Then another sound penetrated her awareness, a sound so soft she almost missed it. She stiffened, and her eyes shot open. There it was again, a few yards away. A footstep. But in which direction?
Staring desperately through the mist she tried to make out a face, a figure, but she saw nothing. Reaching into her purse, she withdrew the pistol she always carried. The cold steel felt instantly reassuring in her palm. She realized that the lamplight was a beacon, and she was standing right beneath it. She fled into the shadows. Darkness had always been her ally.
Another sound made her swing the pistol around. Where is he? she thought. Why can’t I see him?
She realized too late that the last sound had been nothing more than a decoy, a trick meant to draw her aim. From behind, something rushed at her. Before she could twist around and fire, she was flung to the ground. The pistol flew from her hand, and then, in the next instant, she felt a blade press firmly against her throat.
A face was smiling down at her, a face she recognized. Even in the darkness, his pale hair gleamed like silver.
“Kronen,” she whispered.
She felt the blade slide across her skin, as gentle as a caress. She wanted to scream, but terror had clamped off her throat.
“Little Eva,” Kronen murmured. Then he laughed softly, and that was when Eve knew she would not live through the night.
* * *
THE WORLD LOOKED different from thirty-five thousand feet. No neon lights, no traffic, no concrete, just an endless black sky glittering with stars.
Nick leaned his head back tiredly and wished he could sleep. Almost everyone else on Flight 201 to London seemed to be snoring blissfully across the Atlantic. On the other side of the dim cabin, he saw a stewardess gently tuck in a child and tiptoe away down the aisle. It was 1:00 a.m., D.C. time, yet Nick was wide awake, with an airline blanket still folded neatly on his lap.
He was too disgusted to sleep. He kept remembering Sarah and how innocent she’d looked, how grief stricken and vulnerable. What a great actress. She’d given an Oscar-winning performance. She’d also stirred up a whole host of male instincts he’d forgotten he had. He’d wanted to protect her, to hold her.
Now he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do to her. Whatever it was, protection had nothing to do with it.
Because of Sarah Fontaine he was out of a job, his patriotism was in question and worst of all, he felt like a damned fool. Van Dam had been right. As a spy Nick was nothing but a rank amateur.
The more he thought about how she’d fooled him, the angrier he got. He slapped the armrest and stared out the window at the stars.
By God, when he got to London, he’d get the truth out of her. He owed it to himself; he couldn’t leave the foreign service without clearing his record.
She wouldn’t be expecting him in London. He already knew where to find her; a phone call confirmed that she’d checked into the Savoy, her husband’s usual hotel. He looked forward to seeing the look on her face when she opened her door to find him standing there. Surprise, surprise! Nick O’Hara was in town to set the record straight. And this time he wouldn’t settle for lies.
But mingled with his anger was another emotion, much deeper and infinitely more disturbing. He kept coming back to that old fantasy, the vision of her standing in his bedroom, gazing at him with those soft amber eyes. The confusion of what he really felt was driving him nuts. He didn’t know if he wanted to kiss her or strangle her. Maybe both.
He did know one thing. Boarding this flight to London had surely been the craziest stunt he’d ever pulled. All his life he’d made decisions thoughtfully. He was not, by nature, a careless man. But tonight he’d thrown his clothes into a suitcase, caught a taxi to Dulles and slapped a credit card down on the British Airways ticket counter. It was totally unlike him to do something so impulsive, so emotional. So stupid. He hoped it wasn’t the start of a new trend.
* * *
THE OLD MAN would not be happy.
As Kronen wiped the woman’s blood from his knife, he considered putting off the inevitable phone call for another hour, another day. At least until he’d eaten a stout breakfast or perhaps put away a few pints. But the old man would be hungry for news, and Kronen didn’t want to keep him waiting too long. The old man didn’t tolerate frustrations very well these days. Ever since the tragedy, he had been impatient and easily irritated. One did not irritate him if one wanted to remain in good health.
