She was blond, young, and pretty, and wore a pink silk skirt and a neat little white Chanel jacket. Her high-heeled sandals were flimsy and impractical for traveling. She carried a very large shapeless purse, the latest in fashion, and wore dark Chanel sunglasses with rhinestones on the sides.
At the curb, three vintage Louis Vuitton suitcases were lined up with a rather serviceable large blue L.L.Bean rolling suitcase. Black duct tape had been pasted over the monogram of the nylon suitcase.
The couple quickly moved to the taxi. The woman entered first, and turned her back on the street-side window. The man blocked the view from the hotel by standing in front of the open door and holding a folded raincoat over his arm.
“Chérie, have you brought everything?” Charles said, leaning into the taxi. He gave her a wink. Then he stood up and, speaking in French so the driver could hear, added, “I hope you have everything. I checked the room twice.”
The woman didn’t respond. Cordelia had absolutely no idea what he was saying. But if she didn’t reply, there was no way anyone could tell she wasn’t French.
Charles and the driver got into the car.
“Saint Pancras Station,” he told the driver with a heavy French accent. “We are taking the Eurostar home to Paris.”
“Right you are, sir,” the cabdriver said as he looked in the mirror at the couple. The woman was tall and slim, dressed very stylishly. He couldn’t see her face clearly because the man was leaning over to caress her blond hair. They were clearly Parisians. The French sure knew about romance. He averted his eyes and took on the snarl of London traffic.
Cordelia and Charles walked into the historic St. Pancras Station in the heart of London. The majestic train depot had been refurbished, and now functioned as the hub for the high-speed trains that traveled under the English Channel to Paris.
The soaring structure dated to 1868—the height of the Victorian era, and only seven years after Queen Victoria lost her beloved Prince Albert to typhoid fever. The original design of the famous train shed by William Barlow was a giant steel rib cage of arches, towering and distinctive, one hundred feet high. This morning, dozens of trains were running in and out under the historic dome. The streamlined Eurostar, with its characteristic aerodynamic nose, was ready for boarding. Charles and Cordelia found their way to coach 17 and settled into their assigned seats.
“I’m sorry we are traveling standard class,” Charles apologized. “The full-service car has meals and drinks. But there are stewards. Back here no one will pay any attention to us.”
At that moment, two college students took the seats across from them and began stowing their gear. A woman with a baby sat down in front of them.
Cordelia looked around. “This is very comfortable. It’s like business class on a plane.”
“I like the Eurostar so much better than flying,” said Charles. “This train goes a hundred sixty miles an hour. We’ll be at my mother’s house in Paris in two and a half hours.”
Cordelia sighed. “Thanks for doing this, Charles. I’m sorry I argued with you and John so much last night. I know it wasn’t pleasant. But it made me so angry that he was leaving me behind.”
“We have to play it safe, Cordelia. John is right. You need to disappear until he can find the deed.”
“I know, but I hated leaving him this morning. I’m so worried about him.”
“Sinclair can take care of himself. You have no idea how tough he is.”
“I do, actually. I got a glimpse of what he is made of in London,” Cordelia said.
“Well, just to make things clear between us. I’m counting on you to save me if things get ugly,” Charles said with a wink.
“I will.” She smiled.
“Now if you don’t think I’m getting too fresh, I am going to sit a bit closer to you. Then I am going to put my arm around you.” He moved to cradle her with his left arm, turning her toward the window and blocking the view of her face from the aisle.
“We don’t want anyone getting a look at you. Why don’t you put your head back on my shoulder and take a nice little nap.”
She adjusted her position to keep her face turned away from the aisle. But she felt awkward leaning on Charles. She giggled with embarrassment.
“This is so weird, playing at being a couple like this. I hope you don’t mind. Tell me if I am crushing you.”
“I never had it so good,” said Charles, “and you are not crushing me, you are light as a feather.”
