Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  As she sat in the car, the odd odor seemed to curl around her. Inside her heart, massive blocks creaked and adjusted. Her pulse pumped with excitement—

  But it wasn't just her pulse.

  Feet were pounding . . . across the lobby toward the garage.

  Maya Stern and her two men had broken out. They were coming to kill her.

  She told herself to stay calm. Calm. She made herself breathe. She listened to the music and put her hands on the steering wheel.

  With every ounce of concentration, she brought herself back to the odd odor. . . to the sense of titanic change . . .

  She was as blind as ever. She could see nothing at all—

  And then an idea that had no grounds that she could perceive flew into her mind like a friendly ghost: I don't need to punish myself any longer.

  She didn't know what that was about. But on the wings of the thought, something old and painful seemed to release, and—

  Her eyes felt warm, liquid.

  She held her breath, hoping—

  A streak of radiant light fastened itself on the horizon of her gaze.

  And the door to the garage slammed open and steps thundered toward her.

  There was no more time. She had to have faith her sight was coming back. Her foot hit the accelerator, and the old Chevy blasted toward the open doors.

  PART THREE

  THE AMBER ROOM

  39

  4:20 PM, SUNDAY

  NEW YORK CITY

  Geoffrey Staffeld strode into the small meeting room at one of New York's grand dowager hotels—the Plaza. He wanted this distinguished setting with its miles of gold leaf and lush carpeting because he was about to lie his frigging head off.

  He spread his documents on the podium and looked out at the unsmiling group of journalists. His face was sober and solemn to underline the enormity of what he was about to reveal, and the even greater enormity of a chief superintendent of august Scotland Yard coming alone to America to interfere in their domestic politics against all protocol and the express orders of his government.

  As instructed, he'd called each reporter individually and convinced them to attend for both of the above reasons, but only after he was sure the Redmonds' six million dollars was safely in Colombia. Instantly he'd had two million dollars wired on to Felix Turkov's account in Liechtenstein. Turkov was his pit bull and had promised to leave Irkutsk immediately—which meant several flights across Russia and the Atlantic. He was supposed to arrive in Manhattan around noon tomorrow.

  Fired from the KGB after the Soviet collapse, Turkov had been without substantial resources ever since, an outcast in a new world where Soviet spies with chests full of medals were lucky to get jobs as waiters, janitors, and security guards. He'd tried to mainstream himself. He'd failed. And Staffeld had squeaked him out of a very dicey jam in London where it had been certain the old Cold War killer would've gone to prison. With his sudden acquisition of two million dollars, Turkov had said he'd happily kill Redmonds if needed. He'd also promised to protect Staffeld's back as he escaped the city.

  With a torrent of misgivings, Staffeld had faced the fact he'd never be able to resume his old life in London. Now it was reorganization time, and with the flexibility that'd always been one of his strengths, he knew exactly what to do. The six million dollars the Redmonds still owed him would enable Calla and him to disappear and have a life far more splendid than either had ever imagined. Plus it would afford him occasional forays into the underworld of sex he knew he'd always need.

  Therefore, it was vital Staffeld did today's job exceedingly well.

  Now he gazed grimly at his audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, what I am about to tell you will seem strange coming from a British citizen, but our two countries have had a special relationship since before the days you colonists revolted—" There were a few smiles."—and I have always subscribed to the principle we must continue those strong ties. Everyone in America wants to elect the right chap for president on Tuesday. I am here to tell you that Douglas Powers is not the right one . . . and why."

  They perked up at that. Two flashes exploded white light at him. In the back of the room, film cameras whirred.

  "I've brought some documents for you," he continued, repeating the memorized script that had been in the briefcase he'd picked up at Heathrow. "They corroborate and add to what the Sunday Times first revealed, which is essentially what you read in your morning papers today. Two are photos of Powers with some of his prey. You'll see intelligence from Amsterdam and Belgrade that shows more instances of his reprehensible past—"

  "Wait a minute!" One of the men in the front row shook his head vehemently. "How can we believe you? You should've brought this to the public months ago." The journalist's square face radiated suspicion.

