' statements. Let me tell you, the feeling isn't mutual. They have, Austrian, hung you out to twist in the wind."

  She closed her eyes. Then they snapped open. "Now the police don't have just a weapon and the opportunity for my murdering Orion. They've got the missing ingredient to make a case against me stick—motive. And that motive is that I've gone crazy! I've been set up to take the blame for Orion's death. This can't be some kind of mistake or coincidence. It's deliberate!"

  32

  Frantically, Julia read everything in the newspapers. Sam was right. Creighton, David, and Brice had issued individual statements as heads of their branches of the family, and each echoed the other—for years she'd been acting erratic, irrational, emotionally precarious, and sometimes appeared violent, and the family had been shielding her condition from friends and the public, hoping she'd go back to Dr. Dupuy so she could get well. They now deeply regretted their silence. Each uncle urged her to turn herself into the police so no one else would be hurt.

  It took her breath away. The lies and betrayal were inconceivable, and yet—

  Sam was at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee. He caught the strange expression on her face—enlightenment and horror. "What now?"

  She said what she'd been thinking: "Why do they want it to look as if I killed Orion, when I clearly told Brice the woman from London did it? And that she was the one who killed my mother, too. There's no mention of any of that!"

  "They may honestly believe what they're saying." He brought their mugs to the table. "That Orion's death and the charges against you fit some pattern they think they've seen in you for years. You know the old saw—reality's what you want it to be." He sat down across from her, his hand wrapped around his coffee mug.

  But she didn't believe that, and by the expression on Sam's face, he didn't either.

  She said, "First my cousin takes the packet from you at CIA headquarters. Then I find out my psychiatrist—whom Uncle Creighton sent me to—is lying about me. Brice doesn't tell the police who really murdered my mother and Orion, and somehow Stern knows to wait for me outside his house. Plus someone powerful has hired the Janitors to come after us and is probably behind my mother's death, since Stern is a Janitor, too, and the one who took my mother's packet. And now all my uncles have not only abandoned me, they've managed to make it look as if I had a motive to kill Orion." She paused, letting the totality settle like a freezing mist in the warm kitchen.

  "You're saying you think your cousin and uncles are responsible."

  Her voice was controlled. "Everywhere I look, one or more is involved. I suppose it could all be because of the Amber Room, but I don't quite see why. What stakes would be so high that they'd kill my mother and turn on me?"

  "I may have the answer—" He hesitated.

  "It's okay. Tell me."

  He opened the Times again and pointed to the front page. "Read this."

  In an exclusive story today, the London Sunday Times revealed it had evidence that front-running presidential candidate Douglas Powers has been leading a double life of paid sex with call girls in Monaco and Prague. . .

  She frowned. "What's that got to do with my mother's death?"

  Again he had that charming, relaxed look, the muscles deceptively languorous, but his gray eyes had darkened. "I've been arguing with Vince because he wasn't thorough enough sometimes." He stabbed a finger at the article. "Because we disagreed about this, he threatened to transfer me out of analysis. See, a batch of undigested data came in to me from Prague, and in it was the ledger sheet this story talks about from a guy code-named Jiří. There was also a photo of Powers climbing into a limo with a sex entrepreneur and a ho
oker while some kids watched from the curb. I felt the photo could be fake. I wanted to check it out because Powers was the front-runner, but Vince told me to shelve it. He thought it'd look like the Company was mixing in politics, because his father was the other candidate, no matter what we said we'd found."

  "Vince wouldn't let you investigate?"

  "That's right."

  They stared across the table in an awful silence.

  She let out a slow breath. "They're trying to ruin Douglas Powers's reputation so Creighton can win."

  "That's the way I see it. Makes me think of Watergate. We've had illegal acts and election frauds of all kinds over the past two centuries. If I'm right, this wouldn't be the first time some politician tried to pull a fast one on the nation. But it looks like this may be the biggest and most despicable."