Not that Kronen was afraid. He knew the old man needed him too much.
At the age of eight, Kronen had been plucked from the trash heaps of Dublin and adopted by the old man. Perhaps it was the boy’s fair, almost white hair that caught his attention; perhaps it was the utter emptiness in the boy’s eyes, the sign of a soulless vacuum within a shell of human flesh and bone. The old man recognized, even then, that the boy could someday be dangerous. A boy without a soul had no use for love, and as a man he might someday turn on his guardian.
But a boy without a soul could also be very useful. So the old man took the boy in, fed him, taught him, maybe even loved him a little, but he never quite trusted him.
Kronen, even at a young age, had sensed the old man’s distrust. Instead of resenting it, he had worked hard to overcome it. Anything the old man wanted done, Kronen would do. After thirty years of doing his bidding, it had become automatic. Kronen was well compensated. More important, he enjoyed his work. It gave him a sense of pleasure and satisfaction. Especially when it involved women.
Like tonight.
Unfortunately the woman had not talked. She’d been stronger that way than any man he’d ever met. Even an hour of his most persuasive techniques had been to no avail. She’d done a lot of screaming, which had both annoyed and excited him, but she’d given him absolutely no information. And then, when he’d least expected it, she’d died.
That had bothered him most of all. He hadn’t meant to kill her. At least not yet. What bad luck to discover too late that his victim had a weak heart. She’d looked healthy enough.
He finished wiping his blade. He believed in cleanliness, especially when it came to his favorite knife. A sharp edge required care. He put the knife in its sheath and stared at the telephone. There was no point in delaying the matter any longer. He decided to call Amsterdam.
The old man answered.
“Eva did not talk,” said Kronen.
The silence was enough. He could sense the disappointment through the receiver. “Then she is dead?”
“Yes,” said Kronen.
“What about the other?”
“I am still watching her. Dance has not come near.”
The old man made a sound of impatience. “I cannot wait forever. We have to force his hand.”
“How?”
“Abduct her.”
“But she has the CIA following her.”
“I’ll see they’re taken care of. By tomorrow. Then you take the woman.”
“And then?”
“See if she knows anything. If she does not, we can still use her. We will broadcast an ultimatum. If Dance is alive, he’ll respond.”
Kronen was not so sure. Unlike the old man, he held no faith in something as ridiculous as love. Besides, he’d seen Sarah Fontaine, and he didn’t think any man—certainly not Simon Dance—would come to her rescue. No, to risk one’s life for a woman was absurd. He didn’t think Dance would be so stupid.
Nevertheless, it would be an interesting experiment. And when it was over the old man would let Kronen take care of the woman. Her heart would certainly be stronger than Eva Fontaine’s. She would last much longer. Yes, it would be an interesting experiment. It gave him something to look forward to.
* * *
IN A DREAM it came back to Sarah. But everything was distorted and strange and swirling with mist. She was running through the streets, running after Geoffrey, crying out his name. She heard his footsteps ahead of her, but he was always out of sight, always beyond her reach. Then the footsteps changed. The
y were behind her. She was no longer the pursuer, but the pursued. She was running through the fog, and the footsteps were growing closer. Her heart was pounding. Her legs refused to work. She struggled to move forward.
Her path was blocked by a woman with green eyes, a woman who was standing in the middle of the street, laughing at her. The footsteps closed in. Sarah whirled around.
The man who came toward her was someone she knew, someone with tired gray eyes. Slowly he emerged from the mist. And as he did, her fears dissolved. Here was safety, here was warmth. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestoned streets….
Sarah woke up, drenched in sweat. Someone was knocking at her door. She turned on the light. It was 4:00 a.m.
The knock came again, louder. “Mrs. Fontaine?” said a man’s voice. “Please open up, ma’am.”
“Who is it?” she called.
“The police.”
She stumbled out of bed, struggled into a robe and opened the door. Two uniformed policemen stood outside, accompanied by a sleepy-eyed hotel clerk.