  A woman was skeptical. "Coming forth now is too damn convenient. You've left Douglas Powers precious little time to refute anything before the election!"

  The other reporters studied Staffeld, their features stern. Several moved restlessly, as if they were ready to jump up and leave.

  Staffeld nodded. This was a crucial hump. Vince Redmond could hand him all the prepared words, and he could make them sound sincere, but in the end it was up to him to make certain they believed in him personally. He pulled himself up so he'd be taller behind the podium. Stout, plain, and a little rough around the edges, he looked every inch the streetwise professional.

  "Quite," he said calmly, as he continued with the prepared speech. "Delighted you checked on me. Always wise to know a source's background. This is what happened: When the news appeared in the London papers this morning, I heard from two Cold War sources I've kept in touch with since my days at MI6, which I'm sure all of you know is our overseas intelligence arm. They wanted to get their documents out. I could've taken it all to Whitehall, and the top hats there would've no doubt sent it on to your Justice boys. But we know how bloody long it takes the wheels of bureaucracies to grind. By the time both governments had passed it through the usual channels, Powers would be president. I believe that would serve neither nation well, considering the debauchery and, yes, outright criminality involved."

  The word "criminality'' got their attention, as Staffeld and Vince Redmond had known it would. Some reporters nodded. Others began to shout questions: "What kind of crime?" "What was his source?" His explanation had made sense, and their demeanor relaxed a fraction, but their faces remained suspicious. The morning's newspapers and newscasts had set the fuse for Powers's political death. But it was up to Staffeld to convincingly ignite it.

  "The reporter for the Sunday Times misinterpreted the documents his source gave him," Staffeld went on gravely. "For instance, the ledger sheets from Prague show Powers's name next to those with whom he allegedly had paid sex." He held up a sheet and pointed to two names. "Ján and Zora are good examples. They are also, alas, good examples of our ignorance in Britain and the States. It shows how little we know about the Czech language, and to the best of my knowledge, no one thought to check. Those aren't females' names. According to my information, Powers never did business with call girls. He's a pederast. He specializes in little boys."

  A low rumble of shock rolled through the audience. An endless stream of flashbulbs burst in Geoffrey Staffeld's face. The air was thick with horror and fascination. As soon as Staffeld began to speak again, the reporters turned silent, utterly focused, making notes rapidly.

  Staffeld continued, "Obviously it was crucial to expose this not just because of moral issues, but because molesters are so open to blackmail and much of this material is already in dangerous hands." He held up the Prague photo in which Powers climbed into a limo with a sex kingpin and his whore of the moment. "Here you see young boys lined up to get in with them." He held up a picture from Belgrade, Yugoslavia, in which Powers had draped his arms around the shoulders of two little blond boys who appeared to be eight years old. He was escorting them into a seedy-looking hotel. "This lodging is infamous as a by-the-hour rental f
or perverted sex acts of all kinds."

  In reality, both photos had been taken of Staffeld himself without his knowledge. Someone in the Redmonds' employ had electronically digitized in Powers's body and face instead. But Staffeld didn't think about that. To be believed, he must believe the lies he told. And at that moment, facing the suspicious press and the end of his life as he knew it, Staffeld had convinced himself every word he spoke was God's truth.

  Somberly, Staffeld described the orgy in Monaco that the Sunday Times had reported. "They left out a critical fact. The children who were there weren't simply witnesses. Powers raped one." Next he read from a sworn document by a hashish dealer in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. It was written in Dutch, and Staffeld gave them the translation supposedly made by his old MI6 contact, but probably provided by some Redmond stooge: " 'I acted as guide to Powers on two trips into Wallen, where he used two boys for his purposes. . . .'" Wallen was Amsterdam's red-light district where sex and drugs were the main commerce. People flocked there from throughout Europe much as U. S. gamblers descended on Las Vegas and Atlantic City.