“By the way, your shoulder is not nearly as comfortable as John’s, I’ll have you know,” teased Cordelia.
“Oh, go ahead and complain, why don’t you? I’m totally outclassed by that guy all the time. You’ll just have to put up with me until he gets back.”
He gave her shoulder a squeeze.
“Charles, why is your French so good?” she asked.
“I’m French,” he said.
“You are?” she said, nearly turning around. He pushed her back into place.
“Yes, my mother is French. She lives in Paris, remember.”
“Oh, right, I hadn’t really focused on that. Your accent in English is so perfectly American. I would have guessed you were from New England.”
He laughed. “You would have been half right. I went to boarding school in Connecticut.”
“Why?”
“My father is American.”
Cordelia felt him shift uncomfortably. “Where does he live?”
His voice was strained as he continued. “I actually never met him. He never acknowledged me. Officially, that is. But he set up a trust fund for my education and insisted I spend my teen years in the States.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I am what is commonly referred to as a bastard.”
She winced in embarrassment. Luckily he could not see her face. There was a long silence.
“Well, aren’t we a pair? I’m an orphan,” Cordelia said, and patted his arm. “Anyway, I would swear you were American.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, and lapsed into silence.
Within minutes, the train glided out of the station. They sped through the London suburbs, flying past gleaming modern towers and then clusters of apartment buildings. By the time they were skimming across the verdant English countryside, Cordelia was fast asleep in Charles’s arms.
Sinclair sat in the lobby of Claridge’s. He was packed, checked out, and ready to go. A tall, dark-haired woman walked in wearing a neat little Burberry raincoat, low-heeled navy blue pumps, and carrying the same quilted Dior bag Cordelia had. She also had a green Harrods shopping bag on her arm.
She walked right up to Sinclair and kissed him on the cheek.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, darling. I’m ready to go.”
Sinclair stood up and put an arm around her waist.
“Cordelia, thank goodness you’re here. The bags are already in the limousine. We have to hurry if we want to make our flight.”
They walked out of the hotel together and slowly started toward the limousine. As she reached it, the woman paused and looked up and down the street. Sinclair made himself conspicuous tipping the porter and the doorman. Any observer would have gotten a good look at both of them. They got in and the car pulled away into traffic. Sinclair leaned forward and asked the driver to put up the glass partition. Then he turned to his companion.
“Thaddeus did a great job. You look just like her,” Sinclair said admiringly.
The woman smiled. “I’m really a redhead. This is a wig. We copied the picture you gave us, for the hair and makeup. And there were a few surveillance photos of her clothes.”
“You have her to perfection. By the way, we also came up with a pretty good transformation for Cordelia. She looks totally different.”
“How so?”
“She’s a blonde. And she’s wearing a pink dress and those high-heeled shoes with the straps—you know the kind I’m talking about?”
“That is quite a cha
nge.”
There was an awkward pause. She shifted in her seat, looking at Sinclair. She seemed to be assessing him.
“I should introduce myself,” the woman said. “I’m Erin Burke.”
“Nice to meet you, Erin. If you will forgive me, I will avoid shaking your hand just now, as the driver might notice and find it odd.”
“You’ll have to settle for this,” Erin said, leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the lips, running her hand down his chest, inside the lapel of his suit.
“Watch it, lady, I’m taken,” Sinclair said to her in a low voice.
“Maybe so, but for the next couple of days we have to pretend,” Erin said flirtatiously.
“Pretend away,” said Sinclair. With a faint smile of amusement, he turned away and looked out the window.
Paris
It was gray and raining when the train pulled into the Gare du Nord. Charles shook her gently, and Cordelia woke feeling tired and achy.
“Did I miss going under the Channel?” she asked in disappointment.
“I’m afraid you did,” he said. “We’re in Paris.”
She sat up. “Oh, Charles, I was so tired, I just crashed. I am so sorry.”
“I rather enjoyed it. I like women who don’t talk much.”
