“I suppose John liked that,” Cordelia said, laughing.
“Actually, his work inspired it. About seven years ago he was involved in an archaeological excavation on Cyprus. They uncovered the world’s oldest perfume flasks—about four thousand years old. According to legend, Cyprus is the birthplace of Aphrodite.”
Cordelia gasped. “Wait, I just realized! Aphrodite!!! That’s a world-famous perfume!”
“Yes, well, she made it specifically to seduce Sinclair. She analyzed the remnants of the herbs he found in the ampules on the island—things like extracts of anise, pine, coriander, bergamot, almond.”
“How incredibly clever,” observed Cordelia.
“And then she mixed in some modern scents also,” added Clothilde. “And believe me, Sinclair went wild for it. Charles told me he found it irresistible.”
“I tried it in the department store,” Cordelia admitted. “It is very sensual.”
“It worked. Sinclair and Brindy were together for several more years after that,” concluded Clothilde.
Cordelia stayed silent.
“Maybe I should not have told you all of this.”
“No,” said Cordelia firmly. “My eyes are wide open. Your mother warned me about John’s reputation.”
“Did you mind?”
“Not really. She also told me about Charles’s father.”
“She did!” exclaimed Clothilde. “Well, she must like you a lot. I didn’t find out until I was thirteen.”
“She told me Charles’s father is a senator in the States. But Alphonse Bonnard was your father, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. He died in a plane crash,” Clothilde said. “I survived.” She looked down at her legs again and said no more.
Just then Charles came sprinting up with Watson. They were running so fast they both looked as if they were flying.
“Sinclair just called. He has found the deed!” he said, breathless.
“He did! That is great!” Cordelia cried out. “Can I speak to him?”
“He couldn’t talk,” Charles said. “Anyway, he doesn’t want to say too much on the phone.”
“He didn’t ask for me?” asked Cordelia, disappointed.
“He did. But he had to go,” Charles said. “Anyway, there’s no time for this! We have to leave immediately to get a flight to Longyearbyen, today.”
She looked at Charles’s face. He was flushed from the run, his collar was crooked, and his hair was mussed. He was smiling broadly at them both. How young, handsome, and full of life.
Charles was talking to the SAS ticket agent at Charles de Gaulle Airport. There was a three-hour flight to Oslo with a good connection for another three-hour trip on to the Arctic town of Longyearbyen. They could be there by late that afternoon.
Charles handed over both of their passports, taking Cordelia’s from her in a very proprietary way. He was playing the part of her lover to perfection. She would swear he was enjoying this charade immensely.
She had discovered a lot about Charles during their time together in Paris. For one thing, she now knew why he was always dressed to perfection; Clothilde picked out his clothes. Cordelia looked down at her own hunter green suede, three-quarter-length princess-cut coat. It had been Clothilde’s, but she had insisted Cordelia take it.
“It’s perfect for the Arctic,” she had explained. “I don’t wear it anymore. I used to wear it for après-ski in Gstaad.”
Cordelia tried to protest.
“I insist. You will need something warm to wear, and it goes with your beautiful green eyes.”
Cordelia reached down to squeeze her hand. “Thank you so much, you have been so kind.”
“We hope to see you again sometime,” Clothilde had said.
Cordelia saw the hope in her eyes. Clothilde wanted her to take a romantic interest in her brother. Cordelia had to admit there was nothing that Charles Bonnard lacked in terms of charm, intelligence, and humor. But he was not Sinclair.
She missed Sinclair’s quiet strength. She missed the way he narrowed his eyes when he was thinking, and the way he absently stroked her hair when they were lying together. She loved his incredible mind, and the way he made love to her.
She even adored the things he didn’t do: he would never keep up conversation just to fill the silence. He let so much go unsaid, yet never failed to do the perfect thing. Despite all the warnings about him, she loved Sinclair with all her heart.
Charles turned back to her and took her arm. “We’re all set, it’s gate four.”
By the time they reached Oslo, Charles agreed it was perfectly safe for Cordelia to shed her disguise. After all, she would have to resume her real identity in Longyearbyen in order to claim the deed. In the terminal, between flights, she headed to the ladies’ room to take off her wig.
“Don’t be too long. The plane boards in five minutes,” he cautioned.
When she returned, he glanced up at her and smiled. “You look a lot better.”
“I threw it in the trash,” she said. “I never want to see it again.”
Just then his phone began to chime.
“Oui?” he answered.
Charles listened for a moment, and then looked at his watch. He paced in front of the gate, apparently uncertain what to do. Cordelia heard him telling the other person in French that something was impossible. The way he was saying it also needed absolutely no translation. He was angry.
He held his hand up to her in the signal of “give me a moment,” and walked farther away. The conversation became more heated as he paced and argued with the caller. Finally he snapped the phone shut and walked back to her.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice harsh.
“Is everything OK?”
He barked a bitter laugh. His mouth clamped into a stubborn line; he was clearly not going to respond. He began to gather up the bags in an irritated way. She stepped closer to help, but he waved her off, struggling to get all of them by himself. She stood back, perplexed.