  Staffeld concluded, "Personally, I think we must believe these documents and photos because most of them come from official reports and files, they're unsolicited, and they come from so many diverse sources. What the American people want to do about them is their choice. I am simply fulfilling what I felt was my duty to a sister democracy the only way I could do it in time. No matter what happens to me at home, I am comfortable." He paused to look both staunch and humble. Then he said quietly and with great dignity, "Are there questions?"

  Instantly a reporter in the back asked for copies.

  "I have none," Staffeld explained. He was on his own, no scripted words to speak. To answer the questions, he had to draw on his common sense and what he'd already said. "But you're welcome to photograph everything. I must keep the originals to make certain they remain safe." The implication was, of course, that Powers would destroy them if he could.

  The room erupted with more questions. They wanted to know in detail what kind of acts were involved. Was there penetration? Were the children known prostitutes? Were there warrants out for Powers's arrest?"

  Excitement coursed through Staffeld. The questions all indicated he was succeeding. Visions of his new, wealthy life flitted alluringly before his eyes. "Yes, the documents stipulate to penetration. Sodomy, too. Only the Prague boys were identified as prostitutes. I personally know of no warrants for Powers. However, that doesn't mean there aren't any. Part of the problem seems to have been he indulged in his sorry deeds under different pseudonyms in Amsterdam and Belgrade and probably elsewhere, too. And, of course, you noted he was arrested briefly in Monaco and then released. The child disappeared, and there wasn't enough evidence to hold him."

  "Were any other crimes involved?"

  Staffeld made himself hesitate. He allowed shock to swell his blunt features. This was one more little bomb he'd been instructed to ignite. "Well, yes, possibly so. The worst of all, so you chaps will understand why it's not something I like to think about in regards to a man so close to occupying your White House." He heaved a sigh. "My Amsterdam source claims Powers killed a child during one of his sex games. The body was never found, but the city's criminal underground claims Powers did it."

  A thrill shuddered through the room. There had been a time not long ago when reporters published no allegations without corroboration from at least two other legitimate sources. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein adhered to that strict principle all through their trailblazing investigation of Watergate. In those days journalism was a high calling, and scandal and gossip were relegated to columns in the feature section and next to the comics. Without two additional sources, no reputable news outlet would've published Staffeld's charges in those days, much less printed them on the front page.

  But that was history. Reporters grabbed for cell phones to call editors. TV cameramen rushed to get their film into darkrooms. Still photographers fought to take close-ups of the documents. Noise, confusion, and elation filled the room until the very walls seemed to tremble, because everyone there knew that even if their editors questioned the reliability of Chief Superintendent Staffeld, in the end they'd print and broadcast his allegations simply because if they didn't, someone else would. There was no point holding out. Within an hour, the story would explode upon the U.S. public.

  4:58 PM, SUNDAY

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  Sam was in an agony of rage and worry. Life had just done one of those flips that turned the world inside out. And it was all his fault. He never should've left Julia alone. He definitely never should've called Pink. He might've known from Pink's reaction the first time that he figured Sam was being reckless and could hurt the Company, and that in the end Pink couldn't withstand the pressure of authority.

  It made Sam furious, but Pink's betrayal paled next to his fear for Julia. She had to be alive. An icy hand seemed to grip his chest.

  When he finally skidded to a frantic stop outside the old theater, he was sweaty and his heart was thundering. But no police or suspicious cars waited outside. There were only the usual drifters, druggies, and sad, dirty kids.

  He ran to the garage. It'd been broken into. He grabbed his gun, peered up and down the alley, and slipped inside. The overhead lightbulbs were ablaze.

  And his mother's car was gone. He wasn't sure yet what that meant.

  Stealthy as a jaguar, he padded to the door that led into the theater. He turned off the lights in the garage so he wouldn't be backlighted. He cracked open the door and listened. He tried to use all his senses, as Julia had described. But all he could hear was his pulse throbbing in his ears, and all he could smell was the dry odors of time and dust. With a sick feeling, he slid into the lobby and followed the wall to the candy counter. He stopped again. Still he heard nothing.