She laughed and straightened her skirt, pulling down her jacket. She must look like a real mess. The wig was itchy, and her eyes burned.
“I’ll grab a porter. Why don’t you wait here?”
“Okay,” she said, glad for a moment to pull herself together. Why did she feel so sluggish?
She pulled out her compact and looked at herself. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. The wig was a fright. No use trying to comb her hair, but she found lip gloss in her monstrous snakeskin purse and applied it.
The only thing she was wearing that she actually liked was her necklace. In her compact mirror she reviewed the lovely amulet Sinclair had bought her in Turkey.
Cordelia thought of Sinclair, and felt a jolt of fear. She hoped he was safe. Suddenly she looked around and the train was empty. Why was Charles taking so long?
She looked around nervously, and caught sight of Charles coming back along the aisle. Dear Charles, no wonder Sinclair was so fond of him. He really was adorable.
“Ready to go meet my mother, Delia ? I’m sure she is going to love you.”
Cordelia smiled at him.
“Something tells me you are going to play this one to the hilt.”
“You bet,” he admitted. “It’s not every day I get to take a gorgeous girl like you home to the family cottage.”
Of course, his home on the rue de Vaugirard was hardly a cottage. It was located in the 6th Arrondissement—one of the central sections of the city, on the left bank of the Seine. The apartment was in the grand style she had seen only in glossy magazines such as Architectural Digest. The Bonnard household took up the second and third floors of the large Haussmann-style building. The classic immeuble had a façade of cut stone, topped by a slate mansard roof—typical of much of the architecture of Paris. The second, or “noble,” floor had balconies looking out over the adjacent Luxembourg Garden.
Cordelia walked into the entrance hall and saw that there were high ceilings with plaster moldings. Beautiful carved oak doors opened to the entrance hall. That was where Charles’s mother chose to greet them, in a gracious but formal way.
She was a tiny woman dressed in a mauve skirt and a cream satin blouse, pearls, and hair upswept in a classic French chignon. As Cordelia approached she noticed the older woman’s face was high-cheekboned and patrician. But it was her bearing that defined her as aristocratic.
Suddenly Cordelia felt nervous about meeting Madame Bonnard, especially in her disguise. But her anxiety was dispelled instantly as Madame Bonnard clasped her hand.
“Charles has told me so much about you, my dear. Please come in. I am delighted to have you here in my home.”
Her greeting was suddenly interrupted by a massive wolf bounding into the hall. All gray fur and long limbs, he launched himself at Charles. Charles grappled with giant paws as he tried to prevent the animal from jumping on him.
“Watson, down,” he said, ruffling the dog’s harsh coat. “Sorry, Cordelia, I should have remembered to tell you about Watson.”
Cordelia had realized by now it was a dog.
“That is the biggest dog I have ever seen in my entire life. Is it a Great Dane?” she asked.
“Watson is a wolfhound. An Irish wolfhound,” Charles said. “Although Mother just calls him ‘the animal.’ “ He pronounced it with a French accent.
Madame Bonnard laughed. “When Charles calls me on the phone, I always tell him how much trouble the animal is causing.”
As if he knew the word animal, Watson fell back down on all fours and seemed chastened. He looked at Cordelia speculatively, but she was too intimidated by his size to pat his head.
“Don’t be afraid. He’s a big baby. He will grow on you. You’ll see,” assured Charles.
“Do come in. I’m keeping you standing in the foyer,” said Madame Bonnard.
They walked past the grand curved marble staircase into the main salon of the apartment. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the Luxembourg Garden. The view of the formal flower beds and verdant lawns gave the illusion that the apartment was on a country estate, yet Cordelia knew the Eiffel Tower was only a few dozen blocks away.
Madame Bonnard sat in one of the upright chairs and indicated that Cordelia should sit next to her. A housekeeper in a white smock came in and offered tea, coffee, or chocolate. She told Cordelia her room was prepared; the front bedroom to the right of the stairs.