“Mrs. Sarah Fontaine?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Sorry for the intrusion, ma’am, but it will be necessary for you to accompany us to the station headquarters.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“We’re obliged to place you under detention.”
She clutched the door with both hands and stared at them in amazement. “Do you mean I’m under arrest? But for what?”
“For murder. The murder of Mrs. Eve Fontaine.”
CHAPTER SIX
THIS CANNOT BE happening, thought Sarah.
Surely it was a nightmare, a scenario pulled from the darkest reaches of her subconscious. She was sitting in a hard chair, staring at a bare wooden table. Glaring fluorescent lights shone down on her from the ceiling and illuminated her every movement, like a spotlight waiting for guilt to appear. The room was cold and she felt half-naked, dressed only in her nightgown and robe. A detective with ice-blue eyes brusquely fired question after question, without letting her finish a single sentence. Only after she’d asked him half a dozen times did he let her use the bathroom, and then only with a matron standing outside the stall.
Once back in the interrogation room, she was left shivering and alone for a moment to ponder her situation. I am going to jail, she thought. I am going to be locked up forever, for murdering a woman I met only last night....
Dropping her head in her hands, she felt another wave of tears threaten to flood her eyes. She was trying so hard to keep from crying that she scarcely heard the door open and close.
But she did hear the voice calling her name. That one word was like a burst of warm sunshine. She looked up.
Nick O’Hara was standing in front of her. By some miracle he’d been transported across an ocean, and here he was, her only friend in London, looking down at her.
Or was he a friend?
Immediately she saw that something was wrong. His mouth was set in two hard lines. His eyes showed no expression. Desperately she searched for some warmth, some comforting look in his face, but what she saw was rage. Little by little she took in the other details: his wrinkled shirt, the slack tie, the British Airways sticker on his briefcase. He had just come off a plane.
He turned and pushed the door shut. The loud slam made her flinch. Then he practically threw his briefcase on the table and glowered at her.
“Lady, you are in one helluva mess!” he grunted.
She sniffed pitifully. “I know.”
“Is that all you can say? I know?”
“Are you going to get me out of here?” she asked in a small voice.
“It all depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you did it.”
“Of course I didn’t do it!” she cried.
He seemed taken aback by her violent outburst. For a moment he was silent. Then he crossed his arms and settled irritably on the edge of the table.
She was afraid to look at him, afraid to see the accusing look in his eyes. The man she’d thought was her friend had suddenly turned into someone she scarcely knew. So he thought she was guilty, too. What hope did she have of convincing complete strangers of her innocence when even Nick O’Hara didn’t believe her? Bitterly she told herself how wrong she’d been about him. As for why he was here, the reason was now obvious. The man was just doing his job.
She clenched her hands in a hard knot on the table. She was furious with him for seeing her in this helpless position, for betraying her trust in him as a friend.
“Why are you in London, anyway?” she muttered.
“I could ask you the same question. This time, though, I expect the truth.”
“The truth?” She looked up. “I’ve never lied to you! You were the one—”
“Oh, come on!” he roared. Agitated, he shot to his feet and began to pace the floor. “Don’t give me that innocent look, Mrs. Fontaine. You must think I’m pretty damned stupid. First you insist you don’t know a thing, and then you take off for London. I just finished talking to the inspector. Now I want to hear your side. You knew about Eve, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know! At least, not until yesterday. And you were the one who lied, Mr. O’Hara.”
“About what?”
“About Geoffrey. You told me he was dead. Oh, you gave me all that nice evidence, you laid it out so neatly, so perfectly. And I believed you! All this time you knew, didn’t you? You must have known.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Geoffrey’s alive!”
The incredulous look on his face was too real. She stared at him, wondering if it was possible that Nick really didn’t know Geoffrey was alive.
“I think you’d better explain,” he said. “And I want it all, Sarah. Right down to what you ate for breakfast. Because, as you no doubt know, you’re in deep trouble. The evidence—”
“The evidence is all circumstantial.”