  He wanted to call her name. Bellow it.

  He spotted his grandfather's book at the foot of the steps. He padded toward it. It was open, left as if someone would be right back. He stared down. On one page was text, but on the other were photos of jewelry—a large ring and two brooches. He stared at the ring. It was an alexandrite, and it had tiny blue stones attached on the side. Maybe it was Julia's ring . . . the one she'd said her grandfather Austrian had given her. Then with a jolt he remembered that she'd told him she thought the ring was the trigger that had plunged her into blindness.

  Fear shook him. But he pushed it away. All his training. . . everything that he'd been and had used . . . seemed to rush into his brain. His breathing was shallow as he moved quietly up the stairs and stopped at the top. When there was still no sound, he inspected the apartment. Julia's coat and gun were gone. Maybe she'd headed off to see her grandfather Redmond. She'd said that's where she wanted to go. Crazy woman!

  He had one more place to check. He grabbed the flashlight and ran down the steps and into the auditorium. The silence seemed to echo hollowly, painfully.

  "Julia! Julia!"

  Then he smelled the stink of gunpowder. That was one odor he knew intimately. Had she been practicing? Or had she been attacked?

  He moved swiftly down the aisle, following the flashlight's beam. "Julia!"

  The stage was empty, and the storage room door was wide open, just as he'd left it. The steel bar was still attached to the door, but it hung free and dangling. Someone had broken out from inside by shooting through the anchors that held the bracket in place. And then he realized his foot was tacky on the floor. He knelt and felt the drying liquid. It'd been a huge pool. In the glare of the flashlight he stared at his hand. Blood.

  He forced himself to breathe. He shook his head and made a decision. It was true the Janitors could've hauled her body somewhere to dump. But he wouldn't believe it was Julia's blood, because her coat and gun were gone, and so was the Chevy.

  He ran off the stage and up the aisle. In a supreme act of will, he concentrated on her determination to survive and her intelligence. He'd taught her enoug
h that she knew how to shoot. He was going to pretend she'd somehow saved herself. Any other explanation was unacceptable. Pain ripped through his heart. He grabbed his grandfather's book and, flipping off lights, sprinted back out to his car.

  40

  8:16 PM, SUNDAY

  WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NEW YORK

  Tonight was the big night. With luck and the help of Father Michael, old Lyle was going to break out of this stinking prison. He had to conserve strength, so he spent the afternoon dozing and listening to the radio. Even though his station was devoted to classic tunes from the 1930s and 1940s, the news about Douglas Powers was so big that the announcer stopped the program to report it. Shock and grudging admiration rushed through Lyle. Goddammit, Creighton had pulled a fast one. He wasn't sure how, but he knew Creighton had to be behind it.

  Instantly he switched to an all-news station and sat up. Powers's team was denying everything, while Creighton was acting noble, calling upon the American people to wait to pass judgment. The election was less than two days away. If this kept up, Creighton was going to be president.

  Angry and worried, Lyle got up and shuffled into the hall. His great white mane was a halo beneath the fluorescent lights. He roamed back and forth restlessly. Creighton had always been a sonofabitch, worse even than he'd been. He couldn't believe the country was going to be run by his greedy sons—because he knew Creighton wouldn't be doing this alone—with the power of his money.

  He couldn't allow it.

  He had to stop them, but it was going to be tough.

  As night sent long purple shadows across the Westchester hills surrounding the nursing home, he fought with himself. Nails seemed to jab his chest. Somehow he'd screwed up bad. Marguerite was dead, and Creighton had to be behind that, too. And now his granddaughter Julia was being hunted for killing some New York shrink. That stank of Creighton's dirty fingers again.

  He couldn't believe all the troubles. He knew he'd done terrible things . . . events flashed through his mind like a news reel. . . but he'd never done anything as grossly despicable as Creighton had. He wondered how he could've missed what Creighton had become. But the depths of his son's savagery had hit him only last year when the conservatorship papers were served on him and he found himself fighting all of his boys to prove his sanity.