After a moment Charles excused himself, saying to his mother, “I’ll just pop in on Clothilde to say hi.”
The housekeeper returned.
“Madame is wanted on the telephone.”
Madame Bonnard left the room to take the call, saying she would be right back. The room became absolutely quiet.
The wolfhound sat regarding her, as silent as a sphinx. He blinked at her but didn’t move.
“Good boy, Watson,” she said.
She started looking around the room, decorated in a classic French style. The chairs and furniture were delicate and formal, with a beautiful gold Aubusson on the floor that looked antique. Small bombé chests lined the walls, over which hung gilded mirrors. Cordelia noticed the three crystal chandeliers were sending fireflies of reflection on the ceiling and walls in the afternoon sun.
She wondered where Sinclair was and what he was doing.
Oslo, Norway
Sinclair walked arm in arm with Erin Burke through the airport in Oslo, Norway. He hated everything about this operation. He hated leaving Cordelia behind, and the gnawing fear that he was exposing her to some kind of danger. He hated the subterfuge of being with this woman. He especially hated that he’d had to lie to Charles.
Well, he hadn’t exactly lied, but Charles and Cordelia had no idea he was traveling with an American agent. They thought he was just going up to Svalbard to talk to some Norwegian officials to try to locate the deed. What he was doing now was probably the most dangerous part of this whole affair. Thaddeus had explained that any “independent actor” who was after the deed would trail them. That was why Erin had to go, and not Cordelia. This operation would require a serious agent who could defend herself.
Thank God Cordelia had agreed. The less she knew about what he was going to do, the safer she was. A nice quiet stay in Paris with Charles’s mother would be perfectly fine.
Sinclair had no compunctions about making Erin a target. Her role was to draw out the aggressors and force them into the open. Erin not only expected a dangerous encounter, she was hoping for it. And she was physically perfect for the job; she could pass for Cordelia, even at close range.
He knew it was trivial, but he hated having to playact an affectionate relationship with her. He was not attracted to her in any real way, and her proximity was sta
rting to wear on him.
He had observed her on the flight from London. She had reclined in the airline seat on the first leg of the flight reading the National Geographic magazine that Frost had provided as a prop. Her legs were stretched out on the leg rest, alongside his. She wasn’t really reading. She was lying in wait for any sign of interest. He could feel the tension in her body as she sat next to him. He resolved not to speak to her.
He had run his eyes down the muscles on Erin’s legs; they were strong and lean. She was a beautiful woman, but he also had a suspicion she could break his neck at the slightest provocation. Her arm under the raincoat had been pure steel; this was no woman, this was a fighting weapon. He laughed at the thought that Thaddeus should think he needed this kind of protection. He didn’t need Erin to protect him; he needed protection from Erin.
Now, on the last leg of the trip from Oslo to Longyearbyen, she had removed her shoes, and Sinclair had noticed her toenails were painted a most provocative bloodred. Cordelia would never wear that color. But that was not the only false note; Cordelia would never kick off her shoes and sit with bare feet on an airplane. It was a mistake that only Sinclair would have detected. He sat thinking about Cordelia; she was refined and elegant to every fiber of her being. And he missed her.
How were she and Charles getting on? He did not dare call for fear his phone transmission would be intercepted. If he needed to call Charles, they would pretend to talk about foundation business, using the code words environmental project to indicate the deed. And Sinclair had also promised not to call until he got to Longyearbyen, the small town on the island of Svalbard. It was just a speck of land high above the Arctic Circle—in the northernmost region on planet Earth. And when they landed, he knew, he had very little time to find the deed.
Paris
Madame Bonnard was seated next to Cordelia and pouring tea. The blend was a special mix by Fauchon, and the madeleines had just the right amount of lemon zest. Madame Bonnard lifted the lid of the teapot to check its strength and added a small amount of hot water.
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