“The evidence is this: Eve Fontaine’s body was found about midnight in a deserted alley a few blocks from the Lamb and Rose. I won’t go into the body’s condition; let’s just say someone obviously didn’t like her. The barmaid in the Lamb and Rose remembered seeing Eve with a woman—an American. That was you. She also remembered that you two had an argument. Eve ran out, you followed. And that’s the last anyone saw of Eve Fontaine.”
“I lost her outside the Lamb and Rose!”
“Do you have any witnesses?”
“No.”
“Too bad. The police called Eve’s house in Margate and spoke with the groundskeeper. The old man remembered you, all right. He said he gave Eve your message over the phone. And he just happened to have that slip of paper with your name and hotel.”
“I gave it to him so she could call me.”
“Well, to the police you’ve got an obvious motive. Revenge. You found out Geoffrey Fontaine was a bigamist. You decided to get even. That’s the evidence. Good, hard and undeniable.”
“It doesn’t mean I killed her!”
“No?”
“You have to believe me!”
“Why should I?”
“Because no one else does.” Without warning, all the fear and weariness seemed to sweep through her in one overpowering wave. Lowering her head, she repeated softly, “No one else does….”
Nick watched her with a disturbing mix of emotions. She looked so drained, so terrified, as she huddled against the table. Her robe sagged open, and he caught a glimpse of her flimsy blue nightgown. A long strand of reddish-brown hair fell across her face, across that smooth, pale cheek. It was the first time he’d seen her hair loose, and it reminded him once again of that fantasy he’d tried so hard to suppress. But the image came back to him now, warm and compelling. He forced it out of his mind, trying instead to concentrate on why he was here. A woman had been murdered, and Sarah was in very bad trouble. Yet all he could think about was how she would feel in his arms.
Suddenly all his
anger toward her evaporated. He’d hurt her, and now he felt like a monster. Gently he touched her head. “Sarah. Sarah, it’ll be all right,” he murmured. “You’ll be all right.” He crouched down and clumsily laid her face against his shoulder. Her hair felt so soft, so silky; the warm, feminine scent of her skin was intoxicating. He knew the emotions coursing through him now were dangerous, but he couldn’t control them. He wanted to take her from this room, to keep her safe and warm and protected. He was most definitely not being objective.
Reluctantly he pulled away. “Sarah, talk to me. Tell me why you think your husband’s alive.”
She took a deep breath and looked at him. Her eyes were like a fawn’s, soft and moist. He knew then how much courage it had taken for her to meet his gaze. To keep the tears at bay. He’d been wrong about Sarah. She wasn’t broken at all. She had reserves of strength that he’d never suspected.
“He called me,” she said. “Two days ago, in Washington—the afternoon of the funeral—”
“Wait. He called you?”
“He told me to come to him. It ended so quickly—he never told me where he was—”
“Was it long-distance?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“That’s why you jumped on a plane? But why to London?”
“It—it was just a feeling. This was his home. This is where he should have been.”
“And when did you find out about Eve?”
“After I got here. The hotel clerk showed me an address on Geoffrey’s registration card. It was Eve’s cottage in Margate.”
He absorbed this torrent of new facts with a feeling of growing confusion. Pulling up a chair, he sat down and focused intently on her face.
“You’ve just thrown me a wild card,” he said. “That call from Geoffrey—it’s so crazy, I’m beginning to think you must be telling the truth.”
“I am telling the truth! When are you going to believe me?”
“All right. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. For now.”
He was beginning to believe her. That was all she needed, that tiny kernel of trust. It meant more to her at this moment than anything else in the world. This is crazy, she thought. After all she’d been through this morning, only now were the tears beginning to fall. She shook her head and laughed sheepishly. “What is it about you, Mr. O’Hara?” she asked. “I always seem to be crying when you’re around.”
Call After Midnight Page 8