“Life can be merde,” he said, hoisting the strap of a bag onto his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
He set off to the gate, carrying all the bags, and Cordelia followed along behind.
Longyearbyen
John Sinclair walked around the perimeter of the Svalbard Museum. The wooden structure was halfway up the mountain—a beautiful vantage point of the village and the sea beyond. Even at this time of year, white chunks of ice were visible in the water in the bay. The museum was locked—as the town clerk had told him it would be—and a handwritten sign in Norwegian and English promised a reopening on Thursday.
Sinclair walked up the wooden steps of the building again and peered in through the glass panes on the door. He could see a small wooden vestibule, a polar bear skin hanging on the wall, and an antique dog sledge propped in the corner. The main room of the museum was through a doorway on the left and out of view. No sense in trying to force his way in. Cordelia needed to claim the deed formally, legally, and in a manner that was above reproach and would stand up in court if challenged. Jim Gardiner would be here by tomorrow, and Cordelia and Charles would be arriving later today.
Flight SK 4414, Oslo to Longyearbyen
Charles sat across the aisle from Cordelia and looked out the window. The whine of the jet engine cut off all conversation. His face was drawn and he was staring straight ahead. The engine revved to full throttle and the plane glided up into the cold Norwegian afternoon. When they attained altitude, she turned to him.
“Charles, is everything OK? Is Sinclair all right?”
“Yes, chérie,” he said. “I’m so sorry to have worried you. Yes, everything is going well with Sinclair. He is meeting us at the airport.”
“Oh, good,” said Cordelia, relieved.
“Sinclair also told me that Jim Gardiner is coming tomorrow, with all the legal documents we need for you to claim the deed. He couldn’t get a connecting flight from London today. There is only one scheduled flight in and out of Longyearbyen every day
.”
“Charles, you seem upset. Is there something I can . . .” She faltered, uncomfortable intruding into a personal matter.
Charles sighed and shook his head. In the bright northern light from the window, Cordelia could see that he was still very angry.
“Charles! Tell me. What is the matter?”
The seat next to him was empty, so she unbuckled her seat belt and slid in beside him.
“What is wrong?” she asked quietly.
“That was Mother on the phone. My father—my real father—has just sent for me, and she wants me to fly to Washington to see him.”
“What for?” Cordelia asked.
“He is in critical condition. He had a car accident, and he finally wants to talk to me.”
“Charles, you should go! Why are you on this flight?”
“It’s too late. It’s too late in many different ways,” he said.
“But he is your father.”
“Yes, but he is doing this for himself. For his own conscience. Well, damn him to hell. It is selfish, and I won’t make him feel better, even if he is on his deathbed.”
Charles was now flushed with anger, sitting stiffly, looking straight ahead.
“Charles! I’m so sorry.”
“I learned a long time ago one must do what is right, not what is easy. I have always tried to have that quality of character that was so lacking in my father.”
Cordelia nodded, not knowing what to say.
“The right thing to do is to make sure you—who have been cheated out of your legacy—can recover the deed to your great-great-grandfather’s property.”
“Charles . . .”
“The wrong thing to do would be to get on a plane to pander to a selfish old man who suddenly has a crisis of conscience thirty-six years too late.”
There were bright pink patches on both his cheeks—a flush of anger. She desperately wanted to hug him, but knew enough not to try.
“Charles, I cannot thank you enough.”
“You do not have to thank me, Cordelia,” he said with dignity. “I do it for you. But I also do it for myself.”
Longyearbyen
The clerk at the Spitsbergen Hotel desk saw Cordelia and turned to take a brass key out of a slot behind him. There were only about twenty old-fashioned slots and the brass keys were dropped off at the desk.
“Here you are, Miss Stapleton.”
“Thank you,” Cordelia said, surprised he would know who she was. “Is Mr. Sinclair back yet?”
“No, he hasn’t been back since this morning.”
Charles finished signing the registration slip and took his key.
“Cordelia, shall we?” he asked, moving toward the stairs with Cordelia’s bag.
“Funny, the desk clerk knew it was me,” Cordelia remarked.
“Sinclair must have told him to keep an eye out for our arrival,” said Charles.
“Where do you suppose he is?” asked Cordelia. “I find it very strange he didn’t meet the flight.”
“I have no idea,” said Charles. “If the key to his room was at the front desk, he must be out.”
The long corridor had a half dozen rooms marked with numbers. Cordelia found room 12 and started to unlock the door. Charles continued down the hall.
Cordelia opened her door and called back over her shoulder.
“See you in a half hour in the lounge, Charles.”
She turned around and opened the door. Once inside the room, she stopped in embarrassed confusion. This room was certainly not his. She looked at the number on the door and the key in her hand. The number 12 was clearly marked on both.
“Charles?” she called down the hall after him. “They’ve given me the wrong key. This can’t be John’s room.”
Charles came over, and they both stood in the doorway of room 12 looking around, perplexed. Cordelia stared at a bra hanging off the arm of the chair. Women’s clothing was spilling out of a suitcase. Makeup and cosmetic jars were scattered all over the bathroom shelf. On the other side of the room, men’s clothing was draped over the chair at the desk, and a large suitcase was on the floor.