  "Maybe the charges against Powers are true, and Creighton and Vince are just making certain they reach the public in the most believable fashion. Which I don't condone, mind you. But it's a lot less distasteful."

  Sam's eyes flashed. "But isn't it interesting Vince made sure I didn't follow up on the Prague data, and that he's also the one who swiped the packet that was sent to me."

  "The Amber Room again. But what we have here seems to be three separate issues. One is the packets, two the Amber Room, and three Creighton's election. Are they all connected? If you're right and the election provides the high stakes that are driving Creighton and my uncles to do this to me . . . I still don't see the connection."

  "It's like a mosaic, all the different colors swirling in and out of each other."

  They sat in silence, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in their minds.

  Finally Sam said, "I'll bet the DCI doesn't know a damn thing about what's been going on. If he did, not even the Redmond name could protect Vince."

  "What's a DCI?"

  "Director of Central Intelligence. He's the guy in charge of all U.S. intelligence agencies. He's Vince's direct boss. Or maybe he does know about the packet, but not about the Prague information." Sam shook his head. "We could use some help. He's the one to talk to. He lives in Silver Spring. It's not far from here—"

  "You're not going anywhere."

  Sam looked at her, surprised.

  She said, "You still have to teach me how to use my gun."

  She showered rapidly and put back on her clothes from yesterday. The wool pants and silk blouse weren't torn, and she'd been able to sponge them off until they were more-or-less presentable. That seemed a near-miracle, considering the falls she'd taken. For a moment she wished for Saks Fifth Avenue and a full wallet. She shook her head and put fresh dressings on her hands. They were healing without infection, and now that she'd been moving them they hurt less. Her jaw was better, too.

  As she brushed her hair, she tried to relax. But her muscles were knots. That's when she heard a painful silence inside herself—

  Her music was gone. For as long as she could recall, music had flowed through her in a constant, beautiful river. Instead words now bombarded her. She couldn't stop them because she had to analyze what was really going on. That left no room for music and the life she'd had. Yearning filled her. Would she ever be able to play again? To thrill in music? She'd lost everything else. Suddenly, she realized how alone she was.

  Sam was in the small living room. The overstuffed furniture was comfortable and charming, with wingbacks and arched wooden legs. Shelves of books in English and Russian covered one wall, many in rich leather bindings with gold lettering. With its handsome low tables and tall lamps, it was a room that obviously had been lived in and enjoyed. Even though Sam had said the apartment had been closed for months, the air had only a slightly stale scent . . . and the lingering memory of aromatic pipe tobacco.

  She carried in the gun she'd picked up at his apartment house in Alexandria.

  He hung up the phone. "I'm expecting two calls. One's from Oyster Bay. A friend of mine from the Company may call to let us know what he's found out about Maya Stern and the employment service. The other's from Prague. I have a colleague who's a professor at Charles University there. On the side, he strings for the Company. He's going to check out the source of those ledger pages."

  She was impressed. "You've been busy."

  "Can't let life get boring."

  She snorted. "That's unlikely. Where can you show me how to shoot?"

  But he was studying her. His gaze made her feel uncomfortably aware of how attractive she found him.

  He decided, "We've got to change your appearance. Now that your picture's in the paper, it's going to be even harder to move around. Come on." He led her through the room where he'd slept. There was a queen-sized bed with a white lace coverlet and the usual bedside tables and bureaus. But on the wall hung an exquisite antique icon, obviously Russian—a Madonna and child from the fifteenth or sixteenth century.

  He was crouching in the bathroom at the cabinet under the sink. He pulled out a bottle of squeeze-on shoe polish "Ah-ha. Just what we need. Makeover magic."

  She sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned over her, working quickly on her hair. She watched the muscles ripple invitingly beneath his tight black T-shirt. She closed her eyes. No longer distracted by his chest, she smelted his breath—peppermint toothpaste.

  "Crest," she told him.

  "Huh?" He was concentrating.

  "You brushed your teeth with Crest this morning."

  He paused. "You're right. You could smell it on me, and then you identified it?"

  "Of course."

  "So your memory of smell is highly developed, too." He resumed his work. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he lifted a few strands of her hair, whitened them, and then repeated the process.

  "All of them are. I told you. Other-sense seeing."

  He stood back, and the warmth of his body receded in a wave. For a moment, she felt bereft.

  "I like it," he decided. "Take a look. It's an old theatrical trick."

  She stood at the bathroom mirror. He'd done a remarkable job. She was suddenly a decade older, her gray hair making her look almost schoolmarmish.

  He was rummaging through a side cabinet. He handed her a small bag. "My mother's got hair pins and stuff in here. Can you pull your hair back?"

  Without speaking, she returned to the mirror. At first she was going to create a French twist like her mother's. After all, she knew how to do that. But she couldn't quite make herself. Instead she found a rubber band, formed a pony tail high on the back of her head, twirled the hair around the base, and pinned it down in a severe bun.

  He was watching. She could feel his gaze intense and analytical. He handed glasses to her. "Try these on. The lenses are regular glass. I found them in a stage kit in my grandfather's room."

  She did and again gazed at herself in the mirror. She nodded. Now she was someone older, wiser, and plainer. She found herself smiling. There was an odd air of piquant mystery about this new Julia with the gray hair, thick tortoiseshell glasses, and solemn face. She looked as if she'd spent a lifetime in a library. A music library, she amended, and then quickly repressed the sense of loss.

  She turned to him. "It feels like me, but it's not quite."

  "You'll fool anyone who doesn't know you well."

  She peered once more into the mirror. This time she caught herself by surprise. "I almost fool myself. You've done a great job. But what about you? Maybe the police don't know you're with me, but the Janitors do."

  "Patience," he said. "Let me in there."

  She watched as he used brown shoe polish to darken his hair. He wiped it on in fat streaks. Soon the pale yellow was transformed into chocolate. He combed the color through and delicately wiped the smallest teeth of the comb over his eyebrows. Now they were brown, too. He took glasses from his pocket. They had wire frames. "My own," he explained. "I'm supposed to wear them for reading." He put them on.

  He turned to face her.

  She stepped back. "It's amazing. You actually lo
ok like a natural brunette. Tell me while you can still remember, do blonds have more fun?"

  "Depends who they're with." He layered the words with meaning. And he grimaced. He couldn't believe he'd done that. "So you think it works?"

  She nodded. As his pale hair had grown heavier with color, his body had seemed to grow heavier, too. He didn't look quite as tall, lanky, or— "You're different. How did you do that?"

  "Practice. You are what you think you are. I thought short, fat, and broad. Your body follows your mind, if you've worked at it long enough."

  "Company training."

  "All the way. Ready to learn to shoot that cannon?"

  "My Walther." She'd read the make on the barrel. Anticipation rushed through her. "I thought you'd never ask."

  They went into the kitchen, where Sam rummaged through cabinets until he found an old flashlight. "Okay, let's go down to the theater."

  33

  10:00 AM GREENWICH MEAN TIME, SUNDAY

  ALOFT OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

  In the Concorde, there was no physical sensation of going through the sound barrier. Only when the reheats had kicked in shortly after takeoff did Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Staffeld feel a slight nudge, but his goblet of fresh-squeezed orange juice remained unspilled. Other than the aircraft and spacecraft of the military and the various space programs, the Concorde was the fastest anyone could travel on the planet, cruising twelve miles up at 1,350 miles per hour—twice the speed of sound. Under other circumstances, Staffeld would've enjoyed his first supersonic journey. But not this morning.

  Thinking rapidly, he sat unmoving in his wide, comfortable seat next to a window. The papers from the briefcase his tormenter had left in the locker at Heathrow lay face-down on his lap. The jet held a hundred passengers, but it was only half full, and he had no seatmate. However, the flight attendant was overly solicitous. He was taking no chances she'd spot the dicey material that could destroy presidential front-runner Douglas Powers. . . and him.