“It’s not the right room,” said Charles uncertainly.
“This can’t be John’s room,” agreed Cordelia. “I’ll just go downstairs and tell them.”
Just then she noticed a leather Gladstone bag with the initials JS in gold near the lock.
“That’s John’s bag!” said Cordelia in shock.
They both looked back at the white lace bra on the chair. The rumpled bed had been slept in. Both pillows were wrinkled and crushed. The sheets were in disarray.
Neither said a word. Cordelia looked at the dresser next to the bed. A bottle of Aphrodite perfume was clearly visible, and the discarded red box sat next to it. Charles saw it at the same time, and took action.
“Why don’t you come along to my room for the time being,” Charles said, pulling the door closed. “I am sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation. . . .”
Cordelia mutely followed Charles down the corridor to room 15.
Sinclair looked at his watch and then did a double take. It was six o’clock in the afternoon! He had no idea it was so late. In the high Arctic, the light provided no time cues that the day was passing. With the light uniformly so bright all day, he’d simply lost track of the passage of time. Charles and Cordelia must have landed an hour ago! He was supposed to have met them at the airport. He cursed under his breath as he raced over to the Land Rover. It was at least a twenty-minute drive to the airport.
The airline official shook his head.
“No, they’re gone. I saw them get into a taxi,” he said.
Sinclair waved his thanks to him, and sprinted back to the Land Rover. It would take him at least thirty minutes to get back to the hotel.
Charles walked around his room, checking the heat and opening the drapes. Cordelia sat in the single armchair, hunched over, her elbows on her knees. Neither said a word.
“Let’s go back out to the lobby,” Charles said finally. “I think I saw some coffee out there. I could use some.”
“Did you try his cell phone again?” asked Cordelia.
“I’ll dial it again,” Charles said.
Her mind kept going back to that lacy white bra. Who is she? She thought about the bed—rumpled and incriminating. He had been so insistent that she go to Paris with Charles. And in England he had tried to end the relationship. Was that a feeble attempt at letting her know he could not be faithful?
“His phone battery must be dead. It goes directly to voice mail,” said Charles.
“Charles?” she began.
He looked at her resignedly. “Yes, chérie?” he replied, his tone dismal. His expression suggested he knew what she wanted to ask. His reticence was practically an indictment of Sinclair. Cordelia stood up and walked briskly to the door.
“Come on, Charles, we both need some coffee. Look at it this way; it can’t get any worse for either of us. What else could possibly happen?”
Charles smiled mirthlessly.
Sinclair was driving the final leg of the mountain track to the hotel. He berated himself for being so negligent about the time. It was unthinkable that he had left Charles and Cordelia on their own in Longyearbyen.
The track was rough, and he had to reduce his speed. The narrow road wound back and forth, as steep and serpentine as any switchback he had ever driven in the south of France. There were large boulders on either side of the route, left by seasonal rockfall off the mountain. Large chunks of granite hampered his visibility, and he could see only the dirt track immediately in front of his vehicle.
The Land Rover labored up the incline. As he rounded a blind curve, a figure stepped out from behind a rock. He saw a woman in a green Wind-breaker. It was Erin, standing directly in front of his vehicle, and she waved for him to stop. He pulled up abruptly. She came around to his window.
“Can you give me a ride back to the hotel?” she asked. To his surpri
se, she didn’t seem at all annoyed that he had left her behind. He looked at her closely. Her Windbreaker didn’t seem enough protection against the chill. He also immediately noticed that despite all warnings, she wasn’t carrying a rifle.
“What are you doing out here? Hop in,” he said, reaching across and pushing the passenger door open for her to climb up.
“I can’t believe you aren’t carrying a rifle. Erin, that’s dangerous.”
She hoisted herself into the front seat. Sinclair watched, registering subconsciously that there was something unnatural in the way she was moving. She looked tense; her gait was stiff. Something was wrong. He looked at her face. She returned his gaze, and her eyes signaled a warning.
“Erin, what . . . ?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone dash out from behind the boulder. Another figure sprinted toward the car from the other side of the road. Before he could finish his sentence, two men were in the backseat, behind him.
“Turn around and go back down the mountain,” a male voice said. “I have a gun in your back.” His accent was Russian.
Sinclair flashed a dark look at Erin. “Lady, you are nothing but trouble,” he said.
For the first time since Sinclair met her, she actually looked embarrassed.
In the lounge of the Spitsbergen Hotel there were only two guests. Charles was sprawled in a chair, and Cordelia was standing at the plate-glass window looking out over the landscape. She had been there for an hour without speaking.
Charles finally got up and walked quietly to the front desk, so as not to disturb her. Clearly she had a lot on her mind.
“Excuse me,” Charles asked the young man. “When did you last see John Sinclair?”
“This morning. Is anything wrong?” the young man asked.
Charles took the clerk by the elbow and led him away to the back office, out of earshot.
“The lady over there by the window is Miss Stapleton,” Charles explained.
“I know,” said the clerk